Chapter 8: The Best Laid Plans

Chapter 8: The Best Laid Plans

Though little more than heavy whispers, the voice was ingrained in her thoughts even now. Recognition, however, did not release the unease in Tia. Regulus was far too close – pressed full body against her, weight solid and immovable. She was in a vice between him and the large conifer he had her backed into. His voice was compelling; it was not light in the play of their classmates, nor wary and contrived like his previous attempts at pseudo amour. It was low and strict, brooking no argument, as though he had no question she would do as told.

And she would.

And it frightened her.

This was not a Regulus she knew, nor was the situation familiar or expected in any sense. Tia could not see him; her eyes blurred with the black of his robe as her nose pressed deeply into his left shoulder. But from her thighs upward she could feel him. Solid; unyielding. He was not a weakling; her right wrist ached in his ever-tightening grip above her head. Tree bark scraped at the exposed flesh of her wand hand, her left crushed between their bodies in a vain attempt at distance. There was no reaching her wand were she even of a mind to do, and her head was light with lack of oxygen. She twisted slightly to clear her nose of his fevered hand.

He must have realised her intent, and merely slipped his grip lower to allow her breath. Grateful for air, Tia remained still, unsure the gravity of the sudden bizarre situation. Behind her in the grey mist she could make out giggly chatter as Bones dutifully protected his two damsels in distress. It would not be difficult to make enough noise in struggle for them to hear; the path was only steps away. But above fear, what kept Tia in place was a thrill of excitement she simply could not justify with reason.

Any sane girl would cause a ruckus and demand Black’s explanation and punishment for his rough-handedness. Any sane girl would case non-verbals in desperation to flee. Yet Hestia Jones longed more for exposure of a hand played out than any retribution. Infernal curiosity and interest overrode any instinct for self-preservation.

For a moment, an image flashed through her mind. A memory, born of a stormy summer day with a powerfully emotional young man breaking his carefully controlled façade in seeming solitude. He hadn’t known there was a witness to that event. Just him, his horse, and an energy beyond magic. This time, he knew she was there. Nothing could be more compelling at that moment.

Keeping close, he pulled back from her ear, the roughness of his jaw a loud scraping against her soft cheek in the eerily quiet moment. The class had bypassed them, no one the wiser, and suddenly Regulus found himself quite alone with the chit so recently the new bane of his existence. He moved to face her, just far enough away to study her expression, his own carefully composed.

At first disoriented and confused, the girl before him remained nearly limp in his hold, his hand tight against her mouth to prevent even the most unintentional of cries to give way their location. But only seconds did it take for coherency to enter her expression, and she peered at him through a sceptical hazel gaze. He was surprised – yet not – she made no attempt to fight him. Rather, she appeared… curious. With a more than slight hint at demanding annoyance, he mentally corrected. Without permission a crooked smile tugged slightly at his lips. He should have expected nothing less from her.

Recollection hit then, and Regulus’ face tightened once more in concentration. His rash decision – and he never made rash decisions – already had invoked consequences. Mother had instructed him to woo the girl, court her properly, gain her affections and loyalty. In turn, Ezra Jones would follow suit, his allegiances following the happiness of his only daughter. The Cause could use the gifted apothecary, and use him well. After Jones’ purpose was gone, Regulus could cease his nauseating game with the younger.

Fine. He would do his duty to his family, to the Dark Lord, but he’d be damned if he was going to take instruction on how to do it. No, he was not bloody fantastic Sirius, but Regulus knew himself to be quite able to construct his own efforts without handholding from Mother or anyone else. Bright, talented in his own right, he’d long been passed over for his elder brother. And yet somehow even after the scandal his brother proved himself last Christmas with his departure, Regulus remained a side thought, believed a mere shadow of the defunct Heir.

Resentment grew in him. He could prove himself once and for all, accomplish his task without anyone’s direction. Maybe then even Cousin Bella would cease her infernal baby talk. He deserved respect; he simply had to remind everyone else that fact.

Renewed with purpose, Regulus’ temper eased and he evaluated his current position. A few soothed feathers were in order. After all, he’d not meant to scare his prey with his sudden attack. Come to think of it, he’d not given much thought at all as to what he’d do once he’d gotten Jones here. They’d been walking along – her focused on their path, he watching her surreptitiously, contemplating his new battle plan. The impulse had simply hit from nowhere, and for once Regulus hadn’t thought – he just did.

Now that he’d acted on such a mad move, Regulus had to salvage his plans.

“Hallowe’en will not leave me in peace,” he finally managed in a low, strangled voice.

True, at least. That night had not strayed far from his thoughts in the fortnight since. But whereas he would insinuate to Jones the confession meant her charm had held him captive, reality was that he had missed a grand opportunity with Davies that evening. That loss had plagued him for weeks. Because of Jones and her snooping about, he’d gone to his bed unsatisfied that night, and every night thereafter. Lystra Davies hadn’t spoken to him since, and he blamed Jones. If she’d curtailed her damned curiosity and gone straight to her dorm like a good little prefect, Lystra would have not strayed from the antechamber, and Regulus would have had a much more pleasant ending to a day begun so repulsively.

Or perhaps not. Lystra’s duplicity had indeed come to light because of Jones, and even had the Ravenclaw not interfered, Lystra’s plans had been to meet up with that obnoxious Hufflepuff. Regulus grit his teeth at the admittance of being – or nearly so – cuckolded.

He turned his attention back to Jones. Schooling his features, he continued his unrehearsed speech, eyes boring into hers.

“Each night I go to my bed, close my eyes and see nothing but you… that night…” Yes. And he cursed her in the darkness each night for it as well. He closed their minute distance further, stepping just past her leg and leaning in. Head bowed, closer. He freed his hand from her mouth, catching in its stead the jut of her hip beneath the woollen cloak. Barely could he see her, he was so near, but the move served to deliver his lines with the perfect level of intense whisper. Voices carried in these dark woods.

“This face, these eyes of autumn,” he added, releasing her raised arm to lightly brush stray black tendrils across her forehead. His gaze raked blushing skin, soft features. “They haunt my dreams.” Like a plaguing sprite, he mentally qualified. But his true feelings didn’t matter; what he presented – how it was taken – did.

Jones’ eyes widened, mouth opened in surprised ‘O’ with a choked sigh. Indeed, perhaps Mother was right; he was particularly talented at this endeavour. He’d feared the sentiments too overboard on the dramatic, that a Ravenclaw would never be taken in by theatrically sweet words. It appeared she could be, however. And more importantly, was. No playwright could be more impressive. She was fantastically malleable to his words.

Gods, but he would rejoice the instant the sham was over.

It couldn’t come soon enough.

Shifting his leg just past hers, his weight fell into her heavily. A slow, methodical readjustment that brought his face ever so closer to her own. Painfully close.

Tia forgot any indignation Black’s violent arrest had brought. At this point, it was all she could manage to not hyperventilate. Every dream she’d had since summer was falling into pale shadows compared to the very real experience of Regulus Black pinning her in the misty solitude of the Forest with only his body binding her in place.

Hestia Jones was no imbecile nor weak debutante given to fits of fainting, though honestly the action called to her now. But she knew she should speak, break the alluring spell that was hazing over her like sleep. It was dreamlike; she abhorred to awaken.

“Spoken like a true master of tongues,” she managed, a dry swallow tearing at her throat. She forced a light smile, but the effort was transparent. “I should wonder what other talents you have hidden outside of fancy turns of phrase.”

Rouan’s coaching echoed inside, her best friend considerably more at ease with the male persuasion. For years she’d pushed Tia with lessons in flirting, but for the first time in recollection, Tia was desperately trying to succeed in the attempt. If there ever was a time to charm, this was her moment.

“Talents with your tongue, I should revise,” she added, bottling courage and inner feminine wiles. She licked her bottom lip nervously. Gods, Rouan would be chastising her now; everything was coming out pitiful and weak. Or so she believed.

Fleeting expression passed upon Regulus’ face, his head jerked back slightly in startlement. She couldn’t be sure, mind you, but a sudden sense of pleasure flowed through her as Tia tentatively identified his reactions to her studied comment. Off guard. Wary. Reluctantly intrigued.

Good. A round of butterbeer with Rouan’s name and Tia’s Sickles were in the immediate future, she planned. Regardless his initial agenda, Regulus Black had just been caught unawares, and Tia relished the knowledge that he’d soon not forget this encounter, nor expect so little of her in the future. The boy had a game, to be sure, and she didn’t quite know its rules, but Ezra Jones’ little girl wasn’t the sort to blindly follow someone else’s lead. Even if he did warrant a little intentional path crossing.

Intent on keeping the upper hand, Tia’s mind raced for more clever quips, another double entendre to set him further off balance. An opportunity like this was never to be seen again, and she had to make the grandest impression possible. Several blatant remarks crossed her thoughts, and she blushed fiercely at their consideration. It was difficult to remember her affected nonchalance, her bite. Unfamiliar territory left Tia quivering in nerves and excitement. And fear.

“You know,” she began, attempting allurement with a sidelong look beneath half-closed lids, “you really should consider –”

“– rejoining your classmates and teacher, as expediently as possible.”

Tia’s head whipped about to her right, just over Regulus’ shoulder. He himself released her in a start, spinning about with wand raised, fighting stance in place. She had to lean to the side to see round him, noting with great concern the drawn bows before them. Reading up on Centaurs was one thing; it was quite another to have an uncordial meet up with an armed three.

“This is no place for foals,” the centred one continued gravely, his black body massive, solid in the ever increasing mist. Not strides from them, Tia glanced cautiously at the flanking two, their faces set in grim focus, their recurves disturbingly taut, their quivers full. “Your presence is tolerated only for your age and obvious ignorance. Leave now, and no harm shall come to you.”

“… this time,” the bay on the right threatened. “Leave not, and it shall be taken as an act of aggression.”

“Enough, Bedwyr,” the leader reclaimed. “Dumbledore knows our laws well; it is apparent,” exacting look at them, slight disparaging scowl, “his charges are less inclined to adhere. Nevertheless, we shall be generous and allow them passage away. If they depart now.”

“And if not?” Regulus taunted, his arrogance rising in true Black fashion. Tia nudged him hard with her thumb along his spine. He took no notice.

This time it was not Bedwyr who expressed retribution. The dark grey on the left stepped forward a pace, the subtle tttttuh of a full draw echoing in menace. “Then your actions will be assumed those of grown wizardkind, and your lawlessness will be punished as deemed fit.”

“Then I would dare you –” Regulus’ words cut abruptly as Tia’s palm found his firm mouth, clamping hard. It was her turn to silence him before he brought them grief they could not escape. Even Dumbledore respected the rule of the Centaurs within the Forest.

“Yes, sir,” she answered at once over her classmate’s muted protests against her hand. She had to lean to the left now, Regulus’ body still primed before her as though her guard. Her right – wandless – wrapped quickly about his torso, preventing his jostling to relieve her hand. His own free hand had flung back to her waist, holding her in place. What a sight they must have made.

“If you would but point us in the right direction of the path, we’ll return to the grounds. Sorry, but we’d gone a bit lost when we stepped off the way.” Tia knew their trespass a grave transgression, with all the magical world in temper and extreme caution in wake of the Dark Lord. These times did not bring leniency from those who blamed all wizards and witches for the war destroying their world.

Though visibly peaked in agitation, Tia was thankful Regulus fought no more and threw no spells. Perhaps beneath his quick temper there was a rational mind at work. For both their sakes, she hoped such.

“Five paces, directly behind you,” the leader advised curtly. If possible, his face became even more menacing. “Now, before our good humour has expired.”

Needing no further suggestion, Tia released Regulus only to grab hold of his wand hand, turn and flee the few steps to the path, Slytherin in tow. In fact, she did not slow down as she swerved to the right to follow the veiled passage back to the grounds, stumbling over hidden roots and jagged rocks and clinging foliage and trapping vines. Vice grip upon his wrist, she did not look back, did not question as to his well-being or, much less, his opinion on the matter. Obviously his self preservation instincts were on holiday.

He wasn’t sure quite why he was letting the girl before him drag him along like piecemeal bait, but Regulus followed dutifully, pondering instead the Incident they’d left behind. He was no fool, but damned if he’d buggered himself by forgetting himself, forgetting the chance he’d been taking with his rash behaviour. Now everything had gone that much more complicated.

The Centaurs’ arrival – that may have been his saving grace. Granted, their presence was a nuisance best ignored when possible, their half-breed state a blight on the magical world. But their unearned airs had managed to salvage the plan, breaking the moment – the Incident – and clearing his head.

A good strategist knew that to play a game meant to consider all aspects, even those of instinct. A clever strategist even used those instincts to further his mission. A talented strategist, however, did not allow their interference. Ever. And yet, precisely that had crept into his scenario without permission. All was well, according to intent, and then the chit actually propositioned him! Well, not in so many words, but words enough.

A thorn in his side she might be, and he held nothing but contempt for her and her Muggle-loving ways, but Merlin he was only mortal and no priest! Held in check, his body merely acted as a device to continue the charade, to mesmerise the girl and ultimately gain her affections. His duty, after all, lay primarily in that sphere of influence. But then she’d gone and said that about his tongue – by all that was magical, did she understand just what she was up to? – and ran her own in invitation across a lip promising too much sweetness.

It was then control fled, and male instinct blinded him to his cause. He did not like her, but in that moment he wanted to taste her. And he despised her for that. Exposing a weakness in him that could spell downfall in his life, she climbed immeasurably high on his list of enemies. Only the Centaurs’ interruption had slapped him back into his mind, and for that alone he was grateful. It was disconcerting, however, that his initial move even then was to protect Jones.

He chose not to think on that.

By the time they’d cleared the trees, he was drenched with the heavy vapour clinging to the very air. Jones stopped once to the barn, releasing him to grasp her knees in an effort for breath. It gave him moments to collect himself.

“The very hounds of hell were not upon our heels, Jones,” he commented dryly, perhaps more harsh than necessary. After all, he was attempting to gain her favour.

Wasn’t he?

“We hardly needed to plunge headlong into the abyss over a few ignorant horses.”

She whipped about, just as he’d expected, challenge in her eyes. But her words surprised him.

“Do you ever give consideration to your actions, or are you honestly that blindly courageous?”

Courageous? Did she confuse him with his bloody brother? He’d not feared the Centaurs, if that was what she was on about. But before he could clarify her view, her next remark struck, well too close to his condemning musings of earlier.

“I don’t know whether to kick you for nearly getting us killed, or kiss you for your defence of me.”

Her face paled as the words left her mouth, followed by a blush, wide eyes, and a flashing turn and pace. Read correctly, he’d say he wasn’t the only one unsettled by that proclamation.

“Oy! Reggie!” Oh, fuck. Not this, too! Damn, his day was drowning in a cesspool.

Regulus turned warily, disgruntled, toward the approaching pack. Fist tight about his wand, he suppressed the extreme desire to throw hexes en masse, concentrating on the first two of the quartet.

“What the fuck do you want, Sirius?” he growled. He was aware Jones had stopped her embarrassed pacing and was staring open mouthed at the group. Lovely.

“Now, now, Reggie,” Sirius answered, coming to a stop mere yards away. “Is that any way to treat your dear elder brother?”

As always, he stood straight and commanding, heedless of any opposition. Potter was a step away, tossing a damn snitch about lazily and fingering his wand with amusement. Regulus was no first-year, and he’d not ignore the mousy boy to the back, nor the hesitant prefect on Sirius’ other side. Already today he’d made a tactical error; he wasn’t about to do so again.

“I’ve not a brother any longer, haven’t you heard,” Regulus replied, eyes darting betwixt the seventh-years. Pettigrew seemed cheered by the confrontation, eager to play. Just like a Gryffindor: bravery when the odds are in their favour. “Didn’t you get the condolence owl? Oh, perhaps not. Kreacher was too busy cleaning the stench of smouldering tapestry.”

To his credit, Sirius didn’t take the bait.

Damn. Regulus needed a fight.

Instead, he made matters worse. A duel would have been preferable.

“Fancy meeting you both here,” he went on, drawing Jones into the conversation. A queasy sensation mottled his stomach. This could bring no good.

“Skiving off class, Reggie? I’d be right proud, I’d have to say,” he went on, now walking idly before them, catching Jones’ eyes and offering some knowing smirk and silent question with his brow. She seemed to understand, her answering expression a bit defiant. What the hell was going on with those two?

“We got separated from our class in the Forest,” she answered before Regulus could snap. “We’re waiting for their return.” Pettigrew noticed her for the first time then, and his temperament turned to one of shamed regret, casting apologetic eyes to her. Regulus had known there was some relation there, as well. But Jones had denied her association with this group.

“How curious, Ms… Jones, was it?” he inquired, tossing a glance to Potter, whose snitch had been pocketed, the older boy now casually walking toward Lupin. An effort to flank him.

“Ah, Sirius,” Potter quipped, a sly grin growing. Regulus backed up a few steps, eager to keep both boys in his sight at once. “Can’t you see the bloke’s just needling some solitary time with his bird? Aren’t you, dear Regulus?”

“James, please, let’s just go.” Lupin. “Hestia has enough to be going on with without our crass disturbances.” He smiled shyly at the girl in question, who in turn smiled warmly back. Prickles of irritation darted down Regulus’ back.

“Yes,” Regulus cut in to Lupin. What was it and the blasted courtesy they showed Jones?

His gaze jumped back to Sirius. “Hang about more if you’d like a detention for your own failure to show to class. You’re safe from worse fates with two prefects about, I’d imagine.”

“Sorry, Reggie,” his brother answered, cutting another appraising look to Jones. “Early dismissal on account of toxic error on Snivellus’ part.” Potter guffawed, Pettigrew snickered, Sirius barked a laugh. Only Lupin seemed uncomfortable, but even so a smile he was fighting as he ducked his head, studying the browning turf.

“But enough about us,” he said slyly, sidling over to Jones directly. “So you’ve taken the plunge and gone after said damsel, eh, Reggie?” He said this to Regulus, but his gaze remained fixated on Jones. Once more silent communication of a privy nature passed between them, egging Regulus’ thirst for violence.

Sirius flicked at some imaginary figment of clutter on her robe, just above one of those full breasts he’d been too aware of minutes ago. He seethed.

“My personal intentions are of no concern to you, Blood Traitor.”

“Ooh, touchy,” he replied, mock surprise on his handsome face. He turned back to Jones. “Shall be mighty fascinating to watch this play out, after all.” Quieter, thoughtful. A sombre tone narrowed his eyes as he stared at her, daring her to contradict him. Strangely, Jones merely met his stare, jaw tight, and said nothing.

“Just think, Sirius,” Potter chimed in with humour. Regulus had nearly forgotten him again in the bizarre speech from his brother. Another step back to bring him into view. “You could be a loving uncle in another year. At least with this one, there might be hope for the sprogs. Jones is as much a blood traitor as the rest of us.”

“Oh, that’s right, ” Sirius bantered, a gleam forming in his grey eyes. This was what the unease had precluded, Regulus knew. “What I’d give to be a beetle on the wall for the introductions to the family.” Stage horror and an exaggerated step away, staring at Jones with an ‘O’ to his lips, fingers held in propriety against gossip to that bedevilling mouth.

“He’s not yet properly acquainted you with the Black clan, has he? No? Oh, Reggie-boy,” he went on, patronising, and the dread increased. Sirius was about to ruin him. He didn’t know how, but the threat was tangible. “Then you’d best get on with it. Mother will be so delighted to welcome her to the family. And the best opportunity is, of course, the Black Christmas brunch, not a month away. All the blackest of the Blacks will be there.”

Here he paused dramatically, taking in the entranced witnesses for whom he acted. Then his eyes settled on Regulus, narrow, accusing, daring.

“Unless, of course, you’re too ashamed of her.”