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Chapter Text

yes, you have decided – you shall get married as well. perhaps immediately. if father was not so busy with ministry matters as to attend cousin bellatrix’s (no, now sister bellatrix’s, how you always wished to have a sister) wedding, you would have marched to him and let your plans be known. he’d do something about it, surely, as rodolphus has just married and rabastan never wants anything, meaning you can ask for the world and father must listen, because who else will he give it to?

mother is here, though she won’t be for long – the evening grows weary, the sky pure lilac and gold, and the heat settles comfortably. it’s time for the ‘long sleep,’ or so rabastan calls it, though she had done fairly well to hold court with so many relatives vying for her attention. she becomes very sad when she thinks no one is looking, but rodolphus thinks she doesn’t think at all. you find such a sentiment unkind. everyone says you and mother are so alike, pretty twins, one so young and one older, and you think often, which can only mean mother thinks as much, if not more. she’s become so tired holding up a twinkling glass of bubbly, and her shoulders had caved a tad from the strain of sitting without touching the plush back of the chair.

no, you shan’t tell her – she might forget in her dreams, and what help will that be? when she sleeps, she can hear nothing, and she sleeps through days and weeks and the upstairs chambers smell clement with rosemary and anise. sometimes, you come sit with her and listen to her mumble, imagine a story, like a web, weaved by her quiet voice. then, you recall it before bed, and close your eyes soundly. rabastan haunts her frequent, yet each time he leaves he seems a bit more defeated. you don’t understand why. perhaps he lacks your imagination.

sister you’d prefer not to bother, as to not steal her limelight – how unfortunate it would be to overshadow her happiness with a proclamation! uncle orion seems much too busy with the minister’s men, and aunt walburga has grown stiff beside your mother. there’s always aunt delphi carrow, though you don’t fancy her much. uncle herbet and aunt herbertta burke, but they are too strange, and their daughter is mean – herberttina had once set your robes on fire by mistake, though you knew it was no accident. oh, the scandal of it all, father was furious, and mother would have surely thrown a might fit if she was awake to witness it. there’s uncle fabian prewett, but he and father had grown cross as of recent. aunt eudora greengrass, perhaps, but then she’d tell matilda, and matilda would become jealous, and then there’d be two weddings at the same time in different locations, and the families would have to pick a favourite – you, of course, there’s no one on earth more important than a lestrange, though you wouldn’t like a row.

cissy? she must be thinking of her own wedding to lucius, and perhaps she would happily indulge you. together you could plan. she’s much older and wiser than you, and she must know how delicate these matters are. it would be good to consult her once she finishes dancing.

cousin marzy nott is an option, too, though she tells her brother everything, and this matter is not for boys’ ears. you’d imagine they’d find the sentiment stupid – rabastan said weddings were silly, girlish affairs and that he should never wish to marry, and you had, greatly offended by this notion, told him that no one would want to marry him anyway, so he needn’t worry. his glare had struck you before his spell did. you were down with a stomach ache for two days before father noticed something amiss.

you watch the floating lights swell and burst by the tent’s ceiling. pretty glimmers descend and curl and rise and pop slowly. there’s a pause between music filled by applause. you clap, too, on the outskirts of the polished dancefloor, watching as rodolphus – quite mean looking – leads a pleased bellatrix to the centre. they bow, and waltz strikes, and then they dance. elegant and wistful, you have hardly seen a picture more romantic. shall your dress be black, too? velvet feels too heavy, as proved by your current robes. silk would be too daring. perhaps cissy would help you work out these details, she’s very stylish and refined. you should like to grow up and be just like her.

but who shall you marry? indeed, planning a wedding is all nice and well, and your contribution to the current affair had been invaluable (the napkin colours you picked to match bella’s eyes, and she had been so grateful!), but your plans are nigh if there’s no one to marry. marzy’s brother is almost of age, but he’s very tall and you imagine you would have great trouble landing a kiss on his cheek, and if you were married to him, you suppose you would have to do it often. all of rodolphus friends are too old, and rabastan doesn’t have many. barty is too reckless and he’d annoy you endlessly. evan would be a beautiful match – he’s very handsome, though a bit gaunt. alas, he’s very proud for eleven, and he wouldn’t wish to change his last name to lestrange – that would be a terrible shame and would displease you greatly, for the lestrange name is the only name worth having. if such weren’t the case, father would have remained prewett.

there’s regulus, of course, sat sombre beside his mother. he is sweet, though dull, but you think he would agree to become lestrange – he’s a spare, no need to wear black when he could be someone so much more important.

out of this lengthy list, you would prefer sirius. he is older, and already so mature at twelve, and he knows so many interesting things beyond the gilded world of magic. he has made you listen to lively tunes on a strange muggle contraption, a spinning disk, and he had told you to jump around when the music played. this is how muggles dance, he had said, and it had been fascinating.

but sirius is the heir to the black family, and aunt and uncle would never permit him to change his name, though you know he doesn’t much prefer it. he often speaks with distain and you dutifully pretend not to notice it. he airs his woes in words abstract and difficult to understand, and since hogwarts, he had grown a bit quiet around you and his family. regulus had complained he’s mean now, more so than he was previously, but sirius had always treated you as treasure and you felt no malice, which could only prelude to regulus either lying or being outwardly jealous, and those aspects make for a poor husband indeed.

no, you shan’t marry. you turn your gaze away from the dance. the situation is dire – there are no eligible bachelors, and to look outside this circle would mean travelling back to france, and you hadn’t been these since you were five, though you miss it. the days there always felt less gloomy, and mother didn’t sleep as much, but she didn’t like you as much, either. she’s gentler when she can’t see you, can’t tell you’re listening.

even now, she lays a kind hand on regulus’ wavy hair, a caress you had never known. she had not looked at you once this evening.

“bloody terrible, isn’t it?” sirius sounds beside you, and you startle in an act of innocence, though you had heard him approaching. you had spent many summers with the black brothers, and their gait you recognise well. rodolphus and rabastan you know, too, as you had learned to distinguish them by the way the floorboards creak back home to know how much trouble you’d be in when caught. surprisingly, always, rodolphus was more lenient, temper melted under teary eyes and a wobbling lower lip. rabastan was bitter, naturally, because you are the favourite.

but, to the matter at hand, “total toss. looks like a cow dressed in ruffle.”

“sirius!” you exclaim, so offended, “don’t speak so ill of my sister – she looks very beautiful.”

“was talking of your brother,” he drawls, bored, and you know he’s lying. you mull his words over with a grimace of contemplation you had seen father wear when presented with matters of great importance.

“…suppose he does look a tad ugly in those robes," you note, "they are hardly his colour, i've told him, but he wouldn't listen. told me to return to my dolls, when, in fact, as you well know, they are very stylish. aunt alicia has gotten me lovely presents."

he huffs in annoyance, like he always does when he's wronged. "well, she's not my aunt," he declares, very much immaturely. "still think bella looks bloody silly. you like her?"

it's then that he glances to your person and his question brings on an unwitting pout and a defiant crossing of the arms. sirius' features, already, after a year at hogwarts, have changed. the boyish roundness remains, but there's a hint of his mother's angularity to the brow and high, fine cheeks. his eyes, a dark and lovely shade of grey, sparkle mirthfully in the changing lights.

his hair is a curly mess as always, and perhaps a little longer now. aunt walburga would say it is uncultivated, and a slight to his title as heir. the fact that he hasn't gone bald from an insidious spell is testament to his parents' kindness and ability to forgive. you've always found sirius very pretty and very smart, but…

very difficult to engage, only because of your own strange shyness, which only ever rears its head when you find yourself under the careful inspection of his stare. he sees through everything, you can tell, which must be why his silences have you fluster in anticipation. will he ask something daring or will he wait for you to make a mistake first? his expression always appears indolent, though it is never genuine.

bella's booming laugh echoes through the throng, and the music, and patter of your heart. you never know where to put your hands.

"she's always very kind to me," you manage, a truth to lighten the mood, and a tactic you had learned from lady lestrange herself. mother's beauty, her voice.

"she's a bitch."

you slap his arm and he yelps. the way he throws his hands up is meant to deter another attack. "don't call her that!"

"then stop bloody attacking me," he counters, and rubs his forearm. it isn't likely there'll be a mark, and perhaps that is what steers you forward. "she is awful. everyone's awful."

not true, an absolutely ludicrous thing to say, and you click your tongue to show it. regulus is mild and sentimental, matilda is a bit daft but well-meaning, and marzy is a riot if you give her a chance to open up. the adults are well-mannered and friendly, and as the night wears, merrier and tipsier. evan is intelligent and witty, much like sirius, though he lacks the brevity. barty and henrietta, you suppose, could be awful. the carrows, too.

"that's a lie. some people are very nice," you say, in reference to yourself, and smile at sirius to show him you have listened, "come sit."

he huffs, again, very childish and moody, and does as he's told, taking a seat at a small table adjacent to yours. the tablecloth is black silk and the chairs velvet – the rest is very extravagant, and you feel like a princess.

"suppose a few are tolerable," he concludes after a bout of sullen silence, "marzy's not bad."

"you've spent all afternoon with her."

"not willingly."

you think it was more than just this afternoon – when they weren't getting up to their mischief and pranks, as cousins are expected to do, he had spent much of his summer so far avoiding regulus, and, by association, you. now you sit with him to quell your need for companionship and understanding, though this is never quite clear when the two of you get to talking. you wonder if you are always on his mind as well.

"i like marzy," you say, "i'm very glad we'll be in the same year. i hope we're in the same house, too."

sirius regards you strangely. "gryffindor isn't as bad as you might imagine."

your curiosity gets the better of your composure. "what do you mean?"

he squints a bit, the way his mother does. it becomes him better, makes his expression hard to read, and you aren't that good at reading all scriptures yet. english, french, latin, some ancient greek, and, recently, an apt talent discovered for mother's runes, but faces and cryptic looks escape you. need more practice, even if you have practiced on sirius your whole life.

he licks his lips, takes a deep breath, and leans in close. you scoot closer, too, without the need for his instruction, as is the dynamic in your relationship. you have never questioned his control over any space, and therefore can do naught but be surprised when, slowly and thoughtfully, he says,

"i think you'd be well fit for gryffindor."

the declaration rings through your body, shocking you, and your spine snaps straight. "g-gryffindor?" you stutter, and your lips part from the strain of how little it makes sense. you barely stop your hands from slapping onto your cheeks. how childish would be such a display, no, he mustn’t think you are too young to understand his world, "mother would faint," you stammer, as if she'd know, "and father... what would father say?"

sirius cocks his head. "i think they might say 'that's bloody amazing, darling, we'll be so proud of you'."

as if yours had, you think bitterly, but refrain. saying it aloud would upset him, and then he wouldn't want to talk to you.

"if i am in gryffindor," the title escapes your mouth in a soft gasp, "all my family will be disappointed."

sirius barks out a laugh. "let them. who cares what roddy and rabby think, anyway? your father would get over it, mine-" and that's it, one glance at uncle orion and aunt walburga and his expression crumbles like a house of cards. it switches quickly in a wince, "well, mine are almost over it. maybe. not likely, but, you know, i'm the heir, so." a glance down. such is his explanation. you've known him to be a better orator than this.

it's hard, to stare and try and ascertain his meaning when he refuses to look you in the eye. you can't tell what's hurting him.

instinct tells you to grab his hand and you do. he doesn't fight it, lets you, and it's with his compliance that you realise how serious the situation has become. you are eleven, not nine, and already, you know so much. his grip on you is strong, but not painful. he never wishes to harm.

"i think you have a chance at gryffindor," he adds, "the best chance out of the lot of them."

you hadn't dared hoped, hadn't even considered. but here is sirius, giving you something of his – knowledge and experience, and his vision, and the possibility. something beyond your control. to be even seen as someone fit for gryffindor is to fall into the ranks with him. are you, too, a black sheep? you had thought you fit in so well in this idyllic landscape. another star in the sky, yet, seemingly, too close to his.

"no, really," and he calls your name, prompting you to look up from intertwined fingers, "we'd be in the same house, wouldn't it be a riot?"

so excited you don't catch a breath. the prospect of being by his side at hogwarts, too, for the next six years seems overwhelming but – glorious. would father really allow you?

"but only a bit of a riot," he follows, a tease, and loosens the grip on you just so, "you'll have to promise not to bug me too much about your homework or the latest gossip. i recon you'd follow me around like a lost kitten."

"would not!" you bristle, and pull your hand from his.

"well," and now that cheeky smirk crosses his face, the one you've come to love and admire because it's what he reserves for you, and him alone.

"stop it!"

he does, eventually, the teasing smile melts slowly away, like ice melting on your skin, leaving the space warmer in its wake. he's sitting quite closely to you now, and a weight you hadn't even felt settles now on your shoulder, on the bench between the both of you. your legs are pressed together. his gaze drifts and the last, fading strains of laughter line his eyes. you can trace each wrinkle his smile leaves on his lips.

"did you make many friends at hogwarts?" you ask.

"oh yeah," he replies. you like the rumble of his words, "have three very good ones."

"you haven't written much of them."

"mother confiscated my owl," he shrugs, and takes a deep sip. then, the smallest movement of his shoulder to indicate he'd told you all you'd need to know, "rather good at magic, these friends are. good at getting away with all sorts of mischief."

the tiniest sliver of disappointment must reveal itself in you somehow, because sirius quickly adds, "the least funny one's called james, real charming, but real sure of himself, the prat. then we have peter, a plonker, but he's alright. and there's remus. he's," he pauses, as though the right word doesn't exist, "tired."

you blink once, "that doesn't sound very exciting," you admit, and give him your best hopeful look.

he huffs, "they've changed. a whole lot's happened in this past year. some things aren't much fun to talk about."

"oh," you breathe, but hope he talks about it someday. he's much less childish now. you'd hate to be left behind, "still, i should like to meet them. are they kind, as well?"

"rather so," he concedes, and then, "they'd be kind to you. we'd be good together."

that could be the worst choice of words yet. to look down and hide your sudden fluster is of no use – he had said this all on purpose, you have a sneaking suspicion.

the waltz continues, and his confession had been brief and subtle. would your's, now, betray anything of the true feelings you harbour? "really?" you dare, still a little afraid.

"oh yes," he says, nonchalant, "wouldn't you agree?"

he must know, of course he would, you are quite bad at secrets. maybe the constant longing, the never ending list of ways you wish for him to notice you. a dangerous power he has over you. a want so deeply embedded.

and here it is, an open acknowledgement of your hopes, a hand stretched for you to grasp, to reciprocate, to get up and dance with him. in front of all these guests, in the shadow of his cousins, his brother. in the spotlight of his parents and yours. he doesn't look at anyone but you.

gryffindor, yes, you suppose it wouldn't be too bad. mother wouldn't know, and father must love you too much to let it affect him. your brothers would be displeased, but rodolphus is too old to meddle in your affairs anyway, and rabastan should mind his own business and try finding his own friends for a chance. oh, but there's cissy in slytherin, and what of regulus?

you glance at him from across the tent, and he sits miserable and staring at you and sirius, eyes green with envy. he looks like father when father is feeling betrayed, and regulus looks too young to feel as he does.

the desire is too deep to consider turning sirius down. he is only asking, a friendship perhaps deeper than most, the one he knows he can have from you. so you take his hand, and hold it tight. his gaze lights up with his smile.

"okay."

"you'll love hogwarts."

and that's the last of your worries for now. there is plenty of time for you to deal with the consequences, so you steal his drink, and throw yourself back into the throng, this time, his company the entire night.

Chapter Text

the grandiose patio is lined with wet footprints. yours. and regulus’. the sunshine is too unkind to him – burnt easily, he seems even more miserable in summer. he’s not much fond of water, even if you constantly drag him into the depths of the pool. the chlorine reeks, he had said displeased, trying to swat away his wet hair from his eyes. you had fought, tooth and nail, not to state, you reek. it would’ve obviously been a joke, and sirius would have laughed so merrily at your boundless wit, but regulus would have flushed in embarrassment and would’ve confined himself to silence.

you don’t like much when regulus is silent. in fact, you don’t fancy silence at all. father’s silence usually entails bad news, and mother is always silent. your house is too big to retain any noise, and rodolphus is contemplative and rabastan doesn’t take up enough space. with bella here, perhaps things will become more rowdy.

already, she’s turning everything upside down in what she has dubbed ‘the great upheaval.’ the new lady lestange has expensive taste and moody preferences, and so the walls are getting painted, and all sorts of curious trophies and relics from the depths of gringotts are being brought as decorations. she had let you practice explosive magic to knock down a bookcase she believed to be misplaced. you had been very thrilled to help.

now, though, the pleasant buzz of nature is satisfactory. the gardens and the orchard have remained untouched, though the greenhouse has been smashed completely. the remnants of glass glimmer on the sun-sparkled grass, a perfect spot to avoid as the pool beckons your return. not that mother's menagerie had been of much interest to anyone for years. the servants had tended to it, but it remained vacant of visitors, except the rare moments rabastan felt particularly sentimental. all those exotic butterflies spilled into the crisp, open air. it was quite magical. regulus was particularly down that evening.

of course, bella hadn't given much faff for any of it, so you don't dwell. a morning in the sun is a morning in the sun, after all. and, surely, if mother isn't to care for her property, then why should you?

"you recon sister will hire more staff?" you muse aloud. regulus has languidly settled under an olive tree, the leaves framing the thin, half-naked body like an all-too-pale depiction of pieta. his head hangs, the burn-warmed skin glowing, "without me to help she’ll hardly be able to manage all of these household duties."

regulus raises a brow at that, "what have you done exactly to help," the way he says it is half-chiding, half-mocking. as though he thinks that's the way to speak to the owner of the manor, "you blow up bookshelves."

you turn away from his stare, and keep yourself upright against the pool, knees scraping against the pebbles.

"well," you reply with a sniff, "if you had not noticed, she has taken a shine to me."

"shines are used for small jewels."

you hit his leg in a mindless display of violence.

his sharp inhale isn't playful – "what was that for?!"

"that was for talking down to me." you scoff. and his cheeks grow red, but not because you caught him in his error.

his next response is bitter. "i see how it is," the pitch of his voice rising ever-so-slightly, a subtle crack in a violin string, "you grow more pompous every day."

with his legs folded under his chin, arms crossed tightly, his discomfort in his position isn't masked as well as his emotion is. his wide eyes belie an even wider sadness. a hunger, a wanting for the type of affection a mother provides. something you'll never want to think too hard on because you understand, but also have been told by father not to ponder on.

"was that you attempting to speak down to me again?"

"no!" he snaps back, before muttering, "not that you wouldn't deserve it."

your temper has spiked. that isn't fair, what did he know of all that you must put up with! father expects a lot, and yet you are not given enough to do, but your brothers still complain at everything, and then you must put on a smiling face in front of bella, and how rude is he, really, to disrespect you so!

regulus doesn't receive a single hint of a reply from you. if his plan to make you more malleable to conversation wasn't working, he could start something of his own.

"have you made up your mind," the subject switch makes you jump, "about what house?"

oh. he hasn't stopped prodding since the end of june. that's almost cute of him.

"why are you obsessed about this?"

regulus makes a face. "don't try to understand. i just am," he pauses. for once, he regards you carefully, head tilting slightly to one side, "so you have made up your mind."

"slytherin sounds lovely," you admit, as you have been practising this speech in the mirror for a fortnight now. it feels more real coming out of your own mouth and not an apparition's. you could never admit to gryffindor, as your secret would unravel. regulus would spot his brother’s influence, and he would know, with certainty, that you prefer sirius to him. he must know already, but chooses to ignore it, like you chose to ignore all things inconvenient.

regulus stills for a moment. "wonderful," he comments, and resumes the snootiness of his demeanour, but more distant, "i'll definitely be in slytherin,"

yes, clearly, he would suit the snake very well. and he would fit in, like cissy. no matter the apparent fragility to him, it seems to be hiding a will stronger than all of yours combined. his eyes glitter and gleam when the sunlight hits them just right, but their core seems deeper, darker. no cracks or fissures. just an endlessness.

"and so would you," he finishes the sentiment.

"wh- whatever do you mean?!" you cry in his face, startled out of the depths of your musings.

"dear cousin," he simpers, "for how much time must your father spend pontificating on how utterly useless you are before you realise i'm in your same boat."

he may not mean it, but the insult is unbearable. and perhaps there's a sliver of truth that irks you. that your own kin think so lowly of your abilities. but, nonetheless, "behind my back, at least," you sound, "please, regulus, don't say such things to my face!"

he snorts, faintly amused at your ridiculousness, "will it make you feel better if i apologise?"

you huff. your pride has been bruised. he has, as always, thrown you into a sulk, which will be harder and harder to get over now. especially with you sitting a little more self-conscious than you had been ten minutes ago. and really, it had been such a pleasant afternoon. sweltering, and you bask in sunlight like you're famished for it. the rivera had been sweet, always bright and sunny, but england is hardly ever not gloomy. yes, the weather is worth more mental effort than regulus black, you decide. you would rather converse with a house-elf than him. he, yes, is useless, but you have some use, surely.

"think before you speak," you warn, not very menacingly, "honestly, if my life is already doomed, you'll not aid in ruining it any further."

"what life? father dotes on you endlessly. even if you've got not a single brain cell, he still fancies you," he drawls, "really, you're like a pet. a mooncalf. not a thought behind those eyes."

there it is. the nerve that tics. and though he'd spoken in a lazy, pensive drawl, your response is razor-edged and dagger-thorned. you're the blight. the aphids that sully. the plagues of locusts, “so what!" you counter, and you're barely standing on the border, "what is it my trouble? at least my father loves me, which is too much to say of your own."

regulus rises sharply. it is the fastest he's ever moved in all his life. that face would strike a serpent cold, you imagine. "take. that. back." his tone is chillingly even.

but a quick wit has always served you best, "no. not till you're nice to me."

"fine," the sun casts an angry, dark shadow of his figure over the pool. only eleven, yet he might be the most daunting creature you've ever encountered. all long lines, jutting ribs, and pale skin. and those eyes. downturned, forlorn. a regal hazel. the lids are flutter-thick.

the silence that settles is thick with discomfort. you think of your mother’s room at the top floor, how hot she must be with the heavy curtains drawn. it would be good to air it, lest she grows sicker from breathing in all of that old dust. yes, you shall let a servant know as soon as you finish chipping away at regulus’ resolve with your withering glare.

finally, slowly, carefully, "you won't tell mother i upset you, will you?"

"aunt walburga has much to preoccupy her. of course i won't."

he takes this as enough an acquiescence.

you find a part of him has softened. the edges, maybe.

"why should i apologise anyway," he adds, as if by way of an attempt at conversing in your manner, "the truth needs no apology."

his voice, not that of his father's but certainly not the poshest, has something odd about it.

he waits for a few more seconds, in what you gather, is a wait for an excuse to take the blow off of himself. you keep thinking, and these thoughts blunder quickly about. of mother’s room and father’s study, of rabby down in the cellar, of rodolphus prancing around his new wife. of sirius locked in his guest room, all of his muggle trinkets confiscated. sirius would have a laugh if he wasn’t too busy sulking. this impish row would cheer him up.

you've accepted the role now. it feels like a coronation. the signet ring would fit. pretty thing.

"regulus," you start, but can't keep your straight face. his stare bores into you, until the laugh finally escapes.

"you twit!" he accuses you, "i thought you were really angry for a moment! good thing i wouldn't actually worry, with how loose tongued you are. and stupid! to think, everyone always bellows about how pleasant and intelligent you are."

"could hardly be talking of me," you say, feeling not very bitter, but the taste of it is tart on the back of your tongue. this is a new pattern. a childish bickering, or even teasing, "i've never wanted to know anything. everyone else is terribly inquisitive."

regulus just eyes you in bewilderment. as though your view on the world is rather strange. regulus is fond of reading, and he has a plethora of curious facts to share to anyone who would listen. he had been more vocal of them when he was younger, but at eleven, he's growing very reserved and respectable.

to anyone but you, it seems, because he's rude and standoffish in your presence, even if his cheeks start to burn when you catch him staring at you. maybe you should've let him know. it'd be sweet to see his eyes widen in surprise, or his lips purse. that'd be worth all his rude jokes and unwarranted insults. his silence has allowed him to believe that all his sentiments are harmless. but they are not.

perhaps you are useless, not even a little bit useful at all, if a mere boy who's still gangly and graceless has you wound around his little finger, while not even knowing it. you can't decide if that's better or worse than knowing. it doesn't really matter anyway. when the family meetings took place late in the evening, and you were pointedly dismissed, you had decided you shan't ever want to know anything. to live in simple bliss of a fantasy, to enjoy what you're good at enjoying, and never touch the dirt of any of their messy problems. the end of childhood doesn't concern you, no more than any of the scandals you overhear and promptly ignore. gossip you adore, but only if it's mindless, like a poor matching colour of a robe.

the rest you are well off without.

pretty thing, mother had once called you when awake. her gaze had been vacant. you refused to decipher the meaning, if there was any to begin with. pretty things needn’t be sensible, they only need to be admired.

regulus offers you his hand. a rarity, him touching you, because he rarely is one for contact. especially with you, it had seemed. the small, slim fingers don’t tremble in their wait, "want to swim?"

your earlier mood melts away like the heat waves over the warm stone. the blood has flushed both your skins, but his more.

it's not important anyway.

"thought you don't like water," you say smugly, happy to lord over this very basic information you know of him over his head, "you'll look like a prune."

regulus wrinkles his nose in distaste at the idea. his pale complexion is so easy to scorch and scar. the redness blooms on him beautifully.

but then, all he says is, "you're my favourite, you know that, right? always have been."

the pleasantry, in such an instant, brings another surge of blood to your cheeks.

"why?" you have to know.

a shrug, then, a smile. not malicious at all, and you've always enjoyed it when he can't hold the pretences up in your company.

"dunno," and his expression goes blank again. his gaze roams somewhere far, "so do you want to go swimming?"

his offer has something more, and the confusion lingers.

"it is very hot," is all you find to say.

and what else, but to hold onto his outstretched palm?

Chapter Text

all of sirius' records are bought by andromeda. no one ever speaks of her. it’s bad luck. might split the sky in half, or disentangle the galaxy and all of its atoms; unravel it all, suddenly, like aunt druella falling to her knees at the mention of a well-loved name. she claimed a fainting spell, but you knew. the lights were particularly dim that evening at dinner.

no matter, you're well-meaning enough not to bother. everyone is allowed their own interests. you find it in the depths of father’s coffee cup and the curious hills and swirls the grounds make as they dry. how they shift in the wispy morning light, or become swallowed by your shadow. andromeda’s lay in things not known by the lestranges, or perhaps things frowned upon. she mails her curiosities to sirius via the muggle post. when a strange man appeared at the gates of the lestrange manor, everyone had fallen into a frenzy. the whole household, all twenty-some-or-more staff and four inhabitants (discontent house-elf and mother excluded).

this foreign officer referred to himself as 'the postman,' whatever that meant. grumpily (he was left standing in the rain, see), he shoved a parcel into your affronted butler's hands and demanded a signature. no quill, only a slim, plastic tube that clicked irritably when pressed by his finger. you and regulus watched this whole display out the second floor window, leaning over the ledge for a better look. a whole variety of things came to sirius, it was revealed, all of it contraband in a sort, to your knowledge. a bit of illicit music, a few letters with charmingly fancy stamps. a card titled Miss you that you just managed to save as rabastan threatened to throw it into the fire. a glossy magazine you and regulus were allowed to browse through briefly, only to see for yourselves the unmoving, ugly muggle world.

of course, sirius didn't know of any of this – it was stored away without his knowledge of its arrival. locked up in the attic, where all unpleasant things lie. you and regulus and the staff were sworn to secrecy. sirius musn't ever know his disgraced cousin is sending him strange things and corrupting his impressionable mind. you didn't mean to linger, or listen, or intrude. the pool laid waiting for you, and regulus, impatient by your side, tugged on your sleeve. a plea to leave before your brothers went on a tangent. so many new words to learn. this was, however, the most interesting thing to happen all summer, overshadowing even the long awaited wedding. a muggle postman under the lestrange roof. bella, if she was not away, would have thrown a fit to be outshined by such a thing.

that very night, you sneak out of your room. the hallways are dark in spots where moonlight doesn’t spill; the portraits are asleep, and the landscapes are quiet. the soft echoes of your bare feet against the cool tiles of the flooring make you shudder in your linen. summer heat lingers by the ceiling, though the nights are usually chilly. you creep silently, as you have many times before. you are quite adept, a child who can't seem to stay put no matter the trouble it may cause. and this may cause quite the bit.

you wander to the attic, mind the seventh step with the creaky floorboard, and ascend slowly. patience is a virtue, and when you really want, you possess wells of it. here, the dark is thick, almost tangible, and how and where you move is more thanks to memory than sight. though the dust burns at your eyes, they do eventually adjust, and the outline of a shape becomes easier to see.

austere, sparse. only the sooty remains of old armouries are left. furniture gone to rot, and masses of small boxes and unattended bookshelves. never a pleasant place, even during the day. it sits right above mother's room, and you try to avoid this part of the house entirely. a blind spot, like the corner of your eye. nothing well is ever found here, and you never come searching.

a bit of fumbling and you locate the parcel. it would be good to bring everything, but it's quite heavy, and you'd rather not risk it. you'll let sirius know of his hidden belongings once you have surprised him. you are not as selfless to inform him instantly, no. no, no, to miss an opportunity as this would be a great loss. how else would you show a bravery than going against the collective wishes of the black and lestrange families and blindly grabbing around in the dark for his cousin's gifts?

you sort through the things. lay them gently beside your feet; hear the roll of a crystal charm as it travels down the room and gets lost in a shrouded corner. you thought of waiting for a few days. spun a great tale of being watched and trying to get the presents to him as quick as possible, only to amplify the intensity of it all. your attention span waned an hour into your promise to keep this secret.

you grab for a record and flee. sirius likes music the most. this will make him happy.

carrying your load through the manor's quiet maze, your senses prickle at each shadow. perhaps someone is following you, or you can hear them whispering. the slightest tinge of an anxious feeling comes and goes with each breath. when you were little, regulus needed to hold your hand through the dark, since sirius was too old and too cool for that at eight. the manor at night made his pulse jump under his skin and then, you were the braver of the pair. now, reggie doesn't need your help, and neither do you need his. you’d prefer his quiet reluctance beside you. a want to continue but being too cowardly to make the first step. you’d march together. should you have invited him?

no, sirius wouldn’t like that. he prefers his brother out of sight.

at last, sirius' bedroom door presents itself before you. the faint whistle of the wind rattles the windows. instinctively, you grab for a hand that isn’t there.

you hope he isn’t asleep. he’s too grown to go to bed at an early hour. he must see you in motion, so brave in delivering contraband. contraband is a new word you've learned recently, and you quite enjoy saying it. contraband. this record is the first in, what you presume, a long line of suspicious items you will have to sneak. it will all be worth the effort.

you rap on the door. one. two, three. a forth one for safe measure. no response.

"sirius! i have a gift," you whisper, leaning in close. your cheek presses onto the cool, glossy surface, and thunder rumbles somewhere far overhead. it is not the prettiest song, but you like how deep it is. and sometimes, late at night, when the dark is very deep and the manor is quiet as the grave, you like to hide under the covers, "sirius?" you add, and a beat passes, and it occurs to you might be sleeping.

your plans of grandeur are deflated a little. what is the point of a secret if he isn't there to be surprised?

then, the handle clicks. slowly, cautiously, the door creaks open just enough for him to stick out his head. he's pouting. his gaze flickers, a nervous twitch, "why are you awake?" his voice is raspy from sleep, and his cheeks are splotchy, "aren't you scared of the dark?"

of course not, you had told yourself that the whole trek over. he waits patiently for an answer, despite how tired and annoyed he appears. your heart pounds at the sight. his hair looks funny, tousled. a wave falls over his forehead and the rest stands in spikes. you wonder if regulus' hair will do that in the morning. at breakfast, likely not. if you came to wake him unannounced, it likely would. how embarrassed he’d be.

you hold the record close to your chest, but not too tightly. sirius had once said they are fragile and can shatter if handled unkindly. still, you fear your arms might crush it if the rumble of the thunder shakes it from your grasp, like it would a robber caught red-handed.

"it isn't scary," you try, and tentatively hold out the present, "this came for you. but no one let you have it because, you know, well. it's from, er, you know." can’t say her name, even to someone that would prefer to hear it.

you can imagine a carousel of thoughts whirring madly behind his face. shock. surprise. delight. gratitude. so much more. it's impossible to catch everything, not even in the blip of light. thunder rolls.

"thank you," is his only response. he perks up as he takes his present. perhaps he had gotten over the surprise a bit quickly, or he had expected this to be sent to him all along, but nonetheless, it seems he is rather touched. at least that's what you assume by how happy he's acting, like an eager puppy, "let's go to my bed, 'kay? i've got a record player over there. come on."

you rush after quickly, not one to miss such an opportunity. the room douses in a dim light with a flick of his wand. there are books and clothes and posters slew on every surface and corner, and you overstep a pair of expensive linen trousers carelessly tossed on the rug. next to the bed sits a heavy trunk. he must've been packing. a red and gold scarf peaks over the edge. yours to be, surely.

the space goes mute and settles. like a pop in your ears after travelling via portkey, the sound returns after a small discomfort. a silencing spell. his wand clatters onto the bedside table. you had picked yours only a few days ago, but didn’t dare touch it since you grasped it for the first time.

when you settle into bed beside him, and he sets up the contraption and places the needle, it sings in the quiet. he lowers the volume just a bit.

"muggles like big music, don't they," you remark, though you do rather like it, if it makes him grin so, "can we dance? please?"

a crack, finally, along with thunder. his face splits into a grin, "of course! but a bit quieter. don't want the whole estate to catch you here. come on, now,"

so the pair of you jump and whirl about his room. you're sure he knows real muggle dances. it's very different from waltz, not smooth at all, more free, and not nearly as dignified. but oh, the beats!

as the song finishes and the music winds down, your head spins. not from dizziness, but from pure, unbridled glee. his face matches the feeling. sirius claps, as if he had never been satisfied before now, as if a curtain had gone down. he smiles broadly, a full mouth of teeth, “imagine what people would say if they saw us."

you mirror his expression, "it’s horrendous, isn't it? such disgrace."

a smile and a titter escapes him.

"a terrible affair," he gives a nod to no one, the empty bedroom and his possessions, "it would displease my family greatly. i will never dance another way again."

“what of waltz?”

“what’s that?”

"oh dear, the absolute scandal!" you clasp your hands together in horror, though really, you don't mind at all, "they shall call you a heretic and a bumptious imbecile. surely. won't that be dreadful? your reputation will be ruined."

"utterly! completely ruined. mother will burn my portrait out the family tree."

"what a messy business. tragic. whatever are you to do, young sir black?"

his words and gesticulations and silly faces make you a bit warm. this is quite something to be cherished. him, in his lonely, messy room, and the mellow candlelight. the rain pouring. a nice and pretty tune in the air. dancing is one of your favourite pastimes, besides flying and stargazing.

"hey, wanna play pretend?" he inquires, plopping back onto his bed.

you snort, dropping the audacious accent, "isn't that what we've been doing?"

he shakes his head, though his lips curl and his eyes roll fondly. "different sort. c'mere."

you perch beside him, your head level with his shoulder. his eyes are very shiny. if he told you a story, you wouldn't have trouble believing him, since they tell more than his voice ever would. but that'd be cheesy, and you'd never hear the end of it, if you told him the same. his knee bumps into yours. his head falls forward, just a bit, "tell me a secret."

"tell me a secret."

"no, go first. my secrets are boring, your's are, uh. mysterious. and interesting. and a whole bunch better. pretty please. can i have a hint?"

the compliment, you have to admit, flatters you. so does his prodding and pleading, all his wheedling and how adorable he looks while doing it.

you think of an answer carefully, a plan already forming, "well…someday, i'm going to have to marry, right?"

he groans, "merlin, no, don't tell me you're also thinking of this nonsense?"

your thoughts scramble to change, like little ducklings hurrying away from an unpleasant sound. you frown, a bit ashamed to be rebuffed so unkindly, or you should, but he's still staring at you intently, waiting for you to elaborate. like you had assumed, all boys think weddings silly. sirius is no different.

"is it wrong to think about that? i mean, someday you're going to be married, too," you deflect, "in the future," the distant one, because a child like him cannot comprehend that. or perhaps he can. after all, he will be growing into a man soon, "and besides, with bella's wedding, i suppose it got me thinking."

he has, strangely enough, become flustered. his freckles are darker across his nose, "who says i'll get married?"

"don't you have to?"

"no," he answers defiantly, crossing his arms. how defensive he is suddenly! but with how fidgety he is, it must be a sore subject. perhaps he is being affected more than you'd guessed.

"you're the heir, though," you muss. it's very unlikely walburga won't entangle him into some arrangement. you're sure she already has some sort of ideas for sirius. they are likely being executed as you speak, "you have to make kids to carry on the family, no?"

the odd, stressed look on his face almost breaks your resolve.

"we don't have to do that," he states.

that's news to you, and, logically, seems to be rather improbable. that means you don't have to get married, either. at least you won't have to carry out the other portion of marital duties, of which you are far more squeamish, "hmm," you manage, but you're not convinced. it seems quite rational to you that you should follow the pattern set by generations.

"why would you even want to get married?" he grumbles. the question comes off snottier than intended, "like i'd want some girl telling me how to behave all the time."

"we aren't allowed much choice in the matter."

"the more reason not to, right?"

this conversation had taken a sudden turn, and a sickly, squirmy feeling has taken a seat on the bed between the two of you. the dance music has finished, and the sound of rain overpowers the room. the record spins and crackles.

"we can run away."

the suddenness of his declaration makes the both of you pause, staring at the carpet and bedspread respectively. it’s not a fully formulated thought. can’t be, and in your endless compassion and innate ability to forget audacious ideas, secrets, and suggestions at a moment’s notice, you decide that he never spoke of this, for what he suggested is a breach of trust so careless and terrible that you begin to worry what else lays on his mind. must be many things such as this, dangerous, modern ideas ready to spring free given the proper climate. and the climate is warm, here, built on your friendship and your inability to refuse him.

you decide he had been caught up in the heat of a moment. harmless, silly. he asked you to play pretend, after all.

he amends before the silence could deafen him: "it'll be just the both of us."

you don’t want to listen to this, not in his room, not in your linen, not with the night singing against the windows and the record scratching at the needle. the spin is mesmerizing. he’s older and should understand the implications better. you don’t want to be the one to understand. to be rational, when you only ever wish to be carefree.

you laugh, and it sounds a tad awkward, but what a great big joke! sirius is always funny, "of course. we could live on a raft, or in muggle london. recon there wouldn’t be much of a difference. or perhaps a particularly cosy cave in the scottish highlands. with the sheep."

his eyes narrow, miffed. "i’m serious.”

“don’t suppose i need an introduction, do i?” you smile, but it doesn’t break his frown.

“we can run away.” he says, quite firmly. no more playing, then, “the both of us together," he adds, flicking his eyes away from you. his voice wavers.

"we can't just go and leave,” you start gently, “there's, well, a lot to explain. they’d catch us, too, quickly, i recon. our families. i can’t work, my hands are delicate, even if sheep are a riot. we’d have no galleons.”

"i'd work."

stubborn prat.

"stupid, you're twelve."

"almost thirteen."

"your birthday's not till november," you retort hotly, "therefore: you're twelve. how can you even consider proposing such a stupid scheme?"

his tone shifts, anger showing itself, "don't call it stupid. you haven't thought of a better one!"

you take a deep breath, and fight the childish impulse to sock him on the jaw, "i'm not the only suggesting we run away. that's- you just suggested it, first, no less! all of the sudden!"

"yes! yes, i did, but you were supposed to agree."

you can barely find the words to reply. he just gets so impossibly brattish when he's not having his way, "we can’t leave. that’s positively mental. and we can't leave reggie."

he bristles at the mention of the name, "he's not my problem."

that hurts. for some reason, this cut is especially sharp and stinging, "don't say that. he's your brother."

"only by blood."

such callous words make your face burn. what's this coming from? his posture shifts, back perfectly straight and shoulders taut. this can only mean that his emotions have overcome him. that is never good, "blood is important, though."

his dark eyes glimmer and there's a storm building, something inscrutable, a bad feeling. your mouth goes dry. you had said the wrong thing, a terrible thing. he shan't ever forget or forgive you for this. not to mention the topic itself. these are very dangerous and tender and frightfully unknown waters. you cross your arms and huff, feeling especially very small, "how can you hate him, anyway, when he adores you so much?"

the hard glint in his eyes doesn't leave. in fact, he appears to grow taller and paler with the turn of conversation, or perhaps his skin had always been a rather milky white. his words are colder still, "why are you always defending him?"

"regulus has never done anything bad," your protest is weak. and that isn't what he wants to hear, "he loves you."

"you should be on my side."

"but, why are there sides to begin with?" your tongue feels big in your mouth, and a weird taste bubbles, like metal and rust and salt, "you're brothers, you shouldn't fight."

"he's a rat."

"sirius!"

"and an idiot," he grumbles, "and selfish. a tosser. stop defending him."

this is awful. to see him with such a harsh expression and to be berated as though you're an awful friend and a liar, "stop it."

"what? he's not worth the trouble of you protecting him."

"leave him alone."

"he should leave you alone."

you wince and jerk away. how has everything gotten out of hand so fast? this is his bedside. you brought him a gift, and you danced, and he spoke kindly, and now this. you bite your tongue. your teeth press a bit too hard, “you’re being awful.”

he doesn’t seem to hear you, "why do you even like him anyway?" he sulks. a funny word to describe a very unhappy young man.

"quit it."

"are you fond of him?"

"please, shut up."

"more than me?"

silence. the world tilts, just so slightly, to the right, and spins just a tad bit too fast. does he really dislike his little brother so much? you understand he may feel a twinge of annoyance sometimes, a tad of passive resentment every other hour, which is simply understandable and probably half-decent for brothers, especially those that have nearly nothing in common and no sort of trust. but, there's the matter of an absolute hatred for someone that does no wrong, that would never, by anyone's means, ever hate you back. that isn't fair. it's only heart-breaking.

perhaps you've done wrong not to believe regulus when he confided sirius was terribly cruel to him at times. the thought stings, an acidic sort of shame. regulus wouldn't lie, he's not very good at it. you've only ever seen him sweet and obedient, a boy very different from his older brother. he was honest and soft-spoken, but just as sincere as sirius, though in a subtler manner.

gentle is another good word. or lovely.

one could argue they've both been acting odd lately. regulus had the muddled, far away eyes, but sirius was aggressive in their shared proximity. isn't it expected for siblings to fight and bicker? you and rabastan rib all the time, like it's embedded into your very marrow. you've never grown cold toward him, and you feel this way won't change much, if ever, but there might be a deeper part of you, one that can feel you're much more similar than you originally gave it credit for. perhaps it's the same with them, too.

this discovery makes you itch. it can't be that simple. of course it couldn't be. is this who he is, truly? you almost hope he will suddenly apologize and maybe hug you a bit tighter, or, or make things better somehow, say he's just teasing, tell you you're the dearest most wonderful friend a boy could ask for.

his face crumples like a wet sheet of paper, "answer me. please?"

"you know i'm fond of you both."

"more than him?"

"both."

"so he's your favourite," his voice shakes.

the look on his face…a mixture of embarrassment and genuine hurt. your's must match.

"please don't say that, i don't have favourites."    

"you just put up with me?"

"sirius,"

"stop being so vague."

"you're being mean."

he huffs, "fine. whatever, see if i care what you think."

"sirius?"

"don't bother. just leave."

"what?"

his eyes are strangely wet. you reach out to touch his cheek, in the hopes it'll soften him, but he jerks back, like you had attempted to strike him. the two of you gaze at each other wide-eyed and mortified. his eyes keep tearing, but the rest of him is perfectly still and calm. you decide it's probably best to not call attention to his tears, "what should i say then?"

his face hardens, "don't say anything."

"but--"

"go," he mutters, not even sparing you a glance, "just. stop bothering me."

his eyes brim again, and the sight makes your own become glossy. how humiliating. something coils in your stomach, uncomfortable and inescapable. how should you act? but he doesn't know either. all you have are bits and pieces of lessons and rules, none of which apply to this situation, not in a satisfactory way.

he doesn't move. neither do you. his heart beats and you can feel it, too, on your side of the bed. the clock ticks.

time stretches on.

it's a strange feeling, because it's not a foreign one, and you wish it was. the dull sense of loss makes you feel weak and empty, like you've skipped dinner.

carefully, you inch closer, until the tips of your fingers graze his. you clasp them, awkwardly. it's a childish way of keeping the two of you together. your insides hurt. you wonder if his do, too. he feels warm to the touch, solid and real. both of your palms are clammy.

you manage, breathlessly, "i don't want to fight with you."

his jaw remains tense, "no, you want to have my stupid brother's back,"

"please?"

"fine."

your stare at your joined hands.

"i'll leave," you promise quietly.

"good."

a cold silence creeps in after those words. you let go of his hands and step off his bedside, a great, wistful longing coiling in your gut. you gaze, again, hopefully, only for him to sneer. a terrible look, it doesn't belong there, and it doesn't suit him in the slightest. your head drops, you nod once, and step outside his door and out onto the staircase. the air’s tinted with something burnt and foul.

it's dark and quiet and you feel strangely hollow. the stairs twist beneath your feet. you trudge along, mindlessly, hand gliding down the railing you'd perched on with sirius on sunday. what a distance. it feels like an ocean has swelled, swallowing the shoreline. a curious heat rises up from your neck, itching, prickling, spreading all over.

light dances in the parlour room. the hearth cracks and pops strangely. a swish of a heavy robe, a crinkle of parchment, a sniff.

bellatrix.

she's returned. her silhouette stands imposing by the flickering flames. you're not sure why you came here, only that you did.

she notices you lingering there, head propped against the frame, staring. your hair, mused from earlier, likely gives it away, or, the puffiness in your eyes. her wet footsteps line the polished floor. the lull of rain is oddly soothing.

she tilts her head to the side, examining you, "it's awfully late."

you nod. your chin feels sticky. you wipe at it with the back of your hand, the pads of your fingers swiping your cheek and brushing beneath your nose. she holds out her palm and beckons. something in your stomach unravels, just a little. the carpet is rough, and her hand is heavy on your shoulder.

"shouldn't be wandering around at this hour, my dove," her voice is gentle, the light of the fire lapping across her. her eyes shine strangely, blacker, a dark, curious depth. a flash of green pierces through her iris and disappears. she smells like the night, fresh, and something sweetly charred, like a bonfire or campfire, or, smoke, "a proper little lady sleeps early."

a lump in your throat keeps you from replying. you gaze into the fire. the remains of letters and postcards crumple to black ash. a bright, smiling face on the cover of the magazine shrivels up, blackening at the edges and curling, melting in the cinders. andromeda's gifts.

this is why you never want to know anything.

Chapter Text

walburga lands three kisses: one for regulus, one for sirius, and one for you. her lips are dry, and her lipstick stains identical, right between the brows. sirius seems most displeased by such a display of unwanted affection, at king's cross, no less, but regulus is glad for it. you are, too, as unwilling as you are to admit or even show it.

"write," she orders.

you know this isn't aimed solely at you, but it's easier to assume. a bout of special treatment. walburga is very different from your mother, from the cut of her features to her voice to the drapes of her travel robes. sometimes, you wish they were much alike, because that would mean that your mother loves you. perhaps the contrast means she doesn't, perhaps the warmth means she's obliged to. perhaps all love has its peculiarities.

the trip to the station had been surprisingly uneventful. sirius had pointedly ignored you, always one step head – any further and walburga would have yanked him back by the hand, which would have been terribly embarrassing for him. regulus, sour in his brother presence, had also been confined to silence, but he stuck close to your side, a looming shadow just over your shoulder, still too short to form any of his own.

despite this, their strategic placement made you safe. rabastan made himself scarce at the first blow of the whistle, along with your luggage, which he either dumped into a lonely compartment or gleefully left on the tracks. he will receive a earful either way, because you didn't much appreciate the way he handled your precious leather-bound trunk, dragging and jostling it around uncaringly. you'll tattle to father, too, only to make your displeasure all the more apparent.

you take sirius' and regulus' hand respectively and squeeze, trying to ease the mounting pressure, but neither seems to find this comforting, pulling their appendage free almost at once. walburga frowns disapprovingly, eyes sharp. under her gaze, you become nervous. or perhaps it's the loud, oozing mob of people sloshing by the sides of your small family, crying parents and children included. you would, of course, never cry, even if the sting behind your eyes is surprisingly sharp the longer you look at her silver brooch. you wish to assure her, but your teeth are pressed together very tightly and you don't think you'll find your voice. your feet scoot backward, close together, shoulders to your ears.

a flash, an iron cloud of steam, and, then, a hissing rumbling that rattles the platform and vibrates up the soles of your shoes.

a glance at regulus shows him pale and sickly, hazel eyes boring into his mother. sirius grows angry the longer he dallies. his jaw is all hard, like his father's. you wonder if they'll resemble one another the longer they spend apart. the idea is rather frightening.

"on the train, off you go," their mother ushers, an undertone of malice slipping under her crisp voice, "no ruckus."

in a stupor, you nod dumbly, only really catching on when she fixes your jacket and skirts, readying you to face the brave new world of non-private tutors and shared dorms. the chilly mist curls by your feet. she waits until the lot of you march up, the shiny metal stairwell banging loudly underfoot, sirius first, regulus following closely. something within you snaps, and with the creak of the last step, you spin and wave, like your life would depend on it, wind picking up.

no return of your petulant gesture, nor a smile. just the slight dip of her head. it's more than enough.

the train's narrow walkways are overcrowded by eager, sobbing first years saying their last farewells. you hope one tumbles out the open window. the sight of snot unnerves you. surely you don’t look like that, all blushed and scattered and eyes rimmed red. or do you? the thought is humiliating, and your skin crawls beneath soft cotton.

"we should find barty and evan," regulus says.

you perk, "and marzy. matilda, too."

"...suppose."

his expression grows troubled, and it's like the flip of a switch: a change so instantaneous you want to laugh. but it isn't that funny. regulus was never an anxious child. this new side of him concerns you. perhaps he's just worried to be away from home. you are, too, and you wish to tell him, but only in secret, because you know that only he would keep it well.

but sirius is near, and oh, he wouldn't let either of you live it down. he'd probably hear it as a whisper, even with all this terrible noise around. your row is still fresh in memory, and you return his spite with barely masked discontent, despite him being completely unfazed. he's playing a game, as always. when he wins, the euphoria will make everything else melt away. that is how he can stay happy.

you walk through the crowded corridor, the trio making careful but swift movements to avoid the nasty looks of huddled, tired older students. there's a certain thrill to seeing faces you would recognize as fellow peers in a year or two. this is all very new and confusing.

a long string of cabins makes the hall narrower. some doors are opened. inside there is an ever changing string of images: a quartet of laughing girls, a pair of boys playing with a pack of cards, the fatigued glance from a student studying, another group of friends screaming over one another, the window and the endless expanse of trees rushing by, the shrill of the whistle, your heartbeat alongside it.

at last, a lone cabin makes your pulse jump with delight, perhaps for the first time this morning.

tailored grey robes fitted nicely, brown leather oxfords polished, new, shiny silver cuffs, rye blonde hair, and a bored, pale expression. evan rosier doesn’t so much as glance up from his book as the door rattles open, content in his own private booth. no sign indicates it to be so, but the luxurious feeling lingers, along with the hazy after-note of his father cologne (pilfered; evan, at times, wishes to appear very grown up, and thus, he isn’t above bending the rules to achieve a desired affect).

regulus enters first with a greeting, and yours gets stuck in your throat when a hand grasps your wrist and pulls.

"let's go," sirius mumbles, his grip like a claw, tight and hot.

“piss off,” you grumble, trying to tug free, but one look from him makes you wilt in spot. his eyes shift from you to somewhere over your shoulder, and the compartment’s door snaps shut.

wonderful, no one is coming to your rescue. unceremoniously, sirius drags you along, the absolute prat. yanking you around like you're some poodle (rodolphus had thoughtfully once remarked you similar in appearance and character). yes, well, perhaps the comparison is frightening for its accuracy, but that doesn't give sirius the right!

the two of you barge down the corridor, "cousin, please."

"oh," he sneers, "now, i'm ‘cousin’ again?"

you have half the mind to wring him with your own bare hands. the first hex you'll legally cast will be directed at his unhappy sneer. you think of digging your heels into the carpet, but that would possibly end with you toppling over, and he'd continue dragging you still. merlin, that'd be mortifying. another warning look and you're shushed into silence.

you pass a few carriages, now long away from your friends. unknown territory, and the students here a bit livelier and clag in muggle clothes – the sweaters, ugh, and, well, jeans, is it? – and his grip becomes much more mild. as does your resistance. he makes a point of appearing quite satisfied.

the air is a tad too tense for your comfort.

"missed me?" he muses, checking over his shoulder.

yes, you most certainly did. more so than expected, which doesn't bode well. if there was something you didn't want, it would be him figuring this out. bastard.

his next words make you bristle, "don't pout."

the prospect of speaking and exposing yourself makes you shift on your feet uncomfortably, so you don't. instead, you observe. the wooden panelling is actually nice, considering the rubbish inside, and you realize, too, you could have done in worse company. his profile is nearly enough to erase all anger, so much so it leaves you nauseous. it is just like sirius to sweep you up in the tide of his volatile emotions.

alas, you are with him, and his brother is not. he had, quite literally, peeled you away. that must count for something if taking sums.

another carriage, and you're now on the other side of the train, and he's much calmer. happier, clearly, and so you gaze up at the back of his head and wonder what could make the tense line of his shoulders ease so suddenly.

he halts, turns, and his hold slides from your wrist to your hand. this, now, feels like a very important moment. your gut churns.

"sorry," he manages, inspecting the pain of foggy glass. obviously, much more interesting than your dumb expression, "didn't want them tagging along."

"okay," is the only thing that comes to mind, and it doesn't cover even a fraction of your bewilderment.

"and. and-" his nose wrinkles as he mulls, mouth still stuck on the beginning of whatever word he will say, "and, yeah," he pauses, gives a squeeze. the carriage shifts. suppose this is the end of his dignified apology. it is the worst you had ever received, and in your long life, you had received, say, ten at most, because no one ever does anything to upset you. all of them had been from sirius, and, to his credit, he had at least tried to appear sincere. one, definitely, was from rabastan, but he was forced to apologize by father, so that hardly counts.

"still upset?"

his voice, his eyes. you wonder when they'll look older. his ears are turning pink, like they did when he was mad, or when you bested him, or when someone teased him about how ridiculous his name is.

there's not much for you to reply with that wouldn't uncover all, and so you don't speak. instead, you hold your head high in all the poise you can muster. must not be much, because he snorts.

"okay, okay," a great, deep breath, and he slouches forward, "look, sorry for ignoring you," a sigh, like something heavy, a physical entity, slides down and settles low on his chest. his chin drops into his collar, "forgot. forgot how big of a softie you are."

"am not!" your quick denial would be obvious to the blind and deaf.

his voice carries the ghost of amusement, "yes. yes, you are."

"am not!" fine, so what if you are a bit soft-hearted. all of that only makes your pride more magnificent. besides, you are selective with your soft-heartedness. if it were, say, a weeping rabbit, or, someone else's dog, then, you might, indeed, find yourself moved to act, but you most certainly draw the line somewhere. and once you locate that line, you'll surely rub it in his face.

his grin is mollifying, "i know."

all this fuss. not like you truly had much of a choice when sirius is involved. that brute knows which buttons to push. he was a fool to even test it. how he will cry when the roles are reversed.

"do you want to meet my friends?" his excitement, hidden as it is, still leaks.

"no."

"aw." he doesn't believe you. you're not sure you believe yourself. it's very perplexing. the emotions you feel are too complicated for you to pick apart, meshing and blending into a syrup that tastes tart and makes you want to squirm out his grasp, his line of vision, the immediate vicinity, and perhaps further still, but you don’t want him to let go. his eyes brighten with the next statement, "well. you're just going to have to suck it up. be cute."

that makes you huff, because his own smugness is both enervating and enthralling, but you're glad to be needed again, "as if i don't always!"

"there's the spunk," his hold shifts, and the tip of his thumb gently eases a stray wisp of hair away from the bridge of your nose. your cheeks must be positively scalding, "going to cry on me?"

it's his taunting, his brittle tenderness. always wanting to prove something. to you, to everyone, it seems. you think his behaviour is strange today. not off-putting, but, rather, endearing in its absurdity.

fine, you'll bite. fix your cutest expression – all doe eyes and a pout, like you didn't receive the candy you so desperately wanted. very unassuming, it does wonders for the general populace. father once told you that you have a very comely disposition, and that you must use it to your advantage, but what he didn't know is that, at five, you were already doing that. how else would he have bought you a stable to feed your brief obsession with horses? without even realising it, too.

it is terribly effective on sirius.

"well, don't. please," is what he can come up with, which, in your humble opinion, is simply awful, "okay? don't cry. because there's a no-crying clause in our friendship. and it's... very important."

"alright," you cogitate, delighted to have so much power over such a boy. not that show it, but there really isn't a better feeling.

regulus could probably call your bluff. evan, most certainly. but sirius, despite his fiery nature, likes to be useful, but particularly, he likes protect. the latter, especially, when directed toward a pretty, smaller thing. which, in this case, you suppose is yourself.

you allow the brat to tug you up and into a cabin. he almost trips over his feet.

as soon as the door slides open, you stand on your tippy-toes to look over his shoulder.

three pairs of eyes rest on the both of you and suddenly your tummy sinks with panic. how odd is this situation for a first impression. there you are, in skirts and clutching his hand like a little lost pet, and he, smug as can be, eyes slightly less dry from a poor excuse of an emotional break. he has this look on his face, too.

"all right?" the spectacled one greets.

he turns to regard you, which gives you the opportunity to properly analyse the faces of strangers. he seems to be sirius' age, and he's smiling very brightly. his spectacles, a bit crooked, slide off his nose, and he doesn't feel the need to fix them, revealing twin hazel eyes.

a warm squeeze draws your attention back, "yeah," sirius responds, and perhaps you unconsciously cave into yourself to appear even smaller. not that you aren't used to be being examined, it's that you aren't used to being examined by sirius' friends. you had never met anyone he would call that outside of yourself.

"my cousin," sirius presents, along with your full, proper name, first and middle and third and lesrange, "four times removed."

they all happily chime their introductions as you are sat down besides sirius. the spectacle-clad one is james, and the one sat beside him with a chocolate frog in his hand is peter, and the one on your side of the seat is remus, cosy by the window. he seems the quietest and the least likely to find sirius' pranks funny. and you think, all in all, that perhaps you could like him very much.

you have heard bits and pieces about them, and it's nice to put names to faces and finally see the people sirius has grown so close with. he was often quite evasive in his replies, probably to maintain a sense of cool. what a ninny.

peter regards you a bit shyly, not quite sure if you want to be here. his freckly, ruddy skin and blonde hair is so quaint and farmish. nothing like sirius'. james, too, seems like the type of child you might find in a shoe store, perfectly squishy and baby-faced.

"she's good," sirius says, "normal. the only other with common sense out the whole lot."

well, you would appreciate if he didn't speak as if you didn't exist squeezed beside him, thank you very much. his hand still has yours hostage, and by how at ease he is, you assume he has forgotten about it entirely. you will not remind him, because you find the notion surprisingly awkward, and this is perhaps the first time in your life that you feel the prickly, tense feeling halting all possible function.

"not surprised," james remarks, eyes on you. there's a mischievous gleam, similar to sirius’, "a friend of sirius is a friend of ours!"

"suppose," peter agrees, having gotten over the initial surprise of having you there, his features shifting into his natural, lazy appearance, which you can tolerate, "our numbers have grown."

sitting close, you can feel sirius preen in pleasure at being so wanted and loved. by a pettigrew, a line infested with squibs, and a potter, no doubt an ignoble lineage. and a lupin, too, though more subtly. a wizard surname, but considering you haven't heard much of it, you can assume nothing good.

well, this is certainly company.

you plaster your shyest smile in hopes they cannot tell what you're thinking. they're boys, so you don't suppose they think much to begin with, but one can never be too certain! even barty has his moments.

remus, you think, has a quite cool gaze on you. or, not. but still, he holds himself in the same way that regulus does. quite tall, too. there's nothing exactly frightening about his countenance, but he seems a bit more serious than the current gaggle.

sirius doesn't pay much notice, absorbed by his little following as he is, and peter looks absolutely daft and not at all reliable for conversation. james, well, he's looking at you, as though he wants you to feel welcomed to join their conversation. how silly.

"you excited for the sorting?" james asks.

you nod. sirius has hauled you here unwillingly, and so you'll let him respond, as he seems beside himself to do so, "my money's on gryffindor. she's pretty stubborn."

james seems quite captivated with the idea, "that'd make you the first lestrange to be a gryffindor, wouldn't it?"

you are sure there's some sort of jab in there, but james is smiling. like really, really widely. a big, stupid, cheerful smile, and his hair is a terrible mess. he looks like a muggle, and if your father could see you now, you'd never be let outside again.

"she will," sirius tells them confidently, but really, it seems like he wants it to be true more for the sake of argument than anything else, "bet."

"three sickles."

"fine!"

you don't care to gamble, even if there's a great deal of pride involved. betted sickles or no. you decide it'll be best to observe as you settle comfortably. a new role, you’d make quite the actress. perhaps your likeness will be printed in the papers alongside lindy witchermore and gabriette merlot.

the view outside the window melts into endless plains. the sky grows a tad darker, hiding the sunshine, and everything becomes an amorphous smudge.

james ropes the boys into a lengthy discussion of quidditch and this is where you start wondering about regulus. did he and even find barty? and matilda and marzy? did matilda wear her new, pretty bow? if she did, you'll feel very jealous and entirely slighted. you wish you had a cute, fuzzy bow, but then the poodle comparisons really wouldn't stop.

james continues, completely oblivious. maybe that's just how he is. maybe, then, remus is more attentive, because he tilts his head at you a tad inquisitively, "are you interested in quidditch?"

your timidity allows for only a miniscule shake of the head.

suddenly, you're the centre of attention, and your guts get a little icky.

"what? maybe you just don’t know how it works," james quips, "s' alright, i’ll explain." and, merlin, please, can someone save you.

"this idiot here," sirius tells you, turning very swiftly, "believes he's the best player in the nation, and he's not even on the bloody quidditch team yet-"

"-but i'm auditioning this year! it's only cuz they don't allow first years to join the team-"

"-doesn't matter, cuz i'm still winning this year's competition, hands down-

"-wish you luck, sirius," peter interjects. he sounds completely unenthusiastic in his effort to join the argument. you're surprised he could manage, if his awkward stature was anything to go by. his knees, you note, touch his hands, even though he's sitting. very slouched. not how father would teach. but he doesn't seem too self-conscious.

the theme of sports continues. the trolley passes and they cluster to buy sweets, purchasing some extra for you. and extra in general. james spares no expenses, and then sirius goes to match, because apparently, everything's a competition between them, and so your dingy little compartment is slew with candy and you have no appetite.

really, the wrappers make your head spin, and it's much too warm. rain plasters on the window, and for a moment, the windowpane reflects you perfectly, a little face peering in, like it's trying to jam it's way inside.

barty, often, if he knew he did something bad, would beg you in a raspy voice to not snitch. not to his parents. you knew and he knew that if the occasion ever called for it, you were not above a good gossip. and so you would sit with his mother and sisters in the parlour room, holding matching, pretty teacups, and you would feel like an outsider weighted by information you never wanted to have.

much like now. all this menial chatter. an inside into sirius' social life that exists so far from the confines of familial relations. you have never seen him so happy, and when aunt walburga inquires of his moods because he won't be bothered to send an owl back, you will not know whether to lie or tell the truth.

in another time and place, you could possibly imagine regulus here, too. or maybe that would just make him feel worse. his isolation. always feeling the lesser. he'd be miserable in this company, but then the burden could be shared with two, and you wouldn't feel as lonely.

of course, that won't be an option. in this one, or the other.

━━━

your rescue arrives shy of an hour into your stay in that stuffy compartment. narcissa’s cold gaze cuts through the chatter instantaneously, and the overhead lights flicker on slowly to illuminate her haughty expression. how absolutely beautiful she is, even in the storm’s background. the plastic wrappers slide from the seats and puddle by your feet. the shuffle, the rain, the excited spur of your little heart. she regards each of them, pausing on sirius, “cousin.”

“cousin,” his face has scrunched up, as though he ate something sour.

a trace of a smile on her lips, all because of his displeasure. she turns to you, “let’s go.”

twice, today, you’ve been requested. twice, you have no say. while this does imply a certain necessity of your presence – an astounding popularity, how beloved you truly are! – you can only shudder at the thought at what other surprise will occur on this momentous day.

you move, but sirius stops you, “she wants to be here.”

“she needs to greet the rest of the family,” her voice carries a certain finality. no one dares to protest, and you pry yourself away before sirius thinks of a comeback scalding enough to earn him a smacking. or a howler, at the very least.

the corridor has become much more quiet. the doors are closed, and you don’t dare to peel your eyes away from her new kitten heels as you follow after.

cissy needn’t say much for you to know you’ve disappointed her. to be caught with sirius’ crowd is to step into dangerous territory. you feel as though you must explain yourself, because you don’t wish for her ire, nor do you wish for her indifference, “thank you. i didn’t know how to get away. you know how he can be.”

she sighs, “unfortunately, yes, i am quite familiar with his antics. always scheming up his silly, little plans, that one. he really is far too meddlesome, even moreso when it comes to you," she stops, only for you to catch up. looks at you proper, with her chin slightly tilted down to your level, "very clingy."

this pleases you a bit. no matter how irritating the boys can get, they are a sort of constant that brings you peace of mind. no matter the time, no matter the day, there is always at least one that is by your side. not having that would leave you rather desolate.

"they've gotten worse," she says, "what are we to do with such little gentlemen?"

your heart flutters at her mention of we. a sign of inclusion. her fond tone. perhaps the others don't hear her that way, and you certainly won't inform them of her secretly mushy nature, but there isn't a better friend than narcissa. there never will be. not even the others, though bonded far closer, will ever understand you as she does.

"how did you find me?" you ask.

she huffs, as if it's much too obvious, "regulus."

so he has been dutifully working behind the scenes to retrieve you. oh, how your mood improves! all in one day. not that it was bad, no, rather the opposite, but it is relieving to finally return to where you're meant to be.

and the compartment you're meant to be in is much too crowded. there's evan arguing with bartimus over a game of explosive sap, and there's matilda (no bow!) and marzy clamouring to out-pride each other, and there's regulus, the one that notices you first and the one that jumps up to offer you a seat, even if, well, you'd all fit anyway.

"finally," barty calls over his shoulder as you're safely returned, and cissy continues down the walkway, "what have you been up to, hm? the first train ride for larly toppings."

"larly toppings?" you murmur.

his mouth thins in an unimpressed line, "read more."

"she doesn't know how," regulus chimes, and oddly, you've missed the ease of his dull remarks. no matter if you were separated mere hours, your hearts have been made lighter just through proximity.

matilda snorts, "lay off, whiny. he's been moaning about your absence since he lost sight of you."

"have not!" he states hotly.

 evan lifts a curious brow, but his eyes remain fixed on the game.

"she was stuck," regulus tries to explain, "with my brother and his horrible friends. evan?"

he shrugs, "didn't think that'd stop her from walking away."

matilda is absolutely tickled. even you cannot help but laugh at the exasperated expression on reggie's face. marzy scoots and eagerly pats the seat beside her, which you happily take. it earns you a glare from the younger black, who plops back down next to the boys.

bartimus clicks his tongue and tosses a wrapped sweet into his mouth, "our darling is, and shall forever be, delicate and fragile," an aside glance, "of the utmost importance, and we have pledged a solemn duty to defend her honour from that reprobate of a cousin. it's for his own good. he simply doesn't understand, being so young and such."

your nose wrinkles. how pretentious, even if half-right. but, fine, you'll play along, if only to appease your friend and give him some reason to not glower at all hours of the day. he can be very grouchy when the situation calls.

"tell us, c'mon," marzy nudges, "meet cousin's friends?"

you shudder, "they're absolutely horrid. dreadful," you elaborate, and they nod along eagerly, "simply wretched, and so loud. all they talk about is quidditch."

the boys snap at attention.

"quidditch?!" they screech.

"ugh," matilda makes a face, "boring."

"i'm not a fan," marzy agrees.

"don't care for it," matilda adds.

"yeah, cuz you're girls," barty states, "what do you lot know of entertainment?"

"hey! i take offense," matilda throws an empty packet at him, and he moves to poke her.

evan rubs his temples and offers you a weak smile. at least he understands.

"so what's your favourite team?"

"oo, they'll talk about it for hours," matilda rolls her eyes.

marzy's lower lip pokes out, "because it's their 'hobby.'"

you snicker, "chasing balls like dogs. recon they'd be so enthusiastic over a bone?"

"brave words, poodle," regulus bristles.

"i recon you’d know better about chasing your tail," you bite back.

he tugs on your ear, "ow, stop it, let go you idiot!"

the girls scramble to help, "you don't do that!"

and he is towed off of you, thrown on the seat beside evan by two particularly vehement ladies. it takes no time for them to commence the lecturing, which quickly delves into the heartfelt portion of their speech, filled with high pitched, intonations and tears and the like.

"you must stop and consider your actions! we love her dearly, and can't stand to see her so distressed. surely you have noticed a great change in her disposition, not to mention-"

and barty makes a great mistake in trying to defend the great offender, and so he receives an earful, too, "how could you simply sit there and watch her be treated like that? and then dare to stand up for-"

"fine. alright, already!"

beneath his scuffling and exasperated state, barty almost smiles. and the girls tussle his hair, and turn to you, all watered eyes and frowns. "if there is ever an issue, you can tell us," marzy says, "i'll tell theodore! brother will sort the boy right out."

"maybe his mother, too," matilda suggests.

you feign being torn, "no, no! i couldn't."

"we can, but fine, it's your call."

"can't believe this," regulus mutters.

evan grimaces and turns to him, "all in good fun. i think."

the commotion dies down for a moment as marzy fishes out her tissues – one for matilda, one for herself, and one for you. to dab the tears glistening in the corners of your eyes, of course. it’s a very delicate, grown up gesture. mrs nott is an emotional woman, and you three had learned a lot from watching her sob at luncheons (at spring, specifically, when there’s clouds of pollen in the air).

regulus looks at you and asks, "want a caramel ?"

you look at him for a while, a rather dumbfounded look about you, and shake your head no. you take the lemon one instead, for the irony of it.

and with that, you all settle, in a very serene manner, a slight disturbance now and again from the rolling tracks. the others talk over you as you look over your treat, thoughtful and malleable. no, it seems that, in this manner, life will continue unchanged. even after school is established, this, your circle, will endure and persist, and you won't have a need to leave anyone, no matter what comes between you.

oh, but what of sirius? you would so like for him to get along with your rowdy lot. but it's no good, if it's him, because he has his own group, and he wants nothing to do with yours. still, you would share your treat with him, and he wouldn't like the flavour but he would pretend that he did to make you happy.

cissy words linger, but you don't understand why. nor any deeper implications. you will yourself not to think of such things.

━━━

a quick summary of events before this very moment:

one, after the sugar rush, your compartment had died down significantly. seats were changed, and while inspecting the tome on the history of hogwarts (terrible read, really, you'll detest history of magic, you just know it!) you and regulus had fallen asleep.

two, bartimus had accidentally left explosive crackers by an unassuming door leading to a compartment occupied, accidentally, by muggles, which spooked them immensely. they fled like puffskins in each and every direction as the fireworks cackled and smoke billowed, lingering in the corridor. this is how he met frank longbottom, a gryffindor prefect, and received a stern warning, which only left him pondering about further opportunities of mischief.

three, evan, searching for a chocolate frog, had located a box of marzipan sweets, which greatly upset marzy, because marzipan nott is a ridiculous name and she was rightly ridiculed by bartimus for a good 15 minutes before matilda locked him out of the compartment.

four, after changing into your school uniforms, the lot of you sat in silence nursing a nasty stomach-ache.

five, you briefly saw sirius and his friends at hogsmeade station, and james potter waved at you, which upset regulus, so he didn't speak with you for the remaining boat ride. you had decided he's not worth the fuss, and simply enjoyed the cool, wet air and the gentle lull of the wooden boat drawing closer to the castle that will, from now, be considered your home. the sky, by then, had cleared, and the moon was split in half by the astronomy tower.

the great hall is astoundingly grand. your shoes echo and the chattering whispers are a pleasant buzz. it seems as though no one quite wants to separate. your friends surround you, admiring the enchanted sky and the warm twinkle of floating candles. "they're everywhere. look."

regulus points, as he noticed first, and you move your head to follow their patterns. you've never seen anything like it before. it's quite a thing, how all the children look upward, stumbling after professor mcgonagall and closer and closer to the sorting hat. sat atop a rickety stool, you try to catch a glimpse at it, though all you can see is the pointy tip.

on your left sits the slytherin table, with cissy and rabastan; to your right is sirius with his friends, and further is hufflepuff, and further still is ravenclaw. marzy, unable to help herself, waves at her brother, and you see him stand and wave back, a new, shiny ravenclaw prefect badge pinned to his robes.

"oh," she sounds very distressed, and her tanned skin blotches a deep rose, "i hope i'm in ravenclaw," she utters, then snaps, "no!" she turns to you and regulus, stood shoulder to shoulder, taken aback by the fervour in her voice, "slytherin. i don't want to be without you."

barty shrugs, "plenty of chances. we'll come for a visit anyway."

"of course we will," you confirm, and pat her arm gently.

"you'll do well wherever you are," matilda pats her arm, too.

you'd like to say the sorting doesn't matter much at all, but it does. ravenclaw is not too egregious, however, and it would bely an intelligence you didn't know she had, which would be a pleasant surprise to everyone. hufflepuff is tolerable. the only hufflepuff you know is aunt berry yaxley, but no one talks to her much.

gryffindor is off limits, but marzy would never fit the criteria. you, however...

bartimus gives the both of you a sceptical look. the chatter dims for a moment as dumbledore stands and delivers his yearly introduction. the sorting hat starts singing, and the lyrics were included in the brochure, but you didn't bother reading. regulus finds singing embarrassing, so the two of you hum along, but bartimus, unsurprisingly, has quite a pair of lungs on him.

finally, the sorting begins. professor mcgonagall unfurls a lengthy parchment, and the hall hushes eagerly. you feel the tension slowly settle on your shoulders as the names are called. to some, this is simply a sorting. to you, it will decide your fate.

"black, regulus," and the pin drop silence is slightly unnerving. you glance at reggie as he glances at you, and you don't have time to read his expression before he's off, weaving through the students to take a seat under the brim of the worn sorting hat. you clasp your hands together tightly.

"SLYTHERIN!"

clapping erupts. all of you brim with happy smiles, but regulus remains stoic. his eyes dart to gryffindor before he shuffles to join cissy, growing more miserable as the slytherin table drowns him in congratulations.

"crouch, bartimus," mcgonagall sounds.

"expelled," matilda hisses, and to the surprise of all, barty doesn't flip her the bird.

the hat covers his eyes before, "SLYTHERIN!"

and he's much happier to receive the standing ovation. you can see it on his face: the rush, the pride when he slides onto his bench, a smug, lopsided grin etched onto his features, right beside a quiet regulus.

a few more names, and then yours. the crowd shushes again. this year holds many important names, some youngest members of the secret twenty eight. all eyes, on you, again, and marzy nudges you to move as your gaze gets stuck on sirius. he seems hopeful. a small smile lifts his lips and you feel yourself breathe in and hold.

your fingers shake, but you walk with your back straight, just like aunt walburga taught you.

you sit down, and mcgonagall offers you a placid smile. you'd prefer her not to draw it out and let you keep your sanity.

it barely grazes the top of your hair before it bellows, "SLYTHERIN!"

you blink, deafened by the cheering. dizzied, you stand on quivering legs, and you look to sirius, because he had assured you and himself different, but he's not even looking at you. his brows are creased and his jaw is clenched. not the way you want to see him. it was a terrible thing to wish, after all. the disappointment.

but the welcome, oh, anyone would love to be so accepted. regulus smiles, a rare, honest quirk of the lip, and he beams just a little bit when he notices the tight expression on your face, so proud and yet so filled with concern, like your happiness meant more to him than his own. you are pulled to sit beside him and barty as your robes stripe green, and cissy smiles and pats your cheek, and everything is as it should be in the world.

just not exactly how you imagined.

Chapter Text

 “how is she?” you inquire.

evan remains quiet for a few moments, the very picture of misery. sad eyes pour down the letter held between steady fingers, toast and marmalade untouched by his elbow. he had read it trice and still remains unsatisfied. if you weren’t as tired, you’d snatch it out his hands to inspect it yourself. unfortunately, both of you seem to have been tormented by a sleepless night.

“completely bedridden,” he surmises. there’s a pinch between his brows that will become routine when he’ll be faced with something inconsiderate. you know upon notice, and it feels as though you always knew, “from a common cold.”

hardly a novelty, “hope she gets better soon,” she never does, and anyone but evan would scoff at the words. you wonder if he ever tires of hearing them. a porcelain cup between your palms warms you – black tea and balmy fumes against your skin, “how’d she catch it, anyway?”

“exploring the garden,”

“thought she wasn’t allowed to do that.”

“you’ve met pandora,” he grumbles, folding the letter neatly before hiding it inside the inner lapels of his cloak. close to the heart, where all important things should remain, “a rambunctious child,” he says, as if he isn’t one. the miasma of his father’s perfume doesn’t enfold him. he seems particularly young in the pale morning light, “don’t think she realises the consequences.”

no, surely she does not. sickly and dream-like, pandora rosier speaks little and feels too much. the sight of a butterfly’s torn wing had distraught her so horribly that she fell comatose for a week before she awoke mid-winter with a terrible headache and no recollection of the occurrence. mrs rosier had forbid anyone to speak of it, and pandora was no longer allowed to play in the manor’s garden without an escort. every space needed to be scrubbed and tailored before she was to step foot in it.

not that it helped much. once, pandora told you that she saw mirages in the dancing dust. you thought her terribly stupid and suggested to play dolls instead.

“how will she fare, i wonder,” you think yourself sounding very diplomatic, like mrs rosier when she masked worry with a pinched lip and a slight raise of a brow. your weathered gaze sweeps the sleepy gaggle of children seeking breakfast in the great hall. today, it is much less impressive than the night of the sorting, “hogwarts is hardly up to standards.”

truly, headless ghosts and moving armours, twisting staircases and wailing portraits, not to mention the great expanse of rolling hills and the murky depths of the black lake, still as glass against the trees when you peeked at it this morning. you imagine pandora would faint at the sight of a ripple, or burst into tears upon a still portraits sudden, uncanny movement.

evan must have considered this for far longer than you have. he shrugs. either he doesn’t want to say or he doesn’t want to speak of this further. both fit you fine, for your interest in young pandora goes as far as politeness wills it.

“where’s regulus?” he switches topic idly, pouring some milk into a steaming cup that appeared by his right hand no sooner than he moved it.

“how should i know,” perhaps a tone too petulant for such an offhanded comment, “sleeping, probably.”

he tuts, “surprised you’re awake.”

“i'm very diligent and studious,” you remark, which only earns a quiet chortle. a year ago you would have smacked him. perhaps you haven’t changed so much, because he nurses his shoulder with a glare pointed in your direction, “don’t pout, you look like a pug.”

whatever else he was going to mumble is lost under the threat of more violence. perhaps he has no fight in him. it is very early. you would say you awoke at sunrise, watching it gleam through the water and onto the cold tiles of the slytherin common room. but that would be a lie. you hardly slept at all.

there was no clear reason for it, not that you could name. a restless uneasy spiked once you laid your head down on the cool pillow. your eyes didn’t close, even when they grew heavy from each slow blink. they got used to the dark. you could outline the faint silver embroidery of the curtain around your bed. hear matilda’s hushed breaths and marzy’s quiet snore. the overhead gurgle of pipes. the groan of old wooden structures as you moved, and the rustle of linen sheets. all these sights and sounds distracted you. you kept thinking, but it was too fragmented to understand. at once there was the pungent burn of a record and melted lemon fudge on your tongue.

you wished, for a moment, to find regulus, though you were unsure of what you would do once you located him, nor why you wanted it in the first place. this thought soon warped into a bitter ache because he hadn’t searched you out first. he should know, of course, when you’re unhappy, and he should do something instead of sleeping soundly as if to mock you.

“have you spoken to slughorn?” evan pulls you out of your musings. like a true gentleman, he keeps his elbows off the table and speaks only when he’s done chewing.

“he invited regulus and i for tea and biscuits,” you recall. evan hums in agreement.

“i've got tea with him today. with barty.”

“matilda and marzipan are scheduled for tomorrow, i think,” you say, “curious what to expect?”

“i assume praises about our good blood and magical potential?” he raises a brow with a sideways glance.

you smile, “it’s not so horrid. you can tune him out after the first ten minutes, he hardly says anything worthwhile after.”

the head of your house, the esteemed potion and poison pioneer and rigorous socialite, horace slughorn, is a well-known figure to you outside of the classroom. an invitation is always extended to him during particularly big socials, and he’s always delighted smarmy around the upper echelon of the wizarding world. while his focus then was mostly directed at figures such as your father and others of equal importance, he always gave you a caramel toffee once you were instructed to say hello.

now, of course, you are very much important, a star jewel in his collection of significant children, and he extended his summons to you and regulus personally, and wanted just the two of you alone. you suppose slughorn split you all into pairs so he wouldn’t run out of compliments. you adore being adored, though his praises had felt a tad shallow, and the tea too sweet.

“when’s it, anyway?”

“after dinner,” evan sighs; more students pile into the hall.

“don’t sound all that enthusiastic.”

“can you blame me?”

you make a face, stuck somewhere between scrutiny and pity. no, you can’t really blame him, but that doesn’t mean you shan’t.

thankfully, the conversation melts to silence as you spot a disgruntled and sleepy bartimus and a much more composed regulus. they enter together, seemingly engrossed in a hushed conversation that doesn’t bode well for either, but they lighten up marginally when they see you and evan, pristine even in these unforgiving hours.

“blimey,” barty all of throws himself into a nearby seat, and the table sprouts a hearty breakfast to feed the insatiable crouch stomach, “this toad,” he points with his thumb at regulus, who, still adoring a slight frown, takes a seat beside you. naturally. barty will likely tease him once he’s done cowing over his woes, “woke me at the crack of dawn, moaning about how we’ll be late. we’ve got history of magic, for merlin’s sake. coulda slept in fine and missed zilch.”

“tragic.” is all evan says.

“did you get here early?” regulus greets instead of a good morning. he seems a tad weary, but is, overall, managing quite better than either you or your sombre seatmate. he leans a little, and you lean back, to catch evan’s gaze, “thought i heard the door opening.”

“clearly,” seems rosier’s potency for polite conversation has gone down drastically since your chat. perhaps he’s grown bored, or more tired, or is simply fed up at the sight of barty scarfing down his meal, “you know no one’s gonna take it from you.”

“i'll take from you, though,” barty says, pilfering some toast from evan’s plate.

“did you get a chance to visit the library?” regulus asks, once again, evan.

“shall we switch seats?” you inquire pointedly.

regulus spares you a glance, “i'm fine here.”

if you could roll your eyes more they’d lodge into the back of your skull. the morning is saved, however, by marzy and matilda entering with their arms linked. you spring up, grabbing at your book bag, much to the startle of the boys.

“leaving us for girls?” barty accuses.

“i’m a girl,” you huff, greatly insulted by such a statement, “and i'd much rather enjoy my breakfast with pretty company instead of this sorry sort,” before you can so much as make it a few steps, regulus pipes up.

“will you sit with me at history?”

you frown, “absolutely not!”

you do. and what is worse, you are dragged into the front row. barty and evan sit in the back, no doubt by the former’s request – easier to sleep, or cheat, out of the professor’s peripheries. marzy and matilda sit somewhere in the middle, and the rest of the company is largely unfamiliar to you – some pale-faced ravenclaws and still sleepy hufflepuffs, a few gryffindors with an abundance of school supplies taking everything out with as much volume as expected. this year’s crop of first years is, overall, quite small.

regulus takes out his quills and parchment. hogwarts: a history lays under the sunrays as you stare, willing it to catch on fire. what a feat that’d be, wandless magic on your first week with only a few simple charms under your belt. perhaps you’d be so revelled that the faculty would let you skip this course entirely. no such luck.

regulus nudges you with his elbow, feeling particularly pesky today. you don’t react, opting for scribbling the date on the top of your yellowed paper. he gives you a few moments before he does so again. you write your name. hear him sigh. good, he should feel bad for what he’s done.

“are you angry with me?” he asks quietly, minding the loud conversation just behind you, “i'm not sure what i’ve done to upset you.”

in all fairness, you’re not quite sure, either. the complexities of your mind have yet to be sorted into the words familiar to you. all that you do know is that everything here feels strange, and if you knew the term for it, perhaps it would be called homesickness.

not that you’d ever tell him. regulus changes a bit if front of evan and barty, but such was always the case, only never so apparent. perhaps you have been grieving this difference since you got here. that things will change, and that they are changing, and that you’re changing, as well. you feel as though you should be spared such a premonition. you’re too young to be so self-aware.

“it’s nothing,” you decide to forgive him for his mishaps. he is just a boy. your stupid regulus. your offering of peace is a smile. momentarily, he seems struck by it, looking at you even when you turn back to your parchment and the quirk of your lips melts into a placid line.

somewhere, a thread is woven.

Chapter Text

you would have preferred to change into something a bit more fitting for a tea party, but the invitation came too sudden. it was just you and regulus, wrung out from the day’s activities – the new classes and itineraries and so many faces to remember and attach names to – en route to the library (by regulus’ request, he had been quite adamant at starting charms homework early) when you were collected and brought the same winding steps down to the dungeons.

you’d think the air be warm and smelling of mould and torch-light smoke, but no. it’s surprisingly dry, if not a bit heavy, bending under the weight of the castle and the black lake. you follow. the professor says his hellos to passing slytherin students. regulus, a step behind you, remains equally as silent.

the office you are cordially ushered in is small for a professor of such distinguished rank. there’s a low ceiling and a homey atmosphere, a plush couch in deep, smoky velvet with gilded edges, a mahogany table, an impressive amount of trinkets and pictures in the cabinet, a few portraits and landscapes and old tomes with latin titles: the elixir compendium: ancient brews and potent potions, alchemy through the ages: secrets of the master potioneers, witchcraft and wizardry: a guide to mystical mixtures.

tea’s already steaming and waiting. beside the cups, a delicious display of biscuits and caramels in flowery china.

“there we are,” professor slughorn says, closing the door. regulus and you take a seat, backs straight and hands folded neatly on your laps. one, however, seems much less at ease, “there we are. what a joy, i must say, to have so many bright students this year.”

the professor takes a seat on an armchair to face you both. his eyes jump between you and regulus. when he takes his tea, you do, too.

“i know it must be too soon to tell, but how are you finding hogwarts?” he settles on regulus first.

there’s a slight pause and an answer given to the tea, “very big, sir.”

“ah,” slughorn intones, “indeed, a marvel of creation. can be quite difficult to navigate. sometimes i stumble the wrong way and discover a room unseen, even after all these years. always up to something, this castle. as if alive itself,” his gaze drifts to you, “and you, miss lestrange? what are the impressions?”

medieval. the truth has a bitter tinge.

what comes out is more polite, “sheer wonder, sir. a bit of homesickness as well, but surely passes away the first few months, does it not?"

“of course, of course! as is to be expected anywhere, but i'm absolutely certain you’ll grow to love it very much over your stay,” there is a gleam of pride, a private whisper of, "very bright, indeed, you two. you'll both excel in all your studies." before he is reaching for a biscuit with the poise of a natural socialite.

regulus frowns but accepts the complement and bites into the sugar glaze of his own treat.

"i recall, you know, your father, mister black. orion was quite a rising name in the duelling club back in the day," a wave of the biscuit, and the memories, "no one, till this day, i bet, could beat him. not without paying a visit to the hospital wing."

regulus looks slightly up from under his lashes. professor slughorn perseveres with an affable smile.

a raised finger, "excelled in defence against the dark arts. wonderful wandwork, though i was quite, if you pardon my candour, miffed that he didn't take to potions as much. top of his class, but his passions laid elsewhere. your mother, though, walburga, oh, a delight to the heart," slughorn, overcome with remembrance, rubs a thumb over the stitching on his robe, "simply splendid. always a joy to have in class – a talented witch and diligent student. well-versed in potion making and never shied away from a difficult task."

"thank you, sir," is offered stiffly and sincerely, if somewhat unwillingly.

"the only one ever to come close to beat her title as top of class was your own mother, miss lestrange," he doesn't notice the glance that passes between you and your cousin, "you are very much like her. laurelle. a spitting image, in fact," there's a strange wistfulness in his eye as he regards you, a tone just a tad softer, "an exceptional young woman."

it could have been anyone – the sentiment could apply to a countless number of things, but...

no one speaks much of your mother, and she doesn't speak at all. hearing anything on a figure whom had faded into an invisible character is strangely foreign. like a freshly cut bruise.

"thank you, sir," you say, not sure how to respond to such a tender sentiment, "everyone says we're much alike."

"then no doubt you possess her talent for runes and arithmacy. her and walburga, always a competition between them, i recall. a bit of friendly rivalry in class. but walburga, i fear, didn't possess laurelle's talent for astronomy or the gift for divination."

there's a slight pause at the mention of the last word, where everything seems to halt. the world itself, under your feet, eases motion. the sugar cube held between your tweezers plops into your cup with a splash a bit too loud.

"and your father," slughron glosses over it quickly but gracefully, "a natural at transfiguration. one of the toughest subjects at hogwarts, if i do say so myself, besides potions, that is," you feel regulus' gaze burn the side of your face, "rodolphus, too, enjoyed transfiguration very much. yes, a very gifted boy."

rabastan mustn’t be talented at much since he isn't mentioned. you expected it, though it feels like a slight injustice.

"here," slughorn stands and retrieves a picture in a pretty gold frame before presenting it to you and regulus, "our winter social of 1946."

in the picture is slughorn himself and his illustrious slug club. there's a 17 year old orion black, handsome, carefree, a slight mischievous twinkle in his eye, not a line of stress etched in his features. you and regulus spot your mothers instantly. walburga softer in the face, the harsh lines not yet present. a modest smile, one regulus mimics unconsciously faced with her likeness. and there's laurelle, your mother, in the front beside slughorn, gazing past the camera to the great beyond.

a beauty. startling in sight, like a painting slightly crooked.

there's father, too, seeming very jovial beside his prewett cousins.

"timon and orion," slughorn continues, pilfering another picture from the cabinet. he gives it to regulus, as you hold the other, "were on the slytherin quidditch team. very good ones, too. orion was seeker and timon beater, a fine fit for their temperaments. are you interested in quidditch, dear boy?"

regulus, finally, comes alive. there's a fervour now, the topic far more exciting than that of house points and exams.

"yes, sir. my brother didn’t allow me to go out and train with him, though. said i'm too young," he doesn't complain, simply recounts with disappointment.

slughorn laughs, "yes, well, sirius cannot stop you now, can he? if you're interested, do talk to young aster fauns. he's the captain of our team. i'm certain he'll be delighted to let you practice before trying out for the team next year. hogwarts is, after all, a great place for adventures, and nothing is more thrilling than an afternoon out in the skies," slughorn's finger wiggle, "best believe it was me, and dear orestes carrow, who first hang-glided off the west tower."

regulus grins then. really grins, a lovely sight. a shadow of orion's, in the picture held before.

slughorn tacks on, "with some friends, naturally. of course, now, of course. safe to say that no one is attempting hang-gliding these days. and you shan't either," he wags a finger, though good-naturedly, "both of you, know i have eyes and ears everywhere. i shall be the first to hear of it."

you return to inspecting the treasure in your hands. the eight members of the slug club stand in formalwear, perfectly fitted. the air is lighter, smiles a little more wide. even for an animated picture, they stay respectably still besides the odd laugh and wandering, playful eyes.

laurelle, particularly, doesn't move, or blink, or breathe. there's a half smile painted on her lips, an almost faint sadness around the edges of her eyes.

she must've been ill by then. so young, a seventh year. a brilliant, albeit tragic star, the scintillating crown of the lestranges. a jewel so precious father chose a foreign last name.

"any classes you are excited for in particular?" slughorn inquires.

regulus starts but keeps a sensible eye, "all of them, sir."

a chortle. he sounds amused, not doubtful, at the wide-eyed, unhesitating declaration.

"and you, miss lestrange?"

you lift your head from the picture. you wonder if you shall grow into her features like rabastan grew into father's, "runes, sir."

"a marvellous subject. tremendously difficult, but i do not doubt your potency for it, dear girl. you'll excel. are you familiar at all?"

regulus turns at attention. the portraits, too, seem intrigued and tilt an ear. you tell the truth, "i know the alphabet. the runic charts in the library at home, though, are very complicated."

"your mother's handiwork, most probably," his lips crinkle upward, eyes scrunched kindly, "many would disagree, but a runic chart is often very subjective. like any other language, the flow and transition depends greatly on the speaker. laurelle was, is still, no doubt, an exceptional translator. have you attempted to read them?"

you glance at regulus, as if unsure. his expression is inscrutable.

"a little, sir," you hesitate again before continuing, "but i can't translate everything. i'd be much more comfortable using a rune dictionary."

"like the best of them, you've inherited your mother's talent."

something remains unsaid, but you feel it in the air around you. bending under the weight.

"well, i shan't keep you longer," slughorn says, setting down his tea, "the hour grows late and you have classes in the morning."

you all stand. regulus collects the photos and returns them to their owner. the others remain in the picture frames on the cabinets. there are too many to take in and you're curious, perhaps a touch greedy, to drink the sight of laurelle lestrange while offered the leisure.

"but, before you go," slughorn calls when you're at the door, "may i have a word, dear girl? only a moment."

you look to regulus, who does, too, and raises a brow. slughorn nods reassuringly, his hand reaching forward, ready to push the knob and send him off.

"i'll wait in the corridor," regulus tells you before the closing door obscures him.

the room is silent. slughorn's small eyes dart to the ground before back to you. there's a tentative smile, "a good friend, isn't he? regulus."

"yes, sir," you reply dutifully.

"no doubt, you shall grow to learn what a gift that is in hogwarts. very true friends, those loyal in their heart, are scarce. it's good to have such a person by your side."

"of course, sir."

the atmosphere feels thick again.

"someone you can trust," he emphasizes, but it feels as though what he's saying is going over your head, "that can be dependable," a gentle, careful tone is in his voice, like a question or a plea, "to confide in."

there's a prolonged silence. a shifting in your boots, the pull of the robe over your knees, "i'm sorry, sir. what do you mean?"

his expression falls, like he doesn't wish to elaborate, to explain the unspoken, but, no doubt, you don't fully understand, "not so important, really. a silly worry. an old man's fretting. this is a very difficult thing, being away from home. could result in a deal of… unexpected ways. i recall i could barely sleep the first week. terribly cold up here in winter, and all the unfamiliar voices."

he sounds apologetic. you say politely, "that will certainly ease itself soon, i'm certain. home is not so far, after all, sir."

he smiles, a comforting thing, "indeed. quite true. a splendid perspective, as i expect of you. only, if there was something to ever come up, know that you can confide in me, as you can in young regulus. my ears and heart are always open," it's offered in earnest. you nod, if not a touch stiff, before bowing your head.

when you enter the corridor, you meet regulus with an unchanged face. he's studying the decorations and trinkets lined the walls. portraits, old medals, and ribbons hung.

"what'd he want?" he inquires once you're on your way back to the common room.

a glance over the shoulder, though professor slughorn's office is closed and far off already, "nothing, really."

Chapter Text

over the course of the month, it seems that the sight of you has become repulsive to sirius. he could not bear to look at you for more than it took to notice you in the crowd or to recognize your voice echoing before the body belonging to it reached him. he’d flee, usually, and refrain, in a completely un-sirius fashion, from making a gigantic scene. this would have been odd to you if only the pain of seeing his hastily retreating back wasn’t too much.

don’t be so harsh with me please, you’d want to tell him, i’ve done nothing but love you.

instead, “what. is. with. you,” and each word punctuated with an angry smack to his forearm. he glares, and he wiggles out the way of your unrelenting pursuit to beat him into submission. his friends watch frozen, stuck somewhere between amusement and desire to pull sirius back into the safe confines of the gryffindor tower. you will not allow them. not this time, at least, “you stuck up, insufferable—“

“piss off,” he nurses his bruises, though you aren’t strong enough to leave any.

you falter in your step, but the anger doesn’t die. he must know how his look wounds. he must. “piss off?” you parrot, and it rings much smaller and fainter than his had, “piss off? that’s all i get from you?”

“expect something different?” he bites, and bites, and bites, and he maims and mars until there is a thread between your hands and his heart thin as ivory wire. his eyes appraise and they dance and they hate, “why don’t you run back to your regulus.”

there it is. the venom.

“sirius-“ james starts, and both of your glares cut him into two.

“shut up,” the both of you, again, together. you mirror his dark look and try to decide which words of the infinite welling quickly are most fitting. they sink with and through you; an anger and a hurt not meant to be felt by someone so inexperienced. when you and sirius argue, it is never as dire, even if it feels like it was. sirius never starts rows he cannot win, even if it’s him that loses most in the end, “family matter.”

james looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else but in the windy courtyard, shadowed by the cold arches of a loggia. peter, cheeks and ears burning, nervously rubs his hands together to dispel the cold. remus, already, is further ways down and watching, waiting for the rest to catch up. you won’t let them, not yet, not till you say your piece and abandon first, because father said the last word is always the winner.

you speak in french because you know he hates to hear it, because it reminds of home and you know he can’t stand home like he can’t stand you now, and it will hurt him, and it will make you happy, “regulus was right about you. you’ve become unthinkably cruel.”

he curls his lip, and it is with so much spite that it makes your teeth ache. his body rolls into itself, ready to explode and spit up his scorn all over your face. the insult must teeter on his tongue. you're more than ready for it. but something cracks and something flips and he reels back a bit, a show of restraint you thought him absent of.

"yeah, regulus, regulus always knows best, doesn't he?" your french mimicked in his mouth is dense, like syrup, "regulus, darling, regulus," a sneer that draws his lip to the high planes of his cheekbones, and a head tilting movement that is patronizing and obscene. it reminds you of his mother, "your regulus, isn't he the fucking best."

"he's not mine," you state tartly.

"hard to believe when he follows after you like a dog," he bites, and bites, and bites, but even through the layers upon layers, the soreness permeates and leaves you stricken into a stupor that only sirius can create, "listens and does everything you say. can't he think for himself. attached to your shoulder like some blithering pest."

you blink back the anger in your eyes. you are not going to cry, you tell yourself. if you do, then he will win, but he always does.

the boys stare at you. you don't know what to say. the feeling of it is tight and burns like an ulcer, "what has gotten into you? why do you hate me? i haven't-" your lips work through their turmoil, "-i haven't done anything to you."

he waves you off, dismissive. his hands tremble with some unspoken rage. "stop bothering me and go back to regulus. he's probably already looking for you."

the end of the conversation hangs heavily between you. sirius sniffs, and turns away in that blasé manner he always has with him, as if all life were a joke. his posture is too stiff and his features are too cold and he joins remus first as james and peter linger. you shake.

"i, uhm," james begins, but your glare silences him again. slowly, carefully, he nudges peter, "c'mon."

they leave, but james looks back. you miss it, head hung in defeat. your emotions threaten to burst free and splinter all over the stone. you think, in a hurry, how could you ever cover them up – with your hands, your body? is it the aftermath already, where everything is too obvious for pretence?

when it rains, it pours. it always has and you suspect it always will.

━━━

naturally, you are inconsolable. what a great big joke. no broom closet nor dusty cavern of the castle is familiar enough to hide in, and you cloak, despite its expanse, can hardly protect from sore eyes. the loo it is, locked in some stall and hiccupping. marzipan had mentioned finding a hufflepuff crying not a week in. she thought it amusing, and you did, too – who could ever abate decency and sob in the loo? what a terrible ploy for attention, had the girl expected consolation? no such could ever be found in marzipan, why, she said, and she said it proudly, she laughed quite loud and the crying stopped.

you would die on the spot if someone found you. it would feel like uncovering a horrible secret, being exposed in such a way. aren’t you a grown up? your birthday is soon, on a cold october night. grownups always breathe fine – besides your ditzy aunts – but you find there not being enough air. so much space and so little of it.

you fan yourself, and you heave, and in a tantrum you tussle out your cloak and throw it onto the gleaming white tiles.  your cheeks burn and there’s an ache in the apex of your head. crying like this, over a boy, no less? sirius, of all? rabastan would point and laugh, point and laugh, point and laugh.

there’s a knock on your stall’s door and you nearly topple over in a scurry to silence yourself.

“hi, sorry,” the voice is unfamiliar, but it sounds kind, “are you alright?”

perfect, not only have you embarrassed yourself, you’ve aroused the suspicion of an idiot. there’s a gentle creak on the wood, as if a weight has settled. an ear, perhaps, pressed onto the surface, but for what?

you will your shaky hands to settle by your stomach. the fingers pinch and pool on the woollen fabric of your sweater. you gulp, but it gets stuck, and the silence stretches, so still.

“i-yes,” you manage. this won’t do, the tears cling to your mouth, “i’m, i'm okay.”

“do you need some water?”

if you weren’t so distraught, you’d delight at the curtsy. stupidity must be contagious because you shake your head.

“no, no,” you say after a pause.

“a tissue perhaps?”

“i'm fine,” seems you have managed to locate your wits. from some hellish depths, no doubt. swiftly, you retrieve your cloak, “thank you.”

“’s no worries,” the voice pipes. it belongs to a girl, you think, who doesn't budge, and, instead, waits. it seems your dramatics have riled someone. even the staff would scold your sorry condition, all snot and tears and shaking limbs – quite undignified, "can you tell me why you're crying?"

oh, merlin, how wonderful, the prodding and the poking and the horrible sympathy. are you so pitiable? perhaps. in this state. it's still hard to believe a complete stranger has found themselves so comfortable, "if i say i'm not crying will you go?"

the girl laughs, light and tittering. for a moment, it startles you, too, "not very likely."

the air remains stagnant, as if it's thick and spinning. the echoes of your sniffles bounce along the walls. you could tell her to piss off. you've heard it enough in the span of the last hour.

"i had a fight with my friend," you say eventually, "i think he hates me."

"did you do something to make him hate you?"

your forehead grazes the stall door. it leaves a cold spot and it makes you wince, "no."

"hmm," there is a sound of shuffling and more creaking, "well, then i wouldn't be very worried. he sounds like a dick, and what you need friends like that for?"

a great deal, actually. what did you think you were doing these years, clinging to his arm and curling into his bed when it rains? "what am i supposed to do?"

"beat him up, i imagine, and sort his sorry arse out."

you snort, though not very amused, "tried that."

"good start," you imagine her nodding and crossing her arms, "now, if i were you, i'd hex him into tomorrow and we'll never hear from him again."

"sounds wicked," you lament. the thought has crossed your mind, but revenge crumbles into some mushy, pitiful mess if you think on it too long.

"positively evil," she agrees. the silence returns, but it's comfortable, "i’ve got parchment in case you wanna practice curses."

a corner of your mouth quirks. your chest aches, but it's no longer full and painful, "that's alright, thank you."

"always wanted to be an accomplice," you hear the smile in her voice, "no trouble at all."

a final stretch of quiet. it allows you to breathe, really breathe, and pull yourself into order, as it were. it's no pretty sight, the state of you, but it no longer compares to how you first came in, a crying mess. when you open the stall, and face the girl for the first time, a kind face greets you. her brown skin is flush, hair twisted into two plaited horns that are gathered into a half bun, the rest pinned around her head. your nose twitches, itchy.

she grins, "there you are. no longer crying."

the cold from the running faucet burns against your cheeks. the face that peers back at you from the mirror is dishevelled. red-rimmed eyes and wet splotches all over. you grimace, "look like a sordid mess."

"well, yes, but, like a normal sordid mess. like, almost pretty normal," she stands behind. a red lion's emblem is embroidered into her uniform. she tilts her head, "like, i look way worse when i do it. at least you cry prettily."

"oh, you think so?" you turn to her, "no one's ever said that."

her nose wrinkles, but the mirth isn't gone from her eyes, "well, don't suppose you make a habit of sobbing in front of others. lest you wouldn't have barricaded yourself in the stall."

you hum, "quite the excellent point."

she flashes her teeth and nods proudly, "of course, got many," there's a slight silence where she appraises you, "you're lestrange, right? i've seen you in my classes," she asks as though she knows, and extends her hand for you to shake, "i'm dorcas. meadowes. gryffindor.”

“slytherin,” you respond, but shake her hand anyway.

“can tell,” dorcas says, that same lilt of a smile on her lips, “you wear it with pride.”

yes, of course, because that is what lestrange do. her family name is unrecognizable, but you don't think to wonder on it much further. her eyes are friendly and warm, and she takes to fixing the wayward strands of your hair while you dab a bit of tissue paper to your nose. a few seconds go by, and she glances at you from under the hair fallen onto her forehead, "i still have parchment, and we could still get you those curses down."

"haven't the ink to draw any, unfortunately," you reply.

"hm. next time then," dorcas decides for herself, and makes for the door, "think a walk to the kitchens might be in order?" she leaves her invitation open-ended, her gaze expectant, "could use a warm cinnamon bun."

you wonder about her, dorcas meadowes, with the shiny dark eyes and plaits and how well she talks to strange girls who cry in bathroom stalls. "alright," you accept, the smile on your face not as strained, nor sad, nor angry, "lead the way."

Chapter Text

“so,” dorcas sounds, and the way she purposefully moves her head in your peripheries implies she will say something you won’t necessarily like, “your birthday is coming up,” a quick look from you, up and down – from the tips of her muddy boots to the wind-swept hair. a few snowflakes sit nestled between the curls, and her eyes crinkle with mischief, “are you having a party?”

you try your best to breeze through the clock tower courtyard unscathed, “no,” you state. lie. not exactly. it’s complicated, “what? why? have you heard something?”

she snorts, “nope, just asking. you seem to have a lot of friends.”

you suppose you are outstandingly popular. anyone approached is your friend upon a hello, but you only say such a thing to those worthy of your attention. most, of course, are in some even minuscule way related to your family. your immediate circle is just cousins. dorcas is, so far, the only one you’d never approach yourself, simply because she’s unremarkable and also a gryffindor.

somehow, still, you cannot shake her, and once the tremors of hysteria had melted into the hum-drum, you found yourself not wanting to do so, which unnerved you much more than her immediate presence at all times of the day. most times of the day. you try not to engage in public, especially in the sights of bartimus, marzipan, and matilda. barty you could still, perhaps, calm – a pointed look and a promise to tattle on some secret you’ve uncovered about him to his parents would make him malleable.

the girls, however, would propose a difficulty. they’re already proposing a difficulty. the odd stares you receive at times when dorcas waves at you, all with a good-natured smile that you feel, in those moments, you don’t entirely deserve.

hence, the haste. hence, you try to lose her, but she’s much more fit and much better at keeping up than her unsuspecting appearance might hint.

“yes, well,” you start, heat dousing your body and damp robes. the inside of the castle is warm this time of year as the elements grow increasingly unruly and cold. the dry air scratches at the back of your throat, and you inhale with a sniffle and a poorly masked cough, “i’m not planning anything.”

and you aren’t, truly, but that doesn’t mean no celebration will take place. in fact, based on what marzy and matilda are trying so hard to hide (and do such a honestly horrendous job, with all smug smiles and loud whispers and giggles a pitch too high), there’s an old classroom being transformed for a small gathering – forty people or so – to toast to your good health, mesmerizing beauty, unbridled potential, and immeasurable talent. you quite look forward to it, but you aren’t responsible for the invitations, as it’s supposed to be a surprise.

and even if you were, surely you couldn’t extend one to dorcas. a no name from a muggle family. she would be out of place.

more so, she would feel out of place. you doubt she’d be offered a warm welcome, and you couldn’t offer one to her either, not without being subjected to the potent glares and displeased remarks from those around you.

such a situation is not beneficial for anyone involved. thus, you are a good friend from sparing her of this ache, sparing the rest the discomfort, and sparing yourself a howler.

“i might throw a party for my birthday,” she says, stopping at the cross-roads where you must part – her for charms and you for potions. she fixes the strap of her book bag, bending somewhat under the weight, “will you come? if i decide to do one after all. ‘s quite far, still.”

“when is it?” you ask, somewhat impatient. your eyes scurry the interior, but no familiar faces as of yet.

“april,” ah, thank merlin, “april sixth.”

you shrug, but you don’t manage to meet her gaze, “maybe. if i’m not too busy. i’ll mark it on my calendar just in case.” april is still ways away, and by that time, you might figure out what to do with her.

she smiles, “i’ll hold you to it. don’t suppose you want anything?” you give her a puzzled look, “like, a gift.”

“oh, no,” you can’t imagine there’s anything she could give you that would please you and that would also be within her budget. once again, your endless compassion and big, open heart are on fervent display. if matilda and marzy knew (unpleasant details aside), they’d give you a standing ovation for your selflessness. it’s a bit vexing that dorcas doesn’t seem to share the sentiment. perhaps she’s a simpleton, “got nothing in mind.”

“okay, well, i’ll think of something then,” she says, one step back, “later!” and away.

you have no qualms with lying. you’ve done it your whole life. your first words, perhaps, were, too, some miniature lie. lying is no different than playing, and playing is no different from acting, and acting is lying, and so it’s really not a big deal. you don’t know any other way of being, and you quite enjoy having others bend to your smiles or your frowns. most go great lengths to appease you.

even now, you claim to have accidentally forgotten your quill, when in reality, you didn’t pack it on purpose. regulus, always having a spare, gives you his own, and makes you promise not to lose it. you complain that it’s uncomfortable in your hand, and that the colour is ugly, but in fact you do like the deep brown shade and firm edge of the feather.

bartimus sets up your cauldron because your wrist hurts from the frigid cold, and evan measures the ingredients – he’s much more precise and curious about potions, and he does it unprompted, almost as if it’s expected of him. it sort of is.

you have no qualms with lying, but you pause when bartimus asks, “what’s with that gryffindor following you around everywhere?”

your heart thumps, and the cool, damp potions classroom rises in temperature. all in all, it’s the most polite way he could have phrased the question, oddly mindful of professor slughorn’s all hearing ears lingering just close enough for him to behave himself.

“i’m blackmailing her,” is the only thing that comes to mind, and it does sound convincing. so convincing, in fact, your tone and look implies that he’s the stupid one to consider otherwise.

evan frowns, peering at you over the vapours emitting from his cauldron, “blackmailing her? why?”

you shrug, “because it’s fun.”

“seems awfully happy to be blackmailed, if you ask me,” regulus comments coolly.

“please, told her if someone was to catch a whiff of distress on her, then, well, she’ll certainly have something to be distressed about,” you move the ladle and mix your potion and thud-thud thud-thud thud-thud, “you’re a terrible extortionist if you can’t manage otherwise. rodolphus said he had all sorts of minions from other houses. can’t embarrass the family.”

“right,” barty raised a brow, “rabby’s embarrassment enough.”

you bristle at the words, true as they be. still, pride and blood are important, “your whole family tree’s in gryffindor. think before you speak, crouch.”

“sparks are flying,” he grins, “or is it just me?”

“as if i could ever look at your gaunt face and find anything appealing,” you snip, “you should learn some manners when speaking to your elders.”

“sincerest apologies, madam strange.”

“shut it, both of you,” evan grumbles, carefully dropping some powder into his mixture. it hisses and gurgles and a new set of fumes spew, “can’t concentrate with all this yapping.”

“woof,” barty sounds.

“dog,” you spit.

“bitch.”

you gasp and throw the nearest object your hand grabs, which is a (sadly) closed bottle of ink. he ducts just in time, but the impact makes the glass shatter, leaving a scary red splotch on the wall.

bartimus straightens as slughorn strides over to check on the disturbance. a brief explanation from evan is accepted without hassle, and the wreckage is handled by a flick of the professor’s wand. a disapproving look and a quick glance at regulus as a reprimand and everything goes back to normal, including barty and you, who is doing a masterful job of ignoring him and pretending your breathing hasn’t been affected in any way.

eventually class does wrap up and everyone leaves for the next lesson. you walk with evan and regulus, bartimus trotting a couple feet behind like a faithful hound, waiting to serve, ever the sycophant. you wonder if it's too late to beg matilda and marzy to revoke his invitation to your birthday party, because you know for a fact that he has one. possibly tossed it into a bin upon notice, but he had definitely, at the very least, seen it.

━━━

there’s a snow storm on your birthday, a harsh, miserable gust that rages across the landscape and traps everyone inside. so dense you can’t see out the windows, and so cold frost bleeds to water from glass pains and drips in rivulets on the tiles. it’s too early for such weather, but not entirely unheard of. when you were very little, rodolphus told you that mother and father found you in a heap of snow, warm and unharmed. now, of course, you have a technical understanding of how children are made, but shockingly, you had stoutly believed your brother till late last spring, till your first blood and that slightly uncomfortable but enlightening conversation with aunt greengrass.

matilda knew this already, by a few good months, which revealed why, at the time, she always seemed a bit snootier than usual, as if she had figured out something very important and negated to share. for the remaining spring and the whole of summer, the two of you had grown closer and left marzipan out – what could she, still but a child, understand about the woes of burgeoning adulthood? it had left her a bit desolate, and she had spent her holiday chasing sirius around, and as she smothers you in a tight hug with sleepy happy birthday whispered into your hair, you think you still haven’t forgiven her for it.

naturally, you have taken extra pains to make yourself prettier. your hair is glossier, and your uniform is tidier, and there’s a sheen of cherry lipbalm covering your mouth. narcissa, when she saw you, told you to wipe it off, and you did, only to reapply it when she wasn’t looking.

breakfast, the great hall’s polite congratulations, slytherin students that you almost recall the names of coming to wish you a joyous day. some revenclaws and marzipan’s brother come bearing chocolate toffies. it’s the same procedure as evan’s and matilda’s – the former’s birthday was just a few weeks into september, and matilda celebrated on october first.

you share the candies with the boys. evan takes one, regulus takes one, bartimus takes seven (to spite you, you believe), and you’re left with two. you offer one to marzipan, and she takes it with a smile, and offer one to matilda, who refuses, saying she’s on a diet. marzy’s expression crumbles, and she returns the treat, “never mind, not that hungry.”

“did you eat a strawberry?” bartimus asks, mouth full of toffies.

you frown, “what?”

“shit on your lips, what happened to table manners?”

“ignore him,” regulus interjects pointedly, “how are you feeling?” as in, how is it like to be twelve. bartimus’ birthday is just after sirius’, and so, regulus is the youngest of the present quartet, which leaves him naturally distressed.

evan scoffs, “’s no different.”

“i feel different,” you inform primly.

barty snorts, “don’t look different. still stupid.”

“hope you choke on that,” you glare. he snickers, the dolt, properly pleased to have ruffled your feathers. a quick communication between you and your pudding has you decided that you might despise bartimus crouch, or, more so, you despise the smug look he seems to fashion only when he’s pestered you into a foul mood.

briefly, you sweep the present crowd, and you spot dorcas sat among her friends, a table away. the sight alarms you somehow. perhaps it’s the picture of her happiness.

she must’ve felt you looking (such is the power of your gaze) because she perks up. twinkling brown eyes meet yours, and she waves with a grin, almost rising to approach, but your flash of an uncomfortable smile leaves her seated. when you glance around if anyone noticed, it’s only regulus that gives you a strange look, but says nothing.

sirius and his friends pass you as you tumble out the great hall. he, expectantly, walks right past, and it stings, but it stings even more when james calls your name much too cheerfully and says, “happy birthday!”

you walk past him as sirius had walked past you, without a moment of hesitation.

“you blackmailing him as well?” evan, surprisingly, asks.

you huff, “no, please hex him out of existence.”

“could be arranged,” barty says after an uncharacteristically thoughtful pause.

━━━

there’s definitely something more than punch being covertly served to the older students, but not like it matters much – you catch not a whiff of it, nor is any offered to you. suppose you are suspicious by the entirely inconspicuous clusters of people that exchange something and then part hurriedly with sour expressions that bleed into blushed faces and tipsy grins.

matilda, you note, is laughing ditzy with a second year slytherin. you suspect something nefarious, and make it clear with the slight narrow of your eyes. she cares not for it, which slights you, because it’s your birthday and you’re the most important person present.

speaking of, a pile of presents sits on a table, all expensive and neatly wrapped trinkets you possibly have no use for. still, the growing pile pleases you – once back in your dorm, it’ll be a challenge to go through it in a single night. you might just open a new one each day and have no gift-free evenings for the better part of the school year, but you are too impatient.

it’s all very pretty. the ceiling was enchanted to a deep, gleaming blue-violet, rippling along the dim, sparkling lights as though underwater. luminescent bubbles, a faint glittery mist, and floating incandescent jellyfish, translucent, yet you still raise your hand to touch one, feeling the slight coolness once it passes your fingers. you hadn’t asked who’s responsible for this display of magic, but you suspect it being narcissa.

when you smile at your ostentatious cake and count the flickering candles, you can only think of one wish – i wish sirius would come back to me. you inhale and then blow in one full swoop. the room drowns in cheers.

there’s faint music floating above your head, but nothing as interesting as to what sirius had made you listen to all those nights ago. you dance with evan, who seems much more awkward than you, and then with a few older students, with rabastan (unwillingly), and then with your girls. regulus had overtly refused your hand without explanation.

“it’s my birthday,” a demand. an excuse you can use only once a year, and you extort it fully.

he seems conflicted in the blue light, lastly, “fine. don’t step on my toes.”

dancing with regulus is different than dancing with sirius – regulus is shorter and younger, and his grip isn’t as firm, and he doesn’t once look you in the eye, and you’re a bit bored through most of it.

the night dwindles on, and you spot bartimus.

he catches you staring, and so he raises his cup, sat beside his older friends – a few second and third years that seem to be enthralled by his presence. it strikes you, strangely, how popular he seems to be. you don't like it.

and he's not exactly ugly, despite your claims. tallish,  the tallest of your lot, a long neck, neat auburn hair, sharp eyes, maybe. not entirely horrid and twisted as he could have turned out to be or will turn out to be. he seems a bit older, but perhaps it's because he's always been lanky.

no, he is ugly, you think. the lights must've caught him funny, and maybe that's why it seems he's glowing, his pale skin shimmering a ghostly pallor in the enchanted darkness of your birthday celebration, that is yours and yours alone, and no one can steal the shine or the honour or the beauty away.

matilda joins his table, and you note, in great distaste, that she also looks very pretty, and the dress suits her much better than yours does you. all dresses are now suiting matilda better, because this is the body she was born in, and it makes sense that she will always have the upper hand and you will always be behind her, somehow.

you grow unsettled in a way that feels somewhat familiar, but nothing tangible enough to understand.

dorcas would probably laugh. your stomach swoops and then drops, and it feels like the jellyfish swim inside you. dorcas would definitely laugh and pull at matilda's ruffles. and sirius, sirius would laugh with her and he would comment on how the dress is awfully girly and in poor taste, and then you would tell him off, because he has no taste at all, but not in front of dorcas.

you glance at door. sirius isn't here. he was definitely invited, but, of course, he wouldn't attend.

of course. of course of course of course.

matilda, prettier and better, better, it's not fair, doesn't even look at you, not since she knows, of course, she must know you are watching. she can't not know. the parallels and the similarities are obvious in a way they aren't to you. briefly, you think of poisoning her. you could get away with it too. what's a birthday celebration without any diabolical scheming, anyway?

when matilda smiles at someone (bartimus), a creeping sensation crawls beneath your skin. there is definitely some vile deed being done here, but not any of yours, unfortunately. the gathering, you decide, must end, and everyone must leave disappointed and displeased to match your mood.

"punch?" marzipan manifests by your side. you startle, glance to her, note her boyish appearance in relation to matilda's ladylike one, and somehow, her expression manages to irritate you.

"got one," you show your glass for emphasis, "did you happen to notice a grimace on tilda, or are the effects of whatever substance they're pouring into these cups only visible to the sober?"

"not a sip," marzipan sighs, "i've tried asking a third year, said i'm too young," her misery brings you a slight bout of joy. marzipan will be twelve late february, and so, she will always be the odd one out, "did you want any?"

you shake your head, "no, not really. maybe. i dunno."

"doesn't seem like you're having fun," she notes. then, she softly grasps your upper arm and squeezes, "cheer up. it's your birthday."

your smile is terse. the tension has left you feeling sore, like you ran laps and took too hot of a bath and rolled into a very tight sleeping position. you feel a bit wrong.

regulus calls your name, and he drags you away easily and without question. you spare marzy a vaguely apologetic look, leaving her stranded in the middle of the room, all lonesome. she does, at that moment, look entirely pathetic, and maybe you are very tired, because somewhere deep down you feel a pang of something.

you are lead to the darkest corner and let go promptly. before you can complain, regulus pushes something into your hand and says, quietly yet seriously, “i won’t tell.”

he makes scarce afterward, and you’re left confused. truly, this celebration has become more trouble than it’s worth. all these emotions hidden behind an unmoving veneer. it cracks slightly when you take a closer look at your gift.

it’s a handmade card, glued and drawn poorly.

to my favourite (and only one i will associate) slytherin,
happy birthday. i promise i’m better on the broom than i am at drawing, but i wanted to make you this card anyway. once the skies clear up, let’s go for a ride along the shoreline. i found some sights exploring. we could make a whole adventure out of it. know a perfect location to practice hexes.
despite it all, i’m very glad i found you crying.
 - your accomplice

you hug the card without meaning to do it. you just do. you bring it close to your chest and lean your cheek, like it was something precious, and in a way, it is, because this is, by far, the most generous gift you have ever received.

Chapter Text

the slow shift to november was agonizing for a number of reasons, but the most prominent of which proved to be the least interesting of them all. there was the added pressure of your studies piling up to monstrous amounts, even for a first year, as the winter exams loomed overhead, fanged and thorny. then, there were the social obligations, the song and dance of minute tea parties and lemon cakes. there was matilda and her sharp tongue and her crooked brow directed at your person, and there was dorcas waiting with her broom and you unceremoniously turning her down.

there was the odd discomfort in your stomach and a palpable, growing gloom about the castle that only you seemed to feel. all of these instances would be tolerable, as you are well-equipped to manage, only each night after your birthday you found yourself waking sooner, and sooner, and sooner, and soon enough, you weren’t sleeping at all.

it’s the eve of sirius’ thirteenth birthday. like a spinning vinyl, the thoughts don’t stop, and the tune is bitter. the night he was born was supposedly starry and bright and quiet, much like it is now. behind the curtain of your bed, you hear the girls shifting in their sleep. your head hurts. your eyes are dry. you sit up carefully. you can’t take it. you think you might hate everyone.

outside the room you find it much easier to breathe – how odd it is to relearn such a simple skill, will you have to teach yourself many more things you already know at your grown age? with a hand on your heart beating an uncertain pattern, you walk and walk and walk till the crackling fire in the hearth masks your footsteps. no one is here, but the shadows are long, and the lake behind frigid glass is so deep and murky the moonlight doesn’t spill through.

like a creature trapped in some ghastly nook at the end of the world, you find that you truly do hate everyone – everyone and everything in this terrible castle and what it has made of you. when you sit on the velvety cushions, they are warm from the fire. the embroidery could be better, the tiles could be cleaner, and the whole room could smell of something  crisper besides herbs and smoke. the feeling you abandoned in bed returns stronger, and it’s cold enough to jump into the flames and curl up on the logs and wait till the ashes blanket around you.

the silence is disturbed by a roll of a crystal charm, so sudden and frightening that you startle and look behind you.

there, in the dark maw of the corridor leading to the boys’ dorms, stands a figure, obscured, yet short and familiar – a silhouette you have learned to recognise in dreams. regulus approaches having caught your attention (or more so, you have caught him loitering), and more of his pale features come into the dancing orange light.

“did you do that?” you whisper harshly.

regulus, with his hair dishevelled and his linen pyjamas askew – the r.a.b on his breast pocket gleams, silvery and slick, the closer he gets – seems uncomfortable, “what?”

“i dunno,” you accuse, “that. did you knock a ball over or something?”

“no,” the frown is instant, and his shoulders are taut, “what are you doing here?”

“what are you doing here?”

“nothing,” he responds vaguely.

“decided on a night walk, did you? stop lying.”

“i’m not lying,” he grits, “why are you attacking me? i didn’t do anything.”

you huff and look away, “fine, then. be on your way.”

if it were anyone else, they would have hexed you for your impoliteness or simply left. you want him to leave, so strongly that your hands tremble, and that anger within you is so vast you think it might eat you before it eats everyone else. you don’t dare look at him as he takes a tentative seat beside you, and the tension doesn’t leave your gut till he gently unfurls your hand from your nightshirt (when had that happened?) and cradles it in his warm palms.

you manage a glance. he seems awfully concerned with the structure of your knuckles, the soft slopes and dips. your regulus, you hear that cruel voice in mind, isn’t he the fucking best.

the whole previous display feels completely unnecessary, and you want to apologize, but the words don’t form, so you remain silent. he speaks first, rasp and sleepy, “i can’t sleep,” he admits to your ring finger before he opens your palm and looks at the lines, as though he is about to tell your future, “i’d like to see him, but i know he won’t want to see me.”

it’s such a sad confession. you almost wish you’d never bear witness to it. you can’t think of anything to say that would soothe the ache he revealed to you, and your limbs don’t move, immobilised by the cold and by his careful touch. sometimes, you would lay in bed unable to close your eyes and wish that regulus was beside you, but now that he’s here, you wish he was absent. have you ever willed it, you ponder, him to wander around like a spectre in search of you?

stop bothering me and go back to regulus. he's probably already looking for you.

“why are you so cold?” he asks.

you frown, “because it’s cold.”

he squints, “it’s really not.”

“well, it is to me.”

“alright,” he relents, still examining your palm, “do you want to sit closer to the fire? or i could give you my jumper. i’d have to go back to my room to get it, though.”

“here’s fine.”

perhaps your dismissiveness had given him enough time to work up the courage to peak at your displeased expression, and when your eyes meet, his hold on you slackens just a bit, and he sits up a tad straighter, as though in surprise. twin hazels reflect the room and you, miniature and sickly, leaning away from him. he calls your name quietly, afraid to disturb the austere hush that settled unexpected and heavy on both of your shoulders, “you don’t look well.”

“rude,” is quick and sharp between your teeth.

he shakes his head, “not like that, don’t twist my words. should we go see madam pomfrey?”

a visit to the school nurse on witching hour? absolutely not, how embarrassing would that be, the two of you stood hand in hand like two inconsolable, useless children. she would no doubt be roused from sleep by your persistent knocking, and she’d likely scold you for waking some dying patient, and then you’d have to explain what is wrong with you, though you don’t know what is, and then you’d likely start crying because she would look at you funny and tell you to speak up.

you are no longer five, and you don’t need regulus’ hand to brave the dark mazes of your home, and you don’t need him now, either. so, “no.”

he does not like your answer, but granted, he likely didn’t like anything this conversation had to offer, “let’s go,” he says, “else cissy will see you when she wakes up and you’ll end up dragged there anyway. or would you prefer the whole school watching?”

since when is he so shrewd? you blink, caught off guard by such an astute observation. yes, cissy’s involvement would likely ruin you. if you do look as terrible as regulus is implying, then matilda would likely start some horrid rumour simply to mess with you, and you would end up cursing her bloodline with some nasty magic you managed to smuggle out of the restricted section or the lestrange family crypt. it is best to avoid such discord and save your dignity.

“wait here,” sensing that your mind is thoroughly made up, he pats your hand and stands, “i’ll get my jumper and we can go.”

and so, reluctantly, you wait as instructed, your knees drawn into your chest, but your eyes never leave his shadowed figure until he is out of sight. you wonder what is taking so long.

at last, he reappears, seemingly more flustered than he should be for the duration of his extended disappearance. the look on his face is unsettling, but before you can demand an explanation, he shoves his jumper on to you like some kind of hastily folded blanket. when you wrestle the wool off your face, regulus gives you a tiny, closed mouth smile and nods, satisfied, before offering his hand to you. no longer a rare occurrence, and you are not sure what had caused the change, but you don’t have it in you to mull on it any longer.

you take his hand.

━━━

you sit on a chair in madam pomfrey’s atelier. it’s small and cosy, with an oil lamp burning on her table and illuminating the surroundings: the neat files stacked onto one another, the plethora of notes – colour-coded by parchment – and numerated glass concoctions within her cabinets, all more curious than the last. in your murky vision, some appear to be moving, swirling, beating like a heart.

“there it is,” she murmurs, pilfering some potion from its resting place before quietly closing the drawer. her hair is a loose and golden, and there’s a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. when she looks at you, she smiles, a small, kind thing you think might be pity and it makes you squirm, “it’ll help you sleep.”

you have been so apprehensive and displeased to have regulus babysit you, but now you, once again, realise that you would like him to be here with you.

professor flitwick had caught the two of you wandering shortly after you left the common room, but regulus was quick to explain the gravity of the situation. apparently, one closer look at you in lumos had blared some alarm bells, and thus you were hastily escorted without further explanation. the embarrassment was gut-churning, but it might’ve just been nausea.

when you reached the hospital wing, you were given to madam pomfrey, and professor flitwick had taken regulus back to the dungeons, but not before he promised to visit you first thing in the morning.

madam pomfrey pours you a cup of tea, and the pleasant aroma envelops you in a comforting, sleepy haze. the porcelain is very hot in your numb fingers. you pull it closer to your chest and let it burn. the mist warms your cheekbones and your nose.

“thank you,”

“has this been happening for long, miss lestrange?” you shrug at the question, and her expression twists with worry. she fiddles with the bottle, perhaps mesmerized by how it gleams in the dark. then, as though having made some great decision, she quickly returns to the drawers and hides it again.

instead, she takes out a different vial and approaches with a more confident step, “well. in case it is to happen, and happen often, please come visit me and we’ll think of something. but, for now,” she motions to your tea and you hurry to present it. she unscrews the cap and a few drops fall into your drink, “it has no taste nor smell, but it’s potent. finish up your tea and we’ll get you to bed.”

“will i have to stay here?” you wonder.

“only for the night,” she assures.

━━━

it’s still dark when you wake up, but the lights are on. it takes you a second to recall where you are and why you’re here. when you slowly sit up, your bones pop, and the swishing curtain in your peripheries suddenly bursts with a body.

your eyes widen, and dorcas’ widen right back, “you’re awake!” is exclaimed, quite literally, for everyone else to hear. you can’t even find it in yourself to scold her, but madam pomfrey does make some shushing sounds as she passes by the drawn curtain, “how’re you?” she continues undeterred, taking a spare seat beside your bed.

“alright,” you think of it a bit more, “i suppose.”

“that’s good,” a riveting conversation, truly, but you like the simplicity of it. dorcas, donning her burgundy sweater and a new complicated pattern of pretty braids, offers you a smile, “i was thinking about bringing you a book or something, but honestly, i didn’t know if you were staying here for long. i asked regulus, but he didn’t really say anything.”

it appears that regulus has chosen to be your secret keeper. he had no business telling dorcas of anything, but the rest might be well aware of what had truly transpired, even if that something is too puzzling to put into place. a cold, or some different malady.

“was nothing, really,” you assure her, and it seems to work, “what time is it, anyway?”

“eight.”

“in the evening?” you sit up straighter at such speeds that surely rival the seeker of dorcas’ beloved quidditch team who, you’ve heard, is quite fearsome, “it’s friday, eight in the evening?”

“yes,”

you missed sirius’ birthday. granted, it's unlikely he would have lingered long enough for you to catch him for either a congratulations or a hateful glare (whichever felt warranted at the moment). maybe you would have thrown your glass of pumpkin juice at him, or, more likely, if he would have given you even the inkling of a smile, you would have collapsed into yourself and, hopefully, his embrace.

perhaps he was in a good enough mood to forgive you for the transgression you still cannot name. perhaps it would have all worked out, and your wish would've come true, but it all now lays in ruin, and there is no one to blame but yourself.

noting your change in mood (it must be quite obvious, the spiralling dread you feel), dorcas gently places a hand on your shoulder, "we were worried about you."

she was worried about you. it's a nice thought. perhaps the only thing that is currently not on the verge of disaster.

"no, really," how does she sense you don't believe her? this girl is more than your initial estimate implied, "none of your lot were present for history. i thought you skipped, honestly, was kinda bummed you didn't invite me. i would've loved doing literally anything else. but then the rumour sorta spread that you're at pomfrey's, and then it all started to make sense."

ah, the castle rumour mill, an admirable institution. maybe even stronger than you had anticipated. still, when you search yourself for even the barest of strength to give some scathing remarks, you don't find them. how boring yet liberating to have no fight in you. it might be the lingering effects of the potion.

a few more words are exchanged, and then she leaves you to dress. nothing to be done, you think pragmatically as you finish buttoning up. with no mirror to admire yourself in, you add: he wouldn’t have wanted to see me anyway. if he knew, maybe it made him happy.

the hospital wing is almost as silent as it had been deep into the night. there’s slight shuffling and wispy, tired voices echoing behind identical curtains, all nursing their own woes. dorcas doesn’t seem nearly as uncomfortable as you are to be here, in all this sickness. she only offers you a smile, and wordless, the two of you vie for madam pomfrey.

“i see you’re awake, miss lestrange,” the head nurse notes, cradling a pitcher by the door to her office. her quick eyes scrutinize you from head to toe, and she ticks her chin to the side for you to follow. leaving dorcas behind a few paces away, you are fully subjected to her attention, “how are you feeling? no headaches, i hope?”

“no,” you say, “much better now. have i received any visitors while i was sleeping?”

whatever madam pomfrey expected, it is not that. her mouth pinches, and she glances to the side, “quite a few. besides miss meadowes, mister regulus black, miss narcissa black, and your brother were here first thing in the morning to see you,” her gaze then shifts, once again, investigative, though much kinder, “mister rosier and mister crouch also came to visit, though i had to ask them to leave because of the ruckus they were making. the nott siblings also stopped by,” she then starts naming surnames you know, but not too intimately: the slytherin prefects, half of your house, the gaggle of students in theodore’s circle, just to name a few.

warily, you glance behind you. if dorcas is at all moved by the impressive amount of people coming to check on your wellbeing, she doesn’t show it. rather, she’s examining her nailbeds closely, as though she isn’t listening (which cannot be true, as she’s proven awfully noisy). 

“… i see,” you utter once madam pomfrey finishes. out of all of those wonderful people, two seem to be missing: matilda and sirius. not that you are much mourning the former, but the latter’s absence seems to confirm a terrible thing – sirius simply did not care nor want to see you. maybe the news really did make him happy, a metaphorical icing on his birthday cake.

surely dorcas would know more, but your tongue doesn’t form the words once you receive madam pomfrey’s blessing to abate this cursed chamber and go back to your common room. the silence haunts behind you, broken by dorcas’ steps and the odd hum she sounds when pretending to be unaffected.

she nudges your shoulder, “don’t look so glum. everyone but professor dumbledore and the minister didn’t visit you. blimey, now that i think about it, i don’t even know that many people. let alone friends. cheer up, won’t you?”

yes, exactly, why didn’t you think of that sooner? surely any problem can be fixed with a quick and easy smile. your attempt is met with a snort, “right, maybe not.”

“were you expecting some else?” dorcas continues. the mirth has waned a little.

suppose it won’t hurt too much to admit. it can’t hurt more than this, “…yes.”

“your friend?” she ventures, recalling the drowsy october rain prattling on the loo’s windows.

“i’m not sure he’d call himself that anymore,” you mumble with a weary sigh.

dorcas scoffs, “what a wanker. no need for friends like that. i mean, what could be more important? can’t think of anything that would stop me from checking on a friend if they fell ill, even if we had a row.”

his birthday, you want to say, but don’t. somehow, if dorcas were to attach his name to the situation, you feel it would morph into something unrecognizable. they’re in the same house, and thus, they must share at least a hello or perhaps even a conversation every now and again. dorcas has never really alluded to anything like that, but she enjoys quidditch, and already has more to speak of with him than you.

however… you take a better look at her in the shifting light. surely she knows he and regulus are siblings, and surely she’s seen how close you and regulus are. maybe she already knows the name of the mysterious friend, and simply chooses not to say anything for your sake.

one day, you’ll ask her. for now, though, “do you want to go for a broom ride?”

she blinks, eyes twinkling, “now?” half-scandalized, you’d think she’s not enamoured with the idea.

“it’s not curfew yet,” you say.

“’s snowing, though. won’t you get cold? you’ve just left the hospital wing. i know madam pomfrey seems nice, but she’d probably pinch my ear and drag me all the way to mcgonagall if you ended up back there because of me.”

you stop, “do you want to go or not?”

she halts as well, uncertain. shifting from foot to foot, finally, she relents, “oh, bloody hell. fine, alright.”

Chapter Text

heaps of snow tangle between your boots; you stumble, barely held afloat by marzipan’s and matilda’s elbows hooked to yours. a shriek follows, and the storm claws at your face and pulls on your scarf. the hooded figure of a teacher shimmers between the winds and rushing students. somewhere ahead of you, you can just make out the frosted black nose of the train.

when you stumble into the wagon, marzipan struggles to wipe the snow off her coat. matilda goes to wring water off her beret, but the floor lurches, and you all crash into the window, flustered and wet and terribly irritated.

“bloody december,” matilda sounds, pushing past a cluster of second and third years with the tenacity of a well-feared prefect, “bloody snow, bloody cold, bloody—out of my way!” a spooked girl dashes by, more mouse than human, so quick and unremarkable she seems to blend into the wallpaper.

“think i caught a cold,” marzipan laments, sniffling in a very sad way that matches her downturned, sleepy eyes. she’s been mentioning that often, some benign sickness that began to haunt her since she visited you in the hospital wing. according to rumour – which marzipan commented little about to keep the mystery of it all, one might imagine – she had been so distraught by your visage that she fainted and was nursed in a bed next to yours for a few hours before being let go.

much like her mother, marzy fishes out a crumpled handkerchief and wipes at her face, looking awfully concerned over such a simple notion. much like her mother, matilda casts a leery glance behind her but placates, “you are looking so pale these days, marz. we will have to order you some tea. and fetch a healer, if one so happens to frequent the train tracks.”

you say nothing.

december has been busy, much like the months before it. the deadlines had piled and snagged you by the foot. it were not the exams that you sweated over in the stuffy classrooms, but rather the complex and dull essays you had to scratch into parchment under the waning candlelight. at the very least, you did not need to visit madam pomfrey again. you did, however, have little time to indulge in daily frivolities, and the tea parties became especially scarce the few short weeks leading up to the holidays.

no matter. coursework belongs to the future and its nebulous tides; you shan’t think of it till pressed by another deadline, this time to the throat.

the groups of students slowly trickling into compartments all appear oddly similar – not so much in their appearance as in manner – and as matilda lays siege, you manage to glance into the interiors: sweaters and bellbottoms, gingers, red-embroidered scarfs, dorcas (a quick smile, one she doesn’t manage to return in her surprise), and, well, the rest of that sort.

marzy’s arm slowly winds around yours, “i think we’re at the gryffindor carriage,” she informs in a whisper.

“seems so,” you answer.

“we should hurry,” matilda says, “marz needs heat pack, don’t you, marz?”

“yes, please.”

“it is such a shame we lost the boys in the storm. i swear, one moment barty was there, and the next he’s not,” she continues.

“perhaps he apparated,” you hear yourself say.

matilda snorts, “not to say it’s outside his list of talents, but it is much too early for such magic. besides,” and she looks back, and in the sea foam swirl of her eyes, you see the reflection of the blinding blizzard, “why would he ever wish to abandon us? regulus, especially, i think would first sow off his arm than leave you. wouldn’t you agree?”

something in her tone lays daunting. a joke you’re unaware of. how many others talk about this very thing behind your back? when sirius spoke of it, it felt less common. despite yourself, you become embarrassed.

“i wish i had someone like that,” marzy sighs.

matilda only hums, and you find yourself unwilling to say another word. your gaze returns to jumping between the interiors – this year’s head boy and girl, more horrid sweaters, and a compartment full of smoke and laugher. it only opens when you’re well past it, and the smell of burning hair sweeps across the corridor. you hear sirius cackle and james yowl, but you’re already out the door and onto the next wagon.

━━━

the regaled grimmauld place is the terminus of this year’s christmas. the five ashen-faced servants and kreacher had outdone themselves with the decorations: enchanted ceilings to mimic the glimmering crash of the ocean in moonlight, wreaths and baubles and shape-shifting icicles, tinsels patterned with creatures of myth and plum coloured fabrics draped off every ancient inch, the table in the dining room laden with a veritable mountain of food, and in the midst of this mayhem, a giant crooked eleven foot pine, perched on its raised feet and casting the entire manor in the most delectable smell of summer woods.

you, regulus, and rabastan had arrived just after bellatrix and rodolphus. sirius was still busy playing hide and seek at king’s cross, insistent on making his retrieval as bitter and difficult as the relationship between his family has grown.

“let him rot,” rabastan had said at the station, making your hairs stand on end. the harshness of the meaning laid in the nonchalance of his tone, “play around all he wants, bloody child. always the same song and dance with him, can’t believe how lenient aunt and uncle are,” he then looked at you and regulus, “at least you two are turning out better. no one wanted to tell you this ‘cause you’re still children, but everyone breathed a big bloody sigh of relief once you stopped talking to him.”

but, to more pressing matters – bellatrix has deemed it necessary to cradle your face in her palms once she finished curtsying rebastan and smothering regulus in her embrace, “oh, my dear, finally home.”

“it’s good to see you, sister,”

“very well met, i hope,” she nods, smoothing down your hair, “i was so worried; we all were. rodolphus, oh, beside himself. even your father came home early, and mother, well, she would have thrown a fit if she knew, a right fit. everyone was on edge, even the less important aunts and uncles.”

in your peripherals, regulus watches the exchange warily as he slips off his shoes. it is, after all, his fault for all this doting, as he told narcissa of your stay at the hospital wing, and the first thing she did was thrown on her coat and rush to the owelry.

then, the letters began. demands to return home (in a very abstract sense, as aunt yaxley had owled you from marseille, and you definitely do not live there) or at the very least be checked by ‘true professionals of their craft’ and ‘the best healers the wizarding world can offer, shipped from the east – they have phenomenal medicine there, bottled miracles compared to the dingy tinctures and salves sold in our humble stores.’

some ensured that ‘while the nurse, no doubt, is most trustworthy, as employed and vouched by, it must be noted, the esteemed albus dumbledore, one can never be too careful when tending to such volatile and fragile things as one’s health;’ others – ‘no expense must be spared to heal our precious miss. i have personally extended an offer to your father (of a delectable sum) so he’d feel comfortable to lend you to the care of me and my scholars.’ despite the onslaught of well wishes and righteous outrage (at what exactly changed from person to person), all pages held references to meetings and discussions of the inner-family, the details of which you were acquitted of. even professor slughorn was informed of your misfortune, and he likely faced the brute force of the letters, but he never once cornered you about it, and that, you think, was kind of him to do.

“come now,” bella says, helping you out of your coat, “aunt walburga wishes to check you herself.”

“rodolphus?” rabastan mumbles.

“with uncle orion in the study,” bella replies, and he makes scarce, “tell me all about it again. there’s only so much one can relay via letter. spare no detail. even what might feel unimportant, you must tell me all of it.”

and as she leads you deeper into the house, you look to regulus, almost pleading. he simply shakes his head, his own way of saying you’re on your own.

━━━

“they’re made of bone?” regulus asks, examining the dice in his palm under the low, twinkling lights of your guest bedroom. naturally, it is the one closest to his, only much smaller than all the other ones, but you can’t exactly find a reason to be too slighted by the fact.

it’s close to twelve o'clock, and it hasn’t stopped snowing. he pinches one of the four pieces and holds it up, examining the intricate carvings on each side, as though he could tell its authenticity from weight or craft alone, “human?”

you shrug, sat criss-cross on the carpet beside him, “that’s what rab said, but you kinda have to be an idiot to believe him.”

“some poor animal, then,” he surmises. the dice click when he returns them to you, “they’re a bit heavy. and cold.”

“proper curious, no?”

“i guess,” he mumbles, slumping a bit. the travel has left him tired, but the excitement of his upcoming birthday keeps him awake, “you like them?”

“i like the midnight ones better,” you say, “they’re made of purple goldstone and only have uneven numbers. much prettier.”

“why uneven?” he wonders, counting the added number as the dice spill onto the floor. you both gaze in silence for a moment, waiting for some premonition, but nothing happens, “to seem more complicated?”

“yeah, probably,” you scoop up the dice and try again. a different result, but no cold washes, blind spots, dancing sparkles, or ominous feelings arise, “i kinda just like holding them in my hands, if i’m honest.”

regulus says nothing. he seems a bit pensive and much too gloomy for a soon-to-be birthday boy, so you place two pieces in his hand, “on the count of three. one,”

“two,”

“three.”

the downstairs doors slam open and the both of you scramble onto your feet. voices, then, loud and agitated, twisting across the house and pounding on every surface.  you barely make it out your bedroom in time to hear the end of an accusation.

“—dare you, how dare you defile this family with such rhetoric—“ it grows and deforms into roar, grating against your ears. you and regulus lean across the spiralling staircase, hands clasped onto the railing, watching what goes down below.

“like i care of your preference for bloody rhetoric—“ the second voice responds sharply, thundering up the stairs.

“get down here this instant, boy!” it’s uncle orion, cane snapping on the polished flooring. abhorred, you and regulus flinch from the sound, “sirius, i will not ask again!”

whatever smarmy response the eldest black son throws at his father is lost against the chime of the grandfather clock. sirius barrels past you both and onto the fourth floor without a second glance. beneath the solemn notes, the harsh shut of his bedroom door sounds into the silence.

then, the hush. the terrible taste of it lingers on your tongue.

uncle orion mumbles something you can’t make out and retreats into the dancing shadows of the ground floor. when you turn to regulus, he is still as a statue.

“…happy birthday,” you whisper, more in apology than anything else.

he gulps, and his lashes tremble, and then he dips his head in a little nod, “…thanks.”

━━━

the dining table is humbly silent, besides the click and clank of cutlery. christmas eve has rendered everyone mute, and, as a miracle itself, cut sirius’ rebellion short, along with his hair. it had grown quite egregious, reaching his shoulders and snagging on his collar (“like some commoner, merlin protect us – has dear cousin lost it completely?” – aunt astrea lestrange nee rosier, earlier today, you’re not sure why she was invited) but that soon was solved with the help of heavy silver scissors.

the fuss before had been maddening. discontent and delighted to make it everyone’s problem, sirius had haunted each and every room of the house, seeking out a different lestrange or black to row with. the yelling, always and without fault, made regulus balk. his face would scrunch up oddly, and he would glance in the direction of the noise with such poignant anger that you were caught off-guard the first time you witnessed it. you had not believed he was capable of it, but then you thought of it more and came to the conclusion that sirius was capable of it, and regulus is his brother, and they are much more alike than everyone else believes.

it was no good. with each gift given, there was the addition of an apologetic frown. even narcissa, sweet and understanding as she was, couldn’t help herself but say, “don’t let sirius ruin your happy day,” as everyone else chirped the affronted name in exasperation. sirius this, sirius that, “oh, regulus, don’t look so down,” and sirius, sirius, sirius.

sat beside the unhappy birthday boy and deciding which pile to put his presents in (with all that ruckus, it took considerable concentration to judge the pretty package and place it to the ‘must open’ or ‘open later’), you, too, felt guilty of thinking of sirius as much as you did. you didn’t dare voice his name, and perhaps that is why regulus remained stoic. if you did, maybe something would have happened.

but then, all that terrible howling stopped. and a moment later, the news spread that aunt walburga had had enough.

it doesn’t look bad. nothing could look bad on sirius, or so you believe, and it’s still much longer than presentable – a testament to aunt’s weak heart. it reaches his cheekbones and curls; in the firelight, the copper glow snatches on the edges and burns, glides down the slope of his nose and pulls on the slight frown of his lips. it feels as though you have not seen him forever, and perhaps it is fair to say that you have not.

the room is so dim, and yet despite that, he still shines the brightest. he always will.

“i’ve heard the most strange thing recently,” aunt druella breaks this tentative quiet with her airy voice, demurely looking up from her plate. having received the full attention of all present, she carefully cleans a smudge of lipstick with her napkin from the corner of her lip, “from no other than our very own sybil carrow.”

“back from vienna, is she?” aunt lycoris, seemingly fascinated by this information, leans closer.

“a tale of questionable veracity, if there ever was one,” uncle cygnus says, taking a sip of wine.

“oh, don’t be so, father,” bellatrix says, “i do think it some good she has started going outside again. one must image going a bit stir-crazy locked up in the cabinet all day.”

“she does have the most refreshingly unorthodox approach to propriety, doesn’t she? a true familial trait,” cygnus concludes.

“there’s a certain innocents, really, to their disregard for social convention,” druella agrees, “our beloved diamonds in the rough.”

“with emphasis on the latter.”

the table sounds with laugher, and you turn to regulus and laugh as well. he does, too, but neither of you are sure what exactly is so funny,

“well, do tell,” aunt astrea waves off the amusement, “what is it? what did she say?”

“as you all well know, hector recently got his promotion,” aunt druella continues, stopping only to thank the server for a glass of bubbly, “ministerial liaison for rural affairs. from my understanding, they’re doing ground-breaking work in hedgerow diplomacy.”

“truly splendid to know our fields and ditches are in such capable hands,” rodolphus says after a bite. you had never truly heard him speak in front of the table, but now that he is an adult, his words hold weight, unlike rabastan’s, and thus your other brother remains tersely silent.

“but she tells me, well, i nearly fell over when i heard, such was my shock. timon, orion – do ease our weary hearts. sybil says there’s been growing interest in the affairs of the lower orders. some petition from the riff-raff? about unpending the foundations?”

this causes a stir. the table shakes with polite indignation. your father, sat at the very end, is doused in firelight. his silhouette burns at the edges where the hearth paints, and staring at him like this is like looking too long into the sun.

“leave it to dear sybil to excite the holidays with her curiosities,” aunt walburga sounds.

“there has been talk,” father says, “but i’d hardly pay much mind to it. one must realise where one belongs before making efforts – if the distance is too great, one cannot expect to leave a lasting impression.”

“rest assured that our longstanding expectations are upheld. these… petitions, if one used the term liberally enough, have not reached the minister. in fact, i dare we have yet been in a better position,” uncle orion explains.

“a result, no doubt, achieved thanks to our hard-working uncles,” narcissa holds up a glass. everyone follows suit, you most of all, proud to hold a toast to your father’s tireless work, even if the intricacies of it escape you.

“really,” aunt druella sighs, “sybil made it sound so scandalous, as though they’ll be knocking on our door next.”

“one can expect an affair to seem disproportionately large when one stands next to it,” father nods.

“ah, yes, the sheep, cows, and hoi polloi,” aunt lycoris laughs, and the table laughs with her, “what a stout reputation our dear carrows have amassed. the decline was inevitable, really – these things do tend to run in cycles. one must feel for them, the poor things.”

“well now, i must urge us to move from the topic,” uncle orion says, but he’s smiling, “i fear our sybil will somehow overhear us. i would hate to be locked in one of her boxes.”

laughter, again. you lean close to whisper into regulus’ ear, “that’s where rab said we got the dice.”

“the bone one?” he mouths with a frown. you nod. “they’re rabastan’s?”

“no, don’t be stupid,” you mumble, “they're probably mum’s.”

your gaze flickers to the vacant seat on your father’s left. your mother had sent a letter expressing her condolences for not attending. when the aunts flocked father to demand a detailed account of her health, he had graciously answered every question.

when father speaks, he says things with conviction. the words don’t leave room for doubt, but what is more, they eliminate the possibility of it entirely, and, in such a way, reassure.

so when father said mother is well, you believed him, even when just yesterday night you accidentally stumbled upon your brothers mid-conspiracy about “getting worse” and “not sure what to make of it.” when they spotted you stood in the dark stairwell, they ordered you to go to bed, and you did so without lingering. perhaps you weren’t that thirsty in the first place.

what you couldn’t understand, though, was why your brothers were lying. perhaps they have their reasons. you will yourself not to be curious. the only thing that concerns you is the pile of presents under the tree, waiting to be unwrapped. that you can do.

you dare a glance at sirius. he has his head tipped slightly downward and jaw clenched very tightly. the conversation continues at the table, but does not involve him. what could he be thinking about? surely how much he despises all of the people that love him.

“how many galleons you wanna bet that lycoris got me socks this year again?” regulus whispers.

you fight a smile off of your face, “twenty. no take backs. you recon birthday socks weren’t enough?”

“add another twenty to that – bet you got socks as well,” he tacks on.

you purse yours lips, “hardly a gift fitting for a lady. i’ll be a debutante in four years.”

“please don’t remind me of that,”

you scoff under your breath, “big deal. you’ll wear a suit. ‘tis i that must agonize over the shape of the dress and the fabric. it must be perfect, see, lest i insult a gentle eye with a poorly picked combination.”

he smiles, almost from ear to ear. there’s the first sign of a dimple on his cheek, “you sound like our aunts.”

“a fate worse than death.”

the desserts start piling in. you catch sirius looking just before he stubbornly glances away – a look not unlike regulus held once a-summer-ago, across the tent sat next to your mother, gazing at you and his brother. how fitting.

suddenly, a cold, vindictive joy syrups and spins, and you barely manage to hide your grin in a hearty bite of cake.

“what’s so funny?” regulus pesters. you don’t answer, “why are you giggling? tell me.”

“’s nothing, a sore throat. i’m coughing.”

a brief pause. then, “by the way,” his tone is off, and your eyes narrow in well-founded suspicion, “do you think we’ll have a chance to visit your manor soon?”

“why?” is a perfectly understandable question if you’ve ever heard one.

he shrugs, “just thought i’d like to visit your library. you know i like to read.”

“those books are much too complicated,” you parrot rabastan’s words, spoken not so long ago, “perhaps we can find you something intermediate in your own library.”

“think i’ll be fine, thanks.”

“but.. dunno. maybe in spring? new year’s here, no?”

“unfortunately,” his eyes flick to sirius, “c’mon, let’s go ask mum if we can open the presents early.”

Chapter Text

this is, simply put, ridiculous. you have never been so thoroughly offended, so shamelessly put on display. you are outraged. you are the tempest in a teapot ready to burst with indignation. you are many things, and you are wrong , and if this is the first time in your life you have been faced with a miscalculation – of action, of assumption, or any other sort – you will admit it to no one, not even yourself. 

you do not understand. the ability had abated you upon notice and left you floundering in the waters of uncertainty. at once, you are reminded of the passage of time and of change, the most egregious example of it sat in the armchair with a heavy book in his lap. 

it really is quite funny, in a sort of terrible, malicious way – of course you know that time does not stand still, as evident, always and without fault, by the ticking of the clock or dictated by the sun being swiftly replaced by the moon and the other way around. of course you have always known this, only, perhaps, never gave it more thought.

so what has evoked such a reaction now?

regulus has changed without your notice. he had done so without consultation or the courtesy of informing you, choosing instead to keep this secret till it became too apparent to hide. you had naively assumed that there existed nothing he would keep from you, as, now you realise, encouraged by outside voices that insisted his constant and unnecessary attention was gifted to you to do as you pleased. he had always been a head shorter and slightly meeker of build, constantly weaving between your peripherals and shadow. a brooch, a pin, a human shape – regulus had simply existed as what he was the way you have always remembered him being.

this person, wholly beyond your jurisdiction, is not the regulus you know. it is a stranger, it must be, one wearing features half stolen from aunt walburga, half pilfered from uncle orion, and mixed in a way that implied of sirius but not overtly. the only thing to not have varied seems to be his pallor, and it occurs to you that the last time you have appraised him so was back in summer, when he was burned crisp from a rare bout of sunshine.

you are not sure what to do. you think of yelling at him or making your offense known somehow so that he might remedy it. apologise, at the very least. how is it that you can tell all the different ways sirius does his hair upon first glance and not see how much regulus has grown when you look at and for him every day?

impossible. time never stands still. everything is changing, and change begets decay. there will always be decay, and it will set much like this, without your notice. you will not know until it is too late, you 

drop the dice and look down. the shrubbery carpet digs into your knees, the pieces spill in a pattern slowly growing more familiar. you could begin to dissect and paint a wider picture, recognise the rise and fall of a wave, the irresistible tide that pulls underneath. you could, you find, stare at it for hours and not grow bored. 

you memorise the numbers and jot them down on a nice piece of parchment. a runic dictionary lays to your right, often consulted. there is a stain left by your finger on page 34, officially marking it as your possession. when you glance back at the dice, the fire flickers, and in that singular moment, you feel on the precipice of something.

there comes a noise from upstairs. irritating, reiterating, and too loud, which can only mean it is intentional. 

“that idiot,” regulus grumbles, and you return to your seething immediately. shoot him a glare, which he unfortunately catches, and thus now shares your mood, “what? what now?”

always so quick to be offended, well, two can play at that game. you set your spine a bit straighter, and raise your head a bit higher, and in the most haughty voice you can muster, say, “nothing you should concern yourself about.”

“you’re impossible,” he states, but seems to take your words for granted and returns to his reading. which is, objectively, the wrong thing to do. he must grovel and demand an explanation. when silence stretches for a tad longer and your stare does not relent, he says, “is there a reason i’m prosecuted again or do you feel the need for judgement upon a mercurial whim?”

that takes you aback. anew, you are reminded of his sharpening wit and how prickly he gets when challenged even in the most minuscule way. with everything you’ve taken into account, you’ve never considered regulus to become verbose, as that always suited sirius more since he seemed fond of the sound of his own voice.

the natural instinct is to fight. it nearly tears out of you, and why it doesn’t shall remain a mystery until you can carefully untangle the knots. instead of using his head as target practice, you slump and settle more comfortably. arrange the dice idly, stack them one by one into a tower. 

the wheel turns; there is decay, the sweet rot of ripe fruit in an unaired room. barren lands and frozen waters, waves crashing into unsuspecting shores, salt in the air. even stone is not forever, corroded over centuries. in the crystalline sands, only bones remain. the wheel turns; there is

a hand on your cheek. cold and light, uncertain of its touch, and that, it seems, has not changed, along with the colour of his eyes – a deep, regal hazel, forever most strangely earnest. the hand drops, but he’s already on the floor with you, looking at you as though looking for something. awkwardly, he says, “okay?”

you rub an eye and blink away the dryness, “what?”

“you,” he tries, but he doesn’t manage. his eyes flit to the dice, then the rune dictionary, and lastly the piece of parchment, “just seemed odd, for a moment. i dunno. thought you, well, no matter. sorry.”

“‘s alright. just thinking.”

“of?”

“how nosey and troublesome you’ve become,” you state, “and tall.”

“been tall for a while now,” he mutters. there’s an unmistakable hint of pride in that statement. but, “troublesome?”

“and nosey, in case you did not choose to hear that,” you clarify.

“fancy a career in comedy?”

“don’t wish bartimus out a job.”

a momentary standstill. you’re not sure who cracks first, but there’s a smile that you mirror, or perhaps he mirrors yours. 

“do you wanna go skating?” he suddenly asks. 

and as though propelled by a force unseen, the two of you spring apart and onto your feet, fighting and stumbling to rush out the room first. you barrel into your bedrooms, doors thrown open, wardrobes ransacked for coats and hats and mittens.

“kreacher!” you bellow, unable to locate your skates. a pop ! behind you informs of his appearance, and distressed, you tell him, “i can’t find them!”

he produces the pair with a snap of his crooked fingers and disappears as soon as the shoes are in your grasp. you barely have enough time to wrap a scarf before you hear regulus thundering down the stairwell and aunt druella’s concerned “what's the rush?!” as you follow suit, shouldering past a confused sirius and nearly knocking him down two stories.

regulus manages to reach the entrance first, and the cold is enough to freeze the blood in your veins. unbuttoned and disheveled, you spill into the yard just in time to hear regulus rejoicing, “i win! ha, i win!”

trudging through heaps of snow, you make it to the frozen pond. stop in time to lace the ice skates, balancing on one another. your mitten falls, and he picks it up without prompt, nearly tumbling over. you point and laugh and spin around him, but he grabs your arm and, with strength unseen, sends the both of you forward.

the sky is so pale the whole world reflects white. the ice shaves line and curl underneath you like calligraphy. with a grin, you clasp him by the hand, and side by side, the two of you cut your way across. you do not remember to let go for a long time. in your loop, you nearly collide, and spin, spin, spin, and spin like the turn of the wheel.

━━━

you have received a bundle of holiday greetings and cards you did not feel like answering previously. to be entirely fair, the task is daunting even now, namely for the length of some of these letters – enough to contain a small history, perhaps.

some notable excerpts include the following:

mum bribed me to write, so abstain yourself from a reply, if you manage. i won’t read it anyway. the holidays have been good, but the weather’s arse. can’t even go for a broom ride lest mum and sisters die of an early heart attack. i’m beginning to think that all women are frail and entirely unmanageable. example: marzy’s mum came around (see picture ‘hag 1’) and fainted when she saw seamus (see picture ‘cat throwing up’) threw up on the sofa. hilarious. got grounded for laughing.

we couldn’t, of course, manage a small NORMAL gathering, so we had the greenarses staying over (see picture ‘hag 2 and the sodding lot’). tilda didn’t eat any cake so i had more, though. small miracles and joys, i suppose. 

anyway, tell regulus he’s a wanker and that his brother is a loser, please. and, of course, regale my most gracious, benevolent wishes for a joyous and fruitful new year to your mum, dad, brothers, and the rest of the black family. 

all the worst,
barty

ps. please BURN this letter and the pictures before anyone else sees them or i’ll get in trouble.

as much as you hate to do his bidding, you do watch the flames devour his modest greetings and the plethora of incriminating photographs, but only after showing them to regulus who, oddly offended, flitted away to write a scathing response.

next:

i hope your holidays have been much better than mine. pandora is ill again (understandably so, the weather and the ruckus are overwhelming to her) but she thanks you for your well wishes and always looks forward to hearing from you. it is my understanding that she considers you a friend. thank you. i do believe your tutelage and my constant vigilance will make her upcoming years at hogwarts bearable to an at least moderate degree. 

prends soin de toi, and i hope your mother gets better soon. we are en route to celebrating the new year at bartimus’, and i am expecting nothing but chaos that i will be asked to tame into something palatable. i wish i could spend this time with you and regulus instead, but alas, ignore my laments. 

do not forget to wish upon a star!
tout le meilleur,
e. rosier

p.s.: if you are willing, please prompt regulus to respond to my missive at his earliest convenience. there is something i must discuss with him post haste.

the parchment is scented with his father’s cologne, which is a bit too much, but at least evan is always consistent in his presentation. you do tell regulus, but only after he finishes constructing his reply to barty.

“he won’t read it,” you say.

“he won’t read yours,” he shoots back.

onto further matters:

i miss you!!! hope you have the most precious and happy holidays!:) we are visiting the crouch estate this year, and theo brought his girlfriend. mum didn’t really like her, but she’s from a good family, so she warmed up eventually. things are going smoothly overall, but barty is very prickly and i think matilda is cross with me for some reason. maybe she’s told you something? i’m sorry if i upset either you or her, really, didn’t mean to:( i just feel that

the rest of the sentence is scratched out, and there’s an odd spill in the corner.

i just feel that i’m missing something maybe, or maybe it’s just me:) but anyway, please don’t concern yourself too much and save up your strength! it’s a cold winter, and i really can’t wait to see you at hogwarts again, so please please please stay safe!!!! 

i hope you liked my new year’s gift (mum helped me make them! moonstone and silver, said that they will bring you luck for the upcoming year and have all sorts of healing properties)! i made pairs for matilda and myself as well, so we can all match!:) i’ve also been reading “murphy and isolde”, do you have a copy? if not, i could get one for you. it’s such a beautiful romance!!! i’m almost done with it, and there’s news of a second part, so i’m on the lookout. i don’t want to spoil anything, but merlin!!!! it’s absolutely bonkers!!!!

waiting for your reply,
your marzipan

at the bottom of the page there’s a doodle of an orange cat, with an arrow pointing and asking, have you heard?

“what’s murphy and isolde?” regulus asks over your shoulder.

you scowl, “would you stop reading my letters?”

“half of them are at least partially addressed to me anyway,” he retorts, and the worst of it is that he is right. you scoff, “so? what is it?”

“i dunno, a book?” you shrug, putting the letter away and picking up your quill.

he raises a brow, “you read?”

“when i’m forced,” 

“a romance?” he continues, fascinated or abhorred, you can’t really tell, “do girls like that sort of thing?”

“i don’t.”

“why not?”

“because i don’t like reading.”

he hums, accepting your answer. 

there are more letters, but the lengthiest and by far the most boring one comes from matilda, which includes the detailed account of the whole week, from christmas to the eve before the new year, along with an itinerary of all the gifts she’s received. there was some sprouting of her conversations and jokes with barty, and that’s where you threw the pages into the fire.

“i was reading that,” regulus snips.

“well, i was not. my review: utterly dull and meaningless, like most things tilda cows about,” is perhaps said too quickly and too hotly to keep the pretenses up. 

regulus seems a bit lost, “...have i missed something?”

“no,” you lie, but yes would feel like a lie, too, “whatever. away with you.”

“so i have, then,” he concludes.

“remove yourself.”

━━━

during the late hour, when most are already outside waiting for the dancing firework display to start, you are cornered in the lobby. sirius emerged from the shadows like a wraith, and startled you so thoroughly you jumped in spot.

“what was that?” you hiss, hand on heart, urging to soothe the hammer. it had never beat so fast, you think. 

the dark sculpts him. perhaps you are dreaming.

“funny, i was wondering if you could answer a question of my own,” he responds tartly. unkind and snooty as he’s become, you have always branded him softer in imagination. he pulls something from behind his robe, and at first you think he’ll point his wand at your forehead – surely he’s no longer above such savagery – but the only thing he produces is a piece of parchment folded thrice over, “explain yourself.”

another letter? has barty sent something that escaped your notice, something incriminating that would land everyone involved in heaps of trouble? a plausible scenario, though you are not sure what that could be, as you have done nothing wrong. truly, you have done nothing noteworthy at school or outside it. you have not even gone out of your way to antagonize anyone for entertainment, which is clearly something sirius can’t attest to.

you hope he catches the vague disgust in your expression, even in the paltry light, “am i to magically recognize your idle possessions upon a glance? have not learned the spell for that, i’m afraid. but do tell. it is not as though i might miss the new year’s firework display my brothers have been perfecting since summer. frankly, i was terribly shaken to think i might arrive early.”

“why did dorcas ask me to pass this on to you?”

you snatch at the letter but he quickly evades, holding it over his head, “give it.”

“said she didn’t know your address since you never told her,” he states, leaping out of your reach once more, “what are you playing at? is it funny to you, stringing her along?”

“merlin forbid i am so lovable people desire to be my friends.”

“ don’t . she’s muggle born, i know you know that. and i know you would not be caught dead with a friend like that. stop lying.”

you really should have practiced those curses. perhaps led an espionage to the restricted section of the library, fishing for tomes that should not be touched by anyone, ill intentions or no. your hands should not tremble, but they always do when sirius is nearby. they never used to.

your heart is beating so fast it’s making you nauseous. he will not believe you, and you will never win.

“fine,” you utter. exhale, and along with it, a shudder that hopefully he doesn’t notice, “keep it. read it, if you like. frame it on your wall, or nightstand, so you could always admire it. i don’t care. give it back to her, or better yet, destroy it. and then, sod off. i want nothing to do with you. clear enough, isn't it? piss off, sirius."

he stands in silence, arms drooped to his sides, his face devoid of that wild, hateful sneer that now permanently settles itself there. and then he goes. you watch him fade into the waning lanterns and lamps, the dim and solemn atmosphere of the mansion.

then, you try to breathe.

Chapter Text

“how were the holidays, by the way?” your question is met with unusual reluctance, but, frankly, there are things demanding your immediate attention, and small talk is simply that – small. 

dorcas examines the fourth floor tiles with the interest of an experienced constructor. you have found her style outside the nasty burgundy of the gryffindor uniform most eccentric – the tights match the turtleneck, and the dress patterns are, well, questionable, but definitely refreshing with their squiggly lines and bright colours. you’ve noticed more and more students wear similar things. the contrast between them and the dark, rich ensambles of your wardrobe makes it look like a hodgepodge of meshing cultures. you imagine, briefly, dorcas dancing to those muggle tunes you once listened to with sirius. it would fit her. it does not fit you.

halting at a crossroads, you lean an ear out – quiet chatter, squeaks of wet boots, the drum of rain. the downpour began the day before your journey back to the castle and hasn’t let up since. a good week of nothing but stormy clouds and melting snow, turning everything to grey matter and brown sludge.

“‘s alright,” she answers after deliberating some more, and you have seldom seen her so thoughtful. not even transfiguration could coax it out of her, and her focus was only matched by that of regulus, who found the subject particularly lovely in its complexity. you could not say the same for yourself, as the equations and theory left you more than befuddled. “went to visit nan in wood green.”

you’ve no idea where or what that is. presumably, a place nearby, “sounds lovely.”

“was okay. lots of family coming in from everywhere, but it’s nice to see everyone again, i guess. my aunt tried to teach me to play the piano, but i think i’ll stick to sports.”

that got your attention. with your lead missing, you reward her with your full attention: “play the piano?”

“yes?”

“but it plays itself,” you have never known or seen anyone play the piano. the instruments either come with enchantments or are easily prompted into action by the flick of a wand. “why wouldn’t you just enchant it?”

she stares at you, and once again you get that odd feeling from a summer back, the instant, innate understanding that you have said something wrong. then, she scoffs. a mild shake of her head almost sets you back in defense before you hear it again – that strange sound you’ve been following for the better part of the week, all over the castle. scratching.

“i can’t exactly use magic outside school,” she says tartly, but you’re already off. she shuffles after you but remains stubbornly discontent, “i’m the only witch in my family. and i don’t know how to enchant a piano in the first place. and why would i? you can’t go about life just using magic for every single little thing.”

“right.” 

it must be coming from the walls. you would press your ear to the cold stone, but somehow, with dorcas present and in no mood to entertain your whims, you refrain. some ghost or other creature is likely playing a trick on you, but now you’re too invested in this mystery to abandon it. 

still, as you survey the corridor, you find yourself unwillingly brought back to her words. well, why not use magic for every single thing? it’s awfully convenient, so why should you ever live without it? it’s her muggle experience corroding her mind. perhaps barty had a point when he said that all muggleborns are willfully ignorant of the way the real world works.

at any rate, the mystery appears to remain one. whatever made the sound has clearly taken itself away, and thus far no ghost has deigned to show itself. you sigh, and the tension eases from your shoulders. the torches ignite one by one, orange sparks against the cool blue backdrop. it grows dark so quickly these days.

“what are we even doing here?” she questions, motioning to the landscapes on the walls and gleaming armours guarding unknown doorways.

you shrug, not sure how to explain yourself. when you first became aware of the noise, you asked regulus if he heard it, too, and he had looked at you with such alarm that you decided to confide in no one further. “just, strolling around. ‘s not much to do, unless you want to study or eat or, i dunno. play gobstones? not really flying weather.”

to affirm your words, the rain doubles. the ozone permeates, despite the closed windows. outside, the world may no longer exist.

“are you sure?” 

what an odd thing to say, but you respond with your best smile, “certainly, ‘s cold as the ninth circle, i reckon.”

she doesn’t get the reference. naturally, how could she, lacking the disposal of numerous private libraries and tutors. but the prospect of teaching her all the tiny and wonderful details of wizards and magical history as you know it does not seem dull at all. 

where to even begin, though? there is so much material to cover, but no task is daunting enough for a lestrange. you look about, spotting a windowsill nestled between woven tapestries. the fabrics remind you of spring, which is still too far away.

“no, i mean are you sure ?” she emphasizes.

“you’d freeze your nose or hit the astronomy tower in this weather, but if you insist…” you do not look forward to being soaked to the bone, but if it’ll put her moods to rest, then you are willing to make a few sacrifices.

she scoffs again, and her arms fall from the tight cross, “are you sure you want to be seen hanging out with someone like me?”

all your preparations go up in smoke. it feels like the floor is moving and you are suddenly spun unsteady with nothing to brace yourself against. stupidly, the “what?” gets squeezed out your throat before you can think of something smarter.

“you know what i mean,” her eyes narrow, and she has never regarded you with scorn. disappointment, maybe, some mild discontent from afar when you refused her, but never like this. she has kind eyes. much like her clothes wouldn’t suit you, the look in them doesn’t suit her. “aren’t you embarrassed to be seen with a muggleborn? or how is it your friends call me – mudblood, is it?”

“who calls you that?” your family has raised you to abide by social conventions. no one spoke harshly of sensitive matters, as that is impolite in good company. critique must always be softened under carefully picked words. you can’t imagine any of your friends throwing words like that around thoughtlessly, else they’d receive the scolding of a lifetime.

she gestures to the empty corridor, as though the culprits have gathered around you, “who doesn’t? but mostly your housemates. even you must’ve heard what they say about birds of a feather.”

now this truly is hearsey of the highest order. you’ve never even thought the word, much less used it. you’ve never heard anyone in your family say it, except the carrows, perhaps, or burkes, but no one gave a faff of their opinions, and from what you understood, the general opinion of them was very low. 

still, it must be known, “i never called you that.”

“to my face,”

“i’m not sure where’s this coming from, but–”

“i’ve had a chat with sirius, yeah? gave me much to consider, to be honest.”

your worst fear, manifested. you had not even realised you were afraid of such a thing. it makes you go cold slowly then all at once. 

the anger is so sudden and sharp you almost grab at your robes, as though you could somehow contain it, “and you believe him? you spoke to him and you believed him? he’s a liar and a no good cheat!”

“he said i’m some project to you, charity case, whatever,” she insists, and there’s hurt in her voice, too, now revealed when the fervour dies down, “and you know, he makes sense. i mean, why would someone like you even want me as a friend? you’re embarrassed to be seen with me in public, you never speak to me in front of your friends, you almost always ignore me when i try to catch you, and you only come around when you’ve got no other option. you didn’t even invite me to your birthday – yeah, know about that, by the way – or respond to my letter. you, you are a terrible friend. and you have terrible friends.”

“and,” she hiccups and grows quiet. her lashes tremble and she looks to the floor.

how could sirius do this? feed her these malicious lies, and how could she believe him over you? everything was fine, but now one chat and suddenly she’s all concerned over nonsense. you must write to aunt walburga and inform her that sirius has taken considerable measures to ruin your social life.

only how to explain…?

you draw blank. there is no grand speech in you, no justifications, not even a comeback. sirius has poisoned her mind – who will be his next victim? why couldn’t he have picked someone you care little for, like matilda or marzipan or some other unremarkable student? why must it be dorcas?

nothing to be done. your hands tremble and you hide them behind your back, squeeze so hard they start to hurt. nothing to be done, you must sever the line. she has picked a side and will hear no reason. father says the last word is the winner, so you must speak. 

it’ll even be better, won’t it? her birthday is in april, and you won’t need to pretend.

“one day,” you start, shaky and self-conscious, “when you find yourself crying in a bathroom stall because he’s suddenly become cruel to you, don’t expect me to knock on the door and comfort you.”

━━━

in charms, you’ve been practicing the hot air spell. the elements demand it, as classes held outdoors will unfortunately remain outdoors despite the student populace advocating for change. professor flitwick was kind enough to inform that the curriculum will include the warming charm next, as it gets unbearingly cold and rainy when seasons shift from winter to spring. 

the air is still signed with the smell of something burning when you leave class, regulus, evan, and barty following along. you move closer to the wall and let the slytherin and ravenclaw students disperse. not gryffindor. thank merlin for that. the very name makes you irrationally angry, bitter to the point of bristling. the ache is too fresh, but to even imply there is an ache is silly, for you have never cared for dorcas and you do not care about her now.

it is simply your pride that has been wounded. and you do not appreciate sirius meddling in your affairs. you had considered revenge again. especially during dinner, when he and james are laughing so loudly it makes you nauseous. 

“anyone got a potions essay i could copy?” barty asks. evan seems ready to strike him.

you glance at regulus but he hurriedly turns away. you don’t like it when he’s quiet.

“strange?”

now it is your turn to frown, “absolutely not. write it yourself. always cowing about how smart you are, put it to the test.”

“i’d rather nap, thanks,” he shoots back, fixing the strap of his bag. near full enough to burst, you have no idea why he carries all those books around if he doesn’t care to read them. same could be said about you, but not everything is about you, is it? “‘s the weather, makes me dozy.”

barty would blame any arbitrary aspect of any arbitrary thing if it meant getting out of something. he’s becoming a bit more convincing, which will not bode well in later years.

you shrug. you have no energy to entertain him. “go then, not like slughorn will care much. just submit it late.”

“what if he writes mum, though?” he considers.

you raise a brow, “wouldn’t he anyway if you copied an essay word for word?”

“stupid, not word for word. just the structure. and maybe topic.”

“then just write it yourself,” when you look at evan and regulus, you expect them to back you up, or at least take barty off your hands. what you don’t expect is to have them making scarce. “where’re you going?”

they stop. regulus pales a little, but remains silent, unable to meet your stare. evan clears his throat, “just the library.”

barty hums, “alright, let's go, then. i need to finish this essay anyway. before it finishes me, preferably.”

“but you hate the library,” evan states, and while not untrue, his insistence is becoming increasingly suspicious. still, his ability to remain calm is enviable. you might even believe him if regulus did not look so guilty beside him, “and you’d annoy us to no end about this or that. why not ask someone in the common room? you know a lot of second and third years. someone might be willing to lend a helping hand.”

“never thought you’d have a good idea, but suppose even i can be proven wrong,” barty admits, which is probably the strangest thing about this conversation. he glances at you thoughtfully, like he’s considering inviting you along.

thus, you beat him to it. “no.” 

his face scrunches up, “ fine .” and away he goes, lost in the crowd.

regulus and evan disappear before you realise you’re left all on your lonesome. you could follow after them and spy, but that seems like too much effort, and you’d rather ruminate in some corner or play with your dice. 

you pat your pocket, even if you know you did not bring them along. perhaps you hoped that by some magical quality or another, they had appeared. no such thing. the vacantness feels stagnant, much like the air. you know your dice is safe in a velvet pouch, hidden underneath your pillow, listening to the whispers of your dreams. you could go get them, but your feet don’t move, and so you remain glum and motionless till the corridors clear and classes begin.

perhaps it is the weather, like barty claims.

━━━

over the course of the next few weeks, you have come to the not entirely surprising realization that evan and regulus are hiding something from you. it would’ve been more painful if they were more subtle, but one can only shut up so quickly each time you or barty rear your heads, thus you are not even all that angry.

you’re not sure what you’re feeling. january has proven to be a rotten month.

when pressed about it, they presented some disjoined story about books and theoretical knowledge and all things you and barty found dull, so you badgered them no further and pretended not to notice when they discreetly left. by the end of january, they’ve resorted to communicating in glances.

you tried to talk to cissy about this, but she had barricaded herself in the library, whispering wearily about her n.e.w.ts. you had never seen her so tired, nor a pile of books so large and intimidating, so you left her to her own devices, hoping she won’t collapse or catch some malady like you had in november.

pestering rabastan was out the question. sometimes, he was more overt with his displeasure than others, like the slight crinkle of his brow when you accidentally located him exiting the second greenhouse, or the overt scowl when you met him on his way to the owelry and suggested making the remaining trip together.

“what business you got in the owelry, anyway?” he accuses, because of course he does, as he is always bitter about one thing or the other. recently, he’s grown quite morose, too. “are you following me?”

a shocking statement, but this is your brother, so nothing is truly shocking when it comes to him, “what in merlin’s name made you think you’re that important?”

when watching his retreating back and not reacting to the nasty look he throws at you over his shoulder, you wonder why exactly rodolphus couldn't be the younger one. you imagined it would’ve been nice to share a few years at hogwarts with him. firm, patient, loving – all the attributes that have been lost on rabastan, if they were ever present in the first place. 

you wait a bit more, let the cold cool you further. it grows very dark, and the sky looks angry. the clock chimes behind you, echoing up your spine. 

what to do, who to speak to?

the remaining populace of students interested you little, if at all. what would you even speak about with, say, severus snape, who always extended you a stale hello when met but never looked you directly in the eyes and never properly washed his hair? or the unpleasant fellow that always followed him around, mulciber? matilda you’ve had enough of already, and barty took too much joy in vexing you, so you tried to avoid him. 

it was easier when evan and regulus were there to tip the scales. now, you feel…

this predicament, for a lack of a better word, left you with marzipan, who seemingly grew even more intolerable over the holidays. she yipped at your heels and followed you around the castle holding her book, trying to show you one passage or another. even feigning illness would not get rid of her, since she immediately insisted on feeling sick as well. 

“i know, ‘s so terrible,” she nods solemnly once after transfiguration, when all your friends scatter into different directions. marzy’s hair is especially disheveled after having a bad bout of practice magic, and there is a string of soot across her nose, “i’ve been out of since coming back. think it’s a nasty cold, maybe. or some other affliction. do you have a fever? i think i might. or maybe not. should we go to the hospital wing? madam pomfrey will fix us right up! unless it’s unfixable, in which case i suppose we’re done for, aren’t we?

unbearable. you were forced to reconsider your options.

━━━

when both evan and regulus rushed out the melting snowy scape of the courtyard, brooms barely properly discarded and shoes slipping on thawing ice, you only just managed to land and tug off your googles. the windy, rainy atmosphere made your head hurt and ears burn. so far, flying lessons had been the most manageable and agreeable with your character, only you always wish to go faster than the rest.

and when madam hooch is not looking, do a turn too sharp or a manoeuvre just advanced enough to toe the line of danger. normally, here is where dorcas would cheer you on, but as you are no longer on speaking terms, all you find yourself wishing for these days is for her to fall off her broom.

barty waits for you to dismount, green cloak soaked emerald. he reminds you vaguely of a wet cat and as equally unwanted, but you do appreciate him sticking around. a rare trait you thought he didn’t possess – loyalty. or perhaps he’s too dim to figure out what’s happening. the latter would be better, as you don’t wish for his pity.

the two of you remain silent en route to the broom shed. you try to flex your fingers. they’re stiff and uncooperative underneath your gloves, but when you spot marzipan and matilda, they seem so genuinely miserable that it almost makes you forget how absolutely freezing you are.

“what are you doing after?” you ask, placing your broom neatly back in its locker. the glossy wood gleams in the dim light. it must be noted that it is much nicer compared to barty’s, as this is the new new model released a few days prior. it only took a letter and some meticulously selected words to have it sent over, courtesy of rodolphus and bellatrix. a late christmas gift, not to be confused with the two they gave you on christmas.

barty shuts his locker. his face goes funny red when he’s out in the cold for too long, “getting warm, for a start,” he says, “then, dunno, hanging at the duelling club.”

“first years aren’t allowed at the duelling club,”

“unsanctioned practice,” he preens, like he’s outsmarted you. “held by a few dear friends. nothing too crazy, you can stop clutching your pearls.”

the quick trek across the yard is almost the death of you. inside the castle, the lot of you huddle and fish out your wands, casting the hot air charm. against the cold, the heat scalds, but soon enough, the water evaporates and your robes no longer weigh you down. the warm, dry air tickles the back of your throat.

barty messes with his hair, then says, “want to come as well?”

not like you have anything better to do, “oh, alright.”

━━━

unsanctioned is an understatement. there is no refinement and no rules and no clear overhead lights, only the pale blue glow of an enchanted galaxy. the room is large and dusty with cracked floors and signed carpets rolled to the side. the leader of the club, montgomery jesst, a seventh year gryffindor, is likely responsible for the display of magic. it reminds you briefly of narcissa’s impressive craftsmanship on your birthday, but much less elegant.

you and barty are the only first years here, save for matilda, sitting perched on a table and batting her lashes at a second year slytherin, percy pattins, who appears to be enraptured. she has mentioned him from time to time. nothing noteworthy or all that interesting, as always and without fault, the conversation circled back to bartimus and his unsightly yet curious character. 

barty briefly reminds you the names of older friends – matthew, saltlor, eric, bellamy, and there is where you lose track. they all seem polite and unremarkable, meshing into a single unremarkable face and body that speaks of unremarkable things. when matilda circles over, they all greet her warmly, jokingly, like she is one of their own. you suppose she fits in this drab background with its increasingly dull personages dancing about an equally uninteresting subject.

the fact remains, though. she is their friend. you are not. you are not even barty’s friend, barty is evan’s friend, and evan is regulus’. what are you doing here?

you feel like you’re intruding when they laugh and marvel at the fights, spells and sparks leaving marks on charred surfaces. you feel as you did sat next to sirius on the train, with remus, james, and peter all watching you. an intruder in their cabin, an intruder threatening the silence of mother’s room, an intruder in dorcas’ happiness, an intruder to rabanstan’s solitude, an intruder on evan and regulus’ secret plans. everywhere you go these days, it seems there is no place for you.

a student is sent flying. he crashes into the stacked chairs and the room erupts in applause and hollers. barty, who has yet to leave your side, claps along and turns to check if you’re enjoying the spectacle just as much as he is. his smile doesn’t fall when he realises you aren’t, but he doesn’t comment on it, either. no incessant worrying.

“wanna have a go?” he nudges your shoulder.

“can’t think of anything i’d enjoy less,” you should retreat to the common room. get the dice. stack them into towers, retire into the imaginary hotels of your creation. there is so much left to explore, and perhaps this is the time to explore it. the dice do not need textbooks, do not need friends, do not need explanations. they need only you.

“c’mon,” he tries, “i’ll be your opponent. can’t think of anything you’d enjoy more.”

he’s not sirius, who you would set on fire at this point, but he is not incorrect, either. still. “no thanks, but,” you offer a small smile, hoping it’s encouragement enough, “i’d rather not. knock yourself out, though.”

“i’ll try,” he promises.

you spot matilda off to the side. her eyes jump between you with such scrutiny you barely manage to reign in your surprise. before barty can leave to join the stage, your hand moves on its own. you’re not sure why you do it, but you grasp his wrist and stop him.

questioning, he regards you. if it was regulus or evan or docas, you would tell them to be careful. but, “try not to embarrass yourself too much.”

no need for incessant worrying.

barty grins, brighter this time if possible. matilda’s glare scorches you like the hot air charm all over again.

“prepare to be amazed,” he declares, turning away and running up to join the duel, raising his wand high. 

you could sneak away unnoticed, but you don’t. you sit on the rolled carpet, finding the view acceptable enough. perhaps it won’t be too terrible. it might even lift your spirits if someone bests him. then again, barty is nothing if not adept at besting those around him.

so you watch instead, acutely aware of matilda’s gaze branding itself into your skin, a new weight to carry. she doesn’t approach and doesn’t relent, and you come to another unsurprising conclusion that matilda may love barty crouch jr. and despise you, much like you have grown to despise her.

you could do something with that, you think. with no one available to herd you into less wicked ventures, suppose you must make the entertainment yourself. if dorcas and sirius and who knows who else, really, think you so rotten, well, you’ll prove to be even worse.

Chapter Text

on the 3rd of february, you wait till marzipan and matilda retire to bed before escaping the chamber. the common room has quieted significantly – you spot a few fifth years huddled by the glass, reading by the candlelight; there’s a lonely third year, one of barty’s, polishing his collection of chest pieces; and, of course, there is narcissa, who has made herself at home by the hearth, sat on the carpet surrounded by her nest of papers.

briefly, you admire the curlers in her hair, hoping she’ll acknowledge you first. she doesn’t glance up from her diary, “trouble?”

“not at all,” you say. her suspicion shows with a pointed look and a once over, eyes catching over what you carry in your hands – a tome, some parchment, and an atlas. slowly, her features soften.

“homework, i presume?”

“do you mind?” 

though you know what her answer will be, the breath of a pause leaves you unexpectedly anxious. “of course not,” she insists with a small smile to match, patting the ground as though you were still little and would plop down on her many drawings, ruining the ink. 

you are always very mindful of such things. there was only ever one instance. a terrible accident had occurred when you were five, and though some of your childhood has already faded from memory, this you recall clearly. you were sad to ruin the picture and crying. the ink was a deep burgundy that reflected brighter in the light, and it got over your hands and knees and the tip of your nose. aunt druella had found you two in shared misery, assuming that you had gotten hurt. cissy had received the full force of her ire that afternoon.

you side-step over the pages. much like narcissa herself, her handwriting is beautiful – sweeping and elegant, with small letters that start to swim the longer you look at them. it reminds you of her trimmed lace collars. 

“well?” she puts her diary aside and moves the sketches: romantic renditions of dreamlike spaces, draping chiffon dresses, springs of flowers. she seems much more curious about your belongings, and helps you set them up on the table. unfurling the map, she delights, “ah, star charts?”

“yes,” you reach for her quill and she hands it over, pushing the ink bottle closer, “thought it’s best to do at night?”

her eyes dance with amusement, “yes, but, not so close to midnight, surely.”

the truth it is, then. “i’ve been putting it off.”

she tuts, but doesn’t scold you. as you had always known, out of everyone, narcissa knows and understands you best. not even rodolphus or regulus can compare or compete. there has always been something in her disposition that calmed you the instant you spotted it, and now is no different. you can never name exactly what it is, or point to a single distinctive feature, but maybe that is why the connection between you and her exists at all.

“as everyone does,” she says, “but best not to make a habit of it.”

“right,” you should elaborate that your plan is a bit more deliberate than idle laziness or some other preoccupation. in all honesty, you’ve been trying to corner her for a while now, but she kept slipping through your fingers. studies and plans and more studies and more plans – surviving as a seventh year seems hardly metaphoric and more literal. 

alas, her preparation for n.e.w.ts doesn’t concern you much. she is an exceptionally talented witch, and very clever to boot. you have no doubt her results will be extraordinary, or at the very least, close to that. no, what brought you here is a very simple matter. her wedding.

“what were you drawing?” you begin, opening the astronomy tome to not seem as invested as you are.

she collects the parchment from the ground. the lines move gently, their stable structure ruffled by some swirl of a breeze. magic combined with her natural talent, nourished since childhood. something only cissy is good at, something you think you will never be good at, as you have neither the patience nor the artistic vision to bring about anything of merit. 

only disappointment, perhaps. you perish the thought as quickly as it appears.

she overlooks her images, picks the ones she likes the most, and places them on the star map. imaginary wintry avenues, crystalline teardrop pendants, the glass-cut of the moon. “it’s been on my mind a lot,” her admission is much quieter than you expected it to be. some note of sadness slips by, but why you aren’t certain. “i thought, if i had to have it my way… well, the ceremony would look much like this, i think.”

“can’t it?” you wonder, anxious again but for an entirely different reason. while narcissa has always treated you as an equal, she will turn eighteen in ten days, and you are still ways off from thirteen. you don’t want her to think you too childish. you don’t want her to hide things from you. you don’t want

“our families insist on summer,” she sighs, and her answers soothes you. no hiding. no secrets. of course, you can always trust narcissa to be honest. you feel a bit foolish for getting so worked up, “we would like a winter wedding. the summer’s always too hot or rainy or cold. winter is much prettier.”

“why not, then?”

“too many holidays,” 

you frown, “sounds like a horrid reason, if you ask me.”

“i agree,” there’s a faint curl of a smile on her lips, “but tradition is tradition. everyone always wants a summer wedding. any other season is too controversial. we are the outliers, lucius and i.”

you can’t believe you never thought about this previously. “did bellatrix want a summer wedding?” 

did she want a wedding at all? there was never any secret about marriage – you, like any other member of the sacred twenty eight, will one day marry and continue the lineage. matches are usually made when the girls debut during the spring social at sixteen, but some matches are agreed upon even before birth. 

realistically, you understand that there is no choice in this matter, and you aren’t mourning the loss of it, for that would imply it existed in the first place. what you are suddenly unnerved by is the lack of control. had bellatrix decided anything at all about her special day? did she lament any of her private plans in her old room, haunted by the possibilities of what would have been or should have been, much like cissy? 

you can’t imagine yourself in such a scenario. surely father would allow you a winter wedding if you so wished. or an autumn one. any controversial season, at your disposal. he wouldn’t say no, would he? he will be the one to decide on the match, but your input must count. you can’t think of a world where it doesn’t. matches are made between the adults, but you’d always assumed your father would sit you down in the parlour room and ask – have you made up your mind?

“-... care much about the date,” narcissa is explaining, pulling you back to the present. “only that it was deep into the night. she wanted to wed when the moon was at its highest.”

“brother, of course, agreed,” you nod. rodolphus likes bellatrix, you think. he is kind with her, and never speaks ill of her character or appearance. he doesn’t hold her hand nor kiss her cheek in public, but they’re always hooked at the elbow when required, much like anyone else you know.

“i think rodolphus is a very good match,” she says, which surprises you, “bella can be moody and volatile. her emotions often get the better of her. but rodolphus is the opposite. he’s very patient, isn’t he? perhaps not calm, but not reactive. she wasn’t disappointed to marry him, if that’s what you’re worried about,” her hand, light and warm, lands on your shoulder. “we all agreed it was perfect. and the wedding was beautiful, wasn’t it?”

still. “but she doesn’t love him?”

“you can grow to love someone.”

“but you love lucius,”

“very much.”

“and he loves you,”

“just as much.”

you think of your aunts, your older cousins. you think of your mother and your father and the nothing that exists between them now, and that there remains no proof of its existence before you. neither rodolphus nor rabastan confessed to witnessing any sort of fondness between them in your absence, and no one has ever regaled any cherished stories of clumsy or grand or romantic courtship from their school days.

you think of matilda and her affection for bartimus. will they get married one day? or perhaps, in a twist of fate, she will be told to marry someone else. do such things happen? of course. no one is exempt from duty. you have always known this, and you do not understand why it’s suddenly so important.

you think of sirius and the guest bedroom of your estate: the music and the dancing and that terrible fight. “that’s rare, isn’t it? marrying for love.”

she squeezes your shoulder, “perhaps a tad uncommon, but not impossible. don’t fret so much. it’s still so far off. what you should be focusing on is your studies. particularly, this star chart.”

━━━

with evan and regulus still distracted, you have become subjected to the full force of the castle’s madness. it seems that one day, everyone woke up and decided that romance was the only thing worth discussing. you blame it on saint valentine and his day – a muggle invention that is astoundingly popular among everyone – whoever he is.

marzipan, having finished the second installment of her beloved series all teary-eyed, confessed that the ending was so brutal and unfair it nearly shattered her. if heartbreak existed, she said, she had experienced it somewhere between dusk and dawn.

“are you certain it wasn’t delirium from the lack of sleep?” you question, en route to the great hall for a much needed mid-evening snack.

with a sigh bearing the weight of the entire world and all its grievances, marzy nods. “t’was so tragic, can’t even find the words. they loved one another so much. no one even died, that would make it less sad, really. it was all just a big misunderstanding. they never reconciled. can’t be the end, can it?” 

her inquiry is punctuated by a particularly sombre expression, directed at your person. as though you held the magic quill that weaved her tale. you don’t even know the author, or what’s in murphy & isolde, for that matter, and not for a lack of marzipan talking about it. 

you pass a group of three gryffindors, hushed in secrecy and giggling to one another. fearing to overhear some more romantic drivel, you continue, “well, is it the last installment?”

“‘s what the publisher said when i wrote him,” she explains. “maybe i should pen the author and ask her to change the ending?”

“sounds perfect, you best get on that right away.”

matilda, too, was too concerned with the curl of her lashes or the amount of freckles on her nose. the latter sprouted suddenly, as though she'd been bathed in sunlight for most of these gloomy months. the sphere of her influence grew with them. and while her fascination with herself was hardly novel, it's the fact that it was amplified tenfold with such suspicious timing that didn't escape your notice.

she's been waking sooner each morning, studying new styles, and preparing for the day ahead. each breakfast, she looked a bit more put together than the previous, which left you at a disadvantage, for you didn't take any extra measures to compete with her. you were naturally very pretty. the problem was that matilda was as well, and if she was doing something you neglected, then that meant it was worthy of your attention, too.

but you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that all this pageantry was influenced by this dreaded month. worse yet, it was likely inspired by bartimus' unwavering dedication to sometimes keep you company when the dice no longer sufficed. as it was, ever since you knowingly grabbed his hand, she could not shut up about him or shut up in his presence.  

"but really, not sure what happened," she says during dinner. you’re all thoroughly exhausted after parlaying a particularly lengthy hogwarts: a history chapter, and the conversation fell into a weary lull before she returned to the previous topic. neither barty nor you look up from your respective plates. you find it in yourself the strength to move the fork. “everyone keeps asking, s’pecially pattins, and i’m, well, think they might’ve appeared after christmas, no?”

barty, for his part, remains unimpressed. he has always had many freckles dusted all over his body, from cheekbones to knees to ankles. it comes with the copper-tinted hair, you assume. something softer to balance out his gauntness.

"dunno," he says after a thoughtful chew, "haven't noticed.”

she deflates, visibly, like someone struck her with a spell. it's very funny, but you try not to betray yourself. what did she expect, the silly girl? barty has never been very perceptive, least of all to menial changes in appearance. even if they were better friends than you with either, the only thing this conversation has confirmed is that he pays her no attention at all. it must sting deeply. you hope she cries about it, in fact, you’re almost certain that she will.

━━━

as one would expect, narcissa’s birthday is a refined, cultured affair. it’s held in the same chamber all birthdays are hosted, you realize, for it has enough room and just enough charm to be palatable even without the magical enhancement, of which there are many.

and while it is most pretty, most wintry, you realize, recognizing the crystal teardrops and pearlescent, glowing reflections, it’s overtly boring. very formal. everyone is dressed their best, not a sweater in sight; everyone is also here, besides dumbledore and the less important houses. no sign of sirius as well. when you imagined the ministerial socials your father attended, you imagined them looking like this.

the cake is delicious, though, and you were permitted half a glass of champagne for the trouble of dolling up. 

“should we sneak away?”

you might’ve startled, but if you did, you will admit it to no one. bartimus is awfully good at skulking around, despite his penchant for dramatic entrances and constant, whiny need to be the centre of attention. this is why you never get along, as his claim to the spotlight intervenes with yours. you two are natural enemies, one might say.

still, of all the people he might circle for entertainment, the last place you figured he’d end up is by your side. with his hands in his trousers’ pockets and the tie deliberately undone, he looks more like a kid desperately trying to appear as an adult rather than the dashing and reckless youth he wants to portray himself as, allegedly. this is all assumption, of course. you hardly ever think of barty, so who are you to know his motives.

“who is we?” you ask. you glance at regulus and evan, but they appear to be engaged enough with the two slytherin prefects. have they decided to become prefects? there’s still so much time to prepare for that, but perhaps they’re rivals. evan is very ambitious and regulus can be goaded into competition, but honestly, you’re not so sure anymore. about everything in general. everyone is acting differently, save for narcissa, and that’s why she will forever be your favourite.

“me and you,” barty says, like it’s obvious.

“you and i,” you correct.

he scoffs, greatly annoyed, and you smile. “you can’t convince me you’re having fun here.”

“‘s not about me having fun,” you tell him, because he is an idiot and will never understand the finer details that are so obvious to you, “it’s about cissy. it’s her birthday, show some respect and shut up.”

“think i’m gonna die,” he says, “or be sick. or fall asleep.”

“in that order?”

“an impressive feat, even you can admit to that, strange.”

you hate it when he calls you that. now, especially, because he says it like he knows something about you and is mocking you for it; like he has somehow been given the leisure to examine your thoughts, spin and twist them of their matter and from that mess understand all there is to you. 

but that’s impossible, of course. barty doesn’t know of sleepless nights and noises and murky dreams of unseen places, unknown emotions, and he doesn’t know about the sting of absence, about being an intruder, about being strange.

he takes your silence as offense and sighs. his amusement thaws, and he looks away, not embarrassed or apologetic, but perhaps mindful. “you got plans tomorrow?”

there is a sense of stillness you can’t quite explain, but he regains his footing a beat after. “you better not say playing dice. or whatever. i need an activity. and so do you, by the way. we can bring ev and reg with, too. merlin knows they both need to loosen up… honestly, when was the last time we did something all together? feels like ages.”

it does feel like it’s been forever. your friend group has fractured. perhaps you have misjudged bartimus a bit – perhaps he also felt the absence, even if he has others he can turn to. still, you’ve known each other since birth. it must count for something. 

“it would be nice,” you are in rare agreement with him. he seems pleased. “we could, explore the castle. or go flying if the weather permits it.”

“scare the snogging students too, hopefully,” he adds. so he’s aware of the date after all.

“most’ll be at hogsmeade,” you shrug.

he hums, “some, but the rest’ll be hiding in crevices like rats. not sure about you, but i’m in the mood for mischief.”

trouble, then, is on the menu. not too bad, surely, as you have been meaning to mend your tender-hearted ways. some espionage might even be fun, especially with barty, since he always made his plans surprisingly thorough. 

“suppose we can set off a few stink bombs,” you respond, “but do you think reg and evan will approve?”

this might propose an issue. if they are truly interested in being prefects, then their capacity for fun has diminished drastically. they not only might not agree, but try to stop you as well, which would end in a terrible row. barty seems to be considering. maybe he shares your line of thought.

“fine,” he decides, eyes slightly narrowed at your two friends on the other side of the packed room. “easier to move if it’s just two, anyway.”

when you return to your bedroom that evening a bit later than the rest – you wanted to linger with cissy – you find that both matilda and marzipan were still awake. already in their pyjamas, they quiet when you open the door, looking at you with eyes bright with wonder.

“‘s percy,” matilda tells you, voice a slight quiver, “he asked me out on a date!”

“‘m so happy,” marzipan, likely, repeats, but from her smile, you can tell her enthusiasm is genuine, “and extremely jealous! you’ll have to tell us all about it. you will, tilda, won’t you? you said that you will!”

“of course,” matilda calms her, “i’ll spare not a detail.”

“oh, but what of us?” marzipan jumps from her bedside and paces, “what shall we do?” her look is pointed at you, still stuck by the threshold, “we could–”

“i can’t,” it falls from your lips with a breath, and your heart starts beating just a tad faster, “i’ve got plans.”

you move to your chest, clicking the lock open. the short silence is broken by matilda. “come now, surely you won’t be playing with your silly dice all day?”

you abhor the tone, the gilded condensation. one day she will beg you, you think, but now, you grab your pyjamas and turn to face her. “no, of course not. i’ll be with barty.”

her smile falls, instantly. there’s hurt before there’s anger, and for you, there’s only triumph. marzipan titters, but matilda remains deathly silent. when you finally retire to bed, you wonder if she’ll try smothering you in your sleep. 

━━━

even the slytherin common room is not immune to heart-shaped paraphernalia, granted, none of them look like an actual heart. pins, lockets, even the boring square cushions have transformed. there are fragrances in the air, all pleasant but indistinguishable from one another. there is also a girl crying by the west-end bookshelves with at least seven other girls, all dressed in their weekend robes, consoling her.

and there’s regulus with a book in an unsuspecting corner, beside the tapestry of a knight polishing his sword. a teacup swelters by his wrist, and a truly disastrous amount of candies litters the table – pink-frosted muffins, red velvet cake, palmfuls of chocolates, just to name a few. breakfast, supposedly.

you approach in measured steps. the morning light gleams and glitters, always lively – such is the perk of living underwater, only ever impressive during the daytime. “morning,” you greet, and he ticks his head to the sound of your voice like a hound that caught the scent. his hands, almost imperceptibly, move to cover the text, and he smiles a little crooked.

“you’re up early,” he says, gathering his bearings.

you raise a brow, “it’s almost noon.”

regulus shrugs, clears his throat. having no one to impress, he’s donned his slytherin sweater. noting your robes, he begins fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “what’s the occasion?”

lying to regulus is much different than lying to matilda, though it’s hardly a lie, isn’t it? and if it was the other way around, it wouldn’t stop you, either. you are a natural at obfuscating the truth. a childhood talent, much different from cissy’s but no less impressive in its craftsmanship.  

“oh, i was only in a mood,” you say. it is nothing like you wore yesterday for the party, but it does look nice enough for others to wonder if it was intentional or not. perhaps your next hobby will be simply to sow discord wherever you go. “have you seen barty?”

he frowns. “why?”

“i’ve got arrangements,”

“what sort?”

so bartimus has not shared after all. you could tell him now and end the charade. you could invite him, too, and ask him to regale the summons to evan as well. only you do not want to. both regulus and evan had abandoned you in pursuit of some private goals they guard with surprising conviction. you could ask regulus about that now, demand he show you what he’s reading. you do not want to. when you look at regulus’ expectant expression, you find that you don’t care much for the truth.

only retribution. 

“what an interrogation,” you say, hands hooked behind your back, “when do the aurors show? have i got a min to owl my father, request a representative?”

he scoffs. it seems you have successfully ruined his mood. “dunno, he left early. probably at the duelling club or looking for trouble elsewhere.”

a good enough lead. “my gracious thanks,”

“whatever.”

━━━

as expected, most students have left for hogsmeade, but a few stragglers remain. you found the great hall almost empty and unsurprisingly decorated. after breakfast, you decided to visit all the regular spots that you knew of, but found nothing but more heart-shaped rubbish and an occasional proclamation of love from one painting or the other. it was all very uninspiring.

bored, and on the precipice of suspicion – perhaps he was playing a joke on you? – you decided to wander aimlessly, hoping to catch at least the noises that have made the occasional haunt. no such luck, but you did finally run into barty not far from the ravenclaw tower.

“merlin, finally,” he says, like you’re the one who ran off without him. he has a bag slung over his shoulder, probably full with all sorts of goodies, and you’re assumption is proven correct when he opens the flaps to show you what’s inside. half of the stuff you don’t even recognise, “thought you might’ve changed your mind, ‘s all.”

you purse your lips. at least he has the decency to dress nicely. the colours match. “i was looking all over for you.”

he scratches the back of his head, “yeah, i went to hunt for supplies. then got a bit carried away. didn’t hurt your feelings, did i?”

as if. “of course not,”

“that sounded very defensive, just now.”

for the upcoming hour, you very carefully set up traps for unsuspecting ravenclaws. no doorway is quite safe from your meddling, and barty even tests the shock gel on a handle to ensure it works correctly. it does.

you can’t hold your laughter. it was pretty funny, seeing him startle and tense like that, hair standing on end. he only quickly smoothes down the strands, and the two of you move on further into the castle.

“by the way,” you can’t really recall when you’ve had a real chat with bartimus. it’s always he either being intentionally obtuse or asking for some favour. considering that he initially wanted to invite the rest of your missing quartet, it’s only natural to ask. “i ran into regulus this morning. he was reading something. hid what it was, though. do you know what’s up with them?”

barty shakes his head. “haven’t got the faintest. probably something obscenely dull, though. they might be trying to save their dignity by keeping it from us.”

“really? you’re not curious at all?”

“no? what, you think it’s dark magic or something?”

you snicker. that would be funny. you can’t imagine either using something like that. truthfully, you’ve always assumed the dark arts specifically are for those of lesser influence. you don’t know much about them, but you do know the general consensus, which is dominance over another spellcaster in any shape or form. 

all of you have been born into influence and wealth. to resort to a, quite frankly, lower class arsenal would be, if anything, embarrassing. “that would be more than astounding.”

“i know right,” barty agrees, grinning from ear to ear. “they got neither the balls nor the conviction for it. i, on the other hand…”

“you’re the son of the head of the department of magical law enforcement,” you state, nudging his shoulder. he preens a little, “what do you need the dark arts for?”

“to annoy my father? imagine the look on him, for a moment,” he tells, and you do. you don’t see bartimus crouch sr. much, if ever. he, like your father, is usually swept away with ministerial affairs far above your understanding. you can’t quite construct his face from memory alone, so you look at barty and try to imagine him much older and wiser than he’ll ever be. noting your thoughtful gaze, his smile turns sharp, “that, and, of course, the skill it takes to learn. it’s proper wicked, isn’t it?”

in every sense of the word. you still don’t fully understand the appeal. you have never needed a spell or some trinket to influence others, and you’re only twelve. one can only assume what’ll happen in the future. 

“it’s different from what we’re taught,” he continues. “you gotta feel it. it’s not passive, ‘s what i mean. intention matters the most, can make or break a spell. won’t work if you don’t believe it.”

“and how do you know all this?” 

he gives you a sneaky little look. “wouldn’t you like to know.”

“‘s why i asked, didn’t i?”

“right, well, mulciber told me, mostly.”

you blink. “don’t tell me you actually spent time with that lout.”

“we run in the same circles,” he huffs. “we’re not friends though, don’t get prissy. he’s bloody awful. proper stupid.”

“and he looks like a pug, ugly snout.”

this time, it’s barty that snickers. “yeah, well, you’d know best, poodle.”

“no one calls me that anymore, think of something new.”

“cuz you’ve gotten less snippy,” he informs. “no longer prancing around your mansion. still unbearable, though.”

yes, you have most certainly changed, grown, and matured. you haven’t much considered how different you’ve become since the start of the school year, your very first. perhaps it’s easier to notice from the side, where all shapes and contours contrast clearly against the background.

“should we hex someone?” barty suggests, noting your lapse of silence. you are easily distracted, it seems. or very contemplative. philosophy and its adjacents are male interests. the women in your immediate circles tend to avoid complicated thought. might get wrinkles. 

best not to think of these things too much. it matters not. you’re supposed to be enjoying your auspicious saturday. “like who?”

barty gets that gleam in his eye, as though he’s caught you in a snare. “anyone we run into,” he says, fetching his wand from his back pocket, “can even go first if you’re too scared.”

in a game where immediate victory is not ensured, there’s no shame in calculated movement. meaning, observation is necessary, and action or the lack of will follow afterwards. it’s what father has repeated so many times to rabastan. what a crying shame he is so terribly untalented at everything. “as you like it.”

it takes a turn of a single corner for the growing grin on barty’s face to instantly crumble. there, by portrait of a lady eternally peeling her apple, is the gryffindor prefect, frank longbottom, keeping the peace. you hide your smile behind your hand. 

barty shoots you a scalding glare. “i’m still gonna do it.”

“please,” perhaps, in truth, there are so many wonderful, curious things you can agree on with barty that you never considered. “please, don’t let me stop you. the floor is yours.”