- ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜs ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ғᴀɴғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ
"You. Me. Hogsmeade. Tomorrow" Romie demands, leaving no room for objection.
Regulus slowly lifts his head from his book, briefly wondering if he's managed to land himself into a similar alternate dimension,
"Come again...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
꧁✧✧✧꧂
𝕺ne week.
One week of bedroom holing up and counting down hours and pretending.
Pretending that Sirius, caring and brave and protective, is on the other side of the wall, approximately fifteen of a seven year old's footsteps away. Capable of hearing, of deciphering the top secret knock that codes for I need my brother. Need. Overrated. Regulus doesn't need anybody but himself, and Sirius sure as hell doesn't need him. Abandonment wouldn't have been his first port of call if otherwise.
Be that as it may, it would be quite nice not to endure this alone, to have someone to turn to at the end of the day when the spirits of ancestors become too much, smothering the air with black. A sharp contrast to the air when Sirius had said Regulus playing quidditch with him, his friends, his family, had been quite nice. That air had been so crisp, so fresh he could feel the sting in his chest, throat and lungs for hours after. That air had whistled a song he had yet to gain an insight into, the gripping title, freedom.
He sighs, deserting the primeval copy of the Tales of Beedle the Bard and considering what he'd swiped from the time-honoured book collection in the study when his father recessed for an early afternoon glass of matured and fine Swott Malt Whisky. Grimoires significantly more ancient than the lifetime of the first Regulus Black, deliberating the commonly tabooed topic of magical beasts, specifically, lycanthropes.
Regulus doesn't alter his focus from the moth-eaten pages when a familiar crack sounds, taking a moment to remind the poor, mean, pathetically hopeful piece of his heart not to drown in disappointment too much when the subject of his vision isn't a five feet, eleven inches tall standing notorious rebel with silvery eyes full of happy memories to cast a corporeal patronus and a partiality for leather — and Lupins — on a mission to do what should have happened in the first place. Taken Regulus with him.
Nope, all what stands at a whopping two feet in his chambers is the sullen weathered skinned house elf that, without fail, humoured their jejune imaginations once upon a time. Without clearing the permanent frog in his throat, he hoarsely speaks,
"On behalf of his Mistress, Kreacher is to inform Master Regulus that he is expected at dinner in five minutes"
A calling for dinner. Regulus hasn't had one of those since arriving at Grimmauld Place, meal times usually consisting of sneaking a plate to his room of whatever concoction Kreacher's prepared. A calling means one of two things, they have company or a lecture is due. Duty, Blood, Honour, Black.
"I'll make my way down now, thank you, Kreacher" Regulus replies kindly, pretending not to notice the lessen of his undying scowl.
Hundreds of years of existence in this world and Kreacher hadn't experienced kindness, basic human decency until the time of this Regulus Black. His attachment, his bound is to the House of Black, but his loyalty, his devotion lies in the hands of the sixteen year old boy it doesn't torment him to bow down before, so low his nose touches the floor.
