Awareness
The sun had risen in a livid dawn. A few fearless pale rays had filtered through the thick fog, which timidly kissed Regulus's face, slipping into the steepest curves of his face.They pinched his eyelashes, spitefully, causing his eyelids to open, lumps of sleep still between them.
He had woken up in a slow breath and dressed quietly, his hair pushed behind his ears.
The morning had dragged on in a tired torpor, an inertia that seemed to echo in the ancient walls of Hogwarts. The soft lights of the candles had accompanied him during the breakfast spent with Evan and Barty and also in the first hours of lessons, which had taken place in the History of Magic classroom. Regulus had listened in unsteady yawns, barely scribbling something in his notebook in an evanescent concentration.
After that he had headed to Transfiguration and, except for the use of a few spells, his attitude had not changed much. The lighting in the room was colder, detached because of the disinterested magic of the wizard who had produced it. The light in the Great Hall had always been softer, perhaps due to its role. It was intended that it should be more hospitable precisely because that was the task of the room, to welcome.
The last lesson had been Potions and Regulus had been feverishly happy to be able to spend those last minutes in total disinterest, since it had never been necessary for him to pay attention during those hours. So, he had sat down on the chair and spent the hour watching the morning fog become less and less disruptive to his sight, slowly thinning out.
When he left the classroom, heading for lunch, the sky was clear and the air crisp. He ate the lamb with some roast potatoes and after a brief greeting, he disappeared from his fellow Slytherins, heading for the third floor, where the library was located.
At this time of day, it would have been rather unusual to find a large number of students there. The sun was still high in the sky and despite it being mid-October, the grass was thick and green, bent by the intermittent puffs of the wind. Many had, in all likelihood, carved out a moment of quiet from their busy routine to go out for a walk or to read a book under the shade of an oak tree. The more athletic, however, were undoubtedly heading for the Quidditch pitch, determined to make the most of the warm hours of sunshine, before a blanket of cold would fall and autumn would come an end.
Precisely for this reason, Regulus was not surprised to find the narrow corridors, guarded by Madam Irma Pince, mostly empty.
He sat down in a corner that looked out onto a large opaque glass window and, rays of sunlight kissing his raven hair, he retrieved the Arithmancy book from the bottom of his briefcase. It was particularly large and when he placed it onto the table a cloud of dust rose into the air. Regulus sulkily cleaned the blue cover with the sleeve of his tunic, opening it a moment later. The acrid smell of ink made him wrinkle his nose, his fingers caressing the pages.
He opened the page of exercises assigned to him the day before, huffing, the quill gripped firmly between thumb and forefinger. About half an hour passed before, with furrowed eyebrows and a sulky expression, he decided to close the matter and devote himself to something that he was at least capable of deciphering.
He opted for potions. The translucent black cover hurt his irises for a fraction of a moment, the corners of his lips curling downward.
Then he began to jot down some answers to the questions in the left corner of his notebook, not caring that he could have simply turned the page. He bent his wrist in listless curves, the words scribbled with a negligence that clashed with the usual elegance of his hand.
When Pandora Lovegood interrupted him, touching his shoulder in an attentive caress, the sun was already setting. Beyond the clouds, suspended in the air in snowy curls, confident rays of light cut through the air, shades of orange and thick red. A little further away, the sky wore the colors of sugar paper, dressing the horizon with a determination that made you hold your breath. The endless expanse of meadows shone like a pool of emeralds, reflecting the light in a vivid and pulsating green. It was a bold sunset, the kind that makes your pupils itch, but that at the same time you can't help but look at.
«Good evening, Reg.» Was Pandora's exhalation, the flute-like voice warmed her vocal cords, tiring them of sounds.
The Slytherin jumped back, his eyes widening because he had not noticed the presence that resided behind him.
«Good evening, Dora.» Regulus turned, tilting his profiled chin at her in a three-quarters smile. His nose was straight but proportionate, sharp in his face as if it were made entirely of edges. Sharp, yet so fragile.
«Bartemius and Evan have been looking for you all afternoon. I told them I hadn't seen you, yet I was sure you were here. You're always here, you let the sun warm your skin like a reptile.» Pandora snorted seraphically, glimpses of amaranth exhausting the blond of her hair beyond the reflection of the glass, as she giggled.
Dora had always been an... odd girl.
Regulus had always found her speeches to be an inconclusive rant, yet there had always been something in her words and gestures that made her intriguing. She was a freak wearing the robes of an enchantress. So docile and precious, yet so firm and sure of her statements.
He had always admired her.
Because Pandora was a soul free from obligations, proud as a colt and graceful in those porcelain features of hers, her rosy cheeks and round and slightly bewildered eyes.
She was beautiful, and it was her freedom, her purity, that made her so.
For this exact reason, she did not like Regulus's friends. She did not consider them pleasant company and found them rude, Barty especially. However, deliciously sweet as she was, she rarely mentioned it to the boy.
«I was studying, Dora.» Was the boy's stiff yet sweetened answer, his gray eyes peering at her from behind his black eyelashes.
She nodded slowly, adjusting her uniform as she sat down next to him. «I know,» she answered with careful simplicity. «that's why I let everyone think I didn't know where you were.»
«Thank you.» Regulus scratched the bridge of his nose as he watched her, his voice tempered of its coldness.
«But you really should head back. Professor Vector was looking for you. She stopped me in the middle of the corridor asking me where you were» Pandora said.
Regulus wrinkled his nose as if to disagree, his eyes filled with curiosity: «Really?» Was the question muttered in mid-air.
«She said she had something to tell you about Potter. She didn't go into detail, though.»
At the mere mention of that name, the boy's body froze. He parted his lips in a desperate search for air, the fibers of his body stiffening.
Regulus was rigid with feelings, paralyzed in a reticence that froze his irises, left him helpless in his statuesque and icy beauty. He was still and melancholic, inert and afflicted like a Victorian painting. Perfect in his hard features and his expressionless eyes, his straight nose and the soft curve of his cheekbone; in his colorless lips and his ivory complexion.
«What?» He squeaked, his eyes wide, lips pressed together in contrite repentance.
Sirius
It blasted his mind and Regulus bit his lips. Then... something else, a bitter awareness, the kind that grates on your stomach and prickles your nerves. He felt a tingling sense of disgust at what his own conscience was suggesting, a denial that gutted him of himself.
He thought of James's eyes, of the liquid amber that had softened the hardness of his gaze only a few nights before, in discreet regard.
He forced himself to deny it in what was a bitter longing, returning his gaze to Pandora. Silent and still immature, this conjecture evaporated.
With no regard for the girl, Regulus sprang on two feet, retrieving the books from the polished surface of the wood while gruffly muttering: «I don't see what I have to do with someone like him.»
Pandora's lips opened in a clear, crystalline laugh. She laughed heartily. Blonde manes fluttered around her as she quickened her pace to keep up with Regulus's frenetic one, who, in his hurry, had his almost empty satchel dangling over his left shoulder and the books, previously pulled out in search of the arithmancy and potions volumes, in his hand.
«Not to annoy you, Regulus, but the only time I myself went around with all those books in hand, it was to prevent those evil nargiles who were hiding in my closet from stealing them from me.» She said calmly, offering him a helping hand.
The Slytherin pushed the remaining volume of Care of Magical Creatures in her direction in a spiteful gesture. Turning to look at her, he was suddenly touched by the clean smile on his face, all teeth and eyes and lips. «Thank you.» He moved his head briefly, his curls sliding jauntily across his pearly forehead like splashes of ink on a canvas. Pandora noticed, but still said nothing. He looked better when he wasn't completely surrendered by the duties his parents had imposed. It was nice to see him transgress them, even if only unintentionally.
«Regulus, have you seen Dorcas?» She snorted, her sky-blue irises admiring the dusty books as they passed by.
The Slytherin forced himself to stop in the middle of the narrow corridor, his face darkening. He sighed, and Pandora touched his shoulder as she stopped beside him.
«If you were to put my books in my bag, I would be very grateful.» He snorted, the warm lighting of the place giving an unusual softness to his features, going against the usual connotation of them as hard angles and sharp edges.
Then, he continued:
«I'm afraid I must retire to my rooms, Dora. I still have a letter to write and deliver to my parents. You are aware of their firmness regarding staying informed of my academic and social performances.» Pandora nodded without replying, carrying out the required task.
She was more than informed about the strict rules imposed by his parents on the boy. One of these was to have a letter delivered to them every second Saturday of the month, where they were informed by Regulus about the progress of the school year. This included grades and extracurricular activities. Nothing else was, according to Orion and Walburga, topic of discussion.
«Very well then. I hope that the good wind will carry us to meet in the sweet cradle of supper, my dear.» She said, before turning his back on him.
Regulus turned to the opposite direction. An uncertain breath left his lips as he walked down the stairs.
He arrived at the dormitory when the sun had already set, the last timid crimson rays peeking out over the thick line of the horizon.
The light in the room was dark and the wind filtered through the cylindrical window, left open. Regulus sealed it with an inattentive flick of his wand, placing the large pile of books on the mahogany desk.
Evan and Barty hadn't returned yet, but Regulus knew that wouldn't stay the same for long. He quickly took off his tunic and sweater, balling them up on the edge of the bed, and sat down shortly thereafter.
The parchment paper was rough under the touch of his fingers. Regulus stroked the curls at the edges with an apologetic care, defending of words he would never have had the effrontery to write anyway.
He then dipped his quill into the inkwell, watching the ink shine with the same tones as the cold nights of mid-January. Regulus held the sky between his fingers, a boundless vastness of syllables. As he touched the cold feel of the paper, that immensity disappeared and Regulus was left with only the miserly ink and the tremor of his hands as he bent his wrist. He trembled at his futility, he felt imprisoned in the miserable habit of himself and the possibility of what beyond him could have been.
He resigned himself, confined to obligations and drowned in possibilities. He wrote what was his duty to write and left the throbbing desire to express what he truly wanted to wither like the beautiful roses that his mother always forgot on the terrace sill during the winter.
Dearest Mother and Father,
With due reverence and humility I communicate to you the latest news regarding my studies here at Hogwarts.
My days here are made of an unceasing dedication aimed at making me worthy of bearing your name. Every moment of my stay is with the purpose of honoring you for the unparalleled opportunities you have given me and to reflect the value of the teachings you have conferred on me from a young age. It is with great pleasure that I inform you that Professor Horace Slughorn has recently spoken highly of me, calling me one of the finest students he has had the opportunity to educate in the last twenty-five years. This, along with other praises, spurs me to continue my pursuit of excellence with even greater effort.
I have taken care to maintain an immaculate conduct, so that nothing may stain the name of our family or cast a shadow of reproach on what has been granted to me.
May this letter reache you as a confirmation of my dedication.
I remain humbly grateful
Your son, Regulus
When he finished - his wrist was aching - he folded the paper twice and placed it in a bottle-green envelope, stamping the seal depicting a B on it.
He placed it in the left drawer of his desk, determined to have it delivered the following day. Then he sank onto the bed, folding the clothes he had previously removed with the simple gesture of waving his wand on the chair.
He remained lying there for a long time, absorbed in a contemplation of the dark walls that surrounded him. The soft lights of the room painted floating shadows, enveloping him in an embrace of dimness and quietness. When Evan Rosier crossed the threshold of the door, he was still wearing his uniform, his tie loosened and two buttons of his shirt unbuttoned.
«Good evening, Regulus.» He muttered under his breath in a perfunctory, almost brusque, greeting. He passed the boy without even looking at him, his blond hair framing his face in a caress of golden filigree. His sweat-soaked forehead shone in a pearly reflection under the lights of the room.
He barely had time to exhale a reciprocal good evening, before the bathroom door got closed behind him. Regulus jumped at the sudden noise, shuffling with the base of his back inward, towards the center of the bed.
He couldn't even bring himself to be angry at the boy's attitude. Because the fact of the matter about Evan was that he was brisk. Dry in his manner and essential when expressing himself, he was a tangle of dry concision, a laconic maze.
It simply made him who he was, sculpting him in his pragmatism. He was intriguing, yet straightforward.
As Barty entered the dormitory, Regulus curled up on top of the sheets, exhausted. He waved the curtains closed with his wand and muttered a muffliato right afterwards, unable to bear to listen one of Barty's frivolous rants.