A/N: The chapter took a bit of a turn I wasn't expecting...I'm curious to know whether the changing POVs in the last scene reads smoothly or is confusing. I know my writing style shifts between POVs a lot. Any feedback would be appreciated!

Toffeeloveryes: Not sure actually. I'll try to add more fluffy/fun moments, but I'm more focused on moving the plot forward at this point...things are taking a bit of a turn now and I'm working on setting up some of the themes for the last portion of the story. There will definitely be lighter moments before then though, especially since Harry is going to be born soon and I'll probably go into that a bit more/write some fun scenes between Sirius and Vivian surrounding it. The next few chapters are going to be pretty plot-heavy, but I'll see what I can do afterwards!

Hope you all enjoy :)

Chapter Thirty Four | Porro unum est necessarium

[Still there is one thing necessary]

The fire is warm. She can feel its heat pulse against her skin as she sits in front of it, the temperature staving off the remnant of late-spring chill that hangs over London. Today had been dismal at best. A foggy rain had descended upon the land, sending icy raindrops in its wake. It had nearly been as cold as Walburga Black's eyes, when Vivian had stepped through the door and followed Regulus up the narrow stairs past the ancient house-elves pinned proudly to the wall. She can still feel Walburga's hawkish stare following their every step, calculating and suspicious – wondering, no doubt, what had brought the disgraced heir of the Blair legacy to her door yet again. Vivian isn't certain what excuse Regulus had given his mother, and she's since decided that she doesn't want to know. From the judgmental curl of Walburga's eyes, she can hazard a guess.

A part of her balks each time she considers how easily her fellow purebloods seem to believe that she's in love with Regulus, but she supposes that perhaps it's what they want to believe. Regulus Black is a fine example of loyalty and obedience to the cause that has so captivated them, going so far as to drop out of school to better serve their Dark Lord. As an up-and-coming member of their elite world, it only makes sense that Vivian would be drawn to him, after all. It helps that he's handsome. What young woman wouldn't wish to capture his attention?

If only they knew what goes on behind the study door. What hushed conversations are murmured once the wards go up. The thought makes the corner of her mouth lift up in wry humor, which Regulus, as always, notices.

"Something amusing?" he asks. He's standing close by, perusing one of the bookshelves that line the hearth. It's warm enough within the room that he's rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, displaying the skin of his forearms and the inky black tattoo that wraps around him like a vice. The first time she'd seen it, she hadn't been able to look away from the vicious black lines that curl like wicked smoke across his pale skin. It still draws her eye more often than not, but her mind is currently elsewhere, the warmth of the fire casting her thoughts down other avenues.

Vivian's eyes snap to his. Her wry smile fades for half a second before pulling back up. She studies his dark gray eyes, so like iron when he's angry, and shrugs, "I was just wondering what your mother thinks we're up to, shut up in this room all the time."

The words make him pause as he's tugging a book from the shelf, and his eyes dart away from hers. Now focusing a little too hard on the book he at last pulls free, Regulus slowly responds, "…I'm sure she doesn't think we're doing anything…er. Inappropriate."

He sounds awkward enough that she bites back the laugh that wants to spring from her lips. She's embarrassed him. The thought has another smirk tilting up her mouth, which she tries to hide behind her hand as she rests her chin in her palm. Her eyes linger on him as he calmly flips through the book in his hands. His cheeks are very faintly flushed.

After a moment, Regulus rolls his eyes and puts the book down, turning to her to grumble, "Stop laughing at me."

Vivian lifts her eyebrows, clamping down on her amusement to say, "I'm not." Then, before she can help herself, a wicked smile plucks at her mouth and she adds, "That would be inappropriate."

Regulus parts his mouth to say something – tell her off, most likely – but he ultimately just sighs and traipses over to the chair beside hers with a muttered, "You know, you might want to treat your host better. I could kick you out whenever I like."

She takes a moment to study the rolled-up sleeves and the unkempt hair, which has been made all the messier each time he runs his hand through it. So far, the count is up to seven. Something's bothering him, but he hasn't told her what it is, yet. She's not sure if he will or not. Regulus keeps his cards close to his chest most days.

She leans back in the plush armchair, and with the slightest edge of humor, laments, "It's cold outside. Would you really kick me out when I could easily catch my death?"

He sends her a look over the rim of the book that's now propped up in his lap and drawls, "Yes."

She fights back another smile. He would. They both know it. Another reason why she's grown to enjoy these visits of theirs. It's been far too long since she's experienced the direct, pithy honesty that none but a Slytherin can wield so flawlessly.

With a long-suffering sigh, Vivian dramatically says, "How positively rude of you. Though I suppose if you did, it might stir up some interesting rumors about whatever lover's quarrel we got into. I'm sure your mother would be beside herself with joy."

She doesn't miss the sharp glance he casts in her direction. She keeps her eyes on the fire, though, decided to pretend not to notice. It seems that this particular topic – their apparent feelings for each other – is a bit of a sensitive one for him. She knows why, of course, and she doesn't mean to poke fun, but…

"She doesn't think anything of our meetings," he denies. It's halfhearted and flimsy at best. Vivian snorts.

"We both know that's not true," she responds, playing with a loose thread on the sleeve of her shirt now.

She still doesn't look at him, and after a moment, Regulus turns his eyes from her, too, when he mutters, "This whole fake relationship thing was your idea, you might recall."

There's an almost bitter twist to his words that have her backtracking. Given that there's something bothering him – something he's still not telling her, it seems – perhaps she shouldn't push him like this.

"True. And since we're on the topic, are you attending the dinner at the Malfoy Manor next week? I'm not going if you're not."

The question makes him pause. His long fingers tap against the edge of the book as he responds, "I haven't decided yet."

That's unlike him. Regulus usually has overlapping plans that seem to stretch on indefinitely. She stops playing with the loose thread to look over at him, casting a discerning eye on his disheveled hair. Now that she's searching for the signs, she notices that his eyes are lightly bruised, as if he hasn't been sleeping well. She frowns.

"What's wrong? Something's bothering you," she wonders, deciding to just come out and ask directly.

He blinks, his eyes flashing momentarily with faint surprise. Perhaps he'd thought he was being more discreet. Forgot he was dealing with a fellow Slytherin. The notion almost makes her frown again. Maybe she's been spending so much of her time with Gryffindors that even Regulus has started to think she's lost her edge. Maybe the other purebloods do, too.

The faint surprise is gone by the time he blinks again. Expression schooled in his usual careful mask, Regulus shrugs and lightly says, "Nothing's wrong. Why, are you worried about me, Vivian?"

She doesn't buy the slight teasing nature of his words, and after a moment of expectant staring, Regulus sighs and closes the book, setting it down in his lap. He runs a hand through his hair again. Eight times, now.

"I feel like we're missing something incredibly important," he admits, blowing out a breath. His fingers continue tapping against the cover of the book, but she can't read the title from her current angle. It's likely the same sort that they've been reading during most of their lessons. They've branched out from Occlumency ever since witnessing the ritual some weeks ago on the hilltop. So far, they've been unsuccessful at figuring out what object Bellatrix had held aloft and imbued with that dark blood magic. It's been gnawing at them both.

"We've been doing everything we can," she reasons, trying to lessen the furrow of his brow. It doesn't seem to work.

"Have we?" he wonders. He looks towards the fire crackling in the grate and mutters, "We haven't even figured out why you're having those dreams. It's all just…speculation. What if it's all a fluke? Maybe we're reading too much into it."

She raises an eyebrow, not expecting the doubtful words. Regulus doesn't usually voice such things. He's been convinced for months now that her dreams are more than just dreams, and though she hadn't believed it at first…

She silently traces the jagged white scar lining her palm, when she had slipped on the rocks by that still, dark lake in her haste to get away.

She hasn't told Regulus about the scar. When she had written to him with the details of the dream, she'd left that part out. She's not entirely sure why. After all, the fact that she had gotten injured in a dream is cause for alarm. If she had slit her palm open and bore the ghostly trace of it upon waking, what other horrors could she experience? Maybe that's why she hasn't mentioned it. Maybe she doesn't want to consider the ramifications. Doesn't want to give into the uneasy pinch of fear that always dives through her whenever she lingers on the thought.

A dream is just a dream. She's been telling herself that ever since the last one, as if by repeating it, she might believe that she is completely safe…

"Tell me what's really bothering you," she says, tucking her hand into the folds of her shirt.

She doesn't want to think about the dream right now. They had already gone over it a thousand times over their last few meetings, pulling it apart until there was nothing left to untangle. What she had seen – the pedestal, the Inferi rising from the waters – had only brought forth more questions. Questions within questions, an endless stream of them that seem to have no answers…

What had been at the center of the lake? The only thing they had decided on is that the Inferi are protecting it, whatever it is. And though it has occurred to her, a hundred times over, that this dream is merely a result of an overactive imagination…the scar on her palm proves otherwise. She knows, without any trace of doubt, that this cave exists. If only they could figure out where it is, perhaps they could discover the answer to some of those endless questions.

Regulus sends her a faint smile and huffs, "Nothing seems to get by you, does it?"

She smiles back. He doesn't seem to notice that it's a bit forced. She's not sure she deserves the praise, really. Too much gets by her these days, and not just the pile of unanswered questions towering over her.

Regulus lowers his eyes to his forearm, where the black ink curls along his skin. He reaches out as if to trace its pattern but seems to think better of it a moment later, and moves his hand to grasp the arm of his chair instead. In a quiet voice, he murmurs, "I've been tasked to…prove myself further, to the Dark Lord. It's taken a toll on me is all."

Vivian doesn't answer immediately. She's not sure she wants to know exactly how he's been asked to prove himself. Whatever the method, it can't be pleasant, if his eyes are this haunted and he's so restless.

"…Oh," she manages, then nearly cringes at the pathetic response.

"Aren't you going to ask more?" he wonders, sounding a bit droll now as he leans back and glances over at her. "Try to gather information in hopes that it might help your friends?"

She sends him an irritated look that doesn't faze him in the slightest. Regulus only lifts an eyebrow and drums his fingers against the arm of the chair, waiting to hear her response.

Vivian grumbles, "No. Unless you think it's something I should pass along."

The words make him pause. Silence drops between them, so complete that even the crackling fire seems to quiet down. She chances another look at him, only to see that an unreadable glint has shrouded his eyes. She knows him, though. She swears she sees the faintest press of surprise on his face before that, too, is pressed into shadow.

"…You're the double agent, not me," he says after a long silence.

Ah. She schools her own features into a calm mask and nods, saying nothing more on the subject. Their feelings regarding their particular roles are one thing they rarely discuss with each other. It's an element between them that, after the first awkward conversations, has remained untouched and largely ignored. And his own regret over his decision to join the Dark Lord is also something they do not speak of. She has never attempted to convince him that he is in the perfect position to be the Order's eyes and ears. Besides how much of a risk it would be for him, Regulus has never broached the subject or expressed any hint of interest in taking such an active role to work against his supposed master. He had made it very clear from day one that the only reason he's helping her is because he doesn't want to see her dead by her own folly.

Still…she knows there's more to it than that. They wouldn't be meeting here like this if he was truly uninterested in going against the Dark Lord. No amount of attachment or feelings towards her could have made him take on even this amount of risk. And it is a risk. If Voldemort knew that one of his favorite young followers was spending his time trying to figure out what weaknesses he can exploit that might ultimately bring down the source of Voldemort's power, then there's no telling what the consequences might be. None of them would be pretty.

No. Vivian isn't naïve enough to believe that Regulus is doing any of this because of whatever lingering romantic affection yet remains within him. Perhaps that had the been initial reason for him approaching her, but it isn't why he's stuck around this long or agreed to attend these gatherings with her at his side.

There's so much more at stake. So much more left to lose. Sometimes, she wonders where that streak of self-preservation had gone off to, the one she had clung to so viciously before. If she had any of it left, she's sure she wouldn't have agreed to Moody's infiltration plan. She's sure she wouldn't be sitting here right now, beside Regulus Black, in this cozy little study.

Somehow, along the way, the world has shifted, its axis turning and sweeping away everything she thought she knew. She still hasn't figured out where those shifted pieces will fall, yet. What sort of picture it will paint, when the axis stops turning.

She feels as though she's running on some kind of maddening wheel that has no end, and the only time she's able to catch her breath is when she's surrounded by Regulus's calm presence. Maybe that's the real reason she keeps coming here. She's so desperately in love with Sirius, but he has this way about him that makes her feel ragged, as if she can never quite keep up. Regulus, though – calm, quiet Regulus – is the after effect of the storm that makes up Sirius's soul. The cool, misty rain that scatters the fierce winds.

Across the room, the door suddenly creaks open, and Vivian's eyes dart towards it to see Kreacher's bowed form hobble inside. He's carrying a tea tray in his arms. It rattles slightly with every breath he takes.

"You can leave it on the desk, Kreacher," Regulus quietly orders, sending his house-elf an almost gentle glance. Kreacher bows his head over the tray and shuffles to the desk on the other side of the room, the tray continuing to rattle so much that Vivian half-expects it to fall. By some grace, the ancient elf manages to set it down without incident, and then proceeds to shuffle back towards the door.

Vivian wisely keeps her mouth shut. She's made one comment some weeks ago about how the house-elf makes her uneasy, and had been surprised when Regulus had told her off for it. For reasons she cannot fathom, Regulus is strangely attached to Kreacher despite the elf's grumpy nature. He's never once raised his voice to the elf. Never once ordered him around with any hint of the barely-veiled contempt that her pureblood brethren usually bear towards their servants.

She makes a point to withhold her own contempt as Kreacher silently closes the door behind him and shuts them back inside the room. While she doesn't treat her own house-elf with the sort of quiet disgust that her father and his fellows do, she's never much liked Kreacher. The elf makes her shiver, and she's got a feeling that he doesn't think very highly of her, either, though he's never spoken out of turn. Probably because Regulus is always around whenever she comes by.

"Your house-elf has impeccable timing. I'm famished," Vivian says, and makes to stand.

She doesn't even make it out of her chair, though, before Regulus is murmuring, "You can eat after you've successfully barred me from entering your mind."

The reminder of why she's here – and him using it as a means to stop her from helping herself to those biscuits on the tea tray – makes Vivian scowl.

"I'm hungry," she complains.

Regulus merely sets his book aside and reaches for his wand, shrugging, "You're also terrible at keeping your mental shields in place for longer than a few minutes."

She doesn't want to admit that he's right. She scowls deeper. Regulus lifts an eyebrow and stands up, twisting his wand through his fingers in an almost idle fashion.

"Can't I at least have a sip of tea first?" she grumbles, already knowing the answer.

She's not at all surprised when Regulus's only response is to tell her to take out her wand and sit back down.

The Ministry of Magic is bustling when Vivian heads off to work the next morning. A dull headache has been forming behind her eyes since last night, and even the thankfully dreamless sleep she had hasn't managed to dispel it. She could barely hold back her snappish words when Sirius had cheerfully whisked around the cottage preparing for his own day, with typical Gryffindor zeal. Her foul mood only increases exponentially when she walks into the Atrium and nearly gets run over by a flock of secretaries with their heads together, all murmuring in low, quiet voices.

She knows why. Ever since the Minister had given the Auror Department leave to use Unforgivable Curses on potential Death Eaters, the Department of Law Enforcement has been in a frenzy trying to decide how far this power should extend and whether there should be restrictions set in place to limit the Aurors from overusing it. Several members of the Wizengamot have been thoroughly against it from the very beginning, stating that the curses are deemed 'Unforgivable' for a reason. But the Minister had stood firm in his decision, and he's been backed by the majority of the Wizengamot and the entirety of the Aurors to boot. They need every advantage possible if they want to go head-to-head with the Death Eaters, who aren't half as wary about using such curses.

And there's yet another reason for why her headache quickly transforms from a dull ache to a blaze. The moment she enters her tiny cubicle office and sees the towering stack of paperwork waiting for her, Vivian lets out a groan and a curse of her own as she stomps towards it to peer at the top of the stack.

Case after case of accidents pertaining to the use of the Unforgivable Curses. This is exactly why those few members of the Wizengamot had been against it. Not all of the Death Eaters waltz around England dressed in their deep hoods and sinister robes. Not all of them bear the Dark Mark, either. The Aurors have been given leave to use the curses on whoever they suspect might fall into the category of Dark Wizard, but not all of those suspects are in fact guilty. A sense of overpowering fear has been sweeping through the country, growing into a slow tempest with every attack. Even the Aurors, who have been trained to remain calm in the face of such things, are susceptible to it – and to making mistakes.

Vivian is, unfortunately, one of the people who has to fix those mistakes.

She lets out a grumble as she sits down, trying in vain to sort the papers into identifiable stacks. This in itself takes her nearly half the morning. By the time she's finished, every inch of her tiny office is covered with documents and her headache is throbbing through her temples.

A break. That's what she needs. She thinks she might go crazy if she sits here any longer. She'll start tackling these cases after she's poured herself a cup of tea and had a walk. Maybe that will clear her mind of the endless tangle of names and case numbers printed upon these pages.

Unfortunately, this plan only ends up making her headache all the worse, though. When she trudges through the hallways towards the break room, she runs right into the last person she wants to see right now.

Adrian's hands reach out to steady her when she turns the corner and slams into him. The gesture is thoughtlessly done; the moment he sees who had walked into him, Adrian's expression falls into a sneer and he jerks his hands from her shoulders as if she's contaminated.

"Blair," he mutters, watching as she lets out a pained grunt and rubs her nose, which had collided with his sharp collarbone. She hastens back a few steps with a sneer of her own, an expression he often finds on her face whenever she's in close proximity with him.

For a half a second, Vivian considers telling him to watch where he's going, but she ultimately decides to just walk around him and spare herself the misery of his company. She's in no mood to deal with Adrian Mulciber right now.

If only he'd let her leave.

"Had a rough morning?" he drawls, watching her edge around him. As expected, the question makes her stop immediately and glower at him. She never could ignore him when he uses that disdainful tone – something he'd learned very quickly and has since then tucked into his repertoire of strategies whenever dealing with her.

"I don't see how it's any of your business," she snarks.

His mouth pulls up into a smirk. He wonders if she knows how transparent she is to him.

"You do work for me, so I think it is my business," he reminds her, just because he knows how irritated she'll get. She hates the fact that she works under him.

Her sneer grows a little more contemptuous. "I've got about a thousand cases to go through before the end of the day, so yeah, I'm having a rough morning," she says, squaring her shoulders a bit as she faces him.

He tries not to smile wider at her body language. Always so eager to fight. To prove herself.

With a hum, Adrian muses, "The Minister's decision to allow the Aurors to use Unforgivables have added to my workload, too." Then, with a smirk, he drawls, "Just between you and I, though, they're a bit rusty with them."

He can tell that his words only further irritate her. And he knows the exact moment that she realizes what he's actually saying, too, when he speaks about his workload. After all, he doesn't just work here in the lower levels of the Department of Law, and this particular job isn't the only one that's been affected by the Auror's latest tricks.

He watches her eyes flash and can't help but goad, "Has your little blood traitor pet start using the curses, too? He does work in the Auror Department, doesn't he?"

Vivian's teeth snap shut with a coherent clack. He almost sends her a wide grin when he hears it. She's gotten a bit rusty, too, spending so much time around those traitors. Her Slytherin masks aren't half as good as she likes to believe they are.

"My pet is none of your business, either," she hisses, throwing the word back at him with a growl.

He allows that grin now. It spreads over his face and makes her narrow her eyes at him. Her cheeks are faintly flushed with her anger. Once, he might have appreciated the sight of it, the way it makes her eyes burn. These days, though, he feels more amused than appreciative. She's made her bed, and now she'll have to lie in it. A large part of him doesn't really care whether it leads to her own downfall. The humiliation of her rejection months ago still prickles at him at times. The frustration that had come from it, though – the laughing glances from his fellows, the sliver of distrust, that he can't handle important tasks – hasn't lessened in the least.

There is a small part of him, though, that still feels something more than disdain for her. It's hardly more than a flickering flame, and he's tried to bury it many times before, tried to smolder it with sneering words and smirking insults – but it still occasionally reappears, usually when he's least expecting it.

It's a hindrance more than anything, he thinks.

"Are you going to the Malfoy's little soiree next week?" he wonders, hands slipping into his pockets as he watches her. She's trying to bite back a sharp word, he can tell. Her eyes are gleaming in the way they always do when she wants to unleash that temper of hers and hurl one of her creative aspersions his way.

Teeth still gritted, she says, "I might. I don't know yet."

Why she's even still lingering in this hallway, talking to him, is slightly surprising. But he knows that she's not still here because she wants to be. She simply doesn't want to let him have the last word. It's a prideful flaw of hers. Another strategy he sometimes utilizes whenever he wishes to aggravate her.

He stares at her for a moment before advising, "You shouldn't go."

He doesn't explain why. Even if he did, he knows she wouldn't listen to him.

Her lip curls. "Why not?" she demands, eyes narrowed in that gleaming way of hers.

He shrugs casually and ignores her question.

"You'll regret it if you come," is all he says, shuffling back a step to indicate that he's finished with their little run-in. Calling it a conversation would be laughable.

Vivian looks like she wants to demand why he's telling her this, which is only going to be a waste of words. He's not going to explain himself, partially because he's not entirely sure why he's extending this warning to begin with.

It's that conflicting, meddlesome flame. If he'd successfully managed to smolder it by now, he wouldn't even bother.

"Don't go," he says one last time, and then turns on his heel to continue walking down the hall, leaving her to stare suspiciously after him.

He knows she won't listen to him. He knows his warning had only piqued her curiosity.

But if she was smart, she'd heed his suggestion.