Regulus stands, basking in the familiar silence, memorising the little pricks it carves into his skin. The blade of rampant dread penetrates all, slipping in from somewhere unseen in between the wind’s untiring barrage of sharp slaps and ignoring his layers and layers of clothes, for the real prize; his flesh, his bones and his will.
He finds he can’t care less about the insinuations glaring in the quiet, the fear, he cannot do this, he has not the strength, as his brother would say, nought but a jealous pretender, as his soul knows, when his hand, curled into his soft, red, tightly-fitting jumper, remains strong, white knuckles somehow paler than his colour-drained face.
It’s old scent, the nose-full that’d trail after her, of skies and cinnamon and a-hundred-flavoured jelly beans, is gone by all logical reason. Regulus is a reasonable person. He knows this. Yet, by some odd kindness of fate or perhaps some delusion he is too selfish to rid himself of now - when he needs it the most, the fragrance is tenfold to the salt and the smoke attempting to invade his nose.
Treacherously, he wonders if it is the only thing keeping his trembling legs standing, the desperate gasps of better times he takes to fill the lungs that will soon stop working, and surprisingly, his pride remains unstirred, banished. Death breaks all, including masks, and he shan’t attempt one if he truly wants his last call.
He can’t stop then, the remembering that keeps him adrift, he resolves, not until he has completed his mission. Then, he can lay down his crown and finally take rest.
It’s not much of a decision when it comes down to it.
Cutting off the strands of hesitation that unfamiliarly cling to him, his shoulders and heart, Regulus tilts his head down from the dark skies he’d been imagining she’d likely delight to fly in if given an excuse, untameable and deviant as she is, and towards the screen in his grasp. His curls topple into his eyes, splotching his vision, but he wouldn’t need to see anyhow, not for the string of numbers he’s had memorised since his 5th year at damnable Hogwarts.
The note he’d copied out a dozen times so as to not forget, the original in her blocky letters he’d hidden behind his parentally-approved world domination posters, is in his trench-coat pocket to not risk it.
Still, that doesn’t account for the possibility that she’s changed her number in the year that they’ve not spoken.
That doesn’t account for if she’s busy, fighting off death-eaters likehim. Like how he mightn’t class as anymore after tonight, he amends bitterly. It’s not as if she’ll know that.
It does not even account for if she’s with someone else, his brother perhaps or a roommate, and they pick up the phone instead. Any roommate would likely know of the infamy attached to the Black name and cleverly hang up. His brother could likely recognise him from breathing alone, he’s almost caught him that way on a raid before, and Sirius can explode in a flurry of gold and hexes just as brilliantly as their mother, despite his eagerness to rescind any blood ties.
He wouldn’t get to speak to her. And wouldn’t it be fitting that the man, or boy, who’d ruthlessly taken whatever he’d desired with his silver tongue - admission into Slytherin, the admiration of his pure-blood peers, his brother’s birthright - be denied his last selfish, because that is what he is, request.
He knows it’s unlikely. Sirius doesn’t even reside in the same city as her any longer, having bought a rather luxurious flat with their Uncle Alphard’s riches in the South. Regulus keeps tabs, yes, as a paranoid former acquaintance who had ended most of his significant, not-shallow, life-altering relationships on bad terms and as a death-eater, on most of The Order’s known members.
All, but her. He can’t stomach the thought of intruding into her life like a felon, picking apart her activities and figuratively peeling off her skin to analyse her threat level. He only knows, and very vaguely at that - by piteously broken bones, permanently incapacitating and mortal wounds and empty seats at annual meetings everyone glosses over - that it is very high. He could’ve guessed, if anyone had asked him, years back, when they were young and on top of their relatively tiny world. He’d have been able to say even then, she’s killer good.
Would she have changed her number? He doubts, but… The stress that overcomes him is unnatural, previously reserved for matters his mother considered to be of the utmost importance. Somehow, this is more blood-curdling, sickeningly sweet… She is of the utmost importance to him, a priority, he inhales lightly.
He must work on the assumption he can contact her.
Further, Regulus wouldn’t give his name to a stranger if they’d answer, he’s not and never has been naive in that sense. He has plenty of aliases that could come into use, though previously he’d always thought hiding his name to be distasteful and ungrateful and far too alike to a certain blood-traitor whom he shares great resemblance with.
There’s still the possibility.
An itching builds at his scalp, curls around his cold-nipped ears and lasers his eyes onto his phone with scorching intensity. It’s as a man possessed that Regulus pushes the call button.
Immediately, he averts his gaze back to the endless horizon. Others would see possibilities, others who are better people than him, others who he’s either left in his relentless pursuit or been rightfully left by. Those others aren’t here right now. They may never be here again.
There are no good men left in war, after all. Sometimes, a man must make do with his self, his corrupted, dastardly, immoral self, who sees nought but an end.
At the fourth ring, he reluctantly moves to hang up, shifting on the sand. As his thumb hovers over the blaring red ‘End Call’ button, his eyes scrunch. The silver of his thumb ring blurs then focuses, taking on a beautiful sheen that she’d claimed to be the reason she picked it out for him. He sighs with a weight bearing down on him and bids goodbye to the beauty of vibrant colours amongst the grey skies and faded sand he’ll depart to his death on and he-
A voice rings out, startling the seagulls on the beach into abandoning their perches, “Marlene McKinnon here. And this is…?”
Regulus doesn’t notice the squawks helping break silence’s grip in his daze. His hair whips against his forehead as he jerks, his mouth parts soundlessly and he feels insensibly utterly caught-off guard.
She sounds blasé, unaware of who exactly is at the other end. She sounds free, or as much as one could be with the ruins around them, and Regulus can’t help but imagine he’d be taking a clipper to her wings if he’d reply.
He almost wishes to go mute again. He almost does, if not for the memories only her voice brings to the forefront of his heart and mind, enough to make him crumble his walls and take a fool’s gamble.
“Rex,” he says quietly, like a ripple threatens to become a splash if he’s not the utmost careful and considerate, and this will all end too soon again, crashing like stars in fire and blood and anguish once more.
She goes quiet, first.
Then, she bares her teeth, and they’re sharper than any knife, her nose better at seeking his blood than any shark’s could ever be.
Previously, her words had held a casual air about them. He’d even detected the trace hints of breathlessness as she’d answered that few others would be able to identify in the rising quidditch star known for her record recovery times. He could imagine her listening to her music upstairs in her quaint, cozy home, drifting about her room and seeking whichever art supply she’d tossed into whichever recess as always, before being startled by the phone. She’d leap to the floor suddenly, arms flailing wildly to try feel the tool out. Then, she’d dash downstairs, taking the stairs three at a time with her long legs, and clasp the phone with a punishing grip. Everything done perfectly, if unconventionally, on time. And most, most who didn’t know her intimately, wouldn’t be able to tell.
Now, her exhales are audible, sharp. Her every word has polished edges sharpened under the sun’s light on a broom too high for scum like him to reach, “Baby Black,” she acknowledges with a tainted nickname, “That bald freak gotten you running calls like you’ve got a desk job, now? So Very Glorious for mama’s little heir, eh?”
“I am not here for him,” he doesn’t exactly choke out, despite the ball stuffed in his throat. Instead, he lets his words drift off miserably, strained and raw in a way he cannot help.
A beat.
He wonders if she’s alerted back-up already, somehow.
And another.
“What is it that you want with us, then?” Marlene responds finally, testily. Her tone is less poisonous and it is more like being bashed with a broom than anything else. He prefers it over the ice of earlier in truth, but the concealed offer, hidden in the slowness of words, a hopeful hesitance, makes his blood run cold.
She hasn’t said it yet, not for another few minutes, but he knows she will, just as he knows she can strong-arm him into anything if she puts her charming, beautiful, reckless mind into it.
Marlene, not often polite, her kindness always dogged by caution, will offer him help. Because it’s her, because it’s him, because it’s them.
He can see her, brighter than any star, swooping past dark clouds with impossible skill, her hair in a bun coming undone as she lands and rushes to him because she cannot let him die the same he cannot let her die, to both their friends noisy disapproval. He can feel her warmth, her callused palm in his, guiding him in from a rainy day, encouraging him to give in and accept The Order’s help. He knows he’ll fall from his podium of grace and shadows and strength, if she’ll let him.
But he cannot. He doesn’t trust them, knows there is slimy members among their ranks, and has only been able to pray that she, clever so likely, and also, he halts to admit even in solitude, his brother, a hothead so not so likely, avoid them. There is more lives than just theirs that could be snuffed out by this war, by this secret. There are lives he’s only just began to recognise the magnitude of.
There is no true decision, at the end of it all.
He gulps, drowned out by the murmuring of the waves against the rocks, clashing discordantly and ominously. The songs they sing, the tales they speak sound a miserable muttering.
“Speak up, Vader, or hang up. The intimidating shallow breathing you’ve got going on is laughable,” Marlene barks wetly.
A wrangled dark laugh rattles his chest at all of it. He’d never worried it’d be him to do so. But it is the nature of sparks and love to be unpredictable.
His heart heaves before he’s even made it to the cave to drink the poison.
Regulus cuts the call.