Prisons
REMUS
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Azkaban is colder than Remus had imagined. He always tends to run hot, but even he has no reprieve from the bone-chilling deprivation that plagues the cells in the wizarding prison. Remus has not seen the light of day in…Oh God, he’s lost track by now. The cell reeks of mould and mildew. Grime features as his wallpaper. There are long claw marks tracing patterns along every inch of spare space. Some of them belong to Moony, others belong to Remus.
Remus’ enhanced hearing always picks up on the haunting sounds of other prisoners screaming throughout the fortress. Sometimes it’s the manic wailing of those pushed to the brink of insanity. Sometimes it’s agonised sobbing. Usually, it’s prisoners begging for the mercy of death.
Dementors drain any drop of hope and any excess oxygen from the room. They feed on happy thoughts, devouring their victims and leaving only lifeless shells incapable of experiencing anything but fear and misery and devastation.
Fortunately, Remus does not have many happy memories for the dementors to crave, and he is usually capable of storing the precious few he does possess in the deepest reaches of his mind. The dementors never bother Moony. Perhaps they are too scared of him, if it is possible for dementors to feel fear.
Remus spends his days trying to forget everything. He is constantly haunted by the ghostly apparitions of Sirius Black and Severus Snape. Remus always struggles to tell if their forms are really infront of him, or if they have just been conjured by his fucked up head. He always thinks they’re real. They never have been. Remus alters between being entirely consumed by his guilt and his hatred. It is easier to feel guilty. When he can’t quiet his mind, Remus focuses on the guilt he feels for the death of Severus Snape. Even though Snape was a Slytherin and a soon-to-be-death-eater and a blood supremacist and generally horrible to everyone, he was still just a boy. Just like Remus himself. His life had been taken, and that was something that could never be resolved. Remus had killed someone, and didn’t even have any memory of it.
The guilt threatened to drown him everyday, but still there was a stronger force that beckoned him towards the dementor’s kiss. Hatred. Remus Lupin hated Sirius Black with his whole being. Sirius was a fucking liar and a traitor. He told Remus he loved him. He manipulated him into trusting him, and then went and destroyed that at the first possible opportunity. He had used Remus as a weapon. It was Sirius, not Remus, who was responsible for Severus Snape’s untimely and brutal death. And yet Sirius had let Remus take the fall for him, of course. After all, he was a Black. Even though he tried to pretend he was better than the rest of his disgusting, entitled family, Remus knew that Sirius was the most vindictive and selfish of the lot of them. Remus could not think about Sirius at all, because his rage and hatred could never be just that. Remus loathed to admit it, but it would not have been possible to hate someone this much if he had not loved them first. That fact made it so much worse. Sirius had never loved Remus. But Remus had fallen for his lies and tricks, and oh, Remus had loved him. Sirius was an artist, and he had sculpted Remus and painted him with all the colours of false promises. And then, Sirius had tossed him into the bonfire and laughed while he watched Remus burn.
Remus had never hated anyone as much as he hated Sirius. It was very motivating, actually. The only thing keeping Remus from succumbing to Death rattling against the prison bars was his goal. One day, somehow, he would get out of Azkaban. He would find Sirius, and he would finally get his revenge on the beautiful, dark-haired star that had destroyed his life forever.
***
REGULUS
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It was strange for Regulus to return to Grimmauld Place after his meeting with Dumbledore. Sirius hadn’t been inside the house for over a year, and Walburga and Orion had barely ever been present there recently. Even if they were home, there were enough empty rooms in the house that Regulus could coexist with his parents without ever really interacting with them. The silence that was once peaceful now settles over Grimmauld Place with solemn finality.
How is one supposed to feel about the death of their neglectful, sometimes abusive parents? Regulus doesn’t know. They were not close. Outsiders might have even said that Regulus hated Walburga and Orion, but that wasn’t entirely true either. For all their many terrible faults, they were still his parents. They were in Regulus’ blood- his life force. He knew the likes of Dumbledore and his pathetic army would want him to brush off their deaths, maybe feel relieved or apathetic. But on some deep level, Regulus loved his parents, even if they never reciprocated that love. He thought he should have hated them. He wished he did. It would make all of this so much easier.
Regulus was grieving. He wasn’t really mourning his parents explicitly, but more so the idea of the family they could have been, in Regulus’ imagination. They were gone, and he was free. Regulus should have been happy to be free from their expectations, but he wasn’t. He knew there was no reason to, but he still craved Walburga’s and Orion’s validation and approval. It felt like a missed opportunity. Regulus would never get another chance to show them he was worthy of being their son, and no one else would really get it, but it mattered to him. His relationship with Walburga and Orion would never have really changed, but he still wanted the slimmer of possibility that he had once clung to so desperately. Regulus had no one to talk to about any of this. He imagined that his older brother would have understood how he felt, if only he had been around to talk to. It was incredibly strange. Sirius had been the one to kill Walburga and Orion, and yet Regulus was undoubtedly sure that Sirius would relate to his personal feelings of relief and grief and everything else mixed in.
Regulus wandered through Grimmauld Place, his fingers dancing gracefully across every surface. The aura of death seemed to linger throughout the house.
Regulus stopped to examine the tangled tapestry of the Black family tree. Long dead relatives stared, scrutinising him through cold, unseeing eyes. Sirius had been burnt off the tapestry when he had run away from home. A dark shadow on the ancient fabric marked the recent passing of his mother and father. They were gone, but Sirius wasn’t. Sirius was still out there, somewhere. Probably alone. Probably being hunted by death eaters. Regulus didn’t know if he loved or hated his brother. Sometimes it was both. Sirius was all Regulus really had now, and he needed to find him.
***
REMUS
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This is the twelfth moon Remus has endured within these walls. A year. He has been locked away in Azkaban for an entire year. The only reason he knows it must be a full moon tonight is because he is ravenous. Everyday, guards bring him plain, tasteless meals that always have the texture of rubber tires dipped in mashed potato. Well, almost everyday. No one ever comes and brings him food on the day of a full moon. Perhaps the guards are too scared to approach him, or maybe they don’t want him to have any extra energy during the inevitable transformation. Remus is starving, and no one has brought him food in what feels like an eternity. Time passes strangely in Azkaban. If not for the full moons, Remus would have absolutely no way of knowing the time or day or duration of his imprisonment. His cell has no windows. There is never any sunlight, and the room is constantly in ominous shadow. Remus’ skin is paper thin, to the point that it is almost completely translucent. He has lost a lot of weight. His bony, lanky frame is in constant pain from the cold and the lack of movement and the horrific transformations he endures every month. His mind is shattered. He doesn’t really think anymore. At least not in any constant stream. He gets occasional fragments of ideas and memories, both most of the time he simply exists. He has no energy or freedom to do anything but sleep- or at least pretend to. He prays that he won’t wake up. If not for the moons, Remus might have been in Azkaban for any amount of time between a few weeks and several decades. Remus has stopped trying to resist his transformations into Moony. In fact, he almost welcomes his arrival. Moony is stronger than Remus. The dementors don’t bother him. He doesn’t feel the cold, or the pain. He is not chained by human memories or ideas or emotions.
As always, it starts with shaking and sweating. Bones snapping in different directions, muscles stretching to accommodate the wolf’s form. Like the dementors which haunt Azkaban, Moony soaks up the miserable energy permeating the cell. It makes him stronger, more powerful. More dangerous.
For the first time in a year, Remus doesn’t think about Sirius or Severus during the transformation. Instead, he relishes in the sudden bursts of power flooding through his veins. There is something different about the moon tonight. Something invigorating, something exciting. Moony bursts forth without the usual restraint. Remus welcomes him, readily inviting the wolf to take over his body and mind. The transition is so much easier when Remus doesn’t resist it. He barely registers the feeling of his body shapeshifting into a creature of darkness. For the first time in all the years of his lycanthropy, Remus has control. Like he’s choosing to become the wolf. Readily beckoning that part of him, the part he usually buries deep in his soul, right to the front into the centre of himself. Moony is there, but so too, for the first time, is Remus. Two sides of the same coin, but instead of being flipped to a definitive heads or tails, the coin stands upright in perfect balance. He is not quite a boy. Not quite an animal. He’s not a monster.
He’s a god.
There is no fear or pain or disgust. There is only power. The feeling courses through Remus’ veins, erradicating any fragility and weakness lingering in his body. Now, he is stronger than ever before. Towering and muscular and fierce. He had fought a battle within himself for so many years, and somehow, for some reason, tonight he had finally triumphed.
Remus didn’t know what was so different about tonight, but he knew he would not fear himself any longer. The full moon was his super power, and it would not control him again.
—---
REGULUS
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The funeral service was an extravagant but solemn affair worthy enough to commemmorate the lives and deaths of the deceased monarchs of the Anicent and Most Noble House of Black. Only the purest of the pure, the most wealthy and dark, the individuals with the most cyclical family lines, were permitted the opportunity to formally farewell Walburga and Orion.
The proceedings were held in an ellaborate ballroom on one of the many Black family properties, as was the traditional pureblood custom. Regulus sat alone in the front row whilst the patriarchs of other notable family lines spoke about his parents. They painted them as philanthropic aristocrats, alwasy generously supporting the continuity and advancement of the pure wizardry agenda. Everyone looks good in eulogies.
Regulus stared at the floor of the ballroom. It was made completely of crystal black obsidian. Entirely pointless, an excessive flaunting of wealth. The gleaming emptiness was then interrupted by an approaching reflection. A mop of thick, black, unruly curls. So reminiscent of Sirius’.
“Bellatrix. How…” Regulus struggled to find the words, “...fitting. To see you here.”
His older cousin rolled her grey eyes with boredom, and a hint of distaste. “My condolences, cousin. The deaths of Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion are of great loss to the whole family.”
Bellatrix played with a curled tendril of hair, laughing softly under her breath. “But what’s done is done Reggie, and it’s time to look to the bright, beautiful future.” Regulus watched her through the obsidian reflection. He couldn’t look at her face to face. If he did, he would say something he would later regret. Bellatrix’s eyes glinted with cunning and excitement. She leaned very close to Regulus, her breath blowing a cold gale down his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand erect. She turned her voice into a low, menacing whisper.
“I know how much you always wanted to make Mummy and Daddy proud of you.”
Regulus shivered. She wanted something, and whatever it was, he would have no choice but to give it to her. The alternative…well, there were no other choices when Bella wanted something badly enough.
“What is it, Bella? Spit it out. I’m not in the mood for mind games.” Regulus said, his voice cold. He pushed his shoulders back and jutted his chin out slightly. The stance had been drilled into him since he could stand. Without ever saying the words, a body could convery a clear message: I’m better than you. Know your place.
Bellatrix slipped her cold fingers under Regulus’ chin and pulled his face in her direction, so they were inches apart and eye to eye. For a brief moment, it seemed like Bellatrix was going to kiss him. She was crazy, undeniably, but surely she hadn’t fallen that far into the pureblood mania just yet. And…no. She simply laughed a little, turned, and grabbed Regulus by the wrist, dragging him out of the ballroom. “Come along, cousin. There’s somebody who wants to meet you.”
***
The man who stood before Regulus was not particularly physically intimidating. He was relatively short, young to middle aged and had pale skin and a head of thinning brown hair. Despite his appearance, anybody in his vicinity could tell that this man was powerful. The dense pull of dark magic radiated off him in tidal waves. It was so strong that it permeated all of Regulus’ senses. Thick enough to taste at the back of his throat; poisonous enough to choke his nostrils; loud enough to hear it crackling in the atmosphere. Regulus didn’t need to be told. He knew immediately that this was the infamous ‘Dark Lord’ that his parents, as well as every other “self respecting pureblood”, had worshipped reverently while he had been gradually rising to power. This was the man, according to Orion, that was going to save the wizarding world from the “infestation of mudbloods and traitors”. Now, face to face with the Dark Lord himself, Regulus believed his father’s claims.
“Regulus Black. How lovely to meet you, at last.” The man said. His voice was crisp and confident. Regulus adhered to his pureblood breeding, bowing in deferrence. “It is an honour to be graced by your presence, my Lord.”
This seemed to please the man, and he gestured for Regulus to rise and face him.
“I have heard much of your talents from your parents and cousins, Regulus.” Lord Voldemort began, gazing at him with ice grey eyes. “You are a pureblood from the most powerful magical line in all of Britain. You do not deserve to be amongst the rats and the vermin born of magic-stealing muggles. You have a greater destiny.”
Regulus felt breathless. He knew, he had always known, that this day would come eventually. Since the name Voldemort had first been circulated through the Black family, Regulus had been prepared to join the Death Eaters. He just never knew it would be so soon.
Voldermort sneered, and suddenly his physical form looked just as terrifying as the magic locked inside of him. “Join me, Regulus. We will restore the wizarding world. And if you prove yourself worthy, you will find yourself a knight of the new world order. It is only I who can lead us to salvation. Be warned, I will not ask again. Will you join me?”
Regulus wanted to laugh at the implication that he had a choice. Of course he didn’t. Say yes, and he was enslaved forever. But to say no would be signing his death sentence, effective immediately. He was trapped, and he knew it, and Voldemort knew it. Voldemort had presented all of this like an incredible privilige, an opportunity. But this conversation was not offering a door - it was offering a prison.
So Regulus could do nothing but hold out his forearm before the man and gie his life away.
“Thank you, my Lord. This is an honour that I would be a fool to disregard. I am in your loyal service, my Lord. Mark me as yours.”
Voldemort smiled a yellow, toothy grin. As expected, he had got what he wanted. He raised his gnarled wand, pressing it harshly into Regulus’ skin on the inside of his elbow. Voldemort uttered the spell. “Atramentum aeternum tenebris.”
Regulus felt like his skin was being slowly melted off the bone. He made small, pained grunts through gritted teach. He refused to show any more weakness in front of this newly declared leader. Black pools gathered just across the surface of Regulus’ flesh, forming the signature symbol of a skull and snake.
“Excellent choice, Regulus. Welcome to the Death Eaters.”