#birl's scrapbook

[birlwrites]

scrapbook snippet: do better

bellatrix pov of a (non-gory) part of chapter 4 of lachrimae!

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Regulus takes off his mask, and he looks like a baby.

He's ten years younger, so Bellatrix has never thought of him as a full adult, really—not that she should, he's only sixteen, and that just barely—but he's a proper teenager, the type who shuts himself away in his room to write to his friends all the time, who thinks he's being so subtle about his enormous crush on the Rosier boy, who gets sulky when things don't go his way even if he's good at slapping a neutral expression onto his face, keeping a tight leash on his emotions the same way Cissa does. (He sulks the same way Cissa does, too, but she did a much better job of not panting over Lucius in public.)

But Regulus now, curled up in the fetal position, backed against the wall looking up at the Dark Lord, rumpled hair and wide eyes over a smattering of freckles and a slackened mouth—maybe that's a good thing, his jaw was so clenched that she wanted to crack it open before—he doesn't look like a proper teenager, not at all the secret-keeping Seer Bellatrix was tasked with tracking down and bringing to a personal initiation.

Less a secret weapon and more her baby cousin, out of the shallows for the first time, not sure how to stop treading water and just swim.

He's going to have to learn to do better than that.

[birlwrites]

scrapbook snippet: the origin of the bloodfinch

this is a piece of bloodfinch worldbuilding that was more fun to write up as a story than as notes - here you go! it's about 700 words, and it's set long before the time of the story. this is how the story would be told in finch's time

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In the time before the king was King, and was but a man, he had a brother.

The two were inseparable in the way of the sides of a coin: opposites, but bound together until they seemed to be one creature. The elder was Cynefrith, and he was humble, a hand-worker, a healer and harpist, steady as a sun-warmed stone. The younger was Wilnoth, and he was bold, a story-teller, weaving between tales of the saints and tales of his own battlefield exploits with ease, for theirs was a time of battle and unrest. Warlords fought and scrabbled for territory, clinging to the edges of their lands with blood-soiled fingertips, and it was Cynefrith who believed most strongly that this could not go on. Upon their father’s death, Cynefrith intended to approach other warlords with open hands, speaking words of peace, forging alliances and treaties so that all could flourish. He spoke often of this to Wilnoth.

But it was not to be.

As their father lay on his deathbed, Cynefrith left his bedside and walked a secret path into the forest. He was a healer, but he knew the limits of his power. It was his habit to seclude himself when a hard battle had been lost, and though his father still clung to life, Cynefrith, his heir, would have no time to grieve alone after his death.

So Cynefrith walked, alone, singing to himself as he went, the better to calm the ache in his heart.

Wilnoth eventually took his place at their father’s bedside, to keep him company, but he expected Cynefrith to return soon.

And Cynefrith did not.

And Wilnoth said, “He will return before our father passes,” and all believed him.

But their father’s breathing weakened, his pulse faltered, and still Cynefrith did not return.

Wilnoth could not leave their father’s bedside, but it was a time of unrest, and he was shrewd in the ways of war, and he ordered warriors out to search for Cynefrith, and they went. The night stretched out, dark and cold, a chill in the air that settled into the bones of all who saw the emptiness at Wilnoth’s side.

When their father died, near dawn, Wilnoth did not weep, but he rose and said, “All must join the search, but do not tell Cynefrith of what has happened in his absence; bring him to me, that I may tell him, in the way of family.”

And all scattered into the forest, bearing lanterns, and Wilnoth was among them. In the early light of daybreak, he searched, ceaseless, calling out the name of his brother, until finally he remembered Cynefrith’s secret path. And he followed it, loud and clarion in the new sunlight, and he came to a clearing nestled between groves of graceful trees, and he saw his brother resting in a bed of flowers.

Wilnoth called to him, and thought him asleep, and touched his arm to wake him, and Cynefrith did not stir, his body cold and pale with dew, for Cynefrith was dead.

For a day and a night, Wilnoth wept, sick with grief for his father and his brother, and his men took Cynefrith’s body back to their village and found that Cynefrith had been stabbed, dried blood crusting over his back, and they spoke of rival warlords, of revenge. But Wilnoth, who had not left the clearing with his brother, returned on the next bright morning, and he spoke to them as a king.

Wilnoth spoke of a vision, of a bloodred bird, impaled through the heart but singing merrily, and wherever its blood touched the ground, there grew flowers. And a heavenly voice sounded, and it told Wilnoth this: that the bloodfinch could sing for twenty years so injured before dying, and that the flowers of its death-blood would give him strength. And in exchange for this strength, he must be the one to unite the land, not through the treaties Cynefrith spoke of, but through power. And when there was one kingdom, healed and whole under one banner, then Cynefrith’s death would not be in vain.

Having spoken thus, Wilnoth, for he loved his brother, left his people to seek out the bloodfinch.

[birlwrites]

scrapbook snippet: evocatioops

this was an exchange i sadly couldn't fit into chapter 2 of 5 times sirius ranted at barty, in which heather is curious about why james is soooooooo concerned about evan being the root of all evil and shattering regulus's heart forever

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"Why does James care so much?" Heather says. "I'd think you'd be the one obsessing."

"I," Sirius says, "care a reasonable amount, and if I picture Evan going about his day, I don't automatically think of him cackling maniacally and flipping through a huge book titled How To Cheat At Quidditch."

[birlwrites]

lachrimae snippet for regulus's birthday!

IT IS REGULUS'S BIRTHDAY (at least it is in the birl cinematic universe) SO HERE IS A SNIPPET OF A BIRTHDAY!!!!!

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Midnight arrives when they're sitting on a carved marble bench underneath an arbor swathed in sweet-smelling climbing roses. From here, the gardens melt into a landscape, the house a golden beacon far off to their right, the horizon covered by a dark smudge of trees that mark the edge of the rose gardens. If Regulus closes his eyes, he can pretend that the ball isn't even happening, that Evan invited him over to do nothing more than sit in the gardens together, watching the moon rise.

Hidden bells chime the hour, and Evan nudges Regulus's shoulder. "Happy birthday."

Regulus could respond with something about being first without cheating, which would undoubtedly prompt Evan to deliver a spontaneous victory speech, but... he wants to sit here in the quiet, see the gentle rise and fall of Evan's chest out of the corner of his eye, seed pearls glimmering with every breath. No speeches—not right now, at least. There'll be time for that sort of thing over cake later.

So he just says, "Thank you."

He has quite a year ahead of him. But if it ends like this, sitting with Evan under the stars, then Regulus will have something to look forward to, despite it all.

[birlwrites]

scrapbook snippet: seventh year

this is a warm-up i did, sort-of-vaguely set in the atfhv universe but i don't think it'll make any sort of actual appearance, just based on my general writing process.

featuring: soft established rosewater, talking about the future (referencing complications due to both of them being set up to inherit control of different noble houses), THE CHAISE

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It's alarmingly easy to accept Evan's silent offer, sink onto the chaise in the space at his side. Regulus used to think of himself as more... well, independent. Desks and armchairs and twin beds. But the allure of this took hold of him around the same time that Evan did—sofas and loveseats and a chaise longue big enough for two, if they keep close.

A sofa is simpler, a bed more comfortable, but Regulus has a soft spot for the chaise. It was a gift from Hogwarts, after all.

Besides, he wants to keep close. Sometimes that's the only thing he knows for sure.

Evan's fingertips are light as they run through his hair, his voice soft. "My parents are giving me the townhouse as a graduation gift. If you wanted to know."

"I didn't know you had one." The Rosiers certainly don't spend any time there.

"That's what makes it such a good gift—now the upkeep is my responsibility instead of theirs. And someone gets some use out of it."

Regulus doesn't have to be a genius to figure out why Evan is bringing this up now. NEWTs are approaching, and then graduation will bear down upon them like a freight train, and their neighboring beds, their shared meals, even Regulus's office—they'll all vanish, relegated to a bygone era of their lives.

He knows what it's like to wake up without Evan nearby. There are the summer and winter holidays, after all. But they don't feel real in the way that Hogwarts does. They've always been temporary.

"What will your policy be on callers?" he says, because it's easier than what he wants to say.

Even as recently as fifty years ago, people got married younger—right out of Hogwarts. That was when they were beginning their adult lives, after all, and they wanted companions for the journey. They don't really do that anymore—there's no traditional flurry of proposals in the spring of seventh year, no flood of weddings every July and August.

Even if there were, it wouldn't be simple. Not for two heirs.

"Well, you can come over whenever you want," Evan says comfortably, and as expected as it is, Regulus still feels a little warmer because of it. "There'll be a private Floo in the drawing room. I'll give you the address. You'll just need to come over an hour or so before mealtimes if you want food."

"Very practical."

"And I'll make sure there's Assam."

Regulus is already pressed against Evan's side, but he's momentarily swept away by the urge to press even closer, impossibly so—he has to content himself with hooking one leg over Evan's, pressing his lips to Evan's collarbone maybe a little too hard, and Evan stops stroking Regulus's hair to hug him almost tightly enough.

"Get a chaise too," Regulus says to Evan's neck, just to hear him laugh.

"Consider it done." He loosens his hold, goes back to stroking Regulus's hair—it's practically habitual for Evan at this point. "Purple again, or shall we branch out?"

"How are we meant to choose furniture colors when we haven't seen the rooms?"

"Oh, I'd redecorate if necessary." Like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Even if I said I wanted bright orange and green stripes with silver trim?"

"You came up with that design concerningly fast."

"You are, as ever, tactful about your instantaneous rejections."

That makes Evan laugh again. "If you really wanted that, I'd at least take you to a Healer for a health screening before saying no."

"How reassuring."

A few breaths pass, soft, even, before Evan says quietly, "We could pretend you lived there too."

Regulus has to shut his eyes.

"I know you can't, not really," Evan says, and the gentle movement of his fingers through Regulus's hair seems restless rather than absent-minded, or maybe neither. "But we could pretend."

Regulus pictures it—a townhouse, new to them both, a master bedroom meant for two and two only, a pantry full of whatever they want, invitations addressed to both of them, a fabulously ugly chaise longue photographed for posterity before being completely reupholstered however Evan wants it, because really, Regulus doesn't care. He wouldn't care even if it were utterly hideous. He'd just look at Evan instead.

He'll just look at Evan instead.

"It's not impossible," Regulus says, because it's easier than I'll make it possible. "Just very, very complicated."

Evan hums in agreement. "Is now when I'm meant to say that you do like complicated, or were you not setting up a punchline?"

"I like complicated." Regulus kisses Evan's collarbone again. "We'll figure it out."

[birlwrites]

scrapbook snippet: in which evan does homework?? 😱

this is a snippet i just wrote for lachrimae and it amuses me so here you go!

necessary context: regulus has just dreamed about death eaters attacking a muggle street on halloween, but the snippet itself is much more focused on regulus and evan. ~500 words

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Regulus jolts awake in a cold sweat.

"About time, you've been out for a while," Evan says lightly—they're still sitting on Evan's bed, Regulus is leaning on Evan's shoulder, he must have fallen asleep like that— "Barty's still not back from detention, if you can believe it. His professor must be pissed—are you alright?"

Regulus takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he's seen worse. His neck hurts, and Evan's robes have probably left creases on his face, and he fell asleep, and...

Halloween is coming.

Dream interpretation is not Regulus's favorite technique, not by a long shot, but... that wasn't an ordinary dream. And it couldn't have been a nightmare—it made too much sense.

But it's not something he can tell Evan about. "Yes. I just... had an unpleasant dream. How long was I asleep?"

"An hour or so. Here." Evan hands him a piece of parchment with a flourish—Regulus's problem set isn't balanced on his lap anymore, his quill and ink have been set aside—the parchment is Evan's problem set, for some reason, complete and dry, even the large splotches where he scribbled things out.

"Why am I holding this?" Regulus says.

"So you can copy it!" He flips his arithmancy textbook to the answer keys at the back and nudges it over. "It's all correct, I checked, so just do what I did and then go back to sleep."

When Regulus can't figure out what to do with that information, Evan huffs a sigh. "It's one problem set. And you fell asleep sitting up at eight PM. Copy mine and be done with it."

What is he supposed to do?

Evan did homework because of him—Regulus fell asleep and Evan continued doing homework, and then handed it over for Regulus to copy like it isn't always the other way around, and Regulus wants to clutch Evan's arm and never let go, but he hasn't actually... he's never copied someone else. Other people always copy him. Regulus doesn't need to. He does his work, and he turns it in, and it's that simple.

"Regulus," Evan says. "I can hear you thinking."

"It's not due until Friday."

"Irrelevant." He moves closer and slips an arm around Regulus's waist, and Regulus forgets how to breathe. Their sides are pressed together—Evan's arm is warm against Regulus's back—Evan let Regulus sleep on his shoulder for an hour, and now his hand settles on Regulus's waist and Regulus can't move because if he moves then Evan might move too and sometimes in the past Evan has thrown his arm around Regulus's shoulders or leaned on him but that was different. That made Regulus want to laugh nervously or lean closer or just let it happen—now he feels like a corked bottle of champagne, shaken until the only thing stopping it from fizzing over is—what, though? What would that even mean? Regulus can't hold his hand like this—he could lean his head on Evan's shoulder again—he could turn towards him, wrap his arms around his shoulders and hold on—if he just turned his face, and so did Evan—

"I miss you," Evan murmurs. "Please copy my homework?"

Regulus folds.

[birlwrites]

scrapbook snippet: reading is hard :(

this is a piece of chapter 34 of ttdl, from evan's pov!

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Evan is pretending to read a magazine.

He'd opened it with grand ideas about actually looking at the printed word, understanding it, and retaining the information on the page for further use at a later date. Instead, the ink might as well be a series of meaningless smudges, pitch-black against the bright photographs and designs, and that just makes him think of Regulus, but he hasn't really stopped thinking of Regulus since yesterday so maybe that's an unfair leveling of blame at the magazine when the real culprit is Evan's brain.

Or he could blame Regulus. Regulus, and that letter he sent. 'Dear Evan'? How dare he? Evan accomplished nothing yesterday except for lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out what to do about the fact that reading those two words did something to him, and not the sort of something that he's good at ignoring.

So. Blame the letter, because the letter made Evan useless for a whole day. And blame Regulus, because really, it's Regulus's fault that Evan is in this predicament in the first place.

The fireplace flares green, and Evan gives up on the magazine.

It is absolutely ridiculous, how light he feels when Regulus steps into the foyer.

Evan is not, and has never been, immune to the charms of other people. Usually, he simply doesn't care enough to be affected, but he notices, at least. Sometimes, though, one person takes over his entire mind, and suddenly the littlest things mean everything to him. Like how the Floo left a strand of Regulus's hair out of place and he hasn't noticed it yet, and how he's tucked his hands behind his back as if he's not sure what to do with them. It's something Regulus used to do much more when they were little, but it still creeps in occasionally. Deciding whether to say something or wait for Evan to do so.

Which is when Evan realizes he has no idea how much time has passed since Regulus arrived, and he's just been staring like a smitten fool. But Regulus hasn't raised an eyebrow at him, so he's probably safe—Regulus probably hasn't noticed the awkward pause. Still, to cover it, Evan scrambles to stand up. He's bowing with a flourish before he can think twice about it, mentally kicks himself for making this weirder, and tries to cover with, "Welcome!"

And Regulus's lips curve into a smile so small that he might not even be aware of it, because Regulus is like that sometimes, and drawing that tiny smile out of him somehow gives Evan the exact same feeling as scoring in quidditch. (Which also sometimes results in Regulus smiling at him. At least Evan hasn't flown into a goalpost because of it. Yet.)

Evan of yesterday morning didn't know what he was in for when he invited Regulus over for tea. But he'll embrace it anyway, for the twinkling ebullience of it, for the way that the whole world feels brighter when Regulus smiles. It can be fun, fancying someone.

As long as it doesn't end badly.

[birlwrites]

scrapbook snippet: spies

this is a narcissa POV ficlet i wrote when i was considering having regulus become a double agent in STGA (in the sense of the death eaters forcing him into spying for them and him promptly using that to feed them false information)

!!contains spoilers for chapter 24 of stga!!

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It has to be Regulus.

Of everyone in the Order (not that Narcissa knows the identities of many of the members), he is the only one she trusts to keep any information in his head secret from Voldemort. Sirius might be able to Occlude well enough, if he's developed some more patience and lost a little stubbornness since Narcissa last saw him, but there is absolutely no way she could plausibly suggest him. Not with his number of confirmed kills.

So it has to be Regulus, who isn't exactly unknown to the Death Eaters or Voldemort either. Narcissa will need an excellent reason as to why he is a good choice for spying on the Order.

Fortunately, she has several.

"If I could make a suggestion, my lord?" Narcissa says. She doesn't look Voldemort in the eye, keeping her head slightly bowed. It looks respectful, at least to someone like him who expects deference, and it takes away his easiest way of getting into her mind. It doesn't mean much—Voldemort is a very good Legilimens—but it gives Narcissa a private measure of satisfaction.

Voldemort indulges her. After her extremely public grief over Bellatrix's death, he's been doing this, letting her ask questions, sit in on meetings with his inner circle, probably so he can push her into taking the Mark to avenge her sister. (Little does he know.) "You may."

"Regulus Black could be a worthwhile candidate."

Silence stretches for one moment, two, three, then Voldemort says, "And why is that, dear Narcissa?"

"His habit of following Sirius around?" Crouch grumbles. "Helpful."

Narcissa ignores Crouch. He and Regulus were friends once, she remembers, although she's not sure how long it lasted after their Sortings. "I know my cousins, my lord. It's true that Regulus tends to look to Sirius for direction. However, he is not nearly as committed to their... cause. Sirius guides him, but someone else could easily take up that role. He knows Sirius, and he knows the Potters. It would make up for the loss of Pettigrew, and you can certainly break him with the right leverage."

"Which would be?" Voldemort says.

"Me." Narcissa raises her chin a bit. "However much he cares for Sirius, telling him my life depends on his actions would break him. I know he misses me. He has for years. Offer him a reunion if he cooperates. Threaten him with having my torture or death on his conscience if he fails. It will work."

(That is, it'll work as long as she can message Regulus and warn him she's sending Death Eaters his way and he had better pretend to comply.)

"You realize I will not bluff to him." Voldemort's expression is calm. He's not laughing, and he's not angry either, which means he's considering it. And asking Narcissa to stake her life on Regulus spying for them.

She dips her head. "I understand, my lord. I am prepared to do what I must for our cause."

Lucius's gaze is on her, eyes the slightest bit alarmed, as much emotion as he can show in a Death Eater meeting. Narcissa doesn't dare look back at him for longer than an instant. Better if Voldemort has no opportunity to see worry or fear in her face, only willing acceptance.

"And if he refuses, it will not be a total loss," she adds. "You would be able to use him to set a trap for his brother and the Potters."

With that, she knows she's convinced him. Voldemort may consider himself above manipulation, but he is certainly telling himself right now that it only makes sense to use Regulus, given the opportunity to trap and murder both Lily Potter and Sirius Black. Never mind that Regulus is a Black, never mind that he's gotten through the war nearly unscathed so far, never mind that Pettigrew even called him competent to Voldemort's face. None of those matter to Voldemort, not when compared with the prospect of either forcing one of the Blacks who resisted him to kneel (their escape may still grate on him, even years later), or killing several of the people who have been the greatest thorns in his side. He has grown overconfident, started to believe in his own legend. It will be the cause of his death. Narcissa knows this as well as she knows her own name.

"Very well," Voldemort says. "Rookwood. Crouch. Find Regulus Black and bring him to me. You will be present for this meeting, Narcissa." (He always calls her by her first name, her and Bellatrix and Alecto. Narcissa has never been sure if it's because they share surnames with other Death Eaters or if it's a subtle kind of denigration.) "The rest of you know your roles. Dismissed."

Narcissa rises, with a bow of her head in Voldemort's direction, and sweeps out of the room. Past Severus, whose face is carefully blank, probably plotting how to make up for the damage this will do to the Order, and past Crouch and Rookwood, heads bent together and talking quietly, and past other Death Eaters not important enough for a seat at the table. (It took barely a day for Amycus Carrow to move up to the right-hand seat Bellatrix had once occupied, and for Crouch to take Carrow's old place further down the table.) She pretends not to notice Lucius on her heels. He won't say anything until they've reached a place where they can talk quietly.

She'll have to reassure him quickly enough that she has time to Patronus-message Regulus before Crouch and Rookwood get to him.

Narcissa steps into the blue sitting room and taps on the portrait of Lucius's great-grandmother, who's sleeping and doesn't notice her great-grandson and his wife stepping into the secret passageway. These are a very useful feature of Malfoy Manor, and one they have kept secret from Voldemort so far. That quiet rebellion on Lucius's part gives Narcissa some hope for him.

As soon as the portrait swings shut, Lucius says, "Cissa—"

"I know what I'm doing," Narcissa interrupts gently. She looks directly into his blue eyes, willing him to understand or at least accept. "I promise you, Regulus will kneel before he lets the Dark Lord kill me. No matter how determined our lord is not to bluff, as soon as I die he loses his leverage. He realizes this. He will keep me alive. Please don't let him know you have any doubts about this plan. I don't want to see you punished."

"Why volunteer him for this?" Lucius says. "It's not an easy role. We both know that. It doesn't guarantee his survival."

"It gives him a better chance than if he stays with Sirius." As she says it, Narcissa's heart hurts. As much as Lucius is a Death Eater, as much as he hates the Order, he's never tried to convince her it was wrong to care about her estranged cousins. Her disowned sister. Not like Bellatrix did. That was what gave Narcissa the strength to kill her, in the end. She knows she would never be able to do the same to Lucius. Not when he loves her as she is. "Please, Lucius, go back and tell the Dark Lord that you're pleased with my commitment to serving him. Convince him you're not worried for me and you're sure Regulus will acquiesce. That will ensure he believes what I've told him about me being the right leverage. He will know how important my life is to the success of this plan. And when it works, he will be pleased with us." For as long as it takes for Regulus to start feeding Voldemort false information, that is. Perhaps Narcissa should also start working on a quick-escape plan. She can Stun Lucius at the right moment to make sure he doesn't hold them up.

"At the cost of your life? Cissa, no. He's not worth that."

Narcissa takes his hand, holds it as tightly as she can, hope sitting like a stone in her stomach. Please, please let this mean he'll choose us over him. "I know. It won't come to that. I promise."

He squeezes her hand. "I trust you. If you're sure, then... I suppose I'll go tell the Dark Lord that I am too."

"Thank you." Narcissa presses her lips to his, briefly, meant to reassure more than anything. "I don't know how soon Regulus will arrive. I want to set my mind in order before he does."

"I'll make up some lady-of-the-manor reason that you've disappeared temporarily." Lucius smiles, quick, and then he's gone, back into the blue sitting room.

Yes, Narcissa will have to Stun him to make sure he comes along easily when they escape. She can't let him go.

Once the portrait has swung closed again, she sets up a quick muffling charm and concentrates on the reception after her wedding. Regulus is only barely in this memory, but it's... difficult, these days, to think of a happy memory including him that isn't tainted by the war or the Blacks' rage after Andy's elopement. It will suffice. "Expecto patronum."

Narcissa tries not to cast her Patronus around other Death Eaters. She's not sure how they would react to her lioness.

"To Regulus Black. Regulus, Rookwood and Crouch are coming for you. They will use me as leverage to get you to spy for the Dark Lord. Accept the deal. Plausibly."

The lioness leaps away, vanishing and leaving the passageway dark. That's fine. Narcissa doesn't need light. She knows these routes backward and forward, and she can find her way to her and Lucius's chambers easily. While it was partly an excuse to get Lucius to leave her alone for a few minutes, she does want to set her mind in order before Regulus arrives. There is no telling what Voldemort will do to her in order to break him. If Narcissa's Occlumency needs to withstand the Cruciatus, she should use every moment she gets to prepare.

[birlwrites]

scrapbook snippet: intruders

here is a small piece of what i have been working on for the past few days, because sharing is fun

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"Anyway," Crouch says. "Can't get out through the passages, so we stay here and listen for people coming in looking for intruders. Once they're gone, we leave through the library. Clear?" He finishes the pattern, and the door shimmers into view. "You have no choice, by the way. Unless you want to get caught."

He's right about that, but it's not like Sirius is going to admit it. Instead, he grabs the door handle before Crouch can and turns.

There's silence.

Sirius inches the door open, but all remains still.

The wards have held.

He opens it all the way. "In we go."

"After you," Crouch says, so gallantly that there's clearly an insult coming. "Age before beauty."

Yep, there it is. Pretty poor choice of insult, though, because it gives Sirius the perfect opening to say, "So are you just planning to stay in the library, then?"

Crouch scoffs. Sirius grins at him and steps into the servants' hallway.

[birlwrites]

kill your darlings, bloodfinch edition: meet-awkward

it BREAKS MY HEART that i can't include this in bloodfinch due to my decision to have finch and adalric be long-time friends by the time that the story begins. thus, this scene of adalric trying to Make A Friend had to be cut. but i love it so i'm sharing it with you. here you go!

(it hasn't been totally fleshed out, hence the bits in brackets)

-

A light knock against the door crashes through the delicate chord.

Maybe it’s Dulceis? I didn’t hear anyone coming up the stairs, so maybe I was too absorbed in the music, lost track of time and now I need to get ready for the banquet—I set my lute on its stand and swing the carved door open.

It’s not Dulceis.

“Hello,” the crown prince says.

[finch is like uM??????????]

It’s definitely him—Prince Adalric. I haven’t spoken to him often, as he seems to spend all of his time embroiled in politics, but he has the queen’s ginger hair, the king’s sharp nose, a brooch with the royal crest pinned to his doublet: a bloodfinch perched on a crown, worked in gold with a tiny red jewel where the bloodfinch’s eye would be. The only reason to doubt that it would really be the prince is that he’s standing outside my sitting room. And he looks off, somehow, disheveled in a way that I can’t pinpoint, even though he’s dressed impeccably.

Instead of asking if he’s lost, I bob a curtsy. I should probably also say something, like hello, but that seems too… un-baffled.

“I heard you playing,” the prince says, which doesn’t clear anything up.

With no small degree of triumph, I string together a sentence that balances courtesy with my desire to know what he��s doing here. “Can I help you with something, your highness?”

“Yes,” and then he backtracks, “maybe.”

What would Dulceis do? She would act as if this sort of thing happened all the time, keep her composure in the moment, and then relate the whole story to Edifa in tones of bewilderment later.

I can do that.

I step to the side, holding the door open. “Would you like to come in?”

He crosses the threshold, almost trips over a stack of sheet music—Dulceis and Edifa and Odelgar all know to avoid it when they come in—and then takes up a stance in the middle of the room, his hands folded neatly behind his back.

I close the door and remind myself to act as if this is normal. “What can I help you with?”

“Your performance,” he starts… and that’s it. His gaze strays to the lute corner.

Dulceis would prompt him to keep going. “Yes?”

The silence lays thick and cloudy over the room. None of my tutors ever have any difficulty coming up with things to say—they’re usually the ones trying to pull me out of reticence. The prince’s eyebrows draw together, and then he straightens his shoulders and spine with a sharp, final-sounding breath. “You’ve been here for nineteen years.”

“Yes.” That was the whole point of today’s concert.

“Everyone’s watching you to see what you’ll do.”

I want to pick up my lute again, but it’s on the other side of the room. “Yes.”

“Do you feel… ready?”

Unbidden, my mind strays back to the Hall of the Nameless Saint, the audience on its feet, cheering like they saw no reason why they should ever stop. The first time I’ve ever performed outside the palace, and the last. “It’s my duty.”

“I’m aware of that.” He’s staring at the lutes so intensely that a vision of us fighting over them bursts into my mind. “I didn’t know you played so well.”

[finch emotional moment — NO ONE knows she plays so well] Perhaps he can be forgiven for appearing unannounced on my doorstep. “I have to be careful not to overtax my voice. Music for solo lute lets me rest after singing.”

“Oh.” [adalric looks like a deer in headlights. abashed? startled?] “Should I be engaging you in conversation? Do you need to be silent? I’m sorry.”

I want to laugh, but that’s probably a bad idea. “No, there’s no need to be on complete vocal rest unless I’ve already hurt myself.” There are ways of speaking that put stress on the voice, but Dulceis and I have rooted out all of those habits and eliminated them. Talking is almost always fine—the only thing I can never, ever do is raise my voice. “I’m just done singing for the day.”

He nods with such crisp formality that I have to press my lips together so I don’t smile. I’ve seen the prince plenty of times, of course, but he’s always been deep in conversation that looks halfway to being an argument with some government official or other, or sitting silently in the audience at one of my performances. He and Princess Hadelinde, the second-oldest child, are the unsociable members of the royal family. Or so I’d thought?

And yet, the prince is here, for reasons I still have yet to ascertain.

[birlwrites]

scrapbook snippet: define 'carburetor'

i tried lots of possible beginnings for ttdl. this is one of the ones i scrapped pretty quickly (aside from a few lines you might recognize that made it into ttdl), then kept writing because it was fun. read on for: megan gleefully causing problems, regulus passing out shovels so everyone can help him dig his own grave, and evan committing acts of violence! it's about 2.3k

*

Regulus's plan, such as it is, first begins to go off the rails in the common room after dinner.

It starts, as many things do, with second-year Megan Fleming. She's a half-blood, which isn't unheard of in Slytherin, but half-bloods with one Muggle parent as opposed to one Muggleborn are unusual. Severus Snape has dealt with being unusual by worming his way into the pack of bullies in the upper years. Megan deals with it by punching people who insult her father in the face. Regulus frequently wonders if the Sorting Hat considered Gryffindor for her.

This wouldn't ordinarily be Regulus's concern—Megan can handle herself perfectly well, and it's not like she needs upper-years to come to her defense against the likes of her yearmate Gina Crabbe. However, two things have happened this year that make it his concern. First of all, he became a prefect. Second of all, Megan made the Slytherin quidditch team as Hogwarts' most deceptively-harmless-looking Beater, and as a result, Regulus has a vested interest in keeping her safe and uninjured. (He can't keep her out of detention. There are some things not even the Blacks can do.)

Megan, of course, knows that Regulus quietly looks out for her and seems to revel in making this difficult for him, as evidenced by how she climbs on top of a table and says at the top of her lungs, "Until any of you can tell me how a car works, I don't give a single shit how magical your stupid grandparents are!"

If she'd said it more quietly, maybe it wouldn't have become a problem.

But she says it loudly enough that the pack of bullies sitting in the corner looks up.

"Is that so," seventh-year Amycus Carrow sneers.

The common room falls dead silent.

Amycus Carrow has a very specific reason to dislike Megan, namely that he was playing Beater for Slytherin until this year, when going on academic probation meant that he was kicked off all his extracurriculars. Megan has his old position, and to be perfectly honest, she's a better player than he is. (Her mother being an assistant coach for the Montrose Magpies has a lot to do with that.) It's not a good reason for him to dislike her, but it is a potent one.

Megan stands her ground. Or rather, her table. "Define 'carburetor.'"

Now seems like a great time for Regulus to get involved.

He can either try to deescalate the conflict (unlikely, neither Carrow nor Megan have ever deescalated anything in their lives), or he can redirect it towards himself instead of towards Megan. Regulus is much, much better equipped to withstand the bullies' ire than Megan is, so that makes the choice easy.

There are a lot of ways he could try to make Carrow switch focus to him instead.

But there's only one that's sufficiently outrageous to make sure the bullies forget all about Megan.

"She has a point," he says, loudly enough for everyone in the common room to hear him, quietly enough that it doesn't sound like he's trying too hard. "I also don't care how magical your grandparents are, Carrow."

And for a brief moment, Regulus thinks it will end there, in confused silence.

It does not.

"Are you kidding me?" sixth-year Julius Mulciber says. "Black, I'd expect better from you of all people."

"Intriguing," Regulus says. "I'll be sure to take that into account as soon as I've figured out why your expectations matter."

Charlotte Yaxley, the other fifth-year prefect, is frowning. "I mean... Regulus, you heard what you just said, right?"

"Are you implying I'd say anything without thinking it through first? Have I ever done that, Charlotte?"

"Nah, he's right," seventh-year Alecto Carrow says. "The three-generations rule lets someone with four mudblood grandparents call themselves pureblood. I say six generations back is the one that matters."

Regulus makes sure every word is crisp and clear enough to cut through the muttering that has started to build in the common room. "What a creative interpretation. However, that is not what I meant."

Evan Rosier snickers. For Barty's sake, Regulus hopes he isn't about to say something awful. Not that Evan ever really says anything awful—he's excellent at avoiding saying anything of substance, actually. But Regulus has his own room this year since he's a prefect, which means the fifth-year boys' dorm is just Barty and Evan, and Regulus would prefer if Barty didn't get into fights with someone who can easily access where he sleeps.

"Something to contribute, Rosier?" Amycus Carrow says.

He smiles broadly. "No, nothing in particular. I'm just amused. By all means, continue."

"Continuing seems like a bad idea," sixth-year prefect Cora Shacklebolt says. "Do we really have to get into a house-wide fight on the first night back? Can't we at least wait until we don't have classes the next day?"

"We do have to get into it," her yearmate Sophia Warrington says. "Because it sounds like Black's admitting to being a tad bit more like his disgraced dipshit of a brother than his parents would prefer."

Geoff Pucey, seventh-year captain of the quidditch team and Warrington's boyfriend, frowns at her. "Soph, that's harsh."

"Don't talk around it," Regulus says. "My parents would have you thrown out for daring to imply that you're in their confidence, but I'll permit it just this once. What precisely do we have to get into, Warrington?"

"I don't know why you're all so surprised," Amycus Carrow says. "Black's been championing Fleming since she showed up, and she practically wears a sign with 'pro-mudblood' on it."

"Rude," Barty says. "I don't appreciate being forgotten about, Carrow. Or is it the Muggle father you're objecting to and not the blood traitor ideas? Because if that's the problem, then I have some bad news for you about your friend Snape. Or follower. Whatever he is to you, I don't actually know what's going on there."

"Black, muzzle your guard dog," Amycus Carrow says.

"Okay, seriously," Cora Shacklebolt says. "Do we have to fuel our reputation of being the mean house?"

"We are the mean house," Evan says cheerfully. "It keeps life interesting."

"We don't coddle people, Shacklebolt," Mulciber says.

"Is that so?" Heather Brown says. "Because you cried in first year when I figured out material transfiguration before you and got mad when I didn't apologize for hurting your feelings."

"Oh, so now the Light scion is going to preach to us?" Alecto Carrow says.

"I'm pointing out the rampant hypocrisy." She shrugs. "Not exactly preaching."

"Speaking of hypocrisy, can we get back to Black being a blood traitor?" Warrington says.

"How's that hypocritical?" Brown says. "He didn't choose his parents. Much like Muggleborns. And I'll remind you that you're not Sacred Twenty-Eight, Sophia, so your opinion on whether it's hypocritical for us to support Muggleborns is not just unnecessary, it's irrelevant."

Regulus has already started digging his own grave. He might as well finish the job. "Brown's right. In fact, as people with centuries of proven magical ancestry, we're particularly well-equipped to discuss whether it means anything. Given that people like the Carrows can be Sacred Twenty-Eight, I'm of the opinion that it doesn't."

Both of the Carrow twins get up from their seats then, faces twisted. Regulus smiles pleasantly at them and waits. He can take whatever they throw at him, especially since Barty will jump into a fight with him if possible.

But Evan Rosier gets there first and plants himself in the twins' way. He's still smiling like he's having the time of his life, but his voice is firm. "No brawling. What are we, Gryffindors?"

"Once a Rosier, always a Rosier, huh?" fifth-year Maeve Bulstrode says.

He grins at her. "Yep. It's in my blood to stop fights before they break out. Admittedly, usually I'm dealing with belligerently drunk party guests, not my sober housemates, but I'm finding that the skill set is similar."

"This isn't one of your stupid parties," Alecto Carrow says.

"Hm." Evan pretends to consider that. "You know what? House Carrow's banned from all Rosier properties and events, and our wards do a wonderful job of keeping you out, so I think you might be right about that."

Amycus Carrow tries to push past him, but Evan casually gets in his way. "Want to know one big, important way that Hogwarts isn't like a Rosier party? Besides permitting Carrows inside, of course."

"Enlighten us, please," Antony Flint, the other sixth-year prefect, says. (Next to him, Cora Shacklebolt sighs.)

Evan's smile gets, if anything, wider. "I don't have to be nice to all of you."

Then he punches Amycus Carrow in the face.

"Holy shit," Barty says.

"Holy shit!" Megan says, significantly louder. "Kick his arse, Evan!"

"Hm?" Evan shakes out his hand. "Oh, sorry, Megan. I don't brawl. That was just for fun."

Things descend into chaos after that.

*

Regulus stays in the common room long enough to ensure that everyone has either successfully fled or gone back to gossiping with their friends. Then he retreats to the safety of his own room, where he can evaluate what just happened and what's likely to happen next as a result.

Or that's what he plans to do, anyway. His plans are disrupted by Barty emerging from his and Evan's room, grabbing Regulus by the arm, and yanking him inside.

He is confronted with... quite a lot of people.

"And so Heir Black finally graces us with his presence," Maeve says. "I'd like to ask politely—what the fuck was that?"

"It was great, is what it was." Megan's still grinning. "Regulus, you should start fights more often."

"I didn't start anything," Regulus says. "You got on a table and Evan broke Amycus Carrow's nose."

Evan looks up from his bruised knuckles with an air of vague interest. "I did? Cool."

As long as they're asking the question of 'what the fuck was that,' Regulus would really like to know what was going through Evan's head at that moment, but he doesn't ask. Getting a straight answer out of Evan Rosier is near impossible under the best of circumstances. It'll never happen with this many witnesses around.

Regulus takes a look around the room. Most of the members of his Dark Arts study group have found their way here, along with Megan and Emma Vanity (fifth-year and Evan's best friend).

"I'd've clocked Carrow myself, but he never got close enough," Megan says. "I could've managed it since I was standing on the table."

"Can you not pick fights with seventh-years?" Geoff Pucey says. (Warrington is nowhere in sight.) "The Carrows are nasty. They won't hold back just because you're younger than them."

She scowls at him, lower lip jutting out. "They'd better not."

"I'm just glad Amycus is off the quidditch team this year," Emma says. "Otherwise practice would be really awkward."

"It was awkward enough with him and Kingsley on the same team last year," sixth-year Thomas Travers says. (He and Megan are the strangest Beater pair at Hogwarts—Thomas is about twice as wide as she is and a head and shoulders taller.) "Speaking of quidditch, did anyone see where Theophania vanished to? She's not in here, is she?"

"Nope," Emma says.

"I saw her go back to her room shortly after Evan became the center of attention," Regulus says. Theophania Nott is Kingsley Shacklebolt's replacement, Slytherin's third-year Keeper, and hates conflict off the quidditch pitch with a burning passion. "Why are all of you in here, anyway?"

"To talk to you," seventh-year prefect Priam Parkinson says. "What's going on? Have you lost your mind? Things like that."

"I haven't lost anything except my patience. I'm bored of letting them think I agree with them."

"Bored?" fifth-year Lucinda Talkalot says. "Mulciber not having it out for you is boring?"

"Yep," Barty says. "Excruciatingly so."

"They'll be after me and Evan now," Regulus says. "And Megan, but that's nothing new, I suppose."

"Definitely not," Megan chirps.

"So if anyone wants, hypothetically speaking, to make it clear that they don't buy into blood purity..." Regulus looks around the room and lets the significance of his words settle. "Now is the time."

"Question," Emma says. "What are you getting out of this?"

"I can get away with this. Slughorn will side with me, and my parents are convinced it's an insult for me to serve anyone, much less someone without proven pure blood." Well. They will be convinced, once Regulus gets around to having that conversation with them. "I'm not joining the Death Eaters. As for what I get out of it, I won't lie. I'm making myself into a shield because I think it's about time House Black found a new type of ally."

"I think I might be offended," Evan says idly.

"I'm not talking about severing ties with House Rosier. I'm not stupid." They have a reputation for being shallow and frivolous, thinking more about garden parties than the Wizengamot, but the main line are raised to be shrewd and manipulative under a veneer of vacuous smiles and expensive champagne. Uncle Cygnus's marriage to Aunt Druella means that House Black and House Rosier are allied, but Cygnus and Druella are both from cadet branches. The families could be tied closer. Like, for example, if Evan, their heir, found his way into the third side Regulus is assembling.

"So House Black's taking an anti-blood purity stance?" Priam Parkinson says skeptically. "Your parents agreed to that?"

"We're taking an anti-Voldemort stance."

Nobody calls him Voldemort out loud, which means that when Regulus does, everyone in the room freezes momentarily.

Regulus pauses to let them wrap their heads around it, then continues. "My parents and I have different reasoning, but we can agree on that, at least."

Or rather, they will, once Regulus forces his parents' hands into it.

[birlwrites]

scrapbook snippet: in which regulus incorrectly assumes he is dead

Regulus Arcturus Black is three things.

The first is a name. Stars against a black sky, picking out sparks of almost-uniqueness in a sea of family and history and roots.

The second is a person. Regulus was a younger son and an heir, a combination that whispered of tragedy. Regulus was a good son, even though he was not a very good brother.

The third is a memory.

Kreacher is the only one who knows where Regulus's body is. Perhaps the Dark Lord will find out eventually. But to all others, Regulus has vanished. Their memories of him are as he was. In a way, it's a comfort. None of them will ever have to see his body halted in death. In their memories, he is always alive.

[birlwrites]

your writing is so good. there is so much nuance in the characters and I genuinely enjoy reading about the machinations and ramifications, which can be dry if not handled well. (I am also immensely amused by the black brothers' situation, if only because Regulus has to be every indignant older sibling's worst nightmare) (not gonna lie, i kinda want to see Dumbledore try to have a heart to heart with Evan about falling for budding Dark Lords)

AAAAAAAAAA THANK YOU!!!!!!!

sfjghjdfhjghj i want to hear more about the indignant older sibling's worst nightmare - i am a younger sibling (which i feel like should surprise nobody at this point although i often get people irl who are shocked that i'm not the oldest), so while i don't have a really personal insight into this indignation, i imagine it's at least partly because regulus did the equivalent of taking sirius's bedroom when he left for school except Way Bigger. and also because he actively wields every single tactic he has to piss sirius off. and also because he's a BUDDING DARK LORD???????? *sirius voice* WHAT THE FUCK DUDE, I GO LIVE WITH THE POTTERS FOR 6 MONTHS AND THIS IS WHAT YOU GET UP TO WHEN LEFT UNSUPERVISED?????? WHY DID OUR PARENTS THINK YOU WERE THE GOOD CHILD THIS OUTWEIGHS EVERYTHING I'VE EVER DONE WHAT THE F U C K

side note i've recently been talking to my friend a lot about the possibility of little regulus looking like a positively angelic child who is making an adorable attempt at being Serious and has very good manners. which he drop-kicks out the window the second sirius suggests something fun. and i feel like that also plays into it

and dumbledore having a heart to heart with evan about falling for budding dark lords made me CACKLE so here, have this:

-

"I'm afraid you have a difficult path to walk," Dumbledore says. "Feelings can seem... all-consuming, when one is young."

Evan is starting to think this meeting is unrelated to his academic performance.

His brain is full of a stunning lack of coherent ideas for a response, so he sits there and waits. Regulus can get plenty of information out of people by just watching them expectantly. Evan's going to follow his example until he figures out what, exactly, he is doing in the headmaster's office.

"I would like to advise you against basing rash decisions on such things," Dumbledore continues.

(The words are practically going in one ear and out the other. Can Dumbledore tell? He used to be a professor—of Transfiguration, at that—so he must know when students are retaining precisely none of what he's said.)

"Let me be plain, Mr. Rosier."

That would be nice.

"Your situation is... complicated," Dumbledore sighs. "I happen to possess some personal insight from an experience in my youth. Should you wish it, I will share with you what I learned, in the hope that I might spare you some unnecessary pain."

Unnecessary pain sounds bad. Figuring out what Dumbledore is talking about sounds good. So Evan musters up a wide-eyed, vacuous expression and says, "What do you mean?"

Silence falls, which is unhelpful.

Dumbledore has set his elbows on his desk, the tips of his fingers steepled together. It's a posture that screams I'm thinking important thoughts. He's probably playing for time, which is ironic, considering that this whole meeting was his idea. He could have asked Evan to come by tomorrow if he didn't feel prepared.

After a long pause, Dumbledore says slowly, "I am referring to the nature of your relationship with Mr. Black."

Evan is filled with the urge to reply Which one?, followed immediately by dizzying, stone-cold comprehension of what Dumbledore wants to talk about.

Feelings.

Although actually, this is probably a measure to gather information on Regulus's activities from a seemingly reliable, easily cracked source—Evan is obviously close to Regulus, and Dumbledore has probably interacted with Barty enough by now to know that he has no compunction about telling outright lies to the headmaster. Evan would seem like a good option, in comparison to Regulus and Barty and their glinting, razor-sharp edges, if Dumbledore wanted to find out about Regulus's dark-lord-y plans from someone close to him—

Wait.

What did Dumbledore mean, he has personal insight from an experience in his youth?

[birlwrites]

scrapbook snippet: the ice prince

this is a preview, really, because i'm showing you evan's thought process a few handfuls of chapters down the line as opposed to the current point in ttdl. nonetheless, i felt like posting it now lol.

so: we give evan a chance to tell us what he thinks. truthfully? .......mayhaps.

*

The title of 'Slytherin ice prince' is a recurring one, or at least that's what Evan has gathered from the way his family talks about their time at Hogwarts.

There's no formal decision process—everyone just knows. Slytherin doesn't always have one, although Katherine says Lucius Malfoy thought (mistakenly) that it was him. But Malfoy apparently wears authority like full plate armor, intimidating but clunky. Ten or so years ago, it was a Zabini; twenty years before that, it would have been Abraxas Malfoy if not for some unknown who apparently charmed him into losing the cool exterior. Before that, it was a Nott, and before that, a Pierce, if there's any merit to the stories from Evan's older relatives.

It's never been a Rosier, but that's not a surprise. Rosiers aren't cool or aloof. They're charming, mercurial, even melodramatic. It's a fun way to move through the world, but it used to grate on Evan, knowing that by virtue of his name he was destined to be seen as flighty, shallow, better as a dinner guest than a political ally.

He's used to the idea now. It has its merits.

It wasn't always that way, though. For a short while, Evan wanted to be serious—refused to add to his house's reputation, kept a straight face whenever possible, tried to persuade himself that he didn't care about fun things. When he was little, he'd even vaguely entertained the idea of being the first Rosier ice prince. (Which, in hindsight, probably should have tipped him off that he was a boy, but whatever. He put it together eventually.)

Then he'd met Regulus Black and thrown that idea right out the window.

Everyone just knows, and Evan knew. Even at five years old, bookish and introverted bordering on antisocial, Regulus carried himself like royalty. (Which was hilarious to Evan at the time, because every time a group of children their age would be put in a room together while their parents had lunch or tea, other children would flock to Regulus, which interfered with his reading and made him very snappish. But after a while Regulus stopped snapping, and eventually he stopped sneaking books with him everywhere he went as well. Sometimes Evan misses that Regulus who openly hated being forced to take his nose out of a book, especially when it meant interacting with other people.)

So when Regulus started forming his own personal third side of the war, Evan knew instantly that the Junior Death Eater League or whatever they call themselves (which is probably not the Junior Death Eater League) stood no chance. Regulus would siphon off all of their recruits for himself and leave Mulciber and his friends in the dust, rejected and embarrassed.

It wasn't a move Evan had expected from Regulus of all people. Barty's always itching for a way to get back at his father, and Evan was fully expecting him, at least, to dive wholeheartedly into the Death Eaters. Regulus himself doesn't like getting his hands dirty. Yet there they were, shaking the very bedrock of politics—not just for Slytherin, and not just for Hogwarts, but for the entirety of the British magical world.

Naturally, Evan was suspicious. The question that's been instilled in him since he was old enough to understand it is 'why bother?' Inaction is easier than action, and in this case, it is certainly much safer.

So. Why bother?

Because Slytherin is dominated by the kind of people whose ambitions extend to a Wizengamot seat or a certain number of Galleons in a bank vault or seeing their face on magazine covers. Ambitious, yes, but not the type of people who have books written about them. Not the type of people whose names pass into legend. Not like Regulus, clawing his way to a destiny of his own making.

(And partially of Evan's making, if he gets his way.)

Regulus isn't the type to settle. Not for second best, not for spare, not for mediocrity most of all.

That's 'why bother.'

The point is, Evan's always known Regulus is the prince. All Evan needs to do is make sure there's a place for him in the court. As for what he'll do with it... the beauty is that really, he can do whatever he wants.

Such is the merit of being a flighty, shallow dinner guest. No one pays attention to what he might be doing under the table.

[birlwrites]

kill your darlings: greatest hits (part 1?)

please enjoy some of the funniest/weirdest lines that have been cut from ATFHV! (somehow, over half of these are barty-related)

*

Barty fighting Sirius would definitely make everything worse, but Regulus decides not to crush his dreams.

*

To put it simply, Regulus is fucked.

*

"My father might not be inclined to do anything at first, but he will eventually," Barty says. "He has this all-consuming need for justice that overpowers his need to hate my life choices."

*

Asking Evan what Cato has to say about cloud interpretation would probably be a futile exercise, as it would require him to pay attention to the lecture.

*

"This is very forward of you," Barty says. "Is this when you ravish me and besmirch my virtue?"

*

"In conclusion, two out of three Slytherin prefects say that you both can and should cheat on the History of Magic OWL using Dark Arts," Antony says.

*

"I have to get away from my dad somehow," Barty says.

"Yes, but not by being stupid."

"Thanks, Reg. You have a way with words."

*

There's nothing Mulciber can do but leave.

And leave he does, skulking back into the hallway with all the grace of an ill-tempered weasel.

*

Barty is predictable in a few ways. One of these ways is his deep and constant desire to spite his father. Another one is his willingness to go along with Regulus's plans, especially when they involve the occasional duel in the corridors. (Barty needs outlets for his aggression.)

[birlwrites]

scrapbook snippet: a letter that is definitely not relevant to the plot of ttdl, no way, why would you think that

Dear Mother and Father,

You were right. Not everything about the war is as it seems. The situation here is murky at best, but I've managed to figure out that both sides are more fragmented than they'd like us to think. Given that, neither is going to be effective enough for a quick victory, I think.

Maybe we should switch to overcharging her by a little instead of by a lot and tell her we're giving her a discount. I think declaring a commitment outright is too risky at this point. I'd like more of a guarantee of victory first, and there's no reason why we shouldn't benefit in the meantime.

I'll keep you updated. Let me know if anything changes on your end!

Love,

[redacted]