the view between villages

lily

the second harry manages to sleep for the night, lily finds herself in the living room. she’s not sure why exactly she’s decided to sit on the couch rather than lay in bed, but she’s here, and she’s thumbing through worn copies of old textbooks. advanced potions, advanced charms, advanced healing magic. every textbook she can find, she’s devouring, absorbing every word like a sponge. 

it feels strangely like she’s in school again. like she’s seventeen, with dreams and hopes and an aspiration. her newts were perfect, her owls were flawless. she’d gotten the highest scores in the year on them, perfect marks. lily is nothing if not ambitious. nothing if not flawless. lily is flawless, brilliant, a true genius. 

she’d had a position secured at st. mungo’s before the end of seventh year. before her final exams, before her graduation, before the war. the war skewered it all. if it weren’t for voldemort, she’d be a healer by now. preferably a mind healer, as she’s always been extremely invested in the muggle art of psychology.

realistically, with her scores and expertise, lily could take the minister’s position. she fully intended to, back when the battles were at their highest peaks. she’d intended to march in, to duel to the death and walk out with the minister’s head in her hands. she hadn’t gotten the chance, unfortunately.

now, in the wake of it all, in the calm after the storm, she’s restless. letters, unopened, ranging from seventh year to a week ago, lay scattered on the coffee table. st. mungo’s still wants her. they’re still sending her memos about the position they’re holding. she need only take it. should she, though?

what will james do once she’s started her training? she hasn’t spent so much as an hour away from him since voldemort was killed and the war ended. she doesn’t mind the close proximity, per se, but she’s restless. she’s itching to get out, to see the world, to help. she knows the job well, knows the ins and outs of being a mind healer. she knows, and she’s aching for it, deep within her marrow. itching to help, to heal, to leave the world a better place than she’d found it. 

she should. bottom line, she should. but can she? can she leave her son? it’ll be hard to be away from him, there’s no doubt about that, and she’s sure it’ll take a toll on him. perhaps it would be better, though. her constant coddling can’t be good for his development. he hadn’t begun walking until he was almost two, hadn’t spoken his first word until nineteen months after his birth. even now, he refuses to speak in full sentences, and he’s three. he’s far behind the curve. he’s falling behind, and she can’t help but feel it’s her fault. 

james’ hands fall upon her shoulders, smoothing out the tension, melting her worry away. she sighs as she lets herself relax, lets her fretting buzz in the recesses of her mind. james is relaxing. he’s soothing. he’s a calming draught in human skin. his mere presence is enough to chase the strongest of dread from her stomach. she loves james, so strongly it sometimes hurts, and it’s because she loves him that she wants to spend some time away. being so close for so long isn’t good for their relationship. bickering, petty spats, passive aggressive words over the dining table. it’s not healthy. 

“you’re taking the job?” james asks, though it doesn’t sound like much of a question. he knows, and she knows he knows. she’s taking the job. when? she has no idea. she knows she’s going to, though. she nods. she leans into his touch. she presses a firm kiss to his stubbly jaw. a streak of red lipstick marks her departure from his skin. 

“i am. it would be good for us to spend a few hours a day apart,” she responds. he nods, a soft smile curling his soft lips, and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. she’ll never get over the warmth in her chest when he touches her. it’s pure ecstasy, raw pleasure melted and injected into her bloodstream. james is nirvana. peace and pleasure melded into one soul and forcefully fed to those he loves. 

“i’m proud of you, lils,” he says, then pauses, like he’s contemplating whether to speak his thoughts. “we should talk about regulus.” lily flushes, cheeks burning as she leans into her husband. 

“did he really…?” she asks, a soft smile on her lips. james chuckles as he nods, his fingers caressing her cheek with the gentleness of a feather. 

“yeah, he did. which brings me to my question.” a pause, a devious smile. “who’s going to bed him first?” 

“are we really going to?” lily manages to ask, heart pounding out of her chest. regulus is attractive, impossibly so, but she’s a married woman. it’s a tempting thought to have, to finally indulge in her darkest desires, but she’s unsure. can she betray her vows like that? can she allow james to betray her like that? 

it’s wrong on so many levels. the thoughts she’s had, the actions she’s taken, the conversations she’s started. confessing her attraction to the subject of it is entirely separate from actively pursuing said subject. would she like to pursue him? yes, desperately. but should she? absolutely not. james may, which is an entirely separate issue, but lily can’t. she can’t betray herself, her marriage, her husband over a silly crush. 

“if you want to,” james states simply. his fingers are still prodding at the knots in her shoulders, pressing each one until it relaxes. she remains silent. does she want to? does she truly want to sleep with regulus? does regulus have any interest in her? he most definitely has interest in james, if the vocal soiling of his trousers has anything to say about it. lily, though? she’s never gotten a reaction so violent out of him, so unfiltered. it’s a bit disheartening to think about — to know her husband is more desired. 

that’s the way it’s always been, though. james is the golden boy. he’s tall, broad, muscular. he’s attractive, unnecessarily so, and unbelievably kind. he’s always been full of love and compassion, his heart so large it’s springing from his chest. lily is the opposite. she’s chubby, thick thighs and a cushiony stomach. stretch marks and freckles and moles. she’s cruel, too. a sharp tongue, aided by intense swings toward anger. she’s not nice, not compassionate, unforgiving in nature. it makes sense that regulus would be more attracted to james, more willing to sleep with him, because she’d choose james over herself as well. 

“twenty galleons says you get to him first,” james continues, interrupting her inner flow of self deprecation. and lily, level-headed and strong-willed lily, is never one to back down from an easy bet. even if their money is shared. because nothing compares to the feeling of being right. 

“you’re on, golden boy. he’s absolutely going to sleep with you first,” she responds, a daring glint in her eyes and a mischievous smile on her lips. 

lily will win this bet. she’s absolutely certain of it. 

regulus

he’s a mess. he’s a horrible, anxious, shameful mess. crumpled on the sofa, covered by two blankets, with fluid dried to his skin and his underwear, regulus is weeping. he’s humiliated. embarrassed. ashamed. every variation of the feeling. 

lily and james. james and lily. beautiful, impeccable creatures. divine beings deserving of worship. higher powers surpassing that of the greatest of deities. they deserve the absolute most, the world on a silver platter, every blessing man has to offer. and the most he could offer is a mortifyingly loud orgasm in front of their beautiful son. all it took was one bicep and a smile on lily’s face and his trousers were soiled. embarrassing. 

and on top of all of that, as if his life could get any worse, there’s the issue of pandora. pandora. lovely, whimsical, unbothered pandora. his best friend since nappies. pandora, who used an unforgivable on him. pandora, whose whimsical and unbothered nature can only stretch so far. pandora, whose brother he contributed to the murder of. 

she’s right. he could’ve stopped voldemort. found the last of the horcruxes a month sooner, come to the manor hours before, somehow developed her foresight. perhaps if he’d tried his hand in divination, or given himself to his instincts, he could’ve helped. but he did none of it. he gave himself to vengeance, to power, to the madness so terribly ingrained in his family. and because of his lack of skill, his lack of care, barty crouch jr. and evan rosier are dead. entirely preventable. entirely foreseeable. evan and barty are dead, and their blood is on his hands.

pandora’s is too. because he’s murdered her livelihood. so much blood on his hands, and nothing good to show for it. he’s gotten his revenge, his happy ending, and pandora’s gotten an unmarked grave with her brother. he’s buried her, sealed her in a coffin and dropped her carelessly into a hastily dug hole. 

he should be the one in the coffin. 

it should be his blood spilled. 

sirius. james. lily. remus. pandora. they’d all be happier if he weren’t here. if he ceased to exist. perhaps he should do it. put them out of their misery. he’s got a kitchen full of knives, a plethora of just-in-case poisons. likely some rope hidden somewhere and a tree out back. there’s a cliff out back, too. so many ways to die, all gathered on one property. so many ways to die, and hardly any reasons not to. 

the phone is in his hand. the numbers are dialed. ringing in his ears, and not all from the telephone. he finds the floor, collapses on it, gasping and sobbing and screaming. he’s suffocating, slowly and painfully. and he needs his brother. there’s water in his lungs, choking his life from his chest, and he’s reaching for his brother’s hand again. always, always reaching. always, always his brother. always, always sirius. 

“hello?” sirius says. always, always reaching. always, always catching. sirius is always catching him, helping him up. always his big brother, always his steadying hand, always his rock. 

“siri. siri i can’t be alone,” regulus babbles, overtaken by heaving sobs and pitiful wails. if it weren’t for the weight on his chest, crushing ribs and puncturing organs, he’d be embarrassed for his lack of composure. not now, though. he’s fighting for air, for life, for forgiveness in a world so unforgiving. “please don’t hang up, siri. please don’t leave me alone.” 

and sirius doesn’t. “i’m right here, petit étoile. i’m right here.” it’s a beacon. a light at the end of the tunnel. always, always his big brother. always, always there. “why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” 

regulus shakes his head, but sirius can’t see him. he doesn’t want to. he doesn’t want to confess to murder. to his disgraceful actions this afternoon. to his sudden onslaught of self destruction. nails, desperately needing a trim, mark bloody crescents on his forearm. his lips are bleeding, iron against his tongue by his shredded bottom lip. everything hurts, everything is bleeding, but nowhere near enough. 

“i want to kill myself,” regulus chokes out finally. “it should be me gone, not them. not them. not them.” he’s a broken record, a blind mumbling of two words. two words like daggers against his flesh. cutting and scraping and stabbing. he deserves it. every second of agony. every drop of blood leaking from him. he deserves it. he couldn’t save them. not them. not them. not them. 

“listen to me, reg, okay? listen hard,” sirius interjects, voice harsh despite the tremor hidden within it. “you deserve life. just because they’re gone doesn’t mean you deserve to be here any less. do you hear me? you deserve life. you deserve life. i’ll repeat it every day if that’s what is takes for you to believe it.” a pause, a poorly disguised sob. “you deserve so much more than you’re getting, regulus. so, so much more. can’t you understand? you deserve to live and to flourish. you deserve life.” 

i deserve death. i deserve death. i deserve death. it’s an unforgiving mantra, a prayer echoed into a mad spiral. plates are flying, he thinks. mother’s china shattering against the walls. accidental magic sparking in the air. he can smell smoke. he’s caused a fire somewhere, likely a nasty one if the stale stench of burning wood is anything to go by. every scream, every wail, is another explosion of magic. the kitchen is destroyed, water flooding the floor beneath him. he’s shaking for an entirely new reason. hands, an army in number, scratching and tearing and scarring. he deserves it. 

“i deserve the worst,” he chokes. sirius is adamantly protesting. and for a moment, regulus listens. you deserve life. you deserve better. you deserve life. does he? does he truly deserve it? there’s a pile of bodies at his feet, slain by his hand, and he deserves life? he deserves to live? he deserves life. he deserves to live. sirius is right. maybe. there’s so much to live for, and so much to die for. 

draco, narcissa, sirius, harry, james, lily, dorcas, marlene, andromeda, nymphadora. so much to live for. pandora, dorcas, evan, barty, riddle, mulciber, the lestranges, bellatrix, lily, james. so much to die for, too. following his death there will be peace. so much peace it chokes the life from its victims. so much peace it’s hard to find a purpose for it. no meltdowns, no messes to clean, nothing to repair.

if he dies, there’s no him. no little brother, nothing to care for, no god father. no one to teach draco about quidditch. no one to tease sirius. no one to discuss books with remus. no one to share midnight snacks with. no one to wrestle with. no one to share tea with. no one to be angry with. there’s no one like him. no one to fill those roles, to live his life. 

water tickles at the soles of his feet, his ankles, his hips. hands ripping and tearing and grabbing. he fights them. he fights for air, for life, for his brother. he fights and fights and tears himself from the water, from the hands, and he gulps in more air than necessary. 

sirius is still breathing, directly into his left ear. sirius is alive. sirius is here. sirius, sirius, sirius. always, always his big brother. always, always his saving grace. 

he deserves to live. regulus black deserves life. 

he tells himself this, and sirius tells him this, over and over and over and over, until it’s engraved in his ribs and blossoming on his tongue. there’s so much to die for, and even more to live for. the pain is present, crushing and overwhelming and entirely too much, but it’s easier to carry when his brother is steadying him. when his brother is lifting. when his brother shoulders half. always, always his big brother. always, always his saving grace. 

helios peeks over the horizon. sunlight filters through the open curtains. rays piercing his eyes, reflecting off the flood in the kitchen, bathing the kitchen in summer. 

“i need help,” regulus rasps. sirius laughs, soft and sweet and so sirius it’s overwhelming. 

“i’ll be over in an hour. i’ve already owled the ministry that i’ll be missing work,” sirius responds, soft and sweet and so sirius it’s overwhelming. “what mess are we cleaning this time?” 

“accidental magic. there’s glass everywhere. and i think a fire. definitely a flood downstairs,” regulus whispers. sirius laughs again and it’s like an angel’s reckoning. the gift of life. because sirius is always, always his saving grace. his reason for being. his big brother. always, always his big brother. “i made a huge mess. i’m sorry.” 

“don’t apologize. you’re allowed to feel your feelings, petit étoile. never apologize for feeling.” feel your feelings. never apologize for feeling. “we’ll be alright, reg. always alright. no matter what happens, no matter the day or the hour. we’ll be alright, always. i love you, reg. always.” always, always his big brother. always, always his saving grace. 

“i love you, siri.” always, always. 

sirius does come over. the kitchen is fixed with the wave of a wand. plates are reconstructed. music sifts through the air from a record player sirius brought. a soft, gentle tune that soothes aches and bandages wounds. scorch marks are washed away. regulus is in his brother’s arms, tucked away from the hurt, protected from clawing hands. regulus is safe with sirius. 

always, always his big brother. always, always his saving grace. sirius is everything. sirius is divine intervention. sirius is the creator and the healer. sirius is everything to regulus. everything and more. always, always his big brother. he’s hung the stars in the sky. painted the grass below. molded every flower in the image of regulus. because sirius is always, always his big brother and that’s just what big brothers do.