Happy Birthday Harry Potter!!!!
in honour of the big man's birthday, i bring you fic! the first installment of laurel_tx's challenge. w00t!!! *off to write second part, hopefully*
Title: Seven Days, Seven Lies (1/7)
Author: bubblegumlocks
Rating: PG-13
Prompt Set: 100.4
Prompt: #46, Swirl
Word Count: 753
Summary: The seventh to last day of Regulus’ life, told in a letter.
Warnings: hinted slash, past self-mutilation, a bit of language, adult themes.
Notes: Prompt table here. Written for laurel_tx’s latest challenge, the The Regulus Black Few Days Left or Still Alive Challenge, cuz she’s cool.
Dearest Mother,
scritch scratch
The utter silence is broken by the sound of my quill scraping across the parchment. Lies, I’ll tell. I watch as the words flow before me, a pool of ink swirling and mixing like the blood from my wrists in the white porcelain sink all those summers ago.
I absently trace the scars with one calloused finger while the others clench. I gently place the quill on the weathered desk. It’s beaten, and old and stained with generations of use and decades of abuse, the scars matching mine. I finger each gouge, each new gouge from the familiar point of a knife before taking the quill up again and dipping it slowly into the ink.
It is with great pleasure and little consequence that I inform you of my latest doings.
I hit a rut in the desk and my wrist spasms, the ink spraying wildly across the paper. I see a hole in the parchment and a bigger spot of ink in the corner. I sigh wearily and remove another piece from a drawer, crumpling the wasted sheet with my tensed hand.
My eyes wander, over my quill, across the desk to the other side of the room. I can see him there, in the shadows, watching me. His grey eyes, artfully framed by long lashes and a perfect drape of hair, staring at me in the shadows between the candles. I can feel his gaze and I pause, the quill halfway to the parchment.
I blink and he’s gone.
I, Regulus Arcturus Black, have entered the humble servitude of Lord Voldemort.
I can feel his frown like I can see her smile. Her son, her true son, going above and beyond what is expected of a mere secondborn who was always overshadowed by his more handsome, smarter, older brother.
I think of home, of dark passageways, of him and his words and his ideas. I think of Father dying and how Mother was silent for days when his words and ideas cut so deep and hard that he never came.
I trace the scars again, with purpose. I can feel him breathing on my neck, soft gasps, and his fingers on my elbow.
I hope to climb the ranks soon after I take the mark and do the Black Family proud.
The silence is broken by my sobs. I cry and he’s watching. I cry and he’s there, mocking and smiling and so goddamn happy to have escaped this hell.
Cousin Bellatrix has taken me under her wing and I know I shall do well.
I hear him cry out, a blissful release as he watches me. I caress my arm in an imitation, breathing in, closing my eyes. I know he is there.
I shall write more, Mother, after I have taken the mark. I hear it smarts so it will be perhaps a few days until further news.
I set the quill down again. Closing my eyes and breathing in again, I smell the ink and blood and him. My jaw clenches automatically, against the smell, against his presence.
I look down at my hands. My pale hands with pale pink scars and dark ink spots, like his eyes and his hair and his beautiful skin. My pale hands running down his chest and over his back, scratching and pulling. I blink and gaze at my left forearm, my unblemished left forearm.
I take up the quill again, only to find the ink has dried. I think of red, swirling, a fitting way to end this, this letter, this lie.
I grip the edge of the desk, feeling the grain beneath my palm. It’s cool and does little to calm my resolve. I will do this.
I will do this for him. I will “enter the humble servitude” of the crazy Dark Lord, take his Dark Mark and call him “master”. I will do this, for him.
I will take the Dark Mark and make centuries of Blacks proud. I will burn a mark, riddled with Dark Magic, into the very pores of my pale forearm, to be at beck and call of a megalomaniac, for him.
I resolve to cry no longer, not at the pain, not at the loss.
I can feel my brother watching, and I resolve again, to do this, become a follower, for my brother.
I move the quill, heavy now, and sign. This is for my brother, for him to come home.
scritch scratch
Your loving son,
RAB
Title: Seven Days, Seven Lies (1/7)
Author: bubblegumlocks
Rating: PG-13
Prompt Set: 100.4
Prompt: #46, Swirl
Word Count: 753
Summary: The seventh to last day of Regulus’ life, told in a letter.
Warnings: hinted slash, past self-mutilation, a bit of language, adult themes.
Notes: Prompt table here. Written for laurel_tx’s latest challenge, the The Regulus Black Few Days Left or Still Alive Challenge, cuz she’s cool.
Dearest Mother,
scritch scratch
The utter silence is broken by the sound of my quill scraping across the parchment. Lies, I’ll tell. I watch as the words flow before me, a pool of ink swirling and mixing like the blood from my wrists in the white porcelain sink all those summers ago.
I absently trace the scars with one calloused finger while the others clench. I gently place the quill on the weathered desk. It’s beaten, and old and stained with generations of use and decades of abuse, the scars matching mine. I finger each gouge, each new gouge from the familiar point of a knife before taking the quill up again and dipping it slowly into the ink.
It is with great pleasure and little consequence that I inform you of my latest doings.
I hit a rut in the desk and my wrist spasms, the ink spraying wildly across the paper. I see a hole in the parchment and a bigger spot of ink in the corner. I sigh wearily and remove another piece from a drawer, crumpling the wasted sheet with my tensed hand.
My eyes wander, over my quill, across the desk to the other side of the room. I can see him there, in the shadows, watching me. His grey eyes, artfully framed by long lashes and a perfect drape of hair, staring at me in the shadows between the candles. I can feel his gaze and I pause, the quill halfway to the parchment.
I blink and he’s gone.
I, Regulus Arcturus Black, have entered the humble servitude of Lord Voldemort.
I can feel his frown like I can see her smile. Her son, her true son, going above and beyond what is expected of a mere secondborn who was always overshadowed by his more handsome, smarter, older brother.
I think of home, of dark passageways, of him and his words and his ideas. I think of Father dying and how Mother was silent for days when his words and ideas cut so deep and hard that he never came.
I trace the scars again, with purpose. I can feel him breathing on my neck, soft gasps, and his fingers on my elbow.
I hope to climb the ranks soon after I take the mark and do the Black Family proud.
The silence is broken by my sobs. I cry and he’s watching. I cry and he’s there, mocking and smiling and so goddamn happy to have escaped this hell.
Cousin Bellatrix has taken me under her wing and I know I shall do well.
I hear him cry out, a blissful release as he watches me. I caress my arm in an imitation, breathing in, closing my eyes. I know he is there.
I shall write more, Mother, after I have taken the mark. I hear it smarts so it will be perhaps a few days until further news.
I set the quill down again. Closing my eyes and breathing in again, I smell the ink and blood and him. My jaw clenches automatically, against the smell, against his presence.
I look down at my hands. My pale hands with pale pink scars and dark ink spots, like his eyes and his hair and his beautiful skin. My pale hands running down his chest and over his back, scratching and pulling. I blink and gaze at my left forearm, my unblemished left forearm.
I take up the quill again, only to find the ink has dried. I think of red, swirling, a fitting way to end this, this letter, this lie.
I grip the edge of the desk, feeling the grain beneath my palm. It’s cool and does little to calm my resolve. I will do this.
I will do this for him. I will “enter the humble servitude” of the crazy Dark Lord, take his Dark Mark and call him “master”. I will do this, for him.
I will take the Dark Mark and make centuries of Blacks proud. I will burn a mark, riddled with Dark Magic, into the very pores of my pale forearm, to be at beck and call of a megalomaniac, for him.
I resolve to cry no longer, not at the pain, not at the loss.
I can feel my brother watching, and I resolve again, to do this, become a follower, for my brother.
I move the quill, heavy now, and sign. This is for my brother, for him to come home.
scritch scratch
Your loving son,
RAB