Author: Defying Logic PM
In the darkness, Regulus Arcturus Black reflects on how he spends his Friday nights. Remus/Regulus.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Romance - Regulus B. & Remus L. - Words: 1,685 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 4 - Follows: 1 - Published: 06-08-09 - id: 5121802
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Thank you.
I've always thought of darkness as pure. Not the dim, shadowy kind of darkness, but the kind of dark when all the lights are out and the moon is gone. The kind of dark that just swallows all light, all sound, everything. The dark that's so prevalent at home when the candles are out and it's the middle of the night, that lovely late hour when no one is ever awake except me and Sirius: him because he can get away with things at night, and me because I love the darkness. It's just so beautiful.
And in that dark, untouched by light, everything is hidden – everything horrible and frightening and awful, so you don't have to look at it, so you don't have to face it until morning, when the dark retreats from the sun. And everything is so peaceful and quiet, because the night softens everything, dampens everything, throws its blanket of darkness over the world.
And the Slytherin boy's dormitory is like that now. No one else is in here: everyone is either at dinner, or off doing something more exciting. The one source of natural light in here, the enormous window to the back, shows only shadows and dark, dark water; the lake is always darker than the rest of the grounds, and when the sun isn't shining through it the darkness is pure and complete. And of course I don't light the candles.
I move in the shadows, make my way by instinct over to my bed. I sit down, lay my bag on the floor, pull out my wand and begin my Friday night ritual. Mutter, "Lumos," momentarily ceding the purity of the darkness so I can see what I'm doing better. Pop an Everfresh mint into my mouth from the tin on my bedside table. Murmur "Rasuera," running my wand over my face. It's gotten to the point where I don't need a mirror to tell how well my Shaving Spell's worked; I just run my left hand over my face. Conclude that I've done a decent job. Straighten my hair, run a comb through it. Do a few more things, then extinguish my wand-light and head back to the Slytherin common room.
It's dark in there, too, but a few green lamps are lit, creating a mottled gloom. The clock in the corner – visible despite the half-light – says that I'm almost late, and so I set off and back out through the dungeons, at a quicker pace than before.
Ascending from the dungeons, I pass by a window, and glance out. The night sky is moonless. Excellent. I walk on.
When I get up to the Great Hall, students are already leaving dinner. I hurry a little, passing two Hufflepuffs, some Ravenclaw girls, and a gang of Gryffindor boys.
When I notice who the Gryffindor boys are, though, I fall back a little: My brother's friends – the Marauders, as they call themselves. Shit. Not that they're all that bad. Pettigrew – he's a pureblood – seems nice enough, if a little spineless. But then they have James Potter, who's a total jerk, especially to us Slytherins. And of course, there's Potter's partner in crime. My dear blood-traitor brother. The tall one, the popular one, the handsome one.
He hates me, because he hates our family and to him I'm just another warped extension of them. But I like Sirius now. No, not like. Admire. And I've sat off in the corner and been congratulated on my dedication to the family – and occasionally my skill at Quidditch. I'm the good boy. Which I guess makes Sirius the bad boy. But I envy him for that.
That's the thing I like about Sirius: he's never afraid. Not of getting detention, not of looking like a total ass, and certainly not of bringing disgrace to his family. Maybe he's not even scared of death. I suppose I wouldn't know.
I've always been afraid. That's why I always stuck so closely to the rules while Sirius rebelled so strongly against them, I think. Rules were safe. My role was safe: the boy to carry on the family name and the family honor; to call as much favorable attention to the House of Black as possible, not disgrace it. While I was off being safe, he was having fun. Excitement. A grand old time over in Gryffindor house, carrying on with all the Muggle-borns and blood traitors. The Marauders.
And then there's Remus. Remus John Lupin. The reason why I'm walking up six flights of stairs on a Friday night, less than half an hour before curfew. I wish I knew his blood purity, although by this point I'm pretty sure he's half-blood. Better than Muggle-born, I just keep telling myself.
Remus's eyes meet mine for just a second, and I turn away, walking quickly towards another staircase – one that would take me to the seventh floor by a completely different route. The less contact I have with the Marauders – especially tonight – the better.
Five minutes later I step off the staircase and onto the seventh floor and make my way down the familiar route, down the hall and to the right, to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. When I get there, Remus is already standing at the entrance to our room. It transforms based on what you need it to be, he says. I've only ever seen it one way.
The room is small – intimate – and dim, lit by candles. In the center is a bed, with dark blue sheets. Dead quiet – probably due to Soundproofing Charms – and completely still, like the room is waiting. Waiting for us? I like to think that I'm worth waiting for. Remus certainly is.
The first thing we do when we come in is take off our robes. They flow off us like dark water, and are shortly joined on the floor by belts, shirts, and ties. Then we're stripped, if not fully of our clothes, then of our other identities. Allegiances to houses and friends melt away so we can be together.
Remus sits on the bed and leans back a little. I kiss him. A few thrilling seconds pass before we break away. Remus still has his eyes shut. He usually keeps them closed, even in the shallow darkness of our secret room – I suppose it helps him pretend that I'm Sirius.
Sirius. My brother. Remus's best friend. Also Remus's childhood crush, later Remus's painful infatuation. I met Remus through Sirius, when he was staying at our house two summers ago. Sirius tried to keep him from me, which just made Remus want to get to know me more. The two of us ended up decent friends, in the times when Sirius wasn't around. We kept in touch, to the degree we could.
When Sirius rejected him, Lupin came to me. Poured out his heart to me. In tears by the end. He looked so sad, so weak, and so fragile. So I kissed him, and the look on his eyes then just made me forget about him being a Gryffindor and possible half-blood, or Muggle-born, or blood traitor. He looked like he needed love, and so I gave him all that I could. I was as close to Sirius for him as I could be.
And I still am. So if he closes his eyes to reinforce the illusion that I'm Sirius, I'm all too willing to help him. It's easy enough to be Sirius when Remus is glowing in the faint light and his lips are soft and his body is so beautiful and he's so wonderful and so willing and so needy.
We kiss for ages, and I run my hands all over him, and he strokes my hair, runs his fingers through it. Remus loves my hair – so much that I stopped getting it cut, letting it grow long because Remus likes Sirius's that way.
It all goes on for too long and too short a time before trousers and pants are finally cast off and we move closer together and everything blurs together and it's not entirely certain whether we're Regulus and Remus or Remus and Sirius or a little bit of all of them.
And then it all comes to an end, and everything slows down and we collapse onto the bed. After no more than five minutes, Remus straightens up, retrieves his red-and-gold clothes and robes out of the pile on the floor. Shrugs them on. Pulls the door open, checking for anyone in the hallway before stepping out.
And then he turns back to me, and whispers something so indistinct it could be, "Thank you," or "I love you." Knowing it's Remus, I assume it's the former but hope it's the latter. Then he vanishes into the dark corridor.
I lie there a few minutes longer, inhaling the atmosphere, before sitting up and beginning the last part of my Friday night ritual: Fish my wand out of the pocket of the set of robes still lying on the floor. Run it over my skin again. Whisper, "Scourgify." Repeat until my skin stings but all the sweat and blood and mess are gone.
Remus doesn't pay me, at least, but I still feel like a whore. Maybe I should get together with Aunt Bella, and start something. We could call it the Pure-Blood Bordello.
But it's not funny. And it makes me feel disgusting. Dirty. Which is why I have to cleanse myself after we're together. Scour the places where our skin touched. Purify until it hurts. Past until it hurts – until it's clean.