obsession

Regulus spends his summer hiding, never letting go of his wand (mahagony and dragon heartstring), never looking at his brother, never ignoring his mother's warnings. Kreacher has taken to popping in at just the right moment (Heir Black must come with Kreacher, and then the elf returns him to his room and Regulus shakes of his bones, stuck in his head, throat clogging up and up and up). For this he is grateful.

He cannot wait to get out of this house.

This scares him. His mother- onher own- here- surrounded by the Black madness-

No. He shuts the thought down and locks it out.

It also scares him because he will no longer have this protection, it will just be him and Sirius and Sirius' obsession and he's terrified that he could be tossed into Scar's place. The idea has his stomach cramping, has him curled up over the edge of the toilet, which is cold against his hot skin. His mother brushes his hair from his face. 

That is one of the bad days. A day where the shadows exist only to spook and haunt, a day when he is forcing down food only to throw it all back up, a day where he stays in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to move through his terror. Throughout it all, his mother is by his side, a butterfly caught in the monsoon (although his mother is nothing like a butterfly).

 "Breath. That's it, in and out, don't panic, you're fine I'm here you're safe I promise." Regulus tries to catch his breath, his breathing fast paced and erratic, he can't he can't he can't-

He inhales once, sharply, shakingly, thickly. It all blurs together into a ringing in his ears and a thumping in his chest that beats, beats, beats, a melody of I'm not safe here get me out I can't breathe please somebody help me stay away help. His mother presses her lips against his head. He tries to exhale, choaking on his own breath, choaking on his saliva, choaking and struggling and it won't stop, he can't stop.

He stops.

(Mama, I'm scared.)

There are thoughts screaming at him. Because he has trained and, well, wouldn't it be better if he did take Scar's place? Shouldn't he do that? He knows what is to come, and he loathes the idea of being stuck with it. But isn't it selfish to wish it on someone else? It's wrong, certainly. Regulus vows to neither take the fall nor leave Scar to fall.

He vowed, and so he must. If the obsession turns to him, he will adapt. He will flee. He will remove himself. "Loyalty, that is key." His mother taught him that, over and over, a lesson imprinted on his memory. So he cannot go back on that vow. Scar will be removed from Sirius, he will get rid of the others who have been caught in the madness. That is key.

The fallout is his to deal with.

Caveat emptor. Let the buyer beware. Oh, Regulus is aware, alright. Aware that he and the others his brother looks at and thinks mine are utterly, irreversibly, royally screwed.

His mother stands beside him at the station. His father does not walk in front (the obsession grips his mind with I must see her she must be mine and Regulus knows hate, he knows it because he hates and hate is easier than love) but he will not walk behind. "A Black does not follow, they lead."

 ( "A Fawley simply walks. They rise and move as the path dictates, not as others dictate the path." )

Instead, Orion walks beside Walburga, who is stood stiffly at his shoulder. Sirius has vanished. Regulus has a few more minutes before he is allowed to panic, to worry. Still, he cannot help but scan the crowds, looking for his brother's obsessions.

 "You are you, ma belle," his mother has told him, "and if your mind is not made of green and silver, then you are still the only thing I have ever needed, ever wanted you to be; my son." And then she will smile and say, "just please  do not follow your brother," and he will laugh. To be a Fawley is often to be a Hufflepuff, and Regulus will only be entirely surprised if he is either sorted into Gryffindor or sorted immediately.

Regulus does not have a brave bone in his body. He is selfish, for no one will ever be selfless for him; he is loyal, for his words are his law; he is honest, because if you lie it is to protect, not to be ashamed. He is not, however, brave, and he does not believe he can be and he is not sure he wants to be.

 "Go on," his mother urges now, and Regulus steps forward, onto the train, nodding his goodbyes. He walks in stiff legs, searching and searching - for what, he is not sure. He searches nonetheless. There is an empty compartment in a nearly empty carriage, and he slips inside, mentally preparing how to rebuff his brother.

Ten minutes later, the door squeaks open. "Ah- can I sit here?" A faintly accented voice asks politely as Regulus glances up. The boy is blonde, hair darker at the roots, windswept and scattered with white. He is pretty; pretty hair, pretty eyes, pretty smile.

 That is unfortunate. He does not do well around pretty people, and this boy is pretty, and that is an undeniable, indisputable fact. He is the kind that will only get prettier as he gets older. That is also unfortunate.

 "Of course," Regulus says simply, because denying would be rude.

The boy holds his hand out once he is seated. "Evan Rosier," he introduces, and grasps his palm firmly. "And you are?"

 "Regulus Black. Pleasure to meet you, Heir Rosier."

 "Well met, Heir Black." The boy smiles, a quick upwards tick of his lips. "And it's Evan. May I call you Regulus?" He nods, faintly bemused. "Excellent," Evan says, sounding satisfied. 

 Oh, boy. Regulus might not do so well around his personality, either. He doesn't answer, mentally praying for this boy to get up and leave, and instead settles himself back into his seat, preparing for the long journey.

If he is being completely honest with himself, Regulus will admit he minded neither the company not the journey, which he finds unfortunate. He finds a lot of things unfortunate, in fact. They were not disturbed (he thanks whatever power is out there for that small mercy) and Rosier was neither loud nor dull.

And there was absolutely no obsession. No hint of them, or if Scar, and he is not sure if that is worrying or if he is merely paranoid. Possibly both.

Probably both.

He does, however, see them in the Hall. With Rosier, who he flat out refuses to call Evan, at his side, he walks into the Great Hall, which is filled with people. That part is unsurprising. This is a school. There are about one hundred and twenty students per year, and that does not include the teachers. The Gryffindor table is to his left. Sirius watches him with all too eager eyes, an exhausted Scar on one side and a loud Potter on the other. Regulus listens to the song with concealed doubt.

A hat? Really?

Rosier snorts at the end. "Gryffindor?" He mocks under his breath. "Gryffindor, Dumbledore, lovely theme they've got going on here."

Unwilling, Regulus finds his lips twitching. Oh, stop that. Don't do that.

When "Black, Regulus," is called, his fingers twitch. He determinedly does not look at Rosier, and he certainly does not glance at Sirius, because that would be bad. He keeps his eyes firmly on the stool.

Ah, the Hat murmurs, isn't your mind chaotic and organised.

...what?

What I mean, the voice continues, is that your mind is an utter mess and yet you know exactly where everything is. Hmm. Let's see. No, not Gryffindor, absolutely not- because that's such a surprise - well, I must say. Task or riddle, Mr. Black?

Couldn't a riddle be a task?

Yes, I suppose so. It sounds amused. Regulus is starting to freak out. Well, Ravenclaw could work, I suppose. Hmm. Ah. You are loyal, hardworking. What are your thoughts on Hufflepuff?

Well, he'd fit, he supposes. He would be underestimated there, far more so than Slytherin. He could go to any House because there would be no prejudice except for weak. His father would be disappointed. His mother, not.

...he's going to Slytherin, isn't he.

The Hat chuckles softly. Well, that's an interesting take. Hmm. Better be-