Chapter XII . . . train wreck

Of course she finds him.

He hadn't tried hard to hide from her, in hindsight. Sure, he avoided her owl as it soared across the Great Hall and tried to drop a message into his lap; he ignored the eyes he could feel burning into the back of his skull from the top of the hill leading to the groundskeeper's hut; he pretended not to think of how much he longs for her.

Because he does. His body does, at least—yearns for her touch the way he had become so accustomed to it within the past few months. His mind knows otherwise, of course; has accepted that she is a poison and will kill him, in the end. That she is going to be his demise.

But what his mind doesn't know is what he saw that day—what he said; what she said; what she might have let slip—that was so detrimental, she was reduced to wiping the entirety of the interaction from his mind.

It's killing him, this feeling of blankness. Unable to remember what he should. Knowing he will never have a memory that he is supposed to, because Lyra decided he doesn't need it.

Robbed of his peace. Robbed of his autonomy. Now, robbed of his own mind.

What else will she take from him? What else has she already taken, that he doesn't remember—because she has already wiped its existence from his memory?

But he remembers he loves her. That wasn't a lie when he said it, and it still isn't. He hates what she is doing to him, but what's worse is the love he can't forget.

Cursed to walk on eggshells of everything about Lyra North except for his love for her.

The one thing he needs gone, and it whispers in the dead of night that it will never leave him. Lyra will be in his heart, in his mind, in his promise—forever.

It's this weakness, this very chink in his armor, that lets her in when she appears. That doesn't immediately bristle and send her off when he sees she is within speaking distance. That doesn't hate the way she runs her hands through his hair in lieu of a greeting.

"Studying still?" she says, because he is in the library and she doesn't know anything better. Or, more likely, she does, and she is pretending—just like him—that she doesn't.

"Exams soon," is his curt reply, keeping his head bowed though all it wants to do is tip back, further into her touch.

"Don't strain yourself too hard," she says kindly, and she settles into the seat next to him.

Not good. Very not good. She can't see what he is reading up on, or she will grow suspicious.

To counter this, Regulus does an awkward shift in his seat so his book is faced away from Lyra; his arms tilt at an odd angle to cover the text, and he keeps his eyes down because he knows she is giving him a strange glance.

Like everything else about her recently, he ignores it.

She tips her head. "Feeling alright, Reg?"

"Fine," he says. He's being too short with her; she's bound to know something is the matter. Just so long as she doesn't press him on it, all will be well.

He keeps reading.

Of course, though, she presses him. She always does. "You seem pale, darling. And I've hardly seen you in a week. Are you cross with me? Are we in a row and I don't even know it? Come on, Reg, you've got to tell me these things."

He knows she is smiling without even lifting his head, but he doesn't feel like returning the joviality. He's not happy with her. Not at all.

"We're fine," he says. He doesn't bring up the fact that he told her he loves her. He doesn't bring up the fact that she Obliviated him without a second thought. He doesn't bring up the secrets she keeps.

They sit in silence, because, even though Regulus can tell she's growing wary, he's pretty sure they're both acutely aware of the detriment that bringing light to these issues would cause.

They sit in silence, because Regulus will be keeping her at arm's length for now.

"You're off it."

Regulus's eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. He can't help it—shock is surely written across every feature on his face, probably deeming him a total open book at the moment—but he also doesn't mind as much as he would if it had been anyone else but Pandora to give him this reply.

He's just told her, barring absolutely no gory details, everything. Every minute interaction he has ever had with Lyra North. The contents of every Death Eater meeting he has been apart of since the very first. All of his thoughts, his doubts, his worries. Worst of all, he has told her his suspicions toward Lyra, and all he gets in return is that Pandora thinks he is going mental?

"You're serious?" he says after a heavy moment, waiting for any semblance of clarification from Pandora. "You think I'm wrong about everything, then?"

"I didn't say that," she says with a little shrug, not looking over at Regulus while she busies herself in the flowerpot of a magical shrub. It's why she insisted they meet in the greenhouse; so she can continue her work for Herbology four. "I just think you're entirely overthinking some of this, Reggie."

"That's... That's just—" He scoffs, unsure of what exactly that is, but certain in the fact that Pandora is reacting in the entirely opposite direction of how he expected/wanted her to. Of course he knows Pandora Rosier isn't predictable, and neither are any of her responses to heavy-laden subjects like this one; but she's usually one to be on Regulus's side, no matter the circumstance.

"I mean it," she says, because she can tell Regulus is lost in hushed thoughts. She tilts her head toward him, straying her gaze from the pot of dirt before her, just for a moment, to show she's not joking. "Sorry if it's brutal."

"It—well, it is," he stammers out. "What do you mean, then? You don't believe me? Think I've made it all up? You're supposed to be my best friend, Pandora—"

"Another overreaction," she clocks of him, with a knowing glance his direction. "Regulus, of course I'm your best friend. I know you want me to support you in everything, but I can't lie to your face. You sound mental."

"Mental," he repeats with a blank face. "I sound mental. How, Pandora? What's so crazy about this?"

She scoffs now, dropping the spade she's been messing around with and turning her full attention to Regulus. "I think it's crazy that you're this invested in thinking you're so... so special, Regulus! Tell me, why would Voldemort send a seventeen-year-old child's house elf to do his dirtiest work for him? What makes you think you can destroy this Horcrux on your own? Are you some sort of chosen one?"

He wets his lips, because suddenly they are very dry. "I don't.."

"Why would Lyra Obliviate you, anyway, Regulus? Do you think that she has something to hide now? Why would she work with you to destroy the Horcrux if, like you seem to think, she is working against you? How would that work?"

"Pandora—"

"Why can't you just let yourself trust someone, Regulus?"

Neither of them say anything for a moment, and they allow the question to hang over Regulus's head much longer than it should. The implications surrounding it, the situation of which it's been presented. Pandora isn't one to pry. Especially not when she can tell Regulus is upset. So what is it with her? What is forcing her hand to ask such demeaning, scrutinizing things?

Finally, Regulus swallows whatever thick lump has formed in his throat. He nods.

"I see," he says, and he hates the bitter taste in his mouth. "You and Lyra are friends. I shouldn't have forgotten, should I?"

"It's not that, Regulus," she replies. He is at least somewhat appeased to hear her voice come out gentler than before. "I'm only pointing out the obvious. Things you should be able to see for yourself."

"No, it's alright," he says. He lifts his shoulders in a stiff shrug. "You're right, anyway. I don't know where the harshness is coming from, but, I mean, it worked. Thanks for that."

Her lips pull down. "Reggie—"

"No," he says, and he has to turn away from her because he definitely thinks he's going to cry. "I should go."

"Hang on," says Pandora; she grabs Regulus's sleeve so he really has to hang on, anyway. Her eyes are big—always have been—and glowing with implore, begging him to listen before he runs away, like he always does. "Regulus, I'm sorry. I just needed you to understand something. You're too stubborn for anything I say to get through; so I had to enlist Narcissa. I figured she'd stick."

His face scrunches as her words hit him, and he recoils back slightly, searching Pandora's eyes. "You.. You spoke to my cousin? What of, Pandora? What am I missing?"

She gives him a saddened smile, tipping her head to the side. "I've tried to tell you so many times, Regulus. Haven't you caught on by now?"

He's getting impatient now, so he can't stop himself from wrenching his arm out of her grasp. "Obviously not, Pandora! I'm sick of the riddles. Tell me what you mean."

She twists her lips, a clear sign that Pandora Rosier has something to say and she knows it will hurt coming out.

She opens her mouth, and Regulus tries to pretend like he isn't bracing himself for what it could possibly be. What secret Lyra is keeping from him that Pandora has known all along, and only just now decided he needs to know.

"She's a member of the Order, Regulus," Pandora says. "The Order of the Phoenix."

Then, when he doesn't say anything in riposte, she adds onto it, as if it weren't bad enough on its own. "She's supposed to turn you in by the end of the term."

And suddenly, for the first time in his life, Regulus thinks he knows what betrayal feels like.

Author's Note

you know that scene in knives out 2019 when daniel craig's character benoit blanc flips a coin in the air and it represents a switching of the entire narrative of the film between acts 1 and 2