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Chapter 22
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Regulus is waiting by the door when she returns. Too well-bred to sit upon the doorstep, he has instead transfigured himself a tasteful bench just off the garden paths, a blanket folded over his arms.
"I suppose we should talk plans then," Poppy states. It's not a question, cannot be a question. For it is very clear indeed that Regulus has no intentions of going anywhere, that he plans on sticking around in Sol's life and, consequently, hers. The pureblood tilts his head, one half curl escaping from behind his ear to frame his jawline. It's disgusting how appealing she finds his current appearance.
"That would be the ideal thing to do, yes."
"And you can stomach working with my dirty little self?" At that, Regulus does huff, rising to his feet so that the bench may melt out of existence behind his calves.
"I am trying but, believe it or not, overcoming propaganda that's been sprouted since one was old enough to crawl isn't exactly easy. Like being told the sky isn't blue and expected to believe it."
"Technically, the sky isn't blue, it's all the atoms in the atmosphere reflecting light that gives the sky its colour, hence the change at dawn and dusk when the placement of the sun effects what rays of light are reflected." The look Regulus gifts her with is positively frosty. Poppy just smiles back, cradling Sol closer and utterly done with this conversation happening on her porch. With a flick of her wand, the door opens with a soft groan; Regulus' shoulders twitch at the noise and Poppy continues to smile, well aware there is no doubt and edge to the expression now.
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Sol's fast asleep on the enchanted blanket once again, floating a mere foot off of the floor. Though there's no fear he will be able to roll over and off of the fabric, Poppy has still taken the time to enchant the sides to catch him, should he miraculously find himself on the edge. By the time she has settled her darling baby, she's just in time to spot the house-elf Regulus has apparently summoned. All so he can have his favourite spot of tea in a china cup that just screams 'Upper Class'. Nose wrinkling, Poppy eyes the little demon that'd once appeared over her bed in the middle of the night while the demon eyes her back with its bulbous eyes.
"Kreacher, stop that." The little beast's ears deflate instantly, bowing its head even as it turns back towards its master.
"Kreacher apologises, Master Regulus. He just wishes to see…" it trails off and Poppy instantly bristles. Because it's blatantly obvious what it wants to see and she does not want it seeing her baby boy. Regulus' trusted servant or not, she sure as hell doesn't want the fucker near Sol. Not when it's still attached to the high and might 'forever pure' Black family. What reassurance does she have that the thing won't suffocate her baby in his sleep on old house orders? None, that's what.
"Take one step towards him and I'll flay your skin right off."
"Evans!" Regulus sharp, near offended hiss of her name is whip sharp but Poppy doesn't care. She's too busy staring down the house elf that's staring back at her.
"The filthy mudblood that has sullied poor Master Regulus is vicious. Maybe master's half-blood will get a proper Black upbringing." And then it's gone, snapping out of existence and leaving Poppy with a hell of a lot to unpack from those two sentences. Because what the ever-loving hell? She'd been the one to sully Regulus, had she? Heh, she kinda likes the sound of that.
"Right then, now that you're all at home with your stupid tea-"
"It is Yunnan tea, you uncultured heathen."
"- can we focus on the evil bastard that's set to hunt down me and mine?"
There's a moment of stillness as Regulus considers her, those pretty silver eyes peering up from beneath a heavy brow. Part of her wants to sit down so they're on an even playing field. Another part of her is reminded distinctly of the time Regulus' head and been between her thighs and they'd been doing something a little more fun than trying to right the fuck up the Wizarding World has become.
"We are in agreement that the Dark Lord needs to be taken out. With the horcrux gone, he's mortal once more. A well-placed killing curse would work, but your side-"
"Dumbledore's side," Poppy corrects, totally not relishing in the fact she's cut the pureblood ass off in the very same manner he had done with her a moment ago. From the scowl on his face, he knows this quite well. "For the record, I am very much in favour of murdering the fucker. But, let's say, hypothetically, the dark bastard made more than one horcrux."
"More than one!" Tea spills over the edge of his fancy teacup (she's sure the thing's actually lined in gold because only an idiot would do that and, well, she might not dislike him but she's not blind to Regulus' faults) as Regulus jolts, the sheer horror enough on his face for Poppy to pause. He's even paled, all chalky white skin, worse than an Irish redhead. This, more than anything else, is what prompts Poppy into taking a step forward.
"Well, it's obvious, isn't it? If I were worried about dying, I wouldn't stop at one. I wouldn't want too many, because the soul seems important as a whole, given its prevalence in all the different human civilisations, but I'd certainly want more than on safety net. Ergo, more than one. Given arithmancy and number properties, I'd want either three parts of a soul, or seven. So, the question is, which number does the fucker prefer?"
Regulus is still staring, a tragic sort of despair to his face. Of course; he'd almost died retrieving one of the buggers, the thought of more is probably sickening. And that's discounting the whole 'needs one murder' and tearing the soul into chunks thing. With all the bullshit Poppy's put up with since entering the magical world, this doesn't faze her in the slightest. Regulus, who has been raised on a steady diet of what is good and proper and never ever been told to get fucked just for existing, appears to be having some form of post-teen crisis. Huh.
"Look," Poppy murmurs, uncomfortable with the soft tone she forces her voice to take on but powering through anyway. She takes another step towards Regulus until their knees knock together, takes the half-empty teacup from his fingers (and valiantly supresses the scowl over the tea stains on her semi-new carpet) and plants it down on the coffee table. The only sound between them for a moment is Sol's quiet little snuffles. Then, Poppy carefully plants both her knees and upper shins on the sofa, sitting herself down on Regulus' thighs and cradling his pretty boy face in her hands. There's the faintest traces of stubble along his jawline now and she's sure his skin had been smooth as sweet jazz, but there's a miniscule crease between the flesh of his brows now.
"Look," she repeats, tilts Regulus' head until his gaze is focused only on her, not staring a thousand yards into the distance, as if he can already see Voldemort's fucking horcruxes just by doing so, "we fucking got this, alright? You're bucking hundreds of years of family traditions; I'm thumbing my nose up at the Dark Wanker right now by hiding a thought dead pureblood and his bastard halfblood in my house and just existing in general. We got one of the soul-cartons already, what's stopping up from getting the rest? No one else knows about them, right?"
It is a slow thing, but Regulus nods, watching her with those molten silver eyes and Poppy determinedly ignores the flare that settles in her stomach.
"Well, if no one else knows about them, when we successfully blow him up, no one will think he's capable of coming back, will they? No one will be able to help his bodiless wreath as we dispose of the soul-shit he's left scattered around. Look, Black, what I'm trying to say is that we got this. We blow him up, we break the shit, we raise Sol to absolutely slaughter his peers when it comes to grades at Hogwarts. We have a future Head Boy over there on that blanket; I won't settle for anything less." Regulus' hands are on her hips, his lips twisting in a half smirk and the dimples that come with it are just not fair. Not in the slightest.
"Do you give yourself a pep talk like that every morning, or only before you're trying to justify premeditated murder?" His voice is soft, low, but the good-humour, the black-humour, in it is evident. His fingers tighten slightly on her hips and she settles her weight back onto her rump, adding pressing to the fucker's knees. Has he realised she's practically using his well-bred self as a seat? Probably not. Is the fool undoubtedly hoping for sexy times? She wouldn't put it past him. Is she willing to partake in sexy times right now? Well, jury's out on that one.
"A Black acting as Head Boy," Regulus muses, eyes still locked on her hips, thumb dragging back and forth across her shirt. "Undoubtedly Dumbledore's lot would lose their shit over it. But what if he decides to buck tradition Sirius-style?"
"Then Sirius' influence is stronger than your genetics and you got the heir you deserve." The grump face she's graced with is spectacular.
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Poppy has clearly forgotten she's resting on his legs. His calves are aching slightly but Regulus has absolutely no desire at all to remove her from his lap. The heat of her thighs bracketing in his is delicious, even if the coarse muggle-material of her pants leaves much to be desired. It wasn't bearable as a skirt, so why she feels the need to cover all her legs in it, he doesn't have the slightest idea.
Perhaps any sane wizard would be worried over a lover contemplating homicide. Any other Black (barring is black sheep brother) would undoubtedly be offended at her determination to off the Dark Lord. Regulus is just relieved and a little turned on by the blue fire of her eyes. He stands by that thought from months ago; if she'd been pureblood, his mother would have already planned their wedding. You don't let that kind of ferocious desire to protect family slip through your fingers. That kind of disregard for the rules for the betterment of the family is for the best. On the topic of protecting the family…
Regulus' eyes wander over to look upon Sol. His darling heir. The one thing he has done right in these past few years. His heir. His. There is so very little he has to be proud of in this moment, so much he is unsure of and so much he is questioning. Sol is the one certainty, set in stone. This, this he has done right, will continue to strive to do right by. His own upbringing was pretty crap; there's no getting past that. Sol won't have that; he'll be there for his son, protect and love and treasure. And not because Poppy will hunt him down if he doesn't, now that he's shown interest. Fuck, it'll be a learning curve but, at this point, he doesn't care. Sol is his. Possessive bastard that he is, Regulus'll do right by the boy. He will.
It's why he'd passed written orders on to Kreacher to deliver to Gringotts. He's not got the slightest clue what funding Poppy has access to; there's every chance that she's spent up from purchasing this little cottage. His son will not go short, not if Regulus has anything to say about it. His parents have never kept an eye on his account; it won't be a shock for them to learn it's all been placed in a trust for his heir when the boy reaches Hogwarts age. They won't be able to get his name from the goblins, won't be able to track him down. But they'll have an idea where their 'dead' son's money has gone. If Regulus has been Slytherin enough to juggle his allowance and his inheritance between different accounts under different names (for 'just-in-case' scenarios), then than is neither here nor there.
Worst comes to worst, he can beg and borrow from Aunt Cassiopeia.
"So, we're in agreement then?" Poppy asks. Her breath smells of orange; he can see an empty packet of orange slices residing on the coffee table, right by the scratch in the wood. He'd have thrown that out by now, would've had it replaced. Poppy clearly doesn't have the option. She should take better care of her things.
"We really are going to dedicate the next however many months to offing the Dark Lord," Regulus agrees and it sounds utterly absurd, near surreal to speak their plans aloud.
"Couples that kill together, stay together," Poppy says with not an ounce of the black-humour it evokes in Regulus. He smiles, presses a kiss to a startled' Poppy's forehead, then relaxes back into the sofa.
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Timeskip coming up next. (I'm so sorry it's been so long and probably will be again).
Tsume
xxx