Chapter XI . . . like cousin, like cousin

Regulus is cold.

It wouldn't be a notable thing, because Regulus Black is cold before he is anything else; but it's weird, now. Because the Malfoy Manor is a dreadfully fancy place, so they should have dreadfully fancy heating units. Or at least a charm or two to keep the place warm. But, then again, Regulus doubts that anywhere Voldemort hosts his meetings will be anything other than freeze-your-balls-off cold.

He could do with one of those thick jumpers Lyra loves so much, right about now.

Or Lyra. She could warm him up, he thinks. Just being by her.

But for now, he doesn't have Lyra. He has a cigarette—because he always wanted to try one of them, and ever since he did a few years ago, he's been trying to perfect his craft to equate with the way Sirius was always able to manipulate the smoke—and he has a cloak around his shoulders—because he didn't take it off when he entered the Manor, which probably could be taken as offencive, but he doesn't mind. Mother and Father aren't here, so he hardly cares about anything societal now.

It's probably warmer outside than it is inside, this late in April, and Regulus wonders if they could host the event in the courtyard rather than the dining hall. It'd be more pleasant, certainly, but he doubts that pleasantries quite fit Voldemort's narrative. Still, Regulus will wait on this balcony until they come out to drag him in, tooth and nail.

He exhales, always enamored with the way the smoke curls past his lips, before shutting his eyes and lifting his head to the sky. Part of him wishes he could allow it to take him. But it isn't his time—not before he is able to take the Dark Lord down with him.

"Certainly you're not nervous," says a cool voice, one that Regulus hadn't even known was there. "Right, Reg?"

The only reason he turns is because of the familiarity of the tone. It's deeper now, richer and more mature than he ever knew it to be in his childhood, but of course he knows her. He doubts he could ever forget.

"Cissa," he greets, with a slow nod toward her. He lifts the cigarette as an offering.

She shakes her head once. "I can't."

Regulus arches an eyebrow. "Don't tell me Malfoy's perfectionist ideals got to you so quickly."

She laughs, and he is instantly thrown back to his youth, when he, Bella, Andy, Sirius, and Cissa would play together. Real youth; before Walburga and Orion got their hands on Sirius, and before there were any expectations for him. Well, harsh expectations. Of course they were always there. This was just before they sunk their claws in. When the cousins could play without competing for who has the highest marks or who has the sharpest spells. Before, when they could be family.

"What can I say?" She sighs, leaning forward and allowing her forearms to settle on the railing of the balcony. Her lips twist with bitterness. "I'm a Malfoy now, aren't I, Reg? Mustn't taint the pearl of perfection."

He scoffs a laugh. "He's horrible."

"Awful," she agrees. Then she lowers her head. "But he is my husband, you know. And my husband doesn't like it when people smoke on his property."

"Yeah?" Regulus takes another drag, looking back out over the entrance lawn. "Does it mean I have to listen to him?"

"It would be the polite thing to do."

"I don't think I will."

"Really wasn't expecting you to."

Regulus smiles, because Narcissa Black has known him better than he has ever known himself for his whole life. If there's anyone he wishes to be at his side for today, he is glad it's her.

"How is it going?" she asks, crossing her arms and staring across the lawn. "With that girl. I forget her name now."

"Lyra," Regulus supplies. He's surprised he told Narcissa about her, but, then again, she is the only person in his family he would tell. Then he frowns, letting his eyes fall. "It's good, we're good together. It's just... odd, sometimes. With her."

Narcissa looks displeased, but, to her credit, is trying her best to hide it. It's not her fault Regulus has always been able to read her. "Odd.. how?"

He lets her question hang for a moment, lets himself think on it probably longer than he should. Then he lifts his shoulders and turns to lean his back against the balcony, crossing his arms and momentarily forgetting the fag between his fingers.

"Like.. sometimes she throws me for a loop. I don't know how to explain it, Cissa."

She rolls her eyes, mimicking his (admittedly) slightly whiney tone. "Just try, Reggie."

He runs a hand down his face with a scoff. "Just—that sometimes, conversations bring up topics that should be normal things for couples to discuss, and she makes a whole mess out of it. Or she makes too small a deal out of things that I know should be a big scene. And there's also just the things I've... heard."

He cringes at how immature he must sound to the elder girl; complaining about gossip in his love life, while Narcissa is already married and looking at children. Surely she doesn't want to hear about school relationships.

Still, she tips her head to the side curiously. "What have you heard, then?"

He shrugs again. "Again, it's all little things. Meadowes told me she was positive the Norths lived in Wales, over by the Mckinnon girl's place, so I brought this up to Lyra 'cause, y'know, I figured it'd be a little funny, and she... Well, to put it plainly, she got oddly defensive over it."

Narcissa's brow knits together. "Weird... but admissible. Is that it?"

"And she'll say things," he goes on, lost in his own thoughts now, "that I never know how to take. I told her I love her, and she told me I'll learn not to. I just never know what it is with her."

"Maybe she's closed-off. Emotionally. Lucius was until our wedding. Still is, actually," she adds, scrunching her nose.

"I haven't even told you the oddest bit," he admits. Then he runs a hand through his hair. He has to take a drag off his cigarette for this one, prepare himself for Narcissa to absolutely take the piss out him. Then, he lowers his head. "She slept over just last night, and it was.. it was fine. I mean, it was great, if you know what I mean—but then I wake up this morning, and it's like my mind is a blank slate. I know everything we did. I know how many times we did it. I know what I said, and I know what she said, and I even know I took a shower this morning. And then... nothing."

Narcissa nods slowly. Regulus watches her, but her face is frustratingly passive. He hates it when she does this; she'll take in too much information all at once and go practically mute as she tries to understand it all. This is the only time he can't read her.

Finally, she draws in a sharp breath, meeting Regulus's eyes with something bitter within them. "Have you ever been Obliviated before, Cousin?"

He can't help the flinch that crosses his face. He has, yes, but the question is so out-of-the-blue that it hits him like a stunning spell.

"Once," he replies cautiously. "When I was twelve, Barty and I wanted to feel what it was like. 'Course, when he Obliviated me, I forgot what I was supposed to be doing. Evan came in and stopped us before I could get him back."

Narcissa nods again. "Do you remember what it was like?"

Regulus racks his mind. He doesn't, of course, because that's the whole point of the spell, isn't it? What good would a memory-wiping spell be if you could remember it?

Suddenly, it is ten times colder outside, and a biting chill scurries down Regulus's back.

Narcissa clicks her tongue as though she can read his mind, and she knows her point has been made. "Do you see now, Reggie?"

He doesn't reply. He can't bring himself to speak.

Narcissa doesn't need him to. "If I were you, I'd want to find out what that girl is hiding before I told her anything she doesn't need to know. Before I devoted myself to her."

Regulus feels himself pale, because he has done just that, and he still doesn't know what she is hiding. He has told her everything that could literally get him killed. Has revealed all of the skeletons in his closet without even wondering what's in hers.

He's fallen in love with a blur. A blur that's unafraid of Obliviating him if necessary.

How complicated does that make things?

He spends the rest of the meeting cold all over, and not just because of the climate within the Malfoy Manor. Tomorrow, when he is back at Hogwarts and has to face Lyra again, he will worry about what to do. How supine he must be toward her.

For now, he listens to what Voldemort needs of him. This, at least, he can do.

When he returns to Grimmauld Place, his parents hardly notice. He isn't expecting them to; it's late, so they're either asleep or out—and, considering Orion's ever-growing illness, Regulus doubts it's the latter.

It's probably good they're out of the way, anyway. Regulus needs the drawing room to himself.

Well, himself and Kreacher.

It doesn't take long for him to tell Kreacher what the task is. He simply informs his elf where to go, what to do, who to meet. He omits the same details that were omitted to him in the initial description. He forbids himself to worry why Voldemort needs an elf in the first place, and he ignores the dread in his gut that's trying to warn him. Something may be wrong, but he won't accept it until he must.

When Kreacher reappears with that telltale crack of elf magic, Regulus doesn't know what to think, at first.

His house elf is shattered. Whatever Voldemort needed Kreacher to do, it's clear he was intending to leave him for dead all along; Kreacher can hardly stand, can hardly breathe, is hardly alive. Now, Regulus is glad his parents aren't intruding, because should they see how upset Kreacher's near demise has made him, they would deem him weak. Unfit to be the Black heir. But Regulus couldn't give less of a damn about house ideals and status now; his house elf is dying and it's at Regulus's hand.

It's hours later, well into the night and past any points that Regulus could catch even the dregs of sleep, that Kreacher becomes steady once again. Regulus doesn't leave his side until Kreacher demands it, and the only reason Reg listens is because he has never heard Kreacher give anyone an order, so he figures he must acquiesce. He's done enough, hasn't he? By sending Kreacher off to his death in the first place without a second thought?

At least he knows where to begin now. With his plan for bringing down the Dark Lord.

And he knows now that he must leave Lyra North out of it—otherwise, it may be the last thing he does.