At some point he'd grown used to simply waking up.

No alarm, no morning sunshine, no Kreacher telling the young Master that it's time for some morning rituals—nothing. His eyes simply opened, to stare silently at the dark ceiling. His mind completely blank. He laid there, in that exact position, until the first thought came to his head.

There was no thought that could possibly be welcome to him now.

Breathing out slowly—lest his roommates hear the Black heir actually sigh—Regulus slowly forced himself out of the bed and made his way to the bathroom, running in his head all the things he had to do that day. Potions, double Charms, Herbology. Quidditch practice in the evening—the game against the Gryffindors was in less than a week. Prefect rounds at night. But he'd better finish his Potions reading before the classes started. He made his way to the Great Hall with his bag full of books that he meant to read (keeping occupied was good, having nothing to do was bad) and sat down at his usual spot in the middle of the table, looking around. Few students were up at this hour. Regulus glanced at the faculty table—Flitwick was chatting amiably with Kettleburn, but no one else.

"Mr. Black," the gentle, but deep voice surprised him from behind. But Regulus knew how to keep himself from jumping in his seat. Instead Regulus slowly turned around, as if he'd been expecting the headmaster all along.

"Professor Dumbledore," he said. "A lovely morning, sir."

Dumbledore looked up at the enchanted ceiling, which was showing the beginnings of a clear sunrise. "Indeed," he said, taking a seat next to him unbidden. "And how are things?"

"Things are going well, sir," Regulus said with a practiced smile.

"I've been hearing that you've been keeping all your marks at the top. Very impressive, Mr. Black, especially considering that it is your last year… most students feel some difficulty during the seventh year, you see."

Regulus kept the smile on his face. "I study hard, Professor Dumbledore."

"That I can see," Dumbledore said, nodding at Regulus' textbook. And then he smiled good-humoredly at Regulus, as if they were two intimate professor and student sharing a secret joke together. But Dumbledore's eyes were anything but smiling—they were piercing, as if trying to read the very thoughts in his head. Regulus tensed, summoning all the Occlumency that he'd taught himself on the side (there was no way in bloody hell that he would let Bella teach him).

Some thoughts were meant to be guarded.

"It's a lot, Mr. Black," Dumbledore continued. "Seventh year, Quidditch captain, prefect duties… and I understand that there are some difficulties at home." Regulus' jaw clenched automatically and he forced himself to relax, but the damage was already done. He remembered with tired frustration the letters from solicitors regarding the implications of his mother's deteriorating health, various relatives asking how "well" Walburga was doing and expressing their best wishes (the fools—Regulus could see only too plainly the hyenas circling the carcass, ready to dive in the second the lions left), his father's reticence on the matter despite the fact that someone had leaked the news about his mother's… ah, illness. Too busy distracting himself with a highly paid woman, Regulus thought bitterly.

But it wasn't as though he himself was any better—no, if anything, he was worse than his father… because he knew better. Knew better than to treat women like mindless bundles of flesh that he could discard at moment's notice. Not that most girls seemed overly bothered when he cut off his relations with them after a few nights, and that disturbed him, too. But the fact remained that he knew better and that—it wasn't what he wanted. He'd once wanted more, so much more. But he was slowly becoming what he once vowed he'd never become—he was becoming like his father—like his mother—he was losing his resolve to truly live, getting used to the routine of not thinking and simply being an empty dummy. The thought should have horrified him, but all he could feel was heavy resignation. What else could he do?

Regulus took a sip of his pumpkin juice—the only way to mask his face, however momentarily. He turned again to Dumbledore.

"It's just a small matter, Headmaster," Regulus said lightly, pleasantly. "Nothing to worry about."

Dumbledore nodded inscrutably, his eyes hidden behind his half-moon spectacles. "If that's the case, Mr. Black," he said.

"It is," Regulus said, perhaps a bit too forcefully. He smiled quickly at Dumbledore, who rose to go.

"Take care, Mr. Black," the headmaster said. "These are difficult times."

Regulus swallowed the remnants of pumpkin juice in his mouth, feeling the sudden bitter aftertaste. "Yes, sir," he said. Dumbledore nodded in farewell and left.

Regulus turned back to his Potions textbook, his hand clenched on either sides of the thick textbook. The left hand began to shake and he unthinkingly smashed his fist against the table, making the silverware rattle.

The mark on his left forearm was burning, burning terribly. And there was nothing to be done about it.

"So how did the practice go?" came the routine question.

Regulus raised his eyebrow, wondering if he should give the usual "no" or if he should bother to come up with some new way of telling Parkinson to stop asking him about Quidditch practices.

He supposed that he admired her, in a way. She was too troublesome most of the times (asking him about Quidditch, looking disapprovingly at every single thing he did), but she was a loyal friend (or so at least it seemed) and was persistent about getting what she wanted—and he was glad that she was chosen as the "temporary" prefect. Even though the temporary had stretched out into a year.

Regulus involuntarily looked down at his shoes, avoiding this line of thought.

"You know how it went," he drawled. "I saw you crouching by the Hufflepuff stand."

"Well, then, you know that you can't see everything from there," Parkinson retorted.

"It went fine."

"Fine, then."

Then there was a bit of a silence that made Regulus believe that tonight would be one of the quieter patrols. November—students must be busier, have better things to do than sneak out after curfew to find their sweethearts. Fifteen-year-olds, Regulus scoffed derisively in his head. What foolish things to do. Surely they should know better by now—

"Regulus! REGULUS!" a frantic voice came from behind them and Regulus resisted the urge to whip his head around, wand raised. Instead he shifted slowly, almost lazily, and leaned against the corridor wall despite the obvious panic in the kid's voice. Parkinson turned around, looking more disgruntled than alarmed.

"What is is, Nott?" he drawled to the third year.

"I—my brother, you know, he's the beater—" Nott panted and Regulus squinted. Was that blood on his shoulder? "He and—a couple of people from the Quidditch team decided to, well, check the other team out—"

Regulus felt the lines of his face harden on their own account. "What?" he asked, voice coming out much harsher than he thought it would be, drawing himself from the wall. Nott recoiled.

"You know, it's a tradition, Slytherin versus Gryffindor, we just see how they are doing—"

"And who authorized this?" Regulus was advancing on the third-year student who was at least a head shorter than him, and Nott looked desperately at Parkinson for help. Stupid boy, Regulus seethed inside. Parkinson, of all the people at Hogwarts, understood his rule regarding sportsmanship better than anyone—she cared about the Slytherins winning straight and narrow as much as Regulus did, if not more. He had have been the captain long enough to drill the no-violence rule into the players and so long they hadn't given him any trouble. And now they decided to go against him?

They'll pay.

"Ju—Julius said—"

"Oh? And what did Julius say?" Regulus hissed.

"It was just for a bit of fun, he said—"

"Fun?" Regulus repeated, softly, so softly but Nott didn't have any trouble hearing him, not at all…

"I know we broke the rules, but Regulus, they're in trouble!" Nott's voice climbed higher and higher in panic. "Apparently those bastards were actually ready. I even bet that they were preparing to start the fight. It was just the five of us in the beginning, and then the entire Gryffindor team joined in, and—" Nott's eyes widened. "Regulus, you have to do something!"

Regulus regarded him silently. Nott's Adam's apple moved as he gulped. Parkinson sighed next to him.

"Brian, where's the fight?" she asked.

"Seventh floor Gryffindor common room entrance, but it might have gone elsewhere." Nott squeaked under Regulus's gaze.

"Alright, then. Regulus, go and try to make them see some sense. Brian and I will go to Slughorn's office and report what's going on."

For once, Regulus decided not to tell Parkinson to shut her mouth. "Try McGonagall instead," he said.

"But Slughorn's—"

"Head of house, but McGonagall will be better at handling this. And more impartial." Parkinson nodded and left, dragging little Nott with him. Regulus sighed and tightened his grip on the wand. He was not in the mood to get in the middle of a crossfire between Slytherins and Gryffindors.

As he approached the seventh floor, the sounds of commotions drew him in, the shouting, grunts, sounds of some frames falling onto the floors and cracking (and if the portraits were any indications, it seemed that several of their habitats were destroyed). Regulus quickened his pace and finally reached the floor landing, bracing himself for the brawl he would find. The best spell, he decided, would be protego, really just to repel them from one another.

But he wasn't prepared for what he would find.

There were several bodies, both Gryffindors and Slytherins, lying on the floor. A few of them seemed to be experiencing some kind of convulsions, while others were simply frozen at their spots. There was Potter—the Head Boy and the Captain—holding off some Gryffindor players with his lanky arm while trying to yell over their protests on one side. On the other side there was someone else threatening to hex the Slytherin's ears off if they didn't stop fighting at once.

"On what authority?" one outraged voice came.

"I'm the prefect, Avery," another voice answered coolly. "Or do you have a badge that says prefect?"

"This is—"

"Oh, Black! Good." Potter said, finally noticing Regulus. Quite possibly the only time Potter would ever associate his name with that particular adjective. "Get your housemates in order, will you?" The Gryffindors at the sight of him began to struggle against Potter with renewed anger and Potter grunted with effort.

"I don't need help," Alex answered snappily. "I need—"

"Mr. Black!"

"Oh no," Potter muttered, his face going white. The three turned to face the livid expression on McGonagall's face.

"Mr. Black, Mr. Potter—oh, Miss Wilson," McGonagall said, her voice momentarily softening with surprise before reassuming the former hostility. "Explain, now, what's happened."

Potter, emboldened by his friendship with the professor, ventured forth. "Some third-years in the Common Room came to me and said that they were hearing loud noises from outside, so I went to check and found several students engaged in dueling."

"And you thought the best course of action was to incapacitate them, Mr. Potter? Do you realize—"

"Sorry, Professor, that was me," Alex spoke up. "I came to the scene shortly after Potter, and no one would listen to him trying to stop them. I thought that if some of the more—eager ones were knocked out, the others would come to their senses." At McGonagall's—and, Regulus assumed, his own—astounded looks, Alex turned her gaze downward and added in what Regulus thought was old Alex's abashed way, "I just wanted them to stop fighting."

He thought old Alex, because the girl standing in front of him—no, she looked old enough to be a woman—didn't look like old Alex, his Alex. Her dark hair was now shorn off and formed a messy bob around her collarbone. Her face was darker, like she'd been in the sun, but not like in a vacation—her eyes looked worn, tired, weary. His fault. Her robes looked clean but shabbier than before, and her voice, formerly flowing with whatever emotion she was feeling, was kept to a low, calm monotone. She didn't look at him—she didn't look at anyone except McGonagall and the Slytherins who had stopped struggling at McGonagall's arrival.

"Who started this?" came the inevitable question. Then everyone broke loose into loud blames and painful insults.

"I can answer this, Professor," Regulus said, trying to keep whatever was bubbling up inside—and there was something there, even though even he couldn't figure it out—in check. All heads turned to him.

"Mr. Black?" McGonagall prompted.

"I ran into a housemate in the hallway, he confirmed that the Slytherin quidditch team decided to visit the Gryffindor team a visit," Regulus said, taking Brian Nott's name out of the equation. If any of these older boys knew he would get a sound beating, he was sure. "I believe you already met him and Parkinson."

"That's—" Potter began, outraged at his efforts to quail the fight. McGonagall held up her hand to silence him.

"I apologize for not having been more attentive," Regulus continued. "The Ravenclaw prefects were responsible for floors from third to seventh, and my housemates must have stolen a look at my schedule before planning this—well, what can only be called a fight. I should have taken more care to dissuade them from such ideas—and emphasize the consequences of such actions. As the prefect I—"

"Regulus—" Nott began to protest. Regulus gave him a withering look.

"I take full responsibility."

"Noble sentiments won't solve this, Mr. Black," McGonagall said in a clipped voice, but her stance had softened. "How many need to see Madame Pomfrey?"

"Most of them, Professor," Potter said.

"Well, then. At least you have some experience waking up poor Poppy in the middle of the night, Mr. Potter. Miss Wilson, if you'd kindly take off the jinxes you cast on these boys and help escort them to the Hospital Wing. Mr. Black, please come with me to Professor Slughorn's office—and the two of you come after you're done." The two nodded and Regulus began to follow McGonagall down the stairs, but he couldn't help glancing up at Alex one last time as she took off the spells and pulled the boys to their feet.

She wasn't looking at him.

"Well? What's going to happen?" whispered Parkinson as they followed McGonagall a few steps behind to Slughorn's office.

Regulus sighed. "We haven't discussed it yet, but the rules are straightforward. Dueling is against the school rules. Quidditch players who break the school rules are suspended for a period of time thought suitable by the Quidditch coach and the Head of House."

"Quite correct, Mr. Black," McGonagall, who had apparently been listening in on their conversation, said from ahead. "And I will give Professor Slughorn my full advice on this matter. Whether he listens or not."

"And—and what's that, Professor?" Parkinson asked hesitantly.

"Full suspension," McGonagall said darkly.

"For both teams?"

"For the Slytherin team, yes," McGonagall said. "As for the Gryffindors, the matter remains to be seen."

"But that's favoritism!" Parkinson whispered furiously as they waited for McGonagall to wake up Slughorn outside his office.

"Yup."

"But—"

"We did start the fight. The Gryffindors can always argue for self-defense."

"But—"

"There was a lot of bad decision-making involved."

Parkinson stomped her feet. "Damn it," she said, looking glum. "The game's in less than two weeks." Regulus turned away. The thought had crossed his mind as well, and a part of him wanted to beg Slughorn to let at least some of the members stay for the first game at least. But another part of him seemed to have awakened recently that wanted to see every single one of the teammates who went against his word punished and suffering.

He shuddered. He couldn't tell if this desire was for violence or justice.

Slughorn waddled out of his bedroom, looking groggy and cranky.

"Well, Mr. Black?" he said, his usual jovial tone hindered by sleepiness.

"Professor," he said. "There's been a fight between Gryffindor and Slytherin quidditch team members."

"Yes, yes, Minerva has told me that much," he said. "Unfortunate business, that, but surely, it was just a misunderstanding."

"From what I can tell, Horace, it was premeditated by the Slytherin students," McGonagall said.

"Premeditated? Now, that's too strong a word, I'd say—"

"Professors," Alex's voice came from the entrance. Regulus resisted the urge to turn.

"Miss Wilson, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said. "How are they?"

"As far as Madam Pomfrey can tell, Professor, only a few broken ribs, sprained ankles, nothing too serious," Potter said, keeping his voice light. But Regulus could see the anger simmering in his eyes. "Five Gryffindors and eight Slytherins, ma'am. Here's the list." Slughorn took the list and looked it over with bleary eyes. McGonagall's eyebrows rose.

"This many?"

"My housemates won't talk, professor," Alex added quietly.

"All we have to go on are Brian Nott's words, then." Parkinson said, scoffing. Slughorn sighed.

"An unfortunate event, as I said," Slughorn said, tiredly leaning back in his chair. "But as I was saying, I don't believe that these students meant any harm—"

"Professor, they deliberately avoided Black and Parkinson's patrol time so that they could sneak up to the seventh floor, unnoticed. For eight of them to do that together requires deliberate planning," Potter said impatiently.

"Mr. Potter—"

"I have emphasized the importance of honest sportsmanship during my time on the team from day one—"

"As have I," Regulus snapped. "The idiots knew fully well what they were getting themselves into when they did this."

"Oh yes, because the Slytherins are so good on keeping things clean—"

"Mr. Potter," this time it was McGongall who cut Potter off. "As much as I sympathize, Mr. Black's record as the Slytherin team captain is well-known to the professors here."

"That doesn't change that this happened, Professor," Potter said stubbornly. "We demand appropriate punishment."

"Mr. Potter—"

"No, Professor," Regulus said to Slughorn. "I demand that, as well." Slughorn looked up at him with a worried look.

"Mr. Black, I understand your frustration—"

"I ask that those who were not involved in the incident are left alone," Regulus continued. "But the eight who are on the list should be suspended."

"And the Gryffindor players?" Parkinson spoke up. "How's this fair—"

"They will be suspended until the spring," McGonagall said.

"But Professor—" Potter began to protest.

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall said in a tone that wouldn't be argued with. Potter shut up and stood still.

"Indefinite suspension," McGonagall said. "For all Slytherin team members. Until their good behavior proves otherwise."

"And who'll decide that?" Parkinson asked. McGongall looked at her ironically.

"Why, the prefects, Miss Parkinson," she said. "Speaking of which, welcome back, Miss Wilson. Professor Slughorn told me about your letter about a week ago. He and you'll discuss your placement here, I'm sure."

"Thank you, Professor," Alex muttered.

"What does that mean?" Parkinson whispered to Alex.

"It means, Miss Parkinson, that we'll determine whether Miss Wilson ought to stay for another year or not," McGonagall said, ever the one with the best hearing despite her age. "Well, Professor Slughorn?"

Slughorn sighed. "If this is what everyone thinks best," he said. "But Regulus and I will discuss this matter further—in the morning. As with Miss Watson." With that clear dismissal, he stood up and ushered everyone out.

Before he left, Potter looked at them as if he had something to say, but left after slapping Alex on the shoulder and murmuring something about her being back.

As soon as they left the office, Parkinson flung herself at Alex. Regulus grudgingly admitted to himself that he sympathized.

"You're back," Parkinson said, rocking them back and forth. Alex, ever awkward, patted her on the head.

"Yeah. Couldn't stay away forever."

"Where have you been? What have you been—"

"If you don't mind, I'm pretty tired. Could we talk about this later?" Alex wasn't looking anywhere in particular, but Regulus saw Parkinson quickly glance at him. Regulus took the cue and began toward the Slytherin common room, hearing them a few footsteps behind.

His mind was in shambles. Two things fought for dominance: the problem with the Quiditch team, and Alex. She was back for good, it seemed, though Slughorn, of course, didn't have the sense to alert him beforehand. And her return wasn't going to change anything, he was almost sure of it—it couldn't change anything. He couldn't see her changing sides, and he couldn't imagine himself crossing over to the "good" ones—he didn't like the Death Eaters, but he knew he wouldn't have a place among the others, either. So there wasn't anything he could change there, and it was, in short, ridiculous of his heart to beat so quickly at the sight of her.

But it did, and his blood raced inside his body, as if getting ready in anticipation.

Stupid him.

"But Black, what are we going to do about the Quidditch team?" Parkinson's voice broke him out of his self-admonishments.

"I am going to post an announcement," he replied. "We'll be holding a try-out this Saturday."

"Wait, you're not going to actually follow along with McGonagall's decision, are you? The game's—"

"You can't win games with players who don't listen to the captain and work as a team," he answered, rather snappily. "I've been telling them for the past three years that I don't want foul play during season. You know that."

"How are you going to train a team in two weeks, then?"

Regulus sighed. "Well, Parkinson," he said. "How attached are you to being the commentator?"

"Girls? Girls can be at try-outs?" Yaxley hissed frantically the next morning.

It had been a harrowing one. When he woke up Regulus wrote down the announcement regarding the fate of the Slytherin Quidditch team instead of doing his regular schoolwork. It seemed as though every single student who woke up afterwards had something to say about his decision.

"No, girls can be in try-outs," Regulus answered calmly, cutting his toast in half. "As in, participate in. Or do you not grasp simple English, Yaxley?"

"But—"

"But your elbow's still too sore for the try-out, I gather," Regulus said laconically. "Or don't you remember last night's adventures?"

"Regulus, it was harmless fun."

"Harmless fun?" Regulus said lowering his voice. "Do you call illegal swelling charms fun?"

"C'mon, Bogdan was asking for it—"

"And you were asking for suspension by starting this fight."

"This is ridiculous," Nott, who had been released from the Hospital Wing that morning, spoke up. "Just talk to Slughorn and he'll sort out—"

"The broken bones? If it were just one student who was injured, maybe. But you went for an entire group. You know what that means? Witnesses." A part of Regulus was disgusted at the conversation, the rationale that the Slytherins used for their violence. But another part of him found this a second nature; he didn't even need to think that hard about it, it was just so clear—

"At least keep the kids who weren't involved," Avery said in his most reasonable voice. "They weren't involved."

"Weren't they?" Regulus asked quietly and Avery looked away.

"Even if they were only involved in a minor way," Regulus continued, "I selected a team in September. They're useless as individual team members. I now need a new team."

"But Regulus—"

"No. No buts," Regulus hissed to Avery, his eyes glinting. "I told everyone to keep their public matters clean. I don't care what you do behind everyone's back. Attack a student in an empty corridor by yourself, fine. I don't care. But last night was just stupid. It's called being smart. You want to take the other houses down? You're not going to do it under the name of Quidditch. Understood?" The crowd of Slytherins gathered around him shrunk back—in fear, Regulus recognized, and he shifted his gaze to ease the tension—only to find Alex looking at him intently. But before he could figure out the expression on her face, she looked away and went back to her breakfast.

Regulus frowned. He wasn't enough of an idiot to expect that she'd want to have anything to do with him. But he didn't understand her lack of hostility, her silent observations. Had Alex expected him to change during her absence? Was she looking for something to hope for? But—nothing had changed, he knew that. Not for him, at all.

A/N: Hello all! I'm back (sort of). I'm sorry for not having updated in almost a year-too many things going on and I didn't have enough time for any of them. I'm hoping to do most of my updates this summer, so stay tuned (and thanks for those who followed during the long hiatus!).