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Chapter 14
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It's the scent that hits her; the smell that bludgeons at her nose before she reaches a large body of water, the one that inspires thoughts of drowning beneath crushing depths.
Regulus is a summer shower and a tropical monsoon, a calm lake and roaring ocean. He is water, the smooth ebb and flow, the thunderous downpour. His scent is the same, a primordial warning sign that she's going to get swept away and Poppy Evans cannot swim.
It's muted and that's how she knows this is a dream, a half-hazed concoction of her mind desperately reaching out for the one thing that'd inspired fascination. How brooding dark eyes had become brilliant silver, bright against the near ever-present composure of his face. How his lips had always wrapped their way around her surname, muttering that first vowel as if it were the beginning of a curse, forming the last consonant with the passion of a revered sinner.
It'd been easy to get swept up, and now that she's downstream, Poppy doesn't see much reason to not remain there, now that she's been torn from the previous comforts she once experienced, comforts that'll never feel the same again.
Maybe it's lazy, and maybe it's easy, but life had just seemed so much smoother when she could forget the outside world and focus on the hands grasping at her hips. She'd gotten so much done in that time too, had located a Horcrux, learnt so much in her desperation driven studies, had saved Regulus' life… and then all happened.
Perhaps it seems better looking back on it, Poppy doesn't know.
What she is aware of is that she wakes to painful contracts in her stomach and a wetness between her thighs.
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It takes seven hours. Seven long, painful hours.
Though the sun still hides in the east, they are several hours into the morning of October 1st and it becomes blatantly obvious early in the process why so few witches risk birthing in muggle hospitals, despite the current political climate.
The lamp on the bedside table shatters, the laws of physics defined as the pieces embed themselves in the south facing wall, well aware from her physical self.
Poppy can barely focus upon it though, her chest heaving. There's an intense pain in her lower back, searing its way beneath the skin, as if the sensation of her organs twisting and turning wasn't enough. Perspiration beads down her face, there's sweat-drenched strands of hair sticking to her forehead but Poppy can hardly let go of the bed to move them; she'll tear the tresses right out if she tries.
It doesn't feel like she's trying to squeeze out a baby, it feels like she's trying to squeeze out every last organ, muscle and blood vessel she as in her.
The pushing, when it comes, is a relief.
It all passes in a blur, a sweeping wave of sensations that drags her under and keeps her trapped in the backwash until her lungs are screaming for air; she barely even remembers that it wasn't Regulus that pushed her into this, that it was her own decision to keep this. She dived into this rouge wave herself.
There are no thoughts of never doing it again, there's no swearing and cursing, there's just the focus on getting through the sensations, a focus broken only by sweet relief and a baby's cry.
When Poppy collapses back, she doesn't even have the energy to keep staring up at the ceiling, doesn't have the power to keep her eyes open. Lying there, the sheets drenched in all of the sweat she's shed this past hour; any other day she'd have been disgusted. Hell, she still is, but she really doesn't have the energy to reach for her wand and spell them clean. That would, after all, require her to roll onto her side and reach for the elder wood and right now she has no intentions of moving ever again.
"You're quiet, Lily," Poppy rasps, surprised her tongue is capable of even the slightest bit of movement.
Her child is still crying, she can hear them, but there's no proclamation of boy or girl from her dear sister.
Lily who'd dealt with what Sirius had dubbed the 'pregnancy paranoia' like a champ. Lily who'd learnt all the spells she'd need to help out because Poppy doesn't do trust, has never done trust and really can't do friends either. It's not like she could have enlisted anyone else to help.
"Just, just surprised, that's all…" Lily whispers and when Poppy drums up the strength to open her eyes, she finds her sister staring down at the source of all the noise, form wrapped in a thick blue blanket.
Well, that answers her question of boy or girl. She'd got a son.
Regulus has a son.
Fucking hell, Sirius has a nephew he can corrupt. Not that he's aware of that.
Honestly, Poppy's not sure if he should be made aware. Forget the niceties, she has no idea how Sirius would react, other than loudly. And loudly is far from what she wants, loudly will attract attention.
And the last thing she needs is attention, especially of the notoriously pure-blooded Black family.
Everyone and their aunt knows how the Black family feels about mudbloods; should they learn their last official heir has sired a bastard child with one of such dirty blood? Well, she wouldn't put it past them to try and kill her child. And then said child would be growing up with Lily, because Poppy would be prison for a murder spree.
"He doesn't have a sixth toe, does he?" Well, given his father and the Black Family motto, it's a legitimate concern.
"Not right now… but he might be capable of growing one."
"What."
Lily's expression is a study in contrary, eyes filled with confused determination, even though there's a perfectly loving smile as she gazes down at her nephew.
At Poppy's child.
At the baby that's been growing in her stomach for so long. She's been cooking that child for nine-months on slow heat, everything better had come out okay.
When the baby is placed in her arms, it's then that Poppy realises there's no problem, per se, other than how she's going to explain the sunshine yellow hair that's slowly transitioning into Slytherin green.
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'17 magical among 301 dead in Shrewsbury attack; Baskerville heir, the sole survivor, in critical condition'
Throwing the newspaper down upon the coffee table, Regulus Black rakes a hand through the tangled, greasy strands of his hair, kicking hard at the armchair. It goes skidding across the room, crashing to the floor and he curses the featherlight charms that'd been attached to the furniture.
It's the fifth attack within the past two months, all conducted by the recently recovered Riddle himself. Every death from here on out… partial responsibility can be weighed upon Regulus' shoulders.
He failed to kill the pretender and now, now he's enraged and hunting Regulus down. Even though he has no idea of his assailant, he's just lashing out and cutting through the population, murdering anyone and everyone who opposes him.
"Master Regulus?"
Gritting his teeth, Regulus bites down on the urge to snap, to send Kreacher away.
It's not the house elf's fault, it's not Regulus' place to vent on the only other being he converses with, barring Aunt Cassiopeia. His aunt can take it and give it all back ten-fold, Kreacher would never do so and it is for that reason Regulus holds his tongue.
Even as his molars dig deep into the edges of the muscle, until pain zings across the surface. But it's enough of a distraction, enough to draw his attention back to his thoughts and to seal his lips shut.
It is only after he has calmed a little, only after he has swallowed the rant down, that Regulus allows himself to speak.
"I need a little time alone right now, Kreacher."
"Does Master Regulus wish to go flying?" It's spoken slyly, Kreacher's lips twitching up into a small smile and Regulus would be far more irritated if the offered distraction wasn't actually appealing. He hasn't been flying since his sixth year, hasn't rose up on a broom and just soared in an even longer space of time.
Flying… Flying sounds fantastic right now.
"If you would fetch my broom, please, Kreacher?"
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Hair half-scraped back into a stubby ponytail, Regulus rolls through the air, trousers tucked deep into his boots even as the wind attempts to entice them out.
He needs a new way to assassinate Riddle, some way that doesn't use runes. Or in the very least, uses no runes that could be linked back to the previous batch. The pretender will be aware of those now, he will research the cause behind his near death, he'll be impervious to it in short order. If he's already out, already chasing after his attacker, chances are good he's already managed such a thing, which means Regulus needs to come up with a new plan.
Maybe there'll be something within the natural world that he could use? While chances are good that Riddle is immune to all the common poisons and the uncommon ones… There's no possible way he'd be able to create an immunity to basilisk poison, is there? The only known cure is phoenix tears and the thought of a phoenix in Riddle's vicinity, nevermind one willing to cry upon his poisoned wound, is laughable. Unfortunately, there's not been a sighting of a live basilisk for hundreds of years, all for a number of very good reasons.
This doesn't help Regulus with his Dark Lord problem, however.
Falling into a smooth loop de loop, Regulus comes level with the house to find Cassiopeia stood by the back door, her face blank and posture wooden. She's also staring remarkably hard at him, which is never a good sign.
So far in his voluntary confinement (for his own safety of course) she has chewed him out on an uncountable number of occasions.
While she agrees that the death of Riddle is very much a necessity, his aunt believes it a job best left to the Aurors. As if they will actually do such a thing with Dumbledore of all people influencing them. The chances of that happening… well he'd sooner see Malfoy slumming it with the muggles in their uniformly built huts and sleeping on their rough linen.
Nudging the broom down, Regulus smoothly dismounts, approaching his aunt with a respectable about of caution. Several times she's severed up a stinging hex to reprehend him, and they hurt.
It takes him a moment of staring off to the side, takes several seconds before he can register the pain exploding across the side of his face means he's been slapped. Physically slapped across the face.
His wand is in hand, the tip grazing Cassiopeia's own as the stares down at him. She has the advantage, despite being several inches shorter she stands upon the steps to the house and Regulus rather regrets dismounting his broom.
"The only reason I am not ejecting you from this household is because I assume that you didn't know."
"Didn't know what, dear aunt?"
Regulus wipes at the side of his face with his free hand, taking careful note of the blood that smears upon his finger. One of Cassiopeia's rings must have caught his cheekbone; it'd explain the sharper sting that resides there.
"That you didn't know your scorned secret lover was pregnant, of course."
Well... There you go...
Thanks for reading,
Tsume
xxx