The Potter Twins and the Deathly Hallows {7}

9. The Tale of Regulus Black

"I never thought I'd die alone, another six months I'll be unknown. Give all my things to all my friends, you'll never step foot in my room again" - Adam's Song, Blink 182 

I wake early the next morning, wrapped in a sleeping bag on the drawing-room floor. A chink of the sky is visible between the heavy curtains: It is the cool, clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night and dawn, and everything is quiet except for Ron and Hermione's slow, deep breathing.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," whispers Harry, who appears to have just risen from his own sleeping bag. I roll onto my back to face him and shake my head, yawning all the while.

"It's fine, I was having a shit sleep anyway," I murmur, pulling myself into a sitting position. All night, my dreams were plagued with visions of Draco at Voldemort's bidding, doing unthinkable things just to keep himself somewhat safe. I glance over at the dark shapes that Hermione and Ron make on the floor beside us. Ron has a fit of gallantry last night and insisted that Hermione sleep on the cushions from the sofa so that her silhouette is raised above his. Her arm curves to the floor, her fingers inches away from Ron's. I wonder whether they fell asleep holding hands. The idea makes me feel lonely. "Weird," is all I say.

I look up at the shadowy ceiling, at the cobwebbed chandelier. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was watching Bill and Fleur get married. It seems a lifetime away. What is going to happen now? I think about the Horcruxes, of the daunting, complex mission Dumbledore has left us...Dumbledore.

"If you're up," Harry whispers, "come for a walk. I need to tell you something."

Seeing as the alternative is lying here with nothing but frantic worry for Draco and bitter thoughts for his company, I follow Harry out of the room. On the landing, I whisper, "Lumos," and we begin to climb the stairs by wandlight, and Harry begins his story.

"At the wedding," he says in whispers, gradually getting louder the further away we get from Hermione and Ron as not to wake them, "I was speaking to Krum, and I figured out who Gregorovitch is; he's a wandmaker! That's why his name sounded so famillar, we heard it during the Triwizard Tournament.

"You're brilliant," I breath, "good one."

So Voldemort is looking for a celebrated wand-maker, and I don't have to search hard for the reason: It is surely because of what Harry's hand had done on the night that Voldemort pursued him across the skies. The holly and phoenix wand had conquered the borrowed wand, something that Olivander had no anticipated or understood. Will Greogorovitch know better?

"But that's not at all," Harry continues, and the excitement in his voice turns into weariness. "Later on I was talking to Elphias Doge about Rita Skeeter's article on Dumbledore. He told me not to believe a word of what she said."

"I agree," I say, "it's just gossip."

"Yes, well, then Ron's Auntie Muriel decided to chime in," he says, and I roll my eyes. "She started talking about Dumbledore's sick sister, the one that died; apparently she was actually a Squib."

"Why does that matter?"

"Well, it doesn't," he says hastily. "Muriel started talking about Ariana being locked in a cellar while Dumbledore was at Hogwarts, and how Dumbledore's mother was ashamed of her for being a squib. She was never allowed to leave the house, not even to visit St. Mungos, which is --"

"-- Strange," I finish his sentence for him, "if she was actually ill. Keep going."

"Worst of all," he says, "Muriel didn't think that Ariana died of natural causes, she thinks that she was murdered, possibly by Dumbledore!"

"Surely not!" I shook back, horror-struck. I can't help but liken Ariana to us, except she was locked up for not having magic.

"Muriel reckoned her mother was friends with Bathilda Bagshot --"