ᴏᴍɴɪꜱᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ✵ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜꜱ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ✵

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈

☾ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜꜱ ☽

»»-------≪ °❈° ≫-------««

Look, Regulus knows the extent of his selfishness is beyond measure. By no means does he wish to toy with her emotions, but he is desperate; full of so much regret and sorrow and grief for so many things, but for Freya most of all. The way she looked at him that night before holiday break... the memory makes his stomach twist like a wet rag.

So, yes, as the undoubtedly selfish man he is, Regulus retracts his previous determination to stay away from her. An uttermost inconvenience considering the tables have unquestionably turned. Again, actually. How many fucking times will they turn?

Regardless, they learned a lot about each other from the brevity of their time on the same side of said tables. That is why the first edition of Freya's favourite book, This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald, is wrapped neatly in brown paper with silver streamers to tie together around it into a bow. And, for good measure, the glossy leaf bearing, "The Author's Apology," is signed by Fitzgerald himself. She'll eat this up, he's certain.

On a tiny notecard, Regulus writes a quote from the novel, "I can't say sweet things. But you are beautiful." and secures it within the bow. The Black family's eagle, Atlas, awaits at the frosty window for the gift, and he stubbornly keeps his beak closed until Regulus offers him some of his lunch. Only then does Atlas take the gift and soar away through a snowfall of cold, dry powdery white.

There is a sombre pall that hangs over the kitchen as Regulus sits back down at the handsomely polished wood that stretches across the space; chairs reserved for a family of four, but now seats only one. Still, he always chooses the same spot since childhood, next to where Sirius would be.

For quite a while, Regulus remains there alone, chain smoking cigarettes as he watches the candle wick on the table sink lower and lower into liquid wax. Christmas Eve, or holidays overall, have never been easy for him, but this is the first he'll spend entirely on his own. What with a dead father, disowned brother, and bedridden mother. Bah Humbug, or whatever.

It isn't until something shimmery and silver glides into Grimmauld Place that his attention is grasped, and it only takes a beat for Regulus to register this is an albatross patronus, more specifically Evan's. The twins turned seventeen yesterday and no doubt he will use magic for even the most ridiculous things, such as this. The patronus' beak opens wide.

"Hey, man, I'm laying in bed about to jerk off," Evan's voice says, clearly struggling to suppress his hysterical laughter, "But I just wanted to let you know I'm thinking about you. Like your mental health, you know?"

The glimmering albatross disperses, and as much as Regulus tries to smother it, he physically cannot; his head ducks forward as he loses it, his shoulders shaking as his laughter builds up and bubbles over, light and airy in his chest. This is precisely one of the many great things about Evan Rosier, he's fucking hilariously strange and uses it as a tool to pull loved ones out of a funk.

Knocking emits from the front door like the sound of a heartbeat, and he genuinely has to rub tears out of his eyes as he stands. A very loud crack sounds as Kreacher pops into the hallway, the elf peers up at him with tear stained cheeks, and Regulus suddenly feels quite guilty for his cackles.

"I got it, Kreacher," he assures, soft and genuine. "It's probably Cissy."

"Thank you, Master Regulus," Kreacher squeaks, "Kreacher will be upstairs with Mistress."

When Regulus opens the door, he is convinced that his eyes deceive him.

"Merry Christmas, little brother."