Disclaimer: I believe it's been established well by now: JK's world; I'm just playing in it.
Author's Note: Yes, as I'd stated before, I've taken liberties with the times of death with a couple of canon characters; these alterations were necessary for plot purposes. A short return chapter; transitioning to the final few.
Also, I am wavering on adjusting the rating for upcoming chapters, few though there are left. This would be for multiple purposes, though the general gist is to what degree of detail (violence, et cetera) I use for some scenes, as well as language. I'm open for reader wishes on this – just PM with your wishes of remaining T or moving to M. I'm flexible.
+++Apologies, but I've been trying to post this since Sunday, 27 March. FFN has not been letting me update/edit ANY of my HP fics.
As always, reviews are most appreciated. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts!
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Chapter 21: Precipice
19 April 1979
Coffee sweet and full dulled the biting edge of good Irish whiskey, warming Hestia Jones' insides nearly as sure as Hogsmeade butterbeer.
For a Thursday evening, the cosy Irish pub was rather lively, patrons spread about in the half-light, chattering good-humouredly with compatriots and strangers alike. The atmosphere was welcoming, a relaxing change from the ever-on guard anxiety of magical refuges. Tia was weary of any place heavy with traffic of Wizarding folk; their countenances maudlin, most brought even the cheeriest of occasions down to funeral sombre.
Tia sipped her drink and let her eyes dart beneath heavy lashes and low lids about the room. Vantage point hers, she shifted slightly on the bar stool in the back corner, claiming the short stretch of curved oaken bar for herself alone. Seeing nothing out of sorts, her gaze returned to her newspaper, the Irish Times, and the copy of the Daily Prophet neatly tucked within the Muggle periodical's folds.
Somewhere between updates on You-Know-Who's whereabouts and his followers – the Death Eaters – and their veiled threats lay Societal Pages filled with grandiose snubbery and old, bloodstained monies. Tia rolled her eyes at the ridiculously inane commentary. Honestly; who was so utterly concerned about the ongoings of galas and marital scandals when both their and the Muggle world were being torn asunder in raping and pillaging of life and limb? Every day the list grew in souls gone missing or found lifeless, the glowing Dark Mark hanging high above. Even the Muggles were noticing. After all, how could one not notice mysterious disappearances of random people throughout Western Europe? The oddities of calamity still being explained away as natural disasters that made little sense; déjà vu of happenings leaving political figures anxious for vague reasons.
The Muggles were frightened. They should be. Magical folk knew the reasons behind their fears and, perhaps, were the worse off for it.
But Tia was tired of all the tension and extreme caution. She had had her fill of jumping at shadows and studying facial expressions, looking for implications of the Imperious Curse. It was Easter break, and she had joined her father in the western counties of Ireland. He was doing business this week throughout, and had left her on her own in County Galway, luxuriating in relative calm and jubilation of early spring. They were rooming in a Bed and Breakfast just down the way, and Tia had to admit some time in the Muggle world had eased her nerves, acted as a holiday in and of itself.
Returning musings to the papers before her, she glanced through the oddities of posh do's and higher class (so say they) appearances. One photo of upper crust gala revealed Narcissa Black – Malfoy, these past two years – draped in rich outer robes of layered silk. The weather, though cool, was much too warm for such, and Tia prodded the photo Mrs Malfoy, who kept darting behind her husband. A few tries, and she managed to catch what the blonde was attempting to downplay: she was pregnant again.
Rarity though it may be, Tia did feel a tinge of sorrow for the middle Black cousin. Narcissa had had at least three miscarriages to Tia's knowledge. Even in the Wizarding world, not all in ways of life and death could be controlled by the powers of magic. Nature was a very powerful witch of her own right.
Should Narcissa ever carry to term and deliver, Tia reflected, the woman would be overprotective a mother. In the extreme. And really, could any blame be laid at her feet for that?
Another deep pull of Irish coffee and a shake of her head went a fair piece to clearing thoughts. She didn't need to be reminded of anything from her world right now; this was a break, a respite from reality.
She needed a lot of those these days, she thought with a wry smile. Always something to forget, something of which she didn't want to be so fully aware. Couldn't be reminded. Wished had never been. A mere two and a half weeks prior, even, she had found herself reminiscing painfully. Her birthday…
The bitter clearness of the moments past midnight left the sky vulnerable in such a way as to greet her in sisterhood, a vast emptiness spread before, reflecting past, utterly still and devoid of life. Such were the breaths of memory. The bite a chill for the skin, physical nudge to the tangibility of unwelcome thoughts and the sharp night of the deserted Astronomy Tower. Worn stone with aged points dug into soft, cold flesh, bathed only in flannel pyjamas, faded dressing gown and starlight. Her bum was numbed by countless hours upon unforgiving stone, yet Hestia Jones cared little; too caught in a vice made up of foresight and hindsight and creations within a world of 'if only's.'
Knees drawn up, arms encompassing, Tia leaned back and let her eyes blur. Images cast themselves as a Pensieve in free form, and recollection drifted her away long enough to touch some bit of self long-since hidden away.
She could still see him, that night in early February last year when they had ventured to stay behind after Astronomy class, preparing for an exam. Tia had had trouble with the homework, and he had promised to offer a tutoring session. And whilst she was taking notes on something he had just explained in a wholly different and more associating manner, Tia had glanced up to find him near the parapet, leaning back casually, hands pocketed.
…And for a moment, he wasn't looking at her, was entranced elsewhere, to the stars, the heavens. And for a moment… for a moment he looked vulnerable. Human. Mortal. Not a Black, not an Heir, not Slytherin or some form of dark wizard in training. Gone was the arrogance of his bloodline, the manipulation of family. The poison of so-called Society.
And he was beautiful...
The dark chuckle rose, almost immediately cut off by the choked sob vying for voice. In the end, only a muted catch sounded, and Tia found only her pained sigh.
Of relief? Of sorrow? What did she honestly feel by this point? Did she even feel anything?
Less than twenty-four hours until a year had passed, a birth date, a death date, a betrayal greater than any she had ever known. The loss of something greater – the ability to trust – and of something far more painful… a future she had created in her mind, complete with wonder. One she had doubted herself to ever be privy to bartering, given her unconventional forthright determination to work outside the nursery and soirees. One chose either, privileged not to both.
Less than twenty-four hours to milestone the truth of the world, the lie her world had been for five months. My how time flies when you're growing up.
Hestia Jones had had quite enough of said process, thank you. Enough to last a lifetime.
"So what's a fit little lass like yourself doin' here on such a lovely night? And all alone, for the love of Mer– Mercy." The smooth – Northern Irish? With a hint of…? – voice broke her innere visions and Tia started, chastising herself for failure of awareness. And in these days and times. Grrr…
Turning to the subject of said distraction, plastered polite smile met him before her patient gaze did. Seated upon the barstool on the other side of the bar's curve, a bullish man of thirty or so nursed a Black and Tan, his work-dirtied hands clasped about the heavy mug. Cream cable knit against sun-kissed skin, inviting as a winter's night fire. Narrow dark eyes regarded her in avid interest; even Tia in her relative innocence could spot their meaning. She wasn't interested.
"Doing just fine, thanks," she replied pleasantly enough, an edge of finality to her voice claiming desire only to be left alone. Attention back on her reading material, Tia was just weighing choices for a late supper when her admirer delivered upon persistence.
"Oh, now darlin', don't be gettin' your ire… I'm only tryin' to be friendly this evenin', after a long and hard day tendin' the horses." In spite of herself, Tia found curiosity at his words. And though still staring at the now all-Muggle paper (the Prophet neatly tucked two pages back), her ears held audience as he went on a monologue in casual reference, describing numerous equines and their dispositions, personalities... their funny little habits and quirks. And Tia, being passionate about animals magical and not, was slowly charmed.
Her paper folded, lay aside, unread.
-o-0-o-
Early spring air, cool and damp, lay in mists along the lowlands. Twilight falling, he made his way amongst the trailing, thinning crowds, most moving swiftly toward lighted buildings and public gatherings, or instead to their homes warm and sweet with supper baking. Gentle laughter flowed all around. Pleasant murmured conversations.
Heavy, woollen long coat blended him well with locals; more importantly camouflaged him with the growing night. Mood just as dark, it was also as empty, full only of thoughts and memories and questions of philosophies and Fates unexplained. Re-enactments flitted through his head. Tensed his body.
Regulus was weary of the perpetual wedge, the fighting, the distance between himself and Sirius. They were brothers after all; why could it never be that they were close like it? Once upon a time, perhaps; before Hogwarts… Then the eldest had gone off to school, leaving Regulus behind. All had altered then; Sirius had altered then.
Why did he have to choose Potter over him? Why had he abandoned him, turned traitor to the family? Why had he forced the hands that now directed Regulus to this course he must now play out? God damn it, Sirius, why?
A gala only days past, the Potters James and Lily attending as it involved a charity they heavily endorsed. And his assignment, the same as much of last year: dispose of Sirius. But now greater were the stakes. The Dark Lord himself expected Regulus to pull such off, leaving the event to be both memorable and yet subtle. Regulus was to dispense with Sirius in a manner that proved even those who thought themselves untouchable could be easily picked off at the most innocent of times. Display the ultimate power of this new reign. So Regulus had uncovered the guest list for the gala – supposedly a secured grouping of names – and had infiltrated the party. To slip in on their own grounds and pick off a known advocate for Dumbledore's faction…
But things had once again not gone as planned, and Regulus had instead found little opportunity to do much of anything without being caught in the act. The Dark Lord – and more importantly, Mother – had specifically requested results without the process seen or evidence of exact participants. It was the invisibility of the torture that would aid in spreading fear as quick as lighting. But timing never was right, and Regulus had spent the evening witness to his brother's… happiness.
James Potter and Lily Evans had married last fall, he had heard. Their extended family, however, included elder brother Black. Far too often it was a repeat of school; where one was, there shadowed the other. And Regulus knew this well, for he tracked Sirius regularly as per task set upon him. It never failed to twist his gut.
Severus Snape had offered to fulfil this particular duty in his stead, an avaricious pleasure underlying his suggestion. Already the older Slytherin had usurped Regulus as the Dark Lord's potions mongrel; this additional service would have rendered the Black Heir seemingly incapable an agent, useless and shortfall. Regulus had declined Snape's personal vendetta with a scathing glare, met with the lower class boy's cool, calculating stare. Ultimately, it had mattered naught. Sirius never graced Regulus with an opportunity for subterfuge, insisting instead his natural penchant for garnishing as much attention as a Page Three Girl.
The gala evening had existed merely as a lesson in resigned observance. And Regulus was damned sick of observing. An entire year of watching… waiting… without action. Without comment. Without –
"Stop your brooding and get on with it."
Regulus started, hiding his off-guard with irritation.
"As usual, Avery," he drawled, flicking a narrow-eyed threat across the fading night to his compatriot, "you've a talent for uncouthly stating your ignorance. I'm not brooding, you wanker; I'm contemplating."
"Your contemplation has gone on for the last year," Avery countered, keeping step alongside as Regulus made his way swiftly toward a small stone kirk. "We're all weary of it, Black. It's that damned Muggle-loving Chavette of yours, isn't it? You've not been right in the head since whatever tiff you two had and she stopped chatting you up."
Regulus refrained comment. Avery was baiting him, seeking confirmation of speculations running rampant throughout Slytherin House since Mother's visit last year... and Tia's subsequent enlightenment. Everything had changed that moment; her father was forever out of reach. Mother was furious. The Dark Lord had said nothing, merely pinpointing Regulus' now-single task. All saw him as a failure, poor excuse for the Black name.
Regulus just saw clarity. It was a wake-up to the mirror of truth, a truth of his place and of their world. And it was about time he realized it.
"Jones isn't worth my time or thoughts, Avery," he dismissed curtly, jaw tensing at the subject direction. "She was a chore gone awry, a blemish to my service. Lesson learned, and all that rot."
"Good then." Avery fell slightly behind Regulus as they slipped succinctly into the darkened sanctuary, void of life. If it were unusual their Thursday evening visit, the locals took no notice. "So if you're not contemplating her, then what? We've got our orders: undermine the Muggles' sense of safety and security. Not a Muggle one in here," he noted, hands gesturing, encompassing as they walked the middle aisle toward a desolate pulpit.
"You think too limitedly," Regulus sneered; he was sick of weak-minded dog's bodies such as Avery. The young man had a mean streak, but lacked vision. An ignorant thug; nothing more.
Regulus began casting charms throughout, spells that reacted upon key terms the Muggles would use in a mass – magical reactions that would spook them and ingrain fear into what they normally would take courage. All in the mind, these close-minded folk. The Dark Lord was right; they deserved only to be used for purposes to serve the higher class.
He would bring them to heel.
"We should hurry," Avery tossed over his shoulder. The scamp was now darting about the room, acting as though he were ingeniously creating traps, though little more than childish pranks was he leaving. "Cassius expects us half past; I'd rather not test his patience, Black. MacNair did that once…"
Well aware was Regulus of Cassius's sadism. Wasn't that precisely why the Dark Lord had inducted the versatile Roman into his Inner Circle? Subtle, until he struck. Violent. Vicious. Insatiable. He'd been sent on these outlying ventures of mayhem for the past month, insuring both the successful behaviour of younger crew and memorable butchery for the pitiful Muggles left in his wake. A disgust Regulus would never admit coursed through veins chilled by genocide-catechism exposure. Let us be murderers…
-o-0-o-
Giggling like a schoolgirl from years back, Tia could not recall the last time she'd felt so light and happy. Genuinely happy. Charles was good humoured, pleasant upon the eye, and not quite as advanced in years as she'd initially believed. She was lonely, her father out on an errand to take days, and it was a pleasant change of pace to have cheerful company with which to spend her hours.
They'd had a pub supper wrapped in intelligent conversation and easy amusement. The evening chill but tepid, Tia had allowed Charles to escort her back to the B&B, a sense of possible romance enough to make her holiday complete. She smiled wanly; she may be no Venus, but it was nice to be looked upon with some affection. Mayhap somewhere her self-esteem might one day be found again. Its loss had been mourned for more than a year.
He was gentlemanly, reminding Hestia Jones she was a female and could honestly be treated as such. Momentarily flashed images of another time, another man who had treated her as a lady, and Tia couldn't help the lapse into memory. Comparisons made that should not be; feelings best forgotten aching her heart once more. She shook them off, the recollections and the feelings. Another time, another person was she: gullible, innocent, far too trusting. Lesson learned, Tia was much more cautious now. Charles, as sweet as he was, was still a man. A Muggle, she took comfort knowing if his intentions grew too amorous, her wand lay just inside her coat's inner pocket. He was no match.
The subtle taking of her hand made her smile inwardly; like a boy on his first date, Charles' attempt at nonchalant courtship was charming. Tia had missed that, missed physicality. At least with this one she knew there lay no subterfuge and ulterior motives. After all, she'd admitted as much she had no money beyond a handful of pounds, and he knew nothing of her family, of any connections she might have…
She was wanted just for herself. Finally.
"When I was a lad," he said, changing subject from their examination of ancient architecture, "we used to play this game called 'Ten Seconds.'" Tia noted the bashful tinge to his voice, and guessed it was a boy's game meant to corner the girls for an impetuous, stolen kiss. Further agreement with herself came as he veered to their right into a deserted kirkyard. She tried not to laugh.
"How was it played?" she ventured, trying to sound innocently curious. His nervous chuckle warmed her.
"Ah, well… a bunch of boyos, we'd go on a Saturday night and visit the local kirkyard – this one, in fact," he added, arm gesturing to encompass the desolate monuments. "Would invite the local lasses to join in a test of bravery. We'd walk through an area and look at all the stones, find one whose spirit we wanted to invoke, and…"
As he told the rules, woman's intuition quipped at the fact the game led precisely to where she'd known it would. Inevitably one boy and one girl would find themselves left alone in the dark, a mandatory 10-second sentence for failing in memory or bravery or any other contest purposely shunted. When he led her behind the church, just inside the empty shadows, Tia felt a tingle of anticipation. A kiss, from an older man… Though she could not see this a long-term option (he'd panic if she showed him the truth of her), what harm could it cause her heart, this little indulgence? She was flattered; she was forgotten.
Manoeuvred to press backward against the wall, Tia found herself looking coyly up into Charles' expressive face, growing ever closer as his voice softened to a husky whisper, still telling tales of youth. Slower… lower… Her eyelids fluttered, grin fell impishly, and she relished the feel of masculine presence and scent. This little interlude would wash away those undesirable visions and memorized touches haunting her. After tonight, he didn't exist. Not anymore. Not in her world, her life. Another would cleanse away those traitorous ministrations of her past.
-o-0-o-
Screams of half-sobbed pleading and pain abruptly ceased. Regulus liked to imagine they included sheer terror; maybe they did. It was hard to tell, how short lived they were, but he and Avery had noted their presence vividly, though with differing attitudes. His schoolmate possessed a gleam of eye and glee of menacing teeth, excited at the bloodlust the cries implied. Regulus took the auditory indications more stoically, realising their existence as merely signs of their job being accomplished well. The torture of this village had begun, at least one Muggle fiercely aware of powers they were too weak and ignorant to understand. Word would spread rapidly. The Dark Lord would be pleased. Mother, as well. The Cause furthered, a strong winning point in their favour.
Distractedly Regulus wondered what his associates Cord Braden or Randall MacTavish were doing to produce those sounds. Technique must have improved.
"Rot," he heard Avery growl from the front of the building, and turning from an exacting nasty incantation, he caught the image of irritation.
"Damn it, Braden." Muttered below breath, internally Regulus was vibrantly cursing the ambitious twenty-year-old. Only Braden would be careless enough to cause a scene before the very location Regulus had expressly told him he would be. Accumulation of bystanders was building in the lane, fervourantly searching the source of the cries.
"Right," he decided solidly, whipping about and retreating to the pulpit. "We've done all we can. Let's collect the others and report back."
Hurriedly through doorways into the back rooms, echoes of the crowd reverberated through the stone and wood. Voice and impact bled through, bestowing urgency to Regulus' movement now. Failure by being caught or sighted would be ill-advised on all sides.
Through the backdoor of the kirk, the two young men slipped quickly and quietly into the now early evening, moonlight bouncing off aged tombstones in ghastly ambience. Escape lying to the right, they turned to make haste, growing commotion from the lane indicating they had little time –
Regulus drew up short.
Time held its vapid tongue for an eternity against the image before him. He had found Braden and MacTavish… restraining a half-naked, bloodied and battered Hestia Jones against the church wall as Cassius took his hellacious pleasures, his cream cable knit jumper aglow in the darkness.