||*. 𝓜𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓾𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓔𝓻𝓪 𝓞𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓽𝓼/𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓯𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓼

The Letters Between Life Long Friends (The Slytherin Skittles)

Regulus' letters to everyone before his death, including his brother and the reactions of all of them at that moment.

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Very angsty, of course.

MENTIONS OF VOMIT, ARGUING, MURDER, FAMILY ISSUES, LOTS OF ANGST, AND THAT'S IT? I THINK.

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~*James Potter*~

He couldn't get it out of his head. The pain he felt in his heart when Regulus had broken up with him, had told him that everything he had said–everything they had been through, was a lie. James didn't believe him at first because the way they looked at each other is how people in love looked at each other, not people who were lying.

James, the 'hero' like always, had tried to save him. Save him from his house, and of course, it didn't work. He had begged Reg to run away with him, and near the end of it all, he had agreed. But right when Sirius found out, he had forced them to stop talking to each other, to break up, and perhaps that's why James hasn't been speaking to the elder Black ever since.

He was currently washing the dishes, his mind wandering elsewhere, hot water seeping into his flesh and he didn't seem to mind. His mother had visited today, his father arriving later on because of work. She told him to speak to her, and that he did. He felt a form of relief after a heavy weight fell off his shoulders. It was dark outside, and James would occasionally stare out of the window in front of him, washing the same plate for the fifth time in a row. He felt numb. James Potter, feeling numb, what a joke.

His gut suddenly lurched, and he furrowed his brows at the violent movement. What the hell was that? The plate dropped from his hands, clattering back down into the sink. His soapy hands trembled yet managed to grapple onto the counter, the foam dribbling down and onto the floor, digging into the crevices of the drawers as it went. Something isn't right, he thought, his eyes clenched shut at the slight–yet painful–tingling in his gut. Did something happen? As he pulled away from the counter, starting to make his way to the telephone hanging on the wall, there was the sound of clicking. He paused, looking around for the source of the noise, and made direct eye contact with an owl right outside the window.

He gulped, the apple in his throat bobbing from the harsh swallow. Something happened, he was convinced, something happened to someone. He approached the bird hesitantly, his hands still wet and slick. He shakingly placed both hands under the window, and pushed up, a cold gust of air billowing into his face. The owl twisted its head, hopping its way inside, and that's when James noticed the letter attached to its skinny leg.

He felt a thin layer of sweat against his skin, watching the owl peck at the tiny photo of James' friends on the wall. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. 1, breath in, 2, breath out, 1, breath in, 2, breath out.

The letter was from the House of Black, and James' heart couldn't handle the suspense. The owl hooted, transitioning its attack to James' hand. "Alright, alright." He mumbled, untying the letter from its leg. He picked up a tiny square of meat from a pan, handing it over to the black owl, who thanked him with a happy wiggle and began its flight back where it came from. James closed the window, leaving the letter on the counter, the soap and the water seeping through the material. The brunette washed his hands, dried them, and just stood there. He knew he had to read it, and he knew who it was from, and the thought of it made his heart beat faster and his bones rattle.

He picked up the letter without a glance, and stumbled to the couch, plopping down and sinking into the mattress. He glared at the paper in his hands, glared at the fancy writing, the address, the green wax stamped down onto the 'V' of the envelope. He felt the familiar burn behind his eyes, and the lump in his throat, yet he bravely picked onto the wax, and tore the envelope open.