wrote a letter on a nothing day ; Regulus-centric ; Harry Potter [ficlet]
Title: wrote a letter on a nothing day
Author: Mirka (7872)
Fandom: Harry Potter.
Characters: Regulus Black, mention of Sirius Black (and Noval Turpin).
Genre: General
Rating: PG
Word-count: 408
Warnings: Allusions to character death.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and everything associated with it is the property of JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros., and various others. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. (Noval Turpin is rachz's, and I do hope she doesn't feel like boxing my ears for borrowing him a teeny bit. ♥)
Synopsis: Two hours before Regulus leaves for the cave he writes letters.
Comment: I think I needed to do it.
It is November, and the Prophet promised rain in the morning.
The heavy velvet curtains of Number 12 have been drawn, and nothing seems to move behind them, except the small flicker of a tiny flame.
In the light of that lone candle Regulus writes a letter.
It’s already four pages long, and it explains everything. He writes with conviction, with desperate vigour, nearly breathless. He doesn’t stop and take out a new piece of parchment when the ink smudges like he usually would, but instead he keeps going on, writing more, pouring his heart out on to the page, armed with a lavish eagle quill and ink the colour of Toujours Pur. He abruptly stops in the middle of a phrase (He has dabbled in magic far beyond the realm of Dark - this magic is worse, it is unspeakable, and vile, atrocious even; Horc-) as a spark of white-hot pain stings his left arm, and Regulus makes a small, frantic sound that is neither a laugh nor a sob, but a bit of both, certain He knows for the span of a heartbeat, or an eternity.
Regulus counters said ridiculous, hysterical thought with a deep breath and the knowledge that he is as careful as the Dark Lord is arrogant, but still draws his wand and whispers evanesco!, following the way the letters disappear one stroke at a time with knit brows. He bites his lip, and thinks I am going to die, I am going to die, feeling nothing except a vague sense of triumph, foreboding, and an idle wonder (who is going to make sure Noval eats once he is gone?). The thought tugs at the corner of his lips entirely inappropriately, and he knows he is about to do the right thing.
In the light of the same candle Regulus writes another letter.
It is short, little more than ten words and it doesn’t reveal anything;
Dear Sirius,
I am sorry. You were right. I am sorry.
Farewell,
R.
(There is a small splatter of ink next to his name, as Regulus nearly signs with his love - he catches the thought before it becomes anything more, and writes his goodbyes instead. He doesn’t know why it seems important to do so, but doesn’t question it.)
Sirius never sees either one of the letters; Regulus knocks the candle down before silently heading for the kitchen stairs, never glancing back as the parchment catches on fire.
Author: Mirka (7872)
Fandom: Harry Potter.
Characters: Regulus Black, mention of Sirius Black (and Noval Turpin).
Genre: General
Rating: PG
Word-count: 408
Warnings: Allusions to character death.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and everything associated with it is the property of JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros., and various others. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. (Noval Turpin is rachz's, and I do hope she doesn't feel like boxing my ears for borrowing him a teeny bit. ♥)
Synopsis: Two hours before Regulus leaves for the cave he writes letters.
Comment: I think I needed to do it.
It is November, and the Prophet promised rain in the morning.
The heavy velvet curtains of Number 12 have been drawn, and nothing seems to move behind them, except the small flicker of a tiny flame.
In the light of that lone candle Regulus writes a letter.
It’s already four pages long, and it explains everything. He writes with conviction, with desperate vigour, nearly breathless. He doesn’t stop and take out a new piece of parchment when the ink smudges like he usually would, but instead he keeps going on, writing more, pouring his heart out on to the page, armed with a lavish eagle quill and ink the colour of Toujours Pur. He abruptly stops in the middle of a phrase (He has dabbled in magic far beyond the realm of Dark - this magic is worse, it is unspeakable, and vile, atrocious even; Horc-) as a spark of white-hot pain stings his left arm, and Regulus makes a small, frantic sound that is neither a laugh nor a sob, but a bit of both, certain He knows for the span of a heartbeat, or an eternity.
Regulus counters said ridiculous, hysterical thought with a deep breath and the knowledge that he is as careful as the Dark Lord is arrogant, but still draws his wand and whispers evanesco!, following the way the letters disappear one stroke at a time with knit brows. He bites his lip, and thinks I am going to die, I am going to die, feeling nothing except a vague sense of triumph, foreboding, and an idle wonder (who is going to make sure Noval eats once he is gone?). The thought tugs at the corner of his lips entirely inappropriately, and he knows he is about to do the right thing.
In the light of the same candle Regulus writes another letter.
It is short, little more than ten words and it doesn’t reveal anything;
Dear Sirius,
I am sorry. You were right. I am sorry.
Farewell,
R.
(There is a small splatter of ink next to his name, as Regulus nearly signs with his love - he catches the thought before it becomes anything more, and writes his goodbyes instead. He doesn’t know why it seems important to do so, but doesn’t question it.)
Sirius never sees either one of the letters; Regulus knocks the candle down before silently heading for the kitchen stairs, never glancing back as the parchment catches on fire.