CHAPTER 1)
Regulus Black never truly understood the word ‘coward’.
The word was scarcely uttered within the four walls of the Noble house of Black, and if so was used to describe people Regulus had never met, deeds that he did not comprehend nor try to because his parents had already made a judgement and their word was not flexible. Their word was truth and the truth is not flexible. Regulus could question it, but his limbs were so cluttered lately, they did not have the space for him to attempt to be flexible.
Cowardice was not a Black family trait, yet Regulus had been called a Coward thousands of times, though only once, verbally, over six years ago. The word had given him a nasty splinter, one of those broken ones that take an age to remove properly. Regulus didn’t know how long an age was, only that 319 weeks, 4 days was not even close. He doubted tomorrow would be, or the day after- the week, the month, the year.
Maybe it was infected. Regulus had always been a sickly little thing, so small, frail,
susceptible to infection.
Regulus dismissed that notion, in favour of one much more simplistically believable. The splinter was irremovable. It’d embedded itself so deep, so at home that it plainly refused to leave. In that case of events, Regulus made the assumption that an age is eternity and that he would just have to learn to live with it. And so he has. In his own, fucked up little ways.
Regulus had been a complicated, reserved child- the presence of that splinter was familiar and uncomfortable at a young age. His mother mistook his silence for complacency and obedience, his cousin, Bella, viewed his quietness as fickle and terror, his brother interpreted his being withdrawn as craven and timorous. But he saw the way his mothers hand trembled, so slight yet as obvious to Regulus as the aftershock of an earthquake, as she blasted his brothers face from the Black tapestry. He heard Bella’s voice soften with regret one night as she whispered to a frightfully young Narcissa, informing her that there were now two Black sisters, not three. He watched, and sometimes thought of Sirius, yet made a conscious effort not to remember his boisterous laugh walking down the street of Hogsmeade just minutes before curfew, or the way his knee pressed much too close to that Remus Lupin’s to possibly be platonic.
They were all so painstakingly alike in that they did not see him listening. Watching.
His father did.
Orion Black was a man of few words, but when his voice, pale in comparison to his mothers, struck out amongst all present it demanded their attention and was rewarded with rapt intentness. His father was a huge presence, yet no one seemed to realise just how vast until he spoke.
Oh, but Regulus knew. He’d always known.
Although Sirius would despise Regulus (if it were possible to more than he already did) for the comparison, he has always taken after their mother, whilst Regulus had favoured their father, respectively. He was a little rough round the edges, but they understood each other in a way that was inconceivable to any other. Regulus wouldn’t have been nearly as adept at quidditch as he presently was without his fathers guidance, he wouldn’t be so well versed in the art of duelling without the extra tutelage; he wouldn’t have the capability to render someone to tears with simple, well-strung words.
Few would have the audacity to mention the supposed vileness of Orion Black, a vileness that Regulus saw for what it really was- a continuously loaded weapon. In his opinion, cruelty was an easily accessible answer to most problems. Only if you knew how to spin your words correctly, of course, and by Merlin had his father mastered that feat. Entirely expected, Regulus very soon followed in tow.
Entirely expected.
Regulus never wondered why his parents expected Sirius to also master the art of cruelty. It seemed like an obvious life-skill, an invaluable tool amongst mounds of worthless screws of kindness and dangerous compassion. His mother viewed him as a lost cause, now more than ever- bitter in the knowledge that Sirius defied every expectation and teaching she had bestowed upon him.
Regulus knew better. Of course he did. Regulus and Sirius Black differed in so many ways, but they capacity for cruelty was always mutual.
Especially when poised at one another.
PART 1: CHAPTER 1
‘Scared isn’t a good excuse. Scared is the excuse everyone has always used’
It was the first of September, 1976, around one o’clock in the morning and Regulus couldn’t get the image of his dead father out of his head.
It had been a cold night (though he supposed that wasn’t a very definitive factor- Grimmauld Place was rarely anything less than glacial), and he’d spent most of his evening sat by the fire, uninterrupted, reading. Wizarding books- obviously- his collection of muggle literature had laid hidden upstairs, untouched, since the beginning of summer. A dirty little secret that he didn’t dare risk.
His mother interrupted him, which struck him as odd, but not so much that he actually had any inkling of what was about to happen. Regulus had followed her to the kitchen, as per her command, and took a seat directly across from her at the dining table. The silence was unbearably claustrophobic, but Regulus knew better than to be the one to break it.
“You are well.”
It was a statement- never a question. His mothers passive aggressive way of highlighting her expectations, he supposed. You are well because if you were anything but well I’d force your contempt down your throat and make you swallow it; if you choke and die- well it’s your own fault, isn’t it?
“Oui, Maman”
The quiet returned, though only for a short while. The cold woman across from him pursed her lips,
“You are well,” she repeated, “as well as you can be, whilst in mourning. You would prefer not to answer any questions at this given time.”
Regulus felt his brows furrow involuntarily, “Forgive me, Mother, but I do not understand?”
Eyes narrowing, she let out a slow sigh, “You are as well as you can be, whilst in mourning. You would prefer not to answer any questions regarding your fathers death at this given time.”
She spoke slowly, as if his lack of understanding was due to him being some sort of Imbecile rather than her vague statement. Her face was suspiciously impassive considering the weight of her words.
It slammed down upon him all at once, and any lesser man would’ve instantly fell to the floor upon impact. Dead.
His father was dead and Regulus was in such a state of shock that he hadn’t registered his shaky hands picking his glass up from the table until cool, smooth liquid climbed down his throat, scratching and scratching- it was a miracle he didn’t splutter. He took care to place the glass delicately back upon the wooden surface, watching almost fixated as the cup smudged through the circular moisture it has indented on the table previously. The collar that he had previously found flattering suddenly clung to his neck violently, the way an infant clings to its mother; the air was stale and the left side of his nose itched violently. He ignored it vehemently.
“Is he-” Regulus hesitated, eyes darting to the staircase tentatively. Is he up there? Is he dead? Is he truly. Are you lying to me. Did it hurt? Did he ask for me? Even if he did, would you tell me.
“He passed this morning, whilst you were at Rosier Manor.” You weren’t there, Regulus.
Silence. Regulus waited anxiously.
His mother hummed disapprovingly, “A Coroner will be arriving to collect the body at 9, sharp.”
A long moment passed before she heaved out a heavy sigh, such an unbecoming sound that he had never heard from her before,
“Five minutes.”
Regulus forced himself not to run; forced himself not to take the stairs two steps at a time. Despite the slow ascend, he found that his breaths were coughing out in short bursts, his heartbeat threatening to crack his ribs as he approached the door to his fathers quarters. The handle was cold to the touch, the coldness seeming to spread further and further down his arm the more he twisted the nob. A small click and the door swung open.
Fuck.
He looked the same- almost alive, if you could ignore the deathly stillness. His hair was arranged artfully, as it always was, looking no less regal, even streaked with grey. The skin crafted around those cheekbones, the ones that were signature of the most ancient and noble house of Black, was no more pale than usual. Regulus choked back a dry sob as he sat carefully down beside his father and gently grasped his hand.
Warm.
His hands were warm and lively but he wasn’t breathing and that was the least lively thing a person could do-
It was most likely a lingering effect of a stasis charm, Regulus reasoned, as he tightened his hold on his father’s hand. And that’s where he stayed for the remaining five minutes- quiet and unmoving until his time was up. It felt significant when Regulus made himself relinquish his grip and looked at his father one last time. He left the room silently, eyes dry.
There are five proclaimed stages of grief; Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Sadness and Acceptance. Regulus always make sure to emphasise the proclamation, as he personally believed that it is complete and utter bullshit. He’d never been quite able to comprehend how one can be in denial in regards to death; it’s extremely black and white. If someone isn’t breathing, they aren’t alive- he have never managed to grasp how people seem to just ignore the facts plainly presented to them. Regulus supposed that some people are just scared of the truth, of it’s brashness.
Bargaining. One would be a fool to attempt to bargain with death, as the Peverell brothers soon learnt. He didn’t understand the logic in Bargaining being a stage of grief, there is no arguing with demise. It simply happens and you learn to live with it, the knowledge that you and everyone around you will meet the end at some point. There are no exceptions.
Regulus settled back into his pillow, made of some fine, exotic silk that he hadn’t bothered to remember the name of, and let out a steep breath, watching his curls flutter out of the corner of his eyes. He ran his fingers through them lightly, but swiftly retracted them when it felt uncomfortably wrong. He stared up at the ceiling, preferring to focus on its bland, complicated pattern than the whirring life of his mind.
Alas, fighting sleep is a fruitless task, after five days of very little, and Regulus soon succumbed to the drowsy force pulling on his eyelids.
He didn’t dream in colour, but he had an accurate mind, and his recollection sometimes demanded more. Core memories, if you’d like to phrase it like that. The good, the bad, and that grey area in between.
Regulus flinched, barely perceptible at his fathers side, as he watched his brother attempt and fail to rise to his feet. His hair was unusually dishevelled, cheeks were littered with slices so artfully and meticulously done, that you could almost ignore the acidic intent behind them. He let out a wheezed sigh before curling into a foetal position as his mothers steel tipped boot continued its assault; his arms, his stomach, his back, his neck. His pale skin, token of the black family name, was reddened significantly, and Regulus clutched his own arms consciously.
His mother drew her cane up high before sending it cracking down. Again. Again. One for each year Sirius had disappointed her, she said. Ten cracks, because he had never made her proud, she said. Again. Again.
When the cane finally dropped to the floor, having served its purpose, Sirius pushed himself up onto all fours, visibly shaking. Red was slovenly painted across his face, his nose was bent at an odd angle, favouring the left- most definitely broken. One more kick and he was back on the floor, hitting the marble with such a reverberating bang that Regulus felt it in his bones. As Sirius groaned quietly, Regulus had to stop himself from calling out, from warning him about dirtying the white floor tiles and further infuriating their mother.
Sirius looked up at him.
Bile crept its way up Regulus’s throat, thick and ugly, choking him from the inside. A horrible, sick sensation surged through, right from his toes to the tips of his ears. That was his brother, lying on the floor in such a state that Regulus couldn’t look away.
Sirius made a disgusted face, spat a splatter of blood onto the floor, before looking back up at Regulus. His cloudy eyes steeled as he dragged himself to his knees, barely conscious at this point, taking a second to glance at his dirtied hands before offering one to Regulus.
Help me. Fight back. Be brave.
The ice in Regulus’s veins kept him rooted to the spot, hands glued firmly by his sides. His mothers pleased face taunted him more than it comforted him. Well done Regulus, it mused, you let down the only person who cares for you the one time they’d asked for it in return. The bile coating his throat thickened further and he almost gagged.
His father placed a gentle yet firm hand on his shoulder, guiding him out of the room, but not before he heard that slurred, quiet word slip from his brothers mouth,
“Coward.”
Regulus barely made it five minutes after he’d heard Sirius’s door slam shut before he was stumbling out of his bed and slipping quietly into his brothers. Warm arms cradled him as he sobbed and Regulus doesn’t think he’s ever been more pathetic. Sirius was the one hurt, the one in pain, and yet here he was, comforting Regulus. At his quiet words of affirmation, Regulus’s cries slowly receded and we’re replaced by a sharp ache in his chest.
“It’s okay Reggie, look I’m okay.”
Coward
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Coward
“Better me than you.”
Coward
“There wasn’t anything you could have done.”
Coward
Coward
Coward.
Regulus opened his eyes slowly, cautiously. He half expected to hear that deep, rhythmic breathing beside him. At least it was only half.
He winced as he attempted to run his fingers through his hair, experiencing sharp tugs as the tangled curls fought against them. He swung his feet ungracefully over the side of the bed, the chill of the stone so early in the morning a welcome uncomfort as it pricked his toes. Regulus stood up slowly, so as to not get dizzy- a reoccurring issue he had picked up on after he’d had that sort of dream.
He approached my open window with every intention to pull it to a close, yet found his fingers merely brushing the handle before retracting, followed by a hasty retreat to the bathroom. It’s because he likes the cold air, Regulus reasoned, the room gets so hot and stuffy if the window is closed whilst he’s away.
The water bursting from the shower head was artic, yet he relished the burn as it paved its way across his skin. Cold showers were an amazing form of self-care, one of the simpler pleasantries that had not been tainted by almost every aspect of his life. He adored them; the water was so inordinate that his brain simply short-circuited. How could Regulus think of much else when the water was so profuse? Those ten minutes were peace that he allowed myself.
The multitude of lacerations on his back contorted and stretched irritatingly as he reluctantly reached up to bring the icy onslaught to a halt, though were quickly subdued as Regulus swiftly poured the murtlap essence he’d stolen for Sirius last year across his shoulders, letting it drip slowly all the way down his torso. He secured fresh bandages as the murtlap solution soaked into his skin, drying the rest of himself off and haphazardly chucking a t shirt and loose trousers on. His feet dragged as he wondered back into his room, catching a slight glimpse of himself in the mirror.
His curls were neat and carefully combed, the subtle frizziness dying completely as Regulus patted them down gently with gel. His gunmetal eyes looked slightly more alive after the shower and his t-shirt fit much more snugly than he remembered. He supposed that was down to the intense quidditch training programme his parents had miraculously allowed him to attend throughout the summer.
He looked okay. Perfectly functioning.
Regulus flopped down backwards onto his bed, exhaling steeply. Lazily, his eyes lolled around his room, relishing in the fact that he didn’t have to go downstairs for at least another 5 minutes. His suitcase, green in colour of course, sat idly in the corner of his room collecting dust, having been entirely packed for little over two weeks now. His broom was balanced precariously against his desk, still harbouring traces of dirt and mud from that last match at camp, looking on the verge of toppling over onto the hard floor. Ultimately, Regulus found himself staring at the ceiling, as he often did.
He was startled out of his daze by a sharp crack that resounded throughout the room. Regulus bolted upright, before relaxing slightly at the sight of those black, mottling eyes.
“Mistress has requested that Kreature inform master Regulus that she has taken leave to Gringotts on behalf of a summons concerning his fathers vault, and that I shall be escorting master Regulus to Platform nine and three quarters. Mistress was adamant I remind you that you are the Black heir, and any outlying contact at all with unapproved persons shall not go unpunished.”
She could’ve just said that he wasn’t to communicate with Sirius, but that would then be acknowledging his existence, and she’d been doing a phenomenal job of doing absolutely everything but that.
“Thank you Kreature, you may leave.” Regulus dismissed, not unkindly.
Another sudden pop and the house elf was gone again. Knowing that he would not be seeing his mother again for at least 3 months sent a wave of guilty relief coursing through his body, relinquishing knots and easing the stiffness in his limbs. He remained sprawled upon his bed for a short while before rising towards the door, intent on getting something to eat before being whisked away to the station. His intent was forced askew when faced with Sirius’s door. Regulus was under no circumstances to go into that room, he’d been warned. The repercussions would not be light, she’d threatened. The room was probably crawling with motion detector spells, that would alert his mother to his mere touching of the door handle. It wasn’t worth it in any instance.
The door creaked as he gently pushed it ajar.
Stepping into Sirius’s room was like being given a virtual tour of his mind. Somehow, even with the tightness of their parents, he’d managed to make the space an embodiment of himself. Clothes were strewn recklessly, randomly about the floor, the Gryffindor themed bed sheets were crumpled up messily in a pile at the end of the bed, those muggle posters of girls clad in skimpy bikinis firmly kept their pose, secured with an irremovable sticking charm that had earned Sirius the pale scar on his right thigh.
Breathe in, breathe out.
It smelt like him. Everywhere. And it was comforting and suffocating and sad and it wasn’t fucking fair. His hands were shaking and his legs were shaking and Regulus fell to the floor ungracefully, tucking his legs against his chest, hugging them like a small child. He waited for those hands to brush affectionately through his hair; he rocked back and forth, expecting his unwelcome fidgeting to be soothed by that airy, affirmative touch on his shoulder.
Regulus didn’t know why he waited for such things when he hadn’t received anything of the kind since he was sorted into Slytherin.
His eyesight blurred as his chest burned demandingly, and he barely had enough conscience left to wonder if this was some sick joke his mother had invoked. As if she knew that he would venture into that room the moment she left the-
“Fuck” he muttered as a faint ringing began to resound in his ears. There was a pulsating, haunting rhythm in his head as his eyes, impaired as they were, scoured the room erratically, and Regulus had to remind himself to breathe.
In, and out
In and out
In and-
Ceasefire.
Everything halted, everything overwhelming dimmed down by miles and Regulus brought his hands back down to his lap, not remembering when exactly they had become tangled within his hair. His eyes did not waver from the picture. Well- the sliver of a picture he could see through a crack in the stone floor. His nails stung as he wedged them under the stone, angling them through the crack to try and elevate the tile enough to fully see what lay beneath. It came loose with minimal force, and Regulus was confronted with a conglomeration of photos and trinkets. There must’ve been hundreds of pictures, and he marvelled for a brief second at how they’d escaped his mothers notice. The photo at the top, the one that his eyes had snagged on, was a simple one- black and white. His brother was front and centre, that lopsided smirk that Regulus had seen girls and guys alike go crazy over stretched comfortably across his face. Remus Lupin stood behind, marginally taller than Sirius, resting his elbow on the shoulder in front. Peter Pettigrew, stumped as ever, stood to the left of Remus, barely visible behind Sirius’s arm. The final figure in the photo, arm slung casually over his brothers shoulder, smile so bright that it was almost blinding, was James Potter.
Regulus’s eyes grew hard as he watched the way James interacted with his elder brother, and he hated him. Quietly, thoughtfully hated him. Regulus hated the way James made Sirius laugh with his eyes, hated the way they both strolled about, arm in arm. He hated the kind aura that he emitted, and the way it mercilessly drew people in. Regulus especially hated his organised mess of hair, and the way it suited him wholly. He hated the way that James Potter so easily loved, but most of all, he hated the way that he was so seamlessly adored. Regulus did not believe that the words ‘love’ and ‘easy’ should ever be in such close relation, but James had never been one much for following rules, as his reputation within Hogwarts adequately proved.
He redirected his focus back towards the photo, fingers itching and scratching at him to take the it, Merlin to take them all-
In, and out.
He returned the slab of stone to its original place, wedging it in securely. His feet were steady and good to him as Regulus walked out of his brothers room.
He felt a foolish sense of betrayal as they carried him out of that same room once again mere minutes later, photos clutched gently in hand
‘Sometimes, I rip up all the floorboards and still can’t remember how you said my name.’
~
Knocking on the door of a train compartment is a trivial task. Simplistic, even.
He couldn’t do it.
That familiar chill came back again, seeping through his bones and muscles, making them brittle and unresponsive. He wasn’t counting, but he estimated that he’d stood outside his brothers usual compartment for around 266 seconds before giving up and retreating back to where his friends were waiting on him.
Pushing open the door to the first compartment in the last carriage of the train, Regulus was greeted by a brashly unusual quiet, domestic scene. Barty was sprawled across all four seats to the left, waving his wand lazily over his head, creating random, elaborate patterns of colours and sparks. Evan was lying curled up on Barty’s lap, face squashed against his boyfriends chest, eyes closed and breathing even and steady. Noticing his arrival, Barty shot him a meaningful look, glancing swiftly down at the boy he was holding then back up to me. Regulus gave a nod in recognition of Barty’s plea for quiet, and took a seat next to Pandora, giving her a light kiss on the cheek to draw her away from whatever book she was reading. How she was even reading it whilst it was upside down, he would never know, but he’d learnt not to underestimate Pandora
She met his questioning gaze curiously and spared a look at Evan, then turned back to him,
“He hasn’t been sleeping well.”
Her voice was gentle, even more so in the silent atmosphere. Her white-blonde hair had grown considerably since Regulus last seen her, before the summer, and was free flowing below her waist. A silk, navy ribbon that matched her eyes was tied across her head; he presumed it was to keep the hair from her face.
Consequence of Pandora’s reply, Regulus fixed his gaze back to Evan, looking at him more closely than before. He looked so at ease lying with Barty that Regulus hadn’t noticed the deep, purple circles cupping his eyes, at first glance.
Pandora caught his attention once more, tucking her book away in that strange, purple bag she always carried around, and flopping herself (somehow gracefully) onto her back, head set in Regulus’s lap. He raised his eyebrows as she just smiled at him kindly and raised her arms up over her head comfortably.
“How was your summer Regulus?”
Absolutely crap.
“It was fine.” He maintained eye contact with her as he replied, in an attempt to seem genuine and unfazed. That girl always had some sort of way of sensing any untruth, and that was really unfortunate since it was a well established habit for him personally.
Her eyebrows furrowed in concern, disbelieving, “Was it bad?”
Yes. Bad couldn’t even begin to describe it.
“No, no it wasn’t bad.”
She sighed, pushing herself up off his legs so that she could look him directly in the eyes,
“Regulus.”
It’s like he was transparent. Like she had a splendidly clear view of his thoughts and emotions whirling around erratically within his head and Regulus felt exposed. There were two detrimental events that occurred over summer break, and he had just a few seconds to decide which was the lesser evil to get her completely off of his case. At least, for the time being.
“My father died last week.”
Her eyes softened considerably yet she didn’t make any move to attempt comfort him.
“I’m here Regulus. I’m always here.” She flopped herself back into her previous position and started babbling about some new muggle book she’d managed to sneak into the family estate, her entire demeanour changing as if he hadn’t just told her my father was dead.
He loved Pandora. In a sisterly manner, obviously.
“I found this new book in that muggle library we found last Christmas break,” she whispered excitedly, “it’s called ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.’ What an intriguing and peculiar title!? The book itself is even more so, oh Regulus you must read it, the way magic is portrayed is beyond wondrous.”
Christmas break last year, his parents took a trip to France and left him and Sirius at the Lestrange residence whilst they were away. Sirius hadn’t waited a second after their parents left before running off to the Potter house, but Regulus hadn’t actually, minded for once. He and Pandora spent most of the two weeks wondering around the quaint wizarding town nearby. One day, they were feeling particularly brave and decided to venture into the adjacent muggle village, where they came across a small, ordinary looking bookshop that had them hooked from the moment that they stepped in. Regulus was convinced at first that the kind, plump woman who owned the shop was a witch, as there was no way that a muggle bookshop could’ve snagged on his curiosity so securely. They didn’t get a chance to go more than the one time together, but Pandora had been visiting the shop all year, buying, borrowing and smuggling books back to him that she thought he would take a liking to. Regulus had specifically had a keen interest in the way that muggles interpreted magic, obviously being completely unaware of the realty. He found it fascinating how each book twisted and altered the origins of magic, the context, the power and the limits.
“The lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,” he mused, “ the title sounds as if written by a child.”
“It’s a children's book.” She replied.
“What on earth about a children's book has you so enraptured?”
Pandora fell quiet for a second, thinking on her answer before responding,
“‘One day, you will be old enough to start reading fairytales again.’” She quoted, “It has me by the roots of my hair. I’ll lend it to you, and you can tell me what you think.”
Regulus had nodded his agreement before even registering that she hadn’t actually answered his question.
“Awww reading ickle little children’s books. How very quaint and lady-like of you Dora”, Barty mocked.
A soft snort, “Lady-like would hardly be an accurate description of my little sister. Mountain troll seems like a much better fit”
When the fuck did he wake up?
Pandora narrowed her eyes, “Maybe I don’t look so ‘lady-like’ because I’ve spent so much time with you boisterous pigs that your filthiness is starting to rub off on me.”
Regulus started undoing his shoe lace, subtly.
Evan didn’t even bother to open his eyes, “ We have done no such ‘rubbing’ on you. Did you miss the fact that everyone here are raging homosexuals?”
Barty cut in before she even had the chance to snap back, “ I suppose you do look a bit like a boy, gangly, flat chested and what not,” he smirked, “ but I’m not really into first years so-“
Judging by the imprint the shoe left on Barty’s face, Pandora had mustered up an impressive amount of power into that throw, especially considering the small space.
“Stupid, small dick children.” She muttered under her breath as she passed Regulus his shoe back, and the compartment door slid open.
Dorcas Meadowes flicked her gaze between Barty’s red face and Pandora’s glowering expression.
“What the fuck happened here?”
“We’re best friends with misogynistic pricks.” Pandora announced, before anyone else could get a word in edgeways.
Dorcas swivelled round straight to face Regulus, a look of mock disappointment plastered on her face,
“Oh Regulus, I thought we taught you better?”
He rolled my eyes, “It just slipped out. I’m so sorry.”, he deadpanned.
“Sorry you got caught.” Evan piped in from where he was still situated in Barty’s lap.
“You are walking on ice so thin, I could drop a needle and it’d shatter.” Pandoras voice was deadly serious, yet the growing smile on her face undermined her tone as Barty and Dorcas simultaneously burst into laughter, soon followed by Dora and Evan alike. The smile that plowed its way across his face was so inevitable and genuine, that in that moment, Regulus couldn’t bring himself to care about anything else.
‘Maybe, you weren’t a terrible person. Maybe you were just a kid.’