Chapter 11: Temperance

Chapter 11: Temperance

Kiss me. How long she had desired to say those very words. The fact that she was saying them now disturbed her self-conscious vulnerability, but a certain relief also swept across her. No more playing about with innuendo and sly looks, quirky smiles due to daydreaming quietly about him. The request had dashed unbidden through her mind; belatedly Tia Jones had comprehended that her thoughts had not been the only medium through which it flowed.

Never mind. Didn’t matter, really. Tia was tired of games, weary from keeping face around him. Mayhap she was halfway round the twist, but at this very moment, Tia Astarte Jones was glad to admit in so direct a fashion how she felt about Regulus A Black.

How she’d felt for a long while now.

Admittedly, it’d not have come about vocally had she been entirely sober. Yes, a thank-you was in order for McKinnon and her advice when all was said and done. For even were he to dismiss her outright, call her on the carpet for her unworthiness, plainness, lack of connection or fortune, at the very least she would not have ‘might have been’ ever her misery.

All this she considered as the silence weighed heavily about, between them. Had time paused, reined itself in to absorb those syllables?

Tia let her hand fall slowly, heavily, sight filled with dancing shades across Regulus’ jaw. It was tight. Twitch of muscle. View dropped to his neck – mistake for her? – a beautiful neck with corded muscles straining. Why? Was he now grasping to control his temper? Whatever he had been playing at with her these past weeks, it might just be he was now rethinking its worth. So repulsed by her, her spoken wish caused re-evaluation and – as always – she was found lacking, not worth the prize he’d been after.

A sudden sense of hurt washed over Tia, mingling comfortably with her fear, sapping energy and faith. She watched his quick succession of swallows and then closed her eyes, not desiring to see the obvious disgust on his refined features. Gnawing her lower lip, desperate to hold tears at bay, Tia felt true regret begin to form. It was one thing to know in one’s heart one was unwanted.

It was wholly another to hear it confirmed.

Nothing in Regulus’ upbringing had prepared him for the gut-jerking spasm that sluiced through him at her command. Momentary immobility held even his very pulse and breath. Not that he was new to feminine attention – not at all – but Hestia Jones, intoxicated and irritating and inferior and improper, had just failed any speck of decorum, had shown her true inadequacy of breeding, her lack of propriety and respect.

In abject horror he stared incredulously at her flushed face, pale even under the warmth of nearby flame. Eyes downcast, she refused to face him, as she should fear to do. But even as Regulus scowled at the chit’s abashed features for her brazen and ridiculous words, odd sensations rose in spite, stemming from navel outward, blurring his inner sight. Vision of who he was, his responsibilities and edicts assigned, emphatically dissipated in the wake of rosy cheeks and non-scheming admirations. Hestia Jones wanted him – at least his kiss – without plans for status and fortuitous marriage.

She simply wanted him.

Gone for this brief interlude were his duties to all and sundry; he wasn’t Regulus Black. He didn’t want to be. And without consideration to consequence, Regulus cast himself into the shadows of existence and became simply a seventeen year old boy in a solitary corridor, intimate lighting and a willing (if inebriated) girl in his grasp. Shrugging off his identity with a violence, he closed his eyes tightly, sucked air in through clenched teeth and bridled restraint, then looked once more down upon his little sprite’s fallen face… her mouth… the delicate tongue darting nervously over worried lips…

They were moving; he pressing forward in steady, ethereal steps, while she fell back in clumsy shuffles ‘til her back braced hard against cold stone and her head dared raise in angle in bewilderment. A flicker and her nervous eyes met his.

Then there was no thought, only her parted lips, a heady wisp of breath laced in whiskey, and then supple firmness, a contrast of cool flesh and warm recesses… intoxication…

Coherency disappeared, and Regulus was aware only of the yielding beneath his lips, a delight so unexpected he felt a jolt of shock dart through him. Without conscious effort, his controlling fingers relaxed, pushed upward to nearly her shoulders, then convulsed again in a grip far more possessive and needy than dictating. Response from her was almost immediate, though tentative. At first. She met his slow, cautious movements with ones filled with inquisitiveness. Fleetingly Regulus wondered if she’d ever been kissed before. Himself, loads of times, but never in such an awkward position of confusion. He’d not been fancying the girl; so why did his desire to meet her request come as a high-bidden demand to his body?

No answer, however, would ever be forthcoming. Venturing with hesitation – he did not trust her or the situation – Regulus had no more than coaxed her mouth open but a sliver more when gentle, wet, curious, her tongue ghosted across his bottom lip.

Circe, Merlin and Morgana!

Explosive in fervour, his body reacted without permission, tightening in a quivering snap like a plucked bow, pressing her full body into the wall, delving deeper into her mouth. Gone were all indications of caution or reserve, and Regulus cared not. For this moment he would not consider Jones’ inferior place – nay, he could not think a’tall. It was sensation – solely feeling – all about him right now, and nothing else in the world mattered. Her generous breasts flattened against his ribcage, rise and fall of their chests suddenly heightened, and everything within him screamed to be freed, to dive into the oblivion and find release.

From everything.

Mewling reached his ears, needy sighs against his skin, and he took a conquering pleasure knowing it was he who had elicited such want from the girl. Distantly it registered that her fingers were digging into his hair, clasping desperately to the back of his neck, pulling him down to her. All he knew was simply a driving call to complete this sensation began. Right hand dropped heavily along her side to find the edge of plush flesh. Without any sense of gentleness, the heel of his palm kneaded into her breast, eliciting a whimper deep in her throat. Regulus felt empowered, larger than physical form.

Forced breaths, teeth bare, raking fleetingly across her jaw like a cat demanding attention. Marking its territory.

Return to mouth, hungry and coercing fiercely. Closer, closer – he had to get closer. Press against, press in, deeper, closer, become one –

Another sort of shock snapped through him this time, crashing down violently with reality. Regulus leapt back in a jerking motion, a flash of fear, then control.

What the bloody hell had he just done?

It would not be until later as he lay restless in his four poster that recollection would invite him to ask that same question of the actual kiss, of the wonton need within him for such physical interaction. But immediate circumstance demanded of him to know what had he just done, and why? Why and how? How could he have lost sense of himself, control of the situation, lose sight of his duty, of the scandal just waiting in the wings had or should anyone of import witness his target’s flagrant misbehaviour? Mother, Father, the Dark Lord himself – they expected him to handle his missions with aplomb and circumspect. Buggering them up for an instant of gratification and roll on the dungeon floor would gain him no praise.

Would it have really come to that? Regulus dismissed the idea, too self-berating to even consider the prospect. He did not take with whores, nor with lowers of caste. Just a flash of extraneous thought, was all, he reasoned.

Reining himself and his stray thoughts in, Regulus composed to a proper façade and looked upon Jones with slight contempt and boredom. He would not acknowledge the fresh tinge to her skin, the swell of plucked lips or the rough respiration. Stepping only close enough to reach for her, he snagged her wrist in a no-nonsense grip, pried her from the wall and turned about, walking in long strides quickly down the way. He would not get side-tracked again.

“Your dormitory,” he stated succinctly, determination righting his course. “Immediately.”

She stumbled behind him, caught up only by his unwavering hold dragging her along through shortcuts, passageways rarely used. He had to present her to her dormitory with expedience, and this time definitely invoke a Memory Charm.

They were lucky, indeed, reaching the spiral staircase he knew led to the Ravenclaw common room, without crossed paths of human or entity. Dropping hold of her hand unceremoniously, Regulus made an about face to regard her stoically.

“You’ll remain here, seated on the floor, until you’ve the coherency and coordination to climb to your dormitory. Do you understand?” His tone was harsh, but it was better as such. He needed to flee – no, Blacks did not need to flee, ever. He needed to… distance himself from the girl. Time and clarity of mind and position to think. Besides, he was not her nursemaid.

So why didn’t he just leave now? Jones had lowered herself fluidly to sit quarter-lotus beside the first step, just as he’d dictated. But he did not leave.

Simple; he had to be sure she was found before she went and did something totally unacceptable, or worse yet, get caught out of curfew, much less inebriated. Wouldn’t do well for his plans, that. His luck of late, and the moment he gave her leave she would try to climb the stairs alone, only to trip and fall in her foxed state and break her blasted neck. That wouldn’t help his cause, either.

It absolutely had nothing to do with the pitiful look she was giving him, the silence of her bruised lips, even now displaying a bit of chap and abuse. Hazel eyes did not peer up at him in wordless plea and despondency. No; he was merely protecting his assets he’d worked too long to gain.

Echoes of some nameless tune floated upon the draft of the fifth floor corridor, and Regulus made out the feminine ring to be nearing.

“Your assistance is coming, I do believe,” he informed her flatly. “Do be smart and take it. Go to your bed and sleep it off.” A quick, meaningful glance up the stairs beside him, “And try not to break your fool neck in the process.”

With that final piece of caution, Regulus turned and stalked into the shadows, opposite the nearing voice, without a look toward his responsibility’s mournful face. He’d done his duty, seen her to her own kind, ensured her safety. A Ravenclaw would not rat their own.

Regulus stopped just outside the ring of firelight, stepping into a shallow alcove. He had to be sure, after all, the girl was actually tended, just in case the late night roamer was someone other than her own. It took less than a minute before he recognised a seventh year prefect – McKinnon, it was – toddling into the oblong realm of light.

“Tia!” the girl cried in surprise and, suddenly, in worry. She knelt to study Jones’ face, and the latter must have mumbled something, for McKinnon abruptly chuckled and appeared to relax.

“Oh, gods, Tia,” she went on, laughter in her voice. “Can’t say as I’ve ever seen you out of sorts before. It’s right funny. C’mon; let’s get you up to the dorms, shall we?” she asked, hefting her housemate to her feet. “I just hope you’ve a remedy in your stash or you’re in for a nasty hangover in the morn, I’ll grant you.”

With more light-hearted cajoling and effort, the older girl wrapped her arm about Jones and began trudging up the stairs. When it was apparent Jones was safe from herself, Regulus slipped out and covertly made his own way to his bed. His steps were automatic, born of years of need for stealth, leaving his errant mind to wander where it shouldn’t.

And it wouldn’t have been the floor, but against the wall…

“There we go,” Marlene was telling her softly as they slipped undetected into the deserted Ravenclaw common room. A low fire still barely burned, embers glowing in promise of more to come, of warmth not dependent upon a boy. A boy who was slowly but undeniably driving her to the very brink.

“Whatever brought this on?” Marlene went on, trying to hold in the laughter that was pressing against restraint and the enforced whispers of secrecy. She was settling Tia on a divan near the hearth, gathering a rug from the corner and draping Tia neck to toe. Probably didn’t trust her to make it up the stairs to her own bed.

“I’ve never known you to drink much, Hestia Jones, so don’t say you were just out for a bit of fun. Not that I would ever condemn you for that very thing,” she hastily added as she poked the logs, livened the fire. “But I’m at a loss as to your sudden overindulgence.”

Tia frowned. Lifting her head from the pillow Marli had tucked beneath her, she considered a moment before answering slowly, sure the prefect must have forgotten.

“You told me to.” At Marli’s confused face, Tia elaborated. “Weeks ago. You told me that you’d found the best way to deal with – er… certain problems, was a cup of tea with a splash of brandy. Though I must admit,” she added quietly, looking away from her housemate’s patient expression and into the stirring flames. “At a loss for brandy I could only find whiskey, and, well, sort of left out the hot cup of tea entirely.”

The spitting laugh was not what she had expected, and Tia looked up to Marlene, the seventh year beauty fighting to quieten herself.

“Oh, cor love a duck, Tia!” she stage whispered, gobsmacked. “I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about getting the bloke drunk!” Further laughter broke her speech, and Tia could feel flames of shame heating her already warm cheeks. “Makes them more pliable, more susceptible to logic and reason, you know. And of course less resistant to feminine wiles.”

Suddenly Marlene’s arms were about her, hugging even through the shivers of silenced chuckles.

“Love bless you, Tia,” she managed in high humour, rocking Tia. “You naïve little thing, you.”

Tia simply wanted to melt into the furniture. She really was a little fool, just as Regulus had said.

But mercy… that kiss.

“You tosser. You won’t nip up to Pomfrey ‘cause you want Evans to see it. Get all motherly hen over you.” Playful snorts of derision times three followed Sirius’ explanation, Peter’s sniggers throwing him into a coughing fit on the juice he’d just ingested.

“Nooo,” James argued, eyes averted, tone just a little too squeakish for credibility. He prodded the small gash on his forehead, just above his left eye, and winced. Sirius took no pity.

“Serves you right,” he added, stabbing a sausage with his knife and chewing quickly as he scanned the Great Hall. They were running late as far as breakfast went, having remained out much later than planned.

“How so?” James demanded from the opposite side. He, too, was scanning the room, but only in an obviously pointed attempt not to stare at Lily Evans who was currently visiting the Ravenclaw table. It wouldn’t serve to prove Sirius’ point; that would only lead to more ridicule.

“If you would have not deviated from the original plan and gone directly through Filch’s toiletry cupboard,” Remus answered calmly, gaze intent upon a propped tome whilst absentmindedly grazing his meal. “Then you’d have avoided all duelistic tendencies and subsequent physical maladies, and merely have shown up on time last night at the agreed upon meet-up. Thereby assisting through your own assigned duties that which would allow for certain unmentionable items to be unmentionably cocked-up in unmentionable fashions, giving rise to an incredible yet understated work of unmentionably brilliant hazing art.”

James stared in bafflement, Sirius in dry amusement, and Peter looked away before the faces of his friends sent him again into fits. Remus’ expression remained casual, attention on the eggs he was scooping a-fork.

“Thank you for that clarification, Moony,” James finally replied.

“Don’t mention it,” said Remus.

“Shan’t.”

“Really, James,” Peter piped up, laughter under control. “You should let Madam Pomfrey tend that before it gets nasty. No telling what might’ve actually caused it.”

“What caused it, Pete,” the bespectacled boy offered dryly, “would be a rushing corporeal form smashing violently into my person in the bloody dark. Whilst my hands were quite full and busy at the moment, thank you.”

Sirius smirked and turned back to his friends. “Thought you were saving yourself for Evans, Prongs. Wouldn’t she be so delighted to be enlightened otherwise?”

James blushed furiously, grabbed the closest projectile off the table and hurled it recklessly at Sirius, the latter falling into devilish chuckles. Really now; digestive biscuits?

Whilst Sirius shook the food from his freshly trimmed hair, he surreptitiously checked the double doors. Why had an uneasy feeling invaded his senses at the story James had told them last night? Once he’d gotten to the part about the girl… “Don’t know what was really on, mind you, but I’d lay odds to swear it was Hestia Jones. Sloshed, I tell you; talking to herself. Then she tried to walk through me, destroy the library, had a right fit that would alert the entire castle floor, screamed and attacked me, and then someone rushed me from the shadows and took off with her…”

Rushed him from the shadows. Took off with her. Hestia Jones. A chill of foreboding nipped down his back. Sirius couldn’t relay why – nor would he admit such to his mates – but a dark, heavy intuition told him the culprit might not be as anonymous as all that. But to what purpose? It was that which worried him greatest.

Whip of feathers brought Sirius back to present, just in time to save his jammed toast from the parchment rushing toward it. Gathering the thick letter as it dropped, he glanced over the feminine script and grinned in delight.

“Post from Clio,” he told the others, and they all commented with how each wondered how she was getting on in the States, how much longer she’d be, how they’d missed the banter she’d often trade with Sirius. To an appreciative audience.

Clio Harper was the one and only Slytherin Sirius and James got on with. Remus and Peter were not quite so prejudice based on house and spoke to several. But Clio was a rarity among Slytherins with her political views not totally in keeping with the obsessive trends of her family and housemates. Rarer still, she did not fall for Sirius’ rakish charm, but yet could argue points with him without becoming shrewish or hateful. A tentative friendship had established itself these past two years.

Scanning the missive, Sirius relayed bits of news with his own commentary painting the scenes.

“Huh. Says she heard my dear cousin is quite along with child. Narcissa,” he clarified in a side, an annoyance marring his good mood for a moment. “Well, there’s another arrogant bastard of Black blood to carry on the family code.” The last came in a sneer, and Sirius forced himself to return to the letter, seeking something more affable to share. He settled on a rousing tale of someone’s hen party gone out of control.

He had enough to think about regarding ‘family’ and pureblood fanaticism for the moment, thanks. And that little bastard hadn’t come through to breakfast yet this morning.

Denial. Yes; that was the ticket. It had worked for generations; no reason it shouldn’t suffice for his own detrimental actions of the previous evening.

Regulus had brooded his entire morning preparation, terse and short with his dorm mates and their greetings, more preoccupied than usual in his sojourn to breakfast. A foul mood hovered just in the wings of his humour this day, and not without reason. Deprivation of sleep and sound mind had robbed him of any modicum of patience. Were Jones to suddenly end his torture and come to him with an offer of fealty to the Dark Lord – hers and her father’s loyalty – he’d probably tell her to sod off and leave him the hell alone for the rest of his life. It was her fault, anyway, that’d he’d gone to his bed tense and painfully needy.

Crazy bint.

Worse still, he’d not gotten a Memory Charm cast before McKinnon had shown up last night. Yes, he probably could have managed afar and not roused suspicion, especially in Jones’ pissed state, but he’d not wished to chance it. Something told him Jones wouldn’t speak of their interlude (which was good), assuming she even could remember it. Best of luck would prove she didn’t, that the heavy intoxication had robbed her of recollection.

Somehow the thought did not ease his troubled mind.

Settling distractedly and quite alone at the Slytherin table, Regulus helped himself to tea and rashers and looked up and around. He was most decidedly not looking for Jones. Not unless it was to ensure she’d not drowned herself along with her sorrows last night after he’d taken leave. Huh. Wouldn’t that just be the frost on the cake? Mother would never let him forget, and Father would never show him respect. Not to mention how unamused the Dark Lord would be…

Intent stare at his person stopped Regulus’ musings cold. He knew those eyes, that stare, that loathing and distinct air of superiority, and he resented it thoroughly.

Ah, bloody fuck! Why couldn’t this damn war of animosity just fucking disappear?

Sirius had neither right nor cause to pull that silly shite today. Regulus wasn’t in the mood for sibling rivalry this morning, and he’d done nothing of any sort to earn renewed contempt from his elder brother as of late, either. Nothing, in fact, to even garner the attention of even the strictest of rule makers, much less rule breakers. Nothing out of the ordinary –

Oh, surely not. Regulus’ face fell from disdain to exasperated annoyance. Jones wouldn’t have run crying to Sirius. Not if all she’d sworn was actually the case, and there was nothing betwixt them. Nothing there to gain Sirius’ possessive anger over last night’s escapade or – Well, no. In any case, the Black brothers wouldn’t be fighting over a girl. And most ardently not Jones. Even if they were involved and she did tell him and he meant to fisticuff Regulus then toss him in the tumbrel for his head. Sirius teased, toyed, and tossed girls away. And he and Regulus were polar opposites in taste, to boot.

No, Sirius had to have some other bee in his bonnet…

Pointedly Regulus turned from his brother’s glare with a raise of his chin, a statement of acknowledgement laced in displeasure. Really, he did not have the tolerance for Sirius’ attitude today. He had enough to contend with.

With great effort he ignored the morning post, hoping earnestly there was nothing for him. A missive from Mother would only upset his digestion. Also ignored was the continued look of hostility from Sirius. The elder’d not dare make a scene with all the teachers present, or mistake the Slytherin table as a neutral or forgiving battlefield.

Regulus instead lingered over the abandoned Daily Prophet, absorbing the tales, gossips, and dire warnings of the Dark Lord and his followers. Truth was, he learned much more and more readily by publication and rumour than he did from the inside. He hadn’t yet gained high position – any position, actually, as he’d not even taken the Mark nor been asked for such – and only had two current duties to fulfil. Even so, he was failing in the most mundane of assignments. Though only one was crumbling in spite of his efforts.

Sensing more eyes, Regulus glanced up from beneath hooded eyes and bent head. Down the table he noted nearby housemates had abruptly ceased their chatter and were staring in his direction, wary and somewhat spiteful in expressions. It was then he felt presence to his right, a body standing at his side, awaiting his attention. As his right arm was already crossed before him upon the table, it was a simple matter to tuck into his robe and palm his wand.

Apparently Sirius did have the cheek to approach him here and now. Regulus clenched his teeth in deepening anger, a growl burning in his throat. Fine. It would prove a fitting diversion to his cocked-up-already day.

He whipped about suddenly, wand poised, rising from his seat simultaneously with menace and lost patience… jaw clenched, voice low.

“You’re pressing your fucking luck this morning.”