Chapter I . . . ask the compass

She's wearing jeans.

Muggle jeans; loose ones that pool around her ankles and engulf the trainers she's got on to combat the cold. A jumper, too—green, the Slytherin kind—that scoops all the way up to her neck and piles together in a knitted collar.

She looks warm, albeit, but nevertheless she's wearing Muggle clothes. Even if Regulus were freezing his balls off, he wouldn't touch a pair of Muggle jeans with a ten-foot pole. The fact that she is even wearing them—and proudly—much less on Hogwarts grounds, is a disgrace. It's blasphemy to everything Regulus holds true. It's also quite possibly the most direct act of defiance to the Dark Lord that Regulus has ever seen; and this girl—this girl he has never spoken to before—is wading through the snow like she owns the world.

But the way she walks, the air surrounding her, the sun shining down from behind white clouds—everything about her is bright. For a moment, Regulus wonders why the snow around her isn't melting. She looks to be radiating warmth, the kind of aura that makes everything around her want to melt into a hug and beam at the rest of the world.

Happiness. Sunshine. Rainbows.

In other words, all things Regulus is most stereotypically Slytherin about: Hateful.

"Do you come down here often?" she asks Regulus when she is close enough to be heard—but something makes him think that wouldn't stop her, normally. Maybe it's the way he has heard her yell over the Great Hall, and how he knows the whole world will stop to listen.

He scowls, not quite grasping the point she is making nor caring enough to ask outright. A scowl is his default retort to most things. This girl is no exception, however much she seems to try to be.

"You're here early," she points out, undeterred by his silence, crossing her arms over her chest—over her green Muggle jumper—and looking unimpressed. Her breath leaves her lips in a white cloud. "I expect that means you come 'round here plenty a'time. Am I wrong, Regulus Black?"

Again, he scowls, and this time he turns his back on her. The aforementioned 'down here' the girl is vehement that Regulus frequents is the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, where the open field of the abandoned groundskeeper's hut meets the ominous thickness of the woods behind Hogwarts. It's snowing, this late in November, so the forest isn't as looming and dark as it would be without the white powder illuminating it—but it is still the Forbidden Forest, and they are out here alone.

For the record, she's right. Regulus does come down here a lot, but he'll drink goblin piss before he admits to that. Plus, he doesn't come out here when it's snowing—it's bloody freezing. How anybody stomachs this weather is beyond him.

"You look cold," she says, like she can read his mind. He sees her, out of the corner of his eye, glance to the empty groundskeeper's hut. "Wonder if anyone's in? Maybe we could wait for Filch in—"

"Not cold," Regulus cuts her off—contrary to his words—very coolly. "Wish you'd stop talking, though. Can't lie."

She laughs. "You're forward."

"Just honest."

"Or a twat."

He doesn't reply. What a childish insult. There's another set of footsteps, wading down from the top of the hill, crunching through the snow on their way down to (graciously) interrupt this little interaction between badger and snake, and both turn to watch Filch descend, however ungracefully. He wobbles down the hill, grumbling to himself the whole way, looking more unhappy than either of the others combined to be out in the cold. Tough luck, you dolt, Regulus thinks. It was your idea in the first place.

"Let's get on with it," Argus Filch says gruffly, when he reaches the bottom. "Don't want to be out here any longer than you two do, eh?"

Regulus fights the urge to roll his eyes and falls in step with Filch, much too acutely aware of the witch behind him as they trail along.

It was already unfair that he was the only one—out of everyone involved—to get thrown in with the dogs. He was, arguably, the least incriminating suspect associated with everything. Besides, it wasn't as though this attack was unprompted; bloody Lockhart and his motley crew of misfits were asking for a fight. It wasn't Regulus's fault that they got what they wanted.

Though he supposes it is fair to call Benjy Fenwick's temporarily broken nose Regulus's fault. That bit had been all him, and he is proud of it, thank you very much.

He was no longer proud when the professors intervened and Regulus was the only person—out of himself, Barty, Evan, Dorcas, Gilderoy, Benjy, Sybill, and that Sinistra girl; totaling eight—to get stuck with detention. Evan had tried to reason that it was because Reg was the only one who really inflicted any damage at all; having ditched his wand in a moment of fury for his fist and striking Benjy right 'round the face, leaving him with the aforementioned broken nose.

It really was no big deal, Regulus thinks: Fenwick's face was back to normal by the next morning at breakfast. But the damage was done, and Regulus was handed detention on a silver platter.

Having detention with Lyra North, however, was the straw that broke the Hippogriff's back. And their task was just salt to the wound.

"Thestral dung?" Regulus repeats, a few minutes later, unable to help himself, shock leaking into his tone and disgust into his face. He scowls, thrusting the spade back toward Filch. "No."

"Professor Beery makes good use of it in Herbology three," grunts Filch. "Now get on with it."

Regulus narrows his eyes, not bringing the spade back to himself. Not accepting it. "I'm not doing this."

"Who else, Black?" Lyra sings, leaning on the handle of her spade and smiling over at him. Of course she's already at peace with this horrid punishment; Reg has heard that she lives on a farm and has to sleep in the barn when her parents are cross with her. "Let's get it over with. Filch is already gone, anyway," she adds, with a laugh at Regulus's ignorance to the fact.

Regulus blinks, and he turns over his shoulder, grimacing at the extra pair of footprints in the snow leading away from their little opening in the forest. Typical: Filch had led them a good five minutes' walk in, delivered them their task, then disappeared without a trace. Well, with a trace—this path in the snow is quite obvious where he went—but Regulus is furious all the same.

"There's something against this, in the States, you know," he mumbles, pinching his nose with one hand and digging into the mounds before him, trying as hard as he possibly can not to inhale the fumes. "Something of no cruel and unusual punishment."

Lyra huffs a laugh. "You really are dreary, aren't you, Regulus?"

"We are not on a first name basis."

"Oh, you're just pitiful."

Regulus glowers at the ground and shoves his spade into the pile before him with more force than necessary. "I'm scooping Thestral dung in the bloody freezing cold because I gave some prat what he was asking for. Forgive me if I'm not too gleeful right now."

Lyra puffs up her cheeks and watches Regulus, exhaling slowly, shaking her head. "And here, I thought the tales of grim weren't true."

Regulus lifts his head, narrowing his eyes over at her, hating the smirk on her lips. "If you could get back to scooping so we don't have to be out here any longer than we have to be, thanks."

"You don't want to know what the tales are?"

"No."

"Suit yourself," she replies, still smiling, returning to the task at hand. "Though it is a bit rude that we've been out here thus far and you haven't yet asked me what I'm in for. Distasteful, really."

"I'm sorry," Regulus says, not at all sorry. "I didn't realise this was Azkaban and we have prison sentences. Did you murder someone in cold blood, then, North?"

Lyra freezes, lifting her head, looking quite like a deer in headlights. "How did you know?"

Regulus's eyes widen only a fraction of an inch before he narrows them again, exhaling a huff of air. "You think you're funny?"

She smiles, and he hates it. "Quite. Do you not?"

Again, he fights the urge to roll his eyes into the back of his head. There's a tug, deep in his gut, telling him to be wise and ignore her. This is what those Hufflepuffs do—they rile you up, they use their innocence as a cover and poke all your buttons, they're the most insufferable students in all of Hogwarts.

Regulus has never interacted with one before Lyra North, but he just gets the feeling that, if they're all like her, then he wants nothing to do with any of them.

Lyra, he has seen around. They're in the same year; of course, he has no choice but to know of her. Same as Lockhart, and Trelawney—Vance, Diggory, Skeeter, Lovegood. All the nobodies from the forgotten houses that blend into the background, but that Reg has no choice to know: Classes with them for seven years has provided him no other option but to memorise their names and faces. A story to their person, even. Like Emmeline Vance, with her Muggle forget-me-not bulbs that she tried to gift Professor Slughorn as a holiday present and ended up face-planting in front of the entire class; or Diggory's attempt at a Starfish and Stick on the Quidditch pitch that ended in a Quaffle to the private parts (ouch); or Sybill Trelawney's constant attempts to prophesy the future on any unwitting victim that passes her.

All these people are the lowest of the low—humiliating to be the same species as, much less go to the same school—and Regulus knows for fact that he landed himself in the right house. After all, Slytherin is the only of the four in which actually sane people reside. Barty, Evan, Dorcas; and, up until last year, Snape, Mulciber, and Avery. Before they graduated. Not to mention all of Regulus's ancestors, both old and new alike; Narcissa, Bellatrix, Alphard, Mother and Father—even Andromeda, before... The Disowning.

Sirius was the only exception to this pattern. After all, how could he possibly not be placed in Slytherin? He was the best person Regulus knew, the most deserving of glory. When he was placed in Gryffindor, it was as though the ground beneath Regulus's feet had slipped out from beneath him. He became a mark of disdain, not a glowing pillar Regulus had to strive to be. Sirius was no longer the big brother Regulus wanted; he was a Gryffindor, and in the eyes of the Blacks, that was reason enough to hate him.

But in the eyes of Regulus, he didn't understand.

Didn't understand how Sirius became the only exception to this rule he has grown so attached to—the rule that only the best are placed in Slytherin. For Sirius was the best—the very epitome of perfection, to Regulus—and hadn't he ended up down his own path? How did that make any sense? How did that upkeep anything Regulus held true whatsoever?

It still doesn't make any sense to him; even now, when he is no longer blinded with reverence and can finally understand that Sirius is exactly what Walburga and Orion always thought of him.

In any case, Hufflepuff is still trash. That is the point, and it doesn't change, whether Regulus's big brother is any good or not.

Lyra does the brunt of work, for the rest of their time in detention. Regulus is torn, at first, between letting her and being humbled at the thought of a girl besting him at their assigned task, so he eventually gives in and does a good bit of it himself. Still, Lyra does most, and Regulus does not complain. The job is done, so they can finally go back inside. Back to warmth.

The cold feels like it has only gotten worse, as Regulus and Lyra trudge up the snowy hill, back to the castle—thankfully, in silence. His nose feels raw, rubbed a few too many times in futile attempts to regain feeling in it. He just knows his cheeks are pink, too. How embarrassing; the price paid for having fair skin, he supposes. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his robes and scowls at the ground.

"What did the snow ever do to you?" Lyra demands, frustratingly.

"Do you ever piss off?"

She does not, evidently. "You're the mad one, frowning at the ground like it offended you. Does everything make you angry, or just the natural bits of life; fun, jokes, snow, my jumper. The like."

His brow knits together. "Why should I care about your jumper?"

"I'm guessing you don't like that I'm wearing your house colour," she plows right on, giving no sign she heard him. In fact, she talks directing her words ahead, like Regulus is not there at all and she is merely entertaining an invisible audience. "None of my housemates fancied it much, either, but I wanted to make an appeal to you because I knew we'd be stuck together for an hour in the cold and you're already such a miserable little bloke that I thought maybe a bit of familiarity would make you feel better about yourself—hence the colour, yeah?"

Regulus clenches his jaw, keeping his head down, wishing so, so much that this girl beside him had an off switch.

"You're not talkative, then, are you?" she asks bluntly, turning her face to him curiously. "That doesn't surprise me, either. Merlin, you really do hate fun, don't you?"

"I don't hate fun," he says; though he does, sometimes. "I just hate you."

She hums for a beat, tilting her head to and fro in deliberation. "I think you're lying."

His lips twitch. "And how'd you know? Are you some sort of connoisseur of mistruth?"

"Just the thing," she agrees, smiling along, and he has to admit she plays off him well. "My name means liar, doesn't it? I was practically born to sniff out the truth, like a nicer-looking version of Sherlock Holmes."

Regulus's brow furrows, genuinely interested, his eyes glancing up to the white sky in a moment's thought. "I thought Lyra meant lyre. Like the instrument. L-y-r-e."

She hums again, dismissively, lifting her shoulders in a careless manner. Thoughtless. "All sounds the same, when you say it out loud. And nobody writes ever my name down, anyway."

"Letters? None addressed to you?"

He instantly regrets it.

"Regulus Black cares if I get letters?" She lifts a hand to her heart, feigning honour as he rolls his eyes. "I–I don't believe it. Does the king of Slytherin have a heart?"

He shoots her an unimpressed look. "Ever heard of common decency?"

"Clearly not."

"I'm just making busy talk with a mad woman while we walk in tow to the same general area," he clarifies, gesturing to the castle ahead of them. "What about this interaction screams that I care whatsoever?"

She twists her lips in thought, taking a moment before she responds, letting Regulus sit in anxious await of what can only be an insufferable answer to a pointless question.

"I actually think you care about quite a lot, Regulus," she replies, just as they slow to a stop outside the castle's exterior corridor. She turns to face him, so he is forced to do the same, looking her in the eyes as she tells him, "I just think you care about upholding your family's truth most of all, so you pretend not to like anything. Is it easier?"

If there were any trace of a smile on his lips, it was gone by now, replaced by an affronted glare. The nerve—the sheer audacity to claim this to Regulus's face—this girl is perhaps the most ill-mannered person he has ever met. "Easier?" he repeats with venom.

Lyra nods simply; she did not misspeak, and he did not mishear. "Is it easier to act like you don't care about your brother than to admit that you do?"

He doubles back, disgust spreading across his tongue, a retort readying itself within his mouth, aimed to be spit out like a dagger. So easy, he thinks, it would be so simple—he could hit her where it hurts, but he doesn't know where that is. There's something for everyone; a weak spot that hurts every time it's prodded. Regulus doesn't know Lyra well enough to know hers, but she has found his within an hour. It's unfair. She has the high ground.

He keeps his lips shut, for now, and shakes his head.

She isn't worth it yet. She isn't worth this. But she will be, sometime, and then he will be ready.

So he brushes past her now, back into the castle, leaving her out in the snow. She always looked like she preferred it out there, anyway. He doesn't stop to check.

"What do you know about Cornish Pixies?"

Regulus lifts his head slowly, his brow furrowing. He glances over to Barty from across the stack of books between them, blinking. When Barty does not move to correct himself or clarify, Regulus's face scrunches with confusion. "What?"

Barty, whose face had been buried entirely in a book, looks up to Regulus now, expectant. "I said, what do you know about Cornish—"

"I know what you said," Regulus interrupts impatiently. "I just—can't imagine why we would need to know that. Cornish Pixies were second year, Barty. And you aren't even in Magical Creatures this term, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah," shrugs Barty, "but Avery wrote me about what I need to know for the N.E.W.T.s I'm taking. He said Cornish Pixies will be on the Defence exam, same as Doxies and Bowtruckle fur—"

"Ah, Crouch," Evan cuts in, when Barty's voice fails him, as he glides back into their private spot in the south corner of the library. He drops two books onto their ever-growing stack, collapsing into the chair next to Barty's. "It sounds as though you got played, mate. Doxies won't be on our exam any more than Nifflers will be."

"Bowtruckles don't have fur," Regulus adds, lowering his head to get to back to work; Barty's tangents are a known waste of time, and with end of year exams coming up next term, Regulus has not a moment to spare for anything. Much less Barty falling victim to yet another cruel 'joke' by Avery's standards.

Avery and Mulciber—though graduated and done with Hogwarts, onto following the Dark Lord full-time—have not yet seemed to grasp the concept that they no longer need to know what is going on within the walls of the castle at all times. Mulciber has a tendency to write Evan, and Avery and Barty have been pen pals since May; before Avery was even done with classes. The one time Reg even attempted to bring these odd little relationships to light, he was accused of flat-out jealousy and ignored entirely.

"If they're really as high in the Dark Lord's rankings as they insist they are," he tried arguing, "why would they have so much free time to answer your lot's beck and call?"

But Evan and Barty always preferred the opinion of whomever they deemed cooler, and, having already graduated and been branded with the Dark Mark, Mulciber and Avery were much more interesting than Regulus.

Anyway, by now, he's used to it. He just hates the way Avery likes to play Barty for a fool. Hates it when anyone plays anyone, really.

A curiosity itches the back of his mind, and he lifts his head again, at the thought of being demeaned by people he doesn't care for; detention, earlier that morning, with the Hufflepuff girl.

"Do either of you know..." He hesitates, trying to form her name on his tongue, unable to find it a natural shape. It fights his mouth and doesn't come out. "That girl from Hufflepuff? The North girl?"

"Lyra?" Evan is quick to deduce, nodding. Figures; the Rosier twins are the most notorious people in the seventh year—they know everyone, and everyone knows them. Whether of a good reputation or a bad one is up to the reader. "She's in my Herbology class, sits with Emmeline and Dorcas. I think they're friends."

Regulus nods slowly. Makes sense for her to be close with Emmeline; they're both insufferable. "What do you know about her?"

"About Lyra?" Barty laughs, but not in a happy way—he laughs at Regulus's question. "About as much as everyone else does, Reg. She's got the mouth of a banshee, doesn't she? Quite funny, though," he adds thoughtfully, frowning, lowering his face in wonder. "And she's given me plenty of chances to copy down some essays over the years... Maybe she's alright; I don't know. But, if anything, she is loud."

"Why do you care all of a sudden?" Evan asks without looking up from the parchment he's scribbling on, his other hand using his wand to flip his textbook to the right page. Busybee, Barty calls him; always has something to do. "Not like she's in our immediate circle. Would you like her to be?"

"Didn't see her as your type," Barty admits, snickering.

Regulus narrows his eyes to a glare. "She's not," he says, leaning back in his seat and shrugging his arms nonchalantly. "We had detention together this morning, is all. I've never known her before today. I was only curious."

"Ah, modern romance," Evan remarks dryly, glancing up shortly from his work to give Regulus an unimpressed look. "Shoveling dung together. Isn't that beautiful, Barty?"

"Brings a tear to a dry man," agrees Barty, feigning wiping his eyes. He and Evan share a laugh, but Regulus isn't even smiling. They always do this—find some way to poke fun at him, something small and insignificant that doesn't really matter but still ends up getting on his nerves anyway. Barty and Evan are closer to each other than either of them are to Regulus, but he's never really minded, unless it comes to times like this. Times when they find something to laugh at and it ends up being Regulus.

"Quidditch practice," Regulus says flatly, standing without warning and packing up his books. "Got to go."

"No, no, Reg," says Barty, and the laughter is suddenly all over. "Don't go. We were only joking, mate. If you want to know more about this girl, I'm sure we can ask the compass—"

"Get it to tell us which way is up," laughs Evan, and the bit is continued. They laugh together over a joke that isn't even all that good, really—or maybe Regulus is just bitter.

Well, joke's on them, because there isn't much that Reg isn't bitter about. Even if they don't seem to notice this, there is someone who does—and Regulus intends to get to the bottom of how in Merlin's name Lyra North knows more about him than his best friends do.

Even if he dies trying.

(Okay, perhaps that's a bit morbid. He won't exactly die trying, but he intends to give it his very all. Don't you know by now that Regulus Arcturus Black is nothing if not dramatic?)

Author's Note

thank you regulyra for bringing back romance! (scooping thestral shit as fertilizer and complaining about each other to each other's faces) ❤️