Chapter 9
Kingsley Shacklebolt walks into Longbottom Manor at a steady pace, hiding the slight shake of his hands in the folds of his robes. He stopped just outside the door to the dining room, taking three deep breaths before schooling his face to be expressionless and entering the room. He’s greeted with several heads turning in his direction, quiet conversations dying and expressions turning solemn or fearful as they take in his appearance.
He had showered before the meeting (and if the water was a little too hot no one had to know) but he knew his face was still haggard, deep circles resting under his eyes and deep lines etched into his forehead.
Avoiding eye contact with anyone, he makes his way to his place at the long table, to the left of Minerva who sat to the left of Dumbledore at the head of the table. As he takes his seat, he makes a note of everyone who had been invited to the meeting. It’s a smaller group, Dumbledore’s inner circle, with a few notable absences. To the right of Dumbledore sits Frank Longbottom who had graciously lent his manor as headquarters. His mother resided in the house and though she tolerated the presence of the Order, she had no interest in taking part. Next to Frank is Alice Fortescue, Frank’s lover for all of two minutes and childhood best friend. Next to Alice is Alastor Moody, one of the Order’s best fighters.
Molly Weasly sits next to him, her wedding ring displayed proudly on her finger. Kingsley remembers her wedding with Author, how everyone had been so happy and cheerful.It had occurred before all the hiding, all the raids. The codewords and paranoia.
Fabian and Gideon sit next to their sister, apparently catching up on recent events in each other's lives. Kingsley spots a photograph of a child around the age of ten, a large toothy smile on his face and long shaggy red hair going to about his shoulders, recognizing it as the Weasley’s eldest child, Bill. He would be going to Hogwarts soon.
It appears that Kingsley was the last to arrive at the meeting, for merely a minute after Kingsley takes his seat, Dumbledore clears his throat, drawing the Order’s attention.
“Thank you all for being here,” he begins, making eye contact with everyone present. “We will start with your reports as usual and then we will discuss any further plans before I give out further assignments. Kingsley will start us out.”
Kingsley feels his heartbeat speed up as everyone turns to him, eyes searching for news. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, steals himself.
“Emmeline Vance is dead. Mary Mcdonald is missing and presumed dead. They never made contact with the Magical Congress of the United States.” He’s grateful his voice doesn’t shake as he breaks the news and he looks straight ahead at the wall, unable to watch people’s reactions.
Vance and Mcdonald had been sent to garner aid amongst the foreign magical population and the lack of contact kept the Order in a very bad position. But it wasn’t just that. Emmeline and Mary had both been an important part of the resistance movement. They were valuable fighters and more importantly, good friends. Kingsley knew Alice had been particularly close with Vance and that the news would hurt her deeply. Sure enough, as he glanced in her direction, he saw tears flooding her eyes and Frank’s hand rubbing circles on her back.
Kingsley startles when a hand settles on his own shoulder and he turns to look at Minerva’s concerned gaze. He can see the question in her eyes and on the tip of her tongue but he just shakes his head and looks away.
He can’t think right now about how he had been the one to recruit Mary right out of school. About how he had talked and explained and pleaded with her until she agreed to join the group she had been so reluctant to fight for. Kingsley doesn't know why Dumbledore had been so insistent that Mary join the Order, but orders were orders and Dumbledore founded the group so what he says goes. So Kingsley had exchanged conversations with Mary for over a month until she said yes and over time he found himself becoming fond of the young, spitfire girl. She was passionate, with righteous fury and an amusing stubborn streak and- Kingsley cuts his thoughts off. He can’t think of her in the past tense. She isn’t dead. She isn’t.
“It is unfortunate to learn of the demise of two bright young members of the Order. Their loss will be felt deeply amongst us all, I’m sure. I ask that you not share this information with anyone, especially her roommate and the residents of Potter Manor, including Regulus Black, who is still, as I said at our last meeting, staying with Mr. Potter and his friends.” It takes a moment for Dumbledore’s words to register in Kingsley’s mind, but when they do, he finds himself disappointingly unsurprised. Kingsley is well versed in the Order’s antics and knew this would probably happen.
It’s clear, however, that other Order Members were not expecting such an order.
“You want us to hide the girl’s death from her closest friends?” Frank bursts out.
“Would you rather they be so distraught from grief that they cannot concentrate in the throes of battle? So consumed by rage that they do something foolish such as storm a Death Eater stronghold in a quest for vengeance? No. It is much better to keep them in the dark on such matters for the time being,” Dumbledore says sharply.
“Now, our next order of business is in regards to a gathering of wild centaurs in…” Kingsley allows Dumbledore's voice to become background noise as the leader discusses next steps for the Order. He marvels at Dumbledore’s ability to remain so unaffected by the death and suffering that lurks in their meetings. He wonders if guilt haunts the shadows of the man’s office, comes out in the darkness when he tries to sleep.
Kingsley can’t imagine the pressure Dumbledore must be facing, having to lead an entire war. At the same time, a small ugly corner of his mind hates the man. How dare he play God, picking and choosing who to spare and who to send to their death. Giving out orders and expecting them to be followed, no questions asked like the good little soldiers they are. But what else could they do? No one else had the power that Dumbledore wielded with such little restraint.
Kingsley shoves those thoughts to the back of his mind. He can’t start doubting now. Dumbledore knows what he is doing, everything has a reason.
He tunes back into the conversation as Dumbledore finishes discussing the dark creatures that are mobilizing across the continent. It has even caught the attention of several international governments, though of course not enough for them to actually give Magical Britain some fucking backup. Dumbledore wants to send Remus back out on a “scouting mission”. He’s meant to be acting as a liaison between the wizards and the werewolves but Kingsley is hazy on the specifics. All he knows is that Remus comes back each time looking more worn down, if not injured, though he hasn’t been sent on a mission in the past few days since Regulus ran away to Potter Manor.
Kingsley wishes he could say something against it. Remus is clearly being endangered every mission. Of course, every Order member knew they would be put in danger when they signed up, but Remus seemed to be in just as much danger emotionally as he is physically. In the end though, Kingsley has no say in the matter, not really. He can put up some token protests but what are his thoughts against Dumbledore’s?
– - – - –
“This is everything,” James says, gesturing to the tabletop covered in the necessary ingredients for the potion. “My dad’s journal’s instructions are technically step by step, but he was intentionally vague about it in case they ever fell into the wrong hands, so I’m not sure how helpful it’ll be.” His eyes are sad, even if his voice is light as he says it. Regulus isn’t the best with emotions, clearly, but he can’t imagine that it could be easy for James to be in his father’s potions lab.
“That’s fine,” Regulus says, grabbing James’s wrist placatingly on instinct. His skin is warm. “I can figure it out from here.”
James bites his bottom lip, and Regulus does his very best trying not to focus on the motion. “Could I… help? It was my dad’s recipe and I—”
“Of course, James,” Regulus interrupts, and James visibly relaxes. “Here, start mincing the Angel’s Trumpet. Careful, it’s poisonous.”
James pulls the flower towards him and begins peeling the leaves apart. Regulus focuses his attention on the other ingredients: lionfish scales, baneberry, a griffin claw, hellebore—the list goes on, but the ingredients are equally hazardous.
The first step is to prepare the ingredients: James’s father hadn’t written those down in detail, but Regulus knows enough about the properties of certain ingredients to know what should be crushed or placed in whole.
It doesn’t take long for the ingredients to be ready. Thankfully, Regulus and James are both fast workers, and seemingly equally efficient. As Regulus begins to tip neem oil and starthistle powder into the cauldron, he asks, “Why didn’t you take NEWT potions? You’re not completely incompetent.”
James lets out a huff of laughter, adding in the chopped valerian root. “Lovely, thank you. I suppose I could have, but I wanted to focus on the war. I knew Defense Against the Dark Arts would be necessary, and so would Transfiguration and Charms.”
“Didn’t you also take Care of Magical Creatures?” Regulus asks, giving the potion three clockwise stirs before adding in a sprinkle of powdered sage.
James smiles. “We all did. We wanted to know how to take care of Remus after school, since we knew we’d all probably be living together. Aside from that, it was a free class.”
“What about Pettigrew? I haven’t seen him around.” Regulus squints at the ingredients, unsure if the potion calls for two or seven ounces of troll mucus. The ratio of seven wouldn’t make sense—he adds in two ounces and stirs twice.
James tilts his head. “He decided last-minute that he wanted to get his own flat in London. It’s not too far, we’ve been there a couple times, but we all think it’s doing him good. He’s not the most sociable type: some space to get to know people on his own is probably for the best.”
“You know, Potter, I don’t think I’ve told her, but I’m incredibly thankful to Dorcas for going out with Marlene.” Regulus settles his hands on either side of the cauldron, feeling the metal warm at his touch. So far, it seems that they’ve done it right.
“Oh?” James raises a brow as he cuts thin slices of belladonna petals, the purple juices staining the tips of his fingers.
“If she hadn’t, I would never have considered writing to my brother. Of course, that was all Evan and Barty, but I would have been even more opposed if Dorcas hadn’t waxed on about Sirius until I thought her eyes would start shining with tears.”
James snickers. “What was she saying?”
“That he was the first to really accept her as Marlene’s girlfriend—I mean truly accept her, not just dismiss her as some meaningless fling. And she tried to ask him about me once. She said he seemed worried.” Regulus takes a deep breath before adding in the centaur bone dust—he’s got to be precise with these measurements, especially with how volatile this ingredient is in particular.
James watches him, an unreadable expression on his face. “He was worried, Reg.” He says softly.
Regulus looks up at the older boy. “Don’t—”
“He was,” James presses. “The moment he recovered from his injuries, he wanted to go back. For you.”
Regulus steps away from the potion. He doesn’t know how well he’ll be able to control himself and he doesn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the potion. “He’s the one who left,” he says flatly, even as the words taste bitter in his mouth.
“And you’re the one who stayed,” James replies, not unkindly. “I know why, we all do, but you can’t begrudge him for doing the only thing he could. They would have killed him if he had stayed in that house, you know it.”
Regulus’s reply dies in his throat. He does know it, he always has. “I didn’t want to stay,” Regulus forces out at last. “But I had to.”
“We know,” James says softly. “He told us everything.”
Regulus can still remember that night—he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.
Sirius was almost dead, the bleeding didn’t seem like it would ever stop. The curses that Walburga had used on Sirius that night were unmatched, nothing that Regulus’s worst nightmares could have ever conjured up. They were in Sirius’s room, and Regulus was trying to treat Sirius’s many wounds with shaking hands.
And then Sirius had taken out the portkey from one of the hidden pockets of his robes, and for one terrible moment Regulus had been flooded with the hope that they might both make it out.
Reality had set in almost immediately.
”Come with me,” Sirius had begged. “Please, Reggie, the Potters will take us. I know they will. I–”
”I can’t,” Regulus had interrupted brusquely.
Sirius’s voice was laced with desperation. “Why not?”
”You know they’ll come after us. If it’s only you they won’t care, they have me, but if we both go they won’t have mercy.” Regulus was trying to convince both of them in that moment—there was no guarantee of safety for either one of them if only Sirius left, but he knew that the risks would be greater no matter what if both of them left.
Sirius had tried to protest, but Regulus had sprung up from Sirius’s side. Footsteps, he mouthed at Sirius’s questioning glance.
By some sheer stroke of cosmic luck, neither Walburga nor Orion burst through the door. The footsteps reached the end of the corridor and turned away, and both Regulus and Sirius calmed slightly.
”You have to go now,” Regulus hissed. “You won’t get another chance.”
”But Reggie, I—”
”Go!”
And Sirius had.
Regulus blinks the memories away, looking straight at James. “He could have bothered to write. He could have talked to me at school. Clearly, he wasn’t that torn up about it.”
“He tried to talk to you, Reg. You kept turning him away.” James looks—not pitying, but something too close to that for Regulus’s comfort. Sympathetic. “He doesn’t blame you, we all understand why you did it, but you can’t hold that against him.”
“I never turned him away,” Regulus says defensively.
James shakes his head. “You did. He came up to you in the Great Hall three times, and you told him to ‘fuck right off’ each time. Finally he sent you an owl and asked you to meet in the astronomy tower. You never showed.”
“I—” Regulus falls silent. He can’t explain himself, not when he knows he was wrong. Sirius did try to talk to him, and Regulus hadn’t wanted to hear it.
James takes a step closer. “It’s alright, Reg. He doesn’t blame you. None of us blame you. You were stuck in that house, you had no way out—it’s understandable.”
Regulus hopes the impact of those words doesn’t show on his face. “He does blame me. He doesn’t want me here.”
“The moment he got Rosier’s owl, he begged me to figure out how to bring you here. He was terrified for you, Reg. He wasn’t the happiest when he found out you had the mark, of course, but can you blame him?” James tilts his head. “You should talk to him. You both have shit to resolve.”
“Fuck off,” Regulus says, but it’s lighthearted.
James gives him a soft smile. “Is the potion done?” He asks, defusing the situation.
Regulus nods. “Mostly. It should be ready in a few hours. I’ll come down to check on it after lunch.”
“Come on, then,” James says, gesturing to the door. “It’s too stuffy here.”
Regulus snorts, but allows himself to be escorted out of the potions lab regardless.