leftover light
“I knew I should’ve never told you about the trumpet!” James tells him by way of greeting.
Regulus just smirks. “Pretty good pun, though.”
James just smiles back at him in response, and pockets the little piece of parchment he was brandishing. Regulus had left it on his assigned desk in the Transfiguration classroom, knowing it was also assigned to James during his class, which just so happens to be right after Regulus’.
It confuses him why James never just throws them out after. They always contain a singular pun and a sketch, so their use does not extend much past the first read.
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Inferi.
Regulus knows for sure they’re what will drag him down.
Corpses.
Regulus keeps reading, and staves off the rising bile in his throat.
‘Reanimated corpses of the freshly deceased, Inferi are exceptionally useful as a defensive instalment. The principles of the creation ritual are based in the Animation Charm, and therefore the caster shall treat the corpse as an inanimate object. The soul does not return to the body.
The lack of coordination, logic, or ability to follow complex commands from the caster can lead to harming oneself or allies. In severe cases, this can result in the death of the caster, by which the Inferi will be freed from their binds and cannot be controlled by any means (unless destroyed).
In the case that a witch or wizard finds themselves powerful enough to venture an offensive with a host of Inferi, it must be stated that the corpses of those killed by the host will join them. This is a beneficial quality upon the battlefield, ensuring an exponential increase in numbers that, at worst, can counteract dwindling numbers. At best, it may overtake the enemy within mere hours.’
Regulus slams away the book, sending it flying. He hears it slam into a wall, much further than a physical shove is capable of, and stares down at his hands. Dark black ink stains the tips of his fingers where he’d been turning the wretched pages. Regulus recognizes the signs of parasitic dark magic easily enough, and does not bother with a vanishing spell.
Instead, he mutters protection charms. He even tries his best to draw a few protection runes he’s learned this year, hoping the monotonous nature of the act will calm his racing heart. Nothing helps rid him of the knowledge that, even in death, his body will be further defiled, never to know peace.
He prays for his own soul.
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Regulus finds James in the empty potions classroom looking bored but focused. He also knows how much James complains about being down here.
“What are you up to? Classes are over,” he asks, sitting as far away as he can from both James and his pink, oddly-glowing potion brew. He sends a bag of crisps flying into James’ lap wandlessly, frowning at his still-smudged fingertips, as he’s wont to do whenever he catches a glimpse of them. They’re clearing, at least.
“I have to control the temperature on that cauldron every time the colour changes, for at least the next hour,” James mumbles out, monotone. He flicks his wand out mid-speech, and the suddenly blue hue settles back into a shade of pink.
“Why would you choose to do NEWT-level Potions?” Regulus asks genuinely.
James smiles ruefully. “It’s alright, when it’s not so monotonous. Lots to learn, and plenty of room for improvement even when you’ve learned everything. I don’t like dead-ends,” he shrugs. “Plus, it opens up a lot of doors; stable jobs… you know.”
Regulus nods. “Yes. I considered it for a career at some point, so I’m definitely taking it for NEWTs as well. I think I'd like to go the teaching route, though.”
James raises a brow, even as he flicks his wand carelessly. “An academic! It suits you.”
“It would suit you too, I think.”
“You know, I think I’d like that, eventually. But not so soon after graduating; I need a few years away from this school.”
Regulus studies him carefully, and wonders if he’d be able to hide the curriculums he has devised in his free time somewhere only James will be able to find. Maybe he’ll carry on Regulus’ dream, in part.
“You seem pretty unsure about what you’ll be doing, post-graduation,” Regulus points out casually. He pulls out some parchment and a self-inking quill, trying to catch up on one of the many assignments he’s way past-due on submitting.
“I don’t like thinking about it,” James answers honestly. “There’s so much more to life than just… that. It’s what you do with your life outside of your obligations that’s really indicative of who you are.”
“Mhm,” Regulus hums back in agreement, scratching down a sentence he recognizes as too-wordy. “What do you like to do in your free time, then?” he asks mindlessly, “Apart from Quidditch, of course.”
“Spending time with you,” James says in a playful tone. Regulus freezes, then feels himself flush from head to toe.
One, two, three beats pass, and silence reigns heavy in the room. Regulus doesn’t even dare a breath, choosing to believe a sardonic smile and a disbelieving headshake is answer enough.
“Was that… charming?” James asks, and he sounds unsure. Truly, genuinely insecure, and sincere in his question.
Regulus looks up into his eyes and stays quiet. He won’t survive the false hope. He won’t feed into it, nor will he actively kill it.
Regulus only observes, embraces his own inability to enact change, and calls it ‘willful passivity’. Such is his destiny.
He knows he might be doing it to absolve himself of the blame should things turn sour. So he’ll have the excuse of ‘doing nothing’, even though he knows that sometimes choosing to do nothing is choosing to end something before it’s even begun.
“You’re stupid,” he says fondly, a minute or so later. James just smiles back.
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The hands do not caress Regulus. Their touch is infinitely softer, still, than any he’s ever felt.
His hands flail about on impulse. His arm is a ghastly sight, marred by a mark that’s all too familiar.
The water begins flooding his mouth, and he gulps it down greedily even though he can’t breathe, shaking past all the salt.
I’m going to die in this cave, he realises.
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Regulus settles both palms on the back of James’ chair, peering down at his parchment curiously. It’s about some kind of charm, as far as he can tell, but it seems too much of a first draft to be anything substantial.
James tilts his head back, resting it on Regulus’ stomach. He stares up at him through thick lashes. Regulus wills his heart rate to calm so that the other boy won’t feel it.
“There’s a practical portion to the Charms NEWT. We have to attempt to create a brand new spell that fulfils certain criteria, and have it produce a passable effect. It wouldn’t be right to tell you any details, especially since I’m head boy, but…” he trails off, shrugging.
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Sustaining off of cat naps, Regulus slugs his way over to the restricted section. His stomach pulls him towards it against his will. He’s stopped trying to get rid of the dark residue that permanently stains his fingers, up till the very last knuckle. He sets a glamour upon it instead, and hopes that it does not falter around James.
James, who Regulus hates at the moment, and does not wish to see. There are enough uncontrollable factors in his life, and playing some sadistic game of back and forth with Regulus is not a very kind addition to all of that. All in all, James can go fuck himself if he won’t gather the courage to speak up soon.
If these are the kinds of friendships James keeps, and Regulus is quite adamant that James deserves people in his life who can give him that, then Regulus simply must accept that he cannot be one of those people. There are others.
The book is a welcome familiar, at least — a stable, wretched presence that does not try to seem like anything less than what it is.
‘Ouroboros resembles life in death, otherwise known as the eternal cycle, or the natural order of all things. Devotion to the one aspect of life, as is common, is an imbalance. Those that place emphasis on the mirror side restore that sacred equality, though they are often looked down upon by those lacking in understanding.
Eternal life, for example, embodies the perfection of living: the time to experience and create all things possible, to no end. The key to this lies most prominently in practices of death, such as the destruction of one's own fundamental soul to create newer, lasting fragments. In destruction, creation. In death, a new life.
Those who prize life above all else fail to embrace the gifts and joys of death, and as such can never escape it, nor the insurmountable grief that encapsulates them at their unacceptance of it.’
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The last month or so of one’s seventh year is spent outside of classes, as an opportunity to form a self-imposed study camp to prepare for the final examinations.
As such, James’ last year at Hogwarts has come to a close. Sirius’, too.
Regulus grieves their loss, and cries for the first time in months. He cries hard, even if he knows he’ll see them soon, because he knows it’ll only hurt even more when he does.
He knows. That’s all he does— knows things, and watches them come to pass without even trying. He’s not under any illusion that his gift is not growing; it is, exponentially so. Some days pass him by completely, and he’ll only realise he’s been half-heartedly following along with his body when he’s back in bed. Like he’s watching a play come to life, having already skimmed its script once before.
Stubbornly, his dreams remain the same. He’s tried, but investigating it any further is futile since he simply does not have much more to go off of. A cave in the sea is too vague a description that matches exactly none of the known magical sites.
Regulus knows, in his gut, that he’ll only be allowed to see more once he’s gotten the mark. He also knows that will not be happening– not until the next year, when he knows for sure that James will never see it on his skin.
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“How did it go?”
Regulus’ breath hitches, and he tries for a smile. It doesn’t sit right on his face, so he stops trying entirely. He just nods and shrugs, exhausted. “It went. Yours?”
“I’m just glad it’s over,” James says, in that stupidly gentle voice.
The air between them is disgustingly stilted. Regulus can feel his breathing get quicker because of it. He was trying so very hard not to see James today. He’d left his exam early just to avoid this scenario, but paused to wait for Pandora once he was out, figuring she’d be out before any of the NEWT examinees.
Regulus hates the way they’re standing here. He hates the look James is giving him, like he’s hurt, like he regrets the loss of whatever is palpably absent between the two of them.
Too bad it’s his fucking fault.
“Alright, you can get out of here now,” Regulus says, motioning with his head for James to run along.
He has the audacity to look a bit hurt by this, but gives Regulus a small smile a few seconds later. Luckily for both of them, Pettigrew comes bounding out of the room, and James becomes the James Potter on the spot. His voice gets louder, his actions more harsh and unrestrained.
They move past Regulus with half-present nods, yelling excitedly amongst each other about how bad their test went. Regulus grits his teeth to bite back the hot, frustrated tears welling up in his eyes against his will.
He can appreciate the irony of thinking, I should have known this would happen, all the way back to his dorm room. Pandora stays quiet next to him.
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It should not hurt the way it does.
Regulus’ summer is being spent aimlessly, trying to find his footing in this brand new world where he is well and truly alone.
The war is getting worse, and Regulus is not ready. The fresh list of deaths reported on the radio, every single day, haunts him. He knows every name before it’s called, and still breathes a sigh of relief when it’s none of the Gryffindors he’s grown to care for.
James Potter is dating Lily Evans.
Kreacher keeps him company on the hardest days. It’s probably because Regulus’ mother is also much worse now.
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Barty’s joining the cause is not due to true belief. It’s as simple as hating the way things are now run, and seeing a true chance to break it all and start anew. Regulus thinks it’s got quite a bit to do with a personal hatred for his father, who’s an active enforcer of the law, but he wisely keeps that part to himself.
The Dark Lord gifted Barty the mark not despite of his rationale, but because of it. “It impressed him,” he claims, and Regulus still says nothing.
Nothing impresses the Dark Lord, but for his own power. You just amuse him.
Evan joined because Barty joined. He does not possess a mark, and has no interest in obtaining one. “He’s a brother to me. I need to keep him safe,” he reasons. It’s scripted, and the look in his eyes when he speaks of Barty is all too familiar. Regulus feels compelled to provide Rosier the dignity of looking away.
“I have nothing – no one – left for me,” Regulus tells them, one evening. They exchange a look, and promise to take him with them to meet their Lord as soon as they can. They tell him they’ve space in their ranks for any who wish to see a new, better world, and that a Black from the noble and ancient house would most certainly be welcome.
It’s no comfort to him, but he nods along anyways. He doesn’t think of James.
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“I can see, my Lord,” Regulus tells him, already knowing how this conversation would end.
He’s much younger than Regulus would’ve initially thought, face handsome and features dark. His dark hair falls in messy waves curtaining his face, and Regulus has the passing thought that he could be a distant relative.
He even looks like Sirius when he smiles like he is now – all teeth. “How peculiar!”
Regulus keeps his head down. “Yes, my Lord.”
“What a gift it is, to see things as you do. Tell me, what is it like?”
“I will show you, my Lord,” Regulus says slowly, looking deeply into Voldemort’s eyes for the first time. He sees them twitch. “You are quite an extraordinary legilimens.”
He seems taken aback by this, and Regulus knows. He knows how this will go, how all of this ends. He can taste his future, getting clearer by the minute. Can almost touch it.
With no warning, or verbal cast, Regulus feels his mind being prodded. He manoeuvres it calmly through the many corridors and valleys of his soul, so used to exploring it himself with every new vision. So intimately familiar with how it feels, but unsure how to get to the very centre.
He makes sure Voldemort sees the mark upon his arm, as visible as the here and now.
He shows Voldemort his dream, devoid of any details. He makes sure he feels it.
Immediately, he feels alone in his mind again. “Seems you’re quite extraordinary yourself,” Voldemort says. The approval in his tone stands in harsh contrast to the desperate hunger in his eyes. Both make Regulus feel sick.
“You’re too kind, my Lord, but I’m really not.”
“How old did you say you were?”
“Seventeen, my Lord,” Regulus answers politely.
Voldemort nods. “Too young to die,” he states, with no particular inflection.
Regulus swallows before he speaks, even though his stomach tugs at him to spit the words out. He knows how this ends, so what is there to fear? “I wish to change that. I do not want to die.”
Voldemort just stares at him.
“If anyone can help me find a way to change my fate, it is you. I will be your most loyal servant, if that is what it takes.”
“Quite conditional loyalty, Mr. Black,” Voldemort questions.
“You have my desperation, and if possible, my eternal gratitude. Either way, you have my loyalty. Forgive me if it seemed otherwise. I thought only to let the faith I put in your abilities known.”
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The hands do not caress Regulus. Their touch is infinitely softer, still, than any he’s ever felt.
His hands flail about on impulse. His arm is a ghastly sight, marred by a mark that’s all too familiar.
The water begins flooding his mouth, and he gulps it down greedily even though he can’t breathe, shaking past all the salt.
I’m going to die in this cave, he realises, as if he’s not known this his entire life.
Panic fills him when he remembers, and he tugs the golden locket resting around his neck off. He mutters one last, gurgled spell, and the locket goes soaring out of the water.
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Excerpt from ‘British Wizarding World: Index of Enchanted Heirlooms and Relics’ dated 1908:
“The large, oval locket of heavy gold, featuring a prominent serpentine "S" rendered in green gemstones, is depicted here based on eyewitness testimony and historical accounts. Believed to be an artistic interpretation of Salazar Slytherin’s Locket, the original artefact’s current location remains unknown following the extinction of the Slytherin family line.
Speculation suggests the locket may reside within the possession of a pureblood British wizarding family; however, attempts to confirm this through direct inquiry have been met with either categorical denial or a refusal to comment.
The precise magical properties of the locket are undocumented. Given Salazar Slytherin’s noted proficiency in enchantments and penchant for secrecy, it is unlikely that the object would remain devoid of magical augmentation. The prevailing hypothesis among scholars posits that the locket functions as a key to a yet unidentified locking mechanism.
Definitive conclusions remain elusive, as the contents of the locket have never been observed, and the method of accessing its enchantments is presumed lost. Further investigation is impeded by both the artefact’s inaccessibility and the lack of verifiable primary sources.”
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Regulus finds the office easily enough. His NEWTs were not easy, but he wagers he’s passed them all. Not that it matters, since he’ll die within the year, but his stomach had tugged him here to collect his grades anyway.
He physically collides into another person. His first instinct is to sneer at them, as he’s grown accustomed to doing over the last few months, but something stops him. He knows who this is, before ever looking up.
“Hey,” James Potter says, a small smile on his face.
“Hello,” Regulus responds, and thanks his lucky stars that he’s made a habit of wearing long sleeve coats.
“You’re here for your grades, too?”
“Yes. Why are you here?”
“The office was trashed last year. It was around the time when everything started ramping up.” Everything being the war, but he doesn’t say it.
Regulus looks away. “Oh. So is Sirius also…?”
“Oh, no, no. Says he doesn’t need them, so he’s out planning his birthday party instead. I’ll see you there, probably?”
Regulus just stares at James, unspeaking. He smiles tightly, if only to spare James the awkwardness of the moment. He hates that he still cares enough to.
“Oh. He probably just forgot to send out the invitation,” James fumbles for an excuse. “I’ll let him know I’ll bring you with me–”
“No, no. Stop, it’s okay,” Regulus replies, putting his right hand up to halt James’ rambling. “I don’t want to be there if I’m not wanted. I’d just feel worse.”
“Then come to our gathering,” James says in a rush. “We’ve not had a chance to celebrate our own graduation, what with everything, so we’re throwing a very delayed party of sorts. It’s on the same day as Sirius’ birthday, but it’s in the morning.” He looks like he won’t budge on this, and Regulus wants to punch him in the fucking face.
Instead, he just nods. “Okay.”
As James is penning the details down onto a parchment, Regulus tries for one of his old smiles. It’s wonky, but he keeps it on, and tries to be brave.
“I hear you’re dating someone, now. Talk of the entire school, that was. Tell me about her.”
“Oh, yes,” James says, looking a bit stumped. It shouldn’t be endearing. “It’s Lily Evans; don’t know if you’ve ever met her. She’s great, and you know – our birthdays match up, too. Hers is the day right after mine!”
“That’s very sweet. I’m happy for you,” Regulus says, and only a part of him is honest about it.
James looks like he can see it, too. He has the grace to not mention it, and smiles back. “Thanks. So, I’ll see you there, right? For sure?”
“Yes, I’ll be there,” Regulus says, ignoring the stupid ache in his chest that had grown unfamiliar enough to be sharp.
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James greets Regulus with a hug.
James flirts with all his friends. Lily pretends to be annoyed, but they all laugh it off.
The leaves from James’ backyard trees are shaken loose by a strong wind, and end up tangled in Regulus’ curls. James gets up from across the bonfire to gently ease them out, and ruffles Regulus’ hair on the way back. “I’m not a puppy!” Regulus exclaims loudly. Lily looks over at Mary MacDonald, in what appears to be silent conversation.
James insists Regulus try his attempt at a family recipe, and plates it for him especially.
James asks him about his love life, and Regulus just smiles and says he’s not quite able to be in anything serious at the moment. That he’s too fond of his casual encounters to give them up.
Frank Longbottom asks if Regulus thinks James is attractive, and Regulus responds with, “He’s like a brother to me, I couldn’t think of him in that way.” He smiles as he says it, and hopes that Evan is doing well, wherever he and Barty are at the moment.
When Regulus berates James for telling Sirius he’s bringing him along to the birthday, James replies, “That’s too bad, you’re expected there now. It would be rude not to show.”
He asks if James is okay, when he seems a bit down. “Everything is wonderful,” he shoots back.
They pile into James’ room when the wind gets too strong to bear. Regulus takes a round of it, eyeing the many bits and bobs that make up a ‘Potter’. Lily watches him, and he pretends not to feel her gaze boring into him.
“What do you think?” James asks, and it sounds too nonchalant for what it could mean. He stares at the workbench in the corner, dedicated to broomstick modifications. “Just about right. It fits,” Regulus answers.
James sits at his fancy wooden desk, and Regulus deposits himself on the ground next to him. Everyone else piles in soon after.
Regulus extends his leg when he feels his knees locking up, and James extends his own leg in turn, resting the soles of their sock-clad feet against each other. Regulus would think it was disgusting, if it were anyone else but him.
Lily sits herself in James’ lap a few minutes later. Regulus speaks directly to Frank, hoping to give them some privacy before they must leave for the birthday.
At the door, they find a large spider at the doorstep. Lily asks James to kill it, but Regulus stops him. He wandlessly levitates it outside of the house, and they all head out.
Outside the building where Sirius shares a flat with Remus Lupin, a gigantic cathedral can be seen in the distance, lighting up the sky. Regulus wants to go, and mindlessly asks if anyone has ever been. “I’ve always wanted to,” James says. Regulus suggests they visit when they’re done at Sirius’ party, and James replies with a calm, “Sure.”
Regulus hugs his brother once, wishing him a very happy birthday. Sirius’ smile is a bit strained, but he seems to genuinely appreciate Regulus’ presence. Regulus is here because he knows it’ll be the last time, and so resolves to leave as soon as possible, so as to leave their relationship right where it is at this moment. In a good memory, a good feeling.
“Will you give me back my bracelet? It’s important to me,” Regulus asks James. James blanches at the question. “Do you really want it back?”
Regulus just eyes his visible distress. It’s so, so frustrating, and Regulus is sick of the feeling of drowning. “Are we friends, James?”
“I think we are,” he answers, as if fed up with the question.
Regulus decides, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. “Then keep it,” he says.
Later, when he asks if James is ready to leave, James runs his fingers up and down Regulus’ right palm, where his matching bracelet sits. It’s a mindless movement done as he thinks, but Regulus pulls his hands away and asks him to stop regardless. Lily does not look particularly happy, and Regulus understands. Neither is he.
“Sorry,” James says immediately. Regulus shakes his head at him. “It’s alright, just… don’t.”
It’s not even a full minute later when he starts doing it again, and Lily takes it upon herself to first remove James’ hand, then move Regulus’ hand out of James’ reach. She does it with a smile, and everyone assumes she’s still joking about James’ flirtatious ways. Regulus can see the truth in her eyes, though.
Wisely, he says nothing, and repeats his question a third time. Lily pipes up then, speaking over her boyfriend, “You can just head out right now, if you’d like. You weren’t even invited anyways, right?”
She says this jokingly, echoing the many complaints Regulus himself has made so many times today, but it’s different. To anyone listening, who does not know that he was dragged here by James, he just sounds like a douchebag who’s shown up uninvited.
Regulus leaves the party without another word, or even a look back at James.
He cries the entire way home, angry with himself for being quite pathetic. For the pointlessness of putting himself in the position to be crucified, in the hopes that James Potter will someday ask for repentance at his altar.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾༓･*˚⁺‧͙
The hands do not caress Regulus. Their touch is infinitely softer, still, than any he’s ever felt.
His hands flail about on impulse. His arm is a ghastly sight, marred by a mark that’s all too familiar.
The water begins flooding his mouth, and he gulps it down greedily even though he can’t breathe, shaking past all the salt.
I’m going to die in this cave, he realises.
Panic fills him when he remembers, and he tugs the golden locket resting around his neck off. He mutters one last, gurgled spell, and the locket goes soaring out of the water.
The world goes entirely black, and Regulus’ thoughts are entirely too quiet.
Light floods his vision again, suddenly, and a tan-skinned boy with glasses reaches down for him. Regulus clutches at his arm, frantic and disbelieving.
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Kreacher dry-heaves as he describes it all to Regulus.
Salazar Slytherin’s Locket.
The Cave.
Inferi.
“Too young to die.”
A bird pecking at the window pane.
The Dark Mark.
Ouroboros.
Eternal Life.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾༓･*˚⁺‧͙
It’s quite horrible, the realisation that he will still live. That what had consumed his mind, for years now, was not at all real. The saving grace is the hope sitting calm in Regulus’ chest that, somehow, someway, he and James had meaning.
That he was not imagining all that had happened between them, and that it’ll bring James back to save him. That there was a point, and that it was all real.
It gives him the strength to venture into the cave, false locket in hand.
Kreacher is at his side, guiding him through it all; he keeps Regulus company on the hardest days, as he’s always done, and Regulus is infinitely grateful for the little elf. He vows to free him, once this is all over, if only to hope he’ll stay with James and himself of his own volition.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾༓･*˚⁺‧͙
“Go home, Kreacher! Destroy it!” is all Regulus manages, before he’s completely submerged.
The hands do not caress Regulus. Their touch is infinitely softer, still, than any he’s ever felt but one.
His hands flail about on impulse. His arm is a ghastly sight, marred by Voldemort’s mark. He watches in satisfaction as an inferus rips into it.
Water floods his mouth, and he gulps it down greedily even though he can’t breathe, unrifled by the familiar salt. Except the tangy iron of his mingled blood surprises him, still.
I’m going to die in this cave, he thinks, as if he’s not known this his entire life.
He tugs the golden locket resting around his neck off, and with one final practised, gurgled spell, the locket goes soaring out of the water. He hears it clink into the crystalline basin.
He stops resisting, calm in the knowledge that the sooner he lets go, the sooner he will come.
The world goes black, and Regulus’ thoughts are entirely too quiet.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾