who was i to watch you wilt?
pandora
she knew. she knew ages ago, nearly three years. she knew. she watched him die, watched his body crumple, watched the blood flee his face. she watched it all, saw every moment like she was there. but she wasn’t there.
at the time, she’d woken up with a choked cry and a racing heart. fear had gripped her lungs, squeezing the air from them, and it took nearly two days for her to fully calm. because evan was fine, right? evan was okay. and he’s been okay for three years. he’s been alright, living purely on the hope pandora has held in her heart all this time. evan was breathing, in and out, the same cadence as pandora’s moving chest.
now she knows. now it’s her chest moving, and evan’s is not. evan’s hasn’t moved in three years. and she knew, okay? she’s not foolish. she knows her brother. he wouldn’t hesitate to come looking for her, to hold her in his arms, but she’d been so hopeful that his absence merely meant he was hiding. he was hiding, and he’d be back once it all blew over. once the tension was calm. once the storm was over. he’d return when the water stilled.
he never did, and now he never will, because regulus killed evan. he might not have done it with his own wand, or his own hands, but he killed evan. the second the words left his mouth, evan’s life left his body. pandora isn’t sure she can fully forgive him. she looks at regulus, and in his grey eyes she can see blue, and in his dark hair she can see blonde, and in his smile she can see evan’s. the smile he’ll never wear, the laughter he’ll never heave, the tender glances he’ll never give.
because evan is dead. evan has been dead for three years. he’s a lump of bone and rot beneath the floorboards, a body half wilted in the ground, ashes blown in the wind. she’s not sure if he was buried. she’s not sure if he was cremated. if he was laid to rest at all. she doesn’t know, and she never will. he isn’t breathing, and he never will again. her other half, decaying and disintegrating, always just out of her reach.
she remembers him with clarity. remembers his laugh, his smile, his eyes, his care. she can’t remember his touch. his voice. the love he held for her. she can’t remember the most important parts of him. she can’t remember what he looks like on a broom, or when he sleeps, or when he eats. and that’s the worst part, isn’t it? he’s carried only in her memories, and she can’t seem to find any of them. he’s a name, a face, a statue in her mind. unmoving and unfeeling. her brother, her other half, the best parts of her, slain by the words of her best friend.
the same best friend who’s living room she sits in. it’s no different than it was for the last visit, though there are toys scattered in the corner of the living room and a jumper tossed over the back of the couch. autumn lingers in the air, crisp and spice, mingling with the solemn grief pandora exudes. regulus is seated in his favorite chair, chin on his left knee, the other leg curled beneath him. at another point in time, she would’ve found his sitting position endearing, but now, it’s a reminder that evan will never curl up in a chair again. he’ll never get the opportunity to lounge again.
“i’m sorry,” regulus whispers. it’s two words, soft and delicate and everything regulus is not, that shatter her walls. shrapnel tearing apart her composure. she’s angry. she wants to hurt something. her fingers are itching to rip and tear and break. every breath regulus breathes is one evan won’t have. every blink of his eyes is another moment evan’s been gone.
“you could’ve saved him,” she spits. regulus nods. he’s silent. he doesn’t fight it. he knows, and she knows he knows, and she’s furious. “you could’ve saved him. he’d be here right now if it weren’t for you. he’d be alive and breathing if it weren’t for you. you’re the reason he’s dead and i hate you for it.”
“i don’t blame you for hating me.” how can regulus be so bloody calm? she’s falling apart in the wake of her worst nightmare becoming a reality, and he’s sitting in a chair like it’s a normal day. “i’d hate me too if i were in your position.”
“why don’t i put you in it, then? i’ll slaughter your brother, and the love of his life, and we’ll see if you’re still understanding.” she doesn’t mean it, at least not entirely. sirius is a delight and she adores him, but he’s the other half of regulus and regulus deserves to lose something. regulus deserves to have the earth shatter at his feet. regulus deserves for half of him to die and he deserves to live with it.
“you can try.” it’s calm, composed, three little words, and yet the weight behind them hits. it’s a threat. thinly veiled, and entirely true. she knows he means it and that’s the difference. because while pandora threatens sirius, she doesn’t truly intend on going through with it, on killing for the sake of killing. regulus does though. he fully intends to make her hurt if she dares touch him. in another world, she’d respect him for it, but in this one, it’s a slap in the face.
“you deserve it. you deserve to hurt the way i do.” every syllable is a spray of venom, dripping over her teeth and chin, splattering on the couch beneath her legs. regulus doesn’t flinch.
“then make me hurt. sirius has nothing to do with this. you want me to hurt? pick up your wand.” a glance into his eyes is enough to know he’s being truthful. she hesitates. does she want to hurt him? does she want to bring him physical pain? yes. she does. she wants him to feel the agony of being ripped to pieces while remaining intact. she wants him to experience dying without touching death. she wants to embed every piece of her hurt into his bones, bury it beneath his skin and strangle him with it.
“crucio.” it’s the only curse she can think of. the only curse that will bring him the agony she’s desperate to force him to feel. he jolts, cries out through a clenched jaw, collapses from his chair. he’s writhing and she’s smiling. every scream, every cry, every howl is a mirror image of death. it’s a horrible, drawn out death, the same death she experiences with every breath in her lungs.
she hexes him until he’s unconscious, and only then does she stop. he’s still breathing. a finger beneath his nose ensures that. he deserves to live in the cold, dark aftermath. she feels no guilt. he deserves this. he deserves the pain, because if he’d been quicker, evan would be alive. if he’d been quicker, she’d have her brother. if he’d been quicker, luna would have an uncle. regulus may not be the only one responsible, but he’s the only responsible one left alive. he’s the only one who can shoulder the brunt of her fury, feel the wrath of her grief.
by the time regulus wakes, she’s calm. collected. cold. he’s felt the empty frigidity of her hollow heart, the clawing aftermath of her best pieces ripped from her chest. he’s felt it all, and she’s calm. he isn’t, though. he’s gasping, arching off the floor, shivering under the weight of his jumper.
“why are you shaking?” she asks. it comes out cold, detached. she’s an empty shell and it shows in her speech. she watched as regulus drags himself off the hardwood, wraps his arms around bent legs, quivers so hard his jaw is clattering.
“you’ve never felt the cruciatus curse?” he asks, and though his voice is rough from the screaming and shaking with every spasm of his muscles, he sounds just as empty as she does. she shakes her head. she was dealt a lucky hand. the rosiers weren’t the type to use magic to take out their fury.
no, the rosiers used fists. they broke bones, bruised tissue, drew blood. the pureness of their blood and the highness of their horse was never enough to shake the tradition of physical abuse, of getting their hands dirty, and in a way pandora wishes they would’ve. she’d have less scars that way, both physically and emotionally. she’d be scared of a wand rather than her husband’s touch. scared of magic and not sudden movements. perhaps regulus was dealt the lucky hand. it only makes her more spiteful to think about.
“it sucks the warmth from your body. leaves you shivering for days,” regulus explains. pandora laughs, cruel and bitter. good. he deserves to feel it. deserves glaciers beneath his skin and icicles in his marrow. he deserves it, because evan is cold, too. evan is cold and dead and regulus is warm and breathing.
in another world, she’d be horrified, but this is the world she lives in. a world without evan. a world where kind, whimsical pandora was ripped to pieces and cruel, vengeful pandora stands in her place. she has no room for guilt when a void is swallowing her whole. she has no room for anything but anger. fury. wrath. grief. if she can’t bear to be gentle with her daughter, her flesh and blood, she can’t be bothered to show mercy to a man who killed her brother.
“i’ll be taking my leave. i pray you feel the cold for weeks to come, regulus.” she’s out of her seat in milliseconds, sliding her wand beneath the waistband of her bell bottoms. regulus laughs from the floor, shaky and hoarse, looking at her with unshed tears in his eyes and an accepting smile curling his lips.
“i look forward to seeing you and your wand again, pandora.”
and that’s when the guilt sets in.
pandora lovegood collapses in her own bedroom, weeping for the brother she lost and the friend she tortured as a result. she weeps for the loss of her humanity. she weeps, and she doesn’t stop until her lungs shrivel and her eyelids droop.