Disclaimer: All canon characters and places belong to the immensely talented JK Rowling. Everything else is mine (or 'borrowed' from our RPG).

Author's Note: To all my patrons of The Valiant Never, and all new visitors, Welcome.

Though not quite a sequel, this companion piece is the tale of Regulus Black and his 'lost love' from The Valiant Never. It is not necessary to have read the previous story, but if you have, all the better. This has been in the works for months, yet only now have I the time to even finish the first chapter. It will not have nearly the complexity nor grandeur of TVN, but perhaps will entertain nonetheless.

What began as a promised diversion for a friend has found itself developed into a fully-fledged love story. Though most of Tia's background will be identical to that developed for the Marauder Era RPG hp(underscore)sun(underscore)n(underscore)shadow on Live Journal, the plotline will not be the same. For those interested, the RPG is open for viewing by anyone of proper age.

Without further ado, Isis Uf, here is your pressie story…

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The Voice of All the Gods

"And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony."

– William Shakespeare, Playwright

Love's Labour's Lost Act iv. Sc. 3.

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Chapter 1: Ill Musings

26 October 1977

Bathed were the grounds far below, forgiving moonlight casting all hideous imperfections into soothing black void. Were his own faults so easily hidden, Regulus mused, a taste of bitter lacing the thought. Brisk was the October air that chilled his dampened skin with the bite of stark reality on unprotected flesh. He shifted uncomfortably in his side perch upon the deep window sill. Stone edges dug into ramrod straight back, as unforgiving as the perpetual edges of life upon which he continually stood. Never, it seemed, on the right side of the precipice.

"Why can't you be more like your brother?" Marlene McKinnon disliked his refusal to help her collect the books and notes she'd carelessly dropped in the Charms corridor.

"Sirius would never have done…" McGonagall didn't appreciate his less than congenial prank on Muggle-born Davis.

"Your elder brother…" Aedus Avery – his own house! – felt his ingenuity lacked in comparison.

Even out of his life, out of the family, his brother haunted him every step and turn. Shunned by all worthy purebloods, Sirius still managed to lay claim to all the adoration and higher comparisons. Disowned and disinherited, the girls still wanted him; the boys still wanted to be him.

Regulus' jaw tensed. Simply thinking of his brother brought out the worst in him, reminded him his faults as though Mother didn't do that well enough on her own. Father was too otherwise occupied to give more than a cursory word or glance to Regulus, limiting his verbiage to customary speech in public. Crowned the Heir Apparent for nigh on a year, such distinction had only brought out the criticisms to brighter light. Walburga Black had every intention of directing her only claimed son's life. To the smallest detail. In such course, she had found fifteen years' worth of un-curtailed poor traits in dire need of correcting.

Then there was Sirius.

A year his senior, Sirius remained still here at school. Seventh year, full of fight and laughter, impudence and scorn. And yet, Regulus always fell wanting in his brother's shadow.

"Fuck," he hissed beneath his breath, though not a soul surrounded him in this tower alcove. Only empty canvas, easel and secured jars of colours bore witness to his uncharacteristic show of emotion. His gaze faltered from its unseeing stare into the Forbidden Forrest. A huge deer had emerged, vague in the surreal moon-glow. Pausing, it appeared to face the castle, long and steady as though in study. Then without warning it abruptly turned, plunging back into the trees. Moments later a large, shadowy beast darted across the landscape, following the deer into the blackness beyond.

Like that deer, Regulus felt the chase from behind, a wild dog nipping at his heels, driving him deeper into the forbidden depths from which there lay no escape. His path lay just as muddled, too; duty to his family, to his breeding, to his status. Yet nowhere did there present itself a map or compass to guide his way. And no matter his effort, no praise was found to be his.

Howling in the distance snapped him from brooding thoughts. It was well past curfew; he'd best return to his dormitory before Peeves caught him out of bed and alerted half the staff. Losing a hundred points would not endear him further to his housemates, nor would it go far in pleasing Mother. The latter, truth be told, was the far lesser palatable of the two.

Stiffened limbs protested his uncurling from the ledge; frozen fingers dutifully latched the window. Even rigid with cold, lean muscles strode with lithe form across the alcove room. Regulus was nothing if not graceful. Social adeptness and nimble step were ingrained in his blood. He was a Black, after all.

Meeting silence at the door, he silently slipped out into the abandoned corridor. Dim with only bluish hues of moonlight, the castle passage reflected his mood: empty, hazy, monochrome. A reflection, perhaps, of more than simply his current state of disposition. This pale vagueness had hung about him for quite some time, leaving him sullen at best, and at worst…

Warmer areas of the castle now, the route between seventh floor and dungeon a long winding trek. Regulus pulled his thoughts from the gloom. Blacks did not sulk. Or, at least, not in public. Though he was alone at present, he was not ensconced in his own chamber or, as the case may be, his own four-poster. In private – where all emotion belonged – he could brood further, though nothing will have changed by the time he'd reached refuge. No answer will have miraculously surfaced in transit, no brilliant words of wisdom –

"Mind you don't stumble over Pride."

Regulus swung around, eyes searching the faint golden glow of fading wall sconces. Had conscience delivered him a message? Surely not; pride was natural, a revered trait, and one he wore well.

Several seconds it took to determine the true source, and he'd not have seen her had she not stepped out of the arching support's cover.

"Prideful. Flitwick's Kneazle. He's skulking about tonight, hunting. Try and not trip over him. Likes to dart about between your legs."

Wary, Regulus did not move. Sixth year prefect and a Ravenclaw. Need she have any more a reason to denounce him, strip house points, condemn him to detention? But it was rude to say nothing in return, however, so he tread cautiously.

"Evening, Jones." Flat; unassuming. Guarded. His back straightened slightly more, formality returning from its short-term holiday moments before. Fingers itched to reach his wand tucked neatly in his trouser pocket. Memory Charms were quite the life saver, he mused. But even half-hidden, he caught sight her own wand, its casual dangle from her right fingers a temptation for laying odds he could outdraw her. Yet rash actions led to foolish results.

She'd taken another step out of the shadows, long black tresses blending into the niche behind her. Ignoring his greeting, she stood without a word, watching him. Always was the hint of cunning smirk to her lips, as though she were laughing secretly at the failings of another, relishing in their shortcomings. Most becoming a Slytherin, really. Her humour at his expense, however, would indeed be short-lived. Pure-blood or not, she was little more than common, and he looked down at her with the arrogance of knowing himself above her.

Not that he could not – look down, that is – for diminutive height brought her no more than to his shoulders. She wasn't slight, but neither was she muscular. If need be, he could lower himself to physical entanglement, long enough to cast a charm and flee.

"Mind the third floor north corridor," she said finally, eyes still narrowed in her perpetual knowing peer. "Filch is still clearing the remaining slime from the mutant slug races." She turned without further comment, flexing her wrist with nonchalant wand movements as though bored. Several steps more and she paused, back to him, speaking as though to the general air. "And Peeves is redecorating the Entrance Hall. Havers the Ingrate's a much better choice."

Regulus stared in astonished speculation, watching her retreating form fade into the corridor's gloom. Long after she'd disappeared, he trusted himself to move as well. Any Slytherin worth his Sorting accepted such information or suggestion with cautious cynicism. She may well be setting him up; enlisting outside help would not be below Sirius and his mates' methods. Anything to harass Regulus.

Dismissing Jones to a freak of nature – or the full moon – Regulus resumed his embarkation to the dungeons. His attention, however, was now returned to surroundings rather than inner musings. He'd not be caught off guard again.

Nearly a quarter hour it took in order to reach the ground floor, each oddity of sound a command for silence, for blending back into crevices and nooks. Soft step he'd learned long ago; the better to go about unnoticed. Not that Regulus often was noticed. Not if his brother were in the scene. Or really, even if he were not, truth be told. Regulus was seen when it was time to be seen, noticed when it served purpose. That was the way of things, the proper way. He knew it. He accepted it.

Mostly.

Moving sure-footedly down the corridor opposite the Great Hall, Regulus weighed options for circumventing the poltergeist merrily humming along ahead of him. Damn chit was right, sod all. Peeves' high pitched cackles of laughter surely bode ill for the first students to cross the Hall in the morning. Jones must have seen him on her rounds. Now he was going to have to take another route into the dungeons, leaving him additionally vulnerable to getting caught. He did not need another letter from his mother as this morning's.

Left with little choice, Regulus found himself several minutes later before the fifth floor tapestry of Havers the Ingrate. Relying upon questionable information from untested sources left him queasy with nerves. There was little for it, however; every other viable avenue was closed, it seemed. Never having ventured this way before, he assumed she'd meant a hidden passage lay here, and once found – if indeed it existed – he would have to take care no traps or ambush lay in wait.

Discovery was blindingly simple. Behind the heavy cloth illusion of solid stone wall covered actual indentation. An immediate turn to the left opened into narrow twists and turns, Regulus' heartbeat quick, edgy. Yet no catastrophe befell him en journey, and minutes later the trap door above opened smoothly not ten metres south the Slytherin dormitory. With odd sense of let down, he pulled himself up onto the damp, rough flagstone of the floor, replaced the door and returned cautiously to his room.

Entering on cat feet, he need not have bothered; four posters all were draped and occupied in soft snores. No one lay the wiser of his late night escapade. A tiny voice within – one whose existence he vehemently denied – nagged that for a change of pace, it would have been a pleasant intrusion had another recognised his absence, waited up in deference to concern of his well being.

But all lay in slumber, allowing easy retirement for the night. Stealthy change of attire and Regulus slipped beneath an emerald duvet, pale sheets cool and crisp against bare chest. He lay back, arms raised and crossed above his head. No vision befell him upon the canopy of his bed; privately he damned the ceiling for not reflecting its magical construction and imparting wisdom to him. Not that he truly had expected it to do, but he was tired of guesswork. It was not a trait of well bred gentlemen – certainly not of a Black – and this momentary sense of misdirection. He was letting anger and bitterness control him, affect his judgement and motions. That was not acceptable.

Faintest greys paled the castle's mullion panes by the time his eyes closed of their own volition. Last thoughts before sleep won its battle eased him; Regulus decided Saturday was soon enough to answer Walburga Black's post.

Mayhap by then an answer will have found him.

-o-

Bleary-eyed against the fading candle, Horace Slughorn ruminated over the parchment spread upon his private secretary. Glaring red ink ached his weary eyes, and he closed them against the marks' accusing bite. Essays early in the term generally allowed for a degree of reckless apathy. Essays nearly midway through the term, however… And in his N.E.W.T. class, at that.

Right tight was his spot now, and Horace begrudged the fact. Regulus Black had been an average enough student in fifth-year Potions, had managed an Exceeds Expectations in his O.W.L. by some twist of the wombat's tail, but his performance this term had been nearing Dreadful. Walburga Black expected her son to fare well in all his courses, and Potions was a core she intended he master. How rancid it had been to send that owl last week regarding the drop in young Master Black's marks. If it had not been enforced policy, he'd not have done so. The Blacks were a wealthy and influential family; having their connection was paramount. No intention was there to lose such valuable association.

Once more he glanced over the assignment, mitigating corrections where possible. No matter how desirous it was to gift the boy an A in the least, Horace knew it would only cost himself in the end. Matters such as highly inflated marks had a tendency to find their way back to Dumbledore. Thus no, exaggeration and leniency were limited to perhaps a half letter.

Reluctantly, Professor Slughorn scratched the blood-red P atop the scroll, sighing heavily as he rolled the atrocity and set it aside. Rising heavily in his bulk, he turned for bed, nightcap askew upon his thinning pate. Murmuring in his settlement between silver sheets, he cast a limp flick of the hand, outing all flames.

"Hope they don't rescind this year's Michaelmas soirée invite."

-o-

Stifled snorts of laughter emerged from seemingly thin air just atop the staircase currently directed toward Gryffindor Tower. Skittering echoed below the mirth, seemingly a pierce into the silence of pre-dawn. Feeble light marked the rat's course clearly, his aim to keep pace with but not under his unseen companions.

"I'll be sorry to miss that sight in the morning," came one hushed voice lined in humour. "Could learn a right lot from Peeves, methinks."

Choked response. "Gods, James. You make it sound as though we've failed in our elder years." Appalled grunt. "Peeves lacks our finesse; quality above quantity, mate. Though I agree I'd like to catch a shufti the first innocents through the Hall in a few hours. Simply too knackered to be bothered, though," came the yawn infused addition. "Moony had too much energy tonight."

James sighed in reply, vocalising effort in their last climb to the corridor. "When'd we get so old, Sirius?" he heaved, heavy in tread upon the final rise.

"Speak for yourself, grand-da," Sirius answered, brushing sweat dampened locks of raven hair from his face beneath the weighty cloak. Near too big were they to share it anymore, now humped painfully over to keep hidden bare feet. Invisibility cloaks were a grand treasure, but sadly all too rare for each his own.

"Give us a step, eh?" he alerted in a hiss, a shove to James as they manoeuvred round a suit of armour just before the former crashed into it. "Besides," he returned to previous subject, affront now lost. "I've a little treat in store for Reggie tomorrow you may enjoy. Will make up for missing Peeves' do. Promise." Mischievous smile in his voice.

Answering chuckles resounded against stone and oak, fading only in lieu of offering up passwords to a drowsy, confused Fat Lady.