Regulus almost hates how much he thinks. He finds it nearly pathetic, how even when he's drifting further away from the surface of the water- how he's drifting further away from life-, he can't lose himself in his memories and all he can think about is the goddamned war, if he left his coat out for Kreacher to find, and if Sirius ever found those keys to 12th Grimmauld Place. It was always something that he berated himself for- he overthought everything and though it made him seem bright, all it attributed to was an added sense of paranoia and sleepless nights. He supposed it had its merits - but only if you can count finding the quickest route to martyrdom a merit- and Regulus always fancied them idiots.
He forces himself to take in a lungs' worth of the murky water (best get it over with quickly,) and finally his thoughts begin to simmer down. His body is being pulled down and pressed together by the weight of the water, and the viscous liquid finally finds its way into his ears.
Old paper and the scent of overpriced perfume fills him up, and the scenery around him changes- his lungs still burn and he still can't breathe, but it's better. It makes it easier. There's a small light coming from his chest and he realizes that this was what they wrote about- the scholars- of how sometimes when wizards are taken their Magical Core will try to save them, try to make things hurt less and try to somehow fix them. But when he forces his eyes open the only thing he can think of is no, this is wrong, because the sight just makes everything hurt more.
His mother is there; proud and vain Walburga, she's standing off to the side along with his father- Orion's ankles enflamed and his frame leaning heavily on an elaborate cane- and in the center, right next to him, is Sirius. It hurts like it was yesterday. Sirius is laughing hysterically, waving his packs and totes and luggages, opening them up one by one to throw ratty souvenirs at Regulus- who, Regulus notes, is standing in front of Sirius (he looks older, tired, and Regulus wonders why)- and Regulus is still, stone cold but his eyes speak volumes of passion and hatred. Because the ratty things being thrown at him are gifts, gifts from years past even before Hogwarts where Regulus would spend hours trying to wandlessly magic something into a 'pretty' thing to give to his brother. Maybe he's deluding himself. Maybe instead of hate, all he sees is hurt. But hate makes things easier.
He takes in another breath of water.
And then suddenly all he can see is green, the bright and brilliant type of green not unlike a strong avada kedavra or a crucio or whatever (All it means is that particular green is pain and death and misery) and the sight almost knocks the remaining air out of his lungs- except he's not dying or feeling pain, and instead what he feels is a strong tug upwards and the heat of surrounding flames.
Fourteen year old Regulus Black woke up in his dorm covered in cold sweat.
YOU ARE READING
Wake Up and Drown
أدب الهواةOver time, Regulus had learned how to take things and deal with them. Which was why when a boy fell quite literally through the roof of the train compartment from what could only be the sky, his first thought was 'how do I deal with this?' ((Harry P...
