4
Castor Black was currently hiding behind a bookcase in the restricted section of the library. She had been searching for a book on figures of Death for quite sometime, but found nothing interesting. In her hands were 2 very old, dusty books, 'Death Omens and their meanings' and 'Deadly Spells and Ancient Curses, a History.'
That was all Castor could find on Death. And neither seemed to scream 'I am Death' to her.
Squeezed in between a tight corner and an unlit bookcase, Castor had to hold her breath when the cat stroll past. It was a nostalgic feeling for the witch. The old wood she was squashed up against, the feeling of that magnetising dust that sticks to anything that rubs against it. The coldness. The darkness. The footsteps.
Clip.
Clip, clip.
Filch's footsteps were getting closer and closer.
Thud.
Thud, thud.
Her heart was starting to betray her.
It was too much like home. The stinging smell of mould choked her in silence. Castor remembered her time as a child in Grimmauld Place, playing hide and seek with Kreacher. The house elf never let her down. A game would usually go on for hours, Kreacher seeking and Castor hiding. She would sneak up on him, he would jump at her presence and demand a re-do. Castor would laugh at his nerve to 'demand' such a thing, but would always oblige. She hid under tables, behind cupboards, in old abandoned rooms full of rubbish objects. She hid in clear sight, charming herself to blend into the curtains or wallpaper. She hid in a painting once. One of the first times she had used magic.
It was a cold, wet evening. Castor was barely 7 years of age. The painting in front of her had no occupier, its open grassy field and dark skies were perfect as a hiding spot. Kreacher would never even think of looking for her there. In fact, he was too small to even see her. So, in she popped. It wasn't difficult to jump up and push through the invisible barrier, being so small gave her an advantage. Being inside the painting felt like a dream. The quiet buzzing from the hallway, the darkness above her that had tiny faint white brushstrokes for stars, the long streaks of grass felt tough on her legs. The only light was that of a full moon above her. A dot of white paint, swollen as though it was just a couple of raindrops embracing each other. The memory was bittersweet whenever she thinks of it. Nowadays, Castor longs for that quietness again. For that empty sky that held no obligations. No constellations to remind her of herself.
When Castor did eventually leave the painting, scared the occupier would return soon, she jumped out of its frame and dusted herself off.
"Mrs. Black, your son-", Castor heard ahead of her, as well as the mumbled shouting coming from her grandmother.
"Ah, miss Castor mustn't be here", Castor turned to Kreacher, readily awaiting his response to her hiding place.
"Miss Castor must go upstairs"
"Castor. Why are you not in your room?", It had been her grandmother's voice this time.
Walburga Black appeared as she spoke, looking at Castor with a strict face. A face that Castor knew meant she was not happy. The last time she saw that face, Castor had been locked into an attic room with a figure that looked just like her, only this Castor was thin and frail and wore dirty rags with holes in them and a prison number on the back. This Castor said vile words to her. Words that she still thought about to this day. This Castor threatened her with a wand, something she had no need of just yet. This Castor blasted curses and hexes out of that wand. None hit her, did't even get close to her. Castor knew it was just a Boggart. She'd seen herself like this so many times. The teary eyes, the shaky hands. The venom oozing out of her mouth. The pain in her eyes.
"Blood traitor!", "Halfbreed!", "A disappointment to the Black name!".
She knew what her greatest fear was. Betrayal, broken rules, cowardice acts. Being yet another burnt dot on the family tree.
She heard all about her uncle's betrayal to her family. All about how he left his place as heir in the middle of the night because he didn't want to carry out his duties as Head. She knew all about his Gryfindor placement, his bloodtraitor friends, his muggle tendencies.
She knew about his betrayal to those friends too. Scared to die, Sirius had given up the very man whom he gave up his real family for. Then killed another himself. Good riddance, her grandmother had told her, but Castor still had a chill crawling up her spine.
Her father had caused the biggest betrayal within the Black family. That was something Castor heard very often. Whether that be as a reminder at the breakfast table if she refused her eggs, or at Diagon Alley to prevent her 'wandering off'. She was told it at night too, as a bedtime story.
Regulus Black. Her father had joined the Dark Lord at the age of 16, the youngest Deatheater to serve him. Walburga and Orion were so proud of him for following in their ways. Castor heard about when he would visit, how he had been given top jobs by the Dark Lord himself. How he had taken the mark so young and always took pride in it. But Regulus Black had ran. He got scared and ran with his tail between his legs. Castor would always remember how her grandmother's mouth turned to a snarl at the memory. Her father ran from his duties, his beliefs, his life. His name.
To leave the Dark Lord out of fear was a betrayal that could never be forgiven by the Black family. More cowardly than Sirius' rebellion. Even if Regulus had returned to Grimmauld Place, Walburga would've killed him herself. He was no longer her son. Regulus had been a coward in her eyes, and a coward was not welcome into her home. Deatheaters had visited, demanding to know all about him. He was declared dead a month after. Castor felt sick at that sharp, icy look in her grandmother's eyes. It was just like her Boggart. Sharp eyes, a thick layer of venom on the lips and a cruel, cruel smirk whenever Castor curled herself into a ball in the corner of the room.
** ** ** **
Filch had left. The library was so dark now, so cold and so empty. Her wand's Lumos spell gently guided her way out of the bookcases. The restricted section wasn't as big as the public part, but it was just as dense. The bookcases were full with books standing so tightly together, it was nearly impossible to take one out.
The halls were just as dense. Empty and dark as they were, they reeked with memories. Castor walked passed all the sleeping pictures as quietly as she could, pausing sometimes if one stirred. But it was during one of those pauses that she heard a strange mumbling, that seemed to grow louder and clearer. Castor had a firm grip on her wand.
"- up ahead."
"No, let me see it."
A lump of ginger hair appeared around the corner, followed by another. Castor had released her wand and looked at the boys questioningly.
"Ah, Black. Fancy seeing you here", they smirked.
"What are you doing here?", Castor had whispered, or yelled whilst whispering.
"Saving your back, that's what"
"What? Saving my.. from what?"
"Come on", Castor was dragged under a nook behind a storage room.
"What are you doing!?"
"Shhh", both Weasley boys were hunched over a piece of parchment now. Castor tried to look, but they held it higher so she couldn't see.
"What is that!?"
"Shush, we'll get caught. "
Before Castor could speak any further, Professor Dumbledore walked by, with Professor McGonagall in tow.
"-getting closer, Albus."
"I assure you, Minerva. Sirius Black will not be able to enter the castle grounds."
Castor felt the Weasleys twins eyes on her.
"He knows the place back to front. Do you recall the many times himself and James Potter would appear back in the middle of night? Drunk?"
"Indeed. I do recall, Minerva.", he chuckled.
"I also recall the many more times they failed to do so."
"And what of Potter? Surely, there is a lot more we can do to ensure his safety."
"Hogwarts is the safest place for Harry as of now. I'm afraid, it is miss Black that is in the most danger.", if it wasn't for the solid wall behind her, Castor would have dropped to the ground at his words. She couldn't hear what conversation had followed anymore, they had walked too far on.
"Are you okay?", the twins were both standing so close to her now.
"Castor?", Castor cleared her throat. She shrugged the hand off her arm and fixed her cloak once more. You're a Black. Stand up straight.
"It's a map, isn't it?", both boys started to smirk at her words.
"Not just any ol' map."
** ** **
Regulus Black lay staring at the ceiling above him. He could not sleep. Whether that be because of Barty's obnoxiously loud snoring, or his own thoughts, he did not know. He could no longer form literate sentences in his journal. It was all just bunch of words blended into one. He had been writing since Sirius started Hogwarts. Regulus was in his fifth year now, Sirius in his sixth. They barely talked to each other as of recently and it was driving Regulus insane. He wanted to stop turning around every time he spotted his brother ahead, or put his head down and hope Sirius wouldn't recognise him.
Sirius Black had left him two months ago. He just walked out with no goodbye, no hug, no final glance back. Nothing. He left with the slam of a door and a silence so strong Regulus thought the walls would crumble any second. Sirius left him to suffer the screams and torment of 12 Grimmauld Place. Sirius had left him all alone. Regulus was the recipient of multiple curses that night, by his mother, his father and by his cousins when they eventually appeared. A 'gentle' reminder of just how powerful the Black family was. And a reminder of what awaited him if he decided to follow in Sirius' footsteps.
Walburga Black had burned his brother's name off the family tree that night, Regulus watched on, biting the inside of his cheeks so hard, he still had scars. The tiny flame reflected in his eyes, a mirrored image of his broken soul. He had to tread lightly from now on. No more childish tantrums, no more silly games, no more childish traits. No more of those Muggle books and poetry Sirius had given him. 'Burn them', his mind screamed. Burn them and never think of them again. Of him.
He was the heir now.
"SHUT UP, BARTY. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?"
Evan Rosier had had enough. It only took a glimpse at the boy for Regulus to erupt with laughter. Barty had awoken to Evan's potion book hitting him straight in the eye. The two were now deep in a wrestling match and Regulus was on the brink of peeing his pants at the picture of Rosier screaming in Crouch's face, redder than their own pure blood soaked into a Gryfindor flag.
"I will cut your tongue out of your stupid, ugly mouth", Evan pushed Barty hard onto his bed.
"Please, like that's even a real spell", Barty pushed back.
"I never said I'd use a spell, did I?", they were practical screaming at one another now. Regulus had tears streaming down his face, lying flat on the floor with his legs flailing around above him.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING IN HERE!?"
Severus Snape had nearly broken their door open as he stormed in. Hair standing up all over the place, green Slytherin robes on and a face red and steaming. It was too much for the three fifth years. Regulus, Evan and Barty were all crying on the floor beneath them, rolling around and heaving in the air. At first, Snape had thought they were under the Cruciatus curse. It didn't take very long for him to realise that they were laughing. At him, nonetheless.
Snape slammed the door as he left, muttering incoherently.
Another bout of screaming laughter echoed through the dungeons that night. A scream that matched the ones made by a mouse, a stag, a dog and a werewolf not five miles away each other.