Chapter 12: Conflict

Disclaimer: Were it not the fact JK Rowling commands his very existence, I'd most certainly and happily take Regulus home and heal his woes.

Author's Note: Life gets in the way. What can I say? Thank you for staying with me, being patient.

One other point: besides the obvious, there are / will be a couple or few timeline alterations made for the sake of the storyline. Neither currently are Potterverse majors; Regulus' age (he became a Death Eater at 16 in canon, and I've got him 17 and not yet a full DE), and the eventual appearance of a minor character who should also have already died, but in VAG, has not. Your understanding, please. :~)

And your reviews are very much appreciated. I LOVE hearing from you all – thank you!

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Chapter 12: Conflict

21 December 1977

A cold rain fell in steady, subdued metre, lulling Tia's thoughts softly along a path best left unventured. But it was too late now – had been for ages, really – and so with resignation she chose not to stop them. As the rocking sway of the carriage kept time with the pitter-patter of raindrops, recollection returned to her mind's eye, always looking for some meaning not yet derived from expressions, gazes, tone...

As if her day had not already started poorly, the throbbing just on the edge of her consciousness was accentuated by a single letter in the morning post: her father's. Mortification had apparently not been dealt with Fate's approval yet, and was increased at the knowledge that now Tia had express permission – no, great encouragement – to attend all ceremonies and events with Regulus A Black, heir apparent and social catch. But after last night, after her horrid behaviour and utter wantonness...

And a fortnight later...

Tia recalled quite vividly that he'd spoken no further to her since that morning. Polite half-smiles and nods of semi-greeting were the sole extent of his attentions, outside the one owl he'd sent with travel arrangements. Travelling she now did quite alone, quite subdued. Just like the continuing rain, bleak skies reflective of her mood. What would once have been to her fantasy come to life had since turned into something... strained.

Yes, that was it. Strained.

Rouan had told her she was being ridiculous. Regulus Black was a societal creature, reared in a family high on status and breeding. Tia couldn't possibly expect him to go about spouting love sonnets or nicking her from the corridors for an alcovian snog. Of course, Rouan had giggled uncontrollably at that lecture, finally admitting her wish for just such for herself after Tia had shared the story of her ambushing him in the dungeons. And the kiss...

Well, of course Rouan had cheered encouragingly at that tale, 'accidentally' nudging Tia into a stumble when they passed Regulus between classes. She was often jotting notes on parchment and passing them to the Ravenclaw with tips on luring her man into a sense of blatant desire.

Er... no.

Rather than desire, Tia had grown forlorn, concerned that Regulus' attentions to her were more and more forced. What if he didn't like her in the least? She knew his romantic attentions were not genuine – there was a hunted look in his eyes at times that bespoke volumes of calculations and resentment. Yet beneath she'd always felt he had a certain level of mild agreement to her personality. Oh, yes, they did quarrel, but honestly, those who never disagree could hardly be said to be entertaining to each other, could they? Yet it seemed to have all changed, ever since her unwelcome advances by means of copious amounts of alcohol.

She was never drinking again.

They'd slowed, and Tia gazed out through curtains of honest English weather at the stone, brick and beam Tudor rounding into view. The Black country estate was not the grandest she'd seen – for she'd seen many – but it had always held a catch to her breath upon first sight each visit. No doubt it was everything to do with a single occupant, one she had rarely caught sight of in the master and mistress' haste to rid themselves of Ezra Jones and child. But each moment she had espied him, Regulus had never failed to snap-to her curiosity, fan the flames of ever-growing fascination.

Alighting unaided from the carriage, Tia approached the front entrance with trepidation, her mouth suddenly dry as cobwebs. Peripherally she caught an aging house-elf struggling with her trunk and the harness latch holding it to the carriage. Her nature bade she help him, but little time had she for such worries now. Greeting her host held her taut with nerves. What if he treated her just as he had this past week, all formal and distant? Dearest Merlin, that would be awkward. Or worse, he informed her he'd made a terrible mistake, that she could never pass for his guest-in-arm in Society, and she should turn right back around and depart with the carriage?

She needn't have fretted so, however. Not at this time, at least. Without a knock, the heavy double doors opened to reveal merely another house-elf, this one elderly and frail, silent but for a request she follow him. The cavernous foyer was desolate, and Tia was far conscious of her dripping attire marring the clean hardwood floors. A strange sense of disappointment settled over her with each step, numbing her once-fraught nerves. Grand, polished stairs, twists around rosewood panelling, lemon oil drifting through heavy, stale air. Evidently the house had not been opened and aired in some time. Corridors grew dim with low sconce light, shadowing shabby carpets, threadbare opulent drapes... The house gave the impression of a family projecting a wealth not backed by Galleons. Appearances were everything, it seemed.

Shown a compact room in the recesses of the third floor, Tia was left alone to contemplate her situation, allowing fears to well again in her stomach's pit. A fire blazed, warding the chill of her damp denim and jumper as she removed the latter from a tee beneath, blotched with rain. It also gave light where the slit of a casement window failed its revelations. As she unpacked her trunk, Tia mused upon her accommodations, the four poster with emerald duvet and black silk drapings. Honestly, could the Blacks not release the hold of house loyalty in adulthood?

Tia shook her head in bemusement; she'd never understand some people.

It was in transferring evening attire to the modest chiffonier – she would have to steam out the wrinkles later – that the fold of parchment drew her gaze to the single pillow propped against the headboard. Addressed to her in an elegant script she'd forever recognise, Tia sat abruptly on the bed and tilted the note toward the flame-light.

Ms Jones,

As well, I do hope you find your room accommodating, though in reality you will spend little time within its confines. There is much to do in the coming weeks, and I expect you shall find yourself pressed for a moment's peace. Please find at your disposal the bell pull to your right. Should you find yourself in need of a house-elf, ring at your leisure. Do not be concerned you will intrude upon anyone's privacy or rest, for the bell is tuned to a frequency only the house-elves can decipher.

So, the house-elves don't deserve sleep or privacy, do they? Tia mused, brow arched and mental scoff. She read on.

The evening meal will be served promptly at seven. Dress will be informal. Until then, please feel free to tour the back gardens or peruse the library. Kreacher will show you the way.

R Black

Well, then. That was some sort of... welcome. Tia shook her head, disappointed. His words were polite but curt, formal and distant. She had hoped they'd crossed such barriers and were on perhaps first name basis and more personable language. His note only reminded her his upbringing, and the great social chasm between it and hers. Oh, she was well enough in 'breeding' – primarily due to her father's talents and renown reputation thereof – but Tia was not accustomed to some of the finer points of propriety, and hardly had need of them in any case. Great Aunt Hepple would be pleased immensely if Tia were simply able to not cause a scene or scandal during her stay with the Blacks. Tia's mother's aunt had taken over Tia's 'girl training' after Helena's death. Too bad that training had not included how to sway a boy's affections.

-o-

He'd seen her arrive. Drenched head to heel as she stood ridiculously out in the rain, looking about wide-eyed as though expecting some sort of spectacle or attack. Silly chit hadn't enough sense to cast a single charm upon herself to remain dry. But then, he had to recall she was not yet seventeen. Unlike his own family, he doubted Ezra Jones would tolerate his only child breaking the law with underage magic. The Blacks... well, needless to say they were of another cut altogether. First water, the lot of them.

Rubbish, a familial voice inside chided. Regulus' teeth grit in reaction, tamping down Alphard's traitorous remark. The Blacks were a noble and worthy line. They were. Just because he – Regulus – did not wholly agree with certain dictates forced upon himself did not mean they were not for the best. He merely had not been privy to the reasoning. Nor asked.

And why should he? At this moment in time, he still had not proven himself to the Dark Lord and could not expect an inner circle knowledge of his own role. Mother was aware of enough for a non-inductee, and in turn, that should be quite a contentment for himself. Father was well-informed by associates, but had no time to be bothered with sharing guidance with Regulus. As it was, Regulus would be surprised if Father managed to return for the festivities these coming weeks. The south of France was a heady drink when stirred by a languid mistress of unspeakable talents.

Weary of the exasperating picture before him, Regulus waited only for her entrance into the house then turned Mistoffelees back over the embankment and deeper into the woods. It was not Black land; no, their estate was sadly limited. But the old Muggle McCutchen minded not when Regulus rode on his lands, appreciating that a horse once more traversed the fields. Too often the gelding had been Regulus' only respite, a moment's peace from his life. It was astride where he could think clearly, or not at all, depending his need. Only once since his last ride of the summer had he found such release of self-imprisonment, and he'd felt –

No. There was no benefit to revisiting that night in the dungeon corridors, and he'd not do so. Hestia Jones was nothing to him. Nothing. No more than a means to an end, one that presented him in high praise by the Dark Lord, respect from Mother and Father. He must have been mad to have kissed her, to have fallen into a physical need directing his actions rather than his head. It had not been in his best interest to lose sight of his instructions, though truth told, their intimate moment furthered his objective quite nicely.

Brilliant.

Verbal clicks, shift forward, and Mistoffelees lurched into a gallop, icy rain biting into Reg's face as he removed the Impervious Charm.

-o-

Tick... Tick.... Tick.... Tick....

"I trust your soup is adequate?"

Tia started at the words. Not loud, but so ear-splitting in the grave-silent air of the dining room, broken only by the seconds marking passage by grandfather clock. With only the two of them present, the lack of conversation was oppressive. She glanced up from her mindless stirring.

"Yes; yes it is. Quite delicious, thank you," she replied, hoping for a courteous and equally formal and correct modulation. It wasn't Tia's forte, this censored way of speaking. She was much more apt to reply animatedly, "Rather good, thanks. But I could go for a quick fry up and picnic it in the parlour before a nice fire. What do you say, Reg? A couple butterbeers, toasty rugs, scary stories?" This, of course, much to her great aunt's dismay, and her father's disappointment. He was hoping for a grand match for her, she knew. He and Helena had married for love, not wealth or social standing, and when her mother died, Ezra Jones knew nothing of raising a little girl. Really, he only wanted what was best for her, for her not to have to work or rely upon the unstable politics of their world. Tia's dreams of magical law enforcement – though respected – were not encouraged by him. Simply put, Ezra wanted his little girl to be pampered and respected and want for nothing, in a way he could not provide as her merchant father of flexible means.

So for his sake and perhaps Regulus' comfort, Tia minded herself, choosing words carefully and dusting off manners brushed aside years ago.

"And yours, Mr Black?" she queried in return, watching Regulus' features at the head of the table, just to her left. Unexpectedly, his brows furrowed. Had she said something amiss?

"Quite acceptable, thank you," his articulate tenor answered.

Again silence, and Tia grew uncomfortable with Regulus' continued frown, his gaze finally pulling reluctantly away from her as he took another bite of the cooling mixture.

Right, then.

"Your house is lovely," she ventured, hoping to coax out of him some semblance of communication. "I've never been farther than the foyer, before, but I had on previous occasion glimpsed part of the gardens." And you with your horse, the moment I fell completely smitten with you, she reflected.

She'd been naught but proper and gracious; even Great Aunt Hepple could find no fault with her chosen subject and delivery. And yet Regulus' immediate response took her aback. Intent stare growing darker, more vexed each passing moment. He seemed angry. For the life of her, she couldn't fathom why.

"Er, when will your parents be joining us?" she ventured further, licking her lips nervously and reaching for the goblet of watered wine. Met with his growl, Tia felt herself flush.

"Mother will be arriving day after tomorrow," his clipped answer came. "Father is undecided for the moment; business has called him away on the Continent. As for additional guests, those staying will be relegated as needed during those events we will be hosting here." By the final words, Tia questioned if she were about to be cursed. What horrendous faux pas had she inadvertently made?

Tension drew taut her neck and back muscles, a headache waiting impatiently in the wings. Hestia Jones was a rather confident sort of girl, traipsing about unusual foreign lands whilst accompanying her father to conferences and sheepish holidays – his attempt to make right any shortcomings as a single father. But nothing gave nerves like sitting alone in the ancestral home of one's object of affection, and in the course of trying to maintain expected conduct, receiving instead scorn from said object of affection. What on earth had she done wrong?

An answer flashed wickedly across her mind, a reminder she'd have preferred not to receive. Could it be he was still disturbed by her exuberant ardour that unforgettable (sadly) night? Was he becoming agitated with her ramblings because he was awaiting a proper apology? Oh Circe, that had to be it. Here she was, pretending nothing of consequence had occurred between them, when it was the greatest insult to not have requested forgiveness for unmentionable actions on her part.

Oh what seven kinds of fool she was! She'd hoped that he'd not recalled that shameful wantonness on her behalf, but really! She'd been the one foxed, not him! Hot blushes fired her cool skin, and Tia looked away, attempting to compose herself. She had to speak properly and respectfully, but without appearing meek or grovelling. Great Aunt Hepple had warned such weakness would repel respect of the upper class.

Gathering her wits and courage, Tia turned to face him, back straight, chin slightly raised in an effort of courage. His expression was now black as his name.

Swallowing tightly, she began, "Mr Black, it appears I owe you an apology. Please do not allow my poor behaviour some weeks back to reflect upon my general –"

"God damn it, Tia!" he roared as his fist came down hard upon the cherry table, rattling dinnerware and knocking his reposing soup spoon out with a flip. He'd shot up from his seat, murderous yet... unsure?

"I don't want to hear some bloody apology over some imagined wrong in your intellectual head. Nor do I wish to converse about my family's time-honoured traditions, lineage, dying gardens or the goddamned soup! Who the hell are you tonight, anyway? The lower class' answer to Mademoiselle Manners? You're fucking one of them, now!" A blink of her eyes and Tia caught only the dishes and liquids as they flew through the air. Regulus' violent sweep of his arm already pulled in, his body stalking out of the room before she could react more than a shriek and a duck.

In no more than three heartbeats, the room was silent once more, the table drenched and spotted with broken pottery, glass, meal. Only the steady drip of soup runoff onto the Turkish carpet broke the stillness.

-o-

He was angry. No. He was furious. Seething. And logic could not offer as to why. Why he was these dark things, why he'd lost control, why he'd reacted so violently and to what purpose. All Regulus could decipher was that the longer he'd sat there watching Jones in her concentrated primness and textbook propriety, the greater his agitation became.

It made no sense, really, he argued as he faded through the house in near blackness. She was behaving according to dictate, to Society, and as a Black he should expect – nay, demand – such from a guest. But the whole time she further resembled everything he was brought up to revere, everything that was Hestia Jones had begun to grow fuzzy, sway, reshape. With each syllable her mouth turned from cutting clever to malleable memsahib. Muggle courts couldn't have complained.

And therein lies the issue, doesn't it? A slight stumble in his path before he righted himself, slowed his hostile pace. Yes, indeed. Her invitation had been of purpose, but within such he had unconsciously sought out one singular respite from the whole deception game.

Hestia Jones' refreshing challenge.

She wasn't the pale of his circle. Gods, no; Jones had her own rules and opinions and felt no earthly recall from sharing such emphatically. She may curtail herself in an attempt of kindness, a sense of manners, or even shyness or frustration. But attempt to conform to a rigidity she abhorred? Oh yes, he knew of her distinct dislike and disregard of social class and its etiquette within the upper echelon. Ironically, she was also one of the first to attempt perpetual kindness, the last to give in to rudeness. But regardless of her temperament of the moment, Jones was a passionate thinker, and he had to admit the draw of something different.

But then she'd acted the timid mouse of a high-societal debutant this evening, and each insipid, mousey utterance from that provocative mouth only infuriated him more. Could she not just be herself tonight? Was it too much to bloody well ask?!

Until Friday, he was stuck practically alone with her in this suffocating mausoleum. Mother had pointed out succinctly that he was to use the private time to ensure Jones' complete adoration and loyalty. Translation: seduce her.

Mother was vicious.

Regulus had no desire to seduce Jones, nor did he believe Mother would have preferred that line of action if she thought it would lead to any real sort of relationship. After all, it was playtime. An act. But he had to be convincing in order to get her father's talents for the Dark Lord. Never would Ezra Jones offer fealty to him, but once in his grasp the apothecary could be persuaded to remain in service. It remained Regulus' duty to get him there through his mercurial daughter.

Admittedly it had been some time since Regulus' dabbling with Bertha Jorkins, his first kissing partner. Since then technique had been acquired, refined, but it had been with the intent of bestowing upon a mistress or other lady of pleasure. Not, it was becoming clear, on his duty-driven imp guest. Were he to marry a witch of his mother's choosing (or rather, when), he would be expected to beget an heir and a spare – how he knew that philosophy well – upon her. But affection or true desire of said mate was negate. He was prepared to force himself for the sake of lineage, but really, how could she expect him such sacrifice for a such a small return? Especially when he could undoubtedly accomplish just as much without the labour.

Regulus stopped. Quick glance in dim firelight revealed he'd wandered into the dustily stocked library. Kreacher was there, saying nothing but stoking the flames and producing a woollen rug and feather pillow upon the extended loveseat. Kreacher knew him, remembered his traits well, it seemed. When faced with a night of restlessness, Regulus would often stole away into the library, reading or studying by the fire, playing Wizarding chess against himself, eventually tiring to sleep before the fire. His refuge indoors, it had always been. Tonight would necessitate a bit more, and Kreacher had foreseen that as well.

"Thank you, Kreacher," he responded flatly at the sighting of aged bourbon and a single glass.

The house-elf made a non-committal sound then asked as he straightened the makeshift bed, "Would Master Regulus desire anything else of Kreacher this evening?"

Suddenly melancholy, Regulus sighed heavily, running his hand through ever-lengthening black locks. "No, I s'pose not."

"Very well. Kreacher bids Master Regulus a restful night."

Regulus missed the pop as the house-elf Disapperated, his mind too jumbled with conflict. Sitting wearily upon his night's comfort, he drew the amber liquid toward him, poured two fingers and tossed back the medicinal burn. Mordred himself couldn't have created a more maddening conundrum.

What the bloody hell was he going to do?

Tossing back several more shots, Regulus settled beneath the covers, hands clasped behind his head as he stared unseeingly at dancing shadows on the ceiling. Feeling the invitation of the whiskey, its warmth driving blushing cheeks and potions demands and the fall of a brother from his thoughts, Regulus lowered his eyelids receptively.

-o-

She'd been hoping for a respite, something instructive or entertaining to clear turbulent emotions from her night. But at two in the morning, Tia had not expected a sight of pity to wash away anger and indignation.

In the dim light of a banked fire, Tia sat gingerly at the edge of the velvet settee, turned to gaze at Regulus' sleeping form. In repose, all signs of haughty spite drifted away, leaving behind only a pucker of furrowed brows, a line betwixt them still taut in some worry even sleep could not rid him.

The dark rug had fallen askew from his shoulders, revealing a bare chest unexpected. Even in poor lighting, Tia could make out a hue marked from holiday in warmer climes, a physique not comparable to his brother, but yet the beginnings of a fine form to be had inside a decade of maturing. She couldn't help but respond with pleasure at the sight, but desire was heavily tempered by pity. Gooseflesh rose on the bared skin, his troubled look that Tia wished only to spirit away.

Maternal warred with something undefined, and Tia's hands rose unbidden to secure the duvet back in place across his – scarred? – shoulder. Moving upward, index finger found the brow's tension and gently rubbed to loosen it. Successful at some level, glance and finger found the raven locks that had fallen haphazardly across his brow, tips to his eye. Softly, reverently, she brushed it aside, revelling in its texture, recalling with shameful joy the feel of his hair as both hands had found their way, intertwining with need.

Unable to resist curiosity, Tia's hand floated across a rough jaw to the jagged white niche at its lower bone... then to the distinctly more notable one on his left shoulder, just shy of his collar bone. Tracing lightly, Tia's forbidden enjoyment disintegrated in lieu of empathy, of protectiveness, of –

Fitting the creature for which his house was represented, a hand struck in sudden and accurate motion. Tia started, but was aware before movement that she could not escape the vice grip Regulus now had on her wrist. Raising her sights, Tia's ardour cooled to a vague fear in the mirror of Regulus Black's narrowed, black intensity.