Otherwise known as: How Luna tore apart the fabric of reality so that her friends could get decently laid, and accidentally saved the world in the process.

A/N: Welcome to Chapter Twenty Four! We're leaving the girls to wake up right now and popping across the country to my two favourite Death Eater pals! I love them, but they're really friggin' miserable, and that's sort-of canon, folks. 1979 is not a good year to have black hair, pale skin and dark magic. Because they're Death Eaters and they reminisce on Death Eater things there are some Dark parts here - and that totally includes the dirty house because my skin crawled just writing it. I adore them, though, so hopefully things will get a bit better soon.

Ooh! Also, I'm thinking definitely a Lavender/Baby Death Eater pairing.

Love always,

Eli x

Disclaimer: I do not own the works herein, all characters from the Harry Potter Universe belong to JK Rowling, and all characters, storylines, situations, plots and the like do not belong to me. I make no money from this work.

Warnings: Rated M for situations, swearing, violence... The whole lot, basically.

Chapter Specific Warnings: Sort of graphic violence? Like, reminiscing on graphic violence that occurs offscreen. Mentions of torture, killing, one mention of rape.

Iacta Alea Est

Chapter Twenty-Four

The wards rippled through the air, fizzing and popping as he forced his way through. There must have been a foot of them, blood wards and family protections included, and his passage always felt rather like attempting to escape a swamp. Even the Black family wards weren't this bad, barely noticeable, and Regulus knew that it wasn't a lack of magical skill that made these specific wards so damn unappealing.

The rowhouse loomed up in front of him once he'd shoved free of the magic; ugly and menacing though it was, he was glad to see it. Not the most inviting of homes in its prime, it had deteriorated over years of neglect into a heap of rotting wood and damp walls, held up mostly by bad memories and the resident's formidable willpower. Its aura was dark, but Regulus was born in the dark and had never feared its mysteries. He was glad to be here, glad to have made it through another night, glad to still have the ability to apparate to Cokeworth and walk up this damn street and greet the miserable bastard that lived within.

One perfunctory knock and the old, peeling door swung open on its hinges. Considering Snape would never be the type to meet him at the door with a cuppa and a smile, it was the best invitation he was ever going to get, so he didn't dawdle in crossing the threshold – he had a habit of changing his mind if you took too long. It swung closed with a slam, forcing the rank scent of mildew into the air, and Regulus did his best not to cough but failed. Why the man didn't just fix the place, Regulus wasn't sure, but he had entertained the idea that perhaps it was Snape's way of spiting his parents even through the veil.

"Where are you?" Regulus shouted, removing his cloak and going to drape it over the bannister, but thinking better of it upon notice of the thick layer of dust that was in residence there. He closed his eyes, his skin tingling and itching, and counted to ten very slowly. Usually the state of the place didn't bother him that much – he had seen worse – but the night before had been trying and he was feeling vulnerable as a result. If he dwelled too long on the dirt, he would never forget it, and they all teased him for bathing too much already.

"Here," the voice came, low and bored, from down the hall. Clutching the folds of his cloak in one hand and shoving the other into his robes so that he wouldn't accidentally touch anything, Regulus moved through to a parlour that had definitely seen better days. It was dim, the drapes perpetually drawn; very little light existed with which to cast shadows. A box sat in one corner, which Regulus knew that at one point had been a television, but it was at least a decade old now and the aerial had snapped into a jagged metal spike protruding above piles of books, parchment and other household debris that cluttered its flat top. It was a disgraceful health hazard, especially considering the books and mugs and unwashed crockery that littered the floor; perhaps it was an extra security measure, so that those intrepid hunters who managed to pass the wards out front were then thwarted by their own clumsiness, if they made it that far. It seemed unlikely to him that any burglar would step foot in the house for fear of tetanus or e-coli – any reasonable person would already have run a mile in the opposite direction.

Definitely, if Regulus was not presently a deadly combination of determined and desperate, he would have abandoned his mission on the doorstep and already be back at Grimmauld Place, supervising Kreacher as he bleached the stench of poverty from his clothes.

A single spider the size of Reg's fist scuttled out of the shadows and over his shoe before darting out of the door, as if even he could not wait to be free of this place.

It took a moment for Regulus to find his friend in the dark. He wore all black, a contrast to Regulus' rich emerald casual robes, but perhaps that was not so much a fashion statement as necessary if one were to live in such a state of squalor. Regulus could already see, with no little dismay, a thick deposit of silt on the hem of his clothes from where his mere passing had stirred up the dirt on the floor.

Severus was as he always seemed to be these days; he lounged in an old armchair whose pattern had long since ceased to be discernible, a spectre all in black but for the pearly whiteness of his face and one hand, which gripped a crystal tumbler negligently. Regulus eyed the pose with despair fuelled irritation. It took everything he had not to shout at the man, and instead take a seat on the chaise, his cloak thrown over an arm and no doubt seconds later acting as sacrifice to the moths and doxies that inhabited this decrepit hellhole. "Good morning, Severus," Regulus greeted him, his gaze on the glass the man held in case he needed further evidence of the younger man's disapproval. Pointedly, Snape brought the glass up to his lips, met Regulus' eyes with his own, and tipped the lot back.

It made Regulus twitch again, but there was a spark of malice in Severus' eyes that bore a warning, and he didn't want to get into a fight with his friend – his only true friend – over his bad habits when there were better and more pressing issues to argue about.

"Drop out, did you, Black?" Snape drawled quietly, his eyes watching him like a predator might watch prey. It never failed to get Regulus' back up to be spoken to that way, because of all the things he could be accused of, the one thing that wouldn't stick would be weak. He was a strong man, powerful for his age, and fully in control of his faculties.

Rather unlike the man in front of him. "It's Easter, Severus." Regulus replied evenly. "And a Saturday."

"Wonderful," the sarcasm was so thick Regulus could choke on it, and rather viciously hoped that Severus would, "perhaps we should have a drink to celebrate."

He reached one long, slender fingered hand towards the bottle, but Regulus, in a fit of childish pique, kicked the table. Blishen's bearded mouth formed a comical 'o' shape before it disappeared off the edge, and a smashing noise indicated that the beverage was no more. Severus stared stupidly at the spot on the hearth where it had landed for a moment, watching the precious amber liquid seep into the already soiled carpet, his arm still outstretched to reach for nothingness. Slowly, he seemed to regain his senses, his cheeks and ears flushing red from anger and the drink, and he turned to fully face his visitor.

Regulus stared back, eyes dead, face unreadable. He would not give any more of a reaction, lest Severus strike like the snake he was. The snake he resented being. He hated playing these games but when drink was involved they were necessary, hoops through which he had to jump before Severus would recognise him as friend rather than foe.

"That was expensive," Severus narrowed his eyes. His voice remained level, despite looking like he was about to fly into a rage. It was an impressive feat, but it wouldn't keep him alive unless he could either master himself fully, or stop drinking altogether. Regulus knew which one he would prefer for his friend, but either would be acceptable for the time being, until life wasn't so difficult, so dangerous. Until Reg could let go of his paranoia that his every step was being recorded and evaluated, until putting one step out of line did not mean death. Slytherins were all about self-preservation, and Reg was good at that – great at that – and usually Severus was too, which is what made them such great friends, but recently…

Recently, Severus had less been Severus Top-Of-The-Year, Highest-Ranking-Death-Eater-Of-Their-Age Snape and more Severus Self-Pity and Self-Destruction Snape.

Or something like that, but more punchy and less of a mouthful. Reg had never claimed to be a poet.

"I'll buy you more," Regulus lied. "Why are you drinking that swill, anyway?"

Severus twitched a finger, which was his version of a shrug. People often said he was expressionless, but Regulus knew better. "I happen to enjoy the subtler blend."

Regulus wanted to say, 'I doubt the subtle nuances of the flavour profile matter all that much when it doesn't touch your tongue going down', but in deference to their friendship and his rapidly dwindling respect for the older man he said instead, "aren't you going to offer me tea?"

"Tea is reserved for invited guests," Severus growled, a bit of his usual bluster poking through. It gave Regulus hope.

"Don't be such a curmudgeon," he chastised lightly, his disposition lightening as if in reward for Severus' good behaviour. He flicked his wand towards the kitchen where he heard the kettle begin to whistle in seconds. He and Severus engaged in a challenging stare-off for a moment, before he rolled his eyes and went through to make it himself. He added an extra couple of spoonfuls of tea to the pot in the hope that it might sober the other man up a bit, but didn't bet on it.

On his return, Severus had vacated his chair and instead stood at the window, glaring out into the street. Regulus was struck with a vision of the man in fifty years, still communicating in mostly grunts, grumbling about the kids on the street, in his garden. It was a sad image, but made even sadder by the idea that if he didn't get his arse in gear, the other man may not make it to that age at all. He cleared a space on the coffee table with a negligent sweep of his wand before lowering the hovering tea tray to the surface. Severus could usually be relied upon to keep his kitchen equipment as clean as his lab equipment, but that rather sketchy rule only applied if the equipment lived in the kitchen, rather than having been left elsewhere – as evidenced by the rubbish all over the floor. Reg had given the cups, saucers and pot a quick scourify just to be on the safe side, though their new proximity to the filth of Severus' parlour didn't bring him any comfort at all.

He lowered himself back to the couch and took a cup, sipping it for a moment while he regarded his friend. Severus wasn't typically a drinker, hence why it affected him so strongly on the rare occasion that he did. It took a lot to get him to a place where he could overcome his personal history with alcohol long enough to consume it – a situation which was becoming more and more frequent recently, as the Dark Lord got more manic, more determined in his quest for… whatever it was he was searching for, nowadays. The fact that it was early morning and Severus had blatantly neither slept nor stopped drinking hinted to Reg that perhaps his evening had been on a par or above Reg's own.

Regulus would love to not begrudge Severus this vice, Merlin knew they all had them – needed them – but that Severus could not control himself properly when he drank was terrifying when the two of them were in such precarious positions. Neither of them could afford to let their guards down; Occlumency was not fool-proof by any means, and the very walls had eyes in their lives.

Severus seemed to think that the silence was comfortable, or perhaps wanted it to be uncomfortable, so Regulus ended up being the one to break it in an attempt to draw him out of his shell. "I was out with Malfoy and Lestrange last night," he began, because he felt that the single statement illustrated his evening quite nicely.

Lucius Malfoy was a good man, to Regulus' eyes, and had always regarded Reg as a younger brother. It had pissed Sirius off to no end but Regulus had never been more grateful for anybody's existence in the past year and a half. He was protective towards Reg, which Reg would like to say exasperated him (because he could look after himself) but he would be lying. Having Malfoy at his back meant that he was spared the greatest horrors of his life, kept from having to see the worst of the Dark Lord's efforts, and while some nights he despised himself for that and the cowardice it insinuated in him it was also just nice to have someone who cared, who recognised that he was just a kid after all, still at school. Severus, for all that he had affection for Regulus, for all that they were best friends, wouldn't put himself between Regulus and a dying, tortured muggle because he had odd morals which required that Regulus should face up to the reality of the world. Maybe Regulus should, but thanks to Lucius there was some part of himself that remained unscarred. In his mind, he could still be forgiven, because he had never tortured innocent children or raped a helpless woman or torn a man's innards from his stomach while he still breathed…

Lestrange was the opposite. Rodolphus matched his wife in bloodlust if nowhere else, and he believed (strongly) that everybody else should share the same appetite. If Malfoy looked to be protecting Regulus in his presence, Lestrange would only work twice as hard to break him, make his victims scream twice as loud – last night he had held Regulus' neck in one bloodstained hand as he used the other to tear chunks of skin from a wizard's still writhing body as his wife watched on hysterically. The thing about magical people, Rodolphus had leered up at him, his tone idle like he was teaching an anatomy class rather than doing unspeakable things to what was now little more than a corpse, is that they're a lot harder to kill. Which means, Reggie, that they're also a lot more fun.

The victim had been a half-blood with a muggle wife who both lived relatively unassuming lives in Newcastle. The Dark Lord had wanted them killed, but he didn't care how. Lestrange had liked the lack of restriction. Liked it a lot. It had taken an hour in the shower this morning before the blood was all gone but as with the other times he felt like he could still feel it…

Noticing that his hand was shaking, he took a sip of his tea to disguise it. Severus' mouth contorted into a grimace. "You have my sympathies."

Regulus didn't speak for he had opened the conversation and it was now Severus' responsibility to continue it. One of the other man's favourite tricks was to sit in silence until a person felt obligated to fill it, and now Reg attempted to turn the tactic back on him. It wouldn't work if he was sober, but if he was just drunk enough…

As if intercepting the thought, Severus snorted. "I'm not drunk," he told Regulus coolly, eyeing him with distaste. Regulus' eyebrow cocked of its own accord and Severus' face darkened. "Circe's tit, Black, it's eight in the morning!"

"I know that," Regulus murmured, sipping his tea delicately. Gods, it was revolting. Severus gave him a disgusted look as he finally tasted his own, and sat back down to doctor it with sugar. "You know how this goes, Severus. It's basic manners. I say something about me, and invite you to comment. You comment, and say something about yourself in return. We converse." A finger danced through the air between them as if to illustrate his comment. "It's not hard," Regulus added, his tone dry as dust.

Severus spent a moment contemplating the accumulated grime on the coffee table. Absently, he doodled a pattern with the nail of his index finger, before realising what he was doing and wiping it away with a vicious swipe of his hand. He gulped down a mouthful of tea. "Dolohov and Avery," he responded, finally, and Reg cringed. The torture dream team, with Severus attached as apprentice-cum-inadequate babysitter. Even the Dark Lord shied away from Dolohov and Avery's joint projects, saving the two of them up for special occasions, preferring to have them available as individuals. Playing together, Dolohov and Avery's destructive powers were quadrupled, their sadistic minds capable of more evil than Regulus could imagine. He must have had something important in mind, though it was beyond Regulus to guess what it could have been.

Still, that meant that Severus had had a much worse night than he had. Regulus felt vaguely guilty about wasting the Blishens. "Any more whisky about?" Reg asked in lieu of a proper response. Well, croaked, for his mouth had suddenly gone dry.

They exchanged knowing, resigned looks. The two of them had become increasingly disenchanted with their cause over the past year or so, beginning to doubt the Dark Lord's vision for the world. They would never say it out loud – never had – but it was clear that they were on the same page. The two of them wanted out, but didn't know how to get there. They weren't Gryffindors, after all, to run into battle wands a'blazing, facing death head first. They could hardly just appear at the Manor one night and say, 'Hello, your Lordship, I'm afraid this 'evil' thing isn't quite for us. Tar'rah!' The office leaving do for a Death Eater was a funeral.

Neither of them were ready to die, just yet.

Still, they couldn't stay, not with things as they were. Sure, Regulus was a Dark wizard, and he had made the choice to join, and some people would say that he should deal with the consequences of his actions, but…

Well, he didn't like killing people. He didn't hate muggleborns, so seeing them… hurt was distasteful. Seeing the poor muggles, defenceless and confused as they were dragged into the room, had even cured him of his phobia of them. There might be billions of the things on earth, but there were billions of ants, also. Neither posed any real threat to him, as long as he didn't do anything stupid like poke a nest of the damn things, so why should he bother himself with them? To his mind – and now that he had thought it through, it seemed ridiculous to not have thought it earlier – as long as they didn't know magic existed, then there was no trouble. There were such a thing as Obliviators, anyway, for the odd one that took the discovery badly, and that had worked for centuries.

The real threat was the Death Eaters, who didn't bother to hide their magic, their kills, or their hatred. Sooner or later they would bring the whole magical community into the spotlight, and what then? Would the Dark Lord kill every muggle on the planet? Not likely. Would the Muggles kill them, first?

Maybe.

They needed stopping, obviously, but that wasn't what was foremost on their minds. They knew that it was likely they would have to fight, any idiot could guess that, and they wouldn't mind either as long as they didn't have to bow to the Dark Lord any longer.

But how could they get out?

The Order wasn't an option – even if the lot of them didn't despise Severus, their leader was Albus Dumbledore, and he found all Slytherins beneath contempt.

Moving country wasn't an option – they would be found. The Dark Lord had allies all across the continents, one would never be safe.

They could start an underground revolution, but Regulus and Severus were hardly the best people to lead something like that. Severus was nowhere near charismatic enough, and Regulus had trouble relating to people who weren't just like him. If only they were nicer people, kinder maybe, or even more handsome, handsome enough that people would trust them despite their less than perfect personalities…

"I wonder what that weapon is," Severus said, apparently deciding to talk. Regulus huffed in frustration; he had felt as though he was onto something and the idea was in his head, he just needed to coax it into the forefront, but the second Severus had spoken the thought had scattered.

"What weapon?" He snapped. Severus peered over his teacup curiously, a spark of amusement in his eyes that he'd drawn a reaction.

"The one the Order supposedly has," he drawled lazily. "The one the Fates themselves saw fit to bless them with."

Regulus rolled his eyes. 'Fates' he says, like Gods exist. How could Gods exist when the world is as dark as it is? The only God Regulus believed in was Magic, no matter what the family legends told him. "It's probably nothing," he replied dismissively, then thought about it a little more. "Some sort of poison, to kill the Dark Lord with, perhaps."

"A poison? Gifted to the Potters?" His tone was laced with only the tiniest bit of irony. Regulus curled his fingers around his cup more securely – he didn't want to think about the Potters, who stole his brother, who lived lives of happiness and light while he was reduced to sitting on a dirty muggle sofa in an equally loathsome little house, flinching at every shadow and jumping at every creak. Severus shouldn't want to think about them either, not with what all they'd taken from him, and yet here the man sat, pondering them like it didn't hurt at all. "Unlikely, don't you think?"

"What else could it be?" if you're so damn smart, Reg did not add.

"I'm not certain, but whatever it is, I'd quite like to know." He tapped his spindly fingers against the porcelain, little tinking noises ringing out then abruptly being muffled by the damp. "The Dark Lord wants me back at Hogwarts."

Regulus nodded. "Better there than out here."

"For you, maybe." Severus shook his head, his lank hair spilling over his shoulders. "He thinks that Dumbledore might trust me if I run back with my tail between my legs."

To say that whole situation was unlikely would be understating the issue. Severus had more pride than a hippogriff, his violent streak equal to or greater than. Dumbledore wouldn't buy it, even if he had been a lion cub.

"He'll never trust you. He'll only use you, then throw you away." It was a warning that Regulus had heard from his parents throughout his childhood – beware the half-blood bearing gifts. All of the twinkling in the world wouldn't convince him to trust a man who allowed, even incited, such blatant discrimination within his school, and he wouldn't encourage his friend to go willingly into his grasp either. Severus' eyes went heavy lidded, his whole body suddenly appearing to suffer some great weight. In this position his face was lined prematurely, his smooth skin showing the stresses of his unreasonably difficult life.

"You should get in touch with the other one," Severus said instead of any other response, his voice forcibly light. He was referring to Sirius, a fact made clear by the strain in his voice. When Regulus went to shake his head, Severus held up a hand. "Hear me out. He's your brother, and despite our… differences, he has always loved you. The Potters will take you in, you will be protected."

"Not likely," he could have responded, but it would be by rote. He thought, instead, about what it might be like, if he were to join Sirius. He would be disowned by his family, of course, but his father was dead and his mother insane, so there was little left for him there. Kreacher would remain loyal, and Kreacher was what he loved most in that house. He wouldn't have to marry Emilie Selwyn, which was a definite plus. The Death Eaters would be out for his blood, which was… not so very different to now.

He would have to deal with the sneers of the Light as they looked down upon the fallen Death Eater, probably even grovel to Dumbledore, deal with their distrust…

Severus was watching him expectantly. "I'll think about it," he said, wondering whether he could supress his pride (which was a match for Severus', easily) for the sake of his life.

"Good," Severus said, a slight smile flickering across his lips. He looked... well, relieved would be the word, but that suggested that he had been concerned about Regulus, and it seemed inconceivable that Severus of all people was trying to keep him safe. Trying to push him into the arms of his childhood tormentors, even.

His quizzical look must have entertained the older man because he laughed, properly, his eyes warm and everything. "I know this seems ludicrous to you, Regulus, but I actually like you. As a person who likes a very limited number of people, I'd rather if the people I did like didn't go around getting themselves killed." He drained his teacup and set it down, sending the tray back to the kitchen with a wave of his wand. "Now, if you don't mind, I had a very busy day planned."

"Moping and drinking?" Regulus snarked, reaching for his cloak.

"Indeed," Severus replied, with all the appearance of solemnity. "Do not let the door hit you on your way out."