Chapter Text
Regulus feels sharp rocks jut into his back, but a certain weightlessness caresses his body. It lifts the tips of his hair in the air and his clothes it waves around. A heavy weight presses on his chest. His hands lay spread on his sides. His eyelids are closed —he feels no rush to open them.
Everything else is slowly fading. Finally, only he remains.
Regulus feels nothing at the moment. A peaceful lapse of time; rare as they are these days. His head doesn’t feel a constant throb and his neck doesn’t ache. There's a silence so still that nothing could kill it. His lips unknowingly start to pull into a tiny smile, so naturally. He likes laying here.
Darkness blooms behind his eyelids; no rays of sunlight make him want to squint his eyes. It seems as though he's not a person anymore. He's the tide, the waves and the breeze.
Regulus notices a wave of something run through him. It disturbs him from his stillness. He opens his eyes to see murky darkness. Regulus blinks with a slower speed than he’s used to. It’s as if his eyelids don’t want him to move after all. He'd be content to lay here forever.
The dark ceiling over him warps weirdly: it keeps on shifting like he’s watching it through water. Regulus slowly extends his arm upwards even if his body protests. His pale hand strikes a contrast against the looming darkness surrounding him. Some sort of lines are etched on his hand. Regulus brings it closer to his eyes.
He turns to look at his palm: shocking gashes of black and red greet him. Regulus’ eyes widen, his heart stutters in his chest. The wounds look as if blood should be gushing out. Regulus sets his elbow back down and tries to push against the pressure bringing him down. He avoids touching the ground with his injured hand —his attempt at rising is awkward and hasty. Weirdly, he does not feel any pain from the injuries.
His head swings from side to side, his arms tremble underneath him. His upper body is barely a few centimeters off the ground when he sees the rest of his body. His robes and trousers are torn apart; severed pieces float in the air. His exposed skin is marred with horrible claw marks. It looks like someone took a bite out of his side: a chunk of meat that used to be his is gone.
Regulus lets out a scream; he barely hears it. His eyes bulge, fear thrums through his veins. His eyes lock unto his foot: his shoe is missing —but more crucially— a white figure floats next to it. Inferi, Regulus thinks. His body freezes, his arms tremble even harder underneath him. He hastily shuts his lips and doesn’t dare to inhale.
I’m going to die.
They’re going to notice him no matter what he does. It’s a wonder they haven’t already killed him —perhaps they thought him dead when he was unconscious. Why hasn't he drowned yet? Regulus feels tears pierce his eyes: he didn’t want it to go like this. He wanted nothing to go how it did.
His lungs ache for breath. It's getting harder and harder to stay still. A hand moves over Regulus' face. In his surprise he accidently opens his mouth and inhales.
No water fills his lungs.
A beat of silence goes by.
Confusion twists Regulus' expression. Daringly, he takes a bigger gulp. Nothing changes. The water doesn't burn his lungs.
Panic takes his breath away; does it even exist anymore? Regulus pushes upwards until his body is off the ground. His body floats in the muddy water. His clothes beg for him to stay deeper in the pit, his arms ache when he pulls himself upwards. Rays of light highlight his tattered body.
His head hits the surface; a bubble of water washes over him. Regulus breathes but nothing goes inside his lungs. He lets out a choked noise and blinks the water out of his eyelashes.
He gasps when recognizes the cave.
Kreacher, the locket, the inferi.
Regulus shudders as he tries to keep his head above the water. He sees the shore where he came from; he flounders towards the rocks.
He pulls himself from the water and isn't surprised to see himself drenched. The only peculiar thing is that no water drops run, it seems as if the water is ingrained into his very being. Regulus digs his nails into the rocks.
Am I dead?
He must be. Shivers run along his back when he looks at his injuries. Regulus wraps his arms around himself even if he doesn't feel cold. His trembling has nothing to do with his feelings. He remembers the words —the hallucinations.
It's freezing.
Regulus hopes Kreacher made it out with the locket. The promise of the Dark Lord's mortality gives a small comfort —no matter how miniscule it is, Regulus will cling unto it.
Is he a ghost then? Regulus looks at his hands: they're slightly transparent, but not as much as the ghosts at Hogwarts. His soul really couldn't move on? That's pitiful —Mother would have a fit.
"Kreacher!" Regulus calls out —he doesn't come.
He can't hear me anymore.
It feels as if liquid is climbing up his throat: Regulus swallows it down. There's no use in getting worked up over nothing.
Regulus gazes back at the murky lake; he'd rather not be tethered to this place. He sighs as he starts staggering out of the cave.
Regulus braces himself for immeasurable disappointment. His feet drag —how unbecoming of him.
He closes his eyes in quiet relief as he passes the cave's opening —small mercies of life.
Regulus stares out at the seaside. The sky is rapidly darkening. Mother must be wondering where he is by now. Regulus wraps his robes around himself. He doesn't want anyone else to see him like this.
The wind doesn't move his hair —Regulus can't feel it caress his skin. It was his favourite thing. A warm breeze fluttering his clothes and black hair. Regulus finger combs his hair into a more presentable style. At least he can still do that.
Who is he doing it for? He's dead, does it really matter anymore?
Regulus stands as the waves violently crash to the rocky wall. He's a lone figure in the middle of a storm. None of it can touch him. He can't drown even if he wanted to. Regulus feels an urge to float in water like earlier, but the unrelenting waves would only disturb him.
He wants stillness.
Regulus' dull eyes look at his missing shoe. Drops of water wash down from the sky. Small and few at first; unrelenting and heavy a moment later. Regulus doesn't feel them touch his skin —he fears his soul is gone.
Regulus starts his journey home even if he doesn't know where it is. Maybe he'll find it somehow. Kreacher didn't exactly explain where they were.
-*-*-*-*-*-
It’s hard to navigate the right way in these muggle streets. He tries his hardest to look as though he knows where he’s going. No one pays him any mind, so it’s a moot point anyway. Regulus doesn’t want to show his face in the wizarding community just yet. His failure in living/dying stings his eyes uncomfortably. He simply keeps his breaths steady as it can and his heart in control.
He hasn’t dared to inspect himself closely —most likely he looks like he’s been mauled.
It’s a bit strange that the muggles don’t pay him any attention, isn’t it? Or perhaps they can not see ghosts like wizards do. Regulus has to admit that he doesn’t know a lot about muggles. Just a general sense of knowing that there is something wrong with them.
Many of them are tightly holding an umbrella, trying to shield themselves from the pouring rain. Some have let go of the dream of making home dry, choosing to simply trudge through the water like soldiers. Long, peculiar coats don the frame of many older men; the younger choosing shockingly shorter and tighter coats as well as trousers. Regulus doesn’t fit either category well, though he leans more towards the older generation.
Is this how rapidly muggle fashion changes? Just in a couple of decades the general appearance of clothes seems to have vastly changed. Wizards tend to be less susceptible to modernisation, it seems. Perhaps wizards’ longer lifespan and preference of rooting themselves to their family’s past is to blame. Regulus can not say he doesn’t prefer sticking to the old ways —he rather enjoys it. It’s comforting in a way to know what he is supposed to do.
This is not what he’s supposed to do.
Kill himself to betray the Dark Lord? No. Never in a million years. The act of not adhering to a Dark Lord is not shameful in any way, at least it didn’t use to be, but giving your life unwillingly to their services?
You’re a Black, you’re strong enough to stand on your own. You’re not allowed to kneel at someone else’s knees. You’re the one everyone else is supposed to kneel to. If Regulus wasn’t weak enough to agree in the first place, none of this would have happened. Not the unravelling or crumbling, not the dying.
He wouldn’t have had to grit his teeth and try to keep the hysteria from echoing out. From keeping his teeth baring and eyes dripping. He wouldn’t have had to isolate himself from his family because he feared they would see something shift in him. They would see his wand trembling, his knees jerking at every gaze. A kaleidoscope of agony before his eyes.
Regulus walks among the things he vowed to eradicate. A bombarda, a fiendfyre —anything destructive would be approved of. He caresses the wand in his pocket. Ghosts can’t even use wands, can they?
Regulus doesn’t want to be even more of a murderer. He lets his hand fall to his side. He’s never been any good at practical magic anyway.
Regulus doesn’t let the muggles touch him as he walks on.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Regulus stares at a dark door that seems much more ominous now. It dares him to knock, to pull its handle. It's ridiculous —it's just a door. But still he can feel the sour and charged magic bubbling under the surface.
He drags his heavy feet up the stairs and gives a customary glance at the eagle statue guarding it. Its piercing stony eyes don't look at Regulus like it used to. His eyes widen slightly. Aren’t sentient magical things supposed to see and sense ghosts?
"Hello?" Regulus tries. It doesn’t move a muscle —well, a muscle made out of stone. Regulus raises his chin higher and his shoulders back. He’s not going to let some statue intimidate him from entering his home.
Regulus reaches his hand towards the handle and feels the wards push against him. Waves of heat, tremors, jitters, scorching, starting from his outstretched fingertips to his elbow.
The wards push more and more against Regulus as his hand approaches the handle. He shoves against the layer of magic with his own. It feels different now, not quite as concrete. More of a hazy mist in the cold mornings of autumn. Regulus' eyebrows sinch in frustration, his face grows redder under the strain.
His magic doesn’t flow out of him like it should. It seems as if it’s just out of his reach, the wards trying to coax it out of him, but failing. Regulus grits his teeth as the wards consume his whole arm, a fire spreading over his upper body. He’s not going to lose to some stupid wards that should let him in! He’s still family!
Regulus lets out a grunt as he gives his strongest, final push against the net. Without a warning it vanishes into thin air, making him stumble ungracefully. He collects himself and is shocked to see carpet underneath his feet.
Did—did he just go through the door? Regulus looks to the door in shock; then promptly slaps a hand to his face. Of course, he forgot. He died, he’s a ghost. Of course ghosts can go through solid objects! Regulus rubs his temples in irritation, then ponders about what just happened.
The wards didn’t at first recognise him and tried to eject him. Perhaps it’s the blood wards in them. Regulus doesn’t appear to have acceptable blood since he’s a ghost and all. But then why did they accept him in the end? Did somehow the other wards convince the blood one to let him in? Or was he somehow just stubborn enough to bypass them? No, that’s ridiculous. There’s no passing blood wards by determination alone.
Something decided he was good enough. Perhaps ghosts do have blood that can be identified even if it’s dormant inside. Nearly Headless Nick’s wound never let out blood even though it was obvious it should. But if Regulus just bypassed blood wards then that means ghosts have authentic blood that can pass through normal restrictions. Or whatever trait resides in the blood that wizards have yet to understand.
Maybe the wards didn’t recognise his blood at first because it wasn’t flowing like it should. It took a bit to convince that he was indeed of Black family. Well, Regulus can study the topic on his own later —if he can ever touch books.
Regulus stops in quiet horror.
It’s no time to think about books, he knows! But they’ve been practically his whole life for some time now. He quels the anxiety threatening to slip into his mind. Regulus can’t believe he’s more panicked about possibly never reading books than what Mother —or even the Dark Lord— might think of his death.
He hasn’t dared to even think about it on his walk over. It’s a Pandora's box waiting to be opened.
What will happen? What will happen now? The question repeats in his mind without any control, like a whirlpool of doubt.
He ignores the storm inside his mind and heads straight to the reading room that Mother usually frequents. It's as if his death has finally gotten rid of his cowardice. How amazing.
Thankfully, the door is open. Regulus would feel weird entering the room through the wall.
"Mother" Regulus says, a traitorous tremble showing his fear. She won't be that mad, will she? He clings to the hope that dying would at least raise pity in her.
She doesn't acknowledge him. "I'm sorry, Mother, I-" he stammers.
She doesn't even glance at him. Shivers run on his back, his body feels oddly small for him. "Mother" he tries with a louder volume. Nothing —she doesn't even bat her eyes. The book in her hand raptures all of her attention. His throat aches, his stomach rolls as she quietly huffs.
"Mother!" he yells, too desperate to really think it through. Regulus quiets in horror. He has never raised his voice at Mother, it was Sirius’ job. It would have hurt too much to have her fury honed in on him. Never a mother but instead only Mother.
As Regulus bows his head, he hopes Mother won't scream his head off completely.
But she doesn’t do anything. A horrendous theory pops into Regulus’ mind. It’s a cruel and gruesome one. It dries his mouth in seconds and seeps warmth away from his chest.
It can’t be true can it?
He shakes his head and tries to walk calmly, but he only manages coordinated stumbles towards her. "Mother, say you hear me." Regulus extends his hand towards her, a troubled smile on his face. "This is not a game, is it?" He wishes it was a game. Please, let it just be a silly game. Kreacher was just busy; that’s why he couldn’t hear him. There’s nothing wrong.
"Look at me." Regulus kneels at her side, his small smile becoming harder and harder to keep up. His hands hover over her knee. He wants to feel her skin and feel alive. He doesn't want to see his hand go through her.
It’s no wonder no muggle paid any attention to him.
"Please."
She has always treated him like a ghost. It seems to have become true now.
Mother sets down her book and huffs once more. She casts a Tempus spell and frowns when she sees the time. "Kreacher!" she yells. The poor elf answers his Mistress while looking like a wet sock. Metaphorically of course, it’s been hours since they went to the cave. In a way it doesn’t feel real, Regulus has yet to accept the way he is.
"Where is the boy? He still hasn’t come home" she huffs in clear frustration. Kreacher pitifully trembles under her gaze. "I asked you a question, elf." Kreacher startles and tears gather in his eyes. He looks as though he’s fighting himself, his old ears droop down even more. Regulus tenses in the moments that follow Mother’s question. Is her pressure too much?
"Kreacher does not know where Master Regulus is!" he finally whines and crumbles to the floor in tears. Mother is taken aback for a moment, but then recovers. "Get out of my sight, you whimpering fool" she commands, clearly uncomfortable with Kreacher’s sudden emotion. He disappears with a pop.
"Such strange creatures…" she mutters to herself and marches out the door.
Kreacher didn’t even glance at him, Regulus notices.
-*-*-*-*-*-
With tear-tracked cheeks Regulus wanders around the house calling for his elf. Quietly, he marvels at his tears —he didn’t know he could do them. Death is supposed to be the most sorrowful event, isn’t it? Perhaps Regulus just needed something big to happen.
Kreacher doesn’t hear him and the thought always brings a new wave of tears. He’s got to suck it up, he can’t just weep forever, even if he wants to.
Regulus stops in his tracks. Is he going to be like this forever? If Kreacher and Mother can’t see him then the logical answer is that no one can see him. Why him? If he has to be a ghost, then can’t he be a ghost that anyone could see? He didn’t want to stick around in the first place. Regulus can’t help but feel that this is a punishment. For all that he did, for all that he didn’t do.
For the sick pleasure that Dark Magic gave him. He knew it was wrong to feel victorious and proud as his targeted house got enveloped in bigger and hotter flames than Avery’s. It was wrong to wish for the Dark Lord’s approval like a desperate red-cheeked child. But how could one look at such a powerful and knowing wizard and not try not to impress him? Even if it meant that you’d vomit and tremble afterwards. Even if it meant that you had to throw yourself away.
But at some point you can’t give any more of yourself. There comes a time when you truly have to choose between merging into one or being yourself.
Giving himself away completely was too frightening for Regulus. So he ran away. He tried to take the coward’s way out, all the while pretending he was doing something heroic.
This is a fitting ending for Regulus. He’ll be forced to be here forever to think and ponder about what he has done. What’s going to be next if he died already? Decades, centuries of nothing await for him. "Kreacher…" Regulus mumbles as he gives up and drops to the floor. Fresh waves of tears drop to the carpet.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Regulus hears someone slamming a door open, it bangs on the wall and makes a heavy sound. It can only be Mother. He drags himself from his pitiful solitude and towards the noise to see her march along the hallways with a ruffled appearance. Her shoes make a thunderous noise on the wooden parts without carpet.
"Orion!" she commands, her voice strangely wobbly. "Orion! You better be home!" She no longer walks, she jogs now. It is a strange sight, he has never seen her move quite so fast. Regulus runs to catch up with her, adrenaline suddenly flowing through his body. A fluttering in his chest, anticipating something bad to happen.
"You wretched thing" she mutters to herself, her voice quieter and rawer than Regulus ever recollects it being. He’s shocked with how she’s behaving; a woman in a frenzy. She takes fast breaths, letting her hairs fall out of her perfect bun. A certain type of glassiness in her hard eyes he sees when he really looks. Mother is either calm or furious, there is not between. Now, she’s none of them —off the spectrum, really.
The location of where she’s going is more clear now, Father’s study looms at the end of the hall. She slows her steps to a brisk walk. "Orion!" she yells once again, distress for some reason tightly holding her throat. She flings the door open, uncaring of what Father might think. He sits at his desk and slowly raises his eyes, taking in her bedraggled appearance.
"You couldn’t have called for the elf? Instead chose to rave through the whole building?" he demeaningly asks. Mother’s eyes flash with fury. She looks more familiar now, the regular spark in her eye.
"This is no time for your camouflaged insults!" Mother shouts and points her wand threateningly. It slightly trembles even if she tries to stay still from determination alone.
"What has got you this shaken?" Father stands up, sensing the seriousness of the situation.
"He’s dead!" Mother sweeps her arm, unknowingly pointing at Regulus in the end. He gives a small start, his eyes fluttering. His stomach sinks to new levels.
"Who?" Orion dazedly asks. "The boy, Orion! Regulus! Who else?!" Mother shouts with tears gathering in her eyes. Regulus takes a step backwards. Even if they can not see him, he longs to hide himself.
Mother shields her eyes from Father, a quiet falling over the room for a moment. "You’re sure? How do you know?" Father heatedly asks, a cough coming afterwards. Mother wipes her fallen tears surreptitiously from her cheeks. "From the bloody tapestry! He got a death year. You know he’s been gone for too long now!" Mother shakes in her anger, indignant tears still in her eyes. Her nose and eyes put a soft pink on her pale face.
Father simply stands there, his face barely moving. A quiet moment passes as Mother holds in her anger and sniffles.
Regulus feels a strong urge to flee the painful atmosphere.
Mother takes quick breaths, making her hands to a fist. "What can we do?" Father asks. The question snaps something in Mother. She lunges for the snowglobe on Father’s desk and throws it to the floor. The shatter of glass spooks Regulus, making him flinch once again.
"Nothing!" she screams, her voice grating Regulus’ ears. His heart jumps, he feels a new wave of cold crawl to his feet. His stomach rolls a sickly loop, just like falling down from a broom. "There’s nothing we can do!" she screeches. As he watches Mother rage, Regulus feels awfully guilty for dying.
Kreacher pops into the room, startling everyone —ghosts and living. "Does Mistress require Kreacher? Kreacher’s happy to serve." Mother turns her anger to the elf. "No! Get out of my sight this instant, you creature!" Kreacher startles, droops his ears and vanishes. Regulus longs to go look for him, just to make sure he has the locket.
"Stupid elf!" Mother yells, her voice never lowering in its volume. Her yelling has always made Regulus nervous, now he feels like he's about to vomit.
Father rubs his temples, no doubt starting to lose his patience with Mother. She starts pacing the room, her hair falling out of its place more and more. Regulus fearfully looks at her with a heavy heart. He never knew he could make someone feel like this, he doesn’t like it.
But he does like knowing he had an impact, at least in his death.
"The house of my forefathers, gone like dust in the wind!"
Her pacing loses momentum gradually until she finally stops.
"There will be nothing left soon" she dejectedly says, like all the fight has left her body. Father comes to her side with a hand on her back. "How about you sit down?" He steers her towards the trio of armchairs away from the desk and the fragile memorabilia. She collapses into the chair, for once forgetting her manners. Regulus follows after them cautiously.
"Both of my sons" she starts, Father sending her a warning glance.
"Both are failures of mine" she finishes, stabbing Regulus in the heart. All the tension from his body instantly vanishes. Not in a relieved way, no, in a way that says that there is nothing to fight anymore. No parents to be better for, because it was never enough. No manners to mind, no exams to pass. No words to interpret, no clever lines to be rehearsed. A ghost no one can see, a touch of the past. Just Regulus without a meaning.
This can only be a punishment meant for him.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Regulus looks at the muggles roaming the streets from his window.
They live their petty care-free lives with no knowledge of another world bubbling under their feet. When you put that terrible inconvenience aside you'll find they're simply alive. Ignorant, but alive.
They're alive to feel plush velvet, alive to continue with their mundane lives. They don't wear out their throat trying to make someone listen to them. They don't feel a pit inside their stomach each time their family looks right through them.
Regulus has become invisible —dead. Mother questions Kreacher about what Regulus did during his last day alive. Kreacher lies and tells her he has no knowledge about what Regulus did even if it physically hurts him. Regulus cries out for his friend when he sees Kreacher thump his head against the table after Mother dismisses him.
Regulus doesn't want his friend to burn his hands in the oven after a long day of lying to his Mistress. Every time it happens, Regulus feels so hopeless —there's nothing he can do.
Why did Regulus ever want to be invisible? To not gather any attention?
"Kreacher?" His lazy call doesn't bring his elf to him. Regulus' glassy eyes don't really look at the scenery outside: they're vacant. Two empty husks. Two colourless drops.
What has he in this life if not others? He has no real identity outside of his surname. He doesn't know what he really likes, what his personality is like. He's a blank slate that everyone gets colour a little bit.
He has no idea what he should do now. No one has instructed him on afterlife.
Regulus continues on watching; he can't do anything else. Even his death was useless. Kreacher cries every night after failing to destroy the locket.
Regulus never thought one could feel this empty. To seek death for nothing is the most meaningless endeavour there is.
-*-*-*-*-*
The paper has an announcement of his death made by Mother and Father. It's the polite thing to do when you're a Black or someone of importance. Regulus himself was never important: it was the idea of him. It doesn't bother him that much. He can not summon any disdain to fuel him.
And now every person that bothered to read the Prophet will know he's nothing but dust. Regulus wonders if Sirius will read it himself or if someone else will have to tell him. Would it be Potter, Lupin?
Regulus is not sure why he's thinking about it. He should learn to let go; he always clings onto whatever he can —clung onto whatever he could. He should probably use the past sense when he's thinking about himself, right?
Cissy and Bella come to visit Mother. They sit in one of the more private drawing rooms, deep into the halls of Grimmauld Place. Narcissa is clad in surprisingly simple robes. Perhaps she doesn't want to seem rude by dressing up in a time of grief.
It's not real grief, of course. It's protocol, one that Regulus also followed when his great-aunt Lycoris died. A visit to the family of the deceased dressed in all black. Don't grieve more than the immediate family, you don't want people to think the family doesn't care.
No bright colours for two weeks, no lavish parties in the eye of the public. A visit to the tomb once every day for 5 days. A ritual of safe passing repeated three times.
Father should be here to receive Narcissa's and Bella's condolences with Mother, but he's nowhere to be found. Mother fills the room with her presence enough, she doesn't need Father. Somehow, it still stings. Why isn’t Father here?
Narcissa and Bellatrix —albeit a little stiffly— curtsey to Mother. "We're sorry for your loss. Regulus shall forever be in our minds" Narcissa says. Regulus’ heart involuntarily starts at his own name. It hasn't been said in some time. All he's been called is "the boy" . With his death went his privilege of having a name, apparently. The thought is a sad kind of funny.
"Your empathy warms me profoundly" Mother impassively, perhaps sarcastically, says. Her face hasn't moved a muscle. She nods her head towards the two chairs in front of her.
"Kreacher!" Mother calls out. The elf appears with a too loud crack, it reverberates in his ears. Three cups and a teapot appear on the table. Mother pours her milk in her porcelain cup and then her tea. She doesn't look at her guests nor say anything to them.
Narcissa doesn't seem to enjoy the silence, but takes it in stride anyway. She pours herself a steaming cup. Bellatrix is an enigma however. Regulus is not quite sure how she's supposed to react. He'd been awfully flighty the last days of his final week, he admits. Bellatrix might have suspicions about his death.
But what does it matter anyway? It's not like she can kill him or drag him to the Dark Lord. Kreacher can't destroy the locket, it was all for naught. Regulus has become a chronic pessimist as of late, guess dying for nothing does that to people.
He went into that awful, dark cave for nothing. He gave his life for nothing. He was a brainless, dense, shortsighted fool. He can’t help but feel numb most of the time. The short time that he’s not apathetic he’s panicking —looking for inferi in the shadows and hearing the hallucinations echo in his head.
"Walburga" Narcissa softly places her teacup down "Do you know how he died?" Mother places her cup down too harshly; it clinks on the plate uncomfortably loudly. Mother's eyes turn to steel as she gazes upon Cissy.
Regulus' sweaty hands turn into fists, his breath leaves him like a mist.
"No" she steadily states. Narcissa averts her eyes from Mother’s blazing ones. "Just disappeared one day. I noticed the tapestry’s changes. A wretched legacy that he left behind —years too soon." She clicks her tongue. "No descendants…" she trails off, a glassy gaze drifting away.
Is that all I am worth? echoes in Regulus’ mind. He can’t help the twinge of pain in his chest. He lets out a huff of amusement that feels fake. Why did he expect his Mother to grieve for him? Of course, she’s devastated for their House. It’s going to die out now. All because of Regulus. Good, Regulus immaturely thinks. It serves her right for being so hard to get along with. If she can’t care for Regulus, then he doesn’t need to feel bad for ruining her family.
Regulus lies to himself too much, it isn't healthy.
"Do you know if he was in any trouble, or perhaps acting suspiciously?" Narcissa prods. Bellatrix leans forward, looking forward to hearing what Mother says. "His usual flighty self. As quiet as a mouse, as dumb as a pigeon." She flicks her hand as a dismissal. Regulus gazes at his shoes, it’s as if Mother is scolding him again. Is it worse to know this is how she speaks to other people too? He’s not the only one to hear of his inadequacies, but the whole family as well?
The room feels colder by the minute, Narcissa adjusts her skirt with nervous hands. Regulus wonders if he should simply leave.
"Perhaps he was betraying the Dark Lord?" Bellatrix suggests. Scratch cold, it’s freezing now. Regulus’ phantom heart picks up in speed, his words of opposition caught in his throat.
"Bella! Stop jesting!" Narcissa exclaims curtly. "What? You never know with Regulus. I don’t think he knows —knew what his favourite colour even was." Bellatrix’s slip of tongue is the last thing on his mind. His thoughts are filled with the locket, the Horcrux. Would Bella know? She’s uncomfortably close to the Dark Lord. What if she sees the locket at Grimmauld Place? Kreacher’s stupid sleeping cupboard is not be enough.
"All the more reason for him not to betray the Dark Lord! He loves this family! He’d never be a traitor" Narcissa fiercely defends Regulus. He feels a shiver of appreciation for her emerge. Even if she’s totally wrong.
Bellatrix rolls her eyes and sweeps her gaze through Regulus. He feels his love for this family dwindle everytime they look through him. It’s unfair to demand them to do the impossible. Respect nor love is not going to make him suddenly visible. Still, Regulus wishes it could be true.
"I quite agree with you, Narcissa" Mother interrupts Cissy’s red-cheeked rant. "Quit making such insidious remarks, girl." Bellatrix rolls her eyes, but leans back in her chair. Narcissa takes a calming sip of her tea. "How’s Orion?" she asks. Mother tsks quietly. "Holed up in his study, of course. Haven’t heard a peep of him for some time now. Just like his son, I say."
It’s no secret that Regulus is more like Father and Sirius like Mother. Neither of the pair get along very well. There’s been one too many burned bridges. Regulus wishes he was more like Mother: brave.
"It’s not been too hard on him, has it?" Narcissa tilts her head. Mother snorts at her question. "Not too hard, no. He’s doing just fine." On the nights that Regulus hears Mother throw vases, he hears his Father's silence; a series of coughs interrupting it once in a while. He doesn't talk to Mother, doesn't even glance at Kreacher.
"I'll see you at the funeral, girls" Mother says as she stands up. Narcissa and Bellatrix copy her instantly, relief seeping out of Bella's shoulders at the dismissal. Narcissa gives Mother a tight-lipped smile with her sister. Cissa's seems much more genuine with her round cheeks stretching slightly.
As she turns towards the door, her gaze catches Regulus'. Her eyelashes flutter in an instant, her eyes snapping wider and her hand flying to her chest. Regulus jolts under her gaze, his heart jumping out. Her eyes are a burning pressure, Regulus panics and stumbles backwards into another room.
What in the name of Merlin?!
He clutches his heart, feeling too warm and wired at the moment. Did she really just look at Regulus? Could she see him? What does this mean? Why didn't she see him earlier? He wasn't exactly hidden, anyone could easily spot him. Does this mean Regulus is becoming more visible by the day? Is Narcissa somehow special?
He lets out a panicked breath and stumbles back to the room they were in. Desperately hoping it wasn't a fluke.
They're no longer there. No Cissa, Bella nor Mother. His shoulders drop from their tense posture.
"What just happened?" Regulus asks the empty room.
It wasn't a trick of the light, was it? For the first time in days someone looked at Regulus, not through Regulus. The thought makes him dizzy, a certain feeling of rotating between two states. He drops down to the carpet, his knees feeling the impact. He needs to calm down for a while.
-*-*-*-*-*-
Regulus watches as silver flames consume his casket.
It's black and shiny; the gold engravings on the sides pop out wonderfully. It's a work of art, really. The casket is empty: not a body nor a wand in sight. Regulus really feels like he should hop in. It would probably make things easier for a lot of people —himself included.
Regulus watches as Cissy grips Lucius' arm painfully. She's keeping a neutral face, of course, but at least she seems sad. Regulus can not say the same for the other people.
She doesn't look at him. Her eyes are planted resolutely on his casket. Regulus will mourn it later at home, but now he focuses on the present. People rarely get to overlook their funeral. He should take full advantage of it.
All he sees is expressions varying from disinterest to mild annoyance. Regulus killed off the Black family line, he very much deserves this lukewarm response. The least Regulus could have done is get married and have a son first…
Oh, well. It's a bit late for that now. For now he only focuses on his burning casket and feels a sting at the distinct lack of tears from the guests.
That is me.
But it isn't him in the chest, really. He's at the bottom of a lake, probably in a million shreds or in inferi's bloated stomachs.
He doesn't exist anymore. As time goes on people will forget his voice, his face, his name. He'll be another surname etched on the tapestry. The one Mother will sneer at when she passes by. The one she'll hopefully beg to come home. The one she'll curse when she takes her last breaths.
Regulus drove his family to disaster; he doesn't feel as terrible about it as he thought he would. Perhaps he’s still too shocked to feel it fully. His half-closed eyes watch as Father persuades the fire to become bigger.
Poor Mother though, Regulus feels ill when he feels her shuffling beside him. He looks at her and wonders if she's just trying to deceive everyone. Her hair looks like she tried to tame a bird's nest to look sleek. Regulus hears her shouting and throwing lamp shades at night. What does she grieve for?
He cowers in his room all day; too afraid to look at anyone. He fears the dark now more than ever. Regulus sees white hands in every shadow, green liquid in every reflection.
The past is a wave —it keeps on returning.
Regulus waits for an uninvited guest to crash the funeral but they never arrive. With pale skin and soaked clothes, he waits to turn back into dust —a light breeze underneath the scorching Sun.
He can't help but feel the growing disappointment when it never comes.