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Regulus was on his way to the drawing room, and not for the first time, either; he had walked those stairs hundreds of times before, could reach it with his eyes closed, could do it in his sleep, he was sure of it.
He just spent so much time there. All the time he wasn’t with Father working on his arithmetic or spelling or grammar he spent there, looking at the tapestry, sitting beside Mother on the sofa, talking about this and that and watching her busy herself with one thing or the other (she was usually writing letters at the writing desk. He often wondered to whom she was writing, but figured she wouldn’t tell him even if he asked, so he never dit. He just sat there, watching).
Today was different, however. It wasn’t different because of any special occasion – at least, not to Regulus’ knowledge; it was nobody’s birthday and nobody had died.
But there was a certain weight to his footsteps and it was as if time itself had slowed down, as if the portraits on the walls all held their breath and the shadows cast by the cut-off house-elf heads grew longer than they were supposed to be.
Everything was just so very different. So different that he hesitated when he reached the bottom of the stairs. Because something was off. It was not just different; it was wrong. So he stopped, and he listened, and heard his own footsteps even though he wasn’t walking. They echoed through the house, hollow, faded. It was eerie, and something in him told him to run, so he ran back up the stairs.
When he reached the top, there was a sudden wrench from within his stomach, lunging him backwards. He stumbled, tried to grab hold of the bannisters, or the wall, but his hands found only air. The world peeled away around him. The stairs, the house, everything vanished.
He didn’t fall. He couldn’t. Falling was only possible because there was somewhere to fall to, but there was no up or down any more, nor left or right, and even forwards and backwards were nothing more than useless descriptors now. All motion and all direction had left him, and yet he knew he was standing still.
Standing? His feet were gone, too. Missing. He couldn’t feel them. But he knew he was standing. He just knew, just as he knew his hands were clenched into fists, and that his heart was beating frantically in his chest, though he couldn’t feel those either. Couldn’t feel his face, nor his eyes, nor his eyelids, and yet, he knew he blinked. He blinked into the blackness that surrounded him, the void that had swallowed him whole, but there was nothing to see. He opened his mouth to scream, but found his voice, too, had left him. He tried again. Nothing. He couldn’t even hear his own breath.
He turned around, looking for a way out even though he still couldn’t see anything, or hear anything, or feel anything. He wasn’t even sure if he was really turning around, or if he even could turn around. He wasn’t even sure if he had eyes any more. Or hands. Or feet. Or eyes. Or a face. Or a body. Or anything at all.
And yet the blackness pressed against him in a way that seemed impossible.
It pulsed. It writhed. It was alive.
He started to panic. He knew tears were welling up in his eyes as his panic turned into terror. He kept turning, or trying to, and he was still spinning around when he saw something in the distance: a dot. Small. White. Far away. He didn’t know what it was, but it didn’t matter – it was something he could see, which meant he had eyes, which meant he had a face and a body and he wasn’t dead, and that this wasn’t the end.
His feet moved, on their own, and he could see them moving in the light of the small, bright dot. His feet were carrying him towards the light and with every step it grew larger, brighter. It stretched out, consuming the darkness, until it became a searing light, bright as the sun, blinding him. He couldn’t look away from the light for it was all there was.
Gone again was the brief distinction between left and right, up and down, back and forth. The light was all there was, just as the darkness before, and from every side it blinded him. He threw up his arms to shield his eyes, he squeezed them shut, but it was no use. The light reached through his arms, through his bones, through his eyelids. It was in him now. It was him. It was all.
There was no escape.
He dropped to his knees but the light had no floor. It bent and shattered and he was falling, falling, falling through the light, falling past all thought, falling past all resistance, falling into more light, and more, and still more. There was no end. There was nothing but fear, fear and the sensation of falling into ever more light, never hitting the ground.
Until he did.
A sharp crack of pain split through his body as something solid slammed into him. The bright light vanished, replaced by a blinding, white-hot pain that radiated from his nose all through his skull. He tasted blood.
He gasped and clutched at his face with both hands – which only made the pain worse, but he didn’t dare pull his hands away again – and instinctively curled up to brace himself for another blow.
None came.
He lay there, stunned and in pain, until he was sure nothing else would happen.
Then he slowly opened his eyes.
The world was blurry at first and it took a lot of heavy blinking and squinting for the shapes to come into focus, for the world was dark and his eyes were obstructed by sleep. But the darkness was not absolute. His eyes adjusted to it and he could make out the desk and the bed and the walls – walls that had been stripped of wallpaper and changed and drawn on.
And the drawings were familiar. They were Sirius’, and they were his own. The desk and the bed were also familiar. They were also his own. And the floor he lay on and the ceiling above…
This was his own bedroom.
The relief was almost as overwhelming as the pain and knocked the breath from his lungs. He shut his eyes again and let out a shuddering sigh. It had all been a dream. He was safe. He was home. He was in his own bedroom. The only problem left for him was the violent throbbing in his nose, the feeling it could just fall off his face any moment – but this was preferable still to not being able to feel his nose, or his hands, or indeed any part of his body at all. At least the pain meant it was real.
It flared now, worse than before, and sharper, as if his body had been waiting for him to wake up and realise he’d been dreaming before giving in to the pain. Even his tears burnt as they quietly slid down his cheeks.
He tried to wipe his face, but the moment his hand touched his nose, it was as if fire shot through his body from the tip of his nose to the tips of his toes and it made him sick.
He had to sit up to keep the nausea at bay.
He could already taste bile. It mixed with the iron of the blood and made him want to throw up.
He had to get help.
He struggled to pull himself to his feet, but managed, and stumbled drunkenly out of his room and towards the only person he could think of: Sirius.
He didn’t knock. He just opened the door and nearly fell into his bedroom, stopped only by the chair that stood by the door and broke his fall.
‘Sirius,’ he whispered, but there came no answer.
He forced himself to lift his head and look around the room and saw the rubbish strewn across the floor, saw the books lie on his desk, and saw the empty bed. Then he saw the open window, and he felt the cool November air.
Sirius wasn’t here.
Surely he hadn’t gone out? Gone after Aunt Lucretia?
His throat tightened at the thought of Sirius, out there, amongst the Muggles in the depth of the night, and for a moment he thought he might cry again.
He swallowed hard.
He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
He was eight, after all. Far too old to cry.
Instead, he let himself fully into the room and sat down on Sirius’ empty bed. Then he lay down. And he stared blankly ahead. The throbbing in his nose was all he could think of, but it eventually ebbed away a little, allowing room for other thoughts. And still he lay there. He didn’t know how long, but he lay there long enough for the memory of the dream to settle and for loneliness to take its place and questions to swirl around his mind, mingled with events of last night.
Aunt Lucretia.
Father, blasting her across the street.
Leave now, and I won’t hurt you.
Aunt Lucretia, who could still be lying there.
Sirius, who could have left the house to go looking for her. Sirius, who could have been captured by Muggles by now, who could be hidden in some Muggle alley, scared and all alone.
And himself, here, in pain, unable to help either of them.
He sighed and pulled himself into a sitting position again; there was no way he’d be able to sleep tonight, so he better go downstairs and find Mother and Father.
And so he tried to get to his feet, and in doing so, caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror across the room, by the wardrobe.
He was a mess.
His skin was pale and sickly and his hair stuck up in all directions. Dried up blood smeared his lips and chin in streaks, coming from his nose, which was bent in an awful angle. The skin around it was broken and turning purple, matching his robes – his robes! No, he could not go to Mother and Father in those robes, filthy with Muggle dung and dirt from the grimy alley he’d hid in. If even just Kreacher saw him now...
He took a deep breath.
Think, he told himself. He just had to think.
He raked a hand through his tangled hair and began to pace. Maybe, if Sirius really was away to help Aunt Lucretia, he could stay here and wait for him to get back in the morning. But that was supposing he would get back in the morning. Muggle London was far more terrifying than his dream, and the dangers were far more real. But it was his only option. If Sirius came back, he could ask him for help before anyone else was up, and nobody would have to know then.
But what could Sirius even do about it? With only a few hours, at most, to spare? With no proper knowledge of how to heal painful noses?
He sighed and sat back down on the bed out of habit more than need. Waiting until tomorrow morning was madness. But what else was there he could do?
His eyes widened; Sirius wouldn’t have just left the house. Not after last night. He had to still be somewhere, just in another room, coming up with some kind of plan. He had to be. He just had to be, because there was no other scenario Regulus liked. If he was outside, he was in danger. And he couldn’t have that. So Sirius was still here. In the house. Just hiding.
Yes, that was it. He was hiding. But Regulus was a good seeker.
He left Sirius’ bedroom in a hurry and flung open door after door after door as he worked down landing after landing. He didn’t skip any except for his parents’ bedrooms – but he wouldn’t be there, anyway, would he?
And so he reached the first floor landing and worked his way through there, the drawing room first. Empty. All had been empty up till now, so it didn’t come as a surprise any more. Nor was it surprising when the bathroom was empty. And the playroom… it hadn’t been a playroom in ages, and he’d only ever been inside once since it was a guest room. With Narcissa.
Now he was alone.
But surely he wouldn’t be in there?
But everywhere else was empty…
He had to try.
He had all but given up hope of finding anyone when he opened the door, so he was all the more shocked to find someone in it, standing near the wardrobe, pulling black robes from their hangers and tossing them onto the floor. Greater still, however, was the shock of seeing who it was: Bellatrix.
She was in her nightshirt, which was wrinkled, and her hair was about as wild as his own. She didn’t seem to have noticed him standing in the doorway, staring at her; she was too consumed by her task of picking the right robes to wear, and in such a hurry Regulus couldn’t help but conclude she was running late for something.
But what would she be running late for at this hour? And what was she even doing here? Why had she come? She was supposed to be on the run, and he he hadn’t seen her in ages, not since his birthday. Not since Uncle Cygnus—
The horrors of that night, Uncle Cygnus’ anger especially, hit him so hard he nearly lost his balance. He had to grab hold of the doorpost but in doing so, he shifted his footing, and one of the floorboards gave a nasty creak.
Bellatrix whirled around, startled, her hand flying to her chest, then patting the skirt of her nightshirt. Her eyes flicked across the room and Regulus followed her gaze to the bedside table. Her wand lay upon it.
He quickly looked away, pretending not to have noticed. He didn’t want her to think he’d come for it or meant to sneak up, or anything. He hadn’t. He’d just… he didn’t know what he was doing, really. He’d just wanted Sirius.
Should he say something? Apologise? Ask if she’d seen Sirius to make his intentions known?
But before he could make up his mind on what to say, she was back to rummaging around the wardrobe, ignoring him the way grown-ups always did when they decided children were in the way, and he was left to shifting awkwardly on his feet, hoping she’d turn back around. Hoping she’d ask him why he was there, hoping she’d ask him what was wrong. Hoping she’d notice the blood and the state of his robes and face.
Hoping she’d help.
She didn’t, of course. He hadn’t really expected her to, but it still stung to be ignored…
He should just give up, turn around, go back upstairs and wait for Sirius to return and then they’d figure out what to do about his nose and face and robes, together. He wouldn’t be ignored then.
And he was about to do just that – in fact, he had almost turned away – when something caught his attention: something on her skin. He had only caught a glimpse before the sleeve fell back down again, hiding it, but it was enough to stop him from leaving. It was enough for time to slow down as it had before, in his dream… but he knew this was no dream. He could feel the throbbing in his nose, and though it hardly mattered any more, it was confirmation enough.
It was real. Everything was real.
But none of it mattered now.
Only that did, whatever it was.
He couldn’t help it; he was drawn to it as a flame draws in a moth and his feet seemed to move without his command, as if they didn’t belong to him, until he stood just behind her. Bellatrix had stopped moving. It was clear she knew he was there. She was waiting for him to do something.
Everything inside him screamed at him to stop and go away, but his hand, too, moved on its own, reaching for Bellatrix’s arm before he’d even noticed he’d lifted it.
He felt the cool fabric of her nightshirt brush against his fingers.
He felt Bellatrix’s cool fingers wrap around his wrist, holding him still.
He felt her intense stare. He felt her other hand in his neck. Her felt the pressure she applied.
He felt as though he couldn’t move.
His heart had lost control but it wasn’t beating frantically; it was as though it had stopped beating altogether. He wanted to pry her fingers off his neck, off his wrist, but he didn’t move a muscle. She was older. Stronger. More powerful. He was as trapped now as he had been earlier, in Muggle London – but Aunt Lucretia wasn’t coming to save him this time.
Seconds passed though they seemed minutes to Regulus, and nothing happened. She didn’t snap his neck. Didn’t snap his wrist. Didn’t hurt him or reach for her wand. She didn’t even tell him off or send him away. She just stood there. She just looked down at him.
It calmed him down, that she wasn’t doing anything rash, anything explosive. It calmed his heart, at least, and it started beating again in its usual rhythm, and his thoughts came back to him. The situation became clearer. He realised what he’d done – he’d been too nosy, he’d wanted to touch her without asking, wanted to expose her skin – and fumbled for an apology, but the words wouldn’t leave his mouth, and his eyes had travelled back to her left forearm on their own volition.
Her grip loosened. He still didn’t dare move.
Her fingers brushed against the inside of his wrist, oddly gentle now, but it only caused him to stiffen further.
It’s a trap, his newly revived brain told him. Run!
But he didn’t run. He just stood there, looking up at her.
And she just smiled. ‘Well then,’ she murmured, ‘aren’t you a curious little thing?’
He swallowed. Again he tried to form an apology, but his mouth still wouldn’t cooperate.
‘If you’re going to stare, you may as well sit,’ she said.
Sit?
He blinked at her. She may as well have just told him to grow an extra head.
Bellatrix, oddly enough, only smiled some more and tugged at his wrist, and his legs obeyed, walking to where Bellatrix took him: the bed. That seemed safe enough. He sat down on the edge, his feet danging in the air. They were heavy. His arms were heavy, too, and his chest was tight with anticipation, but he wasn’t scared. Not really. Because Bellatrix didn’t seem angry. And if she wasn’t angry, there was no need to be afraid.
And yet the air pressed in around him and made it hard to breathe, and his mind still told him to run and hide.
Bellatrix stood in front of him and her eyes flicked over his face, and she opened her mouth as if to say something, then stopped. Her eyes narrowed just a little, looking over his face once more, and going down, briefly, to his dirty robes, then back up to his nose.
Her brow furrowed. ‘What happened to you?’
He looked away. ‘I... I fell,’ he mumbled, instinctively ashamed. He was too old to be having bad dreams.
She smirked. ‘Fell,’ she repeated, her gaze dropping to his robes. ‘Into what? A troll’s mouth?’
Regulus shrank slightly, but said nothing. He knew she didn’t believe him, but he hoped she thought he was keeping some grand thing from her, that he’d broken fifty rules or fought someone. Something that made him seem brave instead of pathetic.
Bellatrix turned and took her wand from the bedside table, then pointed it at his face. ‘Hold still,’ she ordered.
He did. He squeezed his eyes shut and even held his breath.
‘Episkey!’
The pain dulled immediately, and his nose felt burning hot. He yelped in shock and grabbed it, opening his eyes.
Bellatrix tsked. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. It’s already done.’
And it was. His nose had turned icy cold and he had to release it, but the pain was gone. The bleeding had stopped. The coldness, too, ebbed away, and his nose felt... normal. It was normal again.
He looked up at her, surprised. ‘You healed it!’
Bellatrix caught his chin between her fingers and tilted his face up to inspect her work.
‘I did,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘That’s good to know.’
‘Thank you, for doing that,’ he said, filled with relief and gratitude. Only now that the pain had left him, it became clear to him how much it had hurt. How much it had been with him in the back of his mind, impacting his every move.
She gave a small nod and let go of his chin. ‘Just don’t make a habit out of it,’ she said.
‘I won’t,’ he said. ‘I promise.’
There was a long pause in which they just looked at each other, though Regulus’ gaze wandered further and further down until it rested on her left inner forearm. Then he looked up again, silently, hoping (though he knew his chances were slim) that she’d show him what she kept there. Hoping she’d do that for him.
‘Still thinking about what you saw?’ she asked, sitting down beside him on the bed.
His breath hitched. He nodded.
‘I can show you what it is, if you want.’
Again, he nodded, not trusting his mouth to say the words he wanted to if he spoke.
‘But you’ll need to promise me something, first,’ she said.
‘Anything,’ he breathed.
She smiled. ‘I want you to keep what you see to yourself. You cannot tell anyone else. Do you understand me?’
He nodded. ‘I won’t tell.’
‘Not even Sirius. Not even Cissy.’
He nodded again. ‘I won’t tell anyone,’ he said. ‘I promise.’
She gave a little hum of pleasure and pulled the sleeve back, revealing pale skin – and a black, raised mark of a skull and a slithering snake, coiling around the skull, coming from its mouth.
It pulsed. It writhed. It was alive.
And it smelt faintly of burnt flesh.
‘Better, isn’t it?’ she said softly, ‘now that you’re not sneaking glances…’
But he was barely listening. He was watching the snake and the skull and their movements captivated his entire mind. But he had to agree with her: seeing this was better than just seeing a shadow on her arm. Seeing this was better than not knowing what it was.
‘You’ve never seen anything like it before, have you?’
He shook his head slowly, still watching the scene on his cousin’s arm in awe.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you would’ve. You’re still so young...’
He nodded vaguely, not really there with his thoughts. He was nowhere with them. His hand was moving on its own again; it crept closer and closer, reaching out as it had done before, ready to touch. He only noticed it hovering inches above the raised edges of the skull and the snake when his knuckles stung painfully, and it took him several seconds to realise Bellatrix had hit them with her wand.
He pulled it back, looking up at her. She didn’t need to tell him why she’d done that. The smell told him enough. And even just hovering above it, he had felt the heat radiating from it.
Still, she said, ‘You’ll burn yourself if you touch it now.’
And all he could do was nod and sit on his hands, so they wouldn’t move again.
He watched the snake and the skull and their little dance upon her skin. If it would burn him if he touched it… if it smelt so much of burnt flesh… He tried to image how it would feel to have that on his arm, to have the source of the smell and the heat be on his skin, unable to get it off.
‘Does it hurt you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, as if that were the best part. ‘Yes, it hurts.’
He nodded again, but she didn’t see. She wasn’t looking at him any more. Her eyes were on the mark. Her fingers brushed over it lightly, reverently. She didn’t seem to care about burning her fingers, and something about it made him jealous. It took every ounce of strength he had to stop himself from leaning in to feel it, too. To feel the throbbing of the snake and the skull with his own hands. It took him every bit of self-control to keep a safe distance.
Bellatrix tilted her head, still admiring it. ‘Mmm. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
Regulus nodded, though he wasn’t sure if she’d meant it as a question.
‘Yes, you think so, too…’ she said, clearly pleased. ‘Not everyone would.’
‘Why not?’
She chuckled. ‘You really are a curious one, aren’t you?’
‘Sorry,’ he offered.
‘No, no, it’s quite all right,’ she said, waving it off. ‘But do us both a favour and keep that quiet, will you. Especially around grown-ups.’
‘You’re a grown-up,’ he countered.
She smiled. ‘I suppose I am,’ she said, and nothing more.
Did that mean he shouldn’t be asking her questions? When she was the only one who seemed to answer them? The only one who had listened to him at Easter? The one who had taken him to Knockturn Alley. The one who had came to wish him a happy birthday when even his parents hadn’t bothered. The one who had healed his nose. Who was here now, sitting beside him, leaning back and resting her hands behind her. Who stretched her legs out in front of her and let her head tip sideways until it rested lightly against his…
Regulus froze again. He didn’t dare move with her leaning against him.
‘Do you want to know what you saw?’ she whispered, her breath tickling the hairs on his neck. She didn’t wait for him to answer. She just leaned in closer, until her lips touched his ear, and said, barely audible, ‘It’s a promise.’
It sent a chill down his spine.
‘What kind of promise?’ he managed to whisper back.
She pulled her head back a little, and placed her hand protectively over her “promise”.
‘One of loyalty,’ she said. ‘To a man who’s going to change everything.’
He nodded solemnly. That was what she had said on his birthday, too. That she’d met a man who’d change the world. That was what she and Uncle Cygnus had fought about.
As if reading his mind, she said, ‘You see far too much, little cousin, and I fear that’s going to be your biggest problem.’
He swallowed. ‘Why?’
‘Well… When you see and hear too much, you’re more difficult to lie to. You’re going to want answers. You’re going to understand things they don’t want you to understand yet.’ She smiled again. ‘And once you do understand, they’ll punish you for it. They always punish the clever children for noticing the truth too early.’
‘Is that what they did to you?’
She let out a quiet laugh. ‘Oh, they tried. But they were too late.’ She looked at him. ‘Your parents aren’t mine. Your mother’s all right, but your father…’ She sighed. ‘He’ll have my head if he ever finds out what I showed you tonight, what I’m telling you now.’
‘But he won’t find out. I won’t tell him,’ he said. ‘I said I wouldn’t tell and I won’t. I won’t tell anyone.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I trust you. It’ll just be our little secret.’
Their secret. Just as he kept Andromeda’s secret. Just as he’d tried to keep Uncle Cygnus’…
If only Father didn’t do whatever he had done to make him break his promise to Uncle Cygnus, he could do it. He still kept Andromeda’s secret. He was trustworthy. And Bellatrix knew that; she trusted him, and he would not spoil that now.
‘You have to go now, don’t you?’ he whispered after a while.
She brushed his hair back from his forehead with a surprising tenderness. ‘No point in going now,’ she said. ‘I’m too late already.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘It isn’t your fault. I could have left at any moment. I chose not to.’
‘Why?’
She shrugged. ‘Can’t I just want to spend some time with my favourite little cousin?’
‘I’m your favourite?’
‘Oh, yes.’
She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t ask. He didn’t even get the chance to, because Bellatrix extended her arm towards him, as an offering. ‘You can touch it now, if you want.’
Regulus studied her face for signs she was lying, that this was a trap, but there were none. With trembling fingers he reached out and touched the raised skin. It was warm. Not hot, but warm, and unpleasantly so. It was warm in a way that felt wrong.
His hand jerked back.
Bellatrix reached out and cupped the back of his neck, drawing him closer.
‘Don’t be frightened now, little cousin,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t bite.’
He nodded faintly, but still didn’t reach out to touch it any more.
She sighed, but released him nonetheless, letting her arm fall across his shoulder, drawing him closer.
He leaned against her and let his head rest against her chest. He was her favourite. She was showing him things he ought not to know yet because he was her favourite, and she trusted him.
He smiled contently as he stared some more at her arm. It was slowing down. Pulsating less. The black was less… black.
But it was as awesome as ever.