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The night was quiet, save for the rhythmic creaking of the dock beneath Harry’s boots. He tightened his grip on the Elder Wand—a habit, one might say, when wandering into unknown territory. He’d been lured to this decrepit port on the outskirts of London by a tip that a certain Death Eater had resurfaced. Rodolphus Lestrange, out of Azkaban and alive as ever.
“I am so tired of Lestranges,” Harry thought, exhaling sharply.
Fog wrapped around the dock like a smothering blanket, and Harry’s sharp gaze darted toward a figure lurking at the edge of the shadows. His muscles tensed. Of course, it was never simple. Villains didn’t just show themselves; they loved the theatrics.
“Who are you?” Harry asked, squinting into the shifting dark. He lowered the Elder Wand ever so slightly—calculated, but never careless.
A voice sliced through the silence, smooth as silk and twice as deadly. “Oh sweetheart,” the figure purred, stepping into a sliver of light.
Harry’s eyebrows shot upward as Rodolphus Lestrange emerged—grinning like he was about to deliver the performance of a lifetime. Azkaban hadn’t robbed him of his arrogance. His robes, though tattered at the hem, looked sharp and well-fitted. The gaunt shadows across his face only deepened the unsettling glee curling at his lips.
“I am,” Rodolphus continued, his voice dropping to a graveled whisper, “your worst nightmare.”
Harry blinked. Twice.
Lestrange’s theatrical flourish faltered as Harry’s brow furrowed.
“Wait a minute,” Harry said, his voice incredulous. “You’re that guy who tripped over my shoes on the bus this morning and said thank you—”
Rodolphus’s grin froze in place, his expression flickering between rage and horrified recognition.
Harry tilted his head, wand now idly pointed at Rodolphus’s chest. “Yeah, I remember now. You had this weird thing where you—what was it? Oh, right—you apologized. To me. On the bus.”
Rodolphus sputtered, his menacing aura shattering like glass. “That wasn’t—I—You don’t—Listen here!” he barked, his voice shrill. “I’m not that bumbling fool you met—”
Harry snorted. “Pretty sure you tripped on your own robes, too. What’s with that? Still adjusting to civilian life?”
Rodolphus’s face turned an impressive shade of crimson. “I was distracted!”
“By what? A crossword?” Harry deadpanned, wand now loosely spinning between his fingers.
The silence dragged on as Rodolphus seemed to recalibrate his dramatic villain persona. Harry watched him with mild amusement, though his instincts kept his wand ready. One could never be too sure with a Lestrange.
Finally, Rodolphus straightened, regaining a shred of dignity. “Mock me all you want, Potter. It won’t save you tonight.”
Harry sighed, his gaze sharpening. “Right. Because you’re my worst nightmare.” He flicked his wand, a burst of light illuminating the dock and sending shadows skittering away. “At this rate, you’re barely going to make my top ten.”
Rodolphus hissed, drawing his own wand with a dramatic sweep. “Let’s see if you’re still laughing after this!”
And with that, curses flew, sparks crackled through the air, and Harry realized—yet again—that some Death Eaters really were terrible at first impressions.
-=-
The morning sun was an unwelcome guest in Diagon Alley, casting golden light over cobblestones still damp from last night’s rain. Harry strolled through the street, enjoying the calm before the usual midday crowds. He wasn’t one to gloat, but after his “encounter” with Rodolphus Lestrange at the docks, he’d gone home, slept like a rock, and woken up with the smug satisfaction of a man who’d put another Death Eater in his place.
It didn’t last.
As Harry passed the windows of The Broken Broomstick—a dingy pub tucked between Flourish and Blotts and the apothecary—he heard something that made him pause.
“…Not fair, I tell you! I had him! I almost had him!”
Harry stopped mid-step, his head turning toward the window. His scar didn’t twinge; his instincts didn’t scream danger. And yet, he recognized that voice. Could it be? No.
“Bloody Potter!” the voice whined again. “That cheating little brat! No respect for dramatic timing! No flair!”
Harry pressed his face to the grimy window and squinted inside. Sure enough, slumped at a table in the corner, surrounded by empty firewhisky glasses, was Rodolphus Lestrange.
The once-feared Death Eater looked utterly miserable.
His black robes were stained with something sticky (probably butterbeer), his hair a disheveled mess, and he was waving his arms dramatically at a bored-looking bartender who seemed to have heard this story several times already.
“I am his worst nightmare!” Rodolphus declared, slapping the table with a drunken wobble. “Do you hear me? I said do you hear me?!”
The bartender, without looking up from wiping a glass, muttered, “Yeah, mate. Third time you’ve said it.”
“I had him,” Rodolphus insisted, his voice cracking. “Right where I wanted him, in the fog, with my big entrance, and then—then—HE RUINED IT!”
Harry snorted. He couldn’t help it. The sound escaped louder than he intended.
The bartender turned his head toward the window, and Rodolphus followed his gaze. Their eyes locked.
A strange silence fell over the pub.
For a moment, Harry considered walking on—letting this humiliation stew a bit longer—but Rodolphus’s reaction made it worth staying.
“You!” Rodolphus screeched, shooting to his feet so fast he nearly knocked over his chair. He jabbed a shaking finger at the window. “POTTER!”
Harry, grinning like a man with no shame, pushed open the door to the pub and stepped inside. “Morning, Lestrange. You’re looking… well.”
Rodolphus’s jaw worked soundlessly, his face turning a spectacular shade of purple. He looked like he might explode.
“You… You dare show your face here?” he sputtered, swaying slightly. “You humiliated me!”
Harry raised an eyebrow and strolled casually to the bar, ignoring the Death Eater’s ranting as he addressed the bartender. “Tea, please. And maybe some water for him—he looks like he’s had a rough night.”
The bartender smirked. “You got it.”
Harry spun one of the bar stools and sat down, back to Rodolphus. He didn’t have to turn around to know the man was still glaring daggers at him. “Don’t take it so hard, Lestrange. You got your big entrance. The problem is, you tripped over your ego before you could follow through.”
Rodolphus flailed his arms again, knocking over a glass, and the bartender sighed. “You’re mocking me, Potter! I am a Lestrange! Do you have any idea the power I hold?”
Harry turned just enough to glance at him over his shoulder. “Is it the same power that knocked you into a pile of crates when I hit you with a Disarming Charm?”
Rodolphus’s fists clenched, and his wand twitched in his sleeve. The bartender, seeing the movement, loudly cleared his throat. “No dueling in here, Lestrange. You know the rules.”
Rodolphus froze, looking like he wanted to argue, but he slumped back into his chair with a defeated groan. “He cheats,” he muttered bitterly. “Every time. I swear.”
Harry grinned into his tea as it arrived. “I don’t cheat. I’m just better.”
Rodolphus grumbled something unintelligible into his hands, and Harry leaned back, savoring the moment. After years of dealing with Voldemort, Malfoy tantrums, and Death Eater schemes, watching a Lestrange have a public meltdown in a second-rate pub felt… oddly satisfying.
“So,” Harry said conversationally, “what’s next for the Rodolphus Lestrange? Gonna lurk dramatically in Knockturn Alley? Or maybe go back to tripping over people on buses?”
Rodolphus glared at him through bloodshot eyes. “You will regret this day, Potter.”
“Right,” Harry said, draining his tea. “I’ll pencil it in under ‘unlikely.’ See you around, Lestrange.”
As Harry walked toward the door, he heard Rodolphus mutter darkly to himself. “Next time… next time I’ll get it right…”
“Good luck with that!” Harry called cheerfully over his shoulder, earning one last anguished groan from the defeated Death Eater.
Outside, the morning was brighter than ever, and Harry couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as he strolled down the cobbled street.
Some villains really needed to work on their follow-through.