Lestrangesfic. I do not own the Lestranges, characters from the Harry Potter series; they are owned by Bloomsbury, JK Rowling, and Warner Brothers.
The Lestranges are more excitable now than they ever have been - their freedom is intoxicating and they're rediscovering the world, a blade of grass at a time. Even more is that they are free and so is their Lord, their Master, the man-god who made them something beyond human. They are his archangels, wielding the Unforgivables as their flaming swords, casting the traitors down as the sinners they are.
Rabastan finds Bellatrix sprawled happily in the grass. This has been her main joy. There is nothing organic in Azkaban, just stone, Dementors, and the disembodied cries of those you once knew and loved. The atmosphere of Azkaban is so tuned that nearly every inmate can feel a living being enter.
It requires a lot of self-control for the newly freed Death Eaters to control themselves. Touch, smell, colors, all these things are intense sensations after being deprived for so long. Bellatrix has been one of the worst.
"Bellatrix," he says calmly, sitting beside her as she strokes the grass as though running her fingers through the earth's hair.
"Rabastan," she says after a pause.
There's nothing to say after that. They can feel the buzz of human thought, of existence in the air, and they lift their heads as though attempting to tune into a direct line.
He strokes her hair, and she closes her eyes. For a moment she imagines that he can read her thoughts, that by touch they become one, but, no. Only their Lord has that power.
He strokes down through her tangled dark hair, down her back, watching the action as though fascinated, like his hand is an independent being. Her shirt - a man's shirt, one of those they found in the house that they've been hiding in - is untucked, and his hand touches her bare back. He jerks away, in surprise, in the memory of what human - female - flesh feels like.
She looks up at him, almost reproachfully, and rolls over, sitting up.
He wastes little time in kissing her, and together they delight in each little sensation as - it seems to Rabastan - they meld together and become some sort of strange amalgamation of them, one that doesn't care about vows or children or indecency.
They stare up at the night sky. Rabastan's last thought before he falls asleep, Bellatrix nestled against his chest, is that the stars look like the glitter of tears in the eyes of the angels, for a world corrupted.