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Chapter 5
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Her room seems so much bigger now that there is just one sole inhabitant.
She'd apparated herself and Regulus out of her room, to the little park the Evans sisters had played in as children, back before they'd moved into this home, moved into this town.
There, she'd thrown Regulus his wand and apparated away, unwilling to stick around.
Friends with benefits or not (though friends could hardly be an applicable term for what they are…were) she had technically been holding the pureblood against his will.
While she highly doubts her fellow student will go running to the Aurors given the inking on his arm, that's not to say he wouldn't curse her the second his wand was in hand. Hence her hasty exit.
That she'd been able to leave so swiftly, to avoid the awkwardness of a goodbye, that has nothing to do with it.
Not at all.
There's a difference now though, now that they've laid side by side, territorial marks of the other littering their skin like victoriously planted flags, regions conquered through hard won battles… it's the first tender moment Poppy can recall since she left childhood behind. Light-hearted, carefree moments in which she had just existed, concerned herself with nothing but the instant, nothing but what her five senses could experience.
The golden sun kissing the edge of lazy half curls, fabric detergent mixing with the scent of sweat, sex and man. The taste of his skin on her lips, audible palpitations of a heartbeat besides her own. The defined edge of his cheekbone against her fingers, flesh so smooth and silken.
It's like her ribs are contracting, flowers blooming in her chest and there are thorns in her bloodstream, petals choking up her airways.
Regulus Black has planted something in her breast, something she needs to burn out at the root.
Because cutting it back, hoping it'd remain tamed and pliable hasn't worked in the slightest.
It's mountain laurel, so pretty and alluring, aesthetically it's gorgeous.
But it's poisonous, too large a dose and it'll kill her outright.
Every small dose is a gentle build up, until she slowly begins losing control of every component of her body, of any command she has of her life.
She cannot allow it to take root inside her; she's got shit to do, she's got more important things on her mind than a could be.
It'll never work, not in current circumstances.
Regulus' is a pretentious, pureblood asshole, capacity for change or not.
It doesn't matter that their personalities jell, that their interactions are the moments she feels most awake, most connected with this world.
The political climate as it is, the society they live in, it's just not fertile ground for that particular relationship to thrive.
They'd be cut down before the first flourishing bloom.
Acknowledging that hurts, almost as much as the single taste she's had, knowing she'll never be able to have that again.
She doesn't know what Regulus is doing now, but she can assume.
If he's smart (he's smart, they'd never get along otherwise) he'll be faking his death, going into hiding, perhaps even leaving the country. Maybe he'll find some simpering pureblood wife, a foreigner who'll spend her days warming his bed and playing the picture-perfect wife. It doesn't hurt, this mental image.
It just leaves her feeling hollow, as if the weed within her chest has been successfully carved out by the very thought. She's empty, but right now, that's what she needs to be.
The prophecy hasn't been spoken yet (she's been keeping an eye on the job seekers column and there's been nothing for the divination post so far), Lily is not yet a target. But it's only a matter of time.
Which means Poppy needs to prepare.
Perhaps she's approaching her little Gringotts problem in too Slytherin a manner.
What possible harm could the Hufflepuff route cause?
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Striding up the ornamental steps of Gringotts, Poppy pulls her dark cloak tighter around herself, tucking in the flaming strands of her hair.
As a young, innocent child, she'd also adored the brilliantly bright colouring she'd received, but right now, it is a literal red flag. A bullseye.
The only other people with hair as red as her own were the Weasleys, and they aren't exactly a family Voldemort is willing to welcome to his ranks with open arms.
None meet her gaze as she steps into goblin territory; few dare to do such a thing right now. Meeting the wrong person's eyes in war-time is to risk beginning a duel, a fight, a battle. For all that war is currently wading through the land, there are many that're just trying to get one with their lives and ignore it.
Poppy would like to be one such person, but circumstances as they are don't allow such a thing. She's a target simply for being alive; given that Lily's out there actively fighting, well the youngest Evans sister never really had a chance, did she?
Smile bitter, Poppy makes her way to the closest goblin, lowering her hood as she does so. There's protecting one's self outside, and then there's giving insult to the goblins, something which Poppy wouldn't dare to do.
She is, after all, asking a favour of them.
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He shouldn't have done that.
He'd been teetering on the edge of a cliff and instead of backing away he'd leapt into the fucking water.
There's sharp rocks beneath the surface, he's sure of it. Every daze moment is spent waiting for the first cut to his skin, still in shock as the cold waves encased him, closed up over his head.
How fucking stupid could he get; sleeping with Evans.
Evans.
A mudblood. Fucking hell.
Pressing the heels of his hands into his face, Regulus drags his fingers down over his cheeks, peering slowly at his surroundings.
After Evans had dropped him off (how embarrassing, being carted around like a damn squib or something) the first thing he'd done was apparate to the Three Broomsticks and use the floo.
There'd been no one there to recognise him given the current term-time; the Christmas Holidays mean every other Hogwarts student was at home, enjoying the festivities in this dark time.
All but Regulus, he who'd had two of his most life-shattering moments ever. He'd nearly died, and then he'd slept with Evans.
And he'd liked it. Sleeping with Evans, that is. Not the nearly dying part.
Grimacing, the Slytherin flicks the lingering traces of soot from his robes with a well-practiced motion, storing his wand back in its usual holster.
He can still smell the muggle-freshener on his skin. A scent stripping charm soon takes care of that and just in time, for the door to the receiving room opens with an explosive bang.
"I thought I heard company."
Cassiopeia Black halts her strides a mere three feet from him, a frown twisting her lips as she peers down her nose at his form.
Regulus wonders what she sees when she looks upon him, wonders if there's some kind of brilliantly vivid sign that he has betrayed the family values. It's like a scum on his skin that he'll never be able to wash off.
Well, he was the one stupid enough to drop into that polluted ocean.
"It is polite, nephew, to announce yourself prior to arrival."
"I need to fake my own death."
Cassiopeia is far too well-bred a woman to look so blatantly startled, but the one raised eyebrow she offers him is more than enough.
Despite the six decades of life she's powered through, his aunt's hair remains the same pitched black as his own, her face carrying few wrinkles. Out of all of the elder Blacks, she is the one that has aged the best. The perks of being alone, she'd once told Regulus.
Given the mess he's fallen into with Evans, he can believe it.
"Running off with a lover, are we?" Cassiopeia drily articulates, wand in hand as she brushes his collar aside with the tip of applewood.
Regulus swallows once and hard.
Of fucking course she's going to notice the bitemarks, the hickeys that Evans has so brazenly left. He's been waiting for the impact on the rocks but he's got the bruised aftermath already.
"I stole something from the Dark Lord." It tumbles out of his mouth, those words that've bene sitting ever so heavy on his shoulders, ever since he'd actually committed the act. Waking up in Evans' presence, it'd been a momentary distraction.
The way Cassiopeia's face washes free of all emotion has Regulus' nerves setting on edge.
"Why."
"He made a Horcrux." He hurt Kreacher. Both are equally as damning in Regulus book. Kreacher, his one companion and only friend, the only one he could truly trust with all that he is. Evans might know his emotions, might know a pinch of his desires, but Kreacher knows it all. Or, almost it all.
He's going to be so disappointed in 'Master Regulus' for sleeping with the filth.
"I haven't faked a death in the past decade," Cassiopeia murmurs, twisting on her heels and making for the hallway. "Follow me."
Adjusting his displaced collar until it once again lays flat, Regulus follows after his aunt, nervously eyeing the mass amount of unfamiliar objects that're housed within these walls.
She leads him into a room just off the hallway, filled with books and folders and scripts. There's even the infamous Big Black Book of Blackmail; a family heirloom passed down throughout the generations. It doesn't follow a direct line, nor does gender matter. It just gets passed to the next person who's believed to be capable of wielding it for the good of the Black Family.
His aunt sits herself down in the grand armchair, summoning a quill to twirl through her fingers.
"So, two new identities-"
"One," Regulus corrects, meeting the sceptical gaze of his elder, ignoring the gentle lift of her eyebrow.
"Not just a secret lover then, a scorned secret lover. I would say you're being particularly stupid, but given how you've finally decided to ignore that dear niece of mine and stop kneeling like a commoner, that wouldn't be particularly true now, would it?" Cassiopeia offers him a bland smile, snatching up a sheet of unmarked parchment and dipping the quill tip into an inkwell.
"You… don't approve of the Dark Lord, Aunt?"
"Of course not! Any true pureblood would feel no need to hide behind a false name. Even Grindelwald bore his name proudly, halfblood or not."
Aunt Cassiopeia makes a good point.
What family was the Dark Lord even from? No matter how much the Ministry would believe otherwise, the Dark Lord cannot have just appeared from some abyss, cannot have crawled out from beneath the gateway to hell; he has to have been born to a family, to a mother and a father. Any pureblood family worth their salt would be discreetly bragging about his prowess, never mind his claimed relations to the Slytherin line.
So why has Regulus heard nothing from the sacred twenty-eight?
"Now stay still, Nephew. I need to complete some spells."
A few people thought it was going to be Sirius that we'd be visiting, but no. Regulus needs the help of a Slytherin, so here we are.
Thanks for reading,
Tsume
xxx