For Camp Potter: History Appreciation: write about Regulus Black. Cabin: Lestrange.
For my dearest Sam, who's been trying to sell me on this pairing for a while now.
You break him.
You ruin him.
And then you rebuild him from the rubble. You turn him into something you are proud of, the perfect little follower.
And he idolises you.
He trots around at your feet, does everything you ask, looks up at you with those silver eyes so innocent and pure.
The first time you kiss him it's because you're curious. He lets you do whatever you want. You want to know where the line is.
He kisses you back. He lets you deepen the kiss, lets you slip your hands underneath the hem of his shirt and trace patterns on the bare, warm skin of his back.
You peel his shirt off and swallow the faint noise of protest — you rub your arms along the new goosebumps on his arms and he sighs into your mouth and you realise. He was protesting the cold, not the action.
You push him onto the bed, wind up on top of him. Your hands roam lower and lower and he lets you, he invites you. Your name is at his lips as your hands are at his belt.
You taint him.
You spoil him.
And from the rubbish you remake him. You teach him, train him. You train that silver tongue to be an expert in more than words. You make him into your own little puppy.
He looks up at you with those silver eyes still somehow so innocent and pure.
You're now convinced there isn't a line, there isn't a limit to what he will do for you.
He is desperate, he is lonely, he is so, so broken. And you take full advantage of that fact, teach him exactly what you want him to know and nothing more.
He curls into your arms at night so often now that you get used to the warmth.
You realise abruptly that, in becoming accustomed to him, you have turned him into a weakness you cannot allow. In becoming accustomed to him you have made him something inconvenient for you to lose.
That is unacceptable.
You torment him.
You burn him.
And from the ashes you reform him. You teach him that pain is the only thing that matters, that when all else fades pain is what remains. You harden yourself to him. You push him away some days and draw him closer others — you are fire and ice, as temperamental as the ever changing weather, and he cannot predict your moods.
He begins to loathe you.
He begins to lose the innocence and purity in those silver eyes and you are… not sad. But you feel like something is missing.
It turns out there is a line, but you're not sure you've crossed it yet because he still trots after you like a puppy, still loves you, still idolises you, even as you lash out at him.
You ruin him as completely as you can and he still follows after you, still cares.
But you? You do not. Not anymore. You have drawn a line in the sand and left him out of it; you have built walls without windows around your heart and not even he gets to see inside.
You will not allow this boy to be your weakness, this boy with the silver eyes.
In the end, you destroy him.
And you don't make the fragments into anything else.
You lead him into the darkness and you abandon him there. You show him the way to the Dark Lord and then drop him.
You watch him crack, watch the fault lines grow and splinter, and you do nothing.
You let him shatter.
In the end, you let him give his life.
And the walls around your heart don't give in the slightest.
You have ruined him. You have broken him, tainted him, spoiled him, tormented him, burned him.
And in the end, you are his destruction.
And you are proud.