King of Swords [ Regulus Black ]

Chapter 22

When I awake in a dark room, Ana is still tucking the hair behind my ear with a soft hum. As the feeling in my body comes back, the tune delves into a tenor. It is a song I don't know, sung by a voice I can't recognize.

The bed I am in is soft and plush with a canopy frame. Emerald drapes cover the top, an ocean of green swirling by candle light. Various vials and bandages are strewn on the ornate dark furniture. There is a barred window, letting in the soft glow of afternoon.
As my eyes adjust I find the figure that is humming to me.

"Good morning, living dead girl," Antonin Dolohov says, "you took quite the spill."

I am not fully mobile yet, but I lift my arm to survey the wound. It has been closed up in a jagged fashion that will surely leave a scar. I am wearing an oversized tee shirt with a rock album cover on it, my legs are bare and sore.

"Where am I?" I ask. The words sound as if they are apart from me, spoken from the walls or green curtains.

"The Black residence," Antonin says, his soft brown doe-eyes blinking slowly. I know what he is, but the boy in front of me seems so far from that reality. His voice and hands are too soft for this work, too gentle, too kind.
"Let me fetch your murderer."

I pull myself up on the pillows as he leaves. My clothes are in a pile on the floor, soaked in blood. I am embarrassed by that fact for some reason, as if my near death was a clumsy mishap.

When Regulus steps into the room, I pull the duvet higher. He stands at the base of the canopy, wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants and t-shirt similar to mine.
"One of the veela girls dressed you, just so you know."

"You keep veela in your house?" I ask, suddenly relieved. I remember the voices calling out for him to come back soon, from behind the bookshelf door. I am quite sure there have been many women in this bed, magical creatures of various forms.

"That's Rosier's endeavor not mine." Regulus cocks his head.
"I thought for certain you were dead but your heart wouldn't give up. Took Dolohov a full day to get the blood to stop."

"How long was I out?" I ask.

"Three days I reckon. I had business to attend to but Kreacher very reluctantly kept an eye on you."

I lift a hand to my face to rub sleep from my eyes and trace over my hair. I realize then that I have a long braid running down my shoulders, the Veela no doubt. Kreacher would have just cut it off.

"Did it work?" I ask.

Regulus pulls a wand from his waist and tosses it to me. It is not his typical knife-like black weapon, but an ivory carved piece with a strange handle. I recognize it as the one pointed at me in my kitchen. It seems he kept a souvenir from Jarrel Bennett.

"Aim there and say diffindo," he says, nodding his head to a vase on the dresser.

I feel silly wielding the wand, as if I am a child playing with a stick in the garden. I trace my fingers over the carved wood, wishing it were actually my own.
I flick the wand toward the vase in the same way they do, careful to move it with intention. I say the word but it sounds ridiculous on my tongue. As expected, nothing happens.

"Put your fucking back in it, Rawe," Regulus snaps, walking around the edge of the bed, "you look like you're trying not to kick a puppy."

"My arm is sore," I say, even that comes out in a whimper.

Regulus sits on the bed and cups my hand in his own over the wand. It is calloused but warm and sends a shock down my spine. In his proximity, I smell petrichor, salt and a deep spiced cologne.
He guides my hand in the motion I am supposed to use, soft then tense.