finally!!!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!eleven!!
omg, finally, a Reg!fic posting! and i really hope it will count this time
Fandom: Harry Potter
Title: Spinner's End (creative, hmm?)
Warnings: ... I don't think there's any, other than character death, except totally half-assed and desperate writing.
Pairings: Reg/Tree, if you look for it. Maybe Barty/Reg if you squint hard.
Summary: A roll of parchment stuffed into a drawer when Snape returns.
Notes: Plain text = Snape. Italics = Reg. For Laurel's Regulus Several Days Left or Still Alive Challenge.
Edit: Carlotta Pinkstone is a real character.
I had hoped never to set eyes on this miserable place again. It is full of unpleasant reminders.
How long has it been since Mother died? It must be more than a decade; I haven’t been back here since then.
I didn’t put that there. That desk was on the other side of the room. Who’s been-
The Dark Lord, perhaps? But he could have no reason, surely…
This parchment seems to have been undisturbed for a long period of time. If it had been jammed into the drawer only recently, the corner would have been destroyed, in this fragile state. Who was here for Mother’s funeral? Would any attending have put this here?
I recall several of her acquaintances. The Fawcett woman, and that Hopkirk. And the black man, Ross. They believed I was still living here; they would have no reason to leave a message that I may or may not have discovered in a timely fashion.
Who-?
Black and Crouch were there-they told me the Dark Lord expected my presence, regardless of personal conflicts. They would have no qualms about skulking around while I was out.
There’s a single way to be certain.
The corner of the parchment tears off in my fingers; I grasp the rest of the roll more delicately.
A faded photograph falls to the surface of the desk when unrolled-I leave it facedown, for the moment, and begin scanning the unfamiliar script for any identity.
October 25
This place of Sev’s is rather cramped, but it’ll do. We told him the Dark Lord sent his condolences-all three of us know that means he’s expected to contact Him as soon as possible. Barty thinks I’m to indulge Sev, in order to distract him-in reality, he’s shoved the mourners out and already gone to get his assignment. I daresay he won’t be back. I should be safe for a day or two. I don’t expect to escape longer than that; neither do I expect to be shown mercy. In fact, there’s good odds that I’m to be killed on sight, but I don’t give a damn. I’m not going to end up a sacrifice in the name of His personal vendetta; I saw what happened to Rosier.
Still, it amazes me how, even in what may as well be the last moments of my life, I can be so impossibly inane as to record those last moments. I’m going to put up wardings in a few moments; maybe it’ll delay the Certain Death and inevitable Eternal Torment of my soul (but more likely my hide) from whomever He sends after me. It can’t be long now.
October 26
If Sev doesn’t sell the place first, I hope he has the good sense to give this to any sensible nieces or nephews Sirius may turn out; how he will happen across it, I haven’t a clue. I am visited by delusions of posthumous grandeur and reside upon the brink of Certain Death, remember? How can I possibly be expected to give a satisfactory answer?
I thought I heard someone in the alley today, but it was only a cat. I am growing more paranoid by the hour, though I swore I wouldn’t fight it. Perhaps doubling the wardings will put my mind at ease.
October 27
The waiting must be driving me mad; I woke in the middle of the night to find myself tangled in sheets that felt disturbingly like tree roots. I assumed I would be dead by now-what’s He playing at? Why hasn’t he found me yet? If this doesn’t end soon, I believe I’ll end my own life, out of pure insanity.
October 28
I know I threatened suicide, but that notion fluttered away quickly enough; I thought I saw Bellatrix at my door a few moments ago, leering at me through the front window. I am going to strengthen the wardings; she is the last person I would want to kill me. She’d draw it out as long as she possibly could, in her twisted way. But who am I, to look down on a reflection of madness?
October 29
I mark it only as the 29th because I marked the last day as the 28th. I believe that was yesterday, but I am no longer sure; it feels like an æon since then. I was up before the dawn-knotted in blankets again, and I would swear that I heard footsteps downstairs. I’ve holed myself up in the tiny drawing room; it feels as though my stare should peel the paint from the walls.
He must be playing with me. That is the only explanation. It’s one of His mind games all over again; even without Legilimency, He’s a master of them. Even though I’m not under His influence anymore, I’m still a puppet in His hands. I’ll double the wardings again; I don’t suspect they’ll do me any good, but it’s something of a personal comfort.
October 30
I mastered myself and chanced the attic today, as a distraction. It was mostly empty, save the trunk in the corner and a few dusty pieces of furniture. There didn’t turn out to be much inside the trunk-a few ragged sets of robes (some of which I pilfered. My own robes are in a state of atrocity, and these were finely-made, at one time), and at the bottom, a few trinkets and some old photographs. I was surprised: there was a picture of a woman who held a slight resemblance to Bella tucked into a tarnished old locket. I know I smiled for a moment-it was Bella Black, as she had been, before she took the Dark Mark and became always Bellatrix Lestrange.
She does look like Bella, doesn’t she? An older cousin of mine-Carlotta Pinkstone. On the Prince side, though she's an absolute lunatic. I don’t know what he did with the locket, but this is the photograph that was inside, taken when she was younger; it belonged to my mother.
I was hoping that this nostalgic diversion would be the death of me; I can’t bear the waiting any longer. At this time, I would take even such mercy as Bellatrix would give-nearly anything is better than this hiding. Except, perhaps, ending up like her. She no longer cares for the preservation or dominance of our noble blood. She cares only for the Dark Lord, his desire for the enslavement of the entire world, his bid at immortality. A pity she goes to such waste, especially married to that dolt Lestrange.
October 31
It’s been a week, unless I miss my count. None have ever lasted a week before. Perhaps He has other things occupying His mind. But perhaps he is still playing games. Perhaps
Ah. There it is. There’s someone at the door. They’ve decided to kill me at last.
I wonder if it’s Bellatrix?
Well, now. That’s very…interesting. I always wondered what had happened to him.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Title: Spinner's End (creative, hmm?)
Warnings: ... I don't think there's any, other than character death, except totally half-assed and desperate writing.
Pairings: Reg/Tree, if you look for it. Maybe Barty/Reg if you squint hard.
Summary: A roll of parchment stuffed into a drawer when Snape returns.
Notes: Plain text = Snape. Italics = Reg. For Laurel's Regulus Several Days Left or Still Alive Challenge.
Edit: Carlotta Pinkstone is a real character.
I had hoped never to set eyes on this miserable place again. It is full of unpleasant reminders.
How long has it been since Mother died? It must be more than a decade; I haven’t been back here since then.
I didn’t put that there. That desk was on the other side of the room. Who’s been-
The Dark Lord, perhaps? But he could have no reason, surely…
This parchment seems to have been undisturbed for a long period of time. If it had been jammed into the drawer only recently, the corner would have been destroyed, in this fragile state. Who was here for Mother’s funeral? Would any attending have put this here?
I recall several of her acquaintances. The Fawcett woman, and that Hopkirk. And the black man, Ross. They believed I was still living here; they would have no reason to leave a message that I may or may not have discovered in a timely fashion.
Who-?
Black and Crouch were there-they told me the Dark Lord expected my presence, regardless of personal conflicts. They would have no qualms about skulking around while I was out.
There’s a single way to be certain.
The corner of the parchment tears off in my fingers; I grasp the rest of the roll more delicately.
A faded photograph falls to the surface of the desk when unrolled-I leave it facedown, for the moment, and begin scanning the unfamiliar script for any identity.
October 25
This place of Sev’s is rather cramped, but it’ll do. We told him the Dark Lord sent his condolences-all three of us know that means he’s expected to contact Him as soon as possible. Barty thinks I’m to indulge Sev, in order to distract him-in reality, he’s shoved the mourners out and already gone to get his assignment. I daresay he won’t be back. I should be safe for a day or two. I don’t expect to escape longer than that; neither do I expect to be shown mercy. In fact, there’s good odds that I’m to be killed on sight, but I don’t give a damn. I’m not going to end up a sacrifice in the name of His personal vendetta; I saw what happened to Rosier.
Still, it amazes me how, even in what may as well be the last moments of my life, I can be so impossibly inane as to record those last moments. I’m going to put up wardings in a few moments; maybe it’ll delay the Certain Death and inevitable Eternal Torment of my soul (but more likely my hide) from whomever He sends after me. It can’t be long now.
October 26
If Sev doesn’t sell the place first, I hope he has the good sense to give this to any sensible nieces or nephews Sirius may turn out; how he will happen across it, I haven’t a clue. I am visited by delusions of posthumous grandeur and reside upon the brink of Certain Death, remember? How can I possibly be expected to give a satisfactory answer?
I thought I heard someone in the alley today, but it was only a cat. I am growing more paranoid by the hour, though I swore I wouldn’t fight it. Perhaps doubling the wardings will put my mind at ease.
October 27
The waiting must be driving me mad; I woke in the middle of the night to find myself tangled in sheets that felt disturbingly like tree roots. I assumed I would be dead by now-what’s He playing at? Why hasn’t he found me yet? If this doesn’t end soon, I believe I’ll end my own life, out of pure insanity.
October 28
I know I threatened suicide, but that notion fluttered away quickly enough; I thought I saw Bellatrix at my door a few moments ago, leering at me through the front window. I am going to strengthen the wardings; she is the last person I would want to kill me. She’d draw it out as long as she possibly could, in her twisted way. But who am I, to look down on a reflection of madness?
October 29
I mark it only as the 29th because I marked the last day as the 28th. I believe that was yesterday, but I am no longer sure; it feels like an æon since then. I was up before the dawn-knotted in blankets again, and I would swear that I heard footsteps downstairs. I’ve holed myself up in the tiny drawing room; it feels as though my stare should peel the paint from the walls.
He must be playing with me. That is the only explanation. It’s one of His mind games all over again; even without Legilimency, He’s a master of them. Even though I’m not under His influence anymore, I’m still a puppet in His hands. I’ll double the wardings again; I don’t suspect they’ll do me any good, but it’s something of a personal comfort.
October 30
I mastered myself and chanced the attic today, as a distraction. It was mostly empty, save the trunk in the corner and a few dusty pieces of furniture. There didn’t turn out to be much inside the trunk-a few ragged sets of robes (some of which I pilfered. My own robes are in a state of atrocity, and these were finely-made, at one time), and at the bottom, a few trinkets and some old photographs. I was surprised: there was a picture of a woman who held a slight resemblance to Bella tucked into a tarnished old locket. I know I smiled for a moment-it was Bella Black, as she had been, before she took the Dark Mark and became always Bellatrix Lestrange.
She does look like Bella, doesn’t she? An older cousin of mine-Carlotta Pinkstone. On the Prince side, though she's an absolute lunatic. I don’t know what he did with the locket, but this is the photograph that was inside, taken when she was younger; it belonged to my mother.
I was hoping that this nostalgic diversion would be the death of me; I can’t bear the waiting any longer. At this time, I would take even such mercy as Bellatrix would give-nearly anything is better than this hiding. Except, perhaps, ending up like her. She no longer cares for the preservation or dominance of our noble blood. She cares only for the Dark Lord, his desire for the enslavement of the entire world, his bid at immortality. A pity she goes to such waste, especially married to that dolt Lestrange.
October 31
It’s been a week, unless I miss my count. None have ever lasted a week before. Perhaps He has other things occupying His mind. But perhaps he is still playing games. Perhaps
Ah. There it is. There’s someone at the door. They’ve decided to kill me at last.
I wonder if it’s Bellatrix?
Well, now. That’s very…interesting. I always wondered what had happened to him.