Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If Evan had to guess, she’s looked out of sorts since she sat down at the table, judging from the multiple looks she’s received in the past fifteen minutes. She’s felt out of sorts, anyhow. It’s not a huge misconception. Most of them—the looks—have been some mix of concerned and curious, which is an awful mixture from this bunch. From Lovegood, Snape, Talkalot, and Lestrange, sure. That can be understood. Avery and Wilkes, even, could be perceptive enough for it.

It’s when Mulciber gives her a look that Evan cracks.

Aurora’s talking, gesturing as she explains whatever it was she was saying—Evan wasn’t particularly listening until now. “—which is exactly why that wouldn’t work, the rune schemes would overlap and start messing with each other!”

“Which is why you’re supposed to do them with separate main runes, that’s my entire point—” Rabastan starts.

“Can someone put up a silencing charm?” Evan cuts in, lips curling around the accented English, looking down resolutely at the book Severus has halfway in his lap, halfway in Lucinda’s. About… seven pairs of eyes are staring her down. Everyone’s gone quiet.

Gosh, Evan is going to strangle herself. Then maybe Rabastan while she’s at it, so he doesn’t blab to Bellatrix about this and get Evan resurrected by her just to get murdered again.

After almost a minute of shocked silence and Evan wanting to dig herself into a hole, Augustus murmurs a silencing spell. She purses their lips before continuing, albeit a bit weakly, seven people looking at her expectantly—“I want to call a Gryffindor Secret.”

Edmund, Lucinda, Rabastan, and Bruce cheer—something or other along the lines of, it’s about time—Aurora and Severus don’t say much at all, and Pandora makes a noise of confusion.

“Hm? What is a Gryffindor Secret?” Pandora asks airily, pulling their legs off where they’ve propped them on the table next to Evan’s. They tuck them into their chair, all knee-high leg warmers and similarly knee-length pleated skirts and shiny black Muggle shoes they’ve been obsessed with for weeks on end, recently. They don’t get an allowance, not from Maman, but Evan, Katherine, and Felix always end up pooling a bit of theirs every month for Pandora anyways. It’s not their fault Father decided to fuck around.

Once it becomes obvious that Evangeline.exe is not functioning, Severus holds up a hand to quiet the other four before explaining. “Basically, it’s just a regular secret, but we all have to treat it like we’re Gryffindors.”

Her sister hums. “And what does that entail?”

“Essentially,” he starts, “not that any of us would do this, per se, but, just for the sake of explaining—there can be no spilling of the secret, no misuse of said knowledge to bring the individual down, no genuine making-fun of it, et cetera, et cetera. You get it? It’s a Slytherin tradition—for every year, you get one more pass. Evan’s never used hers, I don’t think.”

Pandora hums again in response. Evan’s not entirely sure why their presence has replaced Charity’s today.

“Well… what’s the secret?” Rabastan asks. Evan can hear the shit-eating grin on his face.

“IthinkI’minlovewithLucy,” she mumbles. Pandora, Lucinda, and Severus gasp, but everyone else is floundering.

“What? What’d they say?”

Severus shushes everyone again, letting Evan speak.

“Rabastan, if you breathe a word of this to Bella, we are both dead.” She hisses.

“What—why?”

“Cause I am going to kill you, then Bella is going to kill me.”

Bruce groans. “Can you just tell us?”

Evan fixes her gaze on her shoes, the new most interesting thing in the world. “…I think I have a crush on Lucy.”

Silence. 

Then: “Who the fuck is Lucy?” and “The haughty bitch?”

Bruce and Aurora promptly get smacked upside the head.

Regulus sits next to Evan in Runes, and it is the worst thing ever. Why do they take Advanced Runes? It’s bullshit, that’s what it is. Regulus just had to be a genius and take advanced classes with the 5th years and look so pretty it physically hurts.

They’re not even paying attention—Evan wouldn’t put it past Regulus to say that it’s because they already know the content, they’re just that intelligent. Instead, they opt to doodle on their notes. Evan sneaks as many glances as she can over to Regulus while they aren’t paying attention to her. Regulus usually has a separate notebook that they draw in the whole time, but she figures it’s enchanted or something, because every time she tries to look over at it, the pages just look plain white, even though she can see Regulus actively writing in it.

Their notes are relatively simple, nicely written. She’d even go as far as to say they’re aesthetic, if not for the multitude of cat sketches on the sides. Regulus was drawing something else earlier, in the empty space at the bottom of the page, and it didn’t exactly look like a cat, more a face than anything, but they caught Evan looking after a bit, scribbling over the drawing. She was tempted to ask them what it was, but that would mean admitting to staring, which might just make it a lot worse.

That’s a thing: Regulus doesn’t particularly seem to like when people stare at them. The first day back at Hogwarts, when they’d shown up looking so much different than the spring before, they’d booked it out of the Great Hall as soon as humanly possible, Barty and Lucinda on their tail.

It’s criminal, really, because Regulus is a very lovely face to stare at. The longer hair and curtain bangs suit them very well, especially when they’re working on something and absently coiling locks of their hair around a finger. Maybe a bit too well. Evan will not divulge the kinds of things she thinks about Regulus’ hair. She is looking respectfully, thank you very much. They have a cute little sloped nose, they never fail to have dark brown winged liner on, paired with white at the tip of their eye, and the most adorable little freckles dot the swell of their cheeks and up the curve of their nose bridge.

Regulus’ hand stills where they’re halfway through drawing a cat. Evan glances down at the page, then back up at them, confused.

In a low whisper, without looking up, they ask, “Rosier, what do you think you’re looking at?”

“Um… nothing?” She whispers back, glancing up for a half second. Professor Babbling is standing at the board, writing away as she drones on. Evan ought to pay attention, but Severus will have notes she can borrow anyways. She can afford to chat with Regulus, especially since they apparently have no need to take notes.

Regulus turns their head, looking at her flatly. Their bangs are falling into their face. “Seriously?” They brush them back ever so slightly, but it takes all of two seconds for them to fall back forward.

“No, I’m Evan. Sirius is over there.” Evan makes a little gesture to the other side of the room, filled with a sea of red and gold.

Regulus frowns, blowing their hair out of the way again, to no avail.

Evan decides to take pity on Regulus, leaning down and reaching into her bag.

“What’re you doing?” They hiss, leaning down with her.

Evan’s palm closes around her target—a pair of star-shaped hairclips, gold and encrusted with silver gems. They’re fitting, she thinks. Star-shaped clips for a star-shaped girl.

Gosh, she’s getting sappy. Is this what being in love is like? Evan’s pretty sure if she doesn’t snog Regulus sooner or later, she’s going to start biting people instead.

Just, the question remains, if Regulus wants to snog her back. If not, there’s nothing Evan can really do about it, but y’know. It’d be nice if they did.

Evan pops back up from under the desk, turning ever so slightly towards Regulus. They sit up as well, looking at her strangely. They glance down at her hand, the hairclips hidden in her palm, then frowns at her again. “What’re you doing?” They repeat.

“‘Old still.” Evan whispers back, setting her free hand under Regulus’ chin. She feels a bit warm, a bit giddy, a bit nervous, all at the prospect—nay, the reality—of touching Regulus. Their skin is warm.

Regulus goes wide-eyed, blinking at Evan. “Um…?” They stiffen, looking down at her hand.

Evan drops one of the clips into her lap, grabbing the other one. She softly tilts Regulus’ head to the side, clipping their bangs back with the clip as gently as she could. Regulus’ eyes flicker up at her, relaxing softly, gray-ringed blue watching her curiously. She feels a bit bold, leaning in closer to tilt Regulus’ head the other way. Somewhere between, Regulus shifted in their seat to face Evan, legs between hers.

They’re warm, Evan realizes belatedly, clipping the other side back. She looks down at Regulus, and, dear Merlin, isn’t that adorable? She’s that much taller than them. They look beautiful with the clips in their hair, she thinks.

After a moment of gazing into each other’s eyes—when did she get sappy like that?—Regulus pulls away, smiling softly. “Thanks.” They whisper, averting their gaze and picking up their notebook and quill again.

“...mm. No problem.” Evan whispers back, turning back to the board. While doing so, she catches Severus’ eye, who is sitting next to Lucinda, just to Evan and Regulus’ left. He smirks at her and makes a little kissing gesture under the table, the annoying git. God, she’s going to murder him one day. A Gryffindor walks by, blocking Evan’s view for a half-second as they round her table, around to Regulus’ side, then back to their own table. When Evan looks back at the pair, Severus is still smiling at her. Lucinda just looks at her strangely, then glances to Regulus. She better not tell Regulus. There’s a certain sanctity to Gryffindor Secrets, and Evan’ll be damned before Lucinda breaks that sanctity for a person who, in hindsight, is arguably her best friend.

Yeah, she’s totally going to spill, isn’t she?

Evan’s life is over, in fact. Fuck.

Loretta is quite the disaster when it comes to party-planning.

Evan’s not actually sure if disaster is the right word to use. Loretta’s a wonderful party planner. She just gets… worked up? Very into it? Engaged? Something like that. Evan gets it, she does—she’s literally a Rosier. Parties are their thing—granted, their parties are usually a lot more sophisticated and fancy and generally stuffy. Loretta’s party planning mainly concerns decor, drink acquisition, non-Slytherin guest list (to avoid fights and whatnot—thankfully, with these kinds of parties, it’s generally understood that not being invited is a you-problem), and outfits.

It’s currently the beginning of October, and she’s already begun planning for Halloween. Evan’s not sure whether to feel flattered or annoyed that Loretta wants her help. At least her bed is nice. Very cushy. It’s the only time Evan is granted rights to lie upon it. The rest of their roommates are Merlin-knows-where.

Loretta hops onto the bed, making Evan bounce a bit as she lies down next to her, brandishing a magazine. “I had an outfit idea, by the way, for the Halloween party.” She wrinkles her nose, flipping through pages. “I hate saying that, but saying Samhain sounds off. Samhain party? That sounds disrespectful.”

“I think it sounds stupid more than anything. Sam‘ain party…” Evan rolls it over her tongue. “Eugh. No, I get it, nevermind—let’s just call it the Pumpkin Party. See, you’ve got alliteration and, um… what’s the word—” She makes a little tk-tk-tk sound as she thinks about it before adding, “Oh, it’s secular. Inclusive, aren’t I?”

“I’m fairly sure most of this school is religious.”

“Ah-ah, most isn’t all.”

“Every Slytherin is religious.”

Evan frowns. “I don’t think Parkinson is.”

“Parkinson might as well be a Ravenclaw, he don’t count.” Loretta flips back over, shoving the magazine into Evan’s face. She picks it up, holding it a bit away from her face. Is she going to have to get glasses? She really would hate that.

Evan silently studies the picture Loretta’s shown her—a Muggle-style dress (though it was coming up into fashion lately, especially after that huge trend of Muggle clothing from a couple years back) in gingham baby blue. It’s quite exquisite looking, despite being relatively plain. The fabric looks like a dream. No wonder, seeing as Loretta only flips through magazines from the highest acclaimed fashion brands.

“Too casual? Too fancy? The character is from some ridiculous Muggle book about wizards. I lost a bet, so I have to wear it.”

Evan raises a brow at her. “Em, you have a dress just like this in your trunk. Why would you buy it new?”

“I—what? I think I would notice if I had that in my trunk.” Loretta protests as Evan rolls off the bed, mourning the sweet, sweet feeling of her perfectly found position that effectively minimizes her eternal pain. She clambers over to Loretta’s trunk, rifling through the fancier clothes she has tucked at the bottom, pulling out a checkered blue maxi, more akin to a robe than anything.

She holds it up to Loretta, looking at her flatly. Loretta wrinkles her nose.

“That’s ghastly, I’m not wearing that.” She replies, taking the dress and shaking it with a crack. Loretta smoothes it out onto her bed, glaring at Evan. “Look at this thing. Good friends don’t give poor fashion advice, y’know.”

Evan rolls her eyes. Loretta’s always been one for dramatics (like she’s any better herself). “Look, okay—all you have to do is cut it here and add in an elastic at the waist,” Evan gets back onto the bed, motioning over where she’s referring to. “Add some trim—lace, maybe?—then cut off these sleeves here,” She folds over the sleeve and skirt for better reference. “Then just dip the neckline and add the embroidery—and that part can be done with magic. Easy. I could do it for you.”

Loretta looks at her strangely. “Since when do you know how to stitch Muggle-style?”

“‘Dora took lessons and I came along.” Evan shrugs.

Loretta chews at her lip, looking between Evan and the dress. “...you’d do that for me?” She asks. It’s oddly vulnerable.

“Yeah, ‘course. I can get it done… week before the Pumpkin Party? That good?”

Her sky-blue eyes twinkle. “We’re actually calling it that?—Yeah, yeah, that’s good. How much?”

“How much?” Evan’s brain takes a second to compute. “How about… 10 galleons. 15 if I can make the sleeves swoopy and get you those matching stockings.”

“The dress was 50 galleons.”

“This or the magazine?”

“Both.”

“Ew. Why’d you pay 50 for this shite?” Evan asks, folding up the dress and walking over to tuck it into her own trunk so she remembers later.

“I’on know. My mum did. She’s on her modesty shtick again. Tryna make me do it too, but… eh, I’m not really into it.”

Evan nods sympathetically, not that she’s used to her mama doing that. At most, Mama gives her two cents on an outfit she thought Evan would like, even if her taste is absolutely atrocious and never something that Evan likes. She’s always preferred more modest clothing anyways, so she really doesn’t get it at all. She nods anyway.

Eventually, their two other roommates return, loud as can be. Evan files the task back into her mind for later.

“Evan?” Pandora prompts, smiling at her suspiciously like the cat that swallowed the canary. “I believe you ‘ave something to tell our lovely siblings right ‘ere, non?”

“Pandora.”

“Well?” They sing-song like the bastard they are.

Felix perks up, looking at Evan upside down, perched on Katherine’s bed. Katherine herself is splayed out on her floor, face planted into the fluffy carpet she threw over the floor. Perks of being a 7th year, she supposes. Have your own personal room. Very nice, in Evan’s opinion, though she’s pretty sure it’s more because Katherine scared away her roommates instead of being a 7th year.

“What? What ‘appened?” Felix flips over, setting down his book and looking at Evan expectantly.

Evan glares at Pandora. “That was a Gryffindor secret. You aren’t supposed to tell anyone. It’s in the rules.”

They laugh airily at Evan’s plight. “I didn’t tell anyone anything! I’m just saying, you ‘ave something to tell them, non? I didn’t spill your secret.” Then, under their breath: “Miss Lucinda on the other ‘and…”

“Crap.” Evan whines, falling back, against the floor. “I knew she was going to tell. Who?”

“I don’t know, actually.” Pandora shrugs.

Katherine raises her head, eyeing Evan. She contributes to the conversation for the first time this entire little sibling-hangout, saying: “If it’s that important a secret, tell us.”

“What if I don’t want to tell you?”

“You told Lucinda, you aren’t going to tell me?”

Fair point.

Evan rolls over, burying her face into Katherine’s carpet before saying (granted, heavily muffled): “I think I have a crush on Regulus?”

Katherine hums. “Regulus Black?”

“Yeah.” Evan raises her head slightly to look up at her.

She nods at her. “Good choice.”

Felix frowns. “I don’t know who that is.”

Katherine sighs. “You don’t need to.”

“Oh. Okay?” He goes back to… whatever he was looking at.

Huh. That went well.

Chapter Text

Sybill Trelawney has been missing for ten days.

Regulus knows exactly where she is. And yet.

She has special permission to visit home every weekend, to care for her ailing father and devastated mother. Papa is ailing, that’s true, and Maman is nothing less than devastated, but it has less to do with Papa’s illness and more to do with the fact Sirius ran away just this summer and Regulus is not her next best shot at having a picture perfect male heir.

Regulus does not understand her mother. She could’ve been the male heir—should have—even if Regulus had the education of a daughter, bearing the same sickly sweetness that drips off Narcissa and Andromeda but never Sirius and Bellatrix—yet Maman insists that she should proceed as she wishes. Brought her dresses and nail polish and jewelry set aside on her desk. Helped Regulus with all the spells to make her hair grow faster, her figure less blocky, the whole she-bang. Even so, Maman still freaked out when her hair started going through that awkward length where it looks just like Sirius’. Screeched at her when she didn’t wear Sirius’ ring with the Black family crest emblazoned on it. Grabbed her by the neck and forced her to put her star necklace back on, even though she was getting dressed still and would’ve gotten to it eventually. Regulus imagines this is the Black family madness finally coming for her typically composed mother.

But, nevertheless—caring for either of them is not what Regulus is summoned home for every week. She isn’t even at Grimmauld Place, most of the time. It’s typically Malfoy Manor she ends up at, down into the cellars Lucius and Narcissa like to pretend they don’t have.

Regulus knows exactly where Sybill Trelawney is.

She coughs a little as she starts down the steps—Lucius has started letting her go down alone. Not worried about her getting lost, she supposes. The deeper into Malfoy Manor, the more the walls start to etch with time and flora. Vines wind downwards from the stone. Streaks of wiped away blood paint the grey. 

It’s raining outside. Regulus feels as if she needs to use the toilet, or get fucked. Somewhere in between.

She used to dream about meeting a prophet, an angel, someone dripping with holiness and truth and silver linings of the future. A soft white tunic, doe-like eyes, a pulsingly warm golden halo.

Sybill is nothing like that. Sybill is fishnets and ritualistically applied bunny’s tongue lipgloss—pleasure-pain, knowing how to hurt (those around her, herself, whichever makes more sense). Regulus wants to be everything and nothing like her.

“Sybill?” She intones, balancing the container of food and glass of water in her hands as she drops down the last flight of stairs—frowning, setting down the items halfway and casting a levitation charm on them—then continuing with the meal floating behind her.

Sybill’s eyes flick up lazily to Regulus, watching with a flat expression as she fumbles with the door. After a moment or so, the lock clicks open, and Regulus steps inside, grabbing the container and glass from the air and setting it down next to Sybill, shutting the cellar door behind her and sitting down on the floor in front of the other.

“Hey. I brought food ‘n shit—stuff.” She corrects herself.

Sybill glares at her. She grabs the container, popping the lid off and starts poking at the rice and lentils anyways. 

Regulus lets her eat in silence. The sound and sight of someone talking while chewing grosses her out, and Sybill is usually pissed off enough all the time that it’s a win for her if they both stay silent; it’s a bit of a surprising thing, really, since the girl looks so meek around and about school—Barty tells her that Sybill is actually a bit bitey, if still kind. Regulus averts her gaze, starting to scribble on the white part of her sneakers. 

Speaking of Barty, he’s the one who got her more pairs of the rather ingenious muggle footwear than she could ever need for her birthday—excusing it away to Maman under the guise of housewear and self-expression and some other bullshit that Regulus is shocked actually worked—along with a pack of little colorful sticks that contained supposedly permanent ink. It stays on just as well as a color-changing charm, except it’s like a quill, what with its application. Barty said the shoes were to color on. Regulus only really deigns to work on her designs while she’s down here, with Sybill.

Once she’s done eating, Sybill sets aside the container, leaning back against the stone wall. They—they being Lucius, Narcissa, Bellatrix, and Regulus, not exactly collectively but in general—have given her a plush mattress along with a fluffy blanket, at Narcissa’s insistence about treating teenagers humanely. Regulus, personally, finds it a bit appalling they wouldn’t just keep Sybill in a proper room. She may be a bloodtraitor, but the wizarding kind deserves an equal bare-minimum amount of respect, no? Even treating a mudblood like this would be a tad strange. Still, Sybill’s being kept here under the Dark Lord’s orders, and none of them are in a position to deny him, or his odd requests for how to keep the girl.

“Are those sneakers?” Sybill asks, breaking their agreed-upon silence.

Regulus pauses, lifting the marker and holding her hand just far enough to make sure she doesn’t accidentally smudge it while it dries. She looks up to Sybill, who’s watching her with an expectant gaze, sipping on her cup of water. The Dark Lord had said that he wants her to be given three meagre meals, and nothing in between, but Narcissa and Regulus mutually agreed that that is just plain wrong. The Dark Lord had raged about Malfoy Manor when he spotted the snack basket Regulus had sent down with Dobby, nearly sparking Lucius and Bellatrix’s ire as the man near-yelled at Narcissa and Regulus. From then on, Narcissa had reportedly only managed to bring down a large water pitcher to Sybill, enchanted to refill itself. A handy thing, it is, but nothing like Regulus’ snack baskets. She feels a little bit of pity for Sybill, stuck down here for what she knows is, at minimum, the next two weeks, but for seemingly an indefinite period to Sybill herself.

Sybill continues, seemingly unperturbed by Regulus’ lack of answer. “You didn’t exactly strike me as a Converse type, but I don’t judge.”

“Pardon?”

The blonde shrugs, lowering the glass. “I feel as if you would like Mary Janes. Or if we’re still on about sneakers, Lacoste. You’d be fancy like that.”

Her brow furrows. “I… do not know what a ‘Mary Jane’ is. Or Lacoste.”

She snorts, shaking her head. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” It’s said sweetly, but the smile on her face suggests otherwise. She confirms it with a muttered, “Not that you lot do much thinking anyways,” and an eyeroll.

Regulus narrows her eyes. How dare she? “Excuse me?”

“What? Am I wrong?” Sybill asks, with the most infuriating expression of innocence on her face, posture carrying an air of smugness with her.

“I do not know what you’re speaking of.” She responds tightly.

Sybill rolls her eyes again. “Ugh. See? Exactly what I mean. What is wrong with Sacred 28 kids? You all have some of the greatest connections the wizarding world has ever seen, and you’re wasting it on, what? Some guy who wants to kill all Muggleborns?”

“You’d do well to watch that mouth.” Regulus near-snaps. Even so, she takes a moment to mull over the words. She isn’t wasting her connections. Of course not. She’s making use of them in service of the Dark Lord. That’s a good thing. A noble one. It’s what gets Regulus warm words of praise, and a stroking hand through her steadily growing hair and across the swell of her cheek. How can that be wrong? That love it earns her? Surely, if it were wrong, she would not be treated kindly for it. “And—sorry, did you say kill all Muggleborns? Where did you get that idea?”

Sybill has the audacity to scoff. Regulus is filled with the urge to strangle her, which is, at least, a more familiar feeling than before. “What do you think Voldemort wants?”

“The Dark Lord—” Regulus corrects almost instantaneously, spilling out of her mouth without thinking about it. “—does not want to kill all mudbloods—”

“Muggleborn.” Sybill cuts in.

“Fine. Muggleborns. Why would he want to kill them all? That’s preposterous. They make up 35% of the British wizarding community,” Regulus settles into a more comfortable sitting position, setting aside the colorful ink pen to gesture with her hands. “And what with the already dwindling numbers of wizarding kind, it is imperative that mu—Muggleborns,” She corrects herself, just for the sake of having the conversation with Sybill, for she imagines Sybill will just shut her down without listening to her if she says mudblood one too many times. “Remain active members of wizarding society.”

“What you’re thinking of is the movement to push Muggleborns out of Wizengamot, which is what the Dark Lord stands for, aside from legalizing Dark magic, which is another really big thing, but whatever.” She pushes her hair back as it falls into her face. “Muggleborns don’t grow up in our communities, and often return to the Muggle world after graduating from whatever magical institution they attend, if they even deign attending at all—did you know there are Muggleborns who are invited to Hogwarts but don’t end up attending a magical institution? Six percent! It’s outrageous, that’s what it is—being offered such an opportunity and turning it down for, what, Muggle school? Which historically is quite awful on the teaching front, but I digress. What was I saying? Right—Muggleborns don’t know about wizarding culture as well as purebloods, or even half-bloods. Those currently in office have already begun bringing in Muggle ethics and ideals into Wizarding law, which I imagine is of no issue or consequence to them, but it directly infringes upon the culture wizards have spent centuries trying to preserve. Isn’t that the whole purpose of the Statute of Secrecy? To continue living as magical folk without fear of witch hunts or being forced to assimilate to Muggle standards?” Regulus finishes off her speech in a passionate tone, nevermind the fact she was very much working on keeping her voice quiet enough that it couldn’t be heard outside the cellar—the rooms are quite echo-y, after all.

Sybill’s looking at her with the oddest expression. She’s silent for a good minute, and Regulus can’t tell if that’s pride swelling in her chest, or embarrassment at having raved for so long.

“You really believe that—that that’s what Voldemort wants?” She asks, eventually.

“Of course. Yes, I admit, some of his methods are, ehm,” She drops her voice. “More than unsavory, but it’s for the right cause.”

Sybill leans her head back against the wall, scrutinizing her. “Aren’t Muggleborns part of wizarding society though? Shouldn’t they get a say in the laws that directly affect them?”

“Next you’re going to say we should have werewolves in Wizengamot as well.”

“Well—they’re dark creatures! Muggleborns aren’t! They’re witches and wizards like you and me.”

“And they carry all the same prejudices Muggles do. Muggles have awful, awful views on the world. There’s no reason they should bring those into government with them. Sure, they should be able to speak about what they believe, but why would they make the laws? Laws don’t typically target just Muggleborns, its wizards in general. There’s no reason they should be legislators.”

Sybill chews her lip, frowning. After a beat, she asks, “How old are you again?”

“I—excuse you, being young does not mean I cannot have political opinions—”

“No, no—just humor me. How old are you?” She leans forward.

Regulus frowns. “I turned fourteen this summer.”

Sybill doesn’t say anything to that, doesn’t deign her with much of a response at all besides dropping back against the stone wall, which really cannot be comfortable for her back. She should get Sybill a few more pillows. There’s nothing to transfigure into a pillow aside from the glassware, and Regulus doubts Narcissa would be quite happy about that; the next time she comes down here then. Tomorrow morning, perhaps. She can’t worm two visits in a day, surely. The Dark Lord wouldn’t like that, and Regulus is not keen on upsetting him. Stomach-flutter-inducing praise is much nicer than more yelling, despite the sickly sweet feeling she gets in her gut whenever he touches her face—she already hears quite enough yelling, what with Maman’s explosive temper nowadays along with Rodolphus and Bella’s lack of volume control.

“You’re a kid.” Sybill says, and there’s something in her voice that makes Regulus close her mouth, listen to what she has to say, her sky-blue eyes far away. “He’s lying to you. A trick that ends in death.” She murmurs, looking down.

After a minute of silence, she shakes her head, blinking harshly.

“Was that a vision?” Regulus asks.

Sybill frowns. “My Sight is shite. I told you that.” She’s doubling-down on what she’s been saying the week and a half she’s been here—of which, Regulus has been here approximately 3 days, so she doesn’t have much of a reference pool—and what the Dark Lord says is Sybill’s falsehoods. The whole reason they’ve been keeping her here, really—to see if she’ll have a vision of the Dark Lord. She’s been insistent that it isn’t how the Sight works, but the Dark Lord doesn’t care.

“Doesn’t matter—you said a trick that ends in death—whose death?”

“I don’t know.” She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t remember saying that.”

“You said he was lying to me.”

Sybill nods to that. “I did say that, yes.”

“So that part is not trustworthy. Got it.”

“Uh—excuse you! He is lying to you. Or, someone is, clearly.” Sybill throws her hands up, seemingly frustrated with Regulus. She’s getting a bit frustrated herself, what with all this back and forth—hold on, what did she say?

Regulus pauses. “What do you mean by that?”

“Don’t you read the Daily Prophet?”

Regulus shakes her head. “No, I cancelled my subscription after Rita Skeeter’s articles started picking up. She’s too invested in Sacred 28 scandals, especially with my family, after that whole debacle with dating Bellatrix. I don’t want to meet people and know all about their parents’ scandalous sex lives—or worse, their own.”

“Oh. That sounds gross, actually.” Sybill softens a little. “Yeah, but—Death Eaters have been going on raids to Muggle villages. They’ve been killing Muggleborns.”

Regulus furrows her brow. “What… um—”

Sybill’s expression is oddly soft, her voice feathery despite that not being her usual tone of voice. Regulus gets to her feet, picking up the glassware on the way, quickly pulling out her wand and casting a levitation charm on them. 

“I should go, I need to… my mother, I need to—um.” Regulus is stumbling over her words like a child. It is disgusting, and not at all befitting her station, but she fumbles with the keys anyways, reaching around the bars to shove the key in and unlock it, closing it behind her. She doesn’t even bother with a goodbye to Sybill, as is proper. Not that she seems to notice, having said nothing since Regulus got to her feet.

She doesn’t chance looking back at Sybill.

Malfoy Manor is a quiet place. Lucius hasn’t been home all day and Narcissa likes to nap when it’s the middle of a sunny day, especially ones like today, where golden sunlight spills beautifully through the intricate ceiling-high windows. 

Regulus hands off the container and glass to their house elf, Dobby. He’s a sweet little thing, nervose beyond belief. That’s one thing Regulus likes about Kreacher, he can keep up a conversation. So many house elves balk at the idea of anyone talking to them—it would be a bit sad if it weren’t such a funny sight.

After that and failing to find Narcissa, Regulus takes the floo and goes to Grimmauld Place. It’s just for a few minutes, to grab her sketchbook. She left it in the living room last week and she’s been bored out of her mind in lessons all week, and she has the doodle-ridden notes to prove it.

She walks down into the living room, dreary as ever, zeroing in on the sketchbook near-immediately. Regulus beelines to it, scooping it up and flipping through the pages just to check. Yep. Hers.

“Regulus?”

She whirls around, startled. Her mother stands in the doorway.

The Dark Lord is right behind her.

“Maman. Lord Gaunt.” Regulus nods in acknowledgement, just barely managing to not stutter in surprise—now that would be more than embarrassing.

“Regulus, what’re you doing home? You’re supposed to be at Hogwarts.” Maman asks, voice stern, but on the verge of something dangerous. She takes a half step closer to her.

Regulus knows that tone. It’s the tone that invites screaming from her usually demure mother. The one that gets clothes thrown out of windows and paintings falling to the ground. The one Regulus doesn’t like. “Maman, I have permission to come home on weekends, remember?” She tucks the sketchbook under her arm, crossing the room to Maman, a soothing hand settling on her upper forearm. Regulus is almost just as tall as her. “I had to attend to business at Malfoy Manor, and I came here to check on you.” She keeps her voice saccharine sweet, expression leaking the slightest bit of vulnerability, hand softly stroking up and down. It’s not at all what she came here for—honestly, if she could have, she would have gone back to Malfoy Manor without seeing Maman at all—but she doesn’t need to know that.

“You should be at Hogwarts.” Maman insists, scowling.

Regulus’ not sure if the slight vulnerability in her face is fake anymore, controlled enough or not. “Maman, I don’t think you’re feeling well. Would you like to lie down?” She tilts her head ever so slightly.

Maman doesn’t seem to be in her right mind. For just a moment, Regulus can almost forget the Dark Lord’s presence to her left, focused completely on her mother. Maman looks at Regulus with an unreadable expression—she’s had quite enough of people looking at her like that today. She’s silent for a good minute, to which Regulus starts to coax her out of the doorway and up the stairs, when she jerks away from Regulus.

“What—Maman—”

“Get out! Get out!” She shrieks out of absolutely nowhere, shoving Regulus to the ground harshly. She hits the hardwood floor painfully, breath knocked out of her. The rest of whatever Maman says is muffled, paired with another voice, as Regulus squeezes her eyes shut, slowly taking in a breath then blowing it out.

She repeats that for a minute or so, bringing a hand up and pressing it to her head. It’s painful, but a cathartic sort compared to just the pain of being shoved to the floor by your mother. After that, a hand—two hands come up to her shoulders, slowly guiding her upwards into a seated position, leaning against what is either the sofa or the wall. She can’t tell.

Ouch. She squeezes her eyes shut again, drawing her hand away from her forehead, then blinking them open. Her vision is just the slightest bit blurry, if by way of shutting her eyes so tight or by hitting the floor, but that’s definitely the Dark Lord whose visage is swimming in her vision.

Wait—the Dark Lord?

Shiiiiiiiiiiit.

Regulus stutters an apology—which, embarrassing. That’s literally what she was trying not to do—scrambling to sit up properly, back straight. 

“It’s alright.” Her movements are paused when the Dark Lord lays a hand on her shoulder, somewhere between gentle and firm as he pushes her back into her seated position against what is decidedly the wall.

The Dark Lord is sitting on the floor as well which is doubly embarrassing. He’s, like, a million years her elder. He should absolutely not be sitting on the floor with her.

It does strike a little bit of warmth into her heart anyways, the fact that he cares enough to sit down with her. A quick glance around the room tells Regulus that Maman has walked off, and Regulus cannot exactly find it in herself to ask where Maman went—she’s miffed, alright? She didn’t even do anything.

“Ah… apologies, Lord Gaunt.” Regulus clears her throat before speaking, trying her hardest to not mumble. She has her head ducked a bit, which is absolutely disrespectful, but surely the Dark Lord will understand if she wants to be a little bitchy for a moment, hmm?

“For?” He asks patiently. 

His hand’s still on Regulus’ shoulder. She fights the urge to squirm. “For my mother’s behavior—she’s not typically like this, I assure you. She’s just been a tad out of sorts since…” She trails off.

The Dark Lord nods despite her ambiguity. 

“Is this your sketchbook?” He asks after a few beats of silence, holding up Regulus’ sketchbook.

She nods, flashing a disarming smile. She makes a grab for it, but he holds it tightly. A moment passes and Regulus awkwardly withdraws her arms.

The Dark Lord takes his hand off her shoulder and flips it open, looking through the pages. It’s her good sketchbook, enchanted to keep the pages relatively private in case anyone decides to start peering at it over her shoulder during class, the one she draws in most often, due to its similarity to the Hogwarts-issued notebooks. She can sneak it into class no problem, which is made obvious by the little notes she writes to the side of her doodles.

The first bunch is perfectly normal—drawings of cats she’s seen wandering around the castle, arrows pointing to the ones she suspects to be kneazles but hasn’t actually gotten around to confirming. That devolves into nondescript sketches of body parts—hands and eyes, mainly—and the occasional sketch of one of her friends, one or two of Pandora and she distinctly recalls a few from when Barty freshly dyed his hair and Regulus fell in love with gingerbread locks on green. There’s still a few cats, but those slowly become few and far between. Regulus cringes once the Dark Lord gets to the middle of the sketchbook, the most recent pages she’s done.

There’s more than a few sketches (coloured) of Evangeline Rosier. There’s a good five pages dedicated to them and their brand-new hair, newly blonde with their natural brown just slightly peeking through, which is insane because most of the time, Regulus has trouble filling even one page fully with one thing. She’s just a tad in over her head—with this sketchbook, with Evangeline, with the whole Dark Lord business, with Sybill Trelawney.

The Dark Lord’s brows raise with every page full of gingersnap eyes and flan-light hair. After hitting the last page, with a half-finished sketch of Evangeline.

“And who might this be?”

“They’re, ah,” The Dark Lord gives her a strange look when she says they. “A classmate of mine.”

“Just a classmate?”

“Yes.”

“A pureblood, I hope?”

“Yes, Lord Gaunt.”

“Lordship?” He asks, tilting his head, as if genuinely curious. Is he? No way he’s curious about what she has to say—but, that expression makes one wonder.

Regulus shakes her head, graciously taking back her sketchbook when the Dark Lord hands it back to her. She half fights the urge to slam it closed, which would be exceptionally rude, but also, no one’s supposed to see these pages. It’s her little secret. At least from this angle, the Dark Lord shouldn’t be able to see the pages anymore. “They have two older sisters. Katherine Rosier is the heiress, but she won’t claim her lordship until after their father dies.” The words spill out of her mouth before she can stop them.

Somehow, the satisfied smile on the Dark Lord’s face assuages any worries she had about saying it.

“So… your crush, it’s Evan Rosier’s child?”

Regulus’ brow furrows for a moment, before nodding. Then flies up her forehead when the word he used hits her. “Um—they’re not my crush, I don’t—um…” She trails off, averting her gaze. Is her face heating up? It’s times like these she’s grateful for her darker skin tone.

The Dark Lord laughs, settling his hand back on Regulus’ shoulder. “It’s quite alright if you do. I won’t tell anyone.” After a pause, he adds, “You’re quite an accomplished artist, Miss Black.”

Regulus’ heart soars.

Miss Black.

Miss Black.

“Um—thank you, Lord Gaunt.” She nods, bracing a hand on the wall as she gets up to her feet. The Dark Lord follows.

Regulus imagines she spouts some sort of excuse for leaving, something to do with Narcissa—that’s usually her go-to—and running off to the bottom floor with the floo fireplace, smiling softly all the way.

When she tosses the powder into the fireplace, illuminating her skin green, her thoughts are far away from Grimmauld Place, Malfoy Manor, Sybill Trelawney, Rosiers, and her mother’s strange demeanor. Instead, she rolls the epithet over her tongue, over and over again until she’s satisfied with the sound of it on her lips. 

Miss Black.

She could get used to the sound of that.

Regulus doesn’t notice the second Hogwarts-style notebook stuck underneath her sketchbook, tucked into her hands.

Regulus isn’t expected to visit Sybill on Sunday, according to Lucius, who wakes her up at nine in the morning anyways. He’s always been an early riser, as long as Regulus has known him. It’s Narcissa’s biggest pet peeve about him. Personally, Regulus’ is that she’s managed to score the exact same nickname as Lucius, so there are times that they both turn to look at whoever’s said the name Lucy, usually resulting in Regulus fighting back a surly expression as Lucius walks away from her and Narcissa to go chat with whoever it is called him.

(Someone called her Lucy Jr. the other day. She has to assert dominance. She refuses to be Lucy Number Two, and she refuses to suffer the same fate Barty does.)

Lucius is seemingly blissfully unaware of Regulus’ plotting as the three of them quietly eat their breakfast in the kitchen. The rest of the Dark Lord’s close allies often wander about Malfoy Manor, but thankfully, there are none today. Bella might be around here somewhere, but no one’s particularly interested in waking her from her beauty sleep.

See, that’s the thing: Bella gets crabby when people wake her up early. Regulus just gets a tad surly, used to it because of morning classes. Maybe if she whined about in front of Lucius more, he’d lay off the early mornings for her? Or, perhaps, if she were to fake nodding off at the breakfast table, Narcissa would insist Lucius leave her be. Decisions, decisions.

Narcissa, unfortunately, is enamoured with the moorah seats Irma Nani and Pollux Nana kept in their kitchen, and has bought some of her own for her kitchen, despite the fact she has no need for it because she has a perfectly functioning dining table and she isn’t in here all day cooking anyhow, that she would need seats like these. Regulus, personally has always hated them, ever since she was nine and just a little too tall to easily sit on them, paired with a Sirius and Bellatrix who enjoyed pulling them out from under her before she got to sitting down. It was a dangerous game to play, even by their standards, thanks to the extremely small kitchen space Irma Nani had. Lucius, unfortunately, is completely enamoured with Narcissa, and will do whatever she says, which includes eating breakfast around a kid-sized table on kid-height moorah chairs. Regulus, unfortunately, would die before eating alone in the dining hall.

Thus: the ridiculous image that is Narcissa, Regulus, and Lucius crouched around a table, on chairs that are shorter than the countertops.

Thankfully, Regulus finishes her breakfast quickly and rushes off as fast as she can, going back up to her room in Malfoy Manor and grabbing her essentials for the week, taking extra care to grab her sketchbook before taking the floo back to Hogwarts.

Two curious things happen in Advanced Runes on Monday.

The first curious thing is Evan staring at her as she draws for some strange reason, all furrowed brow and curled lashes. It makes Regulus a bit warm, really. It also makes Regulus feel a tad nauseous. When she confronts them about the staring, they note that her hair is falling into her eyes. And, well—so what? Why is that stareworthy?

Evan proceeds to take out star-shaped hair clips from their bag and clip Regulus’ hair back, their face pink as a strawberry.

Yeah, that was strange, to say the least.

The second curious thing to happen is one of Sirius’ friends—Lupin, she thinks his name is—passes by her table and drops a crumpled up note onto her notebook. She glances over to Evan, who’s exchanging looks with Lucinda and Severus across the room. Evan makes a little motion to the pair, tapping their notebook. It’s a little weird, very exaggerated. She’s half sure she’s seen them do it before too.

Deeming them sufficiently distracted, Regulus straightens out the note looking it over. One side just says Sirius on it, while the other has a small paragraph worth of information. Come to the Gryffindor common room after dinner. Lily’ll leave the door entrance for you. I need to talk to you. Funny Sirius wants to talk now, after what happened.

She chances a look at him. He’s whispering to Lupin, but doesn’t turn his head to meet her gaze.

Ugh.

Regulus goes up the Gryffindor tower at nine, right after dinner. True to Sirius’ word, Lily Evans pointedly looks at her, pinning her down with those emerald eyes of hers, pushing off of the wall and quickly entering the dorms—leaving just enough time for Regulus to hurry in after her. She doesn’t stick around to talk to Regulus at all, but winks at her when Regulus glances at her then gestures to the right side of the stairs—the boys dormitory, she presumes. Sirius is sitting on the steps, holding something in his hands. Something flutters in Regulus’ chest.

Regulus waves at Lily, whose face falls. She curses herself softly—of course Lily Evans doesn’t like her—and speeds over to the steps without looking back at Lily. She sits down next to Sirius, peering over his shoulder. Sirius freaks as soon as Regulus sets her chin on his shoulder, scrambling away with a girly shriek. Regulus can’t help but laugh softly, a little smile creeping on her face.

“Did I scare you?” She looks over Sirius as she asks, settling down on the step above Sirius as he tries to compose himself. His hair is longer than before, lightly tanned skin shining with a healthy glow. He looks happier, almost. 

Good, she mentally nods. No point in running away if it doesn’t make him happier.

Sirius seems to take a long moment to look her over as well—but unlike her, his brows knit together, face falling into something like a concerned frown. Regulus resists the urge to tell Sirius she’s fine, because that’ll tell him she was analyzing his expression, and that's a can of worms she doesn’t want to get into.

Or maybe he doesn’t rock with the new look. That’s a can of worms Regulus also does not want to get into, but it’s the one she’s probably going to have to open. The makeup can be explained—but she can’t exactly excuse away having tits, now, can she? (Decently-sized ones, Regulus has to add. She’s proud of them, sue her. Thank the Lord for Bellatrix for being good at transfiguration and knowing what the 70s girlies want—and what the 70s girlies want is a size B cup.)

Regulus had assumed that Sirius would be okay with it—most purebloods are. But, what with all this muggle-loving behavior Sirius has been on… well, let’s just say Muggles do not particularly like people like Regulus. Sirius wouldn’t pick up on that, Regulus’d hoped—he’s always on about bigotry being awful and horrible, all kinds of it, even if Regulus disagrees about some of the things he considers bigotry—but you never know. And the multitude of jokes pertaining to gay people that Regulus has heard from Sirius’ mouth is not comforting.

After a long moment, Sirius stands up. Regulus belatedly realizes he never answered her question. Instead, he says: “Do you want to talk in my dorm? It’s more… private.” Without waiting for an answer, he turns and starts up the stairs, grabbing Regulus’ hand—so that the steps don’t turn to a slide under her feet, maybe? Does that mean he’s okay with it? Or is he just grabbing her hand for the sake of grabbing her hand? 

Regulus tugs at her ends with her spare hand. “Are your… friends there?”

Sirius pauses, turning his head and squinting as he thinks. “Uh… I don’t think any of them are up there right now. Is it fine if they are?”

“Um…” She shifts her weight slightly. “Yeah, that’s… fine, I guess.”

Sirius nods quickly. “Yeah! Yeah, okay,” He starts back up the stairs, taking a pace that’s just a bit too fast for Regulus. She has to stop herself from tripping more than once, not that Sirius notices.

He drags her down a hallway once they’re up the stairs, entering a room with a giant Gryffindor flag stuck onto it. Sirius stops for a second, staring at his and Regulus’ connected hands—then, shakes her hand away to open the door. Regulus gives him a look, stepping into the dorm, pressing her fingers against her nose to stop it from involuntarily wrinkling.

She takes a quick overlook of the room, leaning against the wall as Sirius closes the door and fiddles with the lock. There’s four beds, the trunks in front of each open. There are clothes, books, everything—just littered around the room. Pettigrew is lying on his bed, reading a Muggle book—is that My Ántonia? What the hell is Pettigrew doing, reading My Ántonia?

Sirius turns around from the door, opening his mouth as if to say something—then visibly deflating when he spots Pettigrew. “Oh.”

“Huh?” Pettigrew looks up from his novel. “Hey, Siri—us…” His gaze flicks over to Regulus, nose scrunching up. “…hi.” He greets, frowning.

“Hello.” Regulus responds. She doesn’t try to hide her disdain. Peter Pettigrew has a knack for knowing when people don’t like him, she’s come to realize.

“Hey, Pete!” Sirius throws in brightly.

Pettigrew’s frown deepens. “Why’s h—” He pauses, squinting at Regulus. Pettigrew restarts, tilting his head. “Why’s Regulus here?”

Huh. Maybe Regulus doesn’t dislike Pettigrew that much.

Maybe Sirius won’t care, if Pettigrew is making that much an effort for someone he doesn’t like.

“Oh, me and Reg are just gonna have a little chatsie ‘s all.” Regulus winces at the nickname, but doesn’t correct him. Pettigrew looks between Regulus and Sirius.

“Uh-huh…” Pettigrew resettles onto his bed. “I’m not leaving.”

“That’s fine!” Sirius walks over to what Regulus assumes is his bed, sitting down and scooching up against the headboard to give Regulus space to sit as well. She slips off her boots before sitting down on the other end, facing Sirius. He tucks his feet under her knees, which is a tad ticklish. She presses her legs down against him, snorting. “So… how’ve you been?” He asks hesitantly. There’s a clear vulnerability on his face. Gosh, Regulus loves fucking with him.

Regulus blinks innocently, putting on a blank expression. “Oh, I don’t know… how have I been since you left me two months ago, I wonder?” She tilts her head ever so slightly.

Sirius frowns, a disgusted look on his face. “Okay, don’t… word it like that. Ew.”

Her frown this time is real. “What, why? What’s wrong with—oh! Ew! Gross.” She smacks his knee. “I’m not Father.”

Sirius bursts into choked laughter, looking at Regulus incredulously. She’s pretty sure she hears Pettigrew snickering behind her. “Uh—that’s an insane sentence.”

She shrugs. “It’s a true sentence.” That sends Sirius into another round of laughter.

It makes her feel a little warm, a childish grin tugging at her lips, like pieces of a broken jar snapping back together. Take that, Pettigrew, you egg, you. Her brother still likes her. His blood-trait’rous ways has’t not wonneth the present day, coequal if’t be true the war is not ov’r.

Ugh. Shakespeare brain. It’s Barty’s fault, he’s been exclusively quoting Hamlet ever since the semester began. She doesn’t like it one bit, it’s going to start giving him ideas—if what she recalls the plot of Hamlet to be correct.

Sirius’ giggles subside after a bit, and he sighs, leaning back heavily against the baseboard. “I like the, uh…” He gestures in Regulus’ general direction. “I like the hair. And the jewelry action you’ve got going on.”

Regulus lets herself smile softly. “Thanks. Cissa cut it.” She tugs slightly at her hair, adjusting her bangs with a perfectly manicured finger. “Barty bought me the necklaces from some Muggle store.”

He nods, looking confused. “The… Ravenclaw?”

“Mhm.”

“You two are friends?” He clarifies.

She purses her lips, hand shifting from her hair to toy with one of the silver chains around her neck—the star charm pokes her finger. “Barty’s been my friend. Since 2nd year.” She nods as she speaks, slowly, as if speaking to a child, and now that she’s doing it, she realizes how condescending it looks, but oh well. “He refers to you as the community brother.”

“Oh!” Sirius’ face flickers into realization. “He’s the one who started that shit? Random 3rd years keep coming up to me, I was so confused.”

They chat for a little while about mundane things. Regulus compliments Sirius on something trivial. She can’t exactly remember. It’s a strange mix of feeling like she’s nine years old again and hanging out with her brother while he packs for Hogwarts and like she’s chattering with someone her age at a Rosier party that she doesn’t particularly know. Knowing that Pettigrew is listening in is unhelpful.

It’s honestly a bit boring. Has Sirius always been this dull?

It’s boring until Regulus jokingly tells Sirius that she thinks he’s a right idiot, and he responds by clutching his chest dramatically, falling backwards and saying, “Transphobia! From my own blood and kin!”

A puzzle piece slides into place.

Before she can stop herself, she blurts out, “I’m trans,” in a deadpan tone.

Sirius pauses in his dramatics, face falling as he stares at Regulus. “You’re…?”

“I’m a girl.”

Sirius blinks for a moment or so, then barks a laugh. “Mum would hate this.”

“Well… no, not exactly—hold on, you’re trans?”

Sirius shrugs. “Genderqueer.”

“What on Earth is that?”

Sirius pauses. “Um… imagine gender is a person and it’s repeatedly kicking me in the nuts.”

Regulus nods hesitantly. “That… does not make any sense.”

“Don’t worry about it! Now, as for you—what’s your real name?” Sirius asks.

Regulus frowns. “Still Regulus.”

“Lucy.” Sirius offers. Yet another person calling her Lucy. How wonderful.

She expresses as much, saying, “That is nothing like what I just said. Not a thing. What is it with people calling me Lucy?”

Sirius smiles wickedly, falling against Regulus’ legs in a fashion that looks quite uncomfortable a contortion on Sirius’ part and is uncomfortable to feel on Regulus’. “I have a little sister!” He sing-songs.

Regulus looks him over, then scoffs, turning to look away from Sirius. “You’re such an idiot.” Sirius only laughs at her in response.

“Who else’s been calling you Lucy?” Pettigrew pipes up from behind Regulus.

She turns her head as far as she can, catching Pettigrew just in the corner of her eye. He’s holding his book open, gaze trained on her and a frown on his face.

“Why do you want to know?”

He waves his hand flippantly. “Just humor me.”

“My friends?”

“Who are…?”

“You want me to list out all of my friends.”

Pettigrew nods. “That’s exactly what I want you to do.”

Regulus clucks her tongue, turning away from Pettigrew and leaning against the bedframe. Why not humor him? What’s the worst it’ll do? 

“Well, I would consider—”

“Actually, you know what, forget that,” Pettigrew cuts in. “Are you friends with Lucinda Talkalot?”

“I—” Regulus blinks, turning back around to look at Pettigrew. He’s got a strange sort of light in his eyes, the kind Pandora gets when she’s working on a new experiment. It puts Regulus on edge. “I would call her a friend, yes.”

“Holy shit.” Pettigrew smirks. “Did you know Evangeline Rosier is, like, madly in love with you?”

“I—no, they aren’t.”

“Yes they are. Lucinda told me. It was an accident but, like.” He shrugs.

“I don’t like that. Rosier’s a slimy git.” Sirius adds.

“No?” Regulus looked between Pettigrew and Sirius, stiffening slightly. “Okay, I…” She purses her lips. “I am well aware of your lot’s reputation for pranks and mischief, but I do not appreciate being the butt of it. And—and Evangeline isn’t a git. Watch your mouth.”

Sirius narrows his eyes. “They’re a wannabe Death Eater, Lucy. That’s git behavior.”

Regulus shifts uncomfortably. “They’re not a git, Sirius.” She insists. “Just—can we drop it? I don’t want to talk about it.” Regulus turns around, leaning against the bedframe, back facing Pettigrew.

Sirius frowns, looking between Pettigrew and Regulus. Pettigrew presumably makes some sort of motion, expression, gesture—whatever—because Sirius sighs in response, shifting on the bed and turning back to Regulus.

“So, Lucy…”

“Not my name.”

Sirius looks towards Pettigrew again, scrunching his nose at the other, before continuing. “How’s everything going back home?”

Regulus looks at him blankly. “Why’re you talking in Punjabi?”

“Because, as much as I love Wormy, whatever I say with you, he’s going to tell Moony and Prongs.” He says this with a furrow of his brow, shifting to the side of the bed, leaving a perfectly Regulus-sized space. It makes her heart feel a bit warm. “They think me or you will say something bad to each other, and we’ll have an argument. They’re really protective, those three—I don’t know if I like it or not.”

Regulus shakes her head. Sirius pats the bit of bed he’s uncovered and, hesitantly but surely, Regulus crawls over, settling next to Sirius.

Sirius immediately slumps against her, resting his head on her shoulder, which looks rather uncomfortable. Regulus has half a mind to shove him away. Sirius knows full well she doesn’t particularly like people initiating contact with her. She prefers it on her own terms.

But, then again, wasn’t moving to sit next to him an initiation of her own?

She lets him lay his head down nevertheless, curling an arm behind his back. He’s leaning down far enough that she can touch his curls, ever so slightly grown out from usual. His nose touches Regulus’ neck.

Lips mouth at her shoulder through her clothes. Regulus rolls her eyes. “What’re you doing?”

Sirius raises his head. “Eating you.”

Regulus makes a noise of disgust, slightly happy at the excuse to push Sirius off, even if her left side is now freezing cold. 

Sirius only laughs, flopping down onto the bed. At least, this time, he waits for Regulus’ little nod before curling up and leaning his head on Regulus’ lap.

And if Regulus lets her hand settle on Sirius’ forehead, fingers softly carding through his bangs, that’s no one’s business but her own. And Sirius’, she supposes. He’s giving her a shit-eating grin.

Regulus stifles a sigh at the realization that Sirius has won yet again.

She can see him peering up at her curiously. After a minute or so of ignoring his gaze, she sighs, long-suffering, and leans back. “It’s… weird.”

“What is?”

“Mm… well, Maman’s gone a bit…” She makes a winding expression by her ear, frowning. “She’s not like Bella though, most of the time. She just kind of… cries a lot. Always asking about you.”

Sirius’ expression flickers. “And Orion?”

Regulus can’t stop the twinge in her expression at the name. Come on. She doesn’t like her father all that much either but she can at least respect him a little. “Still in St. Mungo’s. Lucy—Lucius,” She needs to stop calling him Lucy. It’s not helping the issue. “And Narcissa's been handling it, and they haven’t told me anything yet, but I’m pretty sure he’s… y’know.”

Sirius blinks, slowly.

“He’s in St. Mungo’s?”

“...yeah? Did no one tell you?”

He sits up, looking bewildered. “Uh, no? What’s he in for?”

“Um… long-term illness ward, I think. I don’t know, he just got sick after you left.”

“Wait, wait, he’s what? You think he’s… what?” Sirius looks at her seriously (ha!), putting a hand on her arm.

Regulus chews her lip. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Regulus.”

She glances down, feeling a bit sick as she says it. “Pretty sure he’s dying.” She mumbles, completely unbefitting of a Black.

“Pardon?”

Regulus looks back up, staring blankly. “What, what do you want me to say? Everything’s just great? It isn’t, he’s dying, Siri.” She can’t stop herself from scrunching up her nose.

“Of what?”

Regulus shrugs. “Something, something, organ failure. I don’t actually know.”

“Have you not seen him?”

Regulus bites back a remark, taking a glance back at Pettigrew, who’s listening in not so discreetly. She then shakes her head. “No. Cissa’s been doing all that. She won’t let me.”

Sirius purses his lips, flopping backwards against the bed. He blows out a breath, puffing his cheeks up a bit. “Huh.”

Huh?

Does—does he just not care? Is he thinking it over? This is what Regulus always hates, she hasn’t really cared much for people’s opinions of her but Sirius, Sirius kills her every time she thinks he even slightly dislikes something she does, gives her this awful sinking feeling in her stomach like she’s about to rush off to the bathroom to gag into a toilet.

Regulus makes a show of glancing at the clock resting on one of the other beds’ side tables. “Curfew. I have to go.” She says, getting up abruptly.

Sirius nods slowly. “Okay. Bye.”

“…bye.”

Pettigrew waves to Regulus as she leaves, a pitying expression on his face—from whatever he garnered they talked about, she supposes—and it makes her feel absolutely sick. Ugh. Damned Gryffindors.

Chapter Text

“You know what’s absolutely insane?” Charity asks, perching up onto the sink counter and wiping at her lip gloss, dabbing at it. Evan leans over it, tapping at her nose with highlighter (well, technically, it was just a stick eyeshadow, but you make do with what you make do). 

Aurora raises a brow at Charity. “What?”

“Okay, okay, so I’m like—” Charity bursts into bubbly giggles as she begins talking. Charity’s always been a bit odd, older than both Evan and Aurora. She’s a picture perfect Hufflepuff, save for her gossip streak (but really, who doesn’t have one? Not Evan, certainly), and if she wasn’t such a genius in the Charms and History department (and unofficially adopted by Narcissa before she graduated), Evan’s not sure if she’d even be friends with Charity. “I’m in class, minding my business, whatever, and this is like, the joint class with Ravenclaw, and I’m kind of just listening to the guys next to me talk—”

“Charity, that’s the opposite of minding your business.” Aurora cuts in.

“Whatever, anyway. I’m listening in, da-da-da, and I hear Gilderoy Lockhart—”

“‘e’s not in your year, why was ‘e there?”

Charity frowns. “I don’t know! Don’t ask me.” She shakes her head, switching the leg she has crossed over. “Yeah, but the twat goes,” She pitches her voice up, which elicits a little laugh from Evan cause, well, Lockhart’s voice is definitely deeper than Charity’s. She’s all for bullying him though, he’s weird. “If any of you had a twin sister, would you let me at her?”

Oh… ew.

“Like… shag her?” Aurora grimaces.

Charity nods, dropping her lip gloss into her pouch, like a makeshift mic drop.

Evan blinks, turning her head to look at Aurora. The brunette scrunches up her nose, looking a bit disgusted. Evan smiles awkwardly, a bit wide eyed. “That’s weird.”

Aurora furrows her brow. “That’s gay.”

“How’s that gay? He wants to shag a girl.”

“One way too old for ‘im,” Evan mutters.

Aurora shakes her head. “No, like—he wants to shag a girl that looks like his mate. Ergo, he wants to shag his mate.”

“Never say ergo again.”

The bathroom door swings open, but the weird thing about Hogwarts restrooms is that the mirrors never actually face the door, they’re in front of the stalls and the door is at the very end of the stall line. You can vaguely see it from the very last mirror, but the three of them are pocketed into the furthest end.

“Oh my god, ew! I don’t wanna think about Lockhart shagging, like… I don’t actually know any of the Ravenclaw boys’ names. I just don’t wanna think about it.”

“Wait, huh? I wanna know the tea!” A voice cuts in. Evan’s fingers tighten around her eyeshadow.

“‘Cinda.”

“Hi, Ev!” Lucinda waves with a little finger shake. She’s half a second away from hopping onto the countertop, one sink away from Evan, when she gets tugged back.

Oh. That’s Regulus.

Regulus grabs a paper towel off the dispenser, wiping down the countertop, and grimacing when it comes away sopping wet. They flick it off into the trashcan.

“Aww, thank you!” Lucinda smiles. She frowns at the paper towel as it drops, swallowing visibly then deigning to lean against the counter instead of sitting on it. “Okay, who’s Lockhart shagging?”

“No one, he’s just gay.” Aurora says.

“Oh.” Lucinda’s brow furrows. “Haven’t we been knowing that?” Regulus sidles in between her and Evan, leaning over to wash their hands. They have awfully pretty fingers, don’t they? Lower your gaze, Evan. Lower it. 

Evan does not lower it, unsurprisingly. That bang and peekaboo blonde moment is shiny, brand new—where are they finding the time to maintain their hair and ace all their fucking classes and do every other activity known to man?—and captivating to look at.

“Have we?” Charity asks. “He’s in your year, right?”

Regulus shakes their head, pushing their hand against the soap dispenser. “Barty’s year.”

“Who?”

Lucinda rolls her eyes. “Barty Crouch. He’s a third year?”

“Isn’t Barty Crouch a Ministry official?” Aurora asks.

“No, no, no, no—he’s, um,” Charity snaps her fingers, trying to finish her sentence. Aurora and Evan burst into giggles at the rapid fire no’s. “Stop! No, he’s—fuck, what is it?”

“He is a Ministry official and he named his son after himself.” Regulus corrects. They shake the excess water off their hands.

“Egotistical much? Goddamn.”

Lucinda groans. “His dad is actually such a bitch, he kept looking at me weird when I went over to Barty’s place during the summer.”

Regulus looks between Lucinda and the other three of them, then—silently, taps Lucinda on the shoulder and wanders out of the bathroom. Evan resists the urge to sigh, watching them walk out.

“Oh, yeah! Nope, didn’t do that.”

Evan turns back to Lucinda. “Wait, what? Didn’t do what?”

“I think Evan did it, honestly.

“What is it? Lucinda! ‘ello! What did I do!”

Pandora and Xenophilus are sitting next to Evan while she borrows Pandora’s sewing machine. They’ve got an old Muggle one, which Evan isn’t entirely keen on using, but it’s better than stitching Loretta’s whole dress by hand. 

She starts threading the machine, absently tuning out the two’s chatter. It’s simple, at least. Tuck the spool in, over the… thing, she doesn’t really know what it’s called—under, over, under, and string it through the eye of the needle. Simple. Now that she’s actually done with it, she notices it’s not too different from the one she has at home.

Now that she’s done with the focusing bit, she starts to tune back in. Pandora’s a bit loud, at the moment, what’re they—

Pandora throws their hands up, folding over themself to lean on their knees. “But why would anyone want to steal second-hand puzzles?”

…okay then.

Evan goes back to stitching.

Evan’s not entirely sure why she signed up for Muggle Studies this year—it’s required in 4th year, but she had the choice this year. It’s such a small class that 5th, 6th, and 7th years all can fit into the sad classroom that is the Divination room. Charity’s all miffed about it, something or other about Hogwarts is so big, there’s absolutely another room they can find, there’s no need to use the Divination classroom for Muggle Studies too—not that Evan cares all that much. One less route she has to remember.

Worst of all, even though Charity’s in this class, she doesn’t sit with Evan. Their class got, quote unquote, too rowdy, so they were given assigned seats. Evan’s stuck next to the weird gaggle of Gryffindors—really, why do they get to be so close to each other? Charity’s on the other freaking side of the room. At least it’s just Lily Evans next to her, then the wall on her other side. Lily Evans is surprisingly tolerable despite being a Gryffindor—though, she is one of Severus’ friends, so Evan isn’t exactly surprised. Even if Severus has some interesting quirks, he has good taste in friends.

She’s only half paying attention, leaning over her notebook and moving her quill around so it looks like she’s writing notes. Then a loud bang startles Evan, making her drop her quill. She fumbles it trying to pick it up, dropping it a second time into Lily’s lap. Lily turns back, looking down at her ink stained lap blankly.

Fun rumor: Lily Evans has a temper.

She silently lifts her arms, picking up the quill by the end of it and tossing it onto their desk. The commotion from earlier is ongoing, but Evan’s a little bit scared of Lily, based on what Sirius’ mentioned.

(She chides herself for that, mentally. Forget Sirius. He’s weird anyway.)

Lily purses her lips, then grabs her wand. Evan’s half prepared to talk her down from getting hexed when she spells the ink away. 

Oh. Forgot that was a thing.

See, that’s the thing—Evan’s a Rosier. Rosiers are party planners, known for frivolity and sweetness. Rosiers are also, more importantly, politicians. They know how to keep the peace, how to worm a secret out of someone, how to lull someone into security. To drink enough, but not too much. To keep your inhibitions. Rosiers are not overcome by emotion.

This, this nervousness, this borderline fear—of a Mudblood, of all people—it’s not very Rosier-like.

She needs to get herself back on track.

“Oh! Sorry about that.” Evan smiles brilliantly.

“Mm, ‘s fine. Not like you dropped it on purpose.” Lily clicks her tongue, picking the quill up by the end like a dirty thing, holding it out to Evan. Her words aren’t inflammatory, but the curve of her lips absolutely is.

Ugh.

Evan presses her lips together and takes the quill back from Lily.

For some weird reason, Evan finds Lucinda and Regulus in the bathroom again. This is a bit ridiculous, in her mind, mainly because there are so many bathrooms in Hogwarts, and at least the first time, they had a free period and it actually made sense for them to possibly have ended up in the same bathroom. Very small chance, but can happen, especially since the likelihood of the Slytherin bathrooms goes up. It’s just after classes let out, and Evan is pretty sure Lucinda and Regulus’ last class was not even remotely near this bathroom.

Eh. Whatever. She isn’t complaining, even if her internal Arithmancy brain is.

Regulus is leaning forward against the counter, dabbing at their face with a wet tissue, inexplicably. Their eyes are strangely red-tinted through the mirror reflection, and Lucinda’s rubbing a hand gently over Regulus’ back in circles.

“Lucy? Are you alright there?”

Regulus startles, snapping their head back towards Evan. Bloodshot eyes, a bit teary looking. Evan’s filled with the inexplicable urge to pull Regulus up into a hug or something. Lucinda frowns at her.

“Um,” they sniffle. “Yeah. ‘M fine.” They press the tissue against their eye, turning back to the mirror.

“Piss off, Evan.” Lucinda side-steps in between Evan and Regulus.

Evan frowns back at her. “Lucy, why are you crying?”

“‘M not.”

“Oh, shove off, Reg, you’re obviously crying.” Lucinda mutters, turning back around to face the mirror. “Can’t lie about that bit.”

“I can lie as much as I want.” Regulus retorts.

“That does not sound healthy.”

“That’s ‘cause it isn’t. See, even Evan thinks you need to get your life together. Let that sink in.”

Regulus, for some reason, snorts at that. With a wet face (from the tissue, from the tears that still look like they’re welling up in their eyes—who knows? All Evan knows is she wants to wipe them away), Regulus smiles shakily and says, “What if I don’t want to let that sink in? It’s my house.”

Lucinda’s face goes blank. “You aren’t funny.”

“I’m very funny.”

It takes Evan a hot second before she realizes what the joke was, and—“Oh my god.” She bursts into laughter.

“No one in this school has good humor. Except for me, apparently.”

“That was—that was really clever actually.”

Regulus’ brow furrows. “What does that mean?”

“Mm?” Evan tilts her head.

They pause, then shake their head. “Nevermind.” They wipe their other eye, and—oh! The tissue’s all black. Mascara, she presumes, but Lucinda already said they were crying, and—Evan’s awfully confused at the moment. 

“Do you have lip gloss?”

“Me?” Evan points to herself in question.

“No, little miss chapped-lips here.” Regulus snipes, weirdly enough. Lucinda starts to protest that. “Yes, you.” They wipe at their eyes one last time—and, yep, the very tell-tale darkness of washed up mascara streaks across their face.

Evan reaches into her satchel, digging around with her hand blindly. “Yes…?” She starts hesitantly before her fingers close around a thin, cool tube. “Yes, I do—it is a roll on though, so I don’t know if you would want to…” She trails off when she pulls it out of her bag and Regulus steps closer—weirdly closer, actually—and plucks it from Evan’s hand.

“You don’t mind?” They ask innocently, tilting their head, twisting the cap off.

Their eyes are like a doe’s. Do they know that? Wide with a pretty curve and wet pointed grouped lashes and eyeliner peeking by the side—how’d that not wash off? Their face is pinked, dark, wet—and Evan is dead, or almost—

“Evan?”

“What? Yeah, no, it’s—it is fine, I don’t mind.”

Regulus smiles sweetly at her, turning back around to the mirror—they spin on their heel—or, well, as much as a heel as flats can have—smoothly, skirt flaring out, bracing a hand on the counter as they run the rollerball over their lips. Pretty, shiny pink. Regulus chews on their bottom lip before they apply it, and, oh god, Evan is pale.

It’s as if her tongue has broken, fire roiling underneath her skin, a cold sweat coating the overside of it. She’s blind, and her ears are buzzing, and she may nearly have been dead and gone.

“Here. Thanks.” Regulus presses the gloss back into Evan’s hands. She’s zoned out long enough that Regulus’ fixed up all their makeup, and Lucinda’s raising a brow at her.

“Um, yeah. Of course.”

Regulus’s hair—black curls, blonde peekaboo, pale bang piece—spills over their shoulder as they whisper something to Lucinda then walk out of the bathroom.

“Uh, um—real subtle there.” Lucinda mocks.

Evan shakes off her stupor—shit, what even was that? What happened to getting back on track? That was the opposite of the track. That was more akin to turning around and driving off a cliff. Evan needs to get a hold of herself—getting nervous over pretty girls (no, no, Lily Evans is not pretty, she just makes Evan feel… feel… ugh!) is not an option. “Piss off.”

“Whatever. See ya.” Lucinda does a finger salute, picking up her tote off the counter. She spins around, walking out the bathroom backwards. “Library at five?”

“Library at six. Tomorrow. But I am going to be in the library anyway, so.”

“Damn. Is Charity doing Muggle Studies shit again?”

“Yeah.”

“Ugh. Bye Ev! Take a chill pill!”

Evan has to resist rolling her eyes. What was Lucinda’s obsession with Americanisms? Just as bad as Muggles, if you ask her.

“Evan?” Hands settle around her neck from behind, almost like a cat purring and stretching its arms, a chin propped up on her shoulder as a body sidles up behind her. Evan freezes in her spot, a book on one of the shelves she was inspecting in hand, something about magical artifact creation she figured Severus or Pandora might like.

Forget Pandora and Severus. Evan’s life will be over before she gets to share this book.

The hands slide down to her chest, pausing there and clasping together, locking her into place. Warm breath filters over her ear uncomfortably. “Evan?” Then, paired with a headbutt against the side of her forehead, “I didn’t break ‘em, did I?”

A laugh, and Lucinda comes up to her front, plucking the book from Evan’s hands and flipping through it. “Nah, she’s fine. Just give her a minute.” 

She’s smiling suspiciously, enough that it snaps Evan out of her stupor, blowing out a breath and letting her weight lean back against Crouch, who stumbles a bit trying to hold her up. Serves him right, sneaking up on her like that. Fuckin’ 3rd years.

“Why are you smiling like that? You look strangely like the cat who swallowed the pigeon.”

“Canary.”

“What?”

“She looks like the cat who swallowed the canary.” Crouch corrects, Lucinda dropping the book back into Evan’s hands. Evan tries to shrug Crouch off her, but he remains annoyingly steadfast, leaning forward into her periphery to stick his tongue out at her.

“I once ‘ad a very large cat… not the point.” Evan shakes her head. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Lucinda raises a brow, tilting her head at Evan. “I think you know why.”

“I really do not. Mind enlightening me, Cindy?”

“Don’t call me that, I’m not on your side right now.”

Crouch chuckles, unclasping his hands to point a finger to her chest. “You, my fine lady—”

“Do not call me that.” Evan bats at his arm.

“—have a crush on our,” punctuated with a gesture between what Evan thinks is meant to be between Crouch and Lucinda, but she’s not entirely sure if he can see his own hand from this angle, “best friend.”

Evan snaps her head to Lucinda. “Lucinda! You were not supposed to tell anyone that.”

“What? I’m not sorry!” Lucinda snaps back, grabbing the book from her hands again and smacking Evan over the head with it—albeit, lightly. She’s not that much of a monster.

Evan hopes, at least.

“...just to make sure we’re on the same page here, by best friend, we mean—” Crouch has enough tact to drop his voice to a whisper, despite the muffling charm Evan’s pretty sure she saw Lucinda cast a moment ago. “Regulus, yeah?”

“Same page? We are not even in the same library—if we were, I would not be having this conversation with you.” Evan retorts.

Crouch snorts, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he giggles.

“What?”

Lucinda huffs a laugh, leaning back against the bookshelf. “Ev, darling, we are in the same library.”

“...okay, I walked into that.”

“You did! You really did.” Lucinda sighs, looking out to the side for a moment before walking over to a table, sitting herself down right at the mouth of the aisle and patting the wooden chair next to her. “Come on. Sit here. I need to talk to you.”

“We.” Crouch corrects.

Lucinda frowns. “We aren’t communists.”

“Surprised you know what a communist even is.” He laughs, sliding into a third chair.

“I’m not slow, jeez.”

Evan slips into the chair next to Lucinda, scooching away from her slightly. Just in case, you know?

Lucinda pulls her feet up to her chair, and Crouch slowly inches his chair next to Lucinda, so they’re both kind of facing Evan (not really, but it’s the idea that counts). “Okay, I’m not going to sugarcoat it—I care a lot about Lucy. You know that, I know that, blah blah. This isn’t a threat or anything, it’s just a statement of fact. If you,” she gestures vaguely, voice clinical as she talks. “Physically mistreat Regulus, I will physically end your sorry excuse of an existence on this Earth.” Lucinda is serious enough as she says that, which is even more disconcerting than Crouch’s grin.

Well, that started strong. How lovely.

“I am not going to—”

Lucinda shakes her head. “I don’t think you are, which is exactly why I’m telling you.”

“That does not make sense.”

“No, it’s… I wouldn’t be telling you this if I thought you were a bitch, you know that, right?” That’s quite the sentence. “If I did, I’d just sic Barty on you once you eventually messed up, because I know you would—but I know you, which is why I’m telling you to be careful.”

Evan sighs. “Why is Crouch ‘ere, exactly?” She eyes him, frowning. This feels like a conversation he does not need to be involved in. She means—well, she would hope this wasn’t a conversation anyone needs to be involved in, but seeing as Lucinda and Crouch have apparently taken on the responsibility of being the American stereotype of a father sitting on the porch and cleaning off his shotgun while his daughter gets picked up by her date to the prom—don’t ask why Evan knows what that is. Don’t worry about it. (It’s all Pandora and Felix’s fault. They watch a ridiculous amount of those little moving Muggle cinemas (but at home, somehow? Telly? Is that the name?) and overexplain the plot to her. She absolutely does not watch them herself)—this is a conversation they’re having.

He grins wickedly at her. “For intimidation purposes.”

“I ‘ate to tell you but you are, in fact, a scrawny 13 year old.”

Crouch shrugs at her, stretching out like a cat and throwing his legs over the chair’s arm. Eugh. Evan has no idea why Lucinda hangs out with this kid.

“Not my point. Point is, I don’t think you would intentionally hurt Regulus, considering the weird puppy dog look you’ve had all week.”

“So what are you saying?” Evan inclines her head, frowning.

“Don’t do it accidentally either.” Lucinda says plainly. “Or I’ll sic Barty on you then too!”

“What?” Evan whines. “‘Ow is that fair?”

“I thought I was a scrawny 13 year old? You can’t take a scrawny 13 year old?” Crouch raises a brow.

Lucinda rolls her eyes. “Please be quiet.”

“Aww, Ev’s scared of a 13 year old!” He coos at her.

“Stop!” Evan screeches. She’s promptly shushed by the two of them—huh?

Regulus slides a pack of gum up into their palm from inside their bag, flipping it over and open. It’s peppermint, or spearmint, something mint if the green is anything to go off of. Which it usually is.

They keep it underneath the table as they tug it out of the half empty container.

In some strange burst of confidence—not that Evan isn’t particularly confident, but I suppose you get the idea—Evan sets her pencil down onto her Runes notebook then taps Regulus’ wrist and holds her hand out.

They look over to her quizzically. Evan curls her hand once, twice.

“Gum for thee but not for me?”

What the fuck?

She fights the urge to grimace a little. Why’d she say that that? What the hell? For thee? Fuck kinda Shakespeare did she just pull out her ass? Lucinda’s weird Ravenclaw friend (Barty, but she doesn’t feel very keen on saying his name after the whole library debacle) keeps quoting Shakespeare at her. That must be it.

There’s a half-second Evan considers taking back the words, interrupted by a little snort. Evan focuses back in—Regulus is smiling slightly, loosely hiding their mouth with their hand. It doesn’t really do anything, cause Evan can still see their teeth resting on their bottom lip as they laugh. They set the pack of gum into their lap, handing over the piece they’d taken out to Evan.

After a moment of shock, Evan takes it, smiling back at Regulus. It’s sugary-sweet to make up for her strange words, but it seems to have the opposite effect on Regulus. Her smile falters ever so slightly and she turns away, 

Fuck.