Skull
Dirk has some surprising news. Regulus is given one last chance. Grace seeks answers but only finds more questions.
Grace struggled to keep herself still as Pomfrey checked her over. It wasn't that the matron was being slow about it. It was just that Grace wanted to go. She'd been stuck in this blasted Hospital Wing for far too long, and she was itching to breathe some fresh air, amble along from class to class, and, of course, see Regulus.
Because she would be seeing him today. And she didn't just mean from a distance. She would see him besides her, at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, because they had made up the other day—or were at least very close to making up. Regulus had come to her in the Hospital Wing that fateful day, which meant he wanted to see her. Which meant he would see her. For breakfast.
If Grace could make it in time for breakfast.
"That Clear-Head truly works wonders," Pomfrey marveled as the tip of her wand circled Grace's forehead. After a moment longer, Pomfrey nodded her approval and set down her wand. "Not even the faintest hint of magical strain."
Grace beamed and immediately began to gather her knapsack. It was full to bursting, what with the mountain of homework Greengrass had left behind for her the other day.
"Now hold on," Pomfrey said, halting the seventh-year, "we ought to have a proper talk about you missing your dose of Clear-Head that night."
Grace shouldered her bag. "We've already talked about it," she began.
"I'd hardly count the brief chat we had before you collapsed a 'talk,'" Pomfrey responded dryly. "Now, I'm more than happy to send you nightly reminders if it means you won't forget."
"I don't need reminders, Madam Pomfrey. It was just one time. I had a lot on my mind, and I just forgot. It won't happen again. I promise."
A moment passed, and the elderly matron searched Grace's eyes. "Well…it was just once…" she agreed uncertainly.
"Yeah," Grace said immediately, nodding frantically. "If it happens again, you can send me a singing telegram every hour, alright? Can I go now?"
Pomfrey snorted. "Oh, alright then. Merlin knows I wouldn't be able to stop you anyway." Grace turned to leave, and the matron called out sternly, "But—I want you back here next week just to make sure everything's fine, okay?"
Grace was already halfway out of the wing. "Yeah, 'course!" she called back absently, dashing towards the Great Hall.
She was eager to finally have a proper breakfast at the Slytherin table. She had spent far too many days sitting at the near edge of the table, alongside Greengrass or Gamp, and she was more than prepared to reclaim her rightful position besides Regulus. Her mind rolled with possibility as she made her way into the Great Hall. The area was noisy enough that the two could hold their own conversation without any chance of being overheard. Regulus could explain why he'd been staying afar all this while. He could finish whatever it was he had meant to say before Greengrass burst in.
Her face fell as she rounded on the Slytherin table that was pushed along the back wall of the hall. She spotted Regulus immediately, amidst what was slowly becoming his usual cluster of meal companions: the Rosier twins, Yaxley, and—Merlin—even Gibbon was there. Had he always sat there?
Grace wrinkled her nose slightly, but her surefire stride didn't falter in the slightest. She approached the gaggle of pure-bloods, and reached out her hand, intending to politely tap Regulus on the shoulder and inform him of her arrival.
Unfortunately for her, Gibbon caught sight of her before Regulus could.
"Seems like you've bumped your head a bit too hard this time round, Potter," Gibbon bit, raising a brow. He pointed lazily down the end of the table. "I think your spot's further down."
Grace's hand slunk back to her side. Her eyes narrowed at Gibbon. "Actually, I—"
Myrcella Rosier let out an ungrateful groan of annoyance. "Look what you've gone and done, Gibbs. Once she starts speaking, she won't stop. Salazar—sometimes I think she's worse than Gamp."
Grace bit the inside of her cheek so hard she was surprised she didn't draw blood. "I just—"
"Sometimes you think she's worse than Gamp?" Rosier said to his sister. "Isn't it clear she's the worse of the two?"
"At least Gamp comes from a respectable family," Gibbon threw in.
Wrath bubbled at the base of Grace's throat. She was ready to hex the entire table, but then she glanced at Regulus, and her fury gave way to confusion. It looked as though he hadn't heard anything that had been said in the past couple of minutes. He was nursing a goblet of pumpkin juice slowly and deliberately, eclipsing his face from sight.
Wasn't he going to say anything?
"Is she just going to stand there?" Myrcella stage-whispered to her brother.
Grace looked away sharply.
"Should have guessed you'd be too thick to understand simple English," Yaxley sneered at her. "Must be all that Muggle blood in your family tree."
She scowled, but before she could fling a retort his way, someone beat her to it: "Why don't you just shout that out a little louder, Yaxley?" Greengrass said loftily, walking past the table. "I'm sure Dumbledore would love to hear."
Yaxley's jeer gave way to a deep-set frown. Grace used the momentary distraction to dash away from the group. She stuck herself to Greengrass's side, and looked back at Regulus hesitantly. He was still sipping at his somehow inexhaustible goblet of pumpkin juice.
Had he even noticed her?
"Er—thanks," Grace said awkwardly after she tore her gaze away.
Greengrass didn't even glance at her. "Don't thank me. I didn't do it for you."
And before Grace could ask who she did do it for, the auburn-haired girl grabbed a pastry from one of the many platters scattered along the table and sped out of the Great Hall altogether.
Grace stood amongst the sea of students for a moment, staring blankly at where Greengrass had just stood. She heard a bubble of laughter peal from Regulus's end of the Slytherin table. What in Godric's good name could they possibly be laughing about? Her ridiculous attempt to speak to Regulus? Her questionable ancestry?
Grace sat heavily at the other end of the table. She scooped some eggs on a plate and viciously stabbed at the yolk with a fork.
Grace had never liked words. She didn't like the way they could conceal and confuse—how people could just play with words, get them to say one thing while meaning something entirely different. Words could twist and turn. Words could be said and taken back. Grace knew this all too well. She remembered being told, time and time again, that her condition would wane away, that it would only be a matter of time until she could live her life like any other kid. She remembered being twelve years old and crying in her mother's arms after the words it's chronic had fled from her Healer's lips. She remembered how impossible those words had seemed, how terrible they were.
So—no—she didn't like words. She much preferred action. What was a word compared to a hug? To a caress? To even a single look?
So, when Greengrass had said, 'He's chosen his side,' of course Grace didn't believe it. Because she had just seen Regulus. He had sat down at her bedside and read to her. He had held her eyes in his, and Grace knew in that moment—she just knew—that he would never leave her willingly. She had trusted that moment, that single action.
Should she not have?
She cast another long, dark look at the other end of the table. Regulus had, at long last, pried his goblet away from his face. He wasn't exactly laughing along with the rest of the gits seated there, but it didn't seem like he was having a particularly bad time, either. He just seemed…bored, like he didn't care what they said—good or bad.
For the first time, Grace began to seriously consider the possibility that Greengrass was right.
She arrived at Potions in a foul mood.
"Graven hasket," Dirk greeted her as she approached their work bench.
She glared at him. "Is that another Gobbledegook insult?"
He watched with wide eyes as she scowled and let her knapsack fall to the floor with a thud. "Er—" he began unsurely, eyeing her hesitantly, "—well, a lot of the greetings turn out to be insults, believe it or not…"
She merely grunted in response, and shifted slightly to the right, watching Regulus from her periphery. He was paired with Rosier, of fucking course. They were chatting; or, well, Rosier was chatting, and Regulus was allowing him the wonderful privilege of actually listening—something Grace, it seemed, was not worthy of receiving.
"Feel free to disregard this advice," Dirk whispered to her lowly, "but I don't think Slughorn will appreciate you glaring murderously at other students—"
She whipped back to him. "I'm not glaring!" she snapped.
He put his hands up in defense. "Oh, my bad—I was simply referring to your intense staring—"
"Not staring!"
"Alright—then stop just happening to have your eyes wide open in that general direction, then?"
She frowned, and simply turned back to Regulus's workbench. To her utter horror, she caught sight of Rosier pointing at her.
"Oh, fuck," she said under her breath, turning back to Dirk. She craned her neck away from the duo, hiding behind her thick tangle of hair.
Dirk snorted. "Yeah, because that's not suspicious."
She narrowed her eyes at him but before she could say anything, a piercing laugh cut through the chatter of the Potions classroom. Grace inclined her head to the side slightly, and she saw that Rosier was still pointing at her—and fucking laughing. Her lips twisted into a sour, puckered grimace. She had half a mind to get her wand out right there and then and curse him ten ways to Tuesday. Merlin, as if it wasn't enough that he'd stolen her best friend. He had to go ahead and poke fun at her, too—
"Ah, ignore it," Dirk waved off nonchalantly. "It's not you he's trying to rile up. Rosier's been trying to get under my skin ever since he found out."
Her fury flickered out in an instant. She glanced at Dirk, brows furrowed. "What? What do you mean get under your skin? What happened?"
Dirk quirked a brow. "Oh, you can't be serious."
Her irritation returned. "I've been in the Hospital Wing, Dirk. Do you expect me to keep up with the rumor mill while I'm unconscious?"
"No—but—" Dirk stopped and simply rolled his eyes. He puffed his chest out and gestured at his robes. "Notice anything different…?"
Grace's eyes travelled down, and she froze as she caught sight of a gleaming gold and black badge pinned to his chest. In scrawling script were the words Head Boy.
She gaped at him. "Oh, Merlin—how? What did Kennedy do?"
"His sister was murdered." Dirk's tone was so casual and nonchalant that it seemed, for a moment, that he was simply commenting on the weather.
Grace stilled. Had she misheard him? "W—what? What did you just say?"
"His sister was a Hit Witch," Dirk explained, dropping his voice. "There was a clash with some Death Eaters in Knockturn Alley. It was a sting operation gone wrong; the Ministry's getting a lot of heat for it."
"That's awful," Grace breathed. Her stomach twisted. "So Kennedy's just dropped out?"
"I think his parents are trying to get out of the country or something."
"Merlin, that's…" She couldn't find an adequate way to finish, couldn't think of any word to describe the pure horror of what Kennedy was going through, so she let her sentence bleed into silence.
"So, since he's gone, Dumbledore's chosen me for Head Boy." Dirk smiled, although it was a little strained. "It was a little surprising, truth be told. But Slughorn and Sprout both recommended me, and I suppose the pool of candidates was rather small, considering how many students chose not to return this year."
"I—" Grace started and then stopped, choosing to shake her head. She began pulling her class materials from her bag. "The world's really gone to shit," she said under her breath, "if you've been appointed as Head Boy."
"Oh, come on," Dirk said good-naturedly. "I'll be a wonderful Head Boy. You'll see. I've already got an agenda." He rummaged through his bag for a moment, and then pulled out a long scroll of parchment. "It's all here: I'm going to introduce snacks to the Hogwarts menu—fish and chips, things like that. And there's this whole plan with roller blades I've got. I thought they'd help to add a little cheer back in—"
"Dirk," she cut in, "were you a Prefect before all this?"
"What? No, of course not."
"Well…you do realize you're going to have to do patrols and hold meetings with all the Prefects and stuff? There's a lot of administrative stuff you've got to do."
"Yeah, it'll be easy," he waved off. "Administration is in my blood. My mum's a secretary in a law firm. I can do this. I'm dependable, responsible—"
"Yeah," Grace muttered, "responsible for my headache."
"See, it's that negative attitude I'm going to fix during my tenure as Head Boy," Dirk said confidently. An idea suddenly struck him. "Hey—you could be Head Girl! We can pull so many schemes—"
"How can I be Head Girl? Did Banerjee leave, too?"
"No…but I figure if I can impeach her, then—"
"You can't impeach a Head Girl, Dirk!"
"What do you mean I can't? What if she's done something wrong?"
"Then I suppose Dumbledore would replace her, but you definitely can't. Merlin, Dirk…"
Dirk's grin slowly receded into a tight frown. "Great, so you're saying I'm stuck with Banerjee? She's been vetoing all my ideas. How is this supposed to work out? My whole plan was to replace her with someone more agreeable, and get all the stuff on here—" he slapped his hand against his parchment, "—instated."
Grace gave him a withering look.
"Don't give me that face," Dirk protested. "Usually you'd be all over this. Has your stint in the Hospital Wing put you off or something?"
"Or something," she muttered under her breath.
And before Dirk could question further, Slughorn popped inside the room and clapped his hands together cheerfully. "Ah, good to see you all again," he said, waddling over to the center of the room.
He doled out some instructions about the Draught of the Living Death, and promptly began to make rounds towards his favorite students. Among them was Regulus, of course. Slughorn stopped by his cauldron and smiled encouragingly at the bubbling concoction.
"What a joke," Grace muttered. "He'll likely just give them full marks, even though they're bound to mess up on something." She knew for a fact that Rosier hardly put any effort into classes, and Regulus often added a few more stirs than necessary to his potions, thinning them out. "Meanwhile—" she snipped, "—we're here, slaving away, actually brewing correctly—"
Dirk bobbed his head up and down. "Yeah, yeah—" he watched Grace viciously slice through her sopophorous bean, "—hey, so how about you let me do that before you fling the knife at Slughorn?"
She threw her knife down onto the cutting board and fell back against her seat. She crossed her arms over her chest tightly. Dirk took over with far more diligence than was usual.
"Wanna talk about it?" he asked.
"No."
"Okay… What about now?" He glanced at her expectantly.
Grace avoided his gaze. She exhaled, and her shoulders dropped. She tipped her chin up, and her eyes roved over the cobwebbed ceiling.
Merlin—what was she even supposed to say? That she had thought she and Regulus were actually getting somewhere, but it turned out it was all in her head? Dirk would laugh his head off at her. Why would you think that? he'd guffaw. Haven't you noticed?
That was the problem, wasn't it? That she didn't fucking notice.
"Greengrass is mad at me," she told Dirk after a moment.
It wasn't the problem, not really. But it still upset her, because she hadn't meant to vex Greengrass so thoroughly the other day. She'd only wanted Greengrass to butt out for a moment.
"So apologize," Dirk said simply.
She frowned at him. "Why do you assume I did something wrong?"
"Even if you didn't, sometimes it's best to just apologize and move on."
She huffed to herself. Sometimes she forgot Dirk was a Hufflepuff. Of course he'd see it that way. It'd be easier to just bend her pride for a moment, too; it required less work in the long run.
But Grace still wouldn't do it.
If she was going to apologize to Greengrass, she would have to do it without words—with some sort of present. The problem was, of course, that Grace knew next to nothing about Greengrass's likes or dislikes. Grace felt she couldn't be faulted for that. What was she supposed to do? Ask insipid questions like, What's your favorite color? or What are your hobbies? Greengrass would sooner kiss a hippogriff than engage in small talk like that with Grace.
The only thing Grace remembered Greengrass being even remotely interested in was her spellbound sheet. But what was the point in giving that to Greengrass? She had only wanted it for Colvin, but that was impossible to do now since Colvin had gone into hiding.
Grace looked at Dirk. It was impossible unless…
"I have a question," she announced.
"Cool. Me too—how come these beans are so hard?" Dirk grunted as he pressed the edge of his knife into the thick hide of the bean.
"Do people in the Smugglers' Society keep in contact with Muggle-borns who have gone into hiding?"
"Er—sort of. Muggle-borns who used to be a part of the Society and have graduated tend to keep in contact with each other. If a Muggle-born's gone into hiding, there are always a handful who know where, so they can smuggle supplies to them and stuff." Dirk dropped the knife and wiped at the thin sheen of sweat forming above his brow. "Why're you asking?"
Grace picked up the knife and began to cut into the bean. "I want to smuggle something. Colvin—you know Colvin, right?"
"She was the one who said I ought to do something about my hair in fifth year." Dirk patted at his billowy hair. It resembled a bird's nest. "Honestly…she's not wrong."
"She's gone into hiding this year, because her dad's a Muggle-born. I want to get something to her. It's just a piece of parchment. Do you think that's possible?"
Dirk shrugged. "Maybe. I could ask around."
It was better than a flat-out no.
She nodded. "Thanks."
"Sure. Was that what you were all mad about?"
"I'm not mad," she protested.
"You were about to plunge that very knife into old Sluggy's heart," Dirk pointed out.
"I'm just frustrated," she defended weakly. "I've been trying to talk to someone…but they're just not listening."
"Then give them a reason to listen?"
She pursed her lips. "Wow, what a simple solution. Truly you're a paragon of wisdom, Dirk—"
"I'm serious," he insisted. "When Abbott—"
"Here we go with Abbott," Grace murmured.
"—doesn't want to hear me out about the benefits of staplers, I try to make it interesting so she has no choice but to listen. That's why I composed that entire rock opera in fourth year. She had tears in her eyes by the end of my performance."
"That's because you shone all those bright lights in her face."
He considered this. "Yeah…well, it still worked, didn't it? She still listened."
Grace felt that was debatable, but she didn't question it. "I can't just do a rock opera, and I don't want to. I just want to talk."
"Alright…well, if you don't want to interest them into talking to you, why don't you just scare them?"
"Scare them?"
"Yeah. Scare them into talking with you. Don't give them a choice."
She raised a brow at him. "That's wildly Slytherin of you."
"Ah, what can I say? I learn from the best." He gave her a pointed look.
Grace rolled her eyes and reached into her bag, pulling out a spare piece of parchment. What Dirk had given her was, for once, solid advice. She knew precisely how to 'scare' Regulus into talking with her. He had shown up to the Hospital Wing just the other day. He was clearly still worried for her, at least where her paroxysm was concerned.
Quickly, she scribbled out her message: I've got to talk to you. It's about my Hywell's. Something's gone wrong. Can you meet me in the Room after dinner?
After a quick once-over, Grace tossed aside her quill and folded up the scrap of paper as soon as the ink dried. She folded the parchment up into a small square and nestled it into the palm of her hand.
This was a mean trick, and Grace knew it. But she had had quite enough now. She would wrestle the truth out of him one way or the other.
"Do you mind if I botch this potion?" she asked Dirk, peering down at the blue-grey mixture he was steadfastly stirring.
He let go of the ladle immediately. "Oh, be my guest," he said magnanimously, leaning away from the cauldron. "It's about time something interesting happened in this class."
Grace rustled through her potions kit for a moment, trying to find something that might counteract any one of the ingredients in their draught. She needed something that could cause a reaction big enough that it would distract the entire class. She needed something that could obscure her. She needed something that would get her to Regulus.
"Aha!" she said, pulling out a vial of billywig stings. She dropped a few into her cauldron, gave a quick stir, and then added a few more for good measure.
The effect was instantaneous: a thick smoke began to waft from her cauldron, engulfing the room. Grace twisted around, and spotted Regulus's brow furrow as he took in the darkening classroom.
"Who did—" Slughorn began, and then his eyes caught sight of Grace's cauldron. He opened and closed his mouth several times before finally letting out a very cross, "Miss Potter! Detention—!"
He tried to reach for Grace's cauldron, perhaps to reverse the effects of the smoke, but the classroom was already too heavily obscured. Slughorn missed her workbench by an arm's length and went crashing into their neighbor's station.
Under the cover of the vapor, Grace made a mad dash for Regulus. She stumbled into him, grabbing onto his upper arm. She pressed her note into his hands—or at least she tried to. He wheeled around frantically, and tried to push her away.
"Take it," she hissed at him. "I didn't just get a fortnight of detention for nothing."
He stilled when he realized it was only her. And although Grace could hardly see him (all she could make out was the edge of his hand and the curl of his dark hair), she could tell he was anxious. She released his arm. She took his hand in both of hers and curled his fingers around her note.
She softened. "Please take it," she whispered.
He did.
Regulus was already in the Room when she arrived.
The Room had taken on the form of a small library. There were bookshelves shoved along all four corners of the room, with faintly flickering torches hung above them. A small table sat in the center, two polished chairs resting on either side of it.
"Looks nice," she commented absently, taking a seat.
Regulus, who had been pacing worriedly along the furthest wall, whipped around when he heard her. His eyes—the softest of greys, like the downy fuzz of a hatchling—found hers quickly, and he rushed over.
"Finally—"
"Finally?" she said slightly. "I'm on time. You came early."
He ignored her and took the opposite seat. His eyes searched over her frantically. "What happened? Did Pomfrey send you over to St. Mungo's today? You know—I thought it was strange you had an episode this early into the year. Usually, it's around exams that—"
She shifted in her seat. "Er—actually, nothing happened. I'm fine."
The words died in Regulus's throat. "What? But—what did your Healer say?"
"Nothing…because I didn't see her…?"
He still didn't understand. His brows furrowed. "So it was Pomfrey who made the diagnosis? That doesn't seem like—"
She swallowed her sigh. Merlin, he could be dense sometimes. "No, Regulus. Nothing's happened. I'm fine. I just wanted to talk to you."
"You just wanted…hold on—" he shook his head lightly, "—what was that note all about?"
"I made it up!" she burst. She leaned further back into her seat. "I've been trying to figure out how to talk to you, but you've been avoiding me at every turn. I figured it might be time for something drastic, so I—"
"Wait, wait," he interrupted, "so you lied to me?"
Grace scoffed. "What? As if you haven't been lying to me?"
His lips pursed. "I haven't lied to you at all—"
"You know that I count hiding the same as lying, Regulus." Both required concealing the truth. Both counted on someone else's ignorance.
Regulus exhaled. His eyes flitted away from Grace's. "I can't believe this…" he muttered under his breath.
Grace leaned forward and propped her chin with her palm. "Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't see this coming. Surely you didn't think I'd just ignore your abrupt change in personality?"
"Of course I thought it might happen." He rose from his seat and began to stalk towards the door. "I just hoped it wouldn't."
"No—Regulus, wait—!"
She couldn't just let him leave again. It was more than just finding out what had happened. It was more than just knowing. It was having him here. It was having him close again.
She reached for him. Her fingers clasped around his left wrist, and the effect was so sudden and abrupt that Grace barely registered it until it was over. Regulus wheeled around and ripped his hand away from her like she was nothing more than an open flame. His eyes—wide, panicked—caught onto hers, and he stuffed both his hands into the pockets of his robes.
Grace's hand fell limply against her side. She swallowed thickly. "I just want to help," she said, tone low and hushed, afraid that if she spoke any louder her voice might splinter and break. "I just want us to talk again. It's only been a few weeks, and I've been miserable without you. And I know you've been miserable, too. You don't like Rosier and Yaxley. I know you don't."
He refused to meet her eyes. "It's not about what I like and what I don't, Grace."
"Something happened, right?" She wished she were more Gryffindor than she was. She wished she sounded more bold and valiant than she did. Instead, she simply sounded desperate. "Something changed—with your mum, or…or—something. Can't you just tell me what? If you're in trouble, I can help you—"
"I don't want that," he said, and he sounded just as helpless as Grace did. "I don't want you to help me. I don't want your pity."
"I'm not falling for that trick again," she said. "You're trying to be mean, but you don't have it in you."
Silence fell between them. Regulus's gaze wandered about the Room, but Grace's was stuck steadfastly on him.
"I'm—Grace, I'm serious about this," he croaked out after a moment. "Of course I want us to talk again, too. Of course I miss you. But things are…complicated. I don't want to drag you into this. You shouldn't have to deal with my problems."
"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "When have we ever kept our problems to ourselves?"
When had they ever separated themselves from each other like this? Their problems were each other's. Grace's paroxysms was something Regulus had been looking into since first year. Regulus's tense relationship with Sirius was something Grace had been trying to solve for years now.
"It's different this time," Regulus said. "I don't want to bring you into this."
For a moment, it seemed like he might elaborate further. But then he closed his mouth and simply looked away again. Grace's chest was tight. She wanted this to be over, but he was making it so difficult. His words were caught somewhere between lie and truth. He was being cagey on purpose, and Grace despised it.
"Okay, fine," she said, voice taut. "I'll play this game."
"Grace—"
"You're pushing me away to protect me? Is that it, Regulus? You're ignoring me because you think that's better for me? You're making decisions for me because you don't think I can make them for myself?"
"I don't want to argue with you," he said wearily.
"Too late."
"I—" he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tousling his neat part. "What do you want from me, Grace? There are so many ways this can go. Do you want me to throw your words back at you, too? Do you want me to ask you why it has to be you I have to be protecting? Do you want me to ask you why I can't be doing this for someone else? Do you want me to ask why it's always got to be about you?"
Grace bit the inside of her cheek. "I just want to know what's going on. I just want to understand. I don't—" she struggled with her words for a moment. She didn't want to be bitter all the time. She didn't want to watch Regulus from the corner of her eye all day long, constantly wondering why he wasn't choosing her. "I don't want to hate you, Regulus. Give me a reason not to hate you."
He stilled, shoulders falling. "Fuck," he said, and the single syllable was so distraught and distressed that Grace felt her very heart twist. "Why'd you have to do this?"
A million responses ran through Grace's mind: Oh, is your best friend not allowed to care about you? Did you want me to be less myself or something? Did you just want to mope around for the rest of your life?
But to speak would mean to break the moment. Regulus's lips were parted. The words were just peeking out of his mouth. She was so close. He just needed a push. He just needed a reminder.
She reached for him again, slower this time, and clasped her hand around his right one. She gave his hand a light squeeze. She would admit that—yes—in the beginning, she had planned to guilt him into revealing what it was he up to. But how could she continue with that plan? When he looked as anguished as he did?
She only wanted for them to be open with each other again. She only wanted his presence—his ramblings about obscure historical facts and his waspish retorts to anyone who dared bring up his family and his quiet concentration whenever they played Wizarding Chess.
Regulus looked at their entwined hands with an unfathomable expression. "Shouldn't you hate me?" he said bitterly. "I ignored you on the train ride. I never came to your defense when Yaxley or Rosier said something. You keep reaching, Grace, and I keep pulling away. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"You came to the Hospital Wing," she pointed out. Doesn't that mean something?
He freed his hand from Grace's. He stretched his fingers out. "I didn't know you were conscious yet," he said. "I meant to be gone before you came to."
"You came here tonight," she continued. "You thought I wasn't well, and you came. Do you really expect me to believe that you'd ever willingly cut me off, Regulus? When I said I don't want to hate you, I only meant—I meant it like…I don't want to be resentful. I don't want to keep feeling so irritated every time I see you with Rosier and Yaxley. I won't—I won't actually hate you."
"But if I keep hanging out with Rosier and Yaxley? If I never explain why? If I never speak to you again?"
"I still won't hate you," she said stubbornly.
His lips wavered. "That's ridiculous. Of course you will."
"You're ridiculous. Why would I hate you then? It's clear you don't actually want to ignore me. You're just…doing it for something—or someone. I don't know. If you can't tell me…fine." Grace let out a breath. "I just—I just wanted you back…but if I can't have that, then I can't have that. If you're worried about appearances, we can just meet in secret—"
He shook his head. "No, Grace…"
"You know full well I won't give up so easily," she said valiantly.
He did know. She saw it in the silver of his eyes, the tense of his jaw. His right hand curled around his left wrist. Silence enveloped the room. Grace didn't know what was going to happen next, and the uncertainty frightened her. She was not used to not knowing with Regulus. She nearly always knew what Regulus was going to do, what he was going to say, how he was going to act. If he was in a foul mood, he'd grow sullen and withdrawn. If he was happy, he'd smile softly and talk nonstop about whatever it was that was responsible.
She couldn't tell what he was feeling right now. She hardly knew what she was feeling right now.
"What will it take?" he asked after a moment.
She frowned. "What?"
"What will it take for you to give up?" he said quietly. "What will it take for you to hate me?"
She didn't know. She didn't know if she had it in her to hate him. She didn't know why they were even discussing this.
"Regulus…"
"I have to show you something."
And he stretched out his left arm, palm up. His right hand picked at the hem of his sleeve. Slowly, surely, Regulus revealed the pale underside of his wrist.
Grace stared at him, brows furrowed. She didn't understand what it was he was showing her until she saw the underside of a tail—some dark-inked, scaly thing—reveal itself on his skin. The confusion fell from her face in an instant. The pit of her stomach twisted and turned violently.
Regulus's sleeve climbed higher and higher up, until it wasn't just a tail Grace was looking at. It was a snake—slight and sinister—shifting around a skull. The light of the Room seemed to grow dimmer. Grace's heart lurched and caught in her throat. She thought she might be sick.
"That's not…" she began weakly. She tore her eyes away from the Mark (because that was what it was, wasn't it—the Dark Mark?) and settled on Regulus's pale, peaky face. "Please tell me it's not—"
"It is."
And she was looking into the stormy grey of his eyes, but all she could see was that terrible, slimy snake crawling on his arm. All she could see was the harsh green of that craggy skull above the townhouses in Hogsmeade.
"Grace?" Regulus probed quietly.
She simply stared at him. She didn't know what to say. No—that was a lie. There were so many things swirling in her brain. Not you. How could it be you? How could it be soft, sweet Regulus? Who started sitting next to Dirk during Slug Club meetings after Grace had been booted? Who bought Lily an engagement present after Grace had written to him with the news? Who had produced a Patronus—an actual, corporeal Patronus—barely a week ago?
She didn't know how to say any of this to him. Lucky for her, Regulus decided to take it upon himself to speak.
"I know I've done something awful—"
It was, quite possibly, the worst thing to say to her, and Grace privately wondered if he knew that. If this was some trick he was playing on her. If he wanted to rile her up, because, if so, he had damn well succeeded. Rage split Grace down to the bone. Fury crawled up her throat.
"Fat lot of good that does you now," she snapped, "realizing you've done something awful. What the fuck, Regulus? No—really, now—what the fuck is that? That's real, is it? That's actually—"
"Grace—"
"When did this happen?" she continued. Her voice was louder than his. It always had been. "When did you get that? During the summer, I bet. That's why you weren't returning my letters, is it? You were too busy gallivanting with a bunch of psychopaths."
Her jaw trembled as she spoke. Her hands were curled into two tight fists, nails digging into the soft underside of her palm.
Traitor, Grace thought venomously, and the weight of that word was a terrible thing.
"Grace," he pleaded. "You have to understand I didn't want this, but it is what—"
She couldn't hear him. Her mind was going a mile a minute. She couldn't care less about the excuses. She knew what he was going to say. My family, Grace. My family wanted me to. Sod his fucking family. He should have said no. He should have fought them back. He should have left them.
Unwillingly, Greengrass's icy voice slipped into her mind: Are you blind? Or are you so moonstruck that you refuse to see?
Grace was a fool. A fucking fool.
"Rosier and Yaxley, too?" she cut in sharply. "They did the same as you?"
He didn't respond, but he didn't need to.
"And you three—you've just been running around in the castle with, with—" she pointed at that thing on his wrist, "—that and doing what, exactly? Recruiting pure-bloods when Dumbledore's not looking? Torturing Muggle-borns when you've got the spare moment? Sneaking—" she stopped and swallowed thickly. Her eyes widened, and she looked at Regulus like she was seeing him for the first time. "Fucking—the Hogsmeade Horror…you were—that was you." The shattered windows and the rush of dark smoke and the green snake and skull shimmering in the sky—he had been there for it. He had caused it.
He winced. "You weren't supposed to be there."
"You were—oh, of fucking course—the Cushioning Charm—"
"You weren't supposed to be there…" he repeated.
"Yeah, well I was," she said, voice harsh. "What happened there, Regulus? Didn't want me to cut myself on the glass? Didn't want my nasty blood-traitor blood to get all over the place? Suddenly you cared about me and—"
"Of course I care," he snapped back for the first time. He leaned forward, nostrils flaring. "Why do you think I sent Cliodna to keep an eye on you?"
She was struck by that, but only for a moment. "Oh—is that supposed to make me feel better?" Grace snarled. "Thank you, for sending your fucking cat to babysit me while you frolicked around with kidnappers and torturers. Made me feel really safe, that did, knowing I had a cat to protect me."
She finished, chest heaving, and looked at Regulus, expecting some comeback—more screaming, more insults, more half-baked excuses and attempts to seem better than he really was. Instead, she got nothing more than a cool glance. Regulus's eyes flickered over her for a brief moment before looking away. He turned around and stepped towards the door.
She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back.
"Where in Merlin's name do you think you're going?" she barked.
He ripped himself away from her. "We're done here."
"No, we most definitely are not! You can't just leave without explaining—"
"Explaining what?" he cried out. "What do you want to hear? Yes, I took the Mark during the summer, Grace. Yes, my mother wanted me to. No, I didn't fight her on it. Do you want to know why? Is that the explanation you're waiting for?"
His voice was sharp and needling. It reminded Grace of herself.
"I don't care about that. Nothing you say could ever justify this," she said coldly. "I want to know why you showed that to me. Why did you tell me? Why did you even come here, knowing what you did?"
Because surely he knew she wouldn't take it well, right? Surely he knew the risk it would put him in.
The question caught him by surprise. He blinked, and looked away. "Because—" his voice got caught in his throat somewhere, and died out completely, nothing more than a weak flame snuffed out by a light breeze.
"What?" Grace's voice was taut but strong. "Because you care?" she sneered. "Because you care so much about me that you decided to go out into the world and kill people for a madman?"
"Stop that," he said, but his voice was hushed and muted now. He looked at Grace again, stricken, like he couldn't believe the moment was still rolling, like he couldn't bear to hear his own thoughts said out loud. "I told you because you should know the truth about me."
"Why?" Why now? Why like this?
"Because you're my best friend."
She didn't know whether to laugh or cry at that. A strange feeling burst in her chest—like her body was collapsing all at once, like her insides were being set aflame. She wanted to throttle Regulus. She wanted to weep into his neck. She wanted the day to rewind. She wanted to forget all about this.
"No," she said, voice shaking. "No—I was your best friend. I was—"
"Grace…" he said helplessly, like her name was enough to save him, like if he strained his voice hard enough, if he made himself small enough and sad enough and sorry enough then she would come back to him.
"Do you know how stupid I feel?" she spat. "Do you know—Merlin, Regulus—people suspect. You know that, right? I don't know if Greengrass thinks you're a Death Eater—" he winced at the word, "—but she certainly knows you, Yaxley, and Rosier are involved in something. She thought that—she told me as much—and I didn't believe her. I said no. That's not possible, because it's you. And I know you." Her throat was tight and choked. Her words trembled. "There were so many signs, but I didn't care, because it was you. Even when you ignored me, even when you insulted me, even when you chose Yaxley and Rosier over me—I didn't care. Because I knew it couldn't really be you. Because I trusted you, and—and—" she blinked back tears, "—what a fool I've been."
She hated how fucking calm he was being. He was damp-eyed and trembling, but his voice was still tight, his body still rigid. She hated that he was still in control of himself.
"You're not a fool," he said quietly—as if she wanted his thoughts on the matter, as if she needed comfort from him.
"Don't talk to me like that!" she cried out. Her voice was an earsplitting thing. "Stop it! I don't want you to be fucking civil! I don't want it—"
"I'm not trying to—"
"You don't get it! You don't—" she gasped for air amongst her sobs. He was a part of them. How could he not see how cutting this is? How terrible it was of him to show her that Mark? When he knew what it had taken from her? "They killed Ollie!" she screeched. "You know that! You were there when I got the owl! You were there, and you still joined—!" Her voice collapsed into itself.
"Grace…" he said, and she wished he would just stop trying. She wished he would just let her steamroll him into the ground. That's all she wanted to do: pound meaning into his thick skull. She wanted him to get it; this gash in her heart was his fault, and he had to understand that. He had to know what it was he'd done. This was betrayal, and what a cold, cutting thing that was.
Grace swallowed down her voice. She briefly pressed the hilt of her palms against her eyes, stemming the flow of tears.
When pulled away her hands, she saw Regulus reaching for her.
"Stop," she said, and hated how her voice warbled.
He swallowed thickly and moved back. His arms fell back against his sides, limp and useless. "I never meant for any of this," he choked out. "I never..."
His voice was just as broken as hers—just as drawn and ragged and cracked—and Grace thought that perhaps she would find comfort in that small fact. That perhaps she should feel some sort of triumph in his suffering, but she did not. She felt worse for it. She felt heartsick.
The minutes tumbled into one another like dominos. The white-hot wrath in Grace melted into something smoother, something deeper. Her throat was tight and raw. Her nails had dug so deeply into her palms that they had broken skin.
She stared at Regulus brokenly, unsure of what else to say, if there was even anything left to say. She wanted to cleft herself of the moment, but she couldn't bring herself to leave. She had come here intending to win back Regulus, and some small part of her still ached for that. She wanted to tear his Mark right out of his skin. She wanted to pluck any memories of Death Eaters and You-Know-Who straight from his skull.
But she could not do that. Regulus had made his choice. It was time for her to make hers.
"Can you…" she began but the words were faint and quickly swallowed up by her closing throat. How could this be happening? How could she tell Regulus to continue to do what he had been doing—to ignore, to cut her off, to forget about her?
Her heart ached viciously.
"What do you want?" Regulus asked when it was clear Grace could not finish her sentence.
She glanced at him, but quickly looked away when hazel met grey. "I want you to leave. I want you to—I want to never see you again."
And just like that, he left.
She didn't stay in the Room for very long after that. She wanted to get away from any semblance of Regulus, and the Room had taken on a form that was tailored to him—lush carpeting, tall, teetering bookshelves, the warm glow of a few flickering torches.
Grace stepped out from the Room, sticking close to the shadows. She was not sure where she was heading. She didn't quite care about where she was going, either, so long as she was going away. She moved opposite to the Slytherin dungeons, where she now knew at least three Death Eaters resided, climbing staircase after staircase, going higher and higher. The heels of her shoes clacked against the stone steps. Portraits hushed her as she walked by, but Grace couldn't care less.
She wanted to find a place that Regulus had never been. She wanted a hiding spot that was free of Regulus's memory. But this was a ridiculous wish. There wasn't a place in Hogwarts that hadn't been touched by Regulus. Every place Grace knew of was also known by Regulus, either because she shared it with him or because they had found it together. He knew of the winding tunnels that led to Hogsmeade, the alcove hidden behind the mirror on the fourth floor, the abandoned cellars nestled deep in the dungeons of the castle.
As Grace reached the top of the North Tower, she caught sight of a familiar spindly, silver ladder from the corner of her eye. Her footsteps faltered and came to a complete stop. She rubbed at her eyes tiredly.
In all the upheaval of the past few weeks, she had forgotten about the Divination classroom entirely. She felt slightly guilty about it (but the emotion was a pinprick in the mess of thoughts that hurled through her head), because she had meant to stop by briefly in the beginning of the semester, out of respect for Vablatsky.
Divination, although a questionable practice, had enthralled Grace throughout her time at Hogwarts. When she didn't know what to get James for his fourteenth birthday, she had Vablatsky do a tarot reading. Get him something he can wear, something that redhead's bound to notice on him, Vablatsky had said. When she didn't know how to convince Sirius to return to Regulus, Vablatsky told her: You cannot force a person to move back, only forward.
And although James hated the bright pink dress robes she had gotten him for his birthday and Sirius had still not made up with Regulus, Grace still found a certain comfort in the art of cartomancy. It was very likely that the whole thing was bollocks, but there was something about those cards, something about cradling destiny in your hands, that made Grace feel infinitely better.
She wanted that security now. She wanted to ruffle through her old deck of cards and ask what to do, because she sure as hell didn't know what she was supposed to do. Just keep living her life? Forget all this had ever happened?
The only problem was that she hadn't brought her own tarot cards with her this year, on account of Divination being cancelled. But there ought to be some spare decks lying around Vablatsky's old classroom, right?
Grace grasped at the rungs of the ladder. She climbed up slowly and reached for the trapdoor, shoving it open. She half-expected Vablatsky herself to be there, lounging by one of the many planters, sipping at her horrid tea, a pack of yellowed tarot cards fanned out in front of her.
But when Grace poked her head through and eased herself up and into the classroom, she found that there was hardly anything there. The colorful curtains that used to cover the walls, the tall, teetering plants that had been crammed into the corners of the classroom, the overflowing bookshelves, even the wonky grandfather clock that was almost always fifteen minutes behind—all was gone. There was nothing left but memory.
Grace's right hand traced over the bare tables. "Merlin," she exhaled, and felt her shoulders fall.
She had known Vablatsky was dead for a long time now, but she hadn't realized till just now that Vablatsky was gone. Somehow, the two were different. Dead was a headline in a newspaper. Gone was the dark, empty classroom—the absence of color and warmth.
Grace fell into one of the many chairs that still cluttered the room. She cradled her head in her hands and closed her eyes briefly.
What was she supposed to do now? Now that she had lost Regulus? Now that she was sure Greengrass wouldn't talk to her again? Now that Dad was in St. Mungo's with Mum fluttering by his side day and night? Now that James was hiding things from her? Now that she didn't have Vablatsky?
"I just want someone to tell me what to do," she told the room quietly. She half-wanted a ghost to float through the walls and tell her, step-by-step, how to remedy all the problems in her life.
But that ghost never came.
With a heavy sigh, Grace lifted her head up. She twisted around, intending to push aside the excess chairs and storm out of the classroom, when she caught sight of a glimmer of light.
Grace shifted, and saw that the back room of the classroom—where Vablatsky spent her time between classes—was open just a crack.
"Lumos," she said, getting up and moving forward.
Grace pushed open the door, and found that the brief flash of light had been caused by an open vial of fairy wings that had been stuffed onto a shelf. She swung the tip of her wand over the interior of the room. To her dismay, there were no tarot cards lying about—or any other tool for Divination. The back room was utterly devoid of crystal balls and star charts. In fact, it hardly seemed to belong to a Seer.
It was rather neat, a stark contrast to how Vablatsky had organized her classroom these past few years. The books and vials had been meticulously shelved according to topic or ingredient. Throw pillows were nestled tidily on a futon that was pushed to the back of the room. At the center of the room was a small table with a pristine, untouched tea set.
The only messy part of the room was the dresser besides the door. The drawers were overflowing with loose papers and parchment; scrolls and tied stacks of papers had been haphazardly collected and thrown atop the dresser.
Grace frowned as she spotted labels along the backs of the scroll. She reached for the first one she saw, where, written in Vablatsky's small print, was the name Hiraida Kahlo.
She knew who that was. He was a Ravenclaw who had been in the year above her. He had been the only seventh-year to enter N.E.W.T. Divination last year. After him were other scrolls—some with names Grace recognized (Castor Avery, Andromeda Black), others that she did not (Melanie Higgins, Leo Montparnasse). Some were only a page long, others were composed of stacks and stacks of parchment that were bound together with string. All were unreadable—not because Vablatsky's handwriting was messy, but because the contents of every scroll was in some ancient runic script.
Grace's hand stopped when she reached the only notebook amongst the pile. It was a simple, moleskin journal with a strap to compose the many pages. Grace opened the notebook and flipped through the pages. It was, like the scrolls, filled to the brim with runes.
She thumbed back to the beginning of the book, curious to see if Vablatsky had written all this for just one student. Tucked away in the upper left-hand side of the first page were the only two words in the entire notebook that had been written in English: Grace Potter.
A/N : ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I hope you enjoyed that chapter! As always, thank you for the faves, follows, and reviews! Keep letting me know your thoughts! :)
Salome Maranya : Thank you for the reviews on Flying and the wonderful compliments! This will be AU/Canon Divergent :)
bookdragonslayer : Glad you enjoyed the little tidbit with Cliodna! :)
QueenAnarchy2.0 : I actually am involved in writing in real life, but it's mostly comedy writing! I haven't done many serious pieces like this story. Thanks for the fic rec; it looks great! I think Dirk finds the Muggle Studies inaccuracies too funny to really care about any ideological damage, haha. I don't think it's ever going to be explicitly said what memory Regulus was thinking of when he conjured his Patronus, but I will say that it is a memory of a chess game that we'll see in full later. Grace and James's mother was at St. Mungo's with their father; I think I made a mistake and forgot to add that detail in but your assumption was right! *Mild spoiler* Actually, in canon the Potter parents died of Dragon Pox (at least according to the wiki)… :(