The Little King's Road
The Riddle, Chapter Three: Speak of the Dead
April 1996
It doesn't go away.
He finishes all his homework, he puts his all in his lessons with Bellatrix, but it doesn't go way.
Draco has put a name to the face; he regrets it dearly, for it never stops afterwards. Regulus Black is everywhere – in his dreams, drowning, crying, and in his wake, haunting his every glance, lapping at his ears. He starts noticing him in the background of old photographs. Weddings. Holidays. Dances. He's never in the center of it, never the one smiling and posturing for the camera, but he's always there. Standing. Watching. Looking straight at Draco. Sometimes he's barely a dot in the distance, too far to have a face, too far to tell; still Draco recognizes him. Still Regulus stares at Draco.
There are very little walls in his house, Draco finds, that aren't lined with photographs.
It's never bothered him before, but now he feels under scrutiny. He can't go to the dining room without being excruciatingly aware of the twelve-year-old Regulus Black congratulating Draco's mother on her NEWTs in the frame over the cabinet that's in the corner by the door to the Kitchen. Or the two-year-old Regulus Black drooling over grandfather Cygnus in the family portrait that hangs over the humming Venus fly-trap under the stairs. All two-year-olds look the same, Draco knows this, and yet he can tell.
He can tell.
It comes to a point where Draco is almost afraid to do anything. He comments on his father's peculiar cuff buttons, once, a mistake he hopes never to repeat. They were given to him by Regulus, it turns out (fancy that?), and he was feeling nostalgic after their talk the other day. Regulus had excellent tastes, Draco learns against his wishes, he always gave the best gifts. Regulus had a way of finding the most unexpected and unique things. Regulus was great. Regulus was handsome. Regulus was perfect. Silver poured from his every orifice.
In his mind, Draco narrows his eyes and spits out the name the very same way he spits out Potter's.
Regulus.
They're all wrong. Regulus had a face twisted with hysteria and a posture arched with pain. He was the type to scream and trash when he was trapped. He was angry, miserable, and bitter enough to walk into –
Draco doesn't want to be reminded of Regulus Black at every turn. Just a couple of nights ago he had to pry anything about the man from his family with a pair of tweezers and the perseverance of a particularly annoying Hufflepuff, why has that changed? It's the strangest of things. His parents certainly don't bring him up unprompted, but somehow everything Draco notices, everything he says, everything he brings up, prompts.
Draco asks why the date is circled out in the calendar, his mother tells him it's Regulus's birthday and they send flowers every year to his grave.
Draco sneezes and somehow it devolves into finding out that all the House-Elves old enough to remember him are absolutely in love with Regulus Black. Disturbingly so. He doesn't remember how it came around to that, but the memory of three House-Elves simultaneously bawling and singing praises for his dead cousin once-removed will forever be etched into his mind. It's so theatrical it looks rehearsed, but he's certain it's not and it makes everything worse. He tells them to shut it and he swears they're considering going against his order.
On his last day home, he foolishly believes Bellatrix will take his mind off things. She's been good with that, teaching him Occlumency, teaching him magic interesting enough to be learnt without it being a chore.
Then she starts their final lesson with "Since we were on the subject, let's have a go at Reggie's favourite spell." And Draco wants to curl up and die.
The spell is Avis. It's stupid and it's underwhelming, and it clearly did not save Reggie from the inferi.
A part of him suspects this is a conspiracy. Slytherins are vindictive like that. It must be revenge for forcing the topic. Nothing else could explain how someone he'd never heard of before now keeps intruding on him like his life is a novel and Regulus Black is an indefinite article.
Fortunately, the time to head back to Hogwarts comes fast.
Lucius meets Rodolphus and Bellatrix right after dropping Draco off at the Hogwarts Express. They're following a lead for the Dark Lord, one that he finds important enough to entrust three of his most loyal with. He can understand why rookies wouldn't do; the Research Organism of Appellation Rites is one of the most well-protected research institutes in the country. Had Bellatrix not studied under her uncle, the Dark Lord would have had to do this himself. The witch has always had a talent for breaking things
They manage to circumvent rune after rune, charm after charm. Only a handful of traps are sprung, and the worst they get is a distinctively annoying parrot that makes fun of them for not having six doctorates in Topological Arithmancy. Why that is something to be ashamed of, Lucius wonders.
It certainly did not help the four scholars that happened on their path.
Eventually they make it to the Archive. Lucius and Rodolphus back away to the corridor while Bellatrix breaks the final vault. It's there that conversation strikes.
"Of all the Death Eaters to admire," Rodolphus dubiously questions, "Regulus Black?"
The name has gathered enough dust and cobwebs to come out slowly and in full. It used to be Reggie for Rodolphus as well.
Lucius raises an eyebrow in challenge, "A problem, Rodolphus?"
The older wizard shrugs, "Never had any grief against the boy," he assures Lucius, "but you can't argue that he wasn't exactly… how to say, memorable."
Was Narcissa in the room, Lucius probably would have defended her cousin, just like he suspects there's a reason Rodolphus waited for his wife to be occupied elsewhere to speak up. As it happens however, the two wizards are in agreement. Regulus Black is far from an illustrious member of the Death Eaters. He could have been, maybe, but that doesn't change the fact that he died too early to achieve anything worth of note. Lucius would be surprised if the Dark Lord even remembers his face.
Perhaps he was promising, perhaps he had potential, but promises and potential mean little if they are never met. Most current Death Eater have never met Regulus Black, and the majority are probably unaware he's even been one of them, should they even know his name.
It's entirely possible that the only ripple Regulus Black has ever made in the world is in Narcissa's heart.
"He came up the other day and Draco seemed interested," Lucius explains, "I think it's to do with how young he was. You remember how it was to be fifteen."
Rodolphus chuckles. "You know, your wife is going to be pissed when she learns you and Bella are using Regulus to lure Draco in."
Lucius doesn't snap, but he wants to. Rodolphus makes it sound like he's manipulating his son and betraying his wife. He didn't plan this. He didn't ask Narcissa to bring up Regulus. He hadn't even considered Draco might be interested in the boy. He knows how to recognise an opportunity, however, and it would be parental negligence not to take this one. Luckily, Lucius has known Rodolphus for ages now, and he knows he means no strife. Rodolphus has always been particularly cynical about how the world works. He doesn't understand that Lucius just wants his family safe and whole, and that he'd rather Draco do right thing for the wrong reason than the other way around. It is so easy for teenagers to go astray, and Lucius Malfoy will not let that happen to his own son.
It's best to play along.
"There's little she can say about it," Lucius huffs, "she's using Regulus to lure him out, after all."
"Well if there's one thing good that comes to mind about Regulus Black," Rodolphus jokes, "is that he's always been convenient."
"While you lot were gossiping worse than my dead mother, I found the papers," Bellatrix tells them as she barges back out. There's something red smudged on her forehead, but neither wizard care to comment on it, "We're missing the bulk of the work, but I have the name of our next dissection project."
"Who?"
Bellatrix gives her usual boyish smile. It was beautiful, once, somewhere between mischief and freedom, but now it just looks hungry.
"Theresa Ancor. A husband, two daughters. Come on, my boys, it'll be fun."
Once all their prefect duties are sorted out, Draco and Pansy find their peers' compartment. It's already tightly packed with Vince, Greg, Millicent, Theo and Blaise, but the Slytherins are always up to challenge optimization problems. It's quite simple, really. Since the compartment is meant for six people at most, it's really just a matter of shoving Greg on the floor, and perhaps Vince as well for insurance, as Millicent takes quite a bit of space for herself.
Draco and Pansy slide in with no further issue.
Naturally, everyone is talking about their Easter holidays.
"Well, you know how things go in my house," Blaise sighs, "mother's thinking to remarry. Met the poor sod, almost gave him a warning out of pity. He's unfortunately a nice bloke."
"My Mother's been pestering me about studying for my OWLs all Easter," Pansy complains, "apparently making Prefect still doesn't earn me the trust to manage my own academic life. Spent the whole two weeks with a private tutor because of the old hag."
"I'll have you know, my Easter was quite exciting," Draco tells them with a knowing smirk. He sees Theo and Blaise share an eyeroll, the rotten disbelievers, and continues, "A relative who's been… away for quite some time now came to visit."
What do you know, that does get their attention. It's like time has stopped as the implication sinks in.
It doesn't take being a Slytherin to catch his meaning. They all know Bellatrix Lestrange has recently escaped from Azkaban, they all know Bellatrix Lestrange is his aunt, and they all know why Bellatrix Lestrange was in Azkaban in the first place. She is without contest one of the most formidable witches of modern times. Certainly the most dangerous one.
They all came back with stories of family drama and school work adventures, but Draco has just dropped a war on them. One he has a foot in already, which his classmates are all shielded from. They suspect the Dark Lord may be back, but they cannot know for sure. What matters, however, is that they are all aware that Draco does have that knowledge.
In the minds of fifteen-year-olds, there is no contest.
"She's been… teaching me… things," he says, careful to stay vague enough to maintain interest, "She seems to think I have potential."
"Wait, are we talking about Bell –" Greg starts, and Pansy has enough sense to hit him with her foot before he can finish. Draco gives him a glare.
As you know, his mother had told him the night before, matters regarding the Dark Lord and your aunt's whereabouts are a delicate topic. You cannot, under any circumstances, reveal anything you know. This is serious, Draco.
Yes, mother, I'm not a complete imbecile, he'd returned.
Draco, his father had added, remember that the law is against us for now. Whatever you say, you must be careful. Imply if you must, but never confirm anything. A misspoken word may implicate our whole family.
Yes, father, he'd sighed.
"I'm confused," Vince frowns.
Millicent gives him a sympathetic pat, "You're always confused, Vince."
It must be distressful to be so stupid all the time, Draco thinks.
"Soooo?" Pansy slyly prompts, "well? Tell us, Draco. What did you learn? What did she show you?"
"Yeah, Draco," Theo mockingly mimics, "please elaborate."
Draco preens under the attention, "Spells, mostly, and dueling strategies. She's every bit as fearsome as I'd expected, more so, even. I only had two weeks with her, of course, but she's given me all the pointers to delve further into it on my own. I already feel twice the wizard I was last term."
Theo raises an eyebrow, "What about your OWLs?"
"OWLs?" scoffs Draco, "I couldn't care less about OWLs after everything I've seen, The real magic is outside the joke of a curriculum we have at Hogwarts, trust me. I am done with toddler spells."
"Ugh," Pansy whinges, full of envy, "I wish I had a cool relative. Mine are all crusty and nosy."
"Anything you can show us?" Blaise asks with genuine interest.
Draco has to consider, "it would be unwise to cast most of it here," he tells them.
Truth is, he's only learnt a handful of things, the main one being Occlumency, which is neither demonstrable without a Legillimens, nor very impressive. There are two basic dueling spells as well, but the law is quite clear on what happens should he be caught casting them, and he won't risk it for praise.
Pansy and Millicent let out impressed oohs, Blaise whistles and Vince and Greg struggle to work out the underlying meaning of what was said six sentences ago. Not everyone is awed by Draco's stories, however.
"He's fibbing," Theo says, "why would she waste time on some snotty fifteen year old kid?"
"I am not!" Draco defends himself, reddening. He's tempted to go for the slashing curse, but his pride is not worth the legal trouble that follows.
There is one spell, his mind provides. He still struggles with casting it sometimes. He's only had a day to learn it, so he doesn't know how much it'll conjure, how controllable it'll be. But it's legal, it won't kill anyone, and it's visual enough.
"Avis," Draco casts, and a flock of birds erupts from his wand. They are small, jovial, and together they paint a bright blue sky with fluffy clouds behind which the compartment ceiling disappears. Their wings flutter in an improvised dance over the Slytherins' heads, their chirps provide the music and their enthusiasm is infectious.
Draco can almost feel the breeze from outside.
The girls are in awe.
"That's beautiful," Pansy coos.
Then Draco flicks his wand in one, dry, movement, and all the birds dive for the spot just next to Theo's ears.
Theo yelps and braces himself as the conjured birds drill holes around where his head used to be. He curls on himself until the last bird explodes in a cloud of vanishing feathers, and waits another beat after that. Slowly, he cracks an eye open, before warily straightening himself out.
"Avis is part of the joke of a curriculum," he points out in a feeble defense. He's still shaking though, so his words have little weight.
Blaise shrugs, "It's still a NEWT-level transfiguration charm, though. Don't listen to Theo – that was really impressive."
"Thank you, Blaise," Draco nods.
Conversation continues for the rest of the ride, and Theo does not bring up any doubts of his again. In fact, he leaves the compartment altogether at one point to talk to other friends of his. Or so he says. Draco suspects he's just bitter.
It's liberating being around wizards his age again. Meeting Bellatrix was thrilling, but it was intense, and perhaps he'd needed a bit of good old-fashioned fun for a change. Their antics take his mind off his mother's concerns and his father's expectations. For a moment there's no war or law or Dark Lord, and he knows it's blasphemous to think so, but it's nice.
Draco returns to Hogwarts feeling like a king. He's a Prefect, part of the Inquisitional Squad, and his newfound knowledge of the Dark Arts bolsters his confidence. Pansy hangs at his arm, Vince and Greg a few steps behind, and the world revolves as it should.
He gives a few passing Gryffindors detention for loitering and blocking passage to a corridor, gets a passing praise from Headmistress Umbridge for his stellar conduct, and frightens a gaggle of Hufflepuff second years who accidentally run into him.
Daphne Greengrass gives him the stink eye upon witnessing the later, but Daphne Greengrass always gives him the stink eye, so he doesn't let it bother him.
Professor Snape hands out the schedule for their Career Advice meeting, Draco makes fun of it, and they all head to their dorm to retire for the night.
Draco flops on his bed. Everything's back to normal. He hadn't even realized he'd been stressed. It makes sense, in hindsight. His parents, his aunt, and reluctantly, professor Snape, have all been feuding over his future for the duration of the Easter holidays, and Draco realizes now he has little say in it. He relies on them to obtain the means to prove himself worthy of any path. He needs Bellatrix to learn. And Bellatrix will not go against his parents' wishes when it comes to him.
So in the meantime, all Draco can do is wait for their decision.
After all, freedom comes with power, and within Hogwarts, Draco is at the top of the food chain. He thinks of Bellatrix, of his father, of the Dark Lord, and he hopes, that one day, the same could be said outside of Hogwarts.
As his thoughts conclude, his eye catches something in the corner of his bedpost.
There are always a lot of drawings scratched into bedposts. Most are ridiculously daft – hearts with two names in name, infantile renderings of male genitalia, futile attempts at conversing with future students, Can you read me? Write back if you're blonde. The one Draco just noticed is nothing peculiar. It's a tally. There are tallies carved out everywhere around Hogwarts. Gambling is as old as education, it turns out. Older, even. There's a rumour that on the High Table one can find a game of tic-tac-toe carved by Helga Hufflepuff and Godric Gryffindor themselves.
No heading names the game that's recorded on Draco's bed, or how long it went on for, if it was a bet or a competition, but it's a tally, and there are names and there are little bars indicating scores. Three Slytherin fifth years played a game some years ago in this very room. Evan has five – he's the winner, or the loser, depending on what they were counting – and the other two are tied with three bars each: a Xander, and, of course, Regulus.
Draco presses his face in his pillow and screams.
Vince gives him a mildly concerned look. Theo casts another sound cancelling charm on his own bed.
March 1979
"Mr. Black."
Regulus had been expecting this. He finished packing his books and walked to professor Slughorn while the other students filed out.
"Professor?"
The potion master looked over Regulus's shoulder, waiting for the door to close behind the last student. He then placed a heavy hand on his student's shoulder. "I am truly sorry to hear about your father, my boy," he told him with real sympathy, "Orion's loss is a tragedy to wizard kind. I've never had another student with such a talent for crypto-charms. The way he went about crafting barriers… He could have locked a man out of his own body."
There were many things to be said about Horace Slughorn, but the man did have a talent for pick pointing a wizard's best skills.
"I appreciate the sentiment, professor," Regulus nodded politely.
He didn't mean to be so mechanical about accepting condolences – for all he could be a social climber, Slughorn had no malice about him – but he'd been receiving an awful lot of them these past two days. Even in this tumultuous climate, a death like Orion Black's did not go unnoticed. One would think the focus would be on the mysteriously vanished or the suspiciously killed, but no such luck. The news had broken out barely the morning after Regulus had received a letter from his mother informing him of it.
Perhaps people clung to normalcy in times like these.
Regulus's father had after all, in a shocking twist, died a natural death.
The Potion master seemed genuinely concerned, "How are you holding up?"
"Father had been sick for a while now, we knew it was coming."
"Very well, but should you need anything…"
Regulus offered a smile, "I know where to look. Thank you."
This satisfied the older wizard. "I will trust that. Off you pop now, Mr. Black, or Minerva will have my head."
He did as told.
He did as told. Ha.
The funeral was to be held a week from then. Regulus had been going over the arrangements under the table for the whole day. From the type of polish used to finish the coffin to the angle at which the cemetery gate was to be left open during the ceremony, nothing was to be chosen without his approval. It had been made clear in his mother's last letter, that while he hadn't officially inherited the title yet, this was his first act as Head of the House of Black.
It is a funeral in name only, she had written, her script sharp and vertical as always, the eyes of the wizarding world will be on you. Every family with value to their name will send a representant. Remember every funeral you have attended – outdo them all. Spare no expense.
The first family commandment: show no weakness. Not even death was made an exception.
Emotional detachment was second nature now. At thirteen, Regulus had had no trouble speaking a word and thinking another. By the time he'd been sixteen, he had slipped into Occlumency like it was just another set of silk pajamas. He was master over his emotions, but he wasn't cold – he resented that people thought it of him. He felt deeply and he felt often. Regulus did angry, he did scared, he did sad.
Even now.
Even pencilling a eulogy that shared not a word with what he wished he could say about his father, Regulus felt. McGonagall's voice was reaching his ears, but the one that echoed through his mind was lower. Almost quiet, but rumbling like distant thunder. Controlled. Orion Black had never needed to raise his voice to be listened to. His imperious timber alone commanded attention and obedience. When he did bark – the world stood still for a moment.
Regulus also remembered warmth. Orion spoke slow, enunciating, and sometimes that reminded his younger son of a giant walking on eggshells. So, so powerful, but so careful not to break anything. So gentle with his world.
He wrote of Orion's clever quotes, but made no mention of how safe and terrified the sound of his voice had once made him feel.
He could think of a few moments of significance.
Moments, strokes of a scene. A heavy oak desk. The smell of old parchment wafting about. Morning light retracing the shape of windows on the forest green carpet. Floating dust sparkling in between. Orion Black, a silver quill in hand, pouring over paperwork. Regulus, the size of three apples, curious as a kitten, trying to look over the desk on pointed toes. There had been a fleeting smile, something of fondness and amusement, a conjured stool, a square of parchment and his own tiny quill pushed his way. The doodles born from it were no carefully worded letters to banks and notaries, but later that night, Orion nonetheless informed his wife that Regulus made a very diligent secretary.
Another, later. A dinner party. Regulus was still too young to enjoy it, but he'd been old enough to know to pretend. Whichever bitter, rotten soul had arranged the seating plan had placed Regulus right between Aunt Druella and Aunt Lucretia, and the eleven-year-old was mentally compiling a list of who he could have possibly offended so horrendously to be subject to that. In a frantic search for an escape as the two witches asked him his opinion on the lovely young Selwyn girl, Regulus caught his father's eyes. Orion Black was himself deep in conversation with Abraxas Malfoy, and conversation with Abraxas Malfoy was either business or politics, which is why Regulus knew perfectly well that the laugh his father was holding back was at his expense. The traitor.
Later that evening, Orion had pulled Regulus away from his aunts and their friends and told him that if he could face the women of his family at eleven, he'd be ready to take on Merlin and Morgana by the time he'd come of age. Regulus had responded that if it came to fighting Merlin and Morgana, he'd just set his aunts on them and pray for their souls. That was perhaps the one time he'd seen his father laugh from the bottom of his belly to the crinkles of his eyes.
This one, recent. Regulus was stumbling home, murder in his stomach, screams in his throat and lead in his limbs. He didn't need their magic mirror by the entrance to tell him he looked sickly. He felt like vomit. He was a litter of hysterical baby mandrakes held in a pot of wet chiffon liable to rip at the slightest poke.
Orion was in the living room, entertaining a bottle of firewhiskey. The bottle was halfway empty, thought there was no telling if he'd just opened it. Still silent, even then, even with the house of his fathers rotting from the leaves, ever so silent, he gave his son's face one look, and poured him a glass. It was as close to an apology as he would ever give to anyone. Regulus didn't even know what he was apologising for. For not paying attention, perhaps. For allowing Regulus to be dragged in so deep, so young. For putting so much pressure on him not to follow in his brother's footsteps, that he'd readily watched him take a path thrice as damning. For never saying anything, never asking, never caring. For demanding, and demanding and never giving.
It didn't matter. It wasn't enough, and it was too late. Orion probably didn't even know when, why or how his son had sold his soul. Regulus had seen through the act now, he wasn't so little anymore. Stern, severe, rigid Orion Black was just as cowardly as the rest of them. He didn't want to know, should some blame fall on him.
The seventeen-year-old took the drink, not the apology.
Regulus would not share a single one of these memories.
He hated that, among all the fantastical aquarelles his thoughts and memories painted, the one at the forefront of his mind was a blunt card with 'this is my chance' printed on it in block letters.
This whole dreadful affair was a bloody opportunity, and he loathed that more than he did turning it into a socialite zoo. He'd been given time off school – more so than any of his schoolmates due to the title and responsibilities he was inheriting as well – and the Dark Lord did not care enough to look at his calendar and realise there was a hole there. Save for the funeral itself, no one expected to see him for a whole two weeks.
It was perfect, ideal. The planets had aligned, the sun was shining, the crops were growing – his father's funeral was going to be his window to act.
Regulus had a cave to visit, and he could not risk anyone looking for him before all was over.
This was the priority.
Until then, he had to organize this funeral like he wasn't planning on dying immediately after. Raising even the smallest of eyebrows was not affordable. There were dragons of grief, fear and trepidation warring in his heart, setting his whole future ablaze, but the smoke was not to make it outside. He was going to choose chrysanthemums over tulips, port over wine, Marengo grey for the napkins, and pay no mind to his life splinching itself apart.
So Regulus wrote the eulogy everyone expected to hear. Beautiful, glorifying, about as personal as tax returns. His father would understand, he hoped. Or perhaps he'd get to defend his choices in person soon enough.
He did as told.
Regulus had made an art form out of coinciding interests with obligations.
McGonagall finished the class. She didn't say a word about the fact that Regulus had spent to whole class pouring over something that was decidedly not Transfiguration. The young man was not fool enough to think she hadn't noticed. Like Slughorn, she gave him a look that conveyed sympathy and understanding.
Not for the first time, Regulus thought to himself, they have no idea.
He had a very complex relation to that sentence. Half of the time it was the bane of his existence – people constantly misunderstood him. The saw him nod, and they made assumption upon assumption upon assumption. Someone someday had painted a caricature of the mindless pure-blood scion, and somehow the whole of magic Britain had baptized it Regulus at once. He didn't deny being a dutiful son, he didn't deny agreeing with pure-blood ideologies, he would never call himself a rebel, but by Merlin, no one was that flat.
Just because he saw no benefice in contradicting others publicly did not mean he was willing to roll over at every command.
Regulus couldn't do anything without someone thinking the world was ending. He remembered asking to try out for the Quidditch team in third year and having his whole House uncomfortably attempt to convince him that it wasn't his kind of thing. Even now he was relatively certain he'd only made Slytherin Seeker out of pure spite.
Still, live long enough with a weird growth on your back and you start finding uses for it.
From a young age, Regulus had started taking the assumptions made of him and weaving them into chainmail. He'd learnt that when objects functioned as they should, as they were expected to, no one paid them any mind. He'd learnt that with invisibility came freedom, and he thrived in it.
This was how Regulus, at eighteen years old, found the audacity to organize a facsimile of a funeral for his own father and mount a suicide mission against the greatest Dark wizard in the time between homework and dinner. Whether he failed or succeeded, he was abrasively certain of one thing: they would never know.
That was how he was known and how he would be remembered. Wrongly.
The bitter facts of death are, once someone turns into nothing but a tombstone, old letters, and oxidising photographs – they do become that flat. The small flaws that built their character, the shameful moments that coloured their stories, their annoying tics and bad tastes – all are forgotten to glorify brighter traits, sweeten grief, and make everyone feel better about the fact that no one truly knows anyone else. It makes for a kinder remembrance, but is it remembrance at all to forget half of everyone?
No one likes speaking ill of the dead, perhaps that's why no one speaks true either.
Regulus wondered, briefly, what people would say about him. Perhaps they'd keep the eulogy he'd just written and re-use it, if there wasn't already a stock of those somewhere, with blanks where the deceased name was to be filled.
Oops sorry for ghosting
Thank you for all the reviews! I have actually planned this story, which is more than I can say for most fanfics I post on impulse, so it should carry on, no matter how slowly.
