The luxury of decadence
«Can you believe it?» Regulus snorted apologetically, crossing his legs on the stone and studying Barty with two meticulous irises.
They both sat under the stone arches facing the edge of Hogwarts, the base of their backs resting on the cold marble of the columns. It was early afternoon, and the thin mist typical of early November cloaked the school in a listless torpor. High clouds shadowed the sky, leaving the students shrouded in wordy gray, reflected on their faces.
There was, however, a shy sweetness that streaked that insipid veil, a prelude to cheer their faces. In the softer lights of the candles and the enveloping warmth of the blankets, an ancient atmosphere slithered slyly through the inattentive chaos of the school.
«You say that as if that Vector bitch didn't take pure pleasure in ruining our lives.» Barty replied, puckering his lips melodramatically as he passed him the cigarette.
Regulus caught it between his index and middle finger, bringing it to his lips in the simple gesture of bending his wrist, the family ring shining at the base of his finger. He wrapped his lips around the raw sense of the paper, inhaling slowly. «Oh, I'm more than aware of that. I just never thought she'd be so reckless.» He exhaled, wisps of smoke dissolving into thin air.
«We had a confrontation, weeks ago. I didn't think she'd be so stubborn, knowing what my name represents.» He pouted, cocking his head to the side.
«It's confirmed then? Are you going to have to spend two hours with that Potter prick tomorrow afternoon?» The other boy asked, a chuckle curling his lips and wisps of hair falling into his face.
«So it seems.» Regulus snorted, leaning his head back and taking another drag from the cigarette with an exhausted grunt. He tightened his grip on the stone wall for a moment, the tendons at the base of his pale hand twitching in a stiffening eagerness. «And he called him a well-mannered boy, too.» That made Barty grin.
«I heard he and his fellow mates enchanted all the Ravenclaw brooms last Thursday, forcing them to cancel practice.» He laughed, snatching the cigarette from Regulus's fingers.
«Oh come on!» the boy croaked, hitting him on the shoulder.
Barty relaxed his face, looking at him with deadly serious resolve. «Don't ya know that smoking kills?» He looked at him questioningly, his lips straight a moment before they both burst out laughing.
«Anyway,» Black ran a hand through his hair, his sharp chin, straight nose, and the shadow of his lashes weighing on the already deep-set eyebags. «I'm not even sure I'm going to show up. I don't want to get not only a howler from my parents, but also a punch from my very sensitive brother Sirius.»
«Brother is a big stretch.»
The phrase slid into the air like a blade of shadow and Regulus stood there, suddenly pale. His eyes, a deep gray, a moonless sky, drooped just a little, but not enough to betray emotion. A silent tension ran through his form like harp strings stretched to the limit.
The wind moved the hem of his robes slightly, and the silence that followed those words seemed eternal. There was no anger on Regulus's face, only a static calm, frozen in his face in despair, the loss reflected in his irises.
The other looked at him, the shadow of a smile fading on his face, his gaze lively, but not so insensitive as to miss the change in atmosphere. He tilted his head slightly, and his brown hair slid into his eyes.
Finally, he broke the silence. «Oh, don't ya look at me like that, Regulus,» he said, «You look like you're about to curse me.»
«And maybe I'd be right to do so,» the younger boy murmured, his sigh clouded with bitterness. But when he turned back to Barty it was in two static, expressionless pupils, a laconic caricature of himself.
Crouch leaned toward him felinely, the cigarette now burned out between his fingers. «Oh come on, don't give me that fucking hereditary look, let me see your pretty little heart.» It was his attempt to ease the tension.
Regulus let his gaze slide toward the sky, the puffy clouds reflecting in his eyes in a gray that seemed to blend with marble. «Where the pulpit comes the sermon.»
Barty made a sound like a laugh, low and scratchy. It gathered in the back of his throat. Black turned his attention back to the horizon, the pale light of the clouds tracing his profile as if he'd been carved from granite. It was a severe beauty, his, sharp as a starless night.
Crouch leaned closer, invading Regulus's space in his own casual arrogance, piercing him with his gaze.
"«Stop staring at me, Barty. I'm beginning to think you're about to propose.»
«Oh, Regulus, my dear,» the boy gave him a mock-painful expression, his hand over his heart, eyebrows high and the corner of his lips curling. «You know I'd only accept you because of your family fortune.»
«And I'd reject you for the same reason.» Regulus finally let out a real smile, a fleeting glimmer that momentarily stunned his austerity.
But just when the tension seemed to have faded, «Are you saying you don't want me, Regulus? Is it because you're not a faggot?» It was Barty's flippant sneer, his laughter bubbly. It wasn't meant as anything more than a joke.
And yet, Regulus stiffened.
«Don't talk such nonsense.» He decreed suddenly, his features hardening in the space of a second. He threw two icy irises at him, synthetic in their detachment.
In a single moment, he had put distance between himself and Barty, his face dry of expression, a sterile frame of himself. He felt his skin burning.
It was then that Pandora interrupted them.
She reached the two boys with the light step of someone who seems to glide instead of walk. The wind played with her golden hair, framing her face as if nature itself wanted to adorn her. «Are you two plotting something?» she asked, stopping a few meters away from them. Her voice was soft, but it hid a sharp note.
Barty looked up, the cigarette still between his fingers, and gave her a sideway smile, the kind that never reaches the eyes. «There's no need to worry, Lovegood. Not all conversations revolve around you, you know?»
Pandora ignored him with studied elegance, her chin held high and her eyes moving immediately to Regulus. «I just wanted to remind you to lend me your spellbook. You promised you would do it.»
Regulus looked up slowly, as if his pupils were still adjusting to the light of the world. «It's on my nightstand,» he said, his voice flat but softly calm. «Take it anytime.»
Pandora tilted her head slightly, a lock of hair falling fluidly to her shoulder. «Would you mind coming with me? I don't want to rummage through your things.»
Barty chuckled, springing forward. «Go ahead, Regulus. We all know you can never say no to her.»
She threw her two irises at him, cool as frost. «And you, Barty, do you ever know when to be quiet?» The question came out in a scratchy caress.
Regulus stood up, a slow but graceful movement, almost solemn. Then he shrugged. «Let us just go.»
Pandora turned around with quiet steps, already halfway down the corridor. Regulus followed her slowly and Barty sat watching them for only a moment.
The suspended candles floated like little stars set in time, casting a golden glow that caressed the thousand-year-old stones of Hogwarts. Each flame pulsed with a life of its own, illuminating the portraits that dotted the walls of the corridor. The painted faces, imbued with ancient personalities, watched the two boys slyly. Some figures whispered to each other, others followed their passage with barely veiled curiosity.
The castle was a living body, wrapped in a warmth that contrasted with the frost that was gathering outside. Somewhere, the voices of the students came in the distance, a warm and melancholic melody that seemed to gather in the most hidden corners. The drapes hanging from the windows, embroidered with threads that glittered like gold dust, swayed slightly, moved by invisible air currents. There was a sweet scent hovering in the air, of resinous pine and burnt wood. It hovered in a quiet discretion in the air, insinuating itself like a whisper through the deserted corridors.
Pandora advanced lightly beside Regulus, her step soft and almost dance-like, as if time really did not touch her. Her hair, so light it seemed like threads of amber, caught every reflection of light, framing her face in an unconscious grace. Her eyes, of an immense blue, explored every detail around her with a fleeting enthusiasm, a perpetual curiosity.
«Do you think the castle has a kind of memory?» she asked, breaking the silence in her unfamiliar way. Regulus frowned. «I don't mean just in the paintings, but in everything... as if every stone were there to tell a story.» She turned to him, a hermetic smile on her lips.
Regulus didn't answer right away. His pace was slower, more measured, his hands clasped behind his back. «Memory is never as kind as one would like,» he finally answered, his tone low but clear. «The stones of this castle carry the secrets of too many generations. Not all of them have been forgiving.»
Pandora tilted her head, letting a lock of hair fall to her side. «Maybe they haven't been, but the castle has remained resilient. It continues to endure everything and never breaks. I find that to be a form of kindness, after all.»
Regulus paused for a moment, the cold marble of the stairs beneath his feet. He turned to look at her, his eyes betraying just a curious glint. «You can see kindness everywhere, Pandora. Even in stone.»
She laughed softly, a clear, gentle sound, the tinkling of crystals. «That's because kindness is everywhere, if you only know where to look.»
Regulus wanted to argue, but held back.
They started up the stairs again. The candlelight was thoughtful and careful. It followed the echo of their footsteps.
«Do you know what I noticed at breakfast today?» she began, breaking the silence with the cheerful tone of someone who lives to share their thoughts.
Regulus raised an eyebrow, not quite facing her. «That your observations are a waste of time?»
«Do not mock me,» she scolded, a bright smile blooming on her face. «I meant the plates! They're different from last week. They've added a gold trim on the edge. Don't you find that to be delicious?»
«I think you have a talent in noticing irrelevant details.» He said harshly, the softness hidden in the relaxation of his jaw muscles.
Pandora noticed, but said nothing. «Do not say that! It's the little things that make the world interesting. Like the fact that the painting by the Potions room was snoring so loudly today I thought it was a sleeping troll.»
«Very interesting indeed,» he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. There was a hint of affection in his voice, though, a lightness that barely showed through, as if fogged behind glass.
They climbed the remaining steps. A faint smell of resin and cardamom hung in the air, perhaps a spell cast by some student to pass the time.
«Have you ever wondered what portraits would do if no one ever looked at them?» Pandora asked, her tone thoughtful but still light.
«I have not,» he said, startled by the change of subject. He never had conversations like that, except with Pandora. «Maybe they'd complain less.»
She laughed again, slipping a foot and clinging to Regulus's arm without thinking. «Oh, come on, don't act like that.»
He carefully pulled away from her grip, not letting the gesture come across as abrupt. «I think you expect too much from me and from the paintings.»
Pandora paused for a moment on a step, turning to him with an ethereal smile, her voice flute-like: «Perhaps, but I think even paintings have souls.»
Regulus had Pandora wait just outside the common room when they arrived, as it was against the rules to enter. He retrieved the book in a moment, bringing it to the girl and waving goodbye affectionately.
Then, he retreated to his dorm.
He sank onto the bed with studied grace, his body resting against the soft yielding sheets, his green sweater sliding first over his forearms and then down his wrists, before being curled up in an unfamiliar mess at the edge of the mattress.
The room was immersed in a muffled calm, the rustle of the wind that insinuated itself lightly between the cracks of the castle.
The sunset burned outside the window, a harmony of colors that danced on invisible scores. Pale yellow slipped into thick orange. The clouds were painted, flaking at the edges like canvases saturated with time, and the red of the sun was lost in the rising blue of the horizon. It was a sunset that promised no hope but brought within himself a funereal beauty, a gentle decaying.
Regulus tightened the knot of his tie between his long, tapered fingers, undoing it with a quick gesture. He opened the top buttons of his white shirt, letting out a soft sigh. He felt the oppression of the day settle on him in an ancient weight, a burden belonging to an inherited memory, inscribed in his very blood.
With a lazy step, Regulus rose, heading for the desk. The bottom drawer was sealed by a silent spell, a bundle of energy that recognized his presence and dissolved without resistance. Inside, protected between parchment and a now-used goose feather, lay The Picture of Dorian Gray.
He retrieved it with careful gestures, the hard cover cold under the feel of his fingertips. He had stolen it from a Ravenclaw girl as he headed to defend against the dark arts, spotting it through the worn leather of the briefcase. It had been a quick gesture, a precise wave of the wand. A gesture made in the confidence of someone unaccustomed to being discovered. The book, hastily shoved under his robe, had found refuge in the mahogany of his desk, safe from the prying eyes of his peers.
He sensed no regret in him, nor worries about the brunette girl. He would've return it the following week anyway, placing it with care in his briefcase. There was no point in tormenting himself.
He lay back on the bed, the shadow of the sunset drawing on his face geometric patterns belonging to a Victorian painting. His aristocratic profile was accentuated by the light that slowly blurred: straight nose, pale and tight lips and high and defined marble cheekbones. His skin, of a pale transparency, caught the light of the sunset like an opaque canvas, while his fingers moved rigorously between the pages of the book.
Every word made Regulus question himself, every reflection on pleasure and ethics an echo of his own restlessness. Oscar Wilde wrote about morality with the unscrupulousness of someone who lives to break the rules, and yet, between those lines, Regulus sensed a hissing warning.
As he gazed beyond the edge of the pages, his thoughts slowly unraveled, silver threads woven into a tapestry. There was something about Dorian that both fascinated and disturbed him. It was not simply his descent into abjection, but the way Wilde depicted beauty as a force capable of corrupting and redeeming in equal measure.
Regulus ran a hand through his hair, the gesture inertia-filled, almost absentminded.
The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.
The quote made him tremble. Was it not a hymn to surrender, to give in to the weaknesses that every human being carries within themselves? He wondered if Wilde had written those words with sincere conviction or if they were a mere provocation.
For a moment, Regulus found himself pondering the portrait of himself. Would the rotten urge that was raping his insides be visible? Would the torment of his desire show?
He looked down at the pages, his face still, as if carved in marble. Sin was nothing but the essence of rebellion against an imposed morality. But what remained, he wondered, when the rebellion ended? When did one cross that line? Where could one find redemption?
Regulus was not Dorian. He could not afford the luxury of decadence. He could not afford to see his portrait, whatever it would've been, stained by the weight of his transgressions.
He remained silent, a subtle furrowing of his brows betraying his concentration. Finally, he closed the book with a calm gesture, letting the light illuminate its cover, sealing the silence, his face a shadow of melancholy and a resolution that needed no utterance.
The silence deepened. Regulus sank back onto the bed, clutching the book to his chest, and stared at the discolored ceiling.
The sunset, now faded, had left a rude nostalgia on him, a dull echo that did nothing but crush him.
He opened his eyes and raised himself slightly, reading again in absorbed contemplation, the candlelight creating a dance of shadows on the pages. Each word floated inside him, in his bones. Regulus felt his limbs rotting just by touching the pages. And his heart trembled, the silence cracked by the silent prayers within him.
Guilt ate away at his limbs. For, though disowned, Sirius remained a better heir and a better brother than he would ever be.
It was a memory that drowned his mind.
The night enveloped Grimmauld Place in a thick, impenetrable blanket, a viscous silence that seemed distilled from the shadows themselves. The moon, pale and regal, filtered through the heavy curtains of Regulus's room, casting a silvery light on him that saddened his aristocratic features. Still under the covers, the boy stared at the shadow-streaked ceiling, while the entire house breathed with the whispering panting of a wounded animal.
Then the sound came. A soft creak, almost imperceptible. It snaked between his ribs Regulus's eyes tightened. The noise repeated itself, another low groan of the old floorboards.
Something was moving in the house.
He rose silently, his breath held and his bare feet left to graze the cold wood. The massive door of his room opened with a shrill groan that seemed to wound the night.
The house greeted him with its ghostly and inhospitable face: candelabras extinguished like skeletons, lamps that moved silently in the cold breath of the house. And yet, something was different. Everything seemed out of place: clothes piled in disorderly heaps, ancient books thrown on the floor like carcasses. Metal objects glittered in the moonlight, overturned and stripped of their dignity.
Regulus felt a shiver run down his spine. Whoever it was, must have cast a silencing spell. Only his obsessive attention seemed to have captured that faint sound. He continued walking, his senses and eyes growing sharper, gradually revealing the extent of the chaos. The once-regal living room was unrecognizable: the chairs were overturned, the velvet torn; the ashes from the fireplace had fallen across the marble like a gray, ghostly rain. He wondered, with growing uneasiness, how it was possible that his parents had not noticed.
He rushed to Sirius's room, his heart beating fast and irregularly. He flung open the door and his breath got caught in his throat.
Sirius was there, sitting on the edge of the window with his legs dangling. The wind was cutting through the air, ruffling his raven hair, which was styled with impeccable carelessness over his shoulders. He was staring at the horizon, a black spot that sucked him in. His profiled chin, barely raised, was a lifeless caricature of his father. Yet, Sirius was more handsome. He had one of those living, breathing beauties that teemed beneath his skin. A beauty that vibrated in him, in the still boyish features and in the gray eyes, as he sat there, suffering.
Regulus remained still in the doorway, his breath frozen in his throat. Sirius turned slowly and their eyes met. There was something terrible in that silence, an unspoken repentance. Sirius's eyes shone with a nameless guilt, looking at Regulus with two sad, sorrowful irises.
Then, without saying a word, he raised his wand. It was a flash of light. And the next moment he was gone.
Regulus remained still, inert as the chill crept into his bones.
He understood.
Sirius had fled. He had left him alone. A small, childish sob emerged from the back of his throat, his hands clasped behind his back in a silent prayer not to let himself tremble. Stupid and alone, he cried like a child, collapsing against the wall, because Sirius had run away.
From the back of the house, beyond the thin walls, he could hear the stiff, restrained breathing of his parents. They were awake, yet they had not moved. They had not tried to stop him.
They knew that the greatest punishment would be the remorse, that of having left Regulus behind. That of having disobeyed.
Because as much as Sirius pretended not to, Regulus knew that sometimes he wished he were, the son of his parents. The silent prayer of their love an indelible tattoo on both their skin. He had made his choice, and the punishment for it would be the very consequence of his actions.
The next day, the silence in the house was solemn. Only the crackling of the fire dared to break it. Regulus remained still in front of the family tapestry, his gaze lost in the young and bold face of Sirius, slowly devoured by the living fire. Golden threads twisted in the burning, turning his perfect face into ash.
It was then, that Regulus realized that the only place left intact in the house was his room.