The House of Black only ever seemed to come alive when screams echoed in its hallowed halls – the portraits would come alive, awake, at the sound of cries, of shouts – they would sigh, mutter incoherently, shake their head mournfully, and fall back into an uneasy, cursed slumber.
The house elf would mutter, wringing his hands endlessly, torn between mother and son – and mother and son would likewise tear themselves apart, bite each other into submission with wrought iron words, sophisticated and burning with a hatred borne only from intimacy.
There, in this silent house, the remaining Black heir was arguing, endlessly arguing – with the ghost of a brother who had long since left for light and for warmth, and with his mother’s portrait – a strict-looking old woman who spewed venom with such ease it seemed as though she had been painted to do so.
Regulus sighed, a stray curl falling over his eyes from where he was sat slumped against the wall, back to the family tapestry. His thoughts were tumultuous echoing hollowly with the soft, ringing laughter of a man he had left behind, and the sharp, bark-like voice of a brother estranged.
He looked at his hands, flexed them – the veins stood dark against his pallid skin. They were calloused now, by the constant use of his wand, the feverish scribbling of his research notes, the ceaseless practising to fight against an evil in which he actively participated with each new meeting, each new raid.
He sighed, again, back twisting and eyes rising to meet the scorch mark where Sirius’ name used to sit on the tapestry, woven golden. His own name stood next to it, and for a moment he entertained the idea of scorching it off, too – of ending the line here, after all. Of letting the blood that ran through his veins ring hollow, of betraying the family motto until there was nothing left of the House of Black but the hollow whistling of the winter wind in the attic and the dusty, cursed objects sitting in unclean cabinets.
His muscles screamed as he got up, sore and trembling all over – he was always shaking, these days. His hands were unsteady, his gait that of a prey animal, ready to bolt, ready to flee – and yet he stood proud – or as proud as he could be, the last scion of a fallen family, kneeling to a lord he never truly believed in.
A rueful smile, in the direction of the tapestry. With what he was reading, what he was learning… his name would only escape scorching through the unfortunate chance of being the last one alive - not the last one standing, gods knew he had trouble standing most days, when the weight of his oaths weighed heavy on his back – but the last one to live – the last remnant of a decayed faith, maybe.
Sirius had run, and in running, had condemned him to bear this broken crown – only splintered further each time he knelt at an abomination’s feet. He couldn't help the flash of hatred, then, the burning hot anger when he imagined Sirius laughing unencumbered, the warm light of the Potters' kitchen at his back bathing him in honeyed hues.
The guilt came just as fast, flooding him with half-forgotten memories of whispered promises and half-silent encouragement, of smaller hands clasping his own with the fervour of a bond not yet rotten.
His hair was limp, unwashed – he had not eaten or bathed in two days, in his single-minded desperation to find clues, to know – to find answers to questions he could only barely dare to formulate.
Another rueful smile, embittered by the sweet memories of softer days – Gods, what would James say? A painful twinge in his chest – no use thinking about him. There was no place for golden light in his heart, these days.
A soon-to-be-dead man could not love. A living dead man could only pray that his death hold meaning. A living dead man could only mourn the life he was yet living.
He sat heavily in a velvet-clad chair, gazing pensively at the open book in front of him – brown ink that smelled metallic, something heavy, ancient – cursed– in the air.
He knew it would come to this since he had first seen Kreacher come back, he thought. He knew he was dead when rage overtook his despair – when his aimless, catatonic obedience to a monster was broken by the grief, the fear – the panic about almost losing the only other remnant of this curse of a family.
And yet – he was angry too. He had been a proud Black. Was still a proud Black, in many ways, for all that his mother had only ever seemed ashamed of him, less strong, less handsome, less daring than bright, shining Sirius.
But Black blood ran through his veins, and his eyes fell again on his wrist. There, a stark black mark marred his fair skin – covered the bluish veins from where they showed beneath his diaphanous skin.
It felt as though the mark was choking him, as though the snake on it had reached out and wrapped itself around his throat, squeezed until air was just a distant memory, and he took a large, anxious breath.
No, he reminded himself, he would triumph. A bitter triumph, to be sure – a triumph that would end in his death, maybe. But a triumph nonetheless. A private victory, known only to the dust of this deliquescent house, the murky water of the lake he was heading into, and the thousand corpses floating idly in said water.
Maybe – maybe he would talk to them, as they pulled him down. Maybe he would tell them – of James, of Sirius, of Barty – of a lover past, a brother estranged, a friend unrecognisable – he would tell them of past laughter, of the light of the setting sun on Hogwarts, walking back to the dorms after a friendly Quidditch game.
Maybe he would tell them of the fluttering feelings he once felt in the warm embrace of a man he was condemned to leave behind – of a man a splinter of his soul left with, that night.
And then, when he had resisted enough and talked to his heart’s content, he would close his eyes and let himself be dragged down, let the lake's deep waters wrap around his body like a funeral shawl.
And he would die with a smile on his lips, and pride flowing through his veins – die with his head held high, and his memories held close. He sighed, opened his eyes. But until then, he had to prepare. He wondered, briefly, if any letter he sent would be read, gazed at the crumpled remains of the ones he had tried to write, and turned away.
Maybe one day someone would open this ruined house, look through the drawers, and know what he had done. Until then, Kreacher would have to be his sole mourner. It was safer this way, and the bitter triumph in his chest burned no less hot for it.
There would be a time whence his death would gain all its meaning. For now, he could only do what he knew he had to – and know that he had shed this broken crown, after all – that the path he walked could never be salvaged, no matter the uneasy muttering of portraits on crumbling walls.