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Regulus is cold.
It wouldn't be a notable thing, because Regulus Black is cold before he is anything else; but it's weird, now. Because the Malfoy Manor is a dreadfully fancy place, so they should have dreadfully fancy heating units. Or at least a charm or two to keep the place warm. But, then again, Regulus doubts that anywhere Voldemort hosts his meetings will be anything other than freeze-your-balls-off cold.
He could do with one of those thick jumpers Lyra loves so much, right about now.
Or Lyra. She could warm him up, he thinks. Just being by her.
But for now, he doesn't have Lyra. He has a cigarette—because he always wanted to try one of them, and ever since he did a few years ago, he's been trying to perfect his craft to equate with the way Sirius was always able to manipulate the smoke—and he has a cloak around his shoulders—because he didn't take it off when he entered the Manor, which probably could be taken as offencive, but he doesn't mind. Mother and Father aren't here, so he hardly cares about anything societal now.
It's probably warmer outside than it is inside, this late in April, and Regulus wonders if they could host the event in the courtyard rather than the dining hall. It'd be more pleasant, certainly, but he doubts that pleasantries quite fit Voldemort's narrative. Still, Regulus will wait on this balcony until they come out to drag him in, tooth and nail.
He exhales, always enamored with the way the smoke curls past his lips, before shutting his eyes and lifting his head to the sky. Part of him wishes he could allow it to take him. But it isn't his time—not before he is able to take the Dark Lord down with him.
"Certainly you're not nervous," says a cool voice, one that Regulus hadn't even known was there. "Right, Reg?"
The only reason he turns is because of the familiarity of the tone. It's deeper now, richer and more mature than he ever knew it to be in his childhood, but of course he knows her. He doubts he could ever forget.
"Cissa," he greets, with a slow nod toward her. He lifts the cigarette as an offering.
She shakes her head once. "I can't."
Regulus arches an eyebrow. "Don't tell me Malfoy's perfectionist ideals got to you so quickly."
She laughs, and he is instantly thrown back to his youth, when he, Bella, Andy, Sirius, and Cissa would play together. Real youth; before Walburga and Orion got their hands on Sirius, and before there were any expectations for him. Well, harsh expectations. Of course they were always there. This was just before they sunk their claws in. When the cousins could play without competing for who has the highest marks or who has the sharpest spells. Before, when they could be family.
"What can I say?" She sighs, leaning forward and allowing her forearms to settle on the railing of the balcony. Her lips twist with bitterness. "I'm a Malfoy now, aren't I, Reg? Mustn't taint the pearl of perfection."
