Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Harry Potter
Author's Note: Alright so I edited it a bit, made the paragraphs slightly shorter to make it easier on the eyes (thanks to theturtlemoves for that review. As for the part where he asks the questions and I didn't place any question marks, I tried to capture how panicky he was feeling, like when you're in a really scary situation and your thoughts bombard you, come at you nonstop.) Hope this is slightly better… Anyways, please read and review! Enjoy!
A Million Miles Away
The woman's scream shatters the night and burns itself into his memory forever.
It's his first, and it's chaos and pain and merciless purebloods in white masks torturing the unworthy. It's his first, and nothing but screams and shrieks and pleas and sadistic laughter fill the crisp night air. It's his first, his baptism in fire, and it is not turning out the way he imagined it to be.
Somewhere in the distance a dog howls in despair and sorrow, watching as tainted blood flows through the streets.
As his fellows will tease him for later, he stands stock still, sweat pouring down his face, his dark robes clinging to his body, his countenance a study in fear and desolation and shock and surprise, all these things behind his mask. He does nothing to help his fellow Death Eaters torture and kill the innocent, but he does nothing to stop them either. The only one caught in the grey area of black and white, of good and bad, of right and wrong, the angel and the devil beckoning and murmuring promises into his ears.
He's just not sure which is which. Besides, at that very moment, it doesn't matter at all.
He's a million miles away.
A million miles away, he is in an old, dark and gloomy house, The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, filled with unhappiness and pride, despair and arrogance, teeming with Dark family heirlooms and dust bunnies that simply won't die just around the corner. He watches a little boy, nearly seven years old, run around the house and follow his older brother up and down the wooden stairs, up and down, up and down, again and again and again, worship clear as day in his eyes. For this innocent boy everything is life and life is everything. There are colors and sounds but everything and everyone pales in comparison, pales into shades of black and grey in comparison to his brother who is red and orange and blue and purple and the rainbow of life altogether. The echoes of sermons and speeches and homilies about the purity of blood and the royal blood that runs through their veins fade into nothingness next to the sound of his brother's voice comforting him during the storms, the reassuring sound of his brother's dog-like laughter. Everything disappears into oblivion in contrast to this one particular star.
Nearly identical visages of grey eyes and black, black hair and yet they are so different. Black and white, stubbornness and obedience, mischievous and dutiful, irreverence and respect. So alike and yet so different. The favored son and the black sheep of the family, the little king and the firework just waiting to explode, just waiting for an excuse to blow up and destroy everything in its path. The older brother is slightly obstinate at times and forever questions the ideals of their family while the other is obedient and listens to them, drinks in their words like a parched man lost in a desert. One is pampered and spoiled, the other is often lectured and scolded and reproved. Despite their differences, they're brothers, both the little one and the older one know this, and that will never change. The ties that bind forever.
Somewhere in the distance in a house burnt down a mother weeps at the loss of her child.
A million miles away, in the highest tower of this castle by the lake, he observes this little boy who has grown into a teenager, a good looking and talented one at that. He seeks his solace beneath the twinkling stars, in a place where the winds caress him and carry the voices of the past and the future, whispering tales of what is to come and what is long, long gone. This boy still loves his brother, there is no doubt. But it has been shadowed by envy and jealousy, the little king forever one step behind the canine, forever fading into the background when beside the scorching star. The older one is filled with the defiance and the audacity and the fire that has been in their family for centuries, a fire that has not been passed on to him or perhaps it has yet to manifest itself. His brother's temper is fiery and intense, blazing and passionate, the scorching star. And yet the king's own temper is the cold kind, the icy temper that silences you with a mere glance, arrogance and a razor-sharp edge in those cold, grey eyes. They are practically equals and yet their eyes always gravitate towards the other and always, always he fades to dust. Even in the eyes of his family, where he is the good child and his brother the disgrace of the family, the source of humiliation, they always pay more attention to training the hound than they do in pampering the king. There are good times and there are bad times, amusing conversations and visits to Hogsmeade somewhere in between the House rivalry and petty fights in the hallway and the pranks of red and gold and green and silver. And yet these arguments are becoming more and more commonplace, two pairs of the same grey eyes forever staring, forever daring the other to back down.
Somewhere in the distance beneath the dark starless sky two sisters bicker about the best way to kill the Muggleborns.
A million miles away, in that same old, dark and gloomy house with the creaking stairways and the dust bunnies just around the corner, inside a house that is even darker and more oppressive still, he sees the teenager though he is slightly older and slightly more worn out now, pacing back and forth in their room, back and forth, back and forth, again and again and again. Everything is the same save for the dust bunnies that have multiplied over the years and the volume and the frequency of the arguments. It won't be long till one of them cracks, he thinks, and he's not sure who it will be. If there was anything his brother had inherited from their mother, it was the quick temper and the unyielding stubbornness, the need to come out on top, the need to be victorious, the need to have their own way and nobody else's. They're more alike than they can imagine, he muses silently, muses amusedly because he knows how much they despise one another and the fact that they actually have a point of similarity is a terrible irony. The voices and the screams and the shouts and the yells grow louder and louder, a deep roar of fury here and a shrill cry of rage there, resonating through the thin walls. Then there is silence. He can hear faint footsteps running up the stairs, the wooden floors creaking beneath their owner's weight. He doesn't know which is worse, the silence or the screaming. Then the door slams wide open and his brother is a blur of black and grey and anger and fury and resentment and his wrath fills the entire room. He pulls out his trunk and haphazardly begins to throw his clothes in.
The younger brother stands still.
He knows what his brother is going to do. There are no words he can say to make his brother stay, nothing he can do to change his mind no matter how much he wants to. No words to express how much he needs his brother to stay because without him everything is lost and there is no light and life has no meaning, not anymore. He can taste the slight tangy flavor of betrayal, right there along with a seasoning of guilt and regret and loss. He's leaving this family, he's leaving me What could I have done different? What could I have done? His heart feels so heavy and his head is spinning and yet deep down he knows, has known for a long time. This is something his brother has always wanted to do, has always needed to do. His brother finishes packing and he glimpses an assortment of clothes tossed together before the trunk shuts close. Funny how he always took note of details at the end. Then his brother looks at him, crosses the room in a single bound and hugs him, holds him tight as though he will never ever let go and I never want him to as his brother whispers in his ear. That one minute, that one precious moment, he will treasure forever, one precious moment he will remember till his dying day. Be who you want to be and don't let them control you, you hear me? I love you baby brother. Always and forever. Then he is gone, like a gust of wind that sweeps through the field, be it for one second or fourteen years, it is gone. Somewhere a star dies. He is gone.
Somewhere in the distance among the ruins a woman laughs hysterically as the Cruciatus breaks her down, breaks her down.
A million miles away, in the middle of a deep dark forest, he watches, he waits. A circle of men, clad in black robes and white masks, masks that mock the young man in the center, remind him of the choice he has made. Then the brand comes down and his screams fill the air and his arm it burns, burns like a fire that threatens to consume his body, his very soul. His thoughts border on madness. Don't they only brand cattle? Hysteria begins to take over. A brand that marks him for life, a lifetime of service or death. Forever he will regard it as a mark of his unwavering loyalty and fulfillment of his duties to his family. He does this not to hurt others and he does this not for himself because I don't think this is what I truly want and especially he does this not to spite his brother, the brother who left him all alone, a stranded man without a lifeboat who is lost at sea, the waves of change ever battering him into submission. He does this to regain the honor of his family, to wash away the dirt the Grim left behind in his haste to run, to flee far far away. His duty, his responsibility, his burden, his curse, his very undoing. Brother, why have you forsaken me? Then it is over but the pain is still there and of course the brand is there and it will stay there forever Then he rises, staggers in pain but rises nonetheless because somewhere in his soul there is a fire waiting to be ignited, not as an outsider but as one of them. Another fighter in the war for what, exactly? He may never know what it is all about.
Then his first test.
A Muggle woman is brought to the middle of the circle, crying and screaming and tears streaming down her eyes like a river. To see how you will handle the situation, to prove that we did not make a mistake in choosing you. She begs and she pleads and she cries for mercy but they all fall on deaf ears. He is ordered to kill her, to torture her slowly. He spots the Dog Star and wonders where his brother is, what he would think of him now. An identical pair of grey eyes that will always haunt him in his sleep. It is too early, Bella cackles, breaking his train of thought. He has potential but he is too young. He cannot do it. A surge of anger courses through his veins and the need to prove himself becomes overwhelming but he knows she is right. He cannot kill this woman, cannot torture her like Bella would, till this woman's spirit shattered into a thousand pieces like porcelain that falls, falls, falls. Bella pushes him aside and does it herself, the green light reflected in her mad eyes. He cannot do it. Her passion has consumed her, consumed her entire being and now there is nothing left but those beliefs and that strong sense of conviction and loyalty that is twisted and beyond repair. Everyday he sees it in her gleaming onyx eyes and gone is the girl he grew up with. Gone forever. After a few more minutes of listening to her laughter and watching this woman twist and contort and writhe in pain, torture that must seem to go on forever for her, Lucius steps forward and casts the Killing Curse. She falls, limp and cold and gone and dead but at peace. In a better place. There are better, more important things to do, he reminds her. Voldemort my Lord nods silently and the show must go on. And this little king, not so little anymore but still has the same royal blood running through his veins, he dons his white mask and becomes one of them. He becomes one of them.
Somewhere in the distance in the deep dark forest, a boy sobs uncontrollably beside the body of his cold dead brother, the death of innocence.
He stands still and suddenly he is back at that moment, back in a village that is burning and only sobs and screams and laughter fill the air now. Has it been an eternity or just a second? The scent of smoke fills his nostrils; the smell of burning flesh lingers in the air. Hovering ever so slightly over this village is the Dark Mark, bright and clear and intense and Death Eaters were here. Not that they would need the Mark to announce that; the scent of burning flesh is enough.
Suddenly raindrops fall from the sky, extinguishing the flames of death and sorrow but it never will, not entirely and the Mark floats stillThe rain seeps into his clothes, mixing with his sweat, a slight measure of peace with his fear and anxiety and dread. The angels weep and the trees lament, swaying ever so slightly in the wind. Somewhere someone lays a single white rose on a grave, the death of innocence.
His mind is reeling with too many questions - what have I gotten myself into is this what I really want when and where did everything go oh so wrong what is the point of all this how am I going to get out oh Merlin why - and he has no answers.
A million miles away in the middle of nowhere or maybe just in the corner of his mind he is anywhere, anywhere but here.
A million miles away or maybe just right beside him, a woman's scream shatters the night and he is changed, changed forever.
I know some people would say that Regulus wasn't as good looking or as talented as Sirius but I figured that he had to be if he found the Horcrux and attempted to destroy it. Not only that but maybe Regulus was jealous of Sirius for getting all the attention when they were in school (For me, Regulus was more studious and Sirius was well, Sirius), even from their family who probably spent more time trying to correct him than taking care of Reg. Sure, they most probably pampered him but they might have spent more time trying to 'fix' Sirius. I also think that he understood why Sirius left, but that didn't stop him from feeling hurt because he wasn't enough of a reason for Sirius to stay. Also, on that note, I think that Sirius didn't leave Regulus with bad blood between them. No matter what, they were still brothers. I also feel that even from the beginning, Regulus didn't want to become a Death Eater at all and he just did it to please his family, etc.
Just some trivia for those who don't know: Regulus means "little king" in Latin. Also, aside from being the Dog Star, Sirius means "scorching star" in Greek.
A/N: TRIPLE TREAT! Waha. I had a lot of time on my hands and my internet connection was acting all weird so I had the time to write THREE Regulus-centric fics. Yep. Besides, I also wanted to experiment and see what the different styles of writing I can well, write. :D I'm not saying that they're all good 'cause that's up to you but I'm just saying, if you guys wanna check it out (don't feel like you HAVE to check it out), just click on my profile. :D
A Chance Conversation of a Death Eater and a Werewolf
The One That Started It All
Thanks for reading yo! I'd appreciate the reviews:D