Feeling
Regulus Black had always thought of himself as an intelligent boy.
By the age of one and a half, he was already perfectly capable of composing complete sentences, and by the age of three, he never stopped talking. In fact, he talked so much, he believes he had exhausted his maximum word count prematurely. By the age of fifteen, he barely spoke at all.
At the age of seven, he read his first book, entitled The Tales of Beedle and the Bard. Yet, rather than indulge the nature of his passion, after discovering him reading in a dark corner of the Black estate's library, his parents had punished him. They believed it would be better to spend his free time on a concrete activity, rather than reading that idle nonsense published by blood traitors. Regulus had nodded, lowering his head. However, that same evening, having pulled the covers down over his dark curls, he had taken out from under the pillow an old book of fairy tales that he had found in a secluded corner of the library and had run his eyes over the ink until they began to hurt. And so he had continued to do, every single evening, until the day he took the train to Hogwarts, where he discovered he no longer had to hide.
At the age of eleven, just starting his first year, he had been the first in the class able to summon a Defènsio Evocàtus. It was a simple defensive spell, capable of creating a barrier of minimal dimensions, and yet, many had thought it was surprising how he had managed to perform such spell in only the first hour of class.
At the age of 14, lips pressed together by the strident and icy magic of Walburga Black, he had learned how by deliberately deciding to carry out the tasks assigned while under the influence of it, one could neutralize the effects of the imperio curse.
So yes, Regulus Black had always thought of himself as a pretty smart boy. And yet, there were times when every little victory, every successful spell, every good grade, every accomplishment wasn't good enough to stop him from feeling stupid.
He had learned that thinking of himself as something and feeling like it couldn't be more different things.
Regulus knew, of course, that he wasn't stupid. And yet, he found it so hard not to feel that way.
It was silly, really, that he felt like that because of a dull grade in arithmancy. Silly, how that dreadful scribbled on the left edge of the page made his nerves tingle and his stomach turn.
When the bell that signaled the end of classes for the day rang, Regulus headed for the teacher's desk. Septima Vector sat there with a sullen expression, her brown hair tied in a low ponytail. Leaning forward, she scratched her chin absently, her rounded eyes peering at Regulus over her half-moon eyeglasses.
«Can I help you, Mr. Black?» she asked, her voice sour.
Regulus gulped, his eyes buried in a grudging resentment. "I'm sorry to bother you outside of your working hours, Miss Vector, but I have a question to ask you." The nerves at the base of her jaw tensed, she struggled to put on an affable expression.
«Go on, Mr. Black.» Was the woman's dry response, fingers scribbling absently in her small black notebook, her lips thin as she spoke.
«You see, Miss, as you are no doubt already aware, I am considered by many professors to be one of the best, if not the best student in my year.» Regulus leaned forward, ignoring the enjoyment he was having in annoying the woman, who simply nodded resignedly.
«Now, in my opinion, yours is the only subject in which I am having... difficulties. I find it senseless that I should be penalized this way because of simple misunderstandings, don't you agree?»
Septima adjusted the glasses on her nose, her tone authoritative as she replied: «I am not aware of your performance in subjects outside my field of teaching, Mr. Black. What I can tell you, however, is that the grade you received certainly has nothing to do with a simple misunderstanding, but rather is due to a total lack of knowledge regarding the subject. You have many gaps to fill, Mr. Black. If you allow me, gaps of a certain proportion.»
Regulus pursed his lips. «Of course, Miss. What I was however wondering about, was perhaps the possibility of doing extracurricular activities that would allow me to improve my grade? You see, it would be a serious shortcoming on my part, if I gave my mother and father such an indecent grade. And I would be particularly keen not to upset my family.» He asserted.
Septima gave the boy the faintest semblance of a smile, which made him feel sick because of how fake it was. «I'm sorry, Mr. Black, but the rules are the same for everyone.»
The Slytherin tightened his lips, trying again: «So a support, perhaps? Some book that can be consulted?»
The woman shook her head, tufts of hair messing up her face. «I'm afraid not.»
Regulus let out a soft sigh, his eyelids tightened in annoyance. «I see»And he turned away.
«But might I suggest that you involve more competent students?» Was the stinging comment she addressed to him.
Black clenched his fists, fingertips crushing the ink-stained parchment between his fingers. «Such as?» he asked.
«Don't worry about it, Mr. Black. I will personally see to it that you get some worthy help.» She snorted seraphically, curling her lips in a smile of courtesy.
«Of course, I thank you for your time.» Regulus blurted out, his face a bundle of nerves. Then he left the classroom.
Reaching his dormitory, he set his bag of school books unceremoniously on the desk and sat on the edge of his bed, letting the softness of his acquired quietness envelop him.
Stiff with emotion, he moved his hand back, groping under the satin pillowcase, lips curled as he bit his cheek.
When he finally felt the raw tang of paper sting his fingertips, he exhaled in relief, curtains sealed in the time it took him to wave his wand and the book was already in his hands.
Maurice by E. M. Foster
Regulus had first read it in November of his second year. Climbing the spiral staircase to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, he had seen it slip from the satchel of a fourth-year half-blood, a Gryffindor. He had picked it up from the floor with the intention of passing it on to her, for he could not be caught red-handed doing someone like her a kindness.
He had stuffed it into the sleeve of his robes, clutching at the innocent transgression wherever he could hide from prying eyes.
With innocent fingers, in the late hours of the night, he had leafed through it in what had been a mere jolt of curiosity and had been disgusted by it. Indeed, Regulus had found it repugnant, what, hidden by the plain white cover, told of the greatest of sins with a conceit that made one's guts curl.
The boy's first instinct had been to burn the manuscript, to watch the pages curl into wisps of gray smoke as he sat by the fireplace.
It was his greatest misfortune, to find himself caressing those pages in a revolting intimacy in the dead of night. Regulus didn't understand why he hadn't burned it until, irises wet with tears and lips tight with awareness, he had laid eyes on that I'm an unspeakable of the Oscar Wilde sort.
It was there that he gave himself an answer in a pained groan, the heavy duvet pinching his nose. And he cried, flayed by tears. He was overcome by bitterness, the book still clutched to his chest when he fell asleep, betrayed by his own touch, denied by his own mouth.
After that night, he even detached himself from the intimate desire to touch its pages. For a while, he got the temptation of burning it, hoping that his sin could dissolve along with the smoke. Yet, once again, he did not. Instead, he shoved it down, hidden deep in the darkness of his mattress, clogged in the farthest reaches of his mind.
It was only halfway through his third year, that he plucked it from its hiding place with trembling fingers, only to find it exactly as he had left it. It was both terrifying and reassuring to finish reading it. It made his eyes sad.
From then on, he read it more times than he could count, and found it utterly shameful. Yet he read it again, longing to feel what he was prevented from feeling.
So now, two years to the day since he first found it in his hands, marking his sin in glaring pain, he found it almost a duty to reread it.
And so be it. From that exact moment after school ended until, just in time for dinner, he was forced to stop, Regulus read, frantically.
When he stood up, his muscles were numb.
The sunlight kissed the blanket fabric balled up at his feet, making it shine like a pool of emeralds.
Regulus headed down the stairs and into the corridors in a zealous promise of silence, his dark curls styled so they wouldn't move past his ears and his steps heavy with thoughts.
The Great Hall stood in a vast space, oppressive in its very grandeur.
Candles floated in midair, their dim light glowing against the whispers of the students already seated at their respective tables. The ceiling, enchanted to emulate the sky, opened up in a leaden expanse. Regulus looked up eagerly, the blue of the spell reflecting in his irises. It was a sight that faltered him slightly, the composure of the magic reflecting the stern essence of the wizard who had performed it.
The long rectangular tables, divided by house, stretched from one side of the room to the other, bustling with students. Regulus, as usual, found a place next to Evan at the Slytherin table.
The ceramic plates glinted faintly under the light given off by the candles, but remained empty for the moment, awaiting the imminent meal. Regulus lazily placed his hand on one of them, feeling the coldness of the metal reach his palm with a shiver. He could not, however, stop his eyes from wandering to the Gryffindor table. It was not a conscious choice, but rather an ingrained habit.
Sirius Black slammed into his eyelids with a demeaning force, his cryptic smile oozing charisma. He sat stiffly beside Potter, who unlike the boy right next to him seemed to take up space with such a resolute and harmonious confidence, so violent that it made Regulus's pupils itch. He had him looking back at Sirius in a split second. A smile spread across his face, thick and elegant with a warmth the younger boy had never managed to have. Because his smile was intimate, true and sincere and honest in a way that transgressed so much with everything his name had taught him to be. So different from Regulus's smile, so different from Regulus.
When Sirius turned to look at him, there was something much colder in his gaze, his shoulders had stiffened. The truth was that Sirius glared at him dismissively, his irises filled with detachment looking him over with a disarming coldness. It made Regulus feel sick to his stomach, his hands playing frantically with the ring on his index finger.
Neither of them dared look at the other after that.
Regulus had to admit that he was taken aback by the well-aimed kick in the balls he received as he turned around.
He groaned a noise of complaint, returning his attention to the Slytherin table, where Barty Crouch Jr. was watching him with amusement, his brown hair messy on his forehead and a sneer peeking out from his red lips.
«Was that really necessary?» He grunted, wrinkling his nose in a vain attempt to get rid of the pain.
«Not even a swear word? Oh, you're very well behaved.»
Barty leaned forward across the table, his eyes sparkling with satisfaction. The smile on his face widened, seeming to revel in his irritation.
«I thought you'd at least throw out a curse, but you're a real good boy after all.»
Regulus looked at him crossly, his jaw clenched and his eyes wild with annoyance. «I assure you, there's no need to look for additional ways to be annoying. You're annoying enough already, you don't have to try so hard.»
The other chuckled, a light and almost mocking sound.
«Oh Reg, you know I only do this for you, right?»
Regulus snorted, smoothing his robes in annoyance. «Thanks for being so considerate of me.» Was the sarcastic reply.
Barty laughed, warm and boisterous as he ruffled his hair with his hand. «And how else am I supposed to win your friendship?» He paused for a moment, struggling with what to say.
«What happened with that bitch Victor in the end anyway? Did she say, 'Don't piss me off, you fucking Slytherin, and go back to cursing mudbloods'?»
Regulus swallowed a smile as he bit into a slice of bread. «I doubt she used the same language as you.» Evan, beside him, laughed softly.
«You think so?» Barty scratched his chin, chuckling.
«Well, if it's of any consolation, Barty, I'm sure she thought that.» Evan intervened.
Regulus nodded, lips tight with resentment. «Oh, yeah. She had the audacity to tell me that I should probably get help from someone more competent since I have some serious gaps.» He quoted, pouting.
«Do you understand what he just said, Barty? He had the audacity to say that to our little prince!» The blond laughed, touching Barty's shoulder in an affectionate gesture, as if to get his attention.
At that, all three of them bursted out laughing, Regulus hiding behind the dark shadow of his hair and Barty throwing his head back. Evan, however, hid his face behind the pale fingers of his hand, studying them both with a tempered gaze.
«Just shut the fuck up.» Regulus ran a hand through his raven hair, tucking the strands that had fallen over his forehead behind his ears as he laughed and coughed to mask his laughter.
Barty scratched the bridge of his nose. «Oh God, the little prince cursed!»
It was the time of a moment. A moment and Regulus stopped listening. A moment in which he allowed his impulses - deceptive creatures - to guide him towards the Gryffindor table.
Just a moment, and then James Potter's eyes burst into a latent blast in his, tenacious and resolute. They were incandescent with the most complete lack of judgment.
Steady and tenacious, they pierced Regulus's pupils in an amber boldness, a lake of static resolve.
James's gaze was devoid of resentment and free of questions, a pragmatic caricature of an iris devoid of judgment.
It was this lack that bothered Regulus, that made his limbs tangle. It was the fact that he was looking at him with what was the sole intent of looking. It scratched inside him a raw, visceral consternation; an immutable disturbance.
James was looking at him with a simplicity inherent in himself.
There was an intimacy in the tolerance of his gaze, an intrinsic awareness. It made the simple act of observing him more than sufficient. For his gaze demanded nothing, held no expectation or demand. It was a naked gaze, a mirrored iris of neutrality.
James Potter simply looked at him. And his gaze was warm, warm as the sun.