Chapter Six - Part Two
"Are you sure about this? Why would Bella send me a portkey without telling me?" Regulus asked, staring at Severus.
Sighing, Severus leant his head back to stare at the sky.
"I suspect," He said resignedly, "That it was her idea of a joke."
Regulus scowled, stung. He did not disagree.
One hour later, sitting on the cold hard ground, leaning against the shack wall and dying for a cigarette, anything to alleviate the boredom.
A few feet away from where Severus sat, Regulus was slumped, looking defeated. His enthusiasm for the day had all but deserted him, leaving him feeling dejected and useless. He had been wrestling with the same issue for what seemed like an age now.
"But why? It's just…it wouldn't even have been that funny, I'd still have got there," he said, trying to see reason.
Silence.
"She would have liked to see me walk all the way," Regulus said, bitterly.
"Yes," Severus agreed.
"She must think I'm stupid,"
"Yes,"
Silence.
"Damnit!" Regulus finally exploded, jumping to his feet and beginning to pace twitchily. "It's not fair, I was really looking forward to all of this! How was I to know it was a bloody portkey? She doesn't take me seriously, none of them do! Not Lucius, not Lestrange, not Dolohov…I want to be one of them but they think I'm just a stupid kid…"
He continued muttering darkly, but Severus had stopped listening. True, a minute part of him was feeling almost sorry for Black, and another even tinier part was recognising similar feelings he'd had when he used to be friends with Lucius at school, but the majority of him could no longer bear to listen to the tedious droning whimperings of a fourteen year old boy. Instead, he concentrated waiting for the time to pass.
Half an hour later, stiff and aching from sitting on the ground so long
Severus reached inside his robes and withdrew the silver pocket-watch he'd been consulting at regular intervals over the last hour and a half. By coincidence, the handsome clock had once belonged to Lucius.
"What time is it?" Regulus asked for about the millionth time.
"Almost two. Come here," Severus snapped. Regulus scrambled up and pulled the portkey out of his pocket, offering an edge to Severus.
There were a couple of minutes when nothing at all happened. Severus' eyes followed the elegant silver second hand on his watch as it drew closer and closer to the top of the face, split-second by split-second…
And then, with a lurching tug somewhere inside his stomach, he was gone.
His feet hit the ground solidly, the world righting itself in front of him. He managed to stay on his feet, watching Regulus tumble unceremoniously head-over-heels beside him, his cloak falling over his head.
They had arrived.
A heavy mist whirled around them. Severus glanced at the invitation in his hand, then back up at their surroundings, and let a small ironic smile settle on his face. He had assumed the Fourth Field was the name of one of Dolohov's splendid mansions, however it was in fact a field. In all probability the fourth one.
The sky was a flat steel grey, and the thick mist around the field gave the eerie impression of fading into nothingness. A large white marquee stood over the other side of the field, and all around them were people, moving with the aristocratic glide of the rich and important. Men and women, some young, some older, standing in groups and talking in clear voices about the
state of the ministry and the rise of the Dark Lord, or moving around holding delicate glasses of champagne.
To Severus, the sight of these wealthy pureblood witches and wizards acting as though they were attending a party in this cold grey field seemed oddly out of place somehow. Still, what had he expected?
Regulus clambered to his feet beside him, and Severus suddenly noticed other windswept looking guests standing taking in their surroundings much as he was. They had not been the only ones to arrive via a portkey - truly, as Regulus had said, they wanted everyone to be able to make it.
"Come on," Regulus shrugged his cloak back over his shoulders and set off across the field, a grimly determined set to his jaw. Feeling uncomfortably aware of his Hogwarts robes beneath his cloak, Severus followed.
As they neared the marquee, Severus recognised several of the faces gathered there. Die-hard Slytherin followers of the Dark Lord, all of them. Some he knew from Hogwarts, others by Daily Prophet reputation only. And there, standing alone, detached and beautiful, raising her glass to them in a silent greeting, was Bellatrix Black.