Chapter Seventy-One

So.

Regulus Black lives to see another day.

The thought came bitterly to him as daylight slowly flickered into the room.

Regulus stared up at the ceiling from where he lay on the bed, as the events of the day before – the evening before, rather – played over and over in his mind.

Malachi had been beside himself upon his and Julia's return to the house – even if his son had been reassured that his dad was just fine, and the other particulars along with it – and Regulus knew that Malachi would much rather have stayed here again, that night, before heading back to Hogwarts.

But Regulus had sent him off with Lily – the original plan – hugging him tight and telling him that he'd see him at Christmas when he had realized, with a jolt, that he could just as no longer bear to look into his son's eyes as he could his wife's. And so, with reluctant goodbyes, Malachi had left with the Potters and Regulus and Julia had been left to it: their wedding night.

Julia had tended to the gash on his face – sewn him back up with a whispered sing-song charm, before cleaning him up with cotton strips, the way muggles would do – and then she had just held him – him pulling her to him first, he was ashamed to admit – and they lay together in silence in the darkness.

Did so, for hours and hours, and Regulus would be lying if he said he didn't find – much undeserved – comfort there in her arms.

Regulus risked a glance to the side, where Julia now lay disentangled from him, having finally drifted off to sleep an hour or so before. His eyes lingered – far longer than they had done and could do, during her waking hours – and he drunk in the sight of her, where she lay still and peaceful with slumber, above the covers and still in her wedding dress.

He slowly, carefully, rolled away – fearing that even the slightest moment may cause her to wake – and pushed himself upwards to sit on the edge of the bed.

He rubbed a hand over his face – felt the sting of the wound the Dark Lord had inflicted, sure to leave a scar – and drew in a breath that trembled, as his mind drifted back once more to his now-dead cousin and to her husband, Lucius – likely waking alone right now, also, if he'd even slept at all – and to her son, Draco.

Another child made motherless.

Just like Malachi. Just like Dora.

He pushed aside the memory that started to rise then of his little cousin – of Andromeda's daughter – offering him forgiveness, nay, absolving him of any responsibility whatsoever for the loss of her mother; a burden that could not be whittled away by kind words and a kind heart, neither of which he deserved on the heels of this.

He glanced over his shoulder at Julia.

His wife.

His incredible wife.

He had wanted this, so. He still wanted this and her and the life he could see when he had looked into her eyes.

And, upon the heels of the yearning he felt when he gazed upon her, he thought of Ted. And of Lucius. And the shame, then, that he should dare to take a wife – to grasp for that wonderful life – coiled within him, gripping him tight; for how dare he do so, when – even now – his very existence was making widowers.

Others torn apart while he lived on and on and on.

Living in fantasies.

Narcissa's words cut him now, when he had so easily laughed them off before – he could hardly breathe as he remembered those last words spoken – and he sprung to his feet, away from Julia, and went to the bureau at the other side of the room.

He reached for a spare piece of parchment – not risking the tear of the roll waking her – and grabbed the quill that still rested in the ink jar, scribbling a note.

It was short, simple; that he was going to the Foundation.

He hesitated but then he wrote it – dared to – that he loved her and that he would be home soon. Not to worry.

And then he went back to her, placing the note upon the pillow in his stead.

His hand lingered upon the bedclothes as his eyes found her face; gazing upon her. For a moment – the briefest of moments – he felt only love. And then there was longing, and need, and it came upon him with such force that he began to reach for her – just a touch upon her cheek or her hair – but he found, with a tightening in his gut, that he could bear not even that; as guilt and shame and grief swelled up quickly, before his hand had barely even left the fabric of the sheets.

It came over him in a wave – another of several – the reality of just how much her life had changed – had been ruined by him – and the insurmountable danger he had now placed her in; the fate the Dark Lord promised her the worst of all those who had already paid the price of his sins; just as his son who would never know life.

The Dark Lord no longer wanted him.

He wanted them.

Regulus hung his head and the hand that had suspended before reaching Julia pressed to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut.

And then he turned and strode from the room.

"Then your place within the circle is secured."

Dumbledore said it, calmly, showing no discomfort whatsoever at what Severus knew was an incredibly painful procedure, where the two of them sat at the Headmaster's desk.

"For now," Severus conceded, as he continued to finalise the last of the enchantments that would contain the curse within the withered and blackened hand he was focused upon; "With Narcissa's execution, the Dark Lord is convinced that the traitor within his ranks has been discovered and dealt with. It seems that Regulus' grief was more than enough to convince him, when he sought to surrender himself in the aftermath."

Severus could barely keep his incensed incredulity at Regulus' utter foolishness in check as he said it and Dumbledore got a small smile.

"I do believe it will all become a bit too much for your friend, as things continue to unfold," Dumbledore said, as Severus completed the ritual, tucking away his wand while he drew back to sit more upright in his chair.

"Have you thought more on what we discussed?"

"On my murdering of you? Not at all, Albus. It had quite slipped my mind."

Dumbledore smiled, fondly, at him them.

"Would it be murder, Severus, to spare an old man the agony of such a painful and undignified death as either this curse or Tom should inflict upon me?"

Severus lifted his eyes skywards, before looking away, at Dumbledore's attempt to appeal to – or, rather, manipulate him into committing – a mercy killing.

Even mercy killings had the capability of scarring souls.

"If you don't mind dying," he said, roughly; "Why not let Draco do it?"

"I rather believe the young Mr. Malfoy may not be quite so willing to follow said orders, in light of what has just transpired," Dumbledore stated, calmly, as if what had just 'transpired' was not the brutal execution of the boy's mother before his very eyes, leaving him alone and at the mercy of both the Dark Lord and his father. A man who, Severus knew, was a near stranger to Draco, after his time spent in Azkaban.

"You will keep your eyes upon him, Severus. If it is true that he has taken the Mark; then he is frightened, grieving and alone within this school, under the influence of Tom and his Death Eaters, and that can only mean danger to himself and to those around him."

"I shall add it to my list, Headmaster."

The door to the office suddenly burst open and Minerva appeared – in all his years of knowing her, Severus had never seen the woman look so uncomposed – as she blurted out:

"Albus! The Hogwarts Express is under attack by Death Eaters!"

There was a second of stillness.

Before both sprung to their feet.

It was chaos.

The train still sped onwards to Hogwarts, as if nothing unusual was amiss, but aboard there were screams and sobs and the thuds of feet on the floor rushing from carriage to carriage, attempting to find a place of safety, as Death Eaters stormed through, body binding and letting fall with a thud any person – any child – who caused them any grief.

Draco hurried through the carriages – eyes frantically searching every compartment – and he was already into the second of them when he finally found Daphne huddled with Tracey Davis and Pansy Parkinson.

He grabbed her and dragged her out.

"Draco! What are you doing?" she pulled back, resisting him, and he yanked her harder out into the corridor – "Where are we going?" – there was a note of growing hysteria in her tone when he didn't answer right away, as he dragged her further up the carriage, against the crowd of students running towards them and away from the danger that was inching closer.

"Draco! Let go of me!"

"Shut up, Daphne!"

There was a louder scream and a shout – "I've got one!" – up ahead and both of their heads snapped in its direction.

They could see – over the heads of the terrified faces that were still flocking towards them, almost knocking them from their feet – that the Death Eaters had one of the younger students by the arm, dragging her away as she futilely fought with them.

One of the two Draco knew they'd come here for.

"Astoria!" Daphne flung herself forward in a – stupid – attempt to go to her sister's aid and Draco put a hand over her mouth, muffling her cries, and thankfully everyone was screaming so much that none of the Death Eaters looked.

He grabbed the door of the nearest carriage – empty, as all flocked as far to the back of the train as possible – and dragged her in but Daphne scrambled against him – "let me go! Tori! Let me go!" – and he hissed at her to shut up but she wouldn't, she just kept fighting him, trying to push past him as if she could – singlehandedly – save her sister from bloody Death Eaters!

Draco drew his wand; pointed it at her.

"Stupefy."

Daphne hit the ground with a thud.

Draco's eyes frantically scanned the carriage – the sounds of screams and thuds of footsteps in the carriage corridor were dimming now, as the majority of the students had already fled – and he used his wand to elevate her, putting her up on the luggage rack.

He grabbed a bag from the other side – going back for the other two – transfiguring a blanket and he quickly climbed up and threw it over her, hiding her from sight, and then accioed and shoved the two smaller bags in front of her.

He jumped back down from the seat, hurrying to leave, and as he stepped back through the doorway into the corridor, he ran into someone – Masked – and he felt sickened when he looked up at them.

Draco didn't know this one.

But he hated them all the same.

"Not running along to hide with your friends, Little Lucy?"

Draco thought it might be Crouch Jr. But he couldn't be sure. He wasn't important enough to know.

He lifted his chin.

"Why would I run?"

The Dark Mark on his arm still burned even when it didn't burn.

The Death Eater – his comrade – eyed him through the little slits of the mask, before he peered over Draco's shoulder into the compartment he'd just come from, and then he moved on, continuing to peer into the next and then the next, as other Death Eaters appeared at the tops and bottoms of it.

Draco pulled the door to the compartment closed.

The entrance hallway to the Castle was buzzing with activity when Harry arrived at Hogwarts later that day, having been brought directly there – as always – by Remus, with Malachi in tow.

"What's going on?" Harry frowned, as he took in the sight of it.

Students were darting from one area to the next, an almost-ominous restlessness, and Harry could hear some people sobbing and some people speaking with fear and, others, speaking with excitement, and he picked up on the odd few things said here and there, as they made their way through the crowd.

"Death Eaters attacked…" "The Hogwarts Express…" "That newspaper…he wasn't happy at all." "…send a message…Greengrass…"

"Harry, will you two boys be alright?" Remus stopped him, with a hand on his shoulder; "I'm going to go and find out what's going on –"

Harry just nodded, grabbing Malachi's sleeve as he went on ahead, so they would not be separated. And, then, he caught sight of Ron and Hermione up ahead, along with Ginny and Colin Creevey.

"Hermione!" he called out to her, and tugged Malachi in their direction.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione pounced on him, immediately, giving him a hug – of welcome or relief, he wasn't sure – and then she drew back; "I knew you wouldn't be on the train, of course, but I – we – were so worried. If you had been, it could have been so much worse than it already is."

"What happened?" Harry asked, immediately, sharing a glance with Malachi; "The Hogwarts Express – it was attacked? Why?"

"You remember, don't you, those articles I was telling you about?" Hermione said, and Harry could feel Malachi tense up, immediately, at his side. Harry nodded, so that she'd go on; "Well the last one – oh, you have to read it Harry! It was simply – well, I'm not the only one who was impressed."

Hermione seemed a mix of both excited and horrified by what she was saying – in contrast to Malachi, who Harry could tell, with the slightest glance, was growing more and more horrified by the second – as she went on.

"The Statute Opposers – not all of them, of course – but some of them; some of the bigger names, even, they picked up on what Max E. MacLean was saying and they've been using it, Harry, they've been using it to dispute You-Know-Who's motives – claiming his methods will only serve to push their wish for Statute reformation further from their grasp – Harry. It worked. The things he was saying - the Statute Opposers, not all of course, but some of them, they are resisting him now."

"But what does this have to do with the Hogwarts Express?" Malachi blurted out, having been silent for the whole thing, and Hermione shared an uneasy look with Ron before she told them.

"Well, he wasn't very pleased, as you'd expect. From what we've heard – he decided to try and send a message – and he ordered his Death Eaters to attack the train and bring Elijah Greengrass' daughter – Astoria – to him as a prisoner. To blackmail Mr. Greengrass into stopping publishing the articles."

Harry felt his heart sink and he shared a look – tried to – with Malachi. But Malachi had gone white, eyes on the floor now, as he contemplated the words.

Malachi turned, making to leave.

"Malachi," Harry quickly stopped him, with a hand on his arm; "Where are you –"

"I…I dunno. I need to find Daphne."

"Oh, she's with Professor Snape and Professor Dumbledore, in the Headmaster's office," Hermione told them; "She's fine but I think they wanted to give her the chance to talk to her parents."

"Can all remaining students please continue to make their way into the Great Hall –" Harry could hear Professor Flitwick's voice.

Professor Sprout's joined; "- if there are any of those whom we have missed, who should feel they are in need of the hospital wing, please come with me now –"

They began to bundle into the Great Hall – set up, as it always was, for the welcome feast – and as they moved further in Harry's eyes caught sight of Draco Malfoy.

Harry had heard – from his mum – what had happened, the day before at the wedding. It was a watered-downed version of it, he knew, what Voldemort had done to Mr. Black – and to Draco's mother – but it was enough that he felt sympathy for him, at the lost and broken look in the other boy's face as he – seemingly as if without thought or care for what he was doing – simply followed the crowd. There was no one at his side – completely alone – and then, as if sensing Harry's eyes upon him, his gaze turned in his direction.

The look he gave Harry was cold.

But it wasn't as cold for him, as it was, when Draco's gaze slipped to the side and he saw Malachi at his side.

Harry frowned a little, protectively maneuvering where he stood, so that Malachi was no longer in Draco's line of sight.

Not that Malachi even noticed.

His eyes were upon the floor as he, too, followed the crowd. He had already been a bit broody, that morning, after what had happened – though certainly not as bad as he had been when Julia had taken them back to the house the day before – and he was even more so, now, in light of what Hermione had just told him.

Harry put an arm around him – a brief moment of comfort – before they stepped over the threshold of the Hall, and separated, each going to the respective House tables.

It was the next day, the second of September – two days after Narcissa's execution and one after the attack on the Hogwarts Express – before Severus had returned to the Foundation, following the completion of his morning classes, and he wasted no time in heading through his own office and into Regulus'.

Still having not had his say on the foolishness Regulus had exhibited by – quite literally – throwing himself at the Dark Lord's feet: surrendering himself, ridiculously, and throwing it all away – all that had been done and built – for nothing.

But, upon walking through the adjourning door – that was open, an obvious invitation from Regulus that he was welcome – any and all words of scorn died on his lips at the sight he was met with.

Regulus' office was a mess.

Regulus was a mess.

He was still dressed in his wedding attire and Severus could see that the wound inflicted upon his cheek – clearly having been tended to by his new wife – had bled profusely in the aftermath, and blood – now blackened – had soaked his collar and the whole left side of the shirt he wore.

Regulus didn't look up from his desk, carrying on with whatever he was doing – how he could even keep track of or see what he was doing, amongst all the parchments and ingredients and utensils that litter the surface, Severus did not know – and Severus slowly approached.

There were books and parchments on Blood Magic everywhere – on the desk, on the floor, on the chair he passed – there was blood-stained parchments crumbled and thrown aside, empty potions phials thrown onto the floor, along with three empty bottles of firewhiskey – one, still open, up upon the desk – and Severus noticed, as he finally reached him, that there was a mortar bowl upon it, filled with blood.

Blood which, Severus could quickly decipher from the poorly-repaired laceration on his palm, belonged to Regulus.

Severus stood beside him, silently, neither of them speaking for a moment.

Regulus' voice was quiet, carrying on with what he was doing, when he finally did.

"Where were you?"

Severus was uncertain if he meant for the execution itself, or for the time that had passed in the aftermath, and he cleared his throat.

"The Dark Lord felt that my presence at the event during the execution would be…compromising."

Regulus said nothing else for a moment.

"Did you know? That it was going to happen?"

"No."

Regulus seemed satisfied with the answer, asking no more – knowing to ask no more, as he would not like any of the answers – and he lifted a phial, pulling out the dropper that was resting within it, before he held it over the blank piece of parchment in front of him.

Two drops.

He reached from something else – a hairbrush, Severus realized – pulled off a strand and whispered an incantation before he placed it on top of the parchment.

Regulus' fingers dipped into the blood in the mortar, and he dragged them down the parchment; from top to bottom.

"What are you doing?" Severus finally asked.

Knowing that he could quite easily guess.

Regulus' lips twisted in a humourless smile.

"Wasting my time –" he said, and his voice was not quite steady - quite obviously under the influence of far too much alcohol, which Severus refrained from pointing out would do nothing to help spells relying upon his blood - and Regulus dipped his fingers back into the mortar, before he dragged another smear of blood across the parchment; "- fooling myself and living in fantasies; thinking that I might actually be able to do something to stop him."

Regulus spoke another incantation; an attempt to severe the blood line between himself and his son. To no avail. Nothing happened at all; the parchment remaining still and lifeless, no sign of any effect made upon it, whatsoever.

"Frank Longbottom used his wife's sacrifice –" Regulus said, barely even reacting to the fact that his spell had failed; " – to evoke the ancestral magic. Which can only mean that she was accepted – by blood – by the Longbottom ancestors. I never even thought about it. That by marrying Julia, I would be binding her not only to myself but to the bloodline."

Severus glanced at him, and Regulus met his eyes – briefly – when he did and the gaze in them was haunted, full of regret and so much self-loathing that Severus was struck.

And he assured him; "Your wife's blood status would protect her from the curse – she will not be considered as worthy by the ancestors - and with your marriage, any offspring from your own line – Malachi notwithstanding – will no longer be able to call upon it."

There was the slightest hint of relief – of hope – in Regulus' eyes at the statement.

Even if this was a magic that Severus was determined Regulus would never actually evoke – not in a million years.

And Regulus gave him a wry smile, then, not quite so twisted as it was before and a tapped a finger to the side of his head and pointed at Severus.

"That's why you're the researcher, Sev," and then he raised an eyebrow; "If only I'd known I could have come to you, sooner."

He made to step by him, but Severus grabbed him by the arm, stopping him; "Blood magic was never the answer."

Regulus didn't meet his eyes, glowering at the carpet, as Severus spoke close to his ear.

"Regulus. You are allowing the Dark Lord to get into your head; allowing yourself to become unhinged in a manner that serves no one. Least of all those whom you care for."

Regulus shook his head, meeting Severus' eyes, and the haunted look was replaced by one of stubborn pride; "This will work. It worked for Longbottom. It will work again."

"This is working, is it?" Severus indicated the parchments; "Your wife is muggleborn and you will not allow your son to take part in the ritual; it is a magic that can only be wielded by purebloods of their own bloodline. Even if you should wish it, it is not a magic that can be enacted alone. And certainly not by you."

Regulus yanked his arm free from Severus' grasp; "I am not the one who will be enacting it."

Regulus headed by him and Severus frowned, at the implication.

"If not you, then by whom?"

For it certainly would not be him.

Regulus didn't quite meet his eyes. That was not, in fact, unusual, when Regulus got himself into these states; but Severus knew – instantly – what Regulus meant by it.

"No."

Regulus lifted his chin, meeting his eyes then, when he realised he'd guessed it.

Obviously right.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose.

No.

Severus released a harsh breath, shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut.

"You idiot. You absolute fool."

"He has the answers that we need."

Severus dropped his hand, furious now; "You are not bringing Hopkins back here!"

"No!" Regulus snapped back; "No; what I'm not doing is standing by and doing nothing when the Dark Lord has commanded the murder of every girl my son happens to look at and the repeated rape and torture of my wife!"

Severus drew in a breath.

Glanced away.

Knowing that – should the shoe be on the other foot, that should Lily and Harry and Grace be facing the very same threat – he could not do it, either. Leave their fates in the hands of another; another – who, even, in this case? – to protect them.

And so, he sighed.

Gave a jerk of a nod.

"Very well."

At the slight furrow on Regulus' brow, Severus elaborated.

"Very well. I will look at it," Severus conceded; "And, when you are proven wrong, you can thank me for saving you the trouble of going through with this hairbrained idea of yours. On one – no – let's make it two conditions."

Regulus no longer looked so hopeless – as if Severus, himself, held all the answers to Regulus' woes – and raised an eyebrow.

"What conditions, dare I ask?"

"The first –" Severus began, seriously; " – is that you snap yourself out of this foolish quest of yours for sainthood; your eagerness to throw your own life away – as if that is not in any way disrespectful to the sacrifices of those who have already perished – is growing tiresome; so do, please, stop begging the Dark Lord and Hopkins to kill you, if you possible could."

Regulus rolled his eyes, before Severus went on.

"And the second is that Eugene Hopkins never sets foot in this Foundation. Nay, that you and he never set your eyes upon one another again in either of your lifetimes."

Regulus considered it. But not for long.

He nodded, slowly; "Alright. I accept those conditions; here's yours. That if you do find something – particularly something that proves me right – you come to me with it. No burying it and pretending a solution doesn't exist to stop me."

Severus' lips twitched.

"Are you accusing me of sentimentality, Regulus?"

Regulus got a small smile then – a genuine one – and then he raised an eyebrow; "Wouldn't dream of it –" he pulled open the drawer of his desk, and pulled out a thick roll of parchments, holding them out in his direction; "- I assume you didn't bother reading this information I gave to Lily?"

Severus took it; "Surprisingly not."

He unrolled them, eyes immediately going to the first title; "A Sharing of Vessels; The Nature of Sentient Horcruxes."

"Oh," Regulus waved a hand, as he poured another – of many, Severus was sure – glass of firewhiskey; "We – Lily and I – have been looking into Nagini. The last of the horcrux tasks. We need to be sure that a simple killing of a living horcrux is sufficient – " Regulus broke off; "- it is irrelevant."

Severus' eyes skimmed the text; "It appears to detail the signs and indicators that one may notice when a horcrux manifests within a vessel, living."

"Yes."

"Hm. Well, it may be irrelevant to the present task -" Severus conceded, putting those parchments to the back of the pile; "- but it is certainly not uninteresting. Perhaps – should I find the time – I can offer some insight. I expect to be spending some time in the presence of the Dark Lord's living horcrux – Nagini – in the near enough future – at Christmas – I will feed back anything of use."

"You don't have to –"

Severus rolled up the parchments; "It is agreed. I shall help you on your blood quest and you shall – to put it bluntly – give it a rest. I shall commence reading these tombs you've produced immediately."

Regulus got a smile then, giving him a nod; "Thank you, Severus."

Severus nodded, tucking the rolls of parchments regarding Blood Magic and Sentient Horcruxes into his robes, before making his way from the room.