Higher Ground
Title: Higher Ground
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Dorcas Meadowes/Regulus Black
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death, angst
Notes: Sequel to Hand of Glory, this time from Reg's perspective. Thanks to hecticity for her unhelpfulness and enabling and sapphire_jazz for helping me with Regulus.
Summary: Betrayal is like a game of dominoes.
Regulus was a good son, an obedient son, but there were times when he wanted to look at his mother and tell her that he thought she had rather gone round the bend after her husband died. Somehow, he found himself at tea again with his mother and his best friend Dorcas Meadowes. The air was cool in the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, and eerily still. Regulus as used to this, he had lived here his entire life, and unfortunately he ws used to the awkwardness to these teas as well. Walburga thought it was a brilliant match, and dropped hints the size of anvils-the last time she had gone so far as to show Dorcas some of the family jewels under the guise of helping her choose for the Black Midsummer Ball.
Dorcas, as always, was polite and easygoing, while Regulus was secretly mortified. They had tried it at some points, sure, they had been friends since before school, and joined the Death Eaters within weeks of each other, but that was all. They were friends. It was awkward and strange when romance tried to infiltrate the picture. He had never been the suave and charming one, and she knew him too well. He was relieved when it ended, and told her so after Mother had left them alone. She only smiled. “Sometimes,” se said easily, referring to the pushiness. “You have to take the higher ground.”
He had never forgotten that. It was one of the things that rang in his mind when he doubted what they were doing was the right thing. He saw her face when she had found out her twin sister had been killed, how cold her eyes had gone for a brief flash. Sometimes he thought she may have betrayed the Death Eaters-but she had never hidden something so large from him. He kept his suspicions to himself, after all, she was his friend and he doubted rumours of traitors would be handled mercifully by the Dark Lord. Sometimes, in the dark, he hoped it was true, that she had been freed from the cacophony of screams and ghastly green light, but then he scolded himself. He was a Black, and such doubts were weakness. He was the good son. Or he tried to be-he was, he had to be. Sirius had abandoned them.
He knew Bellatrix hadn’t liked the competition, the way Dorcas had been another female in the circle close to the Dark Lord, but he had never expected her to call him to the blonde’s apartment, smugness in her voice. He was late, and he was glad he was. The crack of Apparition echoed another sickly crack, and he felt numb shock followed by nausea, as the battered, bruised body of his best friend swing in a nonexistent breeze from her own doorjamb. The door opening and the eyes on him was the only way he managed to keep down the expensive truffles Walburga had fed him that afternoon, and he recalled those teas in an instant.
The numbness wore off, and he was glad for his Occlumency shielding, because he could never recall feeling such rage, except for maybe when his brother had left, abandoned him and the family. He felt abandoned-by Dorcas, by the Death Eaters, by the Dark Lord. He barely heard the words until Voldemort ordered him to hold the shaking man who had entered, wilted amaranth fallen to the floor. When the Dark Lord spoke of love and traitors he had tensed, before he realisd he meant the boy that Regulus and Andreas were holding. His grip had tightened for two reasons. The insult burned and this simpering fool who had followed his brother like a beaten dog-he didn’t deserve her.
He looked away when they removed her hand, missing how the rat had done so as well. He forced himself to look back, though, and the suggestion of resurrection turned his stomach again. Dorcas would never have wanted that; he knew how religious she was, though he had held no stock in it. He threw the man from the apartment, blaming him in his mind, blaming Dorothea for dying, blaming everything he could, and hating the squat man for leaving with the corpse.
He went to the funeral, though he knew if he was found out he would be in trouble. He had haunted the nearby stones for a few moments, listening to the elegy and bowing his head, silently repeating the prayers to a god he did not believe in, if only because she had. He felt lost, lonely, as if she had been an anchor keeping him afloat. Sirius spotted him, and the words pelted like hailstones against Regulus’s mind, only further battering his convictions. Without saying a word to his brother, he turned away, dropping a stalk of amaranth on the coffin, saying not a word. He had finally realised what everyone else had known, like it was some great cosmic joke: he had loved her, and he wanted Voldemort dead.
Regulus had earned his place in Slytherin for more than just his blood, and when the stinking air of the cave reached his nostrils, he didn’t waver. It smelled like salt water and death. The boat tossed in the water, and moored near the basin Kreacher had described. The poor creature didn’t know what he was doing, shaking beside him, but obedient, like Regulus had been. Hopefully, Kreacher would not make his mistakes. The potion burned, spiralling through his body like an unfurling web that seemed to paralyze him, charms keeping the dark creatures at bay.
When he fell into the water, it was cold, but it soothe him, putting out the fire in his gut. He fought against the pulling arms and ice-cold skin, but he didn’t really fight to survive so much as to make them release him. He was tired o shouldering things he was too young for, tired of war, and being alone. He thrashed violently when one Inferius wrapped bluish arms around him, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of blonde hair and an arm ending in a stump, and relaxed into the embrace, closing his eyes. He had taken the higher ground.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Dorcas Meadowes/Regulus Black
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death, angst
Notes: Sequel to Hand of Glory, this time from Reg's perspective. Thanks to hecticity for her unhelpfulness and enabling and sapphire_jazz for helping me with Regulus.
Summary: Betrayal is like a game of dominoes.
Regulus was a good son, an obedient son, but there were times when he wanted to look at his mother and tell her that he thought she had rather gone round the bend after her husband died. Somehow, he found himself at tea again with his mother and his best friend Dorcas Meadowes. The air was cool in the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, and eerily still. Regulus as used to this, he had lived here his entire life, and unfortunately he ws used to the awkwardness to these teas as well. Walburga thought it was a brilliant match, and dropped hints the size of anvils-the last time she had gone so far as to show Dorcas some of the family jewels under the guise of helping her choose for the Black Midsummer Ball.
Dorcas, as always, was polite and easygoing, while Regulus was secretly mortified. They had tried it at some points, sure, they had been friends since before school, and joined the Death Eaters within weeks of each other, but that was all. They were friends. It was awkward and strange when romance tried to infiltrate the picture. He had never been the suave and charming one, and she knew him too well. He was relieved when it ended, and told her so after Mother had left them alone. She only smiled. “Sometimes,” se said easily, referring to the pushiness. “You have to take the higher ground.”
He had never forgotten that. It was one of the things that rang in his mind when he doubted what they were doing was the right thing. He saw her face when she had found out her twin sister had been killed, how cold her eyes had gone for a brief flash. Sometimes he thought she may have betrayed the Death Eaters-but she had never hidden something so large from him. He kept his suspicions to himself, after all, she was his friend and he doubted rumours of traitors would be handled mercifully by the Dark Lord. Sometimes, in the dark, he hoped it was true, that she had been freed from the cacophony of screams and ghastly green light, but then he scolded himself. He was a Black, and such doubts were weakness. He was the good son. Or he tried to be-he was, he had to be. Sirius had abandoned them.
He knew Bellatrix hadn’t liked the competition, the way Dorcas had been another female in the circle close to the Dark Lord, but he had never expected her to call him to the blonde’s apartment, smugness in her voice. He was late, and he was glad he was. The crack of Apparition echoed another sickly crack, and he felt numb shock followed by nausea, as the battered, bruised body of his best friend swing in a nonexistent breeze from her own doorjamb. The door opening and the eyes on him was the only way he managed to keep down the expensive truffles Walburga had fed him that afternoon, and he recalled those teas in an instant.
The numbness wore off, and he was glad for his Occlumency shielding, because he could never recall feeling such rage, except for maybe when his brother had left, abandoned him and the family. He felt abandoned-by Dorcas, by the Death Eaters, by the Dark Lord. He barely heard the words until Voldemort ordered him to hold the shaking man who had entered, wilted amaranth fallen to the floor. When the Dark Lord spoke of love and traitors he had tensed, before he realisd he meant the boy that Regulus and Andreas were holding. His grip had tightened for two reasons. The insult burned and this simpering fool who had followed his brother like a beaten dog-he didn’t deserve her.
He looked away when they removed her hand, missing how the rat had done so as well. He forced himself to look back, though, and the suggestion of resurrection turned his stomach again. Dorcas would never have wanted that; he knew how religious she was, though he had held no stock in it. He threw the man from the apartment, blaming him in his mind, blaming Dorothea for dying, blaming everything he could, and hating the squat man for leaving with the corpse.
He went to the funeral, though he knew if he was found out he would be in trouble. He had haunted the nearby stones for a few moments, listening to the elegy and bowing his head, silently repeating the prayers to a god he did not believe in, if only because she had. He felt lost, lonely, as if she had been an anchor keeping him afloat. Sirius spotted him, and the words pelted like hailstones against Regulus’s mind, only further battering his convictions. Without saying a word to his brother, he turned away, dropping a stalk of amaranth on the coffin, saying not a word. He had finally realised what everyone else had known, like it was some great cosmic joke: he had loved her, and he wanted Voldemort dead.
Regulus had earned his place in Slytherin for more than just his blood, and when the stinking air of the cave reached his nostrils, he didn’t waver. It smelled like salt water and death. The boat tossed in the water, and moored near the basin Kreacher had described. The poor creature didn’t know what he was doing, shaking beside him, but obedient, like Regulus had been. Hopefully, Kreacher would not make his mistakes. The potion burned, spiralling through his body like an unfurling web that seemed to paralyze him, charms keeping the dark creatures at bay.
When he fell into the water, it was cold, but it soothe him, putting out the fire in his gut. He fought against the pulling arms and ice-cold skin, but he didn’t really fight to survive so much as to make them release him. He was tired o shouldering things he was too young for, tired of war, and being alone. He thrashed violently when one Inferius wrapped bluish arms around him, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of blonde hair and an arm ending in a stump, and relaxed into the embrace, closing his eyes. He had taken the higher ground.