Chapter 10: Ambushed

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Chapter 10: Ambushed

Shadows danced against foreboding stone walls, the cauldron's fire a weak offence against the chilled night amid the dark castle dungeons. Regulus Black stared unseeingly into his mixture, a brew of some nature as to diminish warts... or lure crimson-eyed beetles to feast upon your flesh. Something like that.

Half-ten at least, and they'd been working less than an hour. Traverse was restlessly tossing through an aged copy of Witch Weekly, bored in his role as tutor. Regulus was as well, but had the propriety not to display his annoyance publicly. Besides, he had much more on his mind than improving his Potions marks.

Hestia Jones was an odd creature, and one he'd found himself mulling over more than a few times in the last month. Since he'd bestowed her with his escort offer, she'd kept her distance. Oh, she was pleasant enough, speaking with even a genuine – if distracted – smile when he would enquire as to her acceptance to said offer. And he would enquire, yes. Regulus was not familiar with having to repeat himself to would-be suits. Not that he honestly wished to court the girl, but appearances had to be kept, the illusion nurtured. Yet Jones was not playing well at all. Coy, manipulative he would believe from most anyone but her. She seriously reacted as if preoccupied, holding him lesser in the list of priorities. Though she was quite the annoyance, he had to admit – if only to himself – she was far from the socialites to whom he was accustomed. She did not mingle in the circles he did do; she impressed upon him neither inclination nor desire to climb the marriage ladder, join rank amongst the privileged.

Yet here he was, giving the girl far too much consideration. Matters were not going as to plan. Why hadn't she answered him? They were a week to holiday break. Surely permission from Ezra Jones was forthcoming, granted already if only in principle, even. But Jones said her father was away on business, traipsing to some niche in a desolate mountain range, a bespoken order pressing, and had yet to answer her owl. Still...

Were he actually interested in her – a real attraction rather than means to a purpose – he would have ceased bothering. No girl was worth the effort. Nor headache.

Regulus could feel the pull of tension through his back, neck, head. As if he did not have enough with which to contend. Mother had expressed increasing agitation at his slow improvement in Potions; Father had Flooed last Friday merely to remind Regulus his duty to charm the ladies Mab Harper and Dina Winterwell in the coming social events. Rather, sway their approval so that he may later lay claim to one's daughter. Father always did have his priorities straight.

"For the thousandth time, Black, you've got to mind your brew." Traverse had bounded up from his leisured pose, stumbling to the cauldron in a frantic move. Bodily checking Regulus, Traverse positioned in to counteract the menacing, glowing bubbling now threatening the gloom. The Ravenclaw tossed in handfuls of several powders, roots and a strange liquid Regulus had not before noticed, stirring hurriedly clockwise whilst mumbling beneath his breath. He was worried, but irritated as well. So be it; Regulus had not asked for this scheme in the first place.

"Sorry." Tone flat, reactive only. Regulus really could not have cared less, but grooming took over, even with nerve grating Robyn Traverse. Scenarios crowded his mind, leaving little room for boiling pots and foul goos.

"I've a pressing engagement," he went on, snagging up his rucksack and turning toward the door. Barely did he get the words out before the heavy oaken door was swinging back behind him, his long strides brisk down the echoing blackness.

-o-

He was driving her mad.

Like a princess dream Regulus had routinely been following up, asking again in that cultivated husky tone of his if her father had given consent for her to accompany him all holiday break. Were Tia the gullible, simpleminded type, she'd accept the attention as romantic intention, as face value overtures of affection. But Tia was – though a hopeless romantic – a realist. No obvious reason had surfaced as to his goal. Regulus wanted her to be with him this break, but to what purpose she had not quite figured. An underlying sense warned her he was using her. But how? And... why?

Regardless this sense, regardless this cynicism, Tia's heart desperately longed to pretend, just as she'd told Remus Lupin. She wanted so badly to give in and live in a world where the boy whose affections she'd craved these past five years pursued her because he felt the same. Mind versus heart; which was stronger?

Which was right?

Ezra Jones had just this evening replied to her owl; he was ecstatic his nearly-grown daughter had been invited by a prominent family heir to spend the holidays outside of the snub of Tia's mother's relations. Or even the fortnight of private time between father and daughter. It was no secret that her dad longed for Tia to be a bit more feminine, to date and desire a happy marriage and family. Ezra and Helena Jones had been most happy; he only wished the same for Tia.

But though Tia touted only intents and goals of career and studies, she did long for love. Memories were old and faded, but Tia did recall the laughter and fondness between her parents, and wanted more than anything that same love for herself. She just could not admit it – not to her father, her friends... even Rouan. Barely herself. It was too disheartening when one wasn't legendary like Marlene's legs or Maura's smile. That didn't, however, mean that only proving herself equal to a wizard was important to her. Just as needful, Tia envisioned a certain wizard there beside her, comforting in her failures, pleasuring in her successes.

That wizard just happened to be a handsome, brooding young heir to a wealthy, powerful family of seemingly psychotic purebloods.

"Gods, Tia, you're absolutely pathetic." Matter-of-fact, clinical observation. Tia took another swig of the opaque bottle before her crossed legs, continuing to berate herself as she stared balefully at a collage of leather, cloth and wooden spines. They towered high above her floor seat, the antique bookcases drifting into shadow, out of her single candle's poor flickering reach.

"Mooning over a bloke so bloody oblivious to you he'd have to stumble arse over tea kettle to see you standing there is not healthy. Nor sane." Another toss, fiery soothing coating her throat, chest, belly. A clearer picture was presenting itself as to the pleasures of proper drink. Marlene was right – it really was a preferable solution to unfathomable boys. Already the biting heat blended stark lines of proper and safe with reckless, emotion, wild. It was sort of like meshing walking dream state with the stress release of a good gallop through the Highlands. Confiscating this bottle from Gemma Kinsington had been a joyful relief in disguise.

Noises resembling shuffled steps and cautious placements picked sharply at Tia's head. Someone, it seemed, was about the library, out of bounds for this hour. Never mind that Tia was, as well; as a prefect, she had plenty excuse to be out and about, having just finished her rounds. It was the holing up amongst musty texts of fuzzy potionatic intent that might call into question her allowances.

A closer creak of carefully shifted weight drove Tia to a straightened pose, alert now to intrusion most inopportune.

Peeves was off to the Muggle Studies classroom. She'd overheard the observation earlier when she'd first slipped into the library, a familiar voice stating that fact echoing in whispers against the chilled stone. Remus was not on prefecture duty this evening, and the answering commentary held only one other qualified voice, though the Head Boy was not scheduled tonight, either. Peter Pettigrew's tone was jovial but anxious; Sirius Black's response a barking laugh only.

But calling them out for curfew and boundary breaking would have been most uncouth... considering her own desire for a bit of unacceptable escape for the night. So she'd let them pass, stowing away the curious details of how four Seventh-Years could slip about unnoticed. She had greater, more pressing needs at that moment, thank you.

That had been hours before, however. In theory, Peeves could have finished his tasks already and gone about seeking rule-breakers, but Tia doubted it. Even hazy, she had clarity to eliminate folly. Peeves made grand, smashing entrances, not clumsy attempts at stealth.

Stumbling to her feet, Tia steadied herself, palms to table and shelving. Fearing her wandwork would go awry in current state, she bent to snuff the candle betwixt dry – now burnt! – fingers, nearly toppling over out of balance.

A giggle inadvertently escaped. "Shush, now. No need to tell everyone you're here." Choked snort, fingers slapped to a quickly closed mouth. Ooops.

Perhaps word had been correct in the dangers of partaking, she considered as she righted herself methodically, a quick grab for the bottle off-shooting her equilibrium. Gravity was not her friend this evening. Particularly not in the recently reclaimed darkness.

Skreeeeeeek.

Tia froze. Balance regained, she paused breaths to listen. Concentration upon the sound did not differentiate it between innocent settlings of a castle and possible harm. In her attempt to flee the mental minefield that was Regulus Black, Tia had ceased to recall the fact a war was going on, that there were reasons why – even in the safety of Hogwarts – one did not trust in the honesty of all people. Families of those attending the school were rumoured as affiliates of Lord What's-His-Name, and just as easily could one such affiliate's protégé flick a nasty curse upon her in this isolation. No one knew she was here; no one would miss her until morning.

With care she stepped toward escape. It would be best for her not to be cornered, no matter how curious she was as to whom else would be out roaming the castle. Fine lot of good it would do her knowing which aforementioned family heir was mischief-making if she were dead.

Ever closer now, Tia could actually hear breaths of controlled paranoia nearby; someone was attempting stealth, and Tia could barely steady herself against a run-in with a table edge. Peripherally she noted the fact that alcohol indeed was not her friend as she slowly shuffled ahead in the pitch, eyes desperate for particles of light amongst the suffocating chamber. Libraries were once refuges to her; after tonight, they would be pits of murderous tome obstacles.

Something flighty and slight fleeted across her chilled cheek.

"Ah!" her soft inhale of surprise came, breaking the silence in a harsh start as she jumped backward. Feet stumbled without purchase, arms thrown out to catch a fall against unseen surfaces detrimental to bones and flesh. Unbidden, a squeal of shock broke free as some sharp edge sliced along her arm, another, rougher angle dug violently against her back as she dropped along the offending object in a rush. In the back of her mind, clarity recalled rather dispassionately that she must have fallen into the study nook at the end of aisle twenty-three, meaning her head was directly approaching the heavy bookcasing. In a matter of seconds, she would bust her skull open with the force of impact, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it; nonverbals didn't count when the witch casting was too befuddled to think them straight.

Whiplash, a sudden jerk, redirection... Tia slammed into her right side, waist high, curving just above the hip over disjointed slabs of planes and edges. A falling stack of books dug into her ribs and chest, and she flung out in desperate grabs to steady, catch herself in the encompassing void. Instead, her right hand found only air, and, overextended, Tia twisted again, her feet tripping against each other.

This time the abrupt jerk came at her left arm, hauling her semi-upright, nearly one-eighty. And in the darkness Tia came jarringly against a solid body with an "umph!", a second gripping arm wrapping at her side to steady her.

"Let go of me!" she cried in sudden panic, breaking the otherwise stillness of the cavernous room. Struggles of arms flailing and hitting and feet kicking and lunging away were met with strong physical refusals for release.

"Shhhh! Quite!" came the hiss with a nervous edge. "Hush, you bird," the male voice continued in a forceful whisper. His grip tightened on her arm, the hand at her waist transferring to the free one she was punching his chest with. Movements were heavy with effort, and Tia could feel him attempting to shake her – literally – into sense. But she was having none of it; this was twice this term she'd been brutally grabbed and tossed about like a kidnapped rag doll, and she'd had enough. Never mind that she was far more inebriated than she'd first thought, her reflexes slow and off mark. This was not good, and Tia realised a sense of true fear and panic.

"Release me... now!"

Determined not to go down without a fight, she decided her full weight was all she had left in terms of defence. A four-year-old could have done no better, Tia's manoeuvre simply kicking her feet from beneath her and practically sitting on the floor in petulance.

Caught completely off-guard, her assailant flew into a stream of whispered obscenities as he fell forward with her in a half stumble, lunging a step forward to keep from falling upon her.

"Going to be like that, is it? Fine, you little beast," he declared breathlessly, trying to hold her just above the floor, and Tia could detect a thread of anger in the vaguely familiar voice. "I'm done playing with you now."

-o-

He'd been sure she was patrolling tonight, half hopeful he'd run across her when he left his place on the tower window sill. He'd sat as he had that night in October, when he'd run upon her unintentionally, expecting to be detained and detentioned. But instead she'd warned him of Peeves, given him a safe passage to his dormitory, and went on her way. Tonight, he'd taken to his refuge amongst the canvases and paints, partially complete artwork depicting the politics of the state of things.

Regulus had run a cursory glance over them, recalling distractedly Stella Gardner's penchant for such statements through artistic means. The former Ravenclaw had graduated two years prior; it said something about how often this room was visited. For Regulus, the isolation was ideal. It offered him time and space where he could fail to keep checked his exterior appearance, leaving free all energies to battle the war within.

But tonight that war had subsided to the background, blurred against the dichotomy Hestia Jones had become. How dare she delay him his plans! Really now, the chit must think herself higher than her status allowed. In point of fact, she barely favoured at all in his circles, and only by means of pureblood birth and her father's uncanny abilities. Yet her lack of excitement or anxiety, even a sense of priority, annoyed him. He, the heir to the Black family fortune and grace, had invited her – mere merchant's child she was – to spend the holidays with him in Society. And in turn she'd treated the coveted position as an afterthought, something she'd politely get around to when she had the time.

Regulus bristled. It was brooding for hours in that curved, desolate room which had led to his leaving solitude, actively seeking her out. Her cornered in the recesses of the castle at this late hour would yield him greater power, his influence stronger in witness-free shadows. He could be charismatic, woo and beguile her without distraction, impress upon her the rare opportunity presented her. And then she would realise the honour bestowed her, adamantly agree to accompany him, and allow him to cement the plans he had reconciled with each passing day of delay.

But he'd not yet come across her. Over the past weeks, he'd made a point to learn her routines, classes. This evening she should have been patrolling alone along the third and fourth floors. But more than an hour yielded nothing but gossiping paintings (they could be made to keep quiet; the Black name still held sway, even in oils). Even cursory pop-ins throughout the upper floors proved only that other prefects were about. Had she switched nights, floors? Had he mistaken her usual routes?

Soft chatter suddenly broke his musings, the indistinguishable words muffled from the deep catacombs of the library. Regulus slowed. With measured breathing, he crept near the door ajar, straining for clarity of sound.

Mumbling, giggles. So, some lucky bastard was having a go this evening, in the library of all places. Not his first choice for a rendezvous, to be sure, but generally he'd hold no grudge. This night, however, Regulus was in no mood to be generous; he had his own troubles with a girl, and the last he wanted thrown in his face was someone else's connubial bliss.

Slipping in, he made his way in measured steps, allowing his eyes to take in any and all sources of light. Daring not to light his wand, Regulus moved as cat, prowling. He'd decided the couple would have their night ruined as was his, and yet be unable to distinguish the executioner of their folly.

Movement ahead drew his focus, and he crouched below any potential horizon.

They were randy tonight, all right. It sounded as though half a case of texts had fallen to the floor in a slam, rattling the furniture. Moans drifted. Ducking lower, edging closer, Regulus could make out shapes against the vague reflection of moonlight bouncing off highly polished rosewood panels. His wand hand raised of its own volition, mind racing for some quirky spell to break the mood. But as he weighed several options – pail of Alpine stream water; swarm of fleas; disembodied cries of a banshee – the scene before him altered. Or rather, his interpretation.

"Let go of me!" The action before him was not impassioned groping as he'd initially assumed, but a struggle. Breathless and sounding panicked, the girl was twisting forcefully, her wrists or forearms secured by a bloke considerably bigger and stronger than she.

"Release me... now!" Hestia Jones? Regulus suddenly felt flush. His intended means to an end was being manhandled by someone vaguely familiar, though in the sliver of light and hushed tones he could not make out just who. But evident was it that Jones was aggressively fighting. It was no tryst gone wrong, either. She didn't know her assailant, either.

Abruptly she dropped from sight, and Regulus nearly hurled himself from hiding until he realised she dropped her weight like a child, trying desperately to escape. Frantically he searched for a way to confiscate her from the brute, but it had to be without wand work. It would never do to be searched in the morning and the last several spells from his wand revealing him involved.

He despised Muggle fisticuffs.

Muffled voices of surprise and energy came from behind him, and Regulus knew he had to act now before the prefects reached them. He'd be found out, most likely, and Jones for sure. Too much relied upon her eligibility as escort for him to allow her to foil his plans by her own stupidity. He had to act instantly.

"Fine, you little beast... I'm done playing with you now."

An urge unbidden rose in him to call out, demand with authority, "Unhand her, you filth!" But Regulus trampled down the battle cry, keeping instead to dark, mental epithets as he approached the couple in a panther's stalk.

A pitiful cry of pain issued from Jones, and no thought prefaced Regulus' launch. The swing was wide, un-tempered, but his fist found its mark somewhere about the cad's forehead. Coming from the side, the strike made contact just a second before Regulus' full body collapsed the assailant to the ground, knocking numerous books off the nearby table onto them. Thankfully most hit the unknown boy, leaving Regulus free to collect himself, grab for Jones in the dark, and sprint out the library opposite the main entrance, using the secret passage just behind the unit on magical cooking. Grabbing the lever between Sautéing with Strangelove and Brains, Brains, and More Braaaaains: What to Do With Your Zombie Leftovers, they were soon through the short, narrow passage and in the dungeons. His territory. It would give them time.

Dungeon Number Five was reached, its darkened recess of an entrance locked but well hidden, before Regulus paused. He'd yanked Jones into the alcove with him, tossing her against the opposite wall. He leaned back himself, closing his eyes, catching his breath and errant thoughts. Gods, what a mess he'd been gotten into now.

"Regulus!" Her voice was strained, surprised, yet oddly pleased. Regulus slowly opened his eyes, wary.

"Whom did you expect?" he drawled, cautious. Her own irises glistened in the scattered flecks of sconce light. They were excited, her lips parted in an animated smile. It was bold for Jones, really. Her typical humour was of a sly appearance, a knowing look and grin. This was... different.

"Don't rightly know, exactly," she chuckled, "but didn't rightly care all that great, either." Giggle, and not a nervous one. She swayed, fidgeted, too energized to hold still. "You got me out of a bad spot, and I'm entirely grateful. My hero, you know. My knight in shiny – silky – armour," she corrected, plucking a section of his black silk shirt from his chest and rubbing it, testing its thin, breathy texture betwixt forefinger and thumb. She looked up, a toothy smile now, leaning so forward he could make out her features clearly, even in the gloom of the deserted corridor. "How will I ever repay you, kindest sir?" Even closer. Tiptoes.

Regulus would have stepped back, but pinned to stone already decided distance of another kind was due. He changed subject lines.

"Who was that knave assaulting you back there?" Great; now he was speaking like he was some bloody knight she was dubbing him. Irritation rankled him. "And what was it all about? I thought you were supposed to be on duty in the upper floors tonight, not hiding out in the library." Her change of plans had him nearly ruining his own. She needed to be clear of scandal for his intentions to work. Situations like this were not beneficial.

Chin dropped and she pulled away slightly, face apologetic like a scolded child. What was with her? This was not the Jones he'd come to recognise. Then the bottom lip stuck out, less petulant and more pouty. Had she gone mad? Had that fiend in the library plagued her with a curse or potion?

"I left my patrol early; needed some time to myself in the library." Deeper pout, eyes a sad plead like a beaten boarhound puppy. He nearly expected tears any minute.

"Then I heard someone sneaking about, and when I went to investigate, I got attacked." Brows furrowed, hurt and confusion pulled at her pale face. "Wasn't very nice of him, now was it? Nooooooo.... Wasn't a'tall."

It was the drawn 'no' that had done it. Clicking into place, the pieces now explained the oddities of Tia's manner, an answer he'd not faced since just prior to Sirius' mutiny. Hestia Jones was pissed. Thoroughly. Some sort of whiskey wafted upon her breath, her exclamation directing it straight to him. Suppressing a groan, Regulus closed his eyes once more, a silent plea for some deity to correct the situation and send him on to his dorm without a care. Unfortunately, when he deemed to peek, Jones stood before him still, a drunken bundle of happiness. A problem to be handled.

He sighed irritably.

"Listen; we've got to get you to your dormitory, all right? Before it's noted you're out after curfew, and not entirely sober." He could recall grudgingly assisting his brother to his room after an entirely too energetic celebration two New Year's Eves ago. As they had been staying at an extravagant country manor house of relations at the time, the duty had not been a slight one. Casting a glance at his new responsibility, Regulus knew he'd not regulate himself to a repeat of that scene were it not for the efforts already expended upon her for his plans. That, and Mother's controlling need to choose his routes for him.

Blast whoever gave Jones the drink! They were all in league, they were, to drive him out of his own skin. But he mustn't, he reminded himself, show his annoyance to her. That would defeat his efforts to win her affections, and right now he needed her cooperation very soon, and very much. Taking her wrist gently but securely, he slipped out to pull her along the way, anxiously darting glances about to ensure their privacy.

Low flame flickered from wall sconces, separated by several strides, leaving the dungeon corridors alive with nooks and crannies. For once Regulus felt nervous traipsing his domain; this was not a situation of which he wished anyone's knowledge. Beyond public knowledge of this pitifully horrid display of drunkenness (by a less-than-favourable association), there were inklings of a desire to keep their togetherness private. Not for embarrassment's sake, but for time to distinguish just how he felt about this part of the plan.

Initially Regulus found annoyance, disgruntlement with involving yet another variable. Forced to court a girl not of his choosing for a non-marital purpose seemed a waste of energy and time, not to mention irritating considering the chosen girl. But as Hestia Jones – or rather, situations involving her – had continually surprised him, Regulus found himself curious above all to determine just what Jones was capable of, what underlying factor influenced her decisions. She was unpredictable at the moment, and that was not a benefit to his success. Best he get a handle on things now, in the quiet, before notifying the masses of their involvement.

"You know," came Jones from behind, a breathless little chuckle, light and airy and all-too-unconcerned. "If you're my knight, you should be upon your horse to rescue me. 'Course," she continued, thoughtful in her voice, "were you to rescue me astride your grey, I'd not think Mr Filch would be too chuffed about it, horse in the corridors and all. Not that I'd mind, mind you; I've seen you sit a good –"

"Shush!" he hissed, aggrieved in his glances back. Could the chit really not stay silent? All her chatter would reveal them right up. He had to find an alternate route, somewhere out of all ears.

"Jones," he directed in low, commanding tones, "I'm going to take us back to your dormitory, or thereabouts. You will go into your room, speak to no one about this evening, and quickly and quietly make yourself indisposed. I highly suggest," he added, turning to face her. She stepped ungracefully right into him, his free hand catching her upper side to steady her, as he braced for impact. Innocently wide open eyes stared amusingly and childlike at his, their hazel flecks of green catching in the flicker of a nearby sconce. Shadow and flame warred for her rosy cheeks.

"I highly suggest," he repeated, voice lower, strained. Why was anger not driving him to settle this matter? He could demand she cooperate, even hex her, levitate her to the North Tower and leave her to be found by her fellow Ravenclaws. A Memory Charm to boot and all would be finished. He'd not be bothered any further with her disreputable antics. Chance of being caught would be drastically reduced.

Should he be bothered to admit such, Regulus didn't take the swift, efficient way out because truth was... she entertained him. No, not in a chuckling, nor even sardonic way, but in a curiosity to be quenched manner. Unspeakably gauche, terribly unfit for company, Hestia Jones most certainly didn't bore him. Perhaps that was why he fought this inopportune incident with her conscious and mobile, talkative.

He simply was curious as to what she'd do or say next.

Not a good sign, Black, he warned himself. Playing fire by testing Fate, living in the thrill of getting caught. Because subconsciously, you want to get caught. Then punishment dealt would leave you without the obligations you've been assigned. Obligations you've grown to despair. You fail at Potions to free yourself. If you could fail here, as well...

Sharp internal shake and Regulus drew back to present. Would's and Could's meant nothing; Already Done and Must Do were reality, and he needed to get on with it. Staring fiercely down at his encumbrance, Regulus fairly growled with renewed intent.

"...you cooperate like a good girl and help me find your rooms. It wouldn't be prudent – or safe," they were in Slytherin territory now, "for you to be found wandering alone. In your cups, no less." He had no intention of being found with her. Self preservation, always.

If he expected a docile 'yes sir' from her, sorely mistaken was he. Or rather, wholeheartedly taken aback.

"You don't like me much, do you?" she enquired, lower lip pouting with a fatigued aura about her. All previous pep and vigour were gone. Brow furrowed in a failure to comprehend as she elaborated. "Sort of a shame, really. I like you. Very much, actually."

This last was spoken not in girlish giggles, shy admittance, or even matter-of-factly. Rather, Jones little more than whispered her words, taken to be thinking out loud were she not staring directly into his eyes. A weariness swept her features. Resignation, as well, perhaps. But some flavour of Ravenclaw intellect composed her speech, and she removed high emotion and commented from afar.

"Why?" It slipped out before he thought, and Regulus cursed himself his untamed tongue. But she looked at him – really looked at him – for a long few breaths before answering.

"Helena Sampson once wrote, 'Of all the Masters my life has found, only to one I've truly been bound.'" Eyes dropped to his lips, chin. "'And were I ever to account the cost, in reconciliation I might have lost. But never into thought did I once give, let instead my foolhardy heart live. And a servant I shall always be, to the Master – to the Man – who so beautifully... completes me.'"

Silence echoed their breathing; so unprepared was he for this seeming change of subject. Yet, somehow, maturity grasped the realisation she actually was answering his question. No random drunken chatter; her expression was too concentrated. Still inebriated, yes, but aware.

"Who's Helena Sampson?" he asked, grasping for something to pull him from thinking too much her meaning.

This time strangely worried eyes met his, nearly fearful.

"My mother." Weak, quiet response. Gaze dropped once more, her free hand rising, seemingly of its own accord between them. As no wand appeared, Regulus disregarded the movement, concentrating instead on digesting this turn of events. He simply did not know how to react. This bafflement paralysed him, and inside he struggled for clarity, comprehension. What to say to that?

Typical Black fashion would warrant quips and insults to a slip of girl like Jones. And perhaps were he not needing her appreciation for ulterior purposes, cutting remarks may have found their avenue. Jones, however, was necessary, to say the least. A required endurance. That she thought him a completion to herself – hah! – well, that was just... foolhardy. Ridiculous. They were nothing alike, and she not worthy to his status by far. In truth, she and her kind were the very essence of his family's troubles in their world. Completion, inde–

Fingertips most gentle plied at his lips, pulling the lower slightly in their slow, careful study. Thumb pad grazed stubble. Her own mouth had fallen slightly open, incredulous at her own digits, perhaps? But he was frozen, too, lips parting of their own volition.

Then she spoke, but two words, in a haunting voice so riddled with fear it came little more than a formed, wafting exhale.

"Kiss me."