ᴏᴍɴɪꜱᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ✵ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜꜱ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ✵

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☾ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜꜱ ☽

»»-------≪ °❈° ≫-------««

The eastern sky is rose and gold as the sun breaks over the Astronomy Tower. Regulus watches the light spread, his hands resting on the delicate carved stone of the balustrade. Below him the world turns from black to indigo to green as dawn creeps across fields and forests.

Regulus snatches the silver tin of cigarettes from his pocket and lights another with the burning stub of the one he already smokes. His finger singes, but he is too numb to feel it. That buzz conquers his throbbing brain again and generates a headrush.

Truthfully, Regulus does not remember how the fuck he ended up here. Regression is the most viable reason, for there is great sorrow that needs to be drunken away. It is like a shard stuck in his guts and alcohol is the only solution to dull the edges. So, naturally, he woke up sprawled out across the stone floor of the Astronomy Tower.

Before substance abuse, Regulus once found solace in the stars, and apparently last night he was feeling nostalgic. Or desperate. Most likely the latter, because today he plans to do something completely out of his element.

A foolish, dreadful, possibly deadly plan, but he is out of options. Regulus takes another drag, hands shaking so much he almost misses his mouth. Large lungfuls of acrid smoke are inhaled until the ember, again, singes his finger. He curses under his breath and disposes of it, here goes nothing.

Self-loath and repulsion riddles throughout Regulus' body as he steps into the Headmaster's office.

"Mr. Black," Dumbledore greets. With an extended arm, he gestures towards a chair in front of the desk. Uneasily, Regulus sits, wringing his hands in his lap and hating himself for the loss of composure. He feels weak, and that is one trait he's been raised to believe is beneath him. "I have to say, I am most surprised by your request to speak. Is everything alright?"

"Er, no, sir."

"What's wrong?"

"Your goddaughter," Regulus forces out weakly, "she's in danger."

The Headmaster's studious expression remains, not so much as a twitch. "Yes. I've been well aware of this since before she could walk."

"You... You have?" Regulus grits out, hardness to his features. "And what have you done to protect her?"

"Not enough, I'm afraid." Dumbledore's eyes survey him over the edge of half-moon spectacles, an enigmatic gleam that makes nerves tense. "For instance, I have stood aside as she fell in love with a Death Eater."

That does not surprise Regulus.

"You know."

"I know."

"I planned to tell you today," Regulus confesses, and it is the truth. He exhales a deep breath as he turns away, hands come up to cup the back of his neck. "You owe me nothing, Professor. I know that. But... I-I need your help," he swallows hard, "I need out. I need to protect Freya, and I can't do that when I'm on the side that wishes to harm her."

"You've come to me to seek refuge from Voldemort?"

"Yes." Regulus despises admitting that he needs help. After a brief pause, he adds a quick, "sir," for a lousy attempt to sound more polite.

There is an awful thread of silence, and it thins rapidly before Dumbledore responds with a simple, "I cannot do that."

"You..." Regulus' voice falls, crashes, shatters as it hits the ground like the world has around him. His chest begins to rise and fall heavily, because when he lacks composure, pent-up anger is there for backup. "You cannot or you will not."