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Chapter 7
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Poppy wakes with Regulus' name on her lips.
She lays there for a moment, staring blankly up at the canvas top of her bed as she retrieves her pillow from beneath her head.
Then, face buried into the mustard yellow material, she screams.
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"You look lovely, Poppy."
Lily would be so much more believable if she weren't staring directly at the near perfectly disguised bags beneath blue eyes.
Poppy sighs, adjusting the neckline of the pale violet dress, trying not to scowl too much. She doesn't look as tired as she feels, damn it. She'd skipped the potions last night, determined to get a good night's rest.
Instead, she'd been subjected to long fingers, strong hands, breathless curses whispered in a cultured voice. She'd woken feeling as if she hadn't slept in the least and it'd left her worse off for it.
"Lovely's good," Poppy manages, blinking and tearing her eyes away from her exhausted reflection, "means I won't steal the limelight from you."
Gently elbowing her sister in the side, Poppy grins at her, forcibly ignoring the fact it should be three sisters here, not two. But Petunia had refused to come to Lily's 'unnatural' wedding, insisting it wasn't for people like her. She'd barely tolerated their presence at her own wedding.
Though that might be because Poppy'd taken it upon herself to do what their father was too kind to do; threaten Vernon to treat her big sister like the queen she is. Petunia had scolded her for it, but Poppy hadn't missed the pleased little smile her sister had tried to tuck into the corner of her mouth.
"You look radiant, Lily." And truly she did.
Pure white charmeuse flows across every womanly curve Lily possesses, falling smoother than silk. It'd be a dangerous choice of fabric (after all, charmeuse is known for highlighting all flaws) for anyone but Lily. Because her big sister has very few flaws, and each one is already disguised by her sheer goodness.
Poppy's always been the strange one, she's accepted that.
Lily, in comparison, is the most gifted of the three sisters, there's no point in trying to deny it. It doesn't matter that Poppy's teachers whisper how she's smarter; what good are smarts when she can't put them into practice? When she struggles so plainly to achieve what Lily does so effortlessly. People put up with Poppy; they love Lily.
"How is Hogwarts without me?" Lily teases, her eyes bright and lively, the very essence of the approaching spring. She's so lively, so full of life. Even when faced with a war, a war that threatens to eradicate the race she has been born to, Lily Evans faces the world with a bright smile and an inquisitive mind. She's a glowing beacon, a well of hope.
It's strange, but Poppy has long believed spring belongs to Lily. The season of rebirth, of growth and flowering. It's a beautiful time, one that brings about new discoveries.
In comparison, Poppy is winter. It's all a constant battle, fighting against harsh colds and blinding snow. Even the few comforting warmths she finds eventually fades.
She banishes that thought, sets fire once again to the roots that are once again expanding in her chest, limbs that creep along her bronchi, entwining with them. It's knotweed; if there's so much as a speck remaining, it regrows, each invasive stretch claiming more and more of her until it's difficult to find Poppy within the mess.
"Pop-a-lee?"
Scowling at the painfully childish nickname, Poppy flicks her wand towards Lily, watching that mane of hair weave itself up in a flawless up-do. If there's one thing Poppy's become good at when it comes to appearance charms, it's hair-dos.
"It's fine. And no," Poppy snaps, cutting off Lily's next question, destroying the usual banter before it can follow down the same path as always, "I haven't made any friends. Thanks for asking, but I'm quite happy without any of them."
The unsaid 'they're all stupid' hangs heavy between them.
Lily has long known her irritation with her year-mates, has tried to encourage her to make friends despite their clear difference in mindsets. They're all idiots because none of them have even thought to prepare for what awaits them outside of Hogwarts.
Even Regulus is somewhat guilty of this; she'd seen him laughing with the other Slytherins, so absorbed in their little house games that they weren't even looking beyond the walls of the old stone castle. And now he's not there anymore.
The roots burn again, licks of flames, pulmonary fumes choking her. All in her mind; it's not real.
As it turns out, Poppy is not particularly adaptable. As it turns out, she dislikes changes to her world.
Ripping away the only person her age that she'd been capable of thoughtless interaction with is jarring.
Regulus might have been an asshole (still is an asshole) but he'd been her asshole to play with. They'd toyed with one another, both in the physical and mental sense. Now that's gone, taking the stress relief such interactions had brought with it.
Plant matter is burning, but not a wisp of smoke escapes her lips.
"Are you ready? It's not too late, you can run off. I'll handle Potter."
Lily giggles, hiding the noise behind her hand. She wears her nerves well, they bring out a rosiness to her cheeks that Poppy's never witnessed before.
"You should call him James. He'll be your brother-in-law now." Urgh, what a nightmare.
It's not that Poppy dislikes Potter per se. But she doesn't like him either. It's well acknowledged that he'd been a bully during his younger years, and that's not something Poppy is quick to forget. He's grown up, that's a given, but that doesn't change the years of anxiety he and his wild-tag group of Gryffindors had given other students. Herself included. She'd lost three pages of notes to a Marauders' prank. All four boys had lost every last pair of trousers they owned come the dawn of the next day. On a completely unrelated note, Poppy had practiced her fire-spells upon the material that'd mysteriously appeared in her possession that same day.
Still, Lily is looking at her with those imploring green eyes and Poppy crumbles like wet tissue paper.
"Fine. I'll start considering it."
"Thank you."
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"Aww, I always knew you liked me, Lil' Evans."
Doing her damn best to keep the scowl off of her face, Poppy claps politely as Potter sweeps Lily into the most romantic kiss she's seen outside of the television screen, determinedly not turning a glare on the male at her side.
Sirius Black the Third is a taller, broader that his younger brother, with a roguish charm to his every last feature. As Potter's best-man, she's been lumped with his presence beside her in the ceremony given that she's the maid of honour.
"Yep, the sixth toe you hide from your families rampant inbreeding really gets me going," Poppy surmises, lips curving up in a smirk as Sirius' head snaps towards her in surprise.
The moment of stunned silence between them is broken by his barked laughter, one that sounds a little more forced that it should.
"Such a cutting tongue. You sure that's not a blue tie you should be wearing?" It was supposed to be green, would have been green if not for the current political climate.
"Positive. Hard work triumphs all."
"Spoken like a true 'Puff," Sirius snarks, all good-natured grin as he watches James lead Lily back down the isle to the doors. "We better get out there or those two newly-weds will leave us behind."
Poppy hums in agreement, doing her best to not pay Sirius (she can't refer to him by his surname, that dances far too close to other thoughts, thoughts that burn) too much attention. It only encourages him.
"'S tradition for the best-man to dance with the maid of honour, you know? Sure I can't tempt you with a bit of pureblood goodness?"
"Not in the slightest." Your brother's already beaten you to that.
Proving to have no talent with legilimency in the slightest, Sirius shows no signs of reacting to her internal monologue.
"Too cold, Lil' Evans, too cold."
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That night, bridesmaid dress a crumpled mess on the dorm floor, Poppy crawls back into her own bed, head spinning.
Her eyes flicker to the trunk at the bottom of her bed, recalls that she's got another set of potions to see her through the next week.
There's too much to do and so little time.
Lily and Potter are married now, probably off doing those newly-wed things that make her cringe a little to think about (not the act itself, but the participants and that's more than enough right now) and she's just so exhausted.
She's still got to figure out a way to get the hat to cough up the sword, figure out how to get the diary out from Malfoy. And that's not even getting started on the ring with that death-sentence curse on it. She's got the diadem (and curse Voldemort to the seven hells and beyond, the amount of shit she could have got done wearing that thing if he hadn't tainted it) and Regulus has the locket. He's smart, he'll figure out a way to dispose it.
But there's still so much to do and time keeps marching on.
Not for the first time, Poppy toys with the idea of leaving Hogwarts. She doesn't need the education, that can be picked up at any time and there's already areas where she's beyond what the curriculum can offer. That's what self-study does, after all.
No, the only reason she remains is the resources. The Room of Requirement, the house-elves, the quick access to the hat. It's all important, key things that she cannot yet start going without. She needs to start training her magic, needs to become an Animagus so she can sneak back into the school.
Find a way around the curse on the ring, figure out a way to sneak the diary out from Malfoy without him knowing (almost as impossible as retrieving the cup, only she's got no goblin insiders willing to barter a deal. Maybe Dobby? If he's around that is) all the while making sure Lily doesn't do anything stupid.
To top that all off, she must do it all in a way that doesn't make Voldemort suspicious. Because if he gets suspicious, he'll move the Horcruxes and then that'll remove Poppy's advantage.
Not to mention he'll stop at nothing to see her dead.
She's prepared for that eventuality if it comes about; Dolly holds her will, to be delivered to Lily upon her death. She's prepared, but she still feels like a newbie climber before Everest. She's-
She's not alone.
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The mudblood notices him in an instant, wand snapping up right towards him and Kreacher sneers as the invisibility of his kind is forcibly stripped from him.
Not a useless mudblood then, that much is clear.
He recalls the past few hours, the offer to Master Regulus (dear Master Regulus who has been led astray, who has been tainted by the filth before him) to kill the mudblood.
But Master Regulus had denied him. Had said a world without the wench would be significantly less interesting. He had called her the bludger yet to be chained.
Tainted, Master Regulus has been tainted.
And while Kreacher cannot deal with the filth as he so desires (Master Regulus said no, poor Master Regulus who drunk the poison, who's mind was addled for the witch of dirty blood to take advantage of) he can warn her off.
"What do you want." It's not a question, but even if it were, Kreacher does not answer to mudbloods.
"The mudblood presumes to command Kreacher. Dares to-"
"Kreacher- you're Regulus' elf," the female concludes, wand still held level. A mudblood, but not a stupid one. "Has he recovered, from the poison?"
The mudblood enquires after his dear master. She will be displeased to know he still lives.
"Master Regulus grows stronger, he-"
"Good. Now piss off. Return to Black, destroy that damn locket. Fiendfyre should do it, or Basilisk venom if you can get your hands on it."
What.
How does the mudblood know what will destroy the locket? Master Regulus' presumed last words, destroy the locket. Oh, how Kreacher has tried, tried and tried again. But he has failed, failed again and again. As has his master. What the mudblood speaks of though, so dangerous and damaging… Perhaps it shall work.
But to follow through on the mudblood's demands; everything in Kreacher rallies against it.
"Now get lost. If you stay any longer, you'll probably end up exposing Black." The filth is right.
Kreacher allows his appearance to fade away, keeping a watchful eye upon the female.
As he disappears from sight, she seems to crumple forwards, wand hand going to her head and pushing back the wild red there. Of course, the mudblood grows weaker while Master Regulus grows stronger; as is the way of pure blood. The female fails, falters beneath her stress while good Master Regulus faces it head on.
All is right with the world.
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The locket burns that night, vile black smoke pouring from it's quivering form and Kreacher smiles.
I really, really enjoyed writing Kreacher for some reason.
Thanks for reading,
Tsume
xxx