Chapter 290: Ran His Mouth, Deserved It [bonus] |
In Orion's judgment, the conversation ahead wasn't meant for Sirius's ears.
Not a matter of trust. Simply unnecessary.
What he needed to discuss with Regulus was the Bella situation. Why he'd sheltered those two half-bloods. Why he'd replied to her in that provocative manner.
Every one of those actions pointed to the same question: why Regulus had chosen this particular moment, in this particular way, to deliberately provoke a conflict with Bella.
His conduct at school seemed far bolder than before. Openly protecting half-bloods, seating them at the heart of the Slytherin table, responding to Bella's warning the way he had.
Each move looked like a conscious effort to stoke the fire. That wasn't Regulus's usual style.
But Orion knew this son. Regulus didn't act without reason.
On any other second-year pure-blood, those moves would be begging for trouble. On Regulus, Orion assumed there was logic behind every one.
Regulus's power had reached a level most adult wizards couldn't touch, yet power was the thing that had changed him least.
Regulus hadn't.
He remained calm, remained measured, moved step by step. Never leapt. Never lost himself.
Orion had even considered that if the day came when Regulus stood at the same height as Dumbledore or Voldemort, he would probably look exactly the same as he did right now.
Because that was who he was at his core. Composure and restraint weren't habits. They were the foundation.
So whatever he'd done, there would be reasons, objectives, a plan.
Those reasons and objectives were what tonight's study conversation was really about.
But Sirius shouldn't be here for it.
The words at dinner, fed to Walburga about having a proper talk with Cousin Bella and clearing the air, Orion hadn't believed a syllable.
A proper talk?
If Regulus had intended to talk properly, he wouldn't have done any of those things in the first place.
So from start to finish, Orion hadn't planned to include Sirius.
Yet Regulus had brought him. Why?
Something to do with the change in Sirius?
Something that had happened between the two brothers at school?
Orion watched Regulus and waited for an explanation.
Regulus met his gaze, voice level: "He knows about the Dark Awakening."
One of Orion's eyebrows rose, then settled back into the same still expression.
Regulus went on: "At Hogwarts, we talked. He knows who Bella was representing, knows the situation at the time, knows why I accepted."
He didn't specify what they'd discussed. He told Orion only that Sirius knew.
Orion's gaze shifted to Sirius.
Sirius sat tilted back in his chair, one hand on the armrest, fingertips tracing the edge back and forth, eyes fixed on the spine of some book on the nearest shelf, his expression slightly uncomfortable.
He had thought about it. A great deal, in fact. The entire holiday.
He tugged at his cuff and mumbled, "Figured it out on my own."
The words came out low, carrying a note of defiance and a note of pride, a tone that said you might be right, but nobody taught me.
And it was true. He had figured it out himself.
All Regulus had said was that there'd been no choice. The rest, every piece, he'd worked through on his own.
But hearing someone state in front of him that he knew, that he understood, made his skin prickle, like having a layer peeled back for everyone to see.
Regulus didn't respond.
Neither did Orion.
The study went quiet. Green flames in the fireplace leapt twice.
Orion studied Sirius. The awkwardness he was trying to mask with indifference. The fidgeting with his cuff.
Regulus had actually told him about it.
That day in the dining room at Grimmauld Place, when Bella had presented the bone box on Voldemort's behalf, Regulus had only one path available.
Refuse, and it became a matter between the House of Black and Voldemort.
Accept, and the gesture was complete: shift Voldemort's attention away from the family's political stance and onto the potential of the Black heir.
And now his eldest son knew what Regulus had faced. The weight of Voldemort's gaze pressing down, the family's position boxing him in, no room to say no.
He knew what his brother had confronted. Knew there'd been no alternative. Knew that some things couldn't be measured in right and wrong.
He'd learned all of that, and then he'd started to change.
Grown up. On this one point, at least, grown up.
But Orion also understood clearly: this was the limit.
Sirius grasped Regulus's predicament, understood his brother's lack of options, was even trying in his own way to close the distance between them.
What he understood was Regulus. Not the House of Black.
He still rejected the pure-blood ideology, rejected everything Voldemort stood for, rejected the way this family operated.
He would never become a proper pure-blood heir, never stand at a banquet making effortless small talk with a glass in his hand, never put the family's interests ahead of his own.
All he'd learned was one thing: his brother, inside a world he despised, had been forced into a choice he despised, and that choice had been the right one.
That was enough.
No need to ask him to accept more. No possibility of it, either.
Orion withdrew his gaze and nodded once, saying nothing.
Regulus waited a moment, then continued: "So he can stay and hear some of it."
Another nod from Orion. Permission granted.
Regulus spoke again, same even tone: "After the banquet ends, I'd like to keep a few people behind. Ideally everyone from the Black family, including Cousin Narcissa. A face-to-face talk with Bella."
He didn't say what the talk would be about, but Sirius heard it plain as day: he was going after Bella.
Sirius snapped upright, eyes bright, voice pitching upward: "You're going to fight Bella?"
Regulus glanced at him. "I said talk."
"Talk?" Sirius's lip curled, disbelief written across his face. "What could you possibly have to talk about with Bella?"
Regulus didn't look at him again. Calm as ever, he offered one line: "Worry about your own part."
Sirius refused to let it go. He leaned forward, the corner of his mouth lifting with barely contained excitement. "I could..."
"You couldn't." Regulus cut him off.
Sirius's mouth stayed open, the rest of the sentence jammed in his throat, brows furrowing, the discomfort deepening.
His voice climbed a notch. "You don't even know what I was going to..."
Regulus turned his head and looked at him, expression unchanged. "You can't even beat Kreacher."
Sirius's face froze.
Then he laughed. A short, sharp exhale through his nose, mouth stretching ear to ear, every line of his face broadcasting you can't be serious.
"Kreacher?" He looked at Regulus, voice dripping with scorn. "The house-elf who spends all day on his knees scrubbing floors?"
Regulus didn't laugh.
The grin was still plastered on Sirius's face.
He searched Regulus's expression. Nothing there. No trace of a joke. No mockery. Nothing at all.
He shot a glance at Orion. Orion was looking down at the desk. Not at him.
The smile faded from Sirius's face, piece by piece.
His jaw stayed set, chin jutting forward: "You mean Kreacher? That Kreacher?"
Regulus didn't answer. He turned his head. "Kreacher."
Kreacher squeezed out of the air in the corner of the study and stood beside the desk, hands at his sides.
His tea towel was spotless, corners pressed flat. Large ears fanned out on either side.
He bent toward Regulus, nose nearly touching his own knees: "Young Master called for Kreacher."
Then he noticed Orion behind the desk and Sirius in the adjacent chair, and bowed to each in turn: "Master. Eldest Young Master."
Regulus raised a hand and pointed at Sirius. "Disarm him."
Kreacher's large eyes blinked twice. His body went briefly rigid.
His gaze traveled from Regulus's face to Sirius's, then across to Orion's.
The Eldest Young Master was also a master.
But the Young Master was giving the order.
Orion lifted his eyes, said nothing, and nodded once.
Kreacher turned back to Sirius, raised his right hand, and snapped his dry, bony fingers.
Crack.
Crisp and light, like snapping a dead twig.
Sirius's wand flew from the inner pocket of his robes.
He hadn't even processed it. His hand was still resting on his knee when the wand left his control, spinning half a turn in midair before drifting down to land on the desk in front of Orion.
Only then did Sirius reach for his pocket. Empty.
His hand lingered inside the inner pocket as he stared at the wand on the desk.
His wand.
He usually kept it in that pocket, snug against his ribs. The spot was hollow now.
He looked at Kreacher.
Kreacher stood with hands at his sides, posture respectful, gaze lowered, fingertips still poised in the shape of the snap.
Three words wrote themselves across Sirius's face: What the hell.
This thing had just disarmed him?
Sirius whipped back around to glare at Regulus. "You told it to..."
He didn't finish.
Regulus's right index finger was already pointing.
A flash of grey light shot from the fingertip and struck Sirius square in the chest.
Petrificus Totalus.
The words died in his throat. His body locked.
Then a second spell.
Regulus flicked his finger once more. A silencing charm.
The world went quiet.
Sirius froze mid-rise, locked in place on the chair.
Mouth open, half a word still hanging on his tongue. Eyes wide. One hand pointing at Regulus, the posture rigid and absurd, like a statue.
He could see.
Regulus sat beside him, lowering his hand, expression unchanged.
Orion sat behind the desk, gaze passing over him briefly before pulling away.
The world had become a silent film, every sound stripped clean.
Sirius tried to move. Couldn't.
Tried to blink. Couldn't.
Tried to turn his head. Couldn't.
His arm hung suspended in midair, the pose absurdly awkward, but petrified muscles didn't cramp no matter how long they held.
Regulus looked at him. His lips moved, forming three syllables.
Sirius couldn't hear them.
'Serves you right.'
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