King of Swords [ Regulus Black ]

Chapter 27

A half of a plan, is still a plan. Or at least that is what I tell myself when I regain consciousness in the arms of Antonin Dolohov. I am being carried through a dim labyrinthian passage way. Dampness clings to the bricks and forms puddles under his feet.

I try not to stir or open my eyes too abruptly. I don't know where we are going, but I assume both my dagger and wand have been taken from me so I can't exactly fight back.

There is the option to claw at his face, but my head is pounding in the spot that Mina drove her fist. I don't think I would even have the energy to get a solid hit in. Not to mention, I have no idea where we are or how to get out.

This is inconvenient. If I could feel anything at all, I imagine it would be something like exasperation or annoyance. Instead, I am overcome with apathy. That is fortunate at least.

My half plan is to see where we are going and steal a wand, knife, broken bottle. Really anything will do at this point. Maybe it is not even a half plan, more akin to a quarter. I've lived this long despite myself, I'll make it up as I go.

"It's probably better if you pretend you're still asleep," Dolohov sadly muses.

I breathe a deep sigh and tuck my head into his chest. One-eighth of a plan, anyway.

As we move down the passage the sound of murmuring voices echoes from the walls.
Dolohov shifts me in his hold to turn a door knob and then abruptly stops.

"What is that?" A male tenor asks, his voice sounds as if it is being emitted through the mouth a serpent. The T's catch on his teeth and elongate every word.

"My lord, Parkinson told me to bring her," Dolohov says, "it's the muggle that attacked Regulus."

Lord, as in, Lord Voldemort. There is no plan. I have heard the stories, I know what is capable of. My last regret is not driving a knife into Parkinson while I still could.

"How interesting, bring her to me," he muses.
I can hear the shuffling of a chair as it scrapes on the stone. There are multiple people in the room, how many, I can't guess. Their ragged breaths are the only indication.

"My lord, that is Haro Fawley's daughter," Lucius Malfoy remarks as I am laid on a table. The cold wood caresses my back and momentarily eases the soreness.

"The muggle daughter of Haro Fawley," Voldemort muses.
"How unlucky."

I feel a hand running over my forearm, frigid and void of life. It takes every ounce of my will to not jump at the touch. My eyes are clasped shut and I purposefully roll my irises about to mirror that of a deep sleep.

"You really let that little bitch stab you?" A shrill female voice asks. The remark is followed by rapturous laughter from around the table. Six different chuckles, I count. Including the low vibrations of Voldemorts own breath.
Regulus is here, he is watching me be poked and propped like a piece of meat at a market. I don't know why I would expect anything different.

"I've actually made a project of her, my Lord," Regulus sneers, his tone tinged with disgust.

"Explain," Voldemort says.

"Reseromage," Regulus admits, "though she can do little more than cast a diffindo. She did kill that auror, Jarrel Bennett."

I cannot dive across the table and cut him again. So I am forced to lay here and listen to my secrets pouring from his lips. Either the room has grown colder or that is my heart refusing to pump.