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Chapter 3

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What the hell is she supposed to do about the pureblood in her bed?

Poppy manages to half-run a hand through her hair before freezing.

Holy fuck, she's picked up the bloody Potter hair ruffle. God damn it, she's not even the one that's going to marry him.

Forcibly dragging the hand back down her face, Poppy plucks up her wand once again, ignoring the screaming, burning pain that is Regulus' own blistering the skin of her right wrist. She has no idea what kind of spells he's put on the damn thing, but she wants to know so she can damn well copy it.

Observing the richly coloured wood again, Poppy draws her sleeve back down over it, approaching her desk with a begrudging determination.

The locket Horcrux is now safely out of Voldemort's reach; the house elf had been able to hide it away from the snake-faced bastard in the books and there's no way her presence could have influenced things enough that such a statement would become untrue now.

Bellatrix is a confirmed member of the Death Eaters and that she'd listened to Potter rant one too many times over 'the white-haired, masked bastard', she can assume Malfoy is among the ranks too. That's two more Horcruxes to take into account, along with the one she knows for certain is resting in Hogwarts itself.

She knows how to sneak in and out of the grounds now, will be able to do so as an adult once she's got this Animagus thing down (as long as the form is subtle, that is) so it doesn't matter if she leaves her collected Horcruxes in the Room of Requirement. Some place designed only to admit one of her blood with a password of random words; it's the safest thing she can conceive at this moment in time.

Despite all these protections, anonymity remains her greatest defence. Voldemort does not know she hunts his Horcruxes, does not know his greatest secret is known.

The only loose thread in this, is Regulus.

The Life Debt should take care of it, but Poppy hasn't made it this far by taking risks like 'should'.

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The hours pass far too quickly.

Poppy knows she's not massively magically powerful. She's not instinctively gifted with the revered power of their kind.

But she is a hard worker. She is determined, and she is imaginative.

Sometimes, that's enough to overcome the most gifted of people.

Faced with the impossibility of Gringotts though, she's still drawing up a blank and there's no one to turn to for help.

Lily and Potter have enough on their plate and while she loves her sister, Poppy isn't stupid.

Lily would tell Dumbledore, and then Dumbledore would want to know what else she knows. He'd drain her dry of foreknowledge and ruin it all because he won't go all in.

She's got issues with Dumbledore; he's losing the war because he's not fighting. Not really. She understands that some of the opposing side are acting against their will, but the majority are not. War does not occur without casualties and the Headmaster's ideals are costing more than they should.

Or maybe that's just the bitter cynic talking.

Scoffing, Poppy grapples with the long strands of her hair, twisting it back into a quick ponytail that's undoubtedly squiffed. Glass clinks as she downs two potions in quick succession, the dawning sunlight streaming in from between the cracks in the curtains and catching at the empty vials she deposits on her desk.

"So that's how you do it then."

The sleep-rough voice is distinctively male, unquestionably in her room and Poppy swings around with wand levelled towards the origin.

Her head's still swimming, brain recalibrating to the substances she's just necked; as such, it takes her a moment longer than it should to remember the intruder isn't much of an intruder at all. That she had in fact brought this one in.

It's only Regulus, Regulus who doesn't have a wand and doesn't know how to fight like a muggle. Right.

"Do what," Poppy parrots, exhaustion felling any other emotions. Wideye with Invigoration Draught chaser may eliminate the need for sleep, but it's far from a restful solution. Even if perpetual tiredness were a desired state of mind, the nasty side-effects that come into play when the combination is ingested continuously over a few days would stop any sensible wizard from abandoning sleep altogether.

"There's too many hours in the day to lose and I've got shit to get done." She can average forty-eight to seventy-two hours of wakefulness now before she crashes, and even she's capable of acknowledging when she's pushed too far.

As the pounding behind her head finally subsides, Poppy lowers her wand but refuses to sheath it, instead focusing on her guest.

Loose curls mused into a halo around his head, there's something almost angelic about the freshly awakened Regulus.

It's not a sight she's ever been treated to before; their meetings occurred in untraversed corridors, classrooms not visited in centuries.

There'd been no cotton sheets, only stone walls to her back, wooden edges cutting into the underside of her thighs.

No half-hooded eyes, no lips dried with sleep. Just rampant paranoia and a potent sense of escapism.

It feels like an invasion, seeing Regulus like this; he seems more vulnerable now than when she'd carted his unresponsive, half-there self away from that damn cave.

There's a delicacy to him here, one he's never let her see before and probably never would have if given the choice.

In contrast, she sits with dark crescents beneath her eyes, skin no doubt paler than normal and posture nowhere near the proud exemplar she usually showcases.

"Those are addictive substances."

He says it as if she isn't aware, as if it's a common fact that she as an outsider has no business knowing.

Poppy hates him all the more for it.

"Of course, to keep up with us you have to lower yourselves to such things."

Poppy's imagining the slight twinge of disappointment, she knows she is. Because there's nothing other than validation in Regulus' words, proof that her kind, that muggleborns can't handle the wizarding world without help. His world-wide view just seems so incredibly limited to her.

"Yes, imagine using all the resources available to you in order to get ahead of the people out to hurt and kill you simply because you were born. How could I? Oh, I'm such a bad little mudblood, I should have just rolled over and accepted my place, right? Let the first proper pureblood slit my throat the second I tilted my chin up, right?"

The words snap free from her mouth before she can even think about stopping them, but it's not a point Poppy would ever try to hide.

The satire tastes heavy in her mouth, thick like out-dated yogurt on her tongue.

Then again, the truth is a difficult thing to swallow, even if the bitter taste is masked with sarcasm.

"Would you like to take a shot?" Poppy snipes, tilting her head back and looking down at Regulus through the light dusting of black lashes that frame her lower lids.

It goes unspoken between them that she has his wand, that because of her, he wouldn't be able to take the chance she mockingly offers.

The lour of his face is proof enough.

Point made, Poppy turns away from the displaced pureblood, tired eyes returning to her notes.

Maybe she should put Gringotts on the back-burner and figure out what to do with the lout currently occupying her bed.

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She's insufferable.

From the explicitly tired hunch of her shoulders to the long, pale column of her neck, he honestly cannot stand the sight of Poppy Evans right now.

It's not the pleasant exhaustion she'd once looked down upon him with, back when her thighs had been warming his ears and he'd proven why no mudblood would ever be as good as a pureblood, back when he'd ruined her for them.

Fallout aside, Regulus knows she's not turned to another to try and fill the place he had once occupied in her life.

He's watched her as surely as she as watched him; quick snippet glances stolen from the corner of eyes, flashes of images caught in the reflective windows and the polished armours of Hogwarts.

There's something sacrilegiously Slytherin about the secret he's just uncovered.

He highly doubts Evans senior knows just what her little sister is doing, that she's getting by on potions in order to stay at the top of her game.

From the familiar way in which she'd effortlessly downed the two foul tasting potions, she's been on them for a while too. Evans is efficient, almost to the point that he can consider it alarming.

Hard work indeed.

The bedsheets smell of her, of Evans and synthetic muggle product that is perhaps supposed to act as a freshener charm.

It's a surprise he's not broken out into hives yet.

Pulling the sleeves of his shirt as far down his arms as possible, Regulus sits himself up, eyes still locked onto Evans' stooping form.

Even as she'd walked away from him on shaking legs, she'd always done so proudly, head held unashamedly high.

It's making him itch to see anything less of her now and Regulus is horrified to realise he's actually come to expect things of Evans. That he holds her, a mudblood, to standards. Standards at least half his fellow Slytherins fail to achieve. Something that is to be corrected as soon as possible.

He doesn't appreciate the shattering Poppy Evans' image, the one that he's built up in his mind over the years.

She was to remain a flat character, nothing more than a quick distraction, a dirty little secret.

She wasn't supposed to have different faces. Even if she did, his world wasn't supposed to flip until he was exposed to a different side of her.

Still, a flat sheet of parchment can have two sides. His life doesn't need twisting anymore, he doesn't want to risk another dimension appearing.

Two is already two too much.

"I need to get you out of my life."

The quiet admission comes from Evans' mouth, Regulus watches the lips form each successive word.

On that they can both agree.

"Hand over my wand and my presence will be swiftly removed from your life."

Even as he says it, he knows such a thing won't happen.

He's in Evans' bedroom, presumably Evans' childhood home, which means somewhere in the vicinity are the muggle parents that spawned Evans. Muggles.

Regulus sneers.

She's holding his wand hostage because of that, because of those two she called parents but whom are no better than cattle. Perhaps even worse; cattle at least have their uses.

What use does he have for a muggle?

"You, armed in my muggle home? I don't think so."

Her eyes snap to his left forearm and Regulus bristles with the implications.

She knows he's a Death Eater, somehow, she knows.

Inexplicable shame creeps over the back of his neck and the shirt he's in suddenly feels all too tight.

By Death Eater standards, by the standards of the most extreme blood-supremacist, she's a waste of oxygen, someone better off dead. The inking on his arm visual proof of those ideals. Of the Dark Lord's ideals.

A Dark Lord who has torn his soul apart; that is not something Regulus could ever stand by. Not that there had been much of that in his short experience.

He'd always been on his knees, the first time in his life he'd ever been in such a position.

Even with Evans; she'd always been hiked up on a desk, hips angled up as he'd leaned down into her.

The Death Eaters are far from what he expected and he no longer wants any part of it.

However, his distaste for the Dark Lord has done nothing to change his opinions upon mudbloods. Still-

"I'm not petty enough to curse the filth you term parents," Regulus drawls, patting down the lazy curls of his hair, smoothing out the tangles as best he can without a wand and a mirror.

He wouldn't curse Evans' family, not in this instance. Not when she's the reason he still draws breath. She'd already made her demands in regard to the Life Debt; it's sensible of her not to take any chances when it comes to his barely-there good-will.

"I'll apparate us out tonight, somewhere quiet, and then you can get on with your life."

"Tonight?!" Regulus hisses, affront.

"I've got homework to get on with."

"So, have I!"

Essays he hadn't touched, under the impression he wouldn't survive to the end of winter break.

Then again, it's not as if he can return to Hogwarts; Hogwarts means exposing he's alive, means expectations, such as showing up for the next Death Eater meeting. Of presenting himself to the Dark Lord and eventually having his mind read.

Regulus might have been willing to die for his self-appointed mission, but he isn't suicidal, especially now that the Horcrux is secure with Kreacher.

He needs to withdraw from society, fake his own death, needs to take carefully calculated steps in order to survive now.

Oblivious to his internal dilemma, Evans smiles, the gesture brittle.

"Well my world doesn't revolve around you, Black."


I'm gonna keep going while I've still got steam. (I'm having such great fun writing Poppy and Regulus, I really am) I hope you guys are enjoying this; we'll be hitting up why this story is M rated soon enough, by the way.

The new header image is down to the lovely 'Crispypenguinanchor' over on tumblr, who draws me far too much fanart (let's make a deal, you never stop drawing and I'll never stop writing? Even if you stop drawing me fanart, just keep drawine Hp & OP stuff and I'll never stop liking your stuff)

Thanks for reading,

Tsume
xxx