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Chapter 12
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"Is it worth it?"
Rubbing at her tired eyes, Poppy lifts her gaze to look over at Bathilda, a yawn rolling out from between her lips. It's probably far too late but here they both are, pouring over old notes and accounts from interviews long since passed. Hell, some of this stuff is probably even older than her mother, nevermind Poppy herself.
"Is what worth it?" She questions, drawing her wand across the reference she'd been looking for, highlight it and logging the words for later recall. A copy of the ink spirals off the page, dancing through the air before it slams into the wall Bathilda smears all of her notes across.
Their topic this week is the Viking invasion of Britain and all of the craft based spells that were brought along with them, along with the reaction of the natives. It's actually fascinating stuff, far more interesting than whatever drivel Binns had told her throughout school. She's learnt more in these past two weeks than she did in six and a half years at Hogwarts when it comes to history. Which is, well, a bit sad really. They'll have to get a new teacher to replace that ghost, it'll be a point for Poppy to bring up later.
That is, after she's temporarily deposed of Voldemort. It's the main reason she'd turned up outside of Bathilda's house that first morning; this house was once home to Grindelwald himself, for however short a period of time. It's the nearest thing she can think of to find some obscure magic, the only possible thing where she might find a reference to magic or any kind of hint at all as to a way to off Voldemort.
That she's coming to enjoy her work so much, well that's just a bonus. Not everyone gets a job they can enjoy, after all. In all honesty, Poppy had expected to be one of them, to just find something she could put up with. But this is interesting stuff.
The topic of the Vikings and their war invasion runes is a promising start for her quest, even if she hasn't been able to go snooping around Bathilda's home yet.
"The kid. Whatever you had with the father of your offspring."
"Why do you care? We've only known each other for two weeks," Poppy states matter-of-factly, running a hand through her hair and flicking the notes she's finished with into the 'used' pile.
"I never had kids," Bathilda mutters, squinting down at the page in her hand, the script upon it magically enlarged for her viewing ease, "but that was only because there wasn't a man I was interested enough in."
Now that is something Poppy can relate to.
If there was no Regulus around, not like if he was dead but if he'd never been born instead… She'd undoubtedly still be a virgin, would probably have already sorted out her Voldemort problem without him there to distract her.
But oh, he was the most delicious, bittersweet distraction.
"I don't regret it, if that's what you're asking. It wasn't some little love story like what Lily and Pott- Lily and James are living in right now," Poppy answers, making sure to stress Potter's name as she corrects herself. Because it's weird to not refer to him by his first name given he's her brother-in-law now.
But she still can't stop calling him Potter in her head. Not yet, at least.
"It was short, it was far from sweet, but it felt right to me." There'd been nothing wrong with it, both she and Regulus had been very willing participants in their little train-wreck of a quasi-relationship, if it could really be called that. There'd been a lot of focus on the physical side of things and while she might never know how it'd felt for him, Poppy had felt that little bit more, real with him.
He had to have felt something too, even if it hadn't been love. He could have had any pureblood girl spreading her legs for him with that silver tongue (and oh boy was that tongue something worth mentioning), but it was her thighs he'd hiked up around his hips. It was her ear that his panted breaths had rasped into, it was her nails that'd dug into pale masculine shoulders.
"I know Lily wouldn't understand it though, doesn't understand it. But maybe it's like with Thestrals in that you have to be a little damaged to even see it, nevermind understand the appeal."
Bathilda looks at her, lined brow heavy over her eyes. Poppy refuses to be intimidated though, instead flicking through the next clump of notes with a practiced ease, resting the papers upon her bump. It's already uncomfortably large and that's only two-thirds of the way into this pregnancy. Quite frankly, Poppy highly doubts she'll ever want another bratling (Sirius' stupid name has stuck, damn his pureblood ass) because this is hell. Already she's struggling to manually put her flipflops on, the baby already in the way and she's not even close to popping the little bud out.
The wait is killing her.
"Does he know?"
"Well, we didn't exactly part on the best of terms; he's in hiding because of the war… like I am, I guess. It's not like I've been anywhere other than my parents' house and Lily's place since I left Hogwarts. It's Dolly that gets all the things I need now."
She'd never known how so damn helpful house elves were until she had one of her own. Dolly always beams whenever she's graced with a please or a thank you, but the little angel deserves every last one Poppy offers her.
It's time for a change in conversation topic now, Poppy's getting rather tired of reflecting on how very not together her life is right now. What with the desire to keep Lily alive conflicting with her desire to have a baby, to keep this baby.
It was probably a stupid move, keeping it, but Poppy couldn't care less. She's not completely selfless when it comes to her older sister and this is the one thing she wouldn't give up, even if it meant not cracking on with the Voldemort problem.
Plus, when the little bud is born, then she can take Lily up on that offer for babysitting. That'll keep them both safe while Poppy's out Dark Lord hunting.
"Do you think I'll be able to write my own book some time in the future?"
"It's quite possible. What would you write about?"
"Dark Lords, I think," Poppy concludes, wand tapping against the rounded side of her bump, watching the colours dance out across the material of her shirt. On a whim, she pulls it up to expose her swelling belly, tracing the stretch mark that had sneakily appeared during the week. A flick of her wand as the image of her baby overtaking the skin, formed in different shades of gold. Little limbs shift about, legs kicking out and Poppy can feel it against her skin.
"That won't be a terribly beloved topic," Bathilda grumbles dryly, only giving the baby a single curious glance before she returns to her own notes.
"But it'd be oh so interesting, wouldn't it? Don't you ever wonder why?"
Here the old woman pauses, eyes finding the cabinet by the wall, her eyes lingering on the photo of one tall, merry-wild blond. "All the time."
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Adjusting the fabric that is wrapped tight around his left arm one more time, Regulus Black sucks in one long, slow breath before letting it pass between his lips.
The skin-tight, magical sleeve Cassiopeia had come up with to act as a 'block' for the Dark Mark appears to be working; Regulus hasn't felt the slightest tingle of sinister magic since he put the garment on. It'd have been so much better if his aunt could have found a way to banish the mark altogether (such an obvious blot, one of the biggest mistakes of his life, if not they biggest) but that'll take more research apparently.
How Evans could have laid beside him with that staining his skin, Regulus will never know. He doesn't understand her, not in the slightest.
Then again, Evans had never looked at him and seen only a shorter, leaner, less attractive variation of his brother. She'd only ever seen Regulus; constantly brought him to the peak of frustration but had never once made him feel lesser, like an imitative.
It'd been a good feeling. While it lasted.
Hunched beneath the invisibility cloak that'd been retrieved from Grimmauld Place by Kreacher (it's starting to wear, even though it's only been in their possession for three years, they'll have to by another one soon), Regulus watches the people pass into the Montague manor house, taking note of the heavily pregnant witch that keeps seeing off the people that leave the house from the Death Eater meeting that has just taken place inside.
Regulus' trap is set; he'd had Kreacher place the runic stones in a quarter semi-circle at the apparition point, the exact place the Dark L- no, the exact place Tom Marvolo Riddle would have to use in order to leave the area. In that, the Dark Mark has been good for something, having a trace of Riddle's magical signature within it. It's primed to explode the second the Riddle attempts to apparate out.
Regulus is only here to see the plan though, though he's got a portkey on him, one that he only needs to remove his thumb from the top off to send him right back to the safe house. Should Riddle realise there was danger lurking, that there's a premeditated attempt on his life waiting in the dark for him… well, Regulus will be well away from here before he can be caught, that's for sure.
Still, he finds himself holding his breath as the man walks out, dark cloak rippling around his body in the summer's wind. It is as is the world stops when Riddle steps into that snare; Regulus' breath is tight in his chest, his lungs burning but his ribs and abdominals refuse to mobilise, to move even an inch.
As if such a thing will mean Riddle knows what's happening before it's too late. But no, he steps into the hidden runic circle as if he is invincible.
And then the world goes white.
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Before he situated himself down, Regulus believed he'd given himself more than enough distance from the blast radius.
Turns out he should have doubled that distance.
He's sprawled out on the grass, the shockwave from the explosion having blasted him several meters back but by the grace of Merlin, he'd ended up tangled in the invisibility cloak; it'd not been blown right off him. A damn good thing too, since the bastard somehow survived.
Oh, he's not intact, far from it.
That dark hair has been burnt right off and he looks more snakelike than ever with his charred skin peeling right off. He's not even standing anymore, forced onto his knees with arms still up to shield his face.
As far as the Black in hiding can tell, it is only Riddle's instinctive, neurotic magic that had saved his life.
Death Eaters are flooding out of the manor now, staring and screaming in horror but Regulus isn't worried about them in the slightest.
No, he's far more worried about Riddle, Riddle who seems to be in shock at his very near death but will soon be looking for the perpetrator.
Time to embrace that oldest and noblest of Slytherin traits; self-preservation.
Regulus removes his thumb from the portkey trigger, ripping him from the grounds of Montague manor and whatever volcanic rage Riddle is about to unleash.
I was suppose to wait till tomorrow to post this but oh well. Second update of the day.
Regulus' first attempt is met with failure and Poppy's reflecting.
Thanks for reading,
Tsume
xxx