CHAPTER V

SIRIUS WAS SITTING in the far corner of the Three Broomsticks with two cups of butterbeer as he waited for Arabella. 

She eventually showed up with a navy blue scarf wrapped over her head and in the most peasant-looking clothes she could find.

“I would have written to you,” she said as she embraced Sirius, “but I had no clue where to address it to.”

She made sure to sit back facing the rest of the pub.

“Do not worry about it,” Sirius replied, sitting across from her. “You do not fathom how delighted I am to finally see you again. I have missed you so dearly.”

“I have missed you more,” she said, and their hands clasped together on the table between them. Their fingers fit into each other perfectly and naturally like routine, and the soft, warm feeling was so familiar, nostalgic almost.

“What is it like being queen?” Sirius said with a grin. “How was the coronation and the—and the wedding?”

There was silence for a period, and Arabella’s smile had vanished. 

“The wedding—it was—did you read the Prophet? It was most likely all over it . . . The wedding was . . . Well how would you feel being forced to marry someone you spent the entirety of your life hating?”

Sirius was silent. Pity and sorry filled his heart and spirit.

“I guess you would not know,” she said.

They both stared at each other’s hands, held in the other’s, and Arabella wondered how hers had gotten there without her noticing.

She could not understand whether she was still mad at him for leaving, or if she was still in love with him. Or both. Or none.

“We were supposed to get married,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, “I am sorry.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, you are not.”

Sirius was shocked by her response.

“You are not sorry. You are selfish.” She said these words but was not able to look at him. “You left because you hate your family and they hate you, and because you did not want to rule, but did you ever think about me?”

“Arabella,” he said, “I think about you every day.”

“Clearly that is not enough.” She removed her hands from the table. “It is too late now anyway. Thinking about me will not make a difference, so do not waste your time.”

“Arabella, please—”

“I loved you, and you left me with your bastard of a brother and bitch of a mother!”

They were both quiet and out of words to say, tears welled in both their eyes.

“I am leaving now.” Arabella stood to leave. “I might write to you in the future. Goodbye, Sirius.”

———

ARABELLA FOUND THE war training room when she was summoned to by Walburga. It was large and circular, with mirrors on two sides. There were weapons in drawers, and other equipment Arabella had not seen before. Walburga presented each of the various weapons; swords, spears, bows and arrows, and knives. 

“I think it would be best if we start training you,” said Walburga. “Although you are queen now, you will still be needed often times in the battlefield.”

Arabella agreed to the proposition with a smile. Walburga sat comfortably on a chair, and ordered Arabella the ways of using knives and wands at the same time, and other advantageous skills. Walburga proposed to have a duel. Arabella felt confident she would be able to beat this old witch, and she had been winning. She used a pattern of different offensive spells, until Walburga was frustrated by losing, and took a knife from the table and threw it manicaly towards Arabella, which punctured her skin just above her elbow.

Arabella gasped from the excruciating, mind-numbing pain. She dropped her wand and her eyes widened as she saw the knife’s blade deep in her bicep. The dark crimson blood spilled down her arm, dripping at her fingertips. Her mouth was wide open but no sounds were coming out, only inconsistent breaths and gasps. 

“Do not be so dramatic,” said Walburga, rolling her eyes. “Kreacher!”

The house elf appeared just as Walburga wrenched the blade out of her arm. Arabella fell to her knees and began to shake, screaming and crying in agony. When she was able to speak and comprehend what was happening, she peaked towards her cut, which had now been reduced to a red scar.

“What did you do to me?” Her voice was like a screaming whisper.

“You were only expecting magic to be thrown at you. Always expect the unexpected on a battlefield.”

Arabella was seated and still in the war training room whilst Kreacher was mopping the blood off the floor.

“If you had been far off somewhere with no Healer or house elf, you would have had to heal yourself,” said Walburga. “But you do not know how to do that yet . . . I think our next lesson should be on Healing.”

“Next lesson?” retorted Arabella. “There is no next lesson!”

———

SHE WAS THROWING knives at a dummy, releasing her anger, when Arabella heard a noise which startled her and she spun and launched the knife at the doorway. 

“Are you insane?” said Regulus. He pulled the knife out of the door frame which had just barely missed head. 

“You startled me.” Arabella continued throwing knives at the dummy.

“You could have killed me!”

“What is so bad about that?” The knife hit the center of the target on the dummy’s face.

Regulus scoffed. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Another knife hit the target, and she set the knives down to grab the sword.

“There is no need for that,” informed Regulus, “there are wands.”

“I know, but it is good practice,” she replied. “In case one ever gets captured, the first thing they do is take your wand from you.” She turned to Regulus with a smile. “I wanted to practice with the swords, but I only have this medal dummy, so it is not much help. Would you like to do it with me?”

Regulus weighed his options. He assumed she could not be great at it, so he would not make a fool of himself, so he agreed. 

“Put this on.” Arabella threw a piece of metal armor, and a barbute knight helmet.

“There is no way I am putting these on.”

Arabella put hers on. “Stop being a little boy.”

When Regulus had put his on, swords clashed against swords, and swords on metal armor. They both enjoyed it until Arabella grew tired after only a few minutes of it.

“Can we stop? I am tired,” she said.

They both took their metal helmets off their sweat sodden heads, and their chest armor. Arabella sat on a bench, and called for a Kreacher to bring water as Regulus admired the bow and arrows, running the tips of his fingers softly over them. She watched him slowly aim for the dummy, pulling back the bow string with one eye closed. He looked like a Greek statue, still and captured in white stone in the middle of an aristocratic movement. His muscles flexed, his elbow and shoulder pulled back, before he released. The arrow hit hard and fast on the target on the dummy’s heart. 

Arabella was surprised by his skill. “You are good,” she observed.

“My father taught me,” he said as he gracefully shot another arrow at the target, as Arabella admired him. Regulus was so tranquil and motionless, it was odd for her to regard him this way. All her life she had seen him as someone chaotic and absurd, his animosity and pride and oversized ego had always gotten the best of him. Now his face was still and relaxed, he was serene, and his hair moved in the light breeze from the opened window.

He caught her staring and she said, “Could you teach me?”

He lifted an eyebrow.

“Please?”

He threw the bow at her and she stood up with a smile. 

“Put your feet like this,” he demonstrated. “Left foot in front . . . Make sure you are holding it here—raise your left arm, keep it straight and firm.” His fingers grazed her forearm, and she did as he instructed. “Set the arrow on top of this hand, the string is supposed to go between the feathers.” His cold fingers grazed hers. She pulled the string back. “Close your left eye. Stand up straighter. Bring your elbow up—higher.”

She released the arrow, but it landed in the grass. 

“I will tell you when to release it—here—do it again.” She took another arrow and got into position. “Keep your back straight, lift your chin, suck your stomach in a little.” He stood behind her and placed his hand under her arm, lifting it up more. “Bring the string closer to you,” he said, pulling her elbow a little. The feather of the arrow was soft against her lips, and her eyes concentrated on the tip of the arrow. He brought his face down next to hers and closed one eye. They were both so still and tranquil and close in proximity. The only movement was the soft wind on their faces and the rise and fall of Arabella’s chest. “Breathe in . . .” he whispered from behind her ear, “breathe out . . . release.”

The arrow shot the dummy on the chest. 

“It is so close to the heart. Let me do it one more time.”

Regulus watched her intently as she aimed for the target. She could feel his eyes all over her, it made her nervous. She pulled back with all her strength, to the point where her back and shoulder ached. She sucked her stomach in as she breathed in and closed an eye.

“What is this?” he asked. His fingers stroked her skin just below her shoulder, making her shiver. 

Arabella looked at the spot. It was the red scar. 

“It is nothing.”

“What is it?”

“A scar, what else would it be?” she retorted.

His eyebrows knitted. “What is it?”

“A knife.”

“Who did this to you?” he demanded, his tone low and menacing.

Arabella turned to him with a bitter expression. “Walburga.”

“My mother?” he answered. “My mother did this to you?” 

“Yes.”