cracked shells

The first thing he feels when he wakes up is pain.

A wince rips its way out of his throat, easily extending into a whimper when he fully regains a sense of the throbbing admitting from his hand. He hasn’t even moved it. It takes him a minute to conjure up enough energy to look at the source of the pain, finally taking a glance at his hand. Another spike of pain shoots up his arm, and he resists the urge to throw his head back, instead just biting his tongue.

It’s horrible. He sobs, each shake of his shoulders only intensifying the pain radiating from his hand. The center of his palm is blistered and red. He can see the layers of his skin, the parts that were burned away. His breathing turns sporadic, finally making him to knock his head back against the wall he’s leaning against.

He follows the brick with his eyes, first directly above him and then to the other side of the alley, the same material reflected back at him. He takes a shaky breath, looking back down at his hand, resisting the urge to whimper again. It doesn’t work.

He moves to wipe his tear-stained face with his other hand when it closes around something. His eyes flicker there, catching on a piece of paper crumpled within his tight fist. He swallows, suddenly becoming aware of how thirsty he is, and then tries to open it with his free hand, limiting his movement as much as possible.

It isn’t easy. The parchment is crumpled thoroughly enough that he needs to take his time to undo it, at the same time suffering through the painful throbbing emitting from his other hand whenever he moves. He can barely see what he's doing through the tears streaming down his face. He’s never felt something so horrible. He pauses in his task, taking a rattled breath. He wouldn’t even know if he’s gone through something like this before. He doesn’t remember anything. He blinks rapidly, his brain dissolving into another wave of panic. He doesn’t even know his own name. How can he not know his name?

He gets the parchment open, his hand shaking as he brings it up to his face. Regulus A. Black. He stares at the words blankly. It’s his name, no doubt, but that’s it. He turns it over. Nothing. There’s nothing about where he came from or what he’s doing there.

Regulus--because that’s his name--carefully folds the parchment over itself twice, ignoring the rapidly increasing onslaught of pain admitting from his hand as he does so. His eyes find his shoes, then back to the parchment in his hand, then to the shoes again. He can keep it there. It’s the only thing he has, the only clue as to where he came from.

He takes a deep breath in, exhaling, then taking another. He grits his teeth, his breathing speeding up as he prepares to rock his body far enough where he can shove the parchment down his shoe. He locks his eyes on his shoe, his breathing turning shakier and shakier until the moment where he moves, throwing his free arm out.

Regulus screams, dissolving into another wave of sobbing once his back once again hits the wall. One of the blisters on his hand popped. He racks his free hand across his face, messily running it through his hair and wiping off his tears. But he did it. The parchment is secured in his shoes; he can feel it faintly against his sock.

His breaths turn shallower. He can feel the sweat on his forehead, the combined effort of the humidity in the air and the burn on his palm. He moves his head so he can stare at it, at the liquid inside the blister slightly pooling in his hand, at his limp fingers sitting there. He’s afraid to move an inch in the fear that somehow his entire hand will fall off. It sure feels like it would.

Regulus A. Black. That’s his name. He continues staring dully at his palm. He has a name. He exists. Maybe not here, but he exists to someone, somewhere. Right? But if that’s true, why isn’t he there?

He rips his eyes away from his palm, looking to the right. There’s a street. He furrows his eyebrows the smallest amount, trying to avoid looking directly into the setting sun. There are crowds of people moving along, big colorful box-like things moving behind them. The boxes are moving all on their own. Regulus’ face clears, his mouth falling open in wonder as he stares at them, temporarily forgetting the state of his hand. It’s like magic, the way they move all on their own. No one else on the street is paying attention to it.

Look! Regulus wants to scream. Look at the magical boxes!

He doesn’t scream a word. Instead, he watches the boxes move along without a sound. There are so many colors of them. He sees the people inside of them, wishing that one day he’ll be one of them. He’d love to have that little bit of magic, to be able to ride in one of those boxes as well.

It’s only when his pinky twitches that he’s brought back into reality. He looks away from the boxes and back to his hand; it’s significantly darker than it had been before. He blinks at it, then turns his head back to the setting sun. It’s almost gone. His breathing begins to speed up again.

He looks around the alley. It’d be a dead end if someone tried to walk in there and attack him; the back wall is solid brick. There’s a giant black box filled with white bags of what Regulus assumes is garbage. He can’t leave the alley; that much is out of the question. For one, he wouldn’t be able to move far before the night completely fell, and two, there’s still a part of him holding out hope that someone will come back to get him.

He begins slowly scooching towards the black box. He winces the entire way there, every jarring wave of pain sending silent tears streaming down his face. It’s only when he’s tucked behind the black box, his back flat on the ground and the salt on his face itching, does he allow himself to cry freely. Not the stilted sobs from before, or the tears that ran out of his eyes whether he wanted them to or not, but real, genuine sobbing. The movement of it all only continues to irritate his hand. That’s his anchor to the world; not the feeling of pebbles digging into his back or the horrible smell emitting from the box beside him, but the mind-numbing pain consuming his every thought.

It’s cold. Regulus doesn’t know if that’s somehow related to his hand or just the temperature dropping as the sun fades. He has a clear view of the sky, a sort of faded blue color he knows will eventually fade to black. It’s almost funny that he knows that to be a fact, yet can’t remember ever having seen it before. The humidity has faded, leaving behind a sheet of cool air that he isn’t dressed for.

He wonders if he’s going to die. It’d be a shame, really, dying before he’s ever remembered living, although it’s not like he has much to live for. He doesn’t know who he is. How’s he supposed to live like that? He blinks lazily, watching as the sky darkens. If he closes his eyes and counts up to a hundred and then opens them again, the sky will be several shades darker than it had been previously. It changes colors so quickly it’s almost dizzying.

He wonders if he dies, if anyone will mourn him. There’s still a chance someone will come back for him, isn’t there?

Regulus shifts, repositioning his head and groaning. His hand is still throbbing. He can feel his eyelids growing heavier, his breathing slowing down. He’ll be asleep soon, but he doesn’t expect it to last. If his hand moves even a bit, if the exposed skin comes into contact with anything at all, it’ll shoot him right back into consciousness. He takes a second to brace himself before he raises his hand up above his head, using his free one to support it. He bites his tongue again at the pain, instantly feeling a metallic taste flood his mouth. Great.

He doesn’t know how long it takes burns to heal. He flips his hand around, finding the smooth skin there. He hovers his unmarked hand over it, his fingertips just barely touching his skin. He can’t tell whether the pain is easing or growing. Probably growing. He doesn’t know how long it takes burns to heal. Surely not a day. He sets his hand back down. Maybe it hurts so much to the point where he just thinks the pain is calming down, like he’s tricking his brain into some sort of false sense of safety, like it’s shorting out.

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath in, then exhaling it. He’s so incredibly tired. His eyelids are heavy and the steady hum of pain streaming from his hand is almost lulling him to sleep. It’s not just his body that’s exhausted, it’s his mind. It’s as if he did a twenty kilometer sprint in a circle surrounded by bright white lights, slowly spirling in on himself until his brain just couldn’t take it anymore and collapsed from the sheer stress of it all.

Once Regulus opens his eyes again, it’s with a half-choked scream. He immediately knows what happened, just from the tendrils of pain licking up his arm once again. He had fallen asleep and shifted somehow, his arm that was previously laying face down on his chest to protect it from the outside elements finding a way face up on the ground. The act of it hitting the ground is what woke him.

He presses his free hand over his mouth, breathing as steadily as he can while he waits for the pain to fade back away into the background. As long as he continues not to move a muscle, he’ll be fine and back asleep in no time.

Regulus’ eyes find the stars. It’s the one thing he can focus on that’s not his hand. He can’t remember any of the names of them, but he can recognize the constellations themselves, the animals that they form. He knows there are stories behind each and every one of them, but it’s like they've been drowned out of his brain, like there was a bowl full of water and someone poked a million holes at the bottom of it. How is he supposed to get the water back into the bowl if it’s already sunken into the dirt?

He closes his eyes again, pictures of the stars still dancing behind his eyelids. He tries to recall the stories, and when that doesn’t work, he settles for making some up.

There’s a bear, as well as a smaller bear near it. They don’t look like bears--not in the slightest--but Regulus knows they’re supposed to be bears. At least he thinks he knows. If anything, they just look like spoons. The tip of one leads to the other, smaller one. Maybe they’re dancing, twisting across the sky in circles of one another. Maybe they’re brothers, swimming through a lake. The thought makes him smile. Maybe they’re best friends, watching down on the Earth.

There’s a row of three bright stars, forming a bow shape. If almost by instinct, his eyes follow the line down to the stars that form a dog. Perhaps the dog was the pet of a king, serving by his side for years throughout a long war. Maybe it was a stray, walking around the streets and saving little kids from danger, granted a seat in the sky for its good deeds.

There’s a crab, too. Again, it looks absolutely nothing like a crab. Regulus distantly wonders who decided which animals were assigned to each group of stars, why certain stars were even grouped together in the first place. The crab would be walking along the beach, slipping in and out of the sand and the water, feeling the salt air on its back, hearing the waves gently crashing next to it. Or maybe it was on a rock in the middle of the ocean when a storm eventually came through and wiped its entire home away, leaving nothing but ruin in its wake, knocking the crab off of its pedestal and drowning it in the ocean.

Regulus closes his eyes again. The air is substantially cooler than it was when he first fell asleep, but it’s still not as cold as it could be in the later seasons. He doesn’t know how he knows that. He doesn’t want to have to move the next morning, but he knows he has to. He has to find a way to get food and water, maybe a better form of shelter. He can’t imagine actually doing it though, actually standing up and walking out of the alley, his injured hand hanging vulnerably at his side. He’d much rather stay near the smelly black box.

When he opens his eyes again, he instantly winces at the bright lights that flood his vision. He smacks his free hand over his eyes, opening his eyes under there until he can work his way to removing his hand altogether. The sun is hidden behind a building, just barely risen out of the sky, but it’s still far too bright for Regulus. The other thing that immediately catches his attention is his hand, red and angry, staring up at him. It looks worse than it did the day before; a lot worse. It hurts the same, if not more, but it’s become a constant. This time when he moves into a sitting position, he still whines every time a muscle in his hand flexes, but it doesn’t surprise him as much. By the time his back is against the wall, the sun is much higher in the sky.

He tilts his head back, his nose getting that same stuffy feeling it gets right before he’s about to cry. He can’t do this. How is he supposed to survive if he can barely sit up without becoming a mess? His hand is sitting in his lap, boiled and ugly. He wishes he could just chop it off, be done with it and leave it behind. He doesn’t know how he got the burn. Maybe he was in an accident somehow, and burned himself in the process. That could be why his life has been erased from his mind. Although he doesn’t think that’s how it all works. How should he know? He’s only five.

Regulus glances back at the black box. It’s blocking his view of the streets. He purses his lips, looking between his two hands. If he gets through the process of standing up, if he gets on his feet and doesn’t have to actually pick his body up, then he’d be able to move around.

He’s scared to stand. The very thought of it makes his stomach turn. It's not the process itself that scares him--he can deal with the pain of the movement--it’s the reality that comes with it. As soon as he’s able to move, he isn’t confined within the alley anymore. He has free rein of whatever town or city he’s in. He wouldn’t be protected in his own little bubble anymore; it all becomes so undeniably real.

He tries to stay seated for as long as he can, hidden behind the black box. But his stomach is growling and his hands are shaking from hunger and he needs to get food. He looks back at the box. Maybe there’s food inside. It wouldn’t be too far of a stretch, right? However, in order to even think about getting to that, he’d have to both stand up and climb inside of the box. He has no doubt that he wouldn’t be able to hoist himself up.

It’s only when he finally makes up his mind to try and stand does he hear a noise. Every single muscle in his body freezes. His free hand, which he had rested against the wall, almost gives out. He can faintly hear the sound of voices, coming closer and closer to him. His instincts are telling him to screw his eyes shut but he can’t because that would require moving and he can’t move.

The voices are getting louder. He can hear their footsteps; at least two sets. He tries his best to quietly scooch into the corner between the black box and the wall, praying that the people won’t look around it and spot him.

“Is this the last one?” A boy, his voice low enough to the point where he can’t be younger than thirteen. How does Regulus know these things?

“Yeah, I think so.” A girl, based on the sound of it.

There’s a bang and Regulus inhales sharply. It was one of the people hitting the side of the black box. He bites his lower lip, holding his breath. He would have thought no one heard it if not for the fact that the people have suddenly gone quiet.

“Hello?” It’s the first boy, Regulus thinks. This time he does screw his eyes shut, praying he’ll just sink into the ground or somehow blend into the black box.

“Are you okay?”

Regulus keeps his eyes shut, instead focusing on the hot pain stemming from his burnt hand, clenched in a fist. He can feel something dripping from it, whether pus or blood. It feels like it’s being burned again, his skin already raw and exposed. He’s half expecting to feel a hand touching his knee or shoulder, but nothing comes.

“Kid?” It’s still the same boy, his voice softer now. “We won’t hurt you. What’s your name?”

Regulus hesitates. He sounds nice enough. Maybe they’re looking for him. He opens his eyes, staring at the boy’s feet. His shoes are a faded black, draped over by too-big brown pants. His right one has a hole in it. Regulus slowly looks up, meeting the boy’s eyes. It takes everything in him to not immediately look away at his gaze. He squeezes his hand tighter, praying it’ll somehow slow down the rapid beating of his heart. The boy is much taller than him, with sandy blond hair, light blue eyes, and a dirty white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

The boy seems to hesitate a second, and then crouches down so his head is sitting below Regulus. “What’s your name?” He repeats, his face spreading into a smile. It makes Regulus nervous. He can’t tell if it’s the smile or the person behind it.

“Regulus.” He whispers, lowering his eyes again.

“That’s an interesting name.” He says, his voice shaping the words in a way where it doesn’t sound mean. Regulus meets his eye again, finding the boy already looking at him. “What’s wrong with your hand?”

Regulus slowly drags his eyes over to his hand. He slowly undoes his fingers, having to refrain himself from making a sound. He clenches his teeth, but he can’t do anything to help the stream of tears that rolls down his cheeks. The burn looks even worse now, glistening and red and bloody and just awful. Regulus distantly thinks he might throw up. “I don’t know.”

“That’s alright. Hey, how about we see what we can do about that?” He tilts his head, smiling again. He briefly glances back at the people behind them. Regulus follows his gaze, finding a girl with black hair that falls just above her shoulders and another, shorter boy with brown hair falling into his face. The blond boy looks back at Regulus. “What do you say?”

Regulus opens his mouth, barely trusting himself to speak. “You want me to go with you?” He glances around the alley, towards the street. What if he leaves and someone comes back to find him? What if he stays and he dies here, cold and alone? His eyes land on his hand again. It hurts. If this boy knows how to fix it….

“Yes.” The boy responds. Regulus looks at him again. He doesn’t look mean--not in the slightest. Maybe they’ll be friends.

“Okay.” He tentatively takes a step away from the wall, carefully controlling the movement of his hand. The blond boy smiles and motions for Regulus to come join the three of them. Regulus is suddenly extremely aware of how short he is.

“I’m Sam. I’m fifteen years old. How old are you, Regulus?” They’re still all huddled inside the alley. How far away is it from where they’re going? It’s the only place he’s ever remembered knowing; it almost feels wrong to leave it behind.

“Five.” He doesn’t know how he knows that either.

Sam grins. “That’s a nice age to be.”

A small smile flickers onto Regulus’ mouth. He quite likes Sam.

“Do you want to come with us now? We were just about to go home.” Sam asks, taking a small step backwards towards the exit of the alley.

Regulus opens his mouth, trying to form a response. He looks at the other two people again, who haven’t yet said a word. He doesn’t understand why three random kids would want to take him home with them, why they’d just let him in so easily. He can’t help but think that there’s something wrong here, that there’s something he isn’t seeing. Some of his doubt must have shown on his face, because the next second there’s another voice.

“I’m Charlotte.” Regulus’ eyes snap to the girl. She smiles slightly. “We go around delivering newspapers. We were on our way home hoping we might find something good in the dumpsters when we came across you. I promise we’re not going to hurt you.” Her eyes flicker to Sam. Regulus can’t help but become slightly disappointed; they found him by accident. She seems nice though, just like Sam. He glances at the last boy, who continues not to say a word, and then back to Sam.

Sam raises a brow in question and Regulus slowly exhales, taking a small step forward. Sam’s face splits into a grin. “Let’s get going then.” Regulus’ mouth itches into a smile. Sam sets off, hooking his arm into Charlotte’s. She smiles, her cheeks tinting red. Sam looks back at Regulus, motioning for him to catch up. Regulus does, awkwardly running after the two of them.

He does his best to ignore the pain spiking from his hand every time it bumps into his leg. He doesn’t have any sort of pocket to put it in; he’s in a plain dark green shirt and black slacks. It looks a bit weird in comparison to what the other three of them are wearing. Maybe he’ll be able to switch them out for something nicer later. He tries to turn his mind away from his hand every time it goes wandering back. He’s almost desensitized to it at this point. Almost.

“So, Regulus, how’d you get there?”

Regulus looks up at Sam. “I don’t know.”

Sam looks down at him, his eyebrow shooting up. “Really?” He furrows them. “Where are you from?”

Regulus opens his mouth, trying to think.” I–” He swallows. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Sam frowns. “Well, you have to be from somewhere around here. You sound like it, at least.” Regulus watches as his head tilts in thought. “There’s something else there in your accent, too.” He looks at Regulus again. “Say something else.”

Regulus blinks. His eyes flicker in front of him, where they’re about to turn into the street. He doesn’t look back at Sam when he answers, instead trying to take in everything that moves in front of him at the same time. “I woke up there yesterday, and I had this little piece of parchment with my name on it in my hand, and a burn on the other.” With the mention of his injury, the pain sparks just a bit more than it had been a minute before. “And I can’t remember anything before then.”

“ Anything ?” Sam says, incredulously. “You have absolute rubbish luck.” The end of his sentence trails off into a chuckle; Regulus doesn’t know why. Sam doesn’t mention anything more about the “something else” in Regulus’ accent. Regulus doesn’t ask. He’s still trying to figure out why they decided to take him with them.

“What are those?” Regulus points at the colorful boxes racing down the street. They’re a lot brighter now in the sunlight, almost blinding him. He glances back at them, eagerly waiting for his answer.

“You mean cars?” Charlotte says, amused. “What, have you never seen a car?” She grins, her eyes crinkling in the corners.

Regulus feels a wave of embarrassment wash over his face as he looks away from her, the tips of his ears heating up. He doesn’t say anything else. Charlotte laughs, her voice ringing loudly in his head. Sam joins in a second later. It keeps going, echoing through his mind, replaying over and over again. He decides to keep his mouth shut from there on out.

He goes to pick at his fingernails until he’s reminded of the state of his hand. He looks at it again. It’s suspiciously not as painful as it was earlier. Regulus doesn’t trust it in the slightest; for all he knows it’ll have fallen off the next day when he wakes up. He lets it carefully fall to his side again, blisters and all, and looks back at the last boy, the one who hasn’t said anything.

He doesn’t look like he wants to be there. He has slight bags under his eyes, along with dark brown eyes that match the color of his hair. There’s a scattering of moles across his face. Regulus doesn’t know what to think of him. He’s not looking at Regulus--hasn’t really looked at him at all. Regulus looks away from him, his eyes flickering over the city, although he doesn’t really process any of it. His mind is everywhere and yet nowhere at the same time.

He doesn’t know why he’s here. He wishes he wasn’t. There’s something missing, he knows there is. He can feel it--an empty hole trailing behind him, hiding so carefully that no matter how quickly Regulus turns around, he can’t catch a glimpse of it, but he knows it there. He’s just tired. He’s just really tired.

Sam’s the one who pulls him out of his thoughts. Regulus only catches the end of his sentence. “-arrived! I’ll show you around. What do you think?” Sam looks back at Regulus with a bright smile.

Regulus turns his eyes to the building in front of him. It looks like a pub of sorts, but a bit taller. He wants to go back to the alley, back to where he knows it’s safe and familiar. He forces himself to look back at Sam with a smile. Regulus nods.

“Come on.” Sam starts forward and Regulus doesn’t know what to do but follows behind him. Charlotte jogs and catches up to him, whispering something in his ear and smiling coyly as she leans back from him and goes off somewhere else.

Regulus walks a bit faster, making his way behind Sam. He looks around a second later for the brown-haired boy, but he’s nowhere in sight. Regulus’ mind doesn’t stick to the thought for longer than it has to, because by then Sam is talking again and Regulus just really wants to go to sleep. He woke up no less than two hours ago.

He doesn’t hear exactly what Sam says, because by then they’ve already stepped inside of the pub and Regulus is promptly overwhelmed. There’s at least a dozen other boys lounging around, either screaming over tables or laughing loudly over large, floppy sheets of written-on parchment. Sam is undeterred. Regulus locks himself next to the older boy and tries not to touch anything. He wants to slam his hands over his eyes and ears and run away, back to the alley and wait for the shadow hiding behind him to scoop him up in it’s arms and take him home.

Sam starts talking to another blond haired boy, gesturing to Regulus a few times in the process. The other boy gives Regulus a few funny looks, but Regulus doesn’t dwell on it for too long because before long Sam is moving again. He doesn’t know where Charlotte went. He starts pulling on the fingers on his hand--the burnt one. It’s painful, but he doesn’t stop. He does them one by one, starting on his thumb and moving across his fingers with identical movements. It’s worse when he has to use the burnt hand to pull his fingers on the right side; that’s when the skin on his palm has to fold over itself, that’s when it really hurts. But he keeps going, because what else is he supposed to do? It goes on like that until he snaps back into reality, and by that point he’s already halfway up a flight of stairs. His left hand aches.

“-if you don’t remember everyone’s names. I know I sure didn’t when I first arrived.”

Regulus isn’t quite sure what to say, so he says nothing. He drops his hands at his sides, overly conscious of them swinging back and forth.

It’s only a few paces after they’ve reached the top of the stairs where Sam stops at a door. “The kitchen is downstairs. The ladies in there can be a pit of a pain sometimes-” the door opens, and he looks at Regulus with yet another grin “-but they come around if you’re polite enough.” He winks and cracks the door open.

Regulus follows him inside. There’s four beds lined up against the wall, taking up most of the space within the small room. Other than that, there’s two dressers pressed up against the opposite wall, and a door on the far side of the room that Regulus assumes leads to a bathroom of some sort. There’s one empty bed, the one closest to the bathroom door and against the wall on the far left. He looks at Sam for guidance and the boy motions him forward. Regulus makes his way to the bed, sitting down and running his free hand over the thin sheets.

Sam sits down across from him. “Let me see that hand.”

Regulus blinks. Right. He slowly holds out his burnt hand, forcing himself not to immediately flinch back when it touches Sam’s palm. Sam holds it up slightly closer to his face, looking at it for a minute before gently letting it go. Regulus places it back in his lap.

“You’ll need to have it cleaned up. There’s dirt in it and that might lead to infection if you don’t.” He shrugs. “Other than that it should be fine in about two weeks.”

Regulus’ face smooths over in surprise. “Really?” He looks back down at his hand. He decides he won’t move it again unless he absolutely has to, which includes not getting up from this bed. Sam doesn’t seem to have a problem with it, moving to leave the room the next second as soon as he hears his name being shouted down the hall.

“Feel free to go get some food downstairs whenever.” Sam says to Regulus just before he leaves the room. Then the door closes, and he’s gone.

Regulus exhales deeply, his shoulders slumping down as he does. He is kind of hungry. He chews on his lower lip, looking around the room. He can tell that all of the beds belong to someone, either by various trinkets set up around the window behind the middle two beds or the state of the blankets on each of the beds. His is the only one that’s actually made. That is, except for the one directly next to him, but there are drawings on the wall where there’s supposed to be a headboard. Although it’s not as if any of the beds have headboards. He glances down at the bed he’s sitting on, running his hand over the linen again. Who had this before him? The sheets are a dull gray, thin and scratchy. Nonetheless, it’s infinitely more comfortable than the gravelly rock of the alley he was in.

He scooches towards the table near the wall and against the bed, opening the drawer and finding nothing in there. He slides off his shoe, finding the little piece of parchment with his name. He opens it again, tracing his finger over the words. “Regulus A. Black,” he whispers to himself, wondering what the ‘A’ stands for, realizing suddenly that he’ll likely never know what his full name is. He wonders who wrote it and why they didn’t write out his full middle name, why they left him there in the first place. A second later, he folds it over itself twice and tucks it into the back of the drawer, shutting it a second later with a soft thunk.

Then the door opens again, instantly drawing Regulus’ sharp gaze. A head of brown hair peeks through, barely opening the door before sliding in and closing it behind him. He leans against the door and sighs, his eyes closed. It’s the boy from earlier, the one that stayed silent when Regulus was being escorted back to the pub. Regulus doesn’t know his name, doesn’t know what to say, so he just stares and waits for the other boy to say something first.

When their eyes finally meet, the other boy startles slightly. Regulus doesn’t blame him. He feels like an intruder of sorts, just sitting there. The boy pauses, his mouth opening for a second as if he’s going to say something before he closes it again. He makes his way over to the bed next to Regulus, the one with the drawings on the wall. Regulus looks away the moment the boy starts to move towards him.

The boy sits down, kicking off his shoes the next second. Regulus sees him glance back at Regulus the next second, hesitating another before leaning over the bed and opening his own drawer-table. Regulus slowly moves his head so he can see what the boy’s doing. His table is between his and Regulus’ bed, so it’s easy to see him take out a little slab. Regulus frowns, turning just slightly more so he can see the slab a bit better. He pauses, debating whether or not he should ask. “What’s that?”

The boy sits back up and turns his head so Regulus can perfectly make out his brown eyes. “A book.”

Regulus looks back at the slab. It doesn’t look like a book. Then again, how would Regulus know what a book would look like? The boy sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. “What book?”

The boy’s shifted so that his back’s against the wall, his pillow propped up between. He opens the book to a page with a bent corner, looking back up at Regulus the next second. “Dune.”

Regulus tilts his head slightly, staring at it.

“I got one of the first copies.”

Regulus meets the boy’s eyes.

He continues, smiling at his book as if it’s pure gold. “It came out last year and I saved up for months. I was first in line at the store.”

“How many times have you read it?” Regulus asks, not sure if it’s a stupid question or not.

“Eleven.” The boy grins. “Have you?”

Regulus shakes his head, his eyes dropping to the book again.

The boy pauses. “Do you want to?”

Regulus’ eyes snap back up, widening. “Really?”

He nods, a small smile and light blush growing on his cheeks. “It’s Regulus, right?”

Regulus nods.

“I’m Harry.” His smile grows slightly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too.” Regulus smiles the widest than he’s ever remembered.

Harry looks down at his book, holding it out a second later.

Regulus’ eyes widened. He stares at the outstretched book. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to break it.”

“Don’t worry, I've dropped it off the roof before.” Harry says, throwing Regulus for a loop at the words. The roof? He looks at Regulus with a funny smile, his personality completely different than it was earlier in the alley. “You speak strangely well for a five-year old.”

Regulus blinks. He isn’t sure what to do with that information. “Well, how old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

Regulus counts in his head. “That’s only seven years.”

Harry looks like he’s going to say something else, but his face shifts again. “Wait, can you even read?”

“I was able to read my name.”

Harry tilts his head in thought. “That’s not the same.” He holds out the book again. “Read the first line of this.”

Regulus takes it from his hand, flipping the pages until Harry’s told him he’s gotten to the first page. It’s lighter than he thought it’d be. He reads through the words slowly, but without stuttering. “‘A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct.’” He looks up at Harry to see if he’s correct.

The older boy grins. “You can read!”

His grin spreads across Regulus’ face. His chest fills with pride.

“You can keep that, but don’t take it out of the room, maybe?” Harry suggests, absentmindedly picking at his thumb, a smile still on his face. “Or just keep it near your nightstand.”

“Nightstand?” Regulus questions.

Harry blinks. “Right, uh, the table next to your bed.”

Regulus looks at his own table, perfectly tucked into the corner. He leans over the same way Harry did a few minutes before, carefully avoiding putting any pressure on his hand, and slides the book inside, hiding the piece of parchment with his name on it under the book. He rights himself up into a sitting position.

The first thing he notices is that Harry’s looking at his hand. “Do you want me to clean that up for you?”

Regulus tries to mask his surprise. “Would you?”

Harry nods, standing. “I can get a rag from the loo, one sec.” He makes his way past Regulus, opening the door behind him and rummaging through something inside. The next second Regulus can hear the faint sound of running water.

Harry comes back a second later, a damp white cloth in hand. He sits down on the side of his bed opposite from where Regulus is sitting. Regulus sticks out his hand again, letting Harry take it without a second thought. Harry sets it down on his knee, slowly pressing the damp towel to the burn. Regulus winces, screwing his eyes shut and instantly feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

“Almost done, almost done,” whispers Harry under his breath. Regulus clenches his other fist, fingernails digging into the unblemished skin. He doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually the pain starts to fade and he cracks his eyes open. Harry’s sitting there, looking at him anxiously, towel in hand. Regulus looks at his palm. It doesn’t look all that different. Maybe a bit brighter of a red. “I’ve got to get a wrap for it, too. Wait one second.”

Regulus nods in response, watching Harry as he briskly walks out of the room, leaving the door slightly open. Regulus stares at the door as he waits for Harry to return, not quite sure of what else to do. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long; Harry’s back with a little roll of white in less than five minutes, along with a cup filled with water..

He retakes his position across from Regulus, handing Regulus the cup. He takes Regulus’ hand back without a word and begins to wrap his palm.

“Thanks.” Regulus takes a sip of the water, watching as Harry passes the white stuff in a circle around his palm. “What’s that?”

“It’s something called gauze,” informs Harry. There’s another three lops of the white stuff, and then Harry’s letting go of his hand the next second. “Try that out. See if it’s not too tight or loose.”

“Thanks,” breathes Regulus, taking back his hand and gently twisting it around in the air. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Harry smiles in response.

Regulus begins to shuffle towards the top of the bed. He takes three long sips of the water, then places it on the table--nightstand--next to his bed. “I think I’m going to get some sleep.”

Harry quirks a brow. “It’s hardly past midday.”

Regulus lifts up the top cover and slides underneath it, finding the pillow with the side of his head and fully relaxing into the mattress. It’s such a relieving feeling that he has to retrain from humming in content. “‘m tired.”

Harry smiles softly at him. “I can see that.” He stands. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Sleep well, Regulus.”

Regulus watches Harry stand up and make his way out of the room, awkwardly stepping around the beds. He opens the door, smiling once more at Regulus before closing it softly behind him.

It’s oddly quiet now. Regulus can hear the voices of the people talking and walking below him, like some sort of dream-like echo. None of it feels real. Laying in this bed doesn’t feel real, doesn’t feel right. There’s something missing, but Regulus can’t put a finger on it. Whatever it is, it’s undeniable that he misses it. He can feel it in his chest, in the empty spot next to him on his small bed. How can he miss something he doesn’t ever remember having in the first place? It seems overly cruel.

He rolls over so that his back is facing the door, his face and eyes pointed toward the wall. Whatever it was, whatever Regulus lost, he’s going to have to learn to live with it now. No one’s coming back for him. It’s a truth that makes him screw his eyes shut again, burying his face into the pillow, trying to block out all light, all noise. It doesn’t count as crying if the tears don’t actually fall from his eyes.

Regulus doesn’t open his eyes again until hours later. He only knows it's been hours because of the darkness that’s befallen the room--that and the small clock barely hanging onto the wall in the corner. He manages to turn around, finding Harry’s sleeping face across from him. Regulus runs his eyes over Harry’s face, the smoothness of his eyes and the moles dotted around his face similar to how constellations appear in the sky. He sits up a bit farther, noticing two other two boys sleeping in the same room. He exhales as slowly and steadily as he can manage, sitting up far enough in bed that he’s able to stand up.

He makes his way past the three beds, barely going by one of them without nearly hitting something off of the nearby dresser. Eventually, he makes his way to the door, opening it and closing it with barely a sound. He’s strangely good at it. He sighs and leans against the door, letting his eyes fall shut again. He’s so hungry. He can’t remember the last time he ate, well, anything, for that matter.

Another second passes and Regulus reopens his eyes, looking right and finding the staircase that leads downstairs. He can barely see it through the darkness of the room, but he slowly makes his way down the steps, feeling out each and every one to make sure he won’t fall flat on his face. The closer he gets to the first floor, the brighter it gets. There’s probably a light on down there or something. Sam did say he could help himself to food whenever he wanted.

Regulus carefully walks along the main bar area. One glance at the sign on the door tells him that they’re closed for the night. He swallows and continues on his path to the door on the other side of the room marked ‘ Kitchen - Staff Only ’.

As soon as he gets close enough to the door to make out the details engraved around the handle, Regulus stops in his tracks. There are voices coming from inside the door. He slowly reaches a hand out, resting it on top of the door handle. He can hear his heart in his head. He stares at his hand, trying to decide if he should open the door or not. A grumble ripples through his stomach and Regulus steels his nerves. He needs to eat.

He takes a deep breath, then exhales. He pulls down on the door handle, pushing it forward before he can stop himself. He lays eyes on the room just in time to see Sam’s hand cracking against Charlotte’s cheek.

They both look at him at the sound of the door opening. Regulus just stands there, looking between the two of them in frozen shock. He looks at Charlotte, her cheek now taking on a bright shade of red. It’s awfully similar to the color of his hand.

“Regulus,” says Sam, softly. Regulus takes a step backward. “Regulus,” he says again, this time with a smile as firm as his tone. Regulus looks at him. He crouches down so they’re at eye level.

Regulus’ eyes trail away from Sam and back to Charlotte, who’s looking at Regulus in slight horror. He resists the urge to frown at her expression.

“Regulus?”

He looks back at Sam, who’s staring at him with wide eyes.

“You can’t tell anyone about this.” Sam’s gaze flickers across Regulus’ face. “Do you understand? It’s just some grown-up stuff we’re dealing with.” His voice is soft again. Regulus doesn’t understand why it’s soft when Charlotte is standing right there, right behind Sam. His eyes find the bright red mark again. “Regulus.”

“I do.” Regulus responds, putting his head down as if by instinct. “I understand. I’m sorry.”

Sam stands up, his voice taking on a more pleasant tone. “Are you here for a bit of a midnight snack?” He looks behind him at Charlotte.

She smiles, looking at Regulus and nodding. “I have some leftover pudding.”

Regulus can’t find it in himself to smile along, so he just nods. She makes her way to the fridge and Regulus’ eyes follow the hand. He doesn’t take his eyes off of it until Charlotte is looking at him again. Then, it just feels odd to stare at her while she’s looking at him. She hands him a spoon and smiles again, going to stand by Sam and hooking her arm with his. He kisses her lightly on the cheek. That is, the one without his hand branded across.

“We’re going to go off to bed, but make sure you put that in the sink once you’re done, alright?” Sam says, smiling. “Let’s just let this whole thing be our little secret.”

Regulus nods, although he’s not really sure which ‘thing’ Sam’s referring to. Regulus watches as the two of them turn around and make their way out of the kitchen, the door clicking behind them. He looks back down at the pudding. It’s yellow. He sticks his fork in it, messing around with it and trying to lay it all down nice and flat before he eventually takes a small bite.

It’s good. He eats every last bit of it, then runs his fingers across the edges and licks those off too. He’ll have to ask Charlotte what kind of pudding it was tomorrow. He briefly wonders if Sam’s hand will still be there, but another part of his mind reasons that it’ll probably have faded by then. He places his bowl in the sink, then starts back to the room.

Regulus wonders if his shadow would have liked his pudding as much as he did.