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vii. that was easy



Chapter VII . . . that was easy











The words spill out of his mouth faster than he can think to keep them in.

"I'm sorry," he says, and though he doesn't mean to say it, he finds he really does mean it. She doesn't reply, though, so he inhales and nods, reaffirming himself, because this is the right thing to do. Dorcas said it was the right thing to do, and Regulus has never known Dorcas Meadowes to be wrong.

Finally, by the time Regulus thinks his insides have eaten themselves out, Lyra inhales too and an unfamiliar smile covers her lips.

"For what?"

Regulus falters, a fraction of a word coming out of his mouth before he slams it shut in thought. Then he shakes his head slightly.

"For... you know."

Lyra tips her head to the side. She is swinging her legs to and fro again, perched on the windowsill of the south corridor's lookout onto the Black Lake; though she's facing Regulus instead of the view.

It had been hard to get her on her own, admittedly. He had no desire to stalk on up to Amos Diggory and Emmeline Vance just to break through their lines of defence and get to Lyra. For nearly a week now, since he'd spoken to Dorcas in the empty Transfiguration room, Regulus had been trying to find times when Lyra was alone so he could talk to her.

But she was never alone. Not that he could see.

Finally, though, he caught her just when Aurora Sinistra dipped her head to get a quill out of her bag. When she came back up, Lyra was gone, and the only thing left was a trace of Regulus's cologne. Lyra and Regulus, however, were long past.

Now, he wishes he had Dorcas or Pandora here, because one of them would know what to say.

Does Lyra really not remember just last week? How could that be fair? How is it that she was blessed with the freedom of forgetting, while Regulus fell victim to the curse that is remembering?

Thought it isn't really a curse, he thinks, if you like thinking about it. And he really did. Couldn't stop himself from picturing himself and Lyra in all sorts of situations that play off of what they'd done in the broom cupboard.

"Come on, Regulus," she says now, her head rolling to the side. She's smiling, but she doesn't look impressed. "Water under the bridge, yeah? I don't mind it, really. Kinda had me going, there, that you'd kill me, though.."

Regulus has to take a second to himself, because he can't believe his lucky stars that she's forgiven him so easily. It took him over a month to even begin to forgive himself for fancying a Muggleborn. How could she sweep everything under the rug that easy?

After a moment, he exhales a laugh, letting his worries ease out with it. "Yeah," he says, adjusting himself against the wall and crossing his legs at the ankles for leisure, "I had myself going, too. Anyway, I am sorry. I spoke to Dorcas about it—"

Something flashes in Lyra's face, but it's gone too quick for Regulus to pinpoint it. She smiles again. "And? She tell you to come crawling back to me, did she?"

Regulus simpers, shrugging his shoulders. "Something like that."

She actually told him to steer clear of Lyra North, but that was after Regulus made a promise to himself not to let anyone tell him what to do anymore.

His father told him to follow the Dark Lord. His brother told him to stand up to their parents. His mother told him he was to marry his second cousin, come the end of nineteen seventy-nine. Evan and Barty had told him they didn't like him being so distant from them.

He's not going to listen to any of them, anymore. His life is his to live, after all, and there are ways he wants to live it that don't align with what others want for him.

"So," Lyra says, and it's just then Regulus realises she's come closer to him again. Delicately, she reaches out a hand, almost hesitantly, before setting it on his chest. Warmth spread from every one of her fingers into his soul—he felt it in there, tingling like magic—and her eyes seemed to glow when she lifted her head. He probably had never seen her so happy.

"This can happen, then?" she asks in a whisper, beaming.

Reg chuckles quietly, lifting his shoulder again casually. "If that's all you wish to do."

Lyra's lips break in a grin. "Of course there's more, but we're in the middle of a hallway, and I think I barely know you, anyway."

Regulus arches his eyebrows. "Well, one—I don't recall that stopping us before. And two—what makes you say that?"

For the second time he can recall, her eyes flicker down to his arm, and he wonders what she knows. But they're back on his own gaze before long.

"There's many layers to you, Regulus Black," she begins, and he can tell from her tone that he's in for a long haul, so they begin walking side-by-side down the corridor. Slowly—they don't have anywhere to be. "There's the side of you that you like to show people; and the side of you that's friends with me."

"Friends?"

She smiles, but goes on like she hadn't heard him. "There's the side of you that's friends with Crouch and Rosier. Then there's the side that's friends with Pandora and Dorcas. And I can't imagine you're anything like how you are with me when you're in front of your family. Emmeline's also told me you're a stickler of a rule-follower in Potions."

"Snitched on me, has she? The little gossip."

"I guess what I'm asking," Lyra continues, just as they enter the courtyard together and brave the cold. Early February means no snow anymore, but still miserable sludge coats the ground and crunches beneath Lyra's feet as she turns to face him. "Is... Well, who are you, Regulus?"

His brow knits together. "Who am I?"

"That is what I said."

"I heard," he says, tipping his head to the side. He takes a moment—a real one—to sit on the question, think of a true answer. Not like he would do for anyone else; if it were anyone else, he's sure he would give them something mundane and move on with his life. But Lyra deserves truth, if anything, from him. "Okay. Yeah. I'm called after the star system in the constellation Leo. My middle name is Arcturus, because the Black family is big on that, if you haven't gathered so far—"

"I have," laughs Lyra.

He smiles, and they keep walking on. "My favourite month of the year is December."

"Is there a reason for that?"

"My half-birthday," he clarifies, lips twitching at the corners. "I was born in June, but I've never had much fun on a birthday, so I like to celebrate the date that is the furthest away from it I can possibly be. Exactly six months away. And the weather in December is no bother."

She hums her agreement. "I couldn't agree more."

They keep talking nonsense, all sorts of waffle that wouldn't matter to Regulus if it were anyone else he was with. He listens, he talks when she doesn't, they joke, and he comes to a decision that her laugh is the only sound he needs to hear for the rest of his life. If he could continue on, all he would need is to make Lyra laugh.

Lyra leads him all over the castle, telling him as much as he has ever heard about her. Apparently she has a cousin that can whistle any song he's ever heard just after listening once, sort of like a songbird or a recording tape (Regulus doesn't know what that one is, but Lyra explains it without judgement). Regulus tells her about his cousins, but mostly Narcissa—he thinks they would get along, if they ever met. Lyra says she almost remembers Narcissa; she had been a prefect when they were third year. Lyra always hated her. Regulus doesn't tell her what he originally thought, about them getting along, and nods quietly. Lyra goes on about her mother and father, and they sound pleasant—for Muggles, at least.

Regulus doesn't say that last bit out loud; that's exactly what he is trying to steer clear from, anyway.

"Father has an obsession with History of Magic," Lyra says, rolling her eyes like she's heard enough of it. They're in the library now, Lyra across from Regulus at the table in the furthest corner back, her head resting on her palm, eyes gazing up at Regulus. "Guess it makes sense, for a Muggle. Super interesting to them; boring, to us. He's always asking me when I come home whether or not they've found anything else out about the Soap Blizzard of 1378."

Regulus raises his eyebrows. "Well, have they?"

She rolls her eyes again. "No, and they never will because it's useless. It's already happened, hasn't it? History?"

"Well, yeah," Regulus says thoughtfully, "but why should that stop anyone from learning about it? If you don't study history, it's bound to repeat itself."

Lyra regards Regulus through a sceptic's eye, clicking her tongue. "Alright. Here's a challenge, then, since you want to be Mr. Philosophical today. Where do we go when we die?"

Regulus's eyes narrow. Everything is a game, with Lyra North.

"That... depends on what you believe," he says cautiously, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in his seat. "It's impossible to gauge the permanence of death without experiencing it first-hand, I think. Why do you ask, anyway? What made you think of death?"

Her eyes cloud with something Regulus can't recognise, but she shakes her head. "Nothing. I was just wondering. Well, don't you think of death? Think about dying?"

"Those are two different concepts," he points out. Then he shakes his head. "Not in particular, I don't. Do you?"

He does, and he isn't sure why he's lying, but it's too late to take it back now.

"I do," she says, unashamed, straightening up in her seat. "I think it's scary. The thought of nonexistence, at least. And the whole not-knowing. I don't want to die, I think. Not for a long time."

Regulus smiles. "Well, most people don't."

"I think I'm more afraid of it than most people."

Regulus doesn't know what to say to that, so he clears his throat and shifts around in his seat a little until it's appropriate to change the subject. "So, your father enjoys history. And your mother?"

A playful smile takes over Lyra's lips. "Trying to learn your best about my family so you can win them over one day?"

He pantomimes holding a journal and quill. "I'm taking notes. Go on."

Lyra laughs again. She picks up the ends of her hair and plays with them as she talks, but her eyes are strictly on Regulus, like she isn't aware of what her hands are doing.

"Mother's a big healer," she explains. "She doesn't work, never applied for a job at Saint Mungo's, or anything, but I always thought she'd be a wicked Healer. It's why we moved to London, when I was four—Mum said there's better medicine around those parts."

A second too late, Regulus laughs. He dips his head, leans forward in his seat, and tips his head to the side. "Okay, so you are from London."

Lyra looks confused by the question. "I told you I was."

He laughs again. "I know, I know. It's just... well, Cas was telling me you lived down the road from the Mckinnons. Said she'd seen you around there plenty of times. I thought it was—"

"You'd believe Dorcas Meadowes over me?" Lyra says, and for the first time in their conversation, she sounds angry. "Really, Regulus? After everything I've done for you?"

He shakes his head to clear it, blinking; entirely taken by storm. "N–No, I didn't—I told her it was probably just a misunderstanding—"

Lyra nods, her eyelashes fluttering as she blinks rapidly. She seems to be reassuring herself of something, Regulus thinks, but she also looks distressed and he isn't sure how to handle that.

"Lyra, I didn't—"

"You don't believe her," she repeats, and it sounds like it's for her benefit than for his. "Right?"

"Of course."

Lyra nods again, looking entirely flustered. "Good. Good, okay. I don't live in Wales, Regulus. When have I ever sounded Welsh?"

She laughs, but it's strained, like she's trying to ease the tension she planted.

"Never," he agrees, and his laugh is fake, too. He isn't sure where to go from here. Luckily, he doesn't have to; Lyra has to get to class. He doesn't hear which one because there seems to be a sort of muffling sensation around his ears.

He has just enough sense to murmur a goodbye before she's gone.









Author's Note

it should be clear by now but.... regulus is NOT a reliable narrator 😭😭 cmon yall stand up. you think lyra is really that manic pixie dream girl? my Girl is so much more than that

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