Steel
Grace and Regulus prepare to set their plan in motion.
"…noticed the secondary use of Alihotsy leaves after accidentally mistaking the ingredient for crushed angel's trumpet and mixing it into her cauldron of Weed-Be-Gone. When Huntington subsequently used her batch of homemade weed killer on her garden, she found that the Alihotsy-substituted potion fortified the weeds instead of—" Grace sighed as she reached the end of the page. She flipped to the next one, and saw that the article went on for much longer than she originally thought it did. "Dad, do you really like hearing about this stuff? Can't I read you something more interesting?"
Grace flicked through page after page, hoping this edition of Potions Quarterly might contain at least one article that wasn't dreadfully dull. Just as she reached a piece about the hallucinogenic properties of moondust, quiet snores reached her ears.
Sighing, she set down the magazine, and found that her father had nodded off somewhere in the middle of her reading. She leaned back, running a hand through her unruly hair, watching the gentle rise and fall of Dad's chest. He had pulled his cotton blankets up snug under his chin, and his face was pressed into his pillows. His skin was so sallow and off-color that it seemed almost green next to the stark, blinding white of his sheets.
Another snore erupted from him.
"Good Godric," Mum muttered from the cot over. "Don't tell me he's fallen asleep again."
"That he has." Grace gingerly placed the magazine on his bedside, and rose from her wicker chair. She stretched her arms out and padded over to her mother's side. "I half-suspect he has me read these articles knowing it'll put him right to sleep."
"I wouldn't put it past him," Mum agreed. "Be a darling and close off his curtains, would you? They've got a sound-proofing charm on them, because Merlin knows once he starts snoring like that, I can hardly hear anything else."
She snorted and did just that. Mum smiled in appreciation, and reached out a hand, beckoning Grace close. Under the harsh white light of the ward, the rash that crawled along Mum's arm seemed redder than it really was—rough and raw, like the skin had been scraped clean off, like her insides were bleeding out. Grace's stomach turned at the sight of it. She dropped her eyes from her mother's form, choosing instead to inspect the grooves of the grey-white tiles, and absently took Mum's hand in her own slight, tanned one.
"What is it?" Grace asked, and pretended not to notice the tremble of her mother's hand in her own, pretended not to feel how weak the grip was—because this was not how her mother held onto things.
Euphemia Potter held on relentlessly, stubbornly. Grace remembered the tight hold of her mother's hand around her and James's wrists whenever they went to Diagon Alley—afraid that if her grip wasn't strong enough, someone might pull her children away. She remembered how her mother held onto the presents she and James and would give her for her birthday; Mum would hold up the horrendously patterned shawl or badly drawn picture or whatever it was they had gotten her up to her chest, like she wanted to press the gift into her heart.
"Nothing," Mum said simply, and gave Grace's hand a small squeeze. She smiled up at her wanly. "I just missed you."
She was drowning and burning all at once—helplessly submerged in the endless wave of Mum's affection and, somehow, angry as well. Irritated at the coughs that wracked her mother's body and the thin sheen of sweat that clung to her father's face and the terrible realization that her parents were waning and wilting before her very eyes. She wanted to drag a horde of Healers over, demand that they fix this, because it was their job to do so. She wanted to rip the disease right out of their bodies. If she could, she would have dueled the Dragon Pox away. But she was just as helpless as Mum and Dad, just as lost. Her heart drowned in her mother's love. Her face burned with failure.
Grace tugged her hand away from her mother's. "I've got to use the loo," she mumbled hastily. "I'll only be a few." And then, because the weight of sickness was too heavy, too stifling, because Mum's eyes were growing ever damp, because Grace's heart was twisting and turning at an alarming pace, she added, jokingly, "I can read Dad's magazine to you when I get back, if you want."
Mum cracked a slight smile. "Oh, please don't do that," she said. "I'll be out like a light before you've even gotten through the first sentence."
"A different magazine, then," Grace promised.
She headed out of the ward. As soon as she was past the huge double doors, she lifted the Bubble-Head Charm, and took in a deep breath. The air of St. Mungo's was crisp and sharp. She could almost taste the bitter edge of wormwood.
She wandered over to the waiting area she had met James and Lily in earlier. They were still there, sectioned off in their own private corner. James's arm was wound around Lily's shoulders. They were whispering.
They were always whispering. Grace only ever managed to catch snatches of conversation. It was Order business, she was sure. And although she was well-aware that James had revealed his part in the Order by accident, that she was technically not supposed to know anything about it, she was still a bit miffed that he continued to hide it from her. He used to tell her so much—perhaps too much at times—and Grace had done the same.
"Why're you always out here whenever I come visit?" Grace demanded once she was close enough. "How come you're never inside talking with Mum and Dad? They're lonely."
James winced at her words but covered it up quickly. "Do they miss me? I thought they'd be sick of seeing me around the ward by now," he joked uneasily.
Grace's lips thinned. "Nice to see you can still joke around while our parents are confined to bed."
"I didn't—I mean, it was just—" he spluttered for a moment, and then merely shook his head and stood up.
"No, go on," she said, growing bolder. She stepped forward, and lifted her chin up. "What did you mean to say, then?"
He simply stared at her, hunched over, hands stuffed into his pockets, looking infinitely more weary by the second. He could have fought back. She knew he could. But he didn't—either because he simply didn't have the energy or was acutely aware that their parents were just down the ward or just didn't think it was worth it.
"Merlin," she breathed, "don't you think before you—"
"Alright," he cut in tensely. The word was sharp, biting. "I'm going to see them now, okay?"
The air between them was clouded with stress and strain. Grace nodded stiffly. "Dad's sleeping. Don't wake him up."
She stood sharp and ramrod straight—a spear, a weapon. James held her gaze for a moment, slumped and tired, before nodding. His feet shuffled against the white linoleum as he made his way into the ward. He seemed scarcely more than a shadow, a husk of a person
She wished she wasn't as good at getting under his skin as she was.
"Hey," Lily said, voice waspish.
Grace's gaze snapped to her sister-in-law. "What?"
Lily took a step towards her. She was just as tired as James, just as lean and bent—but her eyes were as keen and fierce as ever. Her gaze seared into Grace. "I know things are tough for you right now, but you can't take it out on James. He has it hard enough already. You don't—" Lily sighed, and the stiff anger in her melted into something softer, "—you don't know how much of what you say he takes to heart. He doesn't brush it off, not like you do."
She didn't know how to respond to that, not immediately at least. Guilt wrapped around her heart like a vise. It was all fine when she and Regulus had discussed it in the Room. It was all pretend. None of it was real, not really.
But it was. It was to James. It was to Lily. And all that hurt, that disappointment and pain and anguish they threw back—that was real to Grace.
"Just…try to be a little more understanding," Lily pleaded.
Grace looked into those green eyes—those green eyes that had tutored and comforted and advised her these past seven years—and pursed her lips. "Don't tell me what I should and shouldn't do," she sneered, and pulled herself away from Lily.
Grace turned on her heel and briskly headed down the hallway. Healers and patients blurred passed her. She didn't know where it was she was going until she caught sight of the bathroom and barreled inside. She didn't have to leave the ward, of course. She didn't even have to leave Lily's side. She just needed a moment alone. She needed to calm the riptide overturning her chest.
She found her way over to the row of sinks, and leaned against the edge of the marble, palms pressing into the side. Her eyes traced the fine fractures of ash grey, climbing up and up—past the metal of the faucet, over the rim of the wall—until she found her face in the mirror. Under the white light, her smooth tan seemed wan and pale; her hair was bedraggled and flustered; and once she got past the puffy bags that lined her eyes and the faint red tinge—she saw James, because these were James's eyes, too.
Grace's hand climbed the smooth neck of the faucet until it reached the tap. She lifted it, just so she'd have something to do. With a gentle hiss, water streamed out. She ran her other hand underneath it, let the water skim over her, ever gentle, ever kind.
She wondered if it would be worth it to just come clean, to just tell James what it was she was up to. She would not have to feel Lily's burning wrath then. She would not have to see James's frail face, his trembling chin, the haunted look in his eye. It would save them all the hurt and heartache if she could just tell him.
But she couldn't.
He would be livid if she told him. She knew it. He would tell her she wasn't thinking straight. Merlin, she could almost hear his voice: Just what do you think you're doing? Having a go at You-Know-Who at seventeen? And he'd get her to tell her who the Death Eaters in Hogwarts were. And Regulus would be found out. And Grace could not allow that to happen. It wasn't an option.
She didn't realize her hand was still on the faucet handle until steaming hot water hit her. She cursed and jerked her right hand back, rubbing over the faintly blistered skin. When the sting of the burn was gone, she hid both her hands in the pockets of her robes, and left the bathroom, not at all looking forward to seeing James and Lily again.
She wondered how long this would have to go on for—the barbs, the jeers, the jabs. She hoped it would go quick. She didn't know if she had the stamina to carry so much hate for so long.
When Grace reached the doors to the ward, she found that Lily had disappeared. Quietly, Grace slipped past the doors. She could hear James whispering to Mum, his voice little more than a whisper brushing against the ground. She didn't want to upset the calm of the ward, so she stayed quiet and slinked behind Dad's curtains, settling back at his side, trying very hard to ignore the rumble of snores that escaped him.
"—the shipment of winterbloom's been delayed, but hopefully it'll be here soon. I don't know if it'll reverse anything, but it should at least stop any progression."
"Healer Jenkins doesn't seem to think it'll do much good," Mum said quietly.
"Sod Jenkins," James muttered darkly. "I don't—he's not a good Healer, Mum. Honest. His other patients hate him, too."
"You've been rallying his other patients against him, too?" There was a ghost of a smile lurking in there somewhere.
"…Maybe."
Silence followed. Grace gathered herself in the chair, drawing her knees up. She frowned into the mint green of the curtains, waiting. The seconds grew into minutes.
At last, Mum coughed out, "James…if something happens to us—"
"Mum, don't say that. Please don't." His voice was tight and choked.
"But if something does happen, darling. If something does…you remember what your father and I have told you, don't you?"
"I'll look after Grace. I've promised you a million times already, Mum."
"She's been saying you haven't been talking to her—"
"Mum, I'm trying." His words were clawing, desperate. Grace could almost see the tears in his eyes. "Mum—I'm really, really trying. But there's so much happening. There's—oh, Merlin—if I told you—"
"James," their mother said, alarmed. "Darling, what is it?"
And, for a moment, Grace actually thought James might come clean. She thought he might actually collapse into his mother's arms the way he used to when he was little and the guilt over breaking vases or tea cups had finally eaten him up. She thought he might actually tell her about Dumbledore's Order and the late-night excursions to hunt down Death Eaters and whatever else he and Lily had been hiding.
"Lily had a miscarriage."
A strangled sound escaped Grace's throat. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth.
"What?" Mum wheezed. "Oh, James… Oh, dear—when did this happen? You never said anything… I'm so sorry. How is Lily?"
"She's doing fine. She's doing—" James let out one heart-wrenching sob, and suddenly his words were no longer words. They were half-gasps, feeling torn straight from his heart. "We—we didn't even know she was… We didn't even know! And when the—when the Healer came and told us, Mum—I couldn't—I couldn't—!"
"I know," Mum said. "I know, I know…"
Of course she knew. No one knew better than Mum, because she had gone through it, too, hadn't she? Waited years and years and years for a child, and—just as they were giving up—she had been blessed with James.
Grace sat still as stone besides Dad's sleeping form. As her brother wept, she felt her insides curdle and sour. Merlin, how long had he been keeping this to himself? How long had he been stuffing down his hurt so he could keep Lily happy and Sirius occupied and the Order satisfied?
"It was a while ago," James sniffed after a moment. "I shouldn't be so… It happened the day before you were admitted, Mum. I figured, with everything happening—it wasn't the right time. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize." A long pause followed. "James, I'm worried for you."
"I'll be fine, Mum."
"Have you been sleeping?" Her voice was so soft, so weary.
"I'm fine," he insisted quietly. "Don't worry about me. You should be worrying about yourself."
"James…"
"I promise I'm fine."
"Take care of yourself, James. I love you." Mum was crying now, too. Grace felt tears prick her own eyes. "I love you."
Grace loved him, too. She loved him so much, she knew precisely how to hurt him, how to make him bend and break, how to have him hate her—at least for a little while.
Grace was in a foul mood when she returned to Hogwarts later in the afternoon. She tried to brush it off, tried to concentrate on finishing her homework with Ophelia in the library and enjoy Sophia's banter during dinner in the Great Hall, but found she couldn't quite let go of James's choked words, his staggered weeps. Why hadn't he told her about Lily's miscarriage earlier? Why hadn't he told her he felt so overwhelmed? Merlin—he was so bloody obsessed with protecting everyone that he'd completely forgotten himself.
She stormed up the steps to the seventh floor, mind in a flurry, lips set into a deep frown. The door to the Room had already been conjured, and Grace grabbed and pulled at the handle with more force than strictly necessary, stamping inside.
It had taken on a form more suited to Regulus; there were still plenty of soft, plush armchairs and couches, but the walls were lined with shelf after shelf of books. Torches clung to the walls, bathing the whole of the room in a warm orange light.
As soon as she was inside, Regulus rose from his seat and set down his book. He grasped her gently by the elbow and pulled her close. "You were upset at dinner," he said. "What happened?"
The grey of his eyes—so soft, as downy as the feathers of a hatchling—traced over her, and Grace's ire deflated into something calmer.
"Nothing I didn't already expect," she sighed. "It's just…harder than I thought it would be. Being mean to James and Lily when they haven't done anything to deserve it."
He frowned. "You really don't have to do this, Grace. It's not too late to call off this whole thing. I haven't written to Bellatrix yet."
She shook her head and pushed past him, collapsing onto the couch, settling her head against one of the armrests and stretching her legs out against the other. She shrugged off her bag and let it thud against the floor. "No—no, I'm doing this. I want to see you safe, Regulus. And…this is bigger than us, too. The Order and the Ministry need help, and we're the only ones who can give it."
Regulus swung over to her side, kneeling down against the sofa. "Are you sure the Sorting Hat meant to put you in Slytherin and not Gryffindor?" he teased softly.
She snorted. "Shove off."
He stood up and nudged at her legs. "Budge over."
Grace hoisted herself up and lifted her legs away. Regulus settled into the other side of the couch. Just as he was reaching for his wand, she settled her legs back over his lap.
He sighed.
"Get me to move over," she challenged. "I dare you."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm tired," she corrected, and watched curiously as he summoned Vablatsky's journal from his bag. "Have you made any progress on that?"
He flipped through the pages, and Grace caught sight of pages and pages annotated with his own scribbles and half-translations.
"Not much," he admitted. "You were right. Her dialect is either a very rare one or completely made-up. I've only just caught up to what I think is her documentation of your progress during third year."
"What does she say?"
Regulus opened to a particular page. "That you're not doing as well as she thought you would. She says your Eye is stuck. 'She seems afraid to heft it open,' is exactly what she says."
Grace frowned. She didn't quite remember her third year. Apart from occasionally making up tarot interpretations, she didn't think she'd done anything to indicate her performance had been terrible.
"Does Vablatsky mention how to open my Inner Eye?" she asked.
"No. Not yet, at least."
Grace let out an enormous sigh. "Great—today's going to be another waste, then."
"Not quite," Regulus said, putting down the journal. "We've got to start Occlumency today."
Grace perked up. She hauled herself up, and pulled her legs away from Regulus, sitting cross-legged. "Finally," she breathed. "How is this going to work, exactly? Do you know Legilimency?"
"A little, but I'm not very good at it. I haven't had much time to practice. I figured I could begin nonverbally. It'll be weak, but I think it would be best to ease you into all this, since it's going to be—" he hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right word, "—weird. I don't want to force myself into your mind, but it's the only way to build up the defense. At least you don't have to do this with Bellatrix like I did. But it's not very pleasant no matter who you do it. It's just…really, really weird."
"I did your assigned reading, Regulus," she assured. "I know what to expect."
"I didn't assign you—"
"You literally gave me four different books to read about Occlumency."
"It was, at the most, suggested reading. Not assigned."
"Well, I read them, anyway."
His brows rose. "All of them? Even the historical records?"
"Even the historical records," she nodded. "See—I'm taking this seriously."
"I never said you weren't. I just didn't think… I mean, each book must have been at least five hundred pages long."
"Yeah, I just didn't turn in my Charms essay."
"Grace!" Regulus said, appalled. "I know we're trying to turn the tide of the war, but you still have to do your homework."
"I'm just kidding—"
"I really don't think you are!"
It was too much for her. She laughed, bright and full. "You must be the only person on this planet who thinks homework is more important than defeating You-Know-Who." She smiled at him fondly. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm tired," he threw back.
She rolled her eyes and leaned forward. "Are we going to start Occlumency training, or do you want to go on about the merits of homework?"
"I—" he let out a breath. "Okay, fine. But you've got to do your homework. Really. Professors will start to get concerned, and we can't have that sort of attention on us."
"I'm doing my homework, I promise you," she insisted. "Now, come on—Occlumency time." She eased up and rubbed her hands together. "Where do we begin?"
"Do you remember the techniques from the books?" he asked. She nodded. "Okay, so just begin with that. Clear your mind. Fortify it. I'll try to—er—use Legilimency on you."
"Alright," she agreed, and promptly shut her eyes.
She let the events of the day, all her errant thoughts, wash away until her mind was as relaxed as a steady, gentle breeze. It was hardly difficult. She had practiced a few times before, and found the technique similar to what Vablatsky had taught her. Still the waters of your mind, keep your thoughts calm and clear.
She harbored this calm for a little while, immersed herself in it, before growing bored. She cracked a lid open, and saw Regulus still sitting opposite her, both eyes shut, brows furrowed in concentration.
"Are you doing anything?"
He shushed her. "I'm—hold on…"
She swallowed down her sigh and closed her eyes once more. She sat like this—in stifled silence, unmoving—for what felt like hours and hours before finally feeling the gentlest of prods. It was as if her mind were a lake and someone had skimmed a smooth, flat stone across the surface of it.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I felt something. It's—it's like you're poking my brain a bit."
As soon as she spoke, the mild jabbing stopped. Grace opened her eyes, and found Regulus slumped against the back of the couch, rubbing at his head.
"How are you talking?" he demanded. "You should be focusing all your energy on this, and—and it was just a little poking?"
"Yeah, like—" she reached out and prodded Regulus's shoulder lightly, "—that. But in my head."
He stared at her. "I mean—it was nonverbal and I wasn't looking directly into your eyes…but it still should have been more than just a little poke. That was really all you felt?"
"Er—yes…?" She looked at him carefully. "Is this good or bad?"
"It's good," he said immediately. "Surprising, but extremely, wonderfully good. Your leaps ahead of where I was when I first started. Merlin, I think you've got some sort of natural affinity for it. Your mind's like steel, Grace."
She warmed at the words, and ducked her head. "Ah, it's nothing," she waved away, even though she knew full well it wasn't. "If you spent seventeen years putting up with James and his antics, your head would probably be the same."
He chuckled. "Maybe—or you just have a talent for keeping your mind empty. Not very surprising considering how little attention you used to pay during History of Magic."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, ha, ha," she said. "Shall I bring up that time you got so into trimming your bubotuber in fourth year that you accidentally cut it clean in half and were drenched head to toe in pus? Should I be channeling that level of mindlessness, Reg?"
"You know what?" he quipped. "I take it back. There's no way you could have even been considered for Gryffindor. You're absolutely merciless."
She grinned. "Yeah—and you love it."
And she thought maybe he'd snort and say, Yeah, right—just as much as I would love being gored to death by a manticore. But he didn't. He just kept looking at her softly, and the corners of his mouth quirked into the slightest of smiles.
"What?" Grace asked.
"I just missed you," he said simply. "These past few months, I felt like I'd been split in two. I don't mean it like—like I was conflicted. I mean it like—when you weren't there, it was like—" he struggled for a moment. "It's hard to explain."
"It's okay. I know what you mean."
She had felt it, too. She sometimes forgot that she and Regulus were two distinct people, separate from one another. It was hard to tell where one of them ended and the other began; they bled into each. It had been seven years. Of course they had a little of the other in them. Of course it hurt when the other wasn't there anymore. The separation could have been a day, an hour, a minute, and Grace was sure it would have hurt the same—a cleaver sailing straight through her soul, severing it into two.
She didn't know who had moved first—perhaps both of them—but they were suddenly huddled together at the center of the couch, knees touching, and Regulus had her hands in his. He was looking down at her with a tenderness that made her heart flutter in her chest like a bird.
He reached her first—lips against lips, hands traveling up to cradle her face—and Grace fell into him easily. It was nothing like the sudden, spitfire kiss they had a few days ago. This was all Regulus: slow, deep, rhythmic. This was an ocean of affection pulling at her, dragging her under—and Grace wanted nothing more than to be swept away.
But they had so much work to do.
She drew away gently. "I didn't read about this Occlumency technique in the textbooks you gave me."
His cheeks were pinched with a faint pink. "You're intolerable," he said matter-of-factly.
She smiled. "Thank you. Now—what's next?"
He sighed quietly. "Well…You-Know-Who's nonverbal Legilimency is going to be much more powerful than mine. I thought we'd stick with the nonverbal version to ease you in, but you seem to already have a solid grasp on the foundations." He pulled his wand out. "We might as well just skip to the next step."
Grace eyed the wand warily. "Great. I'll just be doing the same as usual, right?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.
"Er—no, wait, don't do that."
She opened her eyes. "Don't do what?"
"Don't shut your eyes. You won't be able to do that when you're talking to other Death Eaters."
Uneasiness crept over her. "But it helps me concentrate."
"Yes, but you'll have to learn how to concentrate with your eyes open. Just—look at me, alright?"
Her hazel eyes locked onto Regulus's grey ones. "Alright. Here goes nothing, I suppose."
"Legilimens," Regulus said softly.
She felt it immediately: an incessant pounding against all the corners of her head. Her lips twisted into a grimace. "This one's a bit rougher—"
"Don't talk."
"But I can't just stay silent all the time. It's like you said: I'll have to talk to other Death—ouch, Regulus—!" she winced as a particularly painful throb overcame her. She could feel the disruption in her mind. It was like a break in atmosphere, like an earthquake trying to overturn the careful peace she had nurtured. "Merlin's fucking balls that hurts—"
Regulus's own face was twisted in discomfort. "Grace—it's hard to concentrate when you're talking—"
"Haven't you been doing this for months and—fuck—" she leapt from the couch and ground her teeth. It was as if a battering ram had been taken to her head, and Grace could only hold out her mental shield for so long. "Oh, no—I think you've—"
/
She was huddled under a mountain of sheets and sniffling. This bed wasn't at all like her bed at home. This bed was stiff and thin and entirely too small for her to roll around in. She wanted her big bed, which she could jump around on, which fit her and all her stuffed toys, which Mummy and Daddy tucked her into when it was getting dark out.
And, speaking of Mummy and Daddy—where were they? Grace had only just woken up. Her bones ached terribly, like they had been zapped by lightning. And her limbs were so weak she could barely lift them. And her head was heavy—so, so heavy.
The tears came thick and fast, and suddenly she was sobbing into her sheets, into the pillow that was not her pillow. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be hugged. She wanted the aching to stop, to feel light and airy, like clouds and feathers, and—and—anything but this!
"Gracie?" a timid little voice called out.
She lifted her head up slightly and caught sight of James, small and huddled in a chair pulled to her bedside. His dark hair was wild and flurried. In his hands was his mooncalf stuffed toy, Bluey, which he held tight against his chest.
Grace rubbed at her eyes. "Wh—where's Mummy and Daddy?"
"Talking to the lady."
She frowned. "What lady?"
He shrugged.
"Where are we?"
"Saint—" he struggled for a moment, trying to recall the word, "—Mumbo's."
"Mumbo's?" she repeated. She didn't know what that was. She didn't like the word. It sounded dumb. "I want to go home."
"Me, too," he agreed. "But Mummy said we have to wait."
Another wave of annoyance crashed over her. "I want to go home," she repeated, hoping, somehow, that if she said it enough times, Mummy and Daddy would appear and whisk her away. "I want to go home!"
And suddenly she was crying again.
/
There was this part of her—small, slight, and struggling—that was well aware this was simply a memory. She tried to rouse this part of her, tried to make it bigger, tried to have it overwhelm the intrusion, force it out, but she couldn't figure out how. She couldn't—
/
James left his seat in an instant, and lumbered towards Grace's cot. He hefted himself onto the edge and pulled himself close to her. Grace, still wailing, tried to kick him away. She didn't want James so close to her, because he was always mean to her—pulling on her hair and stealing her toys and telling Mummy and Daddy that she was a crybaby when she wasn't!
"Go away!" she sobbed. "Go—go away!"
He didn't. He settled down right next to her and gently, gingerly tucked Bluey under her sheets. The action was so startling that Grace forgot to continue to cry. She blinked up at him, tears clinging to her lashes, trying to make sense of what was happening.
"You have to keep him in your arms," James commanded. He picked up Grace's hands for her and draped them around Bluey. "There, like that. And pet him."
Grace's eyes flickered down to the stuffed animal unsurely. At James's continued insistence, she began to stroke Bluey's silver-blue fur. It was incredibly soft, and, soon, Grace buried her entire face into its side. It smelled of fresh dirt and Mummy's crop of jasmine. James must have tossed it into the garden by accident.
James beamed. "See," he said proudly. "It's working."
"What's working?" she sniffled.
"Bluey makes bad feelings go away," he explained.
"Oh." Her grip around the toy increased. There were a great many bad feelings roiling within her.
"Mummy can buy one for you later."
She looked up and smiled at him, her white teeth peeking through. "Can it be a kneazle?"
James nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Or an owl or a unicorn or a dragon—"
/
It pained her to see James like this: so small, so carefree, so full of hope. His hazel eyes—so like hers, too much like hers—wide open and endlessly bright. She could almost feel the happiness roll of him, like the rays of the sun, like rhapsody. She wanted this warmth back in her life. She wanted—she wanted—
She wanted the memory to end. It was beating down on her, relentless, suffocating. She needed it to end right now. The corners of her mind twisted and turned in protest. The longer she was in her own head, the more it tore. It was as though someone had taken a knife to her mind, ripping through it, shredding and mangling it. She needed—she needed it—
"PROTEGO!"
/
The walls were dark and shadowed, with rows and rows of silent portraits and somber tapestries. Shattered porcelain lay on the floor, the white of it stark and blinding. A terrible fear overwhelmed—
/
The fear scurried over her like some many-legged insect. She could feel it crawl over her, bite into her, puncture her down to the bone. She was struck still by the intensity of it. She had never known fear to be so incapacitating. She had never known her home to seem so bleak and unfamiliar. She had never felt less like herself. She was not even sure if she was herself.
/
"What have you done?" Each word struck like a whip.
Regulus—small and slight and somehow balancing five large books in his arms—looked up at his mother. Panic gripped him. The books, which had been so heavy and bulky and prevented him from seeing the vase when he was walking over to the staircase, fell from his arms.
"I—I—" he began, suddenly unable to string words into sentences, which was quite ridiculous for him. Because, already, even at the age of seven, he had read one-fifth of the ancient books in the family library, and knew full well how to string words into sentences.
Just as the first of the tears began to prick his eyes, Sirius appeared out of nowhere, as he often did. (Regulus suspected his older brother possessed some sort of special ability that enabled him to materialize whenever there was even the slightest bit of trouble.)
"I did it," Sirius said. The words rang loud and clear. The lie flew from his lips so easily, so naturally, that, for a moment, even Regulus believed him. "Reg just found my mess."
Sirius looked up at their mother with something like casual disobedience. He looked like the sort of person who never got into trouble, who didn't believe the word 'punishment' applied to someone like him—which was rather bold, because Regulus knew for a fact Sirius had been punished many times over.
Mother drew herself up to her full height. In the dark, gloomy shadows of Grimmauld Place, she seemed little more than a specter—all bony hands and withered face and dark eyes.
"Sirius Orion Black," she hissed, throwing out each word like a dagger, "how dare you defile your ancestral home! How dare you traipse around without even a shred of dignity. Don't you know where you're stepping? Don't you know—"
And Regulus was already crying and sniffling, although he didn't know why. The sound was so disconcerting that Mother actually stopped her yelling to stare at her youngest son, wide-eyed, like she couldn't wrap her mind around what had overcome him, like she wasn't familiar with the saltwater slipping down his face.
Her confusion rapidly morphed into irritation. "Go to your room," she snapped.
Regulus didn't need to be told twice. He bolted upstairs, books forgotten, and crawled into his bed. He fished out an old book from under the covers and opened it, hoping the words would suck him quick and fast and he could forget everything that just happened—Mother's horrible fury and Sirius's open defiance and the guilt worming its way through Regulus's heart.
/
Grace felt that guilt crack through her chest and intertwine with her own. She was strangled by it, choked by it. She could feel Lily's hard stare, the green of her eyes burning into her soul. She could almost hold that fire in her hands. She could almost taste it—ash on her tongue. It wasn't memory anymore. It was something stronger. She was being steamrolled by the weight of it. Like—
/
He was being burned alive. The back of his throat was scorched something awful. His body trembled and twitched, and—slowly, heaving, the blazing need leading him on—he dragged himself forward.
"Thirsty…" He scraped himself along the rock. "I need…"
He reached into the murky green lake, relished in the brief cool of the churning water. And then—and then—
Something reached back.
/
He was just getting to the part about the fairies when his door creaked open and Sirius slid inside.
He was in a stormy mood: lips pursed, feet stamping against the floor. There was an angry red blotch on his cheek, and Regulus's stomach twisted at the sight of it. He didn't say anything as Sirius climbed onto his bed, and Sirius didn't say anything, either.
For a moment, Regulus figured Sirius must be angry with him, and the mere thought was so frightening he almost wanted to cry again.
"I'm sorry," Regulus said immediately, and hoped this would fix everything. "I'm sorry—I didn't know Mother was going to be there. I didn't see her. And I didn't see the vase—and I'm so sorry—"
/
He screamed, but it only released the little air he still had. Water swept into his open mouth, his tight lungs. He kicked and he kicked, but there were hands winding over his limbs, stilling him, tugging him ever down.
Black clouded his vision. His ears were plugged with water. As his body went numb, a voice cut through the air like a knife:
"Regulus!"
/
After a tense moment of silence, Sirius sighed and relaxed against Regulus's mound of pillows. "Stop breaking things," he commanded.
"I'm sorry," Regulus said again, and wished there was a stronger word. 'Sorry' didn't capture the hurt that wracked through him. It couldn't show Sirius how deeply distressed he was, how much he wished he could turn back time. "I was going to ask Kreacher to fix it, but then Mother came in. And—and—I didn't know what to say."
Sirius let out a groan. "You know you can just lie to Mother, right? Tell her Kreacher broke it next time."
Regulus stared at his brother. "But then Kreacher will be in trouble!"
"So what?"
"But he didn't do anything."
Sirius's lips dipped into a deep frown. "And I didn't do anything, but you still let me take the blame for it."
Regulus shrunk into his pillows. "I didn't ask you to… And I said I was sorry."
Sirius studied him for a moment, and then sighed. "Just lie next time."
"Okay," Regulus said, even though he didn't know how. Wouldn't Mother be able to tell if he was lying?
"Good," Sirius said, nodding his approval. He craned his neck over Regulus's shoulder. "What're you reading?"
The thick cluster of anxiety in Regulus's chest dissipated in an instant. He shoved his book into Sirius's face. "It's about this sorceress who's trying to get rid of some wicked fairies, and she made her wand herself and she's got a pet occamy and—"
/
The whirlpool of emotion that clouded the memory shifted, stilled, and calmed. The atmosphere was no longer heavy and leaden; it was flimsy, light as cotton, and it was suddenly so very easy for Grace to climb out, so very easy for her to escape the tunnel of the past. But before she could step out, she was thrown out—thrust back into herself.
She was keeled over on the floor, gasping for air. Her mind rolled with memory after memory. She felt like she had just dove deep into the ocean. Her wand dropped from her hand—when did that get there?—and clattered against the smooth wood, glinting silver under the flickering light of the torches.
She hefted herself up, and found Regulus slumped into the sofa, rubbing at his eyes. She climbed up and settled besides him.
"I'm so sorry—" she began.
At precisely the exact same time, Regulus said, "Sorry, I didn't—"
"What are you sorry for?" she demanded softly. "I didn't mean to grab my wand and force myself into your head. I don't know what happened there."
He shook his head. "No—it was good you did that. You got me out of your head. Eventually, you'll have to be able to do it without your wand, though." He swallowed thickly. "And—I dunno—I just didn't realize… Seeing your memory of your brother made me think of mine, I suppose." He collapsed further into the couch. "This was bound to happen. Delving into memories is inevitable when you're practicing."
She nodded along absently. "Right—but… Was that a memory?"
He turned to her, brows furrowed. "What?"
"The other thing."
"What other thing?"
"With the—" she frowned, unable to recollect anything more than flashes, "—I dunno, there was water. A lot of it. And hands dragging… And—" her hand traced the bare skin of her throat. "Burning. I think it was you, but I couldn't see it very well."
Regulus stared at her. "Did we see the same thing? I accidentally broke a vase, and Mother—"
"Yeah, I saw that." Grace was frowning tightly. "I saw that—but then there was something else, too. You didn't see the second…whatever it was?"
"No. You said there was water?"
"Yeah… I think so." It was slipping so fast, like a dream snatched by the morning. "I don't know. That was really—" she broke off and shook her head. "Your books did not prepare me for that."
"You asked if that was a memory. Do you think it wasn't?" Regulus pressed. He reached for Vablatsky's journal. "Could it have been a vision? I haven't gotten very far in translating, but Vablatsky wrote a little about 'flashes of vision' appearing in Seers' minds. She was trying to figure out the way you Saw."
"I dunno. This has never happened before. And I can't even—" she shut her eyes tight and tried to conjure up what she had seen, but nothing came to mind. All she could manage to capture now was the feeling—one of intense dread. "I can't remember it now. I don't—I don't want to remember it. It felt awful."
Regulus's eyes flickered over her. He set down the book. "It's okay," he said softly. "We'll figure it out later. For now, we should keep practicing."
Grace's stomach twisted at the thought. "Again?"
"Again," he nodded. "You've got to manage to throw me out of your head—and not catapult yourself into mine. The latter should be easy enough if you don't use your wand again."
Grace took a deep breath. "Okay," she agreed. "But how do I throw you out of my head?"
"Did you feel me in there earlier?"
She winced as she recollected the hammering, the painful rip into her mind. "Yes."
"Whenever you feel an intrusion in a specific area, focus in on that area. Make it stronger than the rest. Harsher. Enough to force me away."
"Basically irritate you away?"
A small smile graced his lips. "Yeah, I suppose."
"Easy enough."
They practiced and practiced late into the night, until Regulus was satisfied with Grace's ability to throw him out of her head. What had happened the first time round did not happen again, but, even still, Grace was unable to shake the shadow of that vision, the ghost of that feeling. Water and hands and burning, she found herself repeating. Water and hands and burning…
Grace leaned into the plush green couch, enjoying the warm gaze of the hearth against her skin. There were few students milling about the common room at this time of night, so the only noise she could hear was the gentle lap of the lake against the tall window panes. Her eyes flickered to a close.
"Oi!" Ophelia called out sharply, and threw a bunched up piece of parchment at her. It landed in Grace's lap. "You're either supposed to be finishing your Transfiguration essay or practicing the Patronus Charm, not taking a nap."
Grace let out a low groan and flicked away the crumpled paper. "How am I supposed to finish the essay if you won't let me see yours?"
Ophelia's lips thinned. "You shouldn't have to see mine to complete yours."
"I need to get inspiration from somewhere!"
"Read the textbook."
"An abominable suggestion. As if I'd touch something so wretched—"
"If you keep talking, I'll glue your tongue to the roof of your mouth."
Grace's lips snapped shut. She had seen Ophelia cast that very spell on Gamp just a few days ago, and it did not seem particularly pleasant. She leaned further back into the couch, taking one of the silver-lined throw pillows in her arms and hugging it tightly against her chest. Her eyes flew to the other corner of the common room, where Regulus was holed up with Cliodna. He was scribbling furiously while Cliodna pawed at his sleeve for some attention.
After a few more minutes of enduring Cliodna's temper tantrum, Regulus let out a heavy sigh and stopped working. He lifted Cliodna up, and caught Grace's eye in the process. He frowned at her.
She raised a brow.
Do your homework, he mouthed, and promptly turned away to lay Cliodna on the floor.
"When did everyone get so bloody obsessed with homework?" Grace muttered, tossing aside her pillow and reaching for her wand. "Alright, fine—Expecto Patronum!"
Long spirals of silver sprang from the tip of her wand, encircling Ophelia, who was sitting at the foot of the sofa, quill tight in hand, parchment spread out in front of her.
"Thank you," Ophelia snipped, "for performing that spell directly over me. It's not as if I need to see my essay to write it."
"Alright, okay, message received," Grace said, easing away from the overwhelmed Prefect.
She turned away and cast the spell once more. Arcs of white light scattered from her wand, whirling over the sofa, into the air. The whole of the room was bathed in soft light.
"This is ridiculous," she said matter-of-factly. "It's almost the end of term and we're still doing this."
"Maybe we could move on if you and the other handful of students could actually produce a corporeal Patronus," Ophelia responded.
"Maybe we could do that if Vance were a competent teacher," Grace shot back.
"Maybe you could stop talking and continue practicing."
"Maybe you could stop writing and help me."
"Maybe you—"
A fifth year off to the side shushed them. Ophelia glared at the student darkly while Grace huffed and hefted herself off the couch. She paced by the fireplace, trying to find a good memory to base her incantation on. It wasn't that she didn't have any good memories. It was just that…it was hard to feel very happy about even her best memories now. When she tried to picture her parent's bright, cheery faces, all she could seem to focus on was the green tinge to Dad's skin and the red rash claiming Mum's arms. When she thought about the many pranks she and James got up to over the years, she inevitably remembered his haggard face, his staggered weeping, the distressed look in his eye when she snapped at him.
Her eyes swept over the common room once more, and latched onto Regulus's slight form. Cliodna was tugging at the hem of his robes now, mewling pathetically, and Regulus was trying very hard to finish his essay with one hand and pet her with the other. A small smile overcame Grace's lips, and, slowly, her wand rose once more.
She didn't enjoy their Occlumency lessons very much. They were draining and stressful and entirely too serious. But she did enjoy Regulus. She liked spending the time with him—liked the exasperated draw of his brow when she teased him and the worry that creased his face when she collapsed into his arms after a particularly tough day and, of course, the heated press of his lips against hers between sessions.
"Expecto Patronum," she whispered.
A shower of silver burst from her wand. Amidst the flurry, a cat emerged—short and stocky, with an array of dark grey spots circling its coat. Its ears were tall and thin, and flattened back against its skull as it prowled the common room. Its ferocious little face scrunched up and let out a hiss whenever it neared a student.
"Oh, no," Grace said, stricken. She pointed at the stub of a tail that flopped uselessly behind the skulking cat. "It's deformed."
Ophelia looked up and snorted. "No, it's supposed to be like that. It's a bobcat. Rather fitting, I suppose—unassuming at first glance, but could easily tear your eyes out if you let it near."
The cat snarled and leapt forward, leaving a streak of white light in its wake. Regulus glanced up and nearly jumped into the air when he caught sight of the hulking creature. His eyes found Grace's soon enough, and she gave him a small smile.
Did my homework, she mouthed.
They were snogging again. She had practiced putting up her mental shield a few times already. But, slowly, the Occlumency lesson turned into a snogging session. Grace felt they could hardly be blamed for it. They simply fell into each other too easily—driftwood swept up by a swift and spirited current, wayward leaves carried by a gentle and steady wind.
Grace nipped at Regulus's lower lip, and grinned to herself when she heard him make a low, choked off sound in the back of his throat. She was just thinking about traveling further south when she felt the gentlest of prods in her head. Her head snapped up, and she pushed at Regulus, annoyed.
"Don't do that," she said, frowning.
He eased up and smoothed back his disheveled hair. "You've got to be able to keep your shield up even if you're distracted."
"What—you think I'm going to be snogging you in front of You-Know-Who like this?"
"Obviously not, but if you're panicked or nervous, you've still got—"
"I've been practicing every single day for the past three weeks, Regulus. I think I've got a pretty solid grasp on this by now." She leaned away from him, studying the crease between his brows. His forehead was lined with concern. "You worry too much."
"Well, one of us has to."
"We can practice again, if you want," she sighed.
She was growing rather bored of this. She still didn't enjoy the mental strain of putting up her shield, but she had done it so many times that it was becoming second nature. She often found her hackles up during completely innocent activities—while she was in the loo, eating dinner, or walking between classes. Grace wouldn't be surprised if it turned out her shield was up even while she was dreaming.
Regulus nodded. "Okay. Let's practice how well you can project a false layer, because that's the most important part of our plan. You-Know-Who will be suspicious if he senses a strong shield. If you can mask that with a thin layer of false thought—"
"Then he won't have any reason to suspect I'm up to no good," Grace finished for him. "What sort of layer do you want me to project?"
He shrugged. "Up to you. Why don't you say out loud what our plan for holiday is while projecting something completely different?"
"Sounds good." She cracked her neck, and leaned forward. "So—tomorrow morning, we'll both be heading on the Hogwarts Express—"
"Legilimens," Regulus said.
Her shield was so strong now that she hardly winced when she felt the painful jab. She flattened out her mind, smoothed the many folds in it. There were so many dimensions she had to ruffle through; she buried down all the things she was meant to hide—her love for her parents and for James, the plan she had so painstakingly crafted alongside Regulus—and forced up something entirely different. She felt Regulus latch onto the false layer, like a fish caught on a hook.
"—and we'll both be going home. You've already written to Bellatrix about a 'recruit who could be of great use to the Dark Lord,' and she's expressed interest in meeting me—"
She was thinking about how nice it had been when they were snogging and not doing this. She was thinking about the tender skim of Regulus's hands over the length of her cheek, cupping the underside of her jaw. The brush of his lips against hers—like sparks trailing over her, like molten lava claiming her.
"Salazar, Grace—" Regulus choked out after a moment. "Really?"
She ignored him. "—I'll have one last ugly row with James once I'm at home. And after that, we'll meet up in the Leaky Cauldron and stay low for a bit before meeting Bellatrix. Hopefully, she'll take to me and introduce me to You-Know-Who sometime afterwards—"
And there were those sweet noises he made, too. The low moans, the breathless pants between kisses. She wanted to hear more of it.
"—and he'll probably ask for a demonstration to see if I really can See. I'll tell him I can't just See on command, because I really can't, and hopefully a tarot reading will tide him over. In any case—"
She wanted to feel more of him, too—wanted to knot her hands in his hair, wanted to trace the smooth planes of his body, wanted to press her lips against every crevice of him. The desire swallowed her like an ocean.
"—I'm fairly certain he'll be too caught in the euphoria of having a Seer in his grasp to interrogate me properly. That, and you said he trusts Bellatrix implicitly, so I'll likely have already gone through the heavy questioning with her—"
"Okay, okay," Regulus said hurriedly, drawing from her mind. His cheeks were flushed. "I think you've got it. You seem—you've got it."
"Are you sure?" she said rather dryly. "Or would you like me to practice again? Maybe a dozen more times?"
She regretted her tone immediately. Regulus's shoulders slumped, and he let out an enormous sigh.
"Sorry," she said, reaching for him.
His hands caught onto hers. "I can't help it," he told her softly, threading his fingers through hers. "I have every faith in you, Grace…but I can't stop worrying."
She melted, and drew herself close to him again. "You know you can write me on the sheet whenever you want." They had made a new batch of spellbound sheets precisely for the upcoming holiday. "You can write me whenever you get worried, and I'll remind you not to be, okay?"
He smiled. "Alright," he agreed. He lifted his hands away from hers. His slim fingers brushed away her tousled hair, sweeping over her ear, under her jaw. His eyes burned into hers. "I wish we could just stay here forever. I wish we didn't have to…"
The unspoken want hung heavy in the air. Grace knew what he wanted—for the safety of the Room to bleed into the real world. She found herself leaning further into him.
"I suppose we could stay here forever. It'd be awful boring, though…"
He laughed at that, and swooped down and pressed a blistering kiss against her lips. It was like trailing fire, and Grace was ready to be devoured. She pulled him closer, deepened the kiss, nipped at him hungrily.
After what might have been a minute or a millennium, she pulled away reluctantly. Her hand rose to trace the smooth lines of his cheek. Regulus's eyes were wide and dazed.
"We have to head back before our dorm-mates get suspicious," she told him.
"In a bit," he said, and kissed her again—and again, and again.
Grace smiled against his lips. "Reg…"
"Last one," he promised, but it never was.
"I like this rune the most," Sophia chattered. She thrust her papers in Ophelia's face. "Kaal—yesterday and tomorrow. I think it's nice that a word can capture two different concepts all at once. I wish we could stack two of them on top of each other and make today. I think that'd make it even better."
Ophelia skimmed through the papers. "It's a nice one," she agreed, "until you have to start translating texts that use it. Then you'll start hating it, because you can never quite say for certain if it's supposed to be yesterday or tomorrow."
"Oh, I could never hate—"
"Merlin's beard! Are we going to spend this whole train ride talking about runes?" Grace finally let out.
She was lounging across from Ophelia and Sophia. The first half of the ride had been spent introducing the two to one another and watching with mild amusement as Ophelia attempted to put a stop to Sophia's endless rambling. Unfortunately for Grace, the two soon realized they had a common ground in runes, and had been going at it for nearly twenty minutes now.
"Can we?" Sophia asked with clear excitement. "I have so many more runes that I like. There's the one for water—guan—and it's got this half-curve to it, which I just love, because it shows that it's related to the moon rune—"
Grace bit back a groan, and buried her face in her hands.
"Well, what do you want to talk about?" Ophelia cut in.
"I dunno. Anything but this." Grace's eyes flickered between the two girls. "Do either of you listen to the Hobgoblins?"
Ophelia's lips curled in revulsion. "Do you actually enjoy that cacophony of noise?"
"Who are the Hobgoblins?" Sophia asked.
"Oh, Merlin," Grace sighed.
"Aren't hobgoblins like little trolls?" Sophia continued, brows knitted together in confusion. "Why would you listen to them?"
"They're an awful, disgraceful band," Ophelia told the younger girl imperiously. "I wouldn't listen to them if they were the last group of musicians on this planet—"
"Oi," Grace said in protest. "I know their last album wasn't very good, but their earlier work—"
"Was clearly taken from Lynford Stettle's old recordings. The Hobgoblins steal music—"
"Who the fuck is Lynford Stettle?!"
The argument came to a halt once the compartment door was ripped open. Standing at the threshold was Preston, Golightly, and Green. The boys wavered in the doorway.
"Oh—er—hello, Potter," Preston acknowledged.
Grace raised a brow at the trio. Before she could say anything, Sophia huffed and said, "What do you want?"
"We wanted to borrow you," Golightly said matter-of-factly. "Your Bat-Bogey is ace, Hornby. We want you to use it on Snyde while we steal all the treats he bought from the trolley lady."
"You want to do what?" Ophelia said briskly.
Green gulped when he caught sight of her Prefect badge. "Uh—nothing—"
"Oh, come off it, Ophelia," Grace sighed, kicking back and leaning against the window. "You know Snyde probably deserves it."
Preston nodded in agreement. "We're acting on the behalf of karma. Merlin knows Synde doesn't deserve to eat those sweets."
Grace snorted.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Ophelia said pointedly, turning away from the trio.
"Well?" Golightly demanded, rounding on Sophia. "What do you say, Hornby? We'll split the profits with you."
She glanced at him suspiciously. "I want half."
"Half—" Golightly wheezed.
"Alright," Green agreed instantly.
"What!" Preston said, staring incredulously at his friend. "That means we only have the other half to split amongst ourselves."
"It's Sophia," was all Green said.
Preston deflated. "Alright. Fine." He looked at Sophia. "Will you help?"
She pursed her lips and surveyed the trio of Gryffindors. Finally, she let out an exasperated breath and nodded. A grin broke across all three boys' faces. They hurried dashed out of the compartment, beckoning Sophia to follow them down to the end of the train car.
Sophia turned to Grace and Ophelia and said with the exasperated tone of someone who had simply been called away to a meeting, "Sorry. I'll just be a minute."
With that, she swiftly left the compartment with her three Gryffindor compatriots. From just beyond the flimsy door, Grace could hear Sophia chiding Green on the state of his robes.
"Were you raised in a barn?" she scolded. "Don't you iron your robes?"
"Er—no…?"
"You lot are hopeless."
Grace stifled her laugh.
"You know," Ophelia began, "I think she could probably take over the world with those three at her beck and call."
"The Ministry ought to recruit them. I think Sophia could probably scold You-Know-Who into submission."
Ophelia snorted. The rest of the train ride passed swiftly with more banter (and a few heated debates about whether or not the Hobgoblins had, in fact, lifted their entire discography from the little-known Lynford Stettle). Before Grace knew it, evening had cut through the sky and the train had come to a stop. She burst through the cloud of smoke and steam that surrounded the platform, trunk scraping along the floor besides her. She searched through the crowds busily, trying to spot James's tall frame, his unruly mop of dark hair. Instead, she found only Lily—alone and slumped by a pillar. Her crimson hair was tied back into a loose, messy bun. Her hands fidgeted against one another.
A crushing dismay swept over Grace. Had she succeeded that well in pushing away James? To the point he wouldn't even come pick her up for holiday?
She shuffled over to Lily. "Er—hello…?"
Lily's head snapped up. She relaxed as she caught sight of Grace. "Finally," she breathed. "Come on, we've got to head to St. Mungo's—"
Grace stared at her. "Wait, what? I have all my stuff with me. Can't we—wait…" James wasn't here, and they had to go to St. Mungo's? A dreadful fear clawed at her belly. "What happened? Where's James?"
Lily's face was tight. "It's—he's at St. Mungo's with your parents. The—the winterbloom came in this morning—" her voice was trembling, caught on the edge of some steep precipice, "—and it didn't take."
Grace's chest felt hot and clustered. "What?" she breathed. "But it was supposed to… I don't…"
Lily extended a hand. "Come on. We'll Apparate to St. Mungo's. James is there. He'll explain."
Grace didn't want him to. She didn't want to hear about how severely, how intensely they had failed. She felt Lily's hand wrap around her own. The atmosphere twisted around them. Grace's head felt as if it was being squeezed and stretched at the same time. Her heart hammered relentlessly against her chest. Despite the fact that she had not yet opened her Inner Eye and could in no way be sure about this, she was almost certain that something terrible was coming.
A/N : The balance of emotions in this chapter might be all over the place, but I did want to highlight the fact that even though Grace and Regulus are doing this big plan to save themselves and the wizarding world at large, they are still literally seventeen years old and are equally eager to explore their new relationship with each other. (And I also wanted to give them a few moments of happiness with each other since shit is very shortly going to hit the fan.)
Also, the formatting of the memories/visions is so WEIRD on here. It came off so much better on AO3, so if you want an easier time reading through them, I highly recommend reading the story on AO3 (my username is the same). Thank you all for the faves, follows, and reviews! It means the world to me that you're engaging with this story. Please keep letting me know your thoughts! :)
puppyduckster : Ahh, thank you for another lovely review! Haha, yes, I think Sophia might teach those pesky Gryffindors some manners. Glad you liked the little Dirk and Abbott tidbit! Yeah—while Grace feels good about her plan, there are still more obstacles to come. Thank you again, and I hope you have a great start to 2020, too!
QueenAnarchy2.0 : Haha, I loved your reaction! I knew from the start of Flying that Grace would be involving herself with the Death Eaters in some capacity. And, yes, you are so, so right: there are so many things that could go wrong with this plan. I can't answer a lot of your questions because of spoilers, but I will say that many of the upcoming chapters will be exploring Grace's hubris. Regulus has absolutely grown so much since Flying considering all the shit that's happened to him. "I think he's the one who has developed the most and yet has stuck to his core values," was a really great way of you to phrase it. He has the same intellect and loyalty and fears, but the way he goes about it all now is just…sharper? We will definitely be seeing much more of Regulus now. Honestly, I forgot about Snape LOL. Even without taking Snape into account, Regulus does believe Grace's plan has a chance primarily because he knows how good Grace can be with persuading people. She has a way of finagling herself into other people's lives even if they don't want her there at the start (Ophelia's the best example of this). 'Light in the darkness' is definitely a theme I'm going for here! I'm so glad you enjoyed the last chapter, and thank you for the well wishes! :)
Piffthemagicdragon21 : Thank you so, so much! I'm glad you're intrigued by Grace becoming a Death Eater; it was a decision I agonized over for a while LOL