Does the end really justify the means?

[Priam Lestrange]

June 15-ish 1884

This is also kinda saddish so if sad things are not your thing you've been warned~

If they really had to vote for someone else, then it could have at least been Prewett or Pendergast. While Balthazar Urquart was hardly as bad of a candidate as Eugene Scamander he still supportive of whore’s rights and other such foolish things and most importantly - he was not Priam. Priam who had not even thought about running before his uncle and brother had convinced him and who was now terribly disappointed for his loss, for all that he came in a better position compared to other candidates.

Not wanting to deal with things at home, Priam had taken a “working vacation” to Spain. He’d still be doing work there, with the Spanish ministry, but in reality, he’d just be sulking in the house that his first wife’s generous inheritance had left to his name. He had made it seem like he was taking this time away from Hogsmeade to properly “mourn” Octavian’s death and left his new Assistant Head do whatever work they had at home. By middle of July, he’d be home.

In previous years he’d spend as much time as possible with his family, often playing around with the children in the gardens, but this time Priam had asked not to be disturbed and had locked himself in his “area” of the house, where his bedroom and study - which previously belonged to Estela’s father - were located. Last year he would ignore the silly rule of separate bedrooms, but now he was glad for it.

Dealing with the nightmares seemed easier when he was on his own.

He had not felt even a shred of guilt when he had gotten rid of Octavian, not on the day neither on the days that had followed. It had seemed like the great new adventure, him and Orestes, having power over death and life and practicing it together.

But Orestes was not in Spain. Estela was, or at least some memory of her.

He could not close his eyes at night without feeling her presence. Leaning on the window frame, sat at the armchair by the fireplace, laying on the empty side of his bed. She was there, everywhere, looking at him and judging him for what he had done. Sometimes, Priam could hear her voice - in the air, in the tree branches that rubbed on the windows. One time, when sleep had almost taken him, he could swear that he heard an old Spanish lullaby that Estela would sing to Octavian when he was still in the cradle.

For the last two days, he was only sleeping during the afternoons, when the sun was still up and made him feel safe and guiltless. In the nights, he’d read, or wander around the house, or drink from the so rich wines that his first wife’s family produced for generations.

He had asked the house elves to get rid of anything that might have belonged to his deceased son. That ridded him of some of the guilt, but Estela did not entirely leave him. No, her memory was still there and no matter how much wine he drank and how many baby toys he burnt, she’d never go away. It was, after all, her house and her memories were scattered all over the corridors from before Priam had even stepped his foot there.

All he could do, was try and convince her, as well as himself, that what he had done was the right thing.