They ask so many questions, the kids. About his gloves and his scars and were you really a Death Eater, professor? (a black, black tattoo tainting porcelain-white skin, twisting and swirling like a snake and he wants to cut it off cut it off—) with their wide, doe-like eyes, their curious eyes, their accusing eyes. (He is sure he deserves it. But sometimes he just can't remember why; the memory is foggy and far out of reach and if he tries to wrap his head around it he sees dead eyes and rotten skin and black nails digging into his flesh help help help and there's the distant sound of screaming (it's Regulus, he's screaming) and so the memory slips further from his grasp (and he lets it because that's just easier.)
When Dumbledore asks him to teach at twenty, Regulus frowns, because he doesn't understand. (There are a lot of things he doesn't understand: his mass-murderer of a brother trembling inside his Azkaban cell and James, Lily forgive me, but then again the two of them never really understood each other so he supposes he should be used to it by now; a Dark Lord dead—is he, though, is he—; and a Boy Who Lived with green mudblood eyes who would have been better off dead in the end.)
"Teach," he repeats, like a broken record. "You want me to teach here? At Hogwarts?"
Isn't one ex-Death Eater enough? he means to say but the words won't come out of his throat without bruising Regulus from the inside, (tearing his skin like those thin, sharp hands, all bone, no flesh), so he doesn't.
Older people like Dumbledore, who must be, what? a hundred years old? (how does he do it, Regulus wonders, how how how, biting his lower lip until it bleeds, digging his nails—black nails, rotten nails, take them off take them off take them off—until his skin scratches—dead people's skin doesn't scratch, so he somehow must have lived, he somehow must be alive, but there is water in his lungs and—) ought to be wiser than this, surely. But then again, his father had been old, almost seventy, when he killed himself and he hadn't been wise—feet swinging mere inches above the floor, a purple face, a tongue sticking out of white, bloodless lips and screaming, so much screaming—so Regulus figures that wisdom doesn't come with age. Probably.
But what does he know of wisdom or old people? He died at eighteen (and he is still dying. Still drowning. Always drowning. With water in his lungs and dead hands dragging him down down down—)
"That is, if you wish, Regulus," Dumbledore says, calmly, blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon glasses, and Regulus blinks, finds himself thinking of Remus Lupin until he stops because Lupin reminds him of Sirius who reminds him of what he always forgets to remember. (A cave and a poison and his throat is burning—)
He says yes, in the end—not because he misses the castle (he doesn't), but because Grimmauld Place—grim, old place, the brother he never understood used to say, laughing a bitter laugh, grim, old place (and it's frightening that he thinks he understandsnow)—has become suffocating and Regulus doesn't need the house to drown him, he can drown on his own just fine, watch him. (His skin is turning purple-green and his lips must be white and bloodless like his father's by now, so why is he still not dead why why—)
Turns out, Hogwarts is no less haunted than his old house.
It's just his luck, Regulus thinks, but wherever he turns, whichever corridor he takes, he remembers. Remembers blond curls and bright blue-green eyes; remembers straw-coloured hair and boisterous laughter; there is Evan Rosier and there is Barty Crouch and he finds himself wondering what happened to them, did they die, too, were they the lucky ones. So he pushes himself to remember because for once the memories are within his reach, and suddenly the blond curls are dirty, muddy, bloody and there is Evan Rosier staring at nothing with vacant green-blue eyes, there is Barty Crouch locked up with the brother he doesn't understand on an island far out of his reach.
(He visits Azkaban once, only to find that Barty is dead dead dead; he visits Sirius, too, only to find that Sirius is gone, too, just in another way. James, Lily forgive me. James, Lily forgive me.)
(Were he younger, he would be angry that Sirius doesn't ask for his forgiveness, too; now Regulus just sits outside of the cell and looks at the mess his brother has become and wonders about life and death. Sirius doesn't even recognise him and it's okay because Regulus doesn't recognise himself either.)
"Professor?"
He looks up—he's been grading Charms assignments alongside Flitwick for hours and every distraction is welcome, because his head throbs—to find Nymphadora Tonks staring at him with those huge, doe-like eyes from his office's doorway. (She's just like her mother when her hair isn't pink, he thinks, but thinking of Andromeda makes him think of Bella and scorching marks on family trees which make him think of Sirius—curled like a small ball, rocking himself back and forth, forgive me James, Lily—and he doesn't want to think about Sirius so he stops.)
"Yes, Miss Tonks?" he says, aware that he's scribling down violently, the black ink all over his hands like blood. He doesn't stop writing.
"You can call me Dora, you know," she says, and something in her tone must be hurt.
You can call me uncle Regulus, he thinks but doesn't say. He is hurt, too. (Sharp nails tearing his skin apart and he has scars all over his body now, on his hands and neck and that's why he wears the gloves, don't they get it—)
"Is there anything I can do for you, Dora?" he forces himself to say.
"You could come home, uncle Regulus," she says, "for Christmas. Mum would be happy to have you."
Uncle Regulus.
"I will think about it," he says. You could come home, she told him but he doesn't know where that is so he simply shows up by Andromeda's house; turns out, it's the right address.
And then a thinner and less arrogant version of James Potter attends Hogwarts and Regulus doesn't know what to do with Harry Potter who's staring at the food with eyes the size of small plates; the boy is a Gryffindor which is good because Regulus doesn't have it in him to deal with a Slytherin who looks like his father but is his mother's son (green, mudblood eyes, a thirst for knowledge, the need to prove himself; perhaps the boy should have been a Ravenclaw but he could have been a Slytherin, too, so what's the point of the Sorting, he idly wonders, scrubbing his hands red to wash away the rot that's spreading. He stares at the mirror and laughs, every inch mad, every inch his parents' son, every inch Sirius' brother.)
But then Harry Potter deals with an illegal dragon for the half-breed groundskeeper (does it matter, does it, does it, half-bloods and half-breeds and mudbloods and pure-bloods, they all die, we allrot) and then he fights Quirrel who turns out to be the Dark Lord and Regulus wonders if he was wrong and if that boy is as brainless and reckless as the rest of the Gryffindors. (And the Dark Lord isn't dead and he should have known, should have realised, should have, should have, and so Regulus fills the bathtub with cold water and tries to forget but he can't drown for a second time since he's already dead so he just shakes and trembles instead and wishes for impossible things.)
And the boy who looks like his father and is his mother's son, that boy smiles a little less at the end of his first school year and Regulus suddenly wishes he could help him the way no one helped Regulus, but he can't even help himself so how can he help that traumatised kid?
(He doesn't even dare to think of Draco Malfoy who looks like his father too but is his father's son through and through. The boy who's just a boy whispers about mudbloods and blood purity and Regulus stays away because he knows a lost cause when he sees one. He's been lost, too; he was never found. That boy isn't—won't be any different.)
Second year comes and there is a petrified cat and a writing on the wall—the chamber of secrets has been opened, enemies of the heir beware—but he doesn't feel completely sick until Draco Malfoy hisses you will be nextmudbloods and poor, twelve-year-old Harry Potter (green mudblood eyes, green mudblood eyes) speaks to snakes and that's the night Regulus tries to burn his hands for the first time to stop them from itching to scrub his skin red which madam Pomphrey explains to him that is worse, really, with her kind smile and kind words that make his ears ring.
"It's okay, professor Black," she gently says, holding his bandaged hands between her dead, cold palms (but she's not dead, is she), "I know you didn't really mean to do it. Otherwise it would have worked."
If it had worked he would be burnt to ashes, she says, her voice soothing as if she's dealing with a small, terrified, lost child, and he wants to tell her that that was the whole point. But Regulus keeps his mouth shut, instead, because that sounds mad even to him and he's a Black. He would know firsthand about madness. (He is every inch his parents' son, every inch Sirius' brother. And he hates it.)
And so second year comes and goes with the small Weasley daughter almost dead, now probably wishing she was, and with a basilisk downstairs in the bloody basement, and with the less arrogant version of James Potter covered in blood that the boy swears isn't his own, with his eyes less bright (green, mudblood eyes) and Regulus wonders if Harry regrets being a wizard. And then he wonders how the fuck is Hogwarts supposed to be a safe place for kids, and that night (and every other night) he wakes up from the sound of his own screams (which makes no sense whatsoever because dead boys can't scream and he drowned at eighteen.)
Mass-murderer Sirius Black on the run, the newspapers write and he laughs, throws his head back and laughs, because of course Sirius did what no one else could. Of course he broke out of the most secure prison in the whole world. (Then again, Hogwarts is supposed to be safe and he's seen enough to know it really isn't.) Mother would be proud of him, Regulus thinks as his mother's portrait starts screaming, her shouts echoing through the silent corridors of Grimmauld Place.
(That night, when he downs dreamless sleep after dreamless sleep, no one stops him.)
He comes back to a Hogwarts with Remus Lupin as the new DADA teacher; Lupin looks older, with his wrinkles and the bags under his eyes and his collection of scars and Regulus wonders if that's what he looks like, too, as he inspects his nails and wonders how long will it take for the rot to spread to his heart and leave bones and wilted flesh in its wake. (He doesn't rot yet, but he takes a shower or ten just to be sure.)
"Hello, Regulus," says Lupin with his tired smile; he outstretches a hand and Regulus shakes it wordlessly, gloves on. "It's been a couple of years."
He smiles a bit; it feels foreign. "Maybe more than a couple of years," he says, withdrawing his hand, pretending not to notice Lupin's eyes staring at his gloves and his scars (and his rotten, black limbs. He knows corpses are disgusting, doesn't need Lupin to remind him.)
It's been a decade or two, and he's still dying.
"Professor?"
He looks up and there is Nymphadora Tonks, a graduate now, all grown-up and beautiful like her mother (no, she's going to be better than the old generation, she has to be, she just has to) and Regulus can't help it when his lips quirk into a small smile.
"Miss Tonks." He leans back to his chair.
A grin breaks into her expression and then they are Uncle Regulus and Dora again.
He goes to sleep with the news of a brother who is going to lose his soul forever. That night, Regulus dreams of Sirius before the war, before Hogwarts, before everything, and wonders how he was stupid enough to think he could ever keep him. The tears slide down on his cheeks and he doesn't, can't bother to wipe them away, because it's water and oh Merlin he's drowning again and again and he can't breathe because there is water in his lungs and he can't scream because he can't breathe and when someone knocks politely in his door, Regulus holds his breath and covers his mouth with his palm and although his mangled skin disgusts him, it muffles his sobs in the dead of the night.
He wakes up to the news of a free, innocent brother who escaped on the back of a bloody hippogriff and he can't help but laugh the same way he did at the beginning of the year. Regulus says goodbye to a weary Remus Lupin and Harry Potter looks both depressed and cheerful—but that's nothing new.
"Triwizard Tournament?" he asks, huffing. "Have they gone mad?" It's probably ironic that he, of all people, asks that.
McGonagall seems to think so, too; she looks at Regulus with a raised eyebrow. "Albus thinks it is best," she says, sternly. "No one is going to end up hurt."
Regulus doubts that.
The Dark Mark—or whatever has remained from that black tattoo that taints his mangled, scarred, wrong and rotten skin—burns and burns and burns throughout the year. (He once tries to cut it off but fails because of course he does. Once a Death Eater always a Death Eater. There is no way out. Still, he does try; Regulus thinks that ought to mean something, but no one else shares his opinion; Sirius visits him in the hospital wing in his Animagus form and madam Pomphrey once again offers to find him a therapist.)
(He laughs at her face. "Therapist?" he says. "The dead don't need a therapist."
She bites her lip and the dog on his bed lifts his head from his toes. "You aren't dead, Regulus," she says, in the end. "You know that."
Not dead? He frowns, looking down at his bone hands and black nails and mangled skin.)
And then the third task is over and he's back and Regulus' forearm burns like fire, like that one time he tried to burn his hands to stop them from itching—"you did what?" Sirius asks, incredulous and Regulus shrugs—and andand—
And Cedric Diggory is dead.
He's back.
(Regulus locks himself in the bathroom and sobs blood and coughs water and poison; he curls into himself just like Sirius in Azkaban because this life has been his own personal prison anyway; he shivers and grabs his hair with his hands and pulls and pulls and he screams because oh Merlin he's some kind of medical miracle because he must be dying again, he must be, he must—the dead can't die twice—and he is back and Barty's worse than dead and everyone is dead, everyone—)
Fifth year is a blur of flashes against his eyes, like a memory gone wrong, like burnt photographs and old albums.
Blink, there is professor Umbridge with her new rules and new books and new ways to spy on Dumbledore; the Ministry bluntly refuses to believe that the Dark Lord is back, the idiots, the soft idiots.
"Progress for the sake of progress must be discouraged," the pink toad is saying. "Let us preserve what must be preserved, perfect what can be perfected and prune practices that ought to be prohibited."
Regulus almost rolls his eyes; McGonagall, who as a child was not subjected to etiquette lessons, chokes on her tea. She is furious, which is a vast understatement, her eyes glowing.
"That woman!" she angrily whispers and he nods. "She … she … how can she believe this nonsense? How can anyone?" She shakes her head, rubs her temples.
She should be used to disappointment by now. Regulus admires her courage and wonders how she does it.
"It's not that they actually believe it," Regulus responds under his breath, pouring down some calming draught in his black coffee. He can feel her disapproving eyes on his head, burning holes through his skull. "They just cling to the idea that maybe he isn't back."
He feels a weight on his hand and looks up to see McGonagall's hand on his, stopping him from adding more draught. She says, "On which coffee are you, right now?"
Regulus shrugs, skin crawling. He has the urge to take his hand away and scrub it red. He has the urge to let her hold it. "I don't remember."
Story of his life, he supposes.
Blink, Sybil Trelawney is in inspection. Blink, Umbridge sucks her. Blink blink blink, McGonagall is unconscious and Dumbledore is gone and Harry Potter is missing and—
Blink and there's the Department of Mysteries. There is a veil (there was a boat—) and Bellatrix is laughing (—Kreacher screaming—) and her hex sends Sirius (—Regulus—) beyond the veil.
Blink, and Sirius is gone, the echo of his laughter still making Regulus' ears ring. Bellatrix laughs and Regulus frowns because it's just like the way they all used to play together when they were young but it's all wrong.
Blink, and Sirius is dead.
There isn't much he remembers beyond that.
Remember when you were young?
You shone like the sun.
Shine on, you crazy diamond
Now there's a look in your eyes
Like black holes in the sky
Shine on, you crazy diamond
You were caught in the crossfire
Of childhood and stardom,
Blown on the steel breeze
Come on you target
for faraway laughter;
Come on you stranger, you legend,
You martyr, and shine
Shine On You Crazy Diamond, Pink Floyd