Diptych

Chapter 40

"James?"

Of course, no response came. James' eyes were closed and his body was still, unflinching to the frozen ground beneath him. It was harsh against Regulus' knees, but he paid it as little attention as Potter was, every sense overtaken by the severity of what was there in front of him. The smell of iron was rich in the air, and the silence where sounds of battle and earlier of Potter's wittering had been felt suffocating. Any awareness of time had fled with their attackers, his racing heart telling him that seconds were getting away too quickly and yet every further moment feeling more stretched out than the last. His eyes were glued to Potter's chest, waiting for it to lift or to fall, or to show some sign of life. To no avail. The longer he waited for James to jump up and be alright, the less likely it was to ever occur, a thought he didn't want to entertain and yet couldn't escape.

Regulus blinked hard as though it might help with the restoration of his faculties. He didn't know what they'd done to Potter, hadn't heard exactly which spell had brought him down in all of the commotion. But the profuse bleeding from his skull and the lack of breathing seemed to Regulus the most urgent of the problems; and he had no more idea how to solve one than the other. If he attempted to put pressure on James' head to keep the blood inside his body, he'd have no free hands to do anything else, and if he attempted to force some air into Potter's lungs, the boy would likely bleed to death.

He scrambled for his wand, not knowing yet what he intended to do with it. It had fallen to the ground beside him, and his hand shook as he lifted it. There was dirt beneath his fingernails, though he didn't recall when or how it had gotten there. His mind was blank. Potter was dying, and his mind was blank. He didn't know what to do.

Sirius would know what to do.

Or, Sirius would kill him.

Yes, that was it. Sirius would kill him, if he could see him in that moment. James had said that Sirius would kill him if anything happened to Regulus, but wasn't the same true in reverse? If he failed to bring James back to the land of the living, Sirius would never forgive him. Any hope of their reconciliation would be long gone. James would be dead, and Sirius would hate him for it.

The fact that it was entirely his fault didn't occur to Regulus, didn't need to. It was so deeply engrained in him by that point that it came as naturally as the panic. None of them would be in that situation if it wasn't for him. James had come along to help him. Motivations aside, Sirius or Dumbledore or the longing for adventure, that didn't matter. He had intended to help Regulus, and had stuck to his word even when Sirius hadn't. He had wasted the last moments in which he could've been defending himself by throwing the invisibility cloak over his head. Was James going to pay for that misjudgement with his life?

No. Not if Regulus could help it.

"Vulnera Sap—"

"Vulnera Sat—"

He groaned. He'd once heard his father use the spell he was attempting to conjure to mind on Sirius, but it was long ago and he was unable with the stress to remember exactly how the second part was said. Not that, then.

"Arresto momentum!" Regulus' wand pointed at James' head, and just as he expected, the steady flowing of blood stopped immediately. It was bad. He'd already lost a lot of blood, and now whatever blood remained in his body would have stopped moving. It was far from ideal. If Regulus couldn't rectify it, he might well have just killed Potter himself. But it bought him time. And he knew, as unpleasant as it was, what he planned to do next even as the words escaped his mouth. It wouldn't be nice, but if it worked, Potter would live.

"Reparo."

The blood didn't flow backwards into Potter's head. He didn't know if he expected it to, but it didn't. It remained there, coating the ground and Potter's head, and Regulus' hands. It was thick, and red and the mere sight of it made Regulus want to be sick. But the cuts on James' face began to stitch themselves back together, and he could only hope that the wound that had caused all of the trouble would do the same. It wasn't the best spell for it. Madam Pomfrey would never use it in such a situation, would know better things to use. Regulus knew already that it would scar, and maybe Potter would hate him for that, for disfiguring him like that. But he didn't know any better. It was the only thing he could think of, and he was one moment closer to a sigh of relief when he decided that Potter was clearly no longer bleeding, that the spread of the blood hadn't furthered.

The wand was discarded of. Regulus' shaking hand moved down to Potter's chest. Still no movement.

He didn't know the spells.

Healers could do something to start a person breathing again, but Regulus didn't know what it was, and no amount of thinking about it was going to make him know it. He'd never seen it done, and never learned the spells. It had never been his intention to become a healer, and thus he'd never considered it to be something worth learning.

What did the muggles do?

They had to do something, didn't they? If he'd ever shown any interest in muggle studies, he might've known.

Sirius might've known. Or Edwin. Even Willa, who had entertained notions of becoming a healer in the past. James would have been better off with any of them, instead of being stuck with him. If he died, it would be all Regulus' fault.

A desperate, fleeting idea came to him then.

He retrieved the thing from James' pocket.

He didn't know exactly how to use it, neither of them had said. But it was there, and it seemed in the moment like his only option. They were too far from Alphard's house to run back for help, and he couldn't be sure that Potter wouldn't be eaten by a troll or a wild animal in the meantime if he left him there alone.

"Sirius?" He asked aloud.

Nothing.

He wiped the mirror, brushing away mud and dust and hoping that it might bring forth a clear image of his brother. "Sirius?" He tried again.

"Sirius, please."

"I need you. He needs you! If you hadn't—" Regulus' voice cracked, and he stopped. Sirius couldn't hear him. Everything he wanted to say to him had been said countless times inside his head, and none of it would do James Potter any favours. There were tears clouding his vision, and even as he stared desperately at the mirror, nothing came.

Fine. Sirius wasn't going to help James. He'd have to do it himself.

He didn't know the spells, and he didn't know what the muggles did. He couldn't leave him to get help. Snow was once again falling, and if he hesitated for much longer, he'd be better off beginning to dig a grave than trying to think of alternatives. But there was one thing he'd spoken of recently, something from his childhood, which seemed another life from this, which he knew could be tried. It was a long shot, but so was everything else he had, and he had no option but to choose one of those long shots.

At least with this one, his failure wouldn't be so immediately known. He might put off the knowledge of his total destruction for a little longer.

He stood, pocketed his wand, and put his hands at the inside of James' upper arms, intending to lift him from where he lay.

"Come on, Potter."