Endless Night

Chapter 9 – This Last Game

In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he will direct thy paths.

Proverbs 3:6

Not until Regulus knocks at the door of the Prefects' Room does it occur to him that he does not know exactly what this illegal bust-up is supposed to be. Severus has slipped the noose despite Regulus' best efforts. Close knit their group might be, but they deal in secrets and subtle, closely guarded power games. Insulting, Regulus thinks, as he marches past the statue of Twuckletap the Tipsy who tries to trip him up with an empty firewhisky bottle. Growing up at Mother's knee, with the Black family mind games for sustenance, he should have had the upper hand over Severus.

Annoyance is still bubbling in his stomach when the wooden door gives way in answer to his wand, to reveal the bright and fiery head of one Lily Evans. Her face is almost split in two by her smile. "Come in, Regulus," she says, and he follows her in with only a small stab of guilt in the region of his lungs.

Definitely more beautiful than Doris.

She lacks neither spirit nor temper, but she has always been cordial to him, always calling him by his given name, unlike most of the other Gryffindors – and even some of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws – who simply called him Black, or – Salazar forbid – 'Sirius' brother'.

Said Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs are gathered in their own little knots on the north and east side of the room respectively. The Gryffindors sprawl in their customary chairs in the middle, with the Slytherins sitting close, but distinctly aloof. Tug-of-war even here, when they are all supposed to be united in authority. Luckily, Christmas holidays means that duties are light, and schedules are relaxed, so he has a good chance of picking his partner of choice for the roster tonight.

Potter and Lupin are seated together as usual, hair glimmering black and gold by in the dancing firelight as they discuss some point earnestly. A flash of silver catches his eye as he turns to sit, making him pause a moment. Not from the cross at Lupin's neck, which is tucked into his jumper, but from something small – a pendant perhaps or a locket – half hidden in Potter's palm. Neither of them looks up as he takes his chair beside Barty – who is dressed in a mauve jersey with a cluster of glaring pineapples right in the centre – and picks up an empty timetable from the stack lying ready before him.

Evans dispatches assignments with her customary vigour, and Regulus ceases to pay attention when his rather large dinner kicks in. A sleepy quietude overtakes him, the heat of the fire even sends a mild warmth washing over his ever-chilled fingers, and he slides further down his chair, giving half an ear to the indistinguishable prattle from the two Gryffindors, and to Barty's snuffles as he recalls the half an hour he spent Flooing his parents and his house elf.

Until he is roused by the sound of the names for which he has been waiting. A chance for help – and perhaps – a reluctant confession.

"Now James, if you'd take the Ravenclaw corridor patrol with Gareth" –

"But Lily, I was hoping you'd take this round with me" –

"I'll take it with Potter," Regulus breaks in.

Silence pervades the small room. Potter and Lupin both stare at him, eyebrows raised, and even Evans looks up from the duties list at last. "What for?" Potter asks, sounding justly astounded. "You're usually so keen to stay as far away from me as you can."

"I – er… fancied a walk round the Ravenclaw block. Haven't been there in ages."

Gareth Stebbins snorts, and ignoring Barty's scowl, leans over and pokes Regulus' shoulder. "Why? Thinking of stocking up on a bit of wit and learning? You certainly need it, if that paltry excuse is all you can come up with."

"What's the harm? It's my school, isn't it? I can patrol where I want."

"No, you can't. I am a Ravenclaw, and the safety of my housemates is my first concern." Stebbins folds his arms over his chest. "Besides, Potter and I have got Quidditch things to discuss." Adroitly, he avoids an elbow to the ribs from Potter, who is still looking longingly at Evans.

"I can discuss Quidditch things too," Regulus says, but inwardly, it is all he can to do stop his heart from dropping with a thud into his boots. Potter is Head Boy, and Stebbins a senior Prefect of excellent standing; he can make no case against them.

"Not Gryffindor-Ravenclaw Quidditch, you can't," Potter replies evenly, clearly having decided to follow Stebbins' lead. "If you're so keen, you can take a stroll around the place after your assigned duty is done."

Regulus scowls, his face aflame with heat, but subsides. It is best to bide his time, and push his proposal forward more subtly when the next chance arises. Potter and Stebbins are still staring, as is Barty. Even Lupin looks at him now, the chocolate eyes fixed on his own with a puzzled and bewildered gaze, dropping ever so often to his trembling hands and fast-drying lips.

Perhaps… given that day in the corridor, that slight, unforgiving, unformed suspicion Regulus cannot banish from the back of his mind, Lupin would be the better choice.

Regulus does not dare meet Lupin's eyes, or make known his silent pleas, and so resorts to crushing his gloveless fingers until they are red and chapped and stinging.

"And Regulus, if you'll take the Astronomy Tower" –

"I'll take it with him," Lupin offers.

For the second time, everybody's eyes stop at Regulus. He glares back with as much venom as he can muster. Barty lets out a snort, a very magnificent one indeed, an exquisite mixture of surprise and disbelief and disdain, but Regulus really cannot be bothered to appreciate the fine art of snorting at present. He is rewarded for his negligence by a hard poke in the ribs, which has him doubling over with a grunt.

"But… but Moony," Potter breaks in, "we won't have time to – to get down to – er – business, if you have to come all the way from the Astronomy Tower."

"Are you sure, Remus?" Evans asks, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You shouldn't exert yourself…"

Lupin's brows knit together, and the first hint of stubbornness is visible in his firmly set jaw. "I'll be fine. Besides, if any of the students decide to take Christmas merrymaking a little too far, and start drinking away up top there, Regulus will need some help with crowd control." A perfectly solid reason at first glance, but it nettles Regulus all the same, when Evans and Potter take the excuse with good grace. Surely, they do not think him totally incompetent, unable to handle a handful of rowdy teenagers by himself?

He did not distinguish himself on duty that day when decorations were going up in the Great Hall. Potter was there – not that he did any better – but nothing Regulus has to say would be serious enough to garner his attention any more.

Or Sirius enough.

His brother would certainly appreciate that tired joke, since he liked to make many of them himself. Severus and Evan would not care, but Barty might secretly like it. Potter probably would not, despite having a juvenile sense of humour. Lupin may well be the only one to understand the irony that underpinned –

"Regulus?"

And there he is, Lupin, looking at Regulus again, wide eyes framed with light lashes half-closed with concern. He smiles without malice when Regulus starts. "Is that arrangement agreeable to you?"

"Of course," Regulus says gracefully, and, ignoring Barty's insistent plucking at his sleeve, files quietly out after Lupin when the session ends.

.

.

Darkness comes early to the Scottish forests in the winter months, but today, the light lingers longer. An anomaly in this week of lowering skies and unending snowstorms, but all the more welcome for that. This is not the light of the mornings and afternoons, when snow lies upon every surface in a blinding blanket, but leaves the forms underneath clearly defined, but a strange and horrific colour that bathes the world in its half-translucent, half-opaque glow. The walls of the Astronomy Tower staircase are three feet thick, and so the light, and the merciless, biting wind strike through his clothes with double the force when Regulus steps out onto the floor of the open turret.

Lupin, by his side, casts an anxious gaze up at the gathering clouds above.

There is no moon and no stars.

"Not an ideal night for Astronomical studies," Regulus observes lightly.

"That depends on your explanation of the ideal," Lupin replies. His tones are laced with a bitterness so slight it is barely discernible, but for Regulus, with his senses on overdrive, it rings as loud as a clarion call. Perhaps the involuntary falter in his step is noticeable, because Lupin shrugs in an effort to change gears, and shoots a brief smile at him. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

This time, Regulus' stumble is so marked that Lupin catches him by the arm to steady him. A mere second's brush of mittens against his sleeve, and Regulus is upright again. Undisclosed strength in that slender frame.

"Who says I want to talk to you about anything?" More things than one. Horrors and mysteries and shadows and darkness and monsters.

Lupin raises an eyebrow.

"All right… if I did want to say something – hypothetically speaking, of course, why would it be to you?"

"Clearly, James was your first choice."

Regulus snorts, the sound carrying far upon the air – Barty is a fine teacher, after all. "Potter? Why would I want to speak to that arrogant prat?"

"You pay no attention to anyone in the meeting till Lily starts handing out the assignments, then suddenly, you want to chum up with James?"

"The Ravenclaw Tower," Regulus says stiffly. "That was the attraction. I told you, I fancied a walk. I was almost sorted there." It is only half a lie.

"I was nearly sorted there too," Lupin says unexpectedly. "But I don't want to walk around the place for the sake of what could have been. Even Ravenclaws don't walk around it – the place is as dull as ditch water."

"I like walking," Regulus says obstinately.

Lupin turns, checking for revellers in the nooks and crannies of the turret. There are none – clearly the celebrations are still confined to common rooms and perhaps to the Great Hall. "You like flying better, though," Lupin says thoughtfully, and flicks a mitted finger in the direction of the Quidditch pitch. "If exercise was all you wanted, you'd be fifty feet in the air on your Cleansweep."

"In this weather? I'm not completely crazy."

"But house team practises have been going on regardless." Lupin breaks away, makes for a seat in the south wall, where they are partially sheltered from the driving wind. "I don't exactly have all the time in the world – duty calls, you see – so if you'd like to start the discussion sometime soon, I'd be much obliged."

"Sirius has got albizia," Regulus blurts out.

Lupin blinks, minute snowflakes falling off his eyelashes. "Sirius has got many things, but I'm certain albizia isn't one of them."

"He – He can't remember anything, or so he says."

"Ah, Amnesia."

"That's what I said," Regulus insists, "anaesthesia."

Lupin's lips twitch, and Regulus fails to bite back his scowl. "Never mind," Lupin says hastily, "why do you think he's forgetting things?"

Regulus sinks down on the stone seat, and Lupin shuffles obligingly to make room for him. "He told me so."

"In as many words?"

"It was more to the effect of 'my memory is completely gone'."

"Ah." Lupin pauses, considers, chewing on the inside of his lip. "He said something similar to me too," he volunteers at last.

"And you didn't think to tell me until now? You didn't think it was important enough to deal with before this?"

Lupin does not rise to the goad. "When did he tell you he's losing his memory?"

"This morning…well, afternoon, to be precise." Regulus crushes his gloved hand into a fist so tight he knows the blood is drained away, but the pain does not recede. A futile pursuit; he unfurls his fingers and scrubs ineffectually at his hair. "By Salazar, it seems years ago, but it's been just four hours…"

"Four hours…" Lupin tilts his head back, oblivious to the winds, now reaching a crescendo, driving snow into their partial shelter, tilts it back as far as it will go, so far it casts a sharp profile against the last vestiges of the dying light. The skin is as pale as wax – no paler, like the marble busts of long dead relatives that occupy the nooks and crannies of Father's study, the eyes sharp, dark and viscous, puddles of fully melted brown. And surely, those are fever spots of red that burn angrily on the cheekbones, and the damp, purplish smudges under his eyes are due to more than just the savage cold. "And exactly what were you doing, sitting on this information for so long when you claim it's an urgent matter?"

"I…I…"

And now, those bright, bright chocolate eyes are probing Regulus, stripping him, slicing through six layers of wool and leather like a laser through metal. Every last thought laid bare – even those hidden from his own conscious.

Fury – the barest hint of it – works like a miniature pump in Regulus' ribs. A rush of blood carries him to his feet. "I don't remember giving you permission to question me. I've come here – against my better judgement, mind you – to ask help for my brother. I don't spend enough time with him to be able to unravel all this on my own, but you – and that Potter and Pettigrew, he's always with you, and you know – you knew – and I'm supposed to stand here like some court of law and answer… answer…"

Lupin is immobile, head still thrown back against the wind, waiting patiently as Regulus trails off, drained of both his energy and his temper. Limply, Regulus sits. Lupin does not move away, and an odd stab of gratefulness twists Regulus' stomach.

"Sirius doesn't always speak in words. Not to you, Regulus, and not to me."

"How long have you known something was wrong?"

"With Sirius – or even my other friends – what's wrong and what's not wrong isn't always clear cut."

What's not wrong. How very right Lupin is. What's not wrong is a far throw from what is right. And life with his brother has, perhaps, never been completely right. Lupin's shoulders heave in a sigh of infinite weariness. The wool of his jumper is frayed around the shoulders, exposing the flannel shirt beneath. For the first time, Regulus notices that the boy looks almost ill.

Something, something tiny and forgotten and shadowy nags at the back of Regulus' mind.

"It's been in the air for a while," Regulus acknowledges, "but it's got worse only now."

Lupin frowns, not a gesture of anger, but of concern. "It's not just a vague idea though, is it? You've got some concrete facts, some definite idea what this is going to lead to – and you've tried to top it already, haven't you?" Raising one mitted fist to his mouth, Lupin blows on the material to warm it, then uncurls the fingers with the slight hiss. The knuckles are so stiff that the pop echoes loudly, even against the wind. "Sirius told you something – something he did, or something that he's going to do…"

"Conjecture," Regulus wants to say, but keeps silent instead.

"Or, something that's going to happen," Lupin continues to investigate calmly, eyes fixed on Regulus'. The shadows beneath them grow heavier by the second. "Yes, definitely that. You spoke to someone – someone who knows about it – or will do something about it" –

"No – I mean, how can you say" –

"Who was it, Regulus? Crouch – or Rosier? No, no, that can't be. Was it Snape?"

Regulus' eyes widen despite his best efforts at self-control. "How – how do you know?" Lupin should not know, he cannot know. Past master in the art of concealment, Regulus revels in the armour of inscrutability, the bits-and-pieces power games. At times too heavy a mantle for his shoulders, but nevertheless the preferred pastime amongst his family; Regulus is the best. Severus may have gained an edge over him earlier in the day – but Regulus will surely make it even again – but among strangers, his brother's honourable – honourably stupid – Gryffindor friends, he should be winning easily. Of course he wants to help Sirius, but there should be exhilaration on this chessboard.

But Lupin refuses to play the game.

No doubt his foolish fondness for books – Regulus conveniently ignores the fact that he shares this same foible – gives him much practise in the art of reading people.

And here lies the book of Regulus, Volume I, laid open for all to read.

"Try not to look so flabbergasted," Lupin says kindly, though his voice roughens at the edges, crumbling and vanishing before the phrases are quite complete. "The shock will wear off after some time."

"How – how did you guess?"

"I didn't. Your face is quite mobile – rather like Sirius'. You aren't him, of course, but there are resemblances when you're both trying to hide information."

"Bloody genetricks."

Lupin chuckles. "Now that all is revealed, can you actually tell me what you know, and what you want me to do about it? I'm getting a bit tired." He looks it, with dampness spreading along his brow and hairline, the purple smudges wandering down into his cheeks, at variance with the fever-spots burning ever brighter against the pale skin.

Not almost ill. Definitely ill. Warning bells begin to chime, replacing the nagging at the back of Regulus' mind. He tries to quiet them, does not quite succeed, and resorts to ignoring them. "Sirius told me that something happened, that day in the corridor?"

Lupin stiffens.

"So you remember it. I'm unsurprised you do, given the contents of our conversation," Regulus says casually.

Lupin does not rise to the bait. "And what did Sirius say exactly?"

"He said he can't remember what happened, but he thinks Severus is going to do something."

"To Sirius?"

Regulus does not dare hesitate. "Yes, or – or to his friends."

The colour drains from Lupin's cheeks. He closes his eyes, shielding them with his hand as though from the light, though twilight has now truly fallen, and the first slivers of the full moon will be visible in less than an hour's time. "When?"

"Tonight" –

"Are you sure" –

"Yes. Severus has got some potion ready, and he's asked me to go along with him to the Whomping Willow – he thinks it's going to happen there" – The shadows in his mind are clearing, taking strange and horrifying shape. "He says the potion can freeze the branches" –

Regulus stops; Lupin has slumped forward, face hidden in his shoulder. "No," Lupin mutters, words thick and blurred through cloth, "it can't be – not… not the Willow" – But it is the Willow. The Whomping Willow, with its flailing, writhing limbs, crushing and twisting in the wild, wild winter sleet, the full moon shining down, laying bare the grounds…

The full moon…

The moon and the Willow…

The shadows dissipate and the monster rears high. "You," Regulus says, voice and stiff and choked and bubbly all at once, "you are the werewolf."

Lupin raises his head, chocolate eyes liquid with terror, every feature drawn with mortification and misery; the stamp of confirmation of all Regulus has imagined these last five days.

And then Regulus turns, and runs.

To be continued…