Fic: Remember
Title: Remember
Author: ???
Prompt: #15 - Regulus as a Clandestine artist.
Pairing/Characters: Regulus, Sirius
Rating R
Warnings: adult themes, mention of rape
Summary: Of all the memories, Regulus can remember every one.
Author's/Artist's Notes: none
Words: 2080~
Remember
Seven o'clock always came too quickly.
Feet collide with floor of richest walnut, a pulse shooting from nil to infinity within seconds. His hands quickly make order, the scattered pastels strewn across his rich brocade bedspread, the dusty scent of charcoal hanging heavy in the air. The canvas is wrapped securely in vellum, slipped in the false bottom of his dresser, ink returned to its proper position on the desktop.
It was much harder to do this at home. He misses the magic, his self-imposed exile.
Inside he is counting silently, fifteen exiting his lips with a hiss, hand closing upon the thick Arithmancy textbook that comprises his alibi. This routine courses through his blood, every movement sure and defined, all evidence skillfully disguised. He can hear the small footsteps echoing in the hallway, the aroma of the rosemary candles so cherished by his mother preceding the house elf's appearance.
His shirt is tucked in, cowlick hastily flattened; back perfectly straight as he sits in his seldom-used armchair.
A knock.
"Master Regulus?" Violet's small face pops through the sliver of an opening; yellow eyes bright even in the low candlelight. "Dinner's just been served, sir."
Violet is twice as old as his father, pledged as Regulus's personal servant at his birth. She would never willingly betray his secrets, but he knows that one of these days Walburga will get suspicious, wonder exactly what her favored son is doing behind those closed doors. Violet need not know.
Eyes tightly closed, Regulus rises to his feet.
It's been nearly two years since Sirius left them and yet the weight of his ghost still lingers, deep brown eyes transfixed on the sole chair occupying the left side of the table. There have been thousands of memories, countless breakfasts and dinners, of Sirius sarcastically mimicking their mother, feeding Brussels sprouts to the cat, and above all the deep brown film of tobacco that lined his older brother's hands. There are times when Regulus realizes just how peculiar of a seventeen year old he is.
For of the memories, Regulus can remember every single one.
"Regulus darling, your new robes arrived this afternoon," Walburga chirps, her voice as high and off-putting as his barn owl Daedulus's screech. "Felicity did such a lovely job with them! Merlin knows you go through them so fast! Such a tall young man you're growing up to be!"
Regulus grunts his consent, taking tiny bites of the steak sitting before him, sipping idly at his mead. At the head of the table his father Orion is fast asleep, hand stained deep purple due to the plum sauce it was currently residing in. It always fascinated the youngest member of the Black family that Walburga was able to ignore such a blatant break in decorum.
"What time are you leaving for dear Ellery's?"
"Half-past ten," Regulus replies softly, brushing at his lips with a heavy cloth napkin and spinning his salad fork in his fingers, left hand using the heavy metal to mark imaginary strokes underneath the tablecloth. "Lucretia wants to go boating on the lake, so he's asked me to come along early to prepare."
"How lovely!" his mother squawks, pushing aside the plate of leafy greens she'd minimally nibbled at. "Persimmon, the lettuce was positively off, do bring me another!"
Regulus watches idly as the tiny elf whisked away his mother's plate only to return with another, entirely identical in appearance. He longs to be back amongst those walls of deepest aquamarine, the shading of his newest portrait nearly to completion, the curves and lines reverberating in his brain.
"Regulus?"
The young man flushes scarlet, quickly arranging his features into the picture of calm resolve. "Yes, Mother?" Bright white teeth begin to steadily consume his lip from the inside.
"I asked if you've been practicing your spells! Wouldn't want to leave Voldemort wanting, would we?"
Her eyes were large as she peered down the table at him, her resemblance coming closer and closer to Daedulus's as she tore into her salad, Regulus's lips threatening to twitch as a stray piece of lettuce clung to her high neckline.
"Yes, of course," Regulus lies swiftly, a piece of the filet mignon saturating with sauce from where it was poised at the end of his fork. "I only live to serve the Dark Lord."
Walburga coos in appreciation for his loyal declaration, Orion awakening from his drunken stupor long enough to utter some unintelligible blabbering before sinking back into the solid oak surface.
Oh, sweet agony.
And yet Regulus says nothing, laughing and smiling and nodding in all the proper places, the clock in his head ticking down the minutes that comprised the Black family dinner hour, the stolen moments until he can fly up the staircase, resume the artistic symphony that is screaming inside his head.
Tomorrow is the beginning of the rest of his life. He feels so small.
It was Ellery Nott who gave him the name of the Propagandist, cementing the heir to the Black family mansion firmly in their plans of deception. He had not the brute force of Crabbe or the cunning skill of weaving stories and disguises like Macnair. How embarrassed his parents had been when Tom had not taken immediately to their dearest and most cherished of children, the oldest having disappeared one winter evening in a plume of smoke. Regulus could not be a failure, another blemish to remind them of time lost to eternity.
But it was Ellery who noticed the faint sketch of a tree; scrawled in the margin of a Potions essay Regulus had handed in one spring afternoon. The feeling of Crabbe and Goyle's hands pressing him down had been much less than kind, the tallest boy's face mere inches away from his own, ordering him to draw a picture of a serpent whilst his wand dangled dangerously close to Regulus's arse.
He'd always tried to stay away from their group, keep to his own devices. But they had found him useful. He couldn't have possibly said no.
He had wept the first time he saw his Mark flash amongst velvety stars, the acidic green as painful to his eyes had it been ripped directly from his veins. How dare he, how dare he force Regulus into designing a symbol of darkness, of madness and pain, A Dark Mark that will strike fear into the hearts of the Universe. But the Mark ceased to be his own as soon as Voldemort had first spoken the words, the grassy earth beneath Regulus's feet groaning in pain.
They had been too busy celebrating to notice Regulus fall to his knees, eyes glistening. It was the first art they had taken from him, and it wouldn't be the last.
And yet he had been the first to volunteer, the wand tip caressing the pale skin of his wrist a pain unlike any other. Oh, how he had relished it, an empty space filled with the smallest semblance of hope, the hope of something bigger, something tangible. With every adversary they killed they came closer, the Ministry suffering in its attempt to keep itself together.
After a while, the screams of pain bothered him less. His role in Voldemort's regime kept him primarily tucked away from the brutality, busily crafting posters and leaflets to pass around London, to remind the masses that a glorious new future was just within their grasp. And yet he had become violently ill when Marlene McKinnon was dragged into the drawing room in the middle of the night, Nott hoisting her skirt up around her thighs.
Nott Manor had often been tedious, the days in which the young men were shut up merging into an endless blur of hours. Ellery had always impressed Regulus with his immense knowledge of botany, the ability to distinguish the leaves in a pile from one another by just a few seconds' glimpse.
Ellery would have explained it simply: Lucreatia Greengrass was an orchid, Marlene McKinnon a dandelion.
And yet Regulus could remember the soft blond waves that adorned her head like a halo, the way Sirius had treated her like the most delicate of creatures, his princess. How many times had Regulus helped Sirius sneak the feisty Gryffindor into Grimmauld Place by feeding their mother nonsense stories of Hogwarts? How many drawings had he miserably destroyed, the sound of Marlene's orgasm ringing through the wall next to his head?
Sirius. They were coming for him, his involvement with Potter impossible for Voldemort to ignore. There was talk of stirrings of resistance, a small group of former Hogwarts students that refused to back down. Marlene was merely an appetizer.
Ellery leads the way, brown curls glinting in the sun, his right arm outstretched for Lucretia to hold. Stephen Parkinson follows their leader like a puppy, nearly tripping upon the small stones that comprise the country lane. Regulus himself is dawdling in the back, hands occupied with the heaping picnic basket and a sheaf of parchment tucked under his arm. The lake is before them, stretching from horizon to horizon. Regulus could drown in the beauty of it.
Ellery's laugh is warm, rich. It both comforts and frightens Regulus to hear it, his mind sick with their pleasure of vacation amongst so much pain.
"What do you think, Regulus?" Ellery calls, proud as a peacock to have so many young men hanging on his every word.
Regulus's throat is moist and yet no word escapes for a few moments. "Pardon? Afraid I missed it!"
The little caravan comes to a halt, their crown prince making his way to Regulus's side. His voice is kind as he speaks. It is hard to think of Ellery as a murderer at times like this, when he is so gentle, so earnest, so dedicated to the cause that has changed them all.
"Theodore," Ellery replies softly, eyes crinkling slightly at the edges. "Lucretia wants to name our first little boy after her great-great-great uncle. Do you approve?"
Regulus savors the name for a few moments, nodding favorably. "It is a fine name, worthy of the next generation of the Nott family."
His dearest friend chuckles, the clouds above reflecting in the skies of his eyes. "Indeed. I'm glad you like it, for you'll be the child's godfather."
He cannot breathe. The weight of the flimsy map in his pocket threatens to burn, the prickling of his skin matching the fiery tempest that is his heart.
"I-I'm so honoured," Regulus chokes out, grip tightening on the wicker basket, lip snagged between his teeth. "I don't feel worthy of such a gift, Ellery."
"The pleasure is mine," Ellery replies, patting him on the shoulder in the physical intimacy of blokes having spent most of their lives together. "Our little clandestine artist… as if it would be anyone but you, Regulus."
He wants to cry and yet he cannot. Cannot alert the suspicion of his friends who were swept into this murderous little game, animated toys that Voldemort can dispose of at his leisure. Cannot fight what he has been trained from birth to do, to be his parents' son, the only thing they have left to be proud of. Cannot go against the natural movement of his limbs, the calling of the smooth water only a few yards away, the beauty of an ever-gleaming sun.
And yet Regulus must run.
The picnic basket falls at his feet abruptly, Stephen's hypersensitive hearing picking up the disruption. "Everything okay, Black?" the large boy asks, turning back to balance their basket of foodstuffs upon one hand.
"Fine. I'm afraid I forgot something back at the Manor, will you tell Ellery?" Regulus replies calmly, his eyes looking anywhere but his pocket, the map that will take him far away from this life.
Stephen's piggish expression is relentless; for the moment Regulus is deemed powerless, a scrawny teenage boy with a piece of charcoal for a sword. He nods slowly, his back turns, leaving Regulus with nothing but dust, the figures ahead of him shrinking with every successive step.
Regulus breathes deeply, his feet turning towards the forest and away from Nott Manor, and yet no one turns back, no one will notice for several minutes that Regulus Black is gone, a defector. The silence of the woods welcomes him, the trees of the canvas the trees in his heart.
"Sirius," he whispers, the grass like velvet under his feet.
He will not return.
Author: ???
Prompt: #15 - Regulus as a Clandestine artist.
Pairing/Characters: Regulus, Sirius
Rating R
Warnings: adult themes, mention of rape
Summary: Of all the memories, Regulus can remember every one.
Author's/Artist's Notes: none
Words: 2080~
Remember
Seven o'clock always came too quickly.
Feet collide with floor of richest walnut, a pulse shooting from nil to infinity within seconds. His hands quickly make order, the scattered pastels strewn across his rich brocade bedspread, the dusty scent of charcoal hanging heavy in the air. The canvas is wrapped securely in vellum, slipped in the false bottom of his dresser, ink returned to its proper position on the desktop.
It was much harder to do this at home. He misses the magic, his self-imposed exile.
Inside he is counting silently, fifteen exiting his lips with a hiss, hand closing upon the thick Arithmancy textbook that comprises his alibi. This routine courses through his blood, every movement sure and defined, all evidence skillfully disguised. He can hear the small footsteps echoing in the hallway, the aroma of the rosemary candles so cherished by his mother preceding the house elf's appearance.
His shirt is tucked in, cowlick hastily flattened; back perfectly straight as he sits in his seldom-used armchair.
A knock.
"Master Regulus?" Violet's small face pops through the sliver of an opening; yellow eyes bright even in the low candlelight. "Dinner's just been served, sir."
Violet is twice as old as his father, pledged as Regulus's personal servant at his birth. She would never willingly betray his secrets, but he knows that one of these days Walburga will get suspicious, wonder exactly what her favored son is doing behind those closed doors. Violet need not know.
Eyes tightly closed, Regulus rises to his feet.
It's been nearly two years since Sirius left them and yet the weight of his ghost still lingers, deep brown eyes transfixed on the sole chair occupying the left side of the table. There have been thousands of memories, countless breakfasts and dinners, of Sirius sarcastically mimicking their mother, feeding Brussels sprouts to the cat, and above all the deep brown film of tobacco that lined his older brother's hands. There are times when Regulus realizes just how peculiar of a seventeen year old he is.
For of the memories, Regulus can remember every single one.
"Regulus darling, your new robes arrived this afternoon," Walburga chirps, her voice as high and off-putting as his barn owl Daedulus's screech. "Felicity did such a lovely job with them! Merlin knows you go through them so fast! Such a tall young man you're growing up to be!"
Regulus grunts his consent, taking tiny bites of the steak sitting before him, sipping idly at his mead. At the head of the table his father Orion is fast asleep, hand stained deep purple due to the plum sauce it was currently residing in. It always fascinated the youngest member of the Black family that Walburga was able to ignore such a blatant break in decorum.
"What time are you leaving for dear Ellery's?"
"Half-past ten," Regulus replies softly, brushing at his lips with a heavy cloth napkin and spinning his salad fork in his fingers, left hand using the heavy metal to mark imaginary strokes underneath the tablecloth. "Lucretia wants to go boating on the lake, so he's asked me to come along early to prepare."
"How lovely!" his mother squawks, pushing aside the plate of leafy greens she'd minimally nibbled at. "Persimmon, the lettuce was positively off, do bring me another!"
Regulus watches idly as the tiny elf whisked away his mother's plate only to return with another, entirely identical in appearance. He longs to be back amongst those walls of deepest aquamarine, the shading of his newest portrait nearly to completion, the curves and lines reverberating in his brain.
"Regulus?"
The young man flushes scarlet, quickly arranging his features into the picture of calm resolve. "Yes, Mother?" Bright white teeth begin to steadily consume his lip from the inside.
"I asked if you've been practicing your spells! Wouldn't want to leave Voldemort wanting, would we?"
Her eyes were large as she peered down the table at him, her resemblance coming closer and closer to Daedulus's as she tore into her salad, Regulus's lips threatening to twitch as a stray piece of lettuce clung to her high neckline.
"Yes, of course," Regulus lies swiftly, a piece of the filet mignon saturating with sauce from where it was poised at the end of his fork. "I only live to serve the Dark Lord."
Walburga coos in appreciation for his loyal declaration, Orion awakening from his drunken stupor long enough to utter some unintelligible blabbering before sinking back into the solid oak surface.
Oh, sweet agony.
And yet Regulus says nothing, laughing and smiling and nodding in all the proper places, the clock in his head ticking down the minutes that comprised the Black family dinner hour, the stolen moments until he can fly up the staircase, resume the artistic symphony that is screaming inside his head.
Tomorrow is the beginning of the rest of his life. He feels so small.
It was Ellery Nott who gave him the name of the Propagandist, cementing the heir to the Black family mansion firmly in their plans of deception. He had not the brute force of Crabbe or the cunning skill of weaving stories and disguises like Macnair. How embarrassed his parents had been when Tom had not taken immediately to their dearest and most cherished of children, the oldest having disappeared one winter evening in a plume of smoke. Regulus could not be a failure, another blemish to remind them of time lost to eternity.
But it was Ellery who noticed the faint sketch of a tree; scrawled in the margin of a Potions essay Regulus had handed in one spring afternoon. The feeling of Crabbe and Goyle's hands pressing him down had been much less than kind, the tallest boy's face mere inches away from his own, ordering him to draw a picture of a serpent whilst his wand dangled dangerously close to Regulus's arse.
He'd always tried to stay away from their group, keep to his own devices. But they had found him useful. He couldn't have possibly said no.
He had wept the first time he saw his Mark flash amongst velvety stars, the acidic green as painful to his eyes had it been ripped directly from his veins. How dare he, how dare he force Regulus into designing a symbol of darkness, of madness and pain, A Dark Mark that will strike fear into the hearts of the Universe. But the Mark ceased to be his own as soon as Voldemort had first spoken the words, the grassy earth beneath Regulus's feet groaning in pain.
They had been too busy celebrating to notice Regulus fall to his knees, eyes glistening. It was the first art they had taken from him, and it wouldn't be the last.
And yet he had been the first to volunteer, the wand tip caressing the pale skin of his wrist a pain unlike any other. Oh, how he had relished it, an empty space filled with the smallest semblance of hope, the hope of something bigger, something tangible. With every adversary they killed they came closer, the Ministry suffering in its attempt to keep itself together.
After a while, the screams of pain bothered him less. His role in Voldemort's regime kept him primarily tucked away from the brutality, busily crafting posters and leaflets to pass around London, to remind the masses that a glorious new future was just within their grasp. And yet he had become violently ill when Marlene McKinnon was dragged into the drawing room in the middle of the night, Nott hoisting her skirt up around her thighs.
Nott Manor had often been tedious, the days in which the young men were shut up merging into an endless blur of hours. Ellery had always impressed Regulus with his immense knowledge of botany, the ability to distinguish the leaves in a pile from one another by just a few seconds' glimpse.
Ellery would have explained it simply: Lucreatia Greengrass was an orchid, Marlene McKinnon a dandelion.
And yet Regulus could remember the soft blond waves that adorned her head like a halo, the way Sirius had treated her like the most delicate of creatures, his princess. How many times had Regulus helped Sirius sneak the feisty Gryffindor into Grimmauld Place by feeding their mother nonsense stories of Hogwarts? How many drawings had he miserably destroyed, the sound of Marlene's orgasm ringing through the wall next to his head?
Sirius. They were coming for him, his involvement with Potter impossible for Voldemort to ignore. There was talk of stirrings of resistance, a small group of former Hogwarts students that refused to back down. Marlene was merely an appetizer.
Ellery leads the way, brown curls glinting in the sun, his right arm outstretched for Lucretia to hold. Stephen Parkinson follows their leader like a puppy, nearly tripping upon the small stones that comprise the country lane. Regulus himself is dawdling in the back, hands occupied with the heaping picnic basket and a sheaf of parchment tucked under his arm. The lake is before them, stretching from horizon to horizon. Regulus could drown in the beauty of it.
Ellery's laugh is warm, rich. It both comforts and frightens Regulus to hear it, his mind sick with their pleasure of vacation amongst so much pain.
"What do you think, Regulus?" Ellery calls, proud as a peacock to have so many young men hanging on his every word.
Regulus's throat is moist and yet no word escapes for a few moments. "Pardon? Afraid I missed it!"
The little caravan comes to a halt, their crown prince making his way to Regulus's side. His voice is kind as he speaks. It is hard to think of Ellery as a murderer at times like this, when he is so gentle, so earnest, so dedicated to the cause that has changed them all.
"Theodore," Ellery replies softly, eyes crinkling slightly at the edges. "Lucretia wants to name our first little boy after her great-great-great uncle. Do you approve?"
Regulus savors the name for a few moments, nodding favorably. "It is a fine name, worthy of the next generation of the Nott family."
His dearest friend chuckles, the clouds above reflecting in the skies of his eyes. "Indeed. I'm glad you like it, for you'll be the child's godfather."
He cannot breathe. The weight of the flimsy map in his pocket threatens to burn, the prickling of his skin matching the fiery tempest that is his heart.
"I-I'm so honoured," Regulus chokes out, grip tightening on the wicker basket, lip snagged between his teeth. "I don't feel worthy of such a gift, Ellery."
"The pleasure is mine," Ellery replies, patting him on the shoulder in the physical intimacy of blokes having spent most of their lives together. "Our little clandestine artist… as if it would be anyone but you, Regulus."
He wants to cry and yet he cannot. Cannot alert the suspicion of his friends who were swept into this murderous little game, animated toys that Voldemort can dispose of at his leisure. Cannot fight what he has been trained from birth to do, to be his parents' son, the only thing they have left to be proud of. Cannot go against the natural movement of his limbs, the calling of the smooth water only a few yards away, the beauty of an ever-gleaming sun.
And yet Regulus must run.
The picnic basket falls at his feet abruptly, Stephen's hypersensitive hearing picking up the disruption. "Everything okay, Black?" the large boy asks, turning back to balance their basket of foodstuffs upon one hand.
"Fine. I'm afraid I forgot something back at the Manor, will you tell Ellery?" Regulus replies calmly, his eyes looking anywhere but his pocket, the map that will take him far away from this life.
Stephen's piggish expression is relentless; for the moment Regulus is deemed powerless, a scrawny teenage boy with a piece of charcoal for a sword. He nods slowly, his back turns, leaving Regulus with nothing but dust, the figures ahead of him shrinking with every successive step.
Regulus breathes deeply, his feet turning towards the forest and away from Nott Manor, and yet no one turns back, no one will notice for several minutes that Regulus Black is gone, a defector. The silence of the woods welcomes him, the trees of the canvas the trees in his heart.
"Sirius," he whispers, the grass like velvet under his feet.
He will not return.