Disclaimer: All that you recognise belongs to JK Rowling.
It is a strange feeling, a strange fever running through the both of them. They both know, of course, that if they are caught they might as well say goodbye one another forever - when it comes to that, they might as well say goodbye to the rest of their lives - and so utmost silence and caution are required on both their parts.
So, Damon muses as he grabs his foot and swears, it isn't really the best idea to stub your toe on the ancient, dark furniture of the Black family.
Regulus, who is in front of him and moving with an effortless ease and elegance through his house, turns around, looking murderous. They both know what's at stake, and for some reason that makes the muttered curses one lets out when their toe is in immense, throbbing pain all the louder.
"When we get out of here, I'm going to kill you, just so you know," Regulus hisses, his grey eyes somehow alight in the darkness, flashing.
"I might as well just hurt myself again and get us found out, for all the good it would do," Damon mutters sulkily, but he stays silent after this. There's just some people in life you really, really don't want to cross, and Regulus, despite his lithe waste and the very-girlish screams he lets out when tickled or frightened, is one of them.
It's something about the Black family, Damon thinks, as they continue their silent, midnight escapade through 12 Grimmauld Place. They're all people you'd never feel wise disobeying; all that bloody Pureblood arrogance really does have some effect.
They've done things like this, though then the scenario of being caught was never quite as frightening. They've snuck out in the night when Damon's been sleeping over, for instance, or they've gone outside for a late night broomstick ride on Muggle-born made broomsticks which the Black parents heartily disapprove of.
This is more important, this is so much more real, this is about life or death. If they're caught - well, neither of them really want to think about it. They slowly, slowly reach the top of the stairs and pause, both of them listening heard for any sounds of a stirring parent. There's nothing, except the ragged breath from Damon, who begins to think that he really, really should start to jog sometime, as the stairs never seemed quite that strenuous before.
"Come on then." Regulus motions for Damon to follow him and step by step they take the long journey to Regulus's room. It's never seemed so far away as it does now, right at the end of the corridor. They pass Mr and Mrs Blacks' room, holding their breaths as they do so, Damon taking special care not to bang into anything this time.
A few minutes later, after several heart-stopping moments where they could have both sworn they heard movement, Regulus pushes open his bedroom door and creeps in, Damon hot on his heels. It's a bit of a mess, illuminated by the moonlight flowing through the open window.
"Cor, Reg," Damon whispers, wrinkling his nose. "Could've tidied up a bit if you knew you'd have company, couldn't you?"
Regulus shoots him another of his glares. "Oh yes, I would have certainly tidied my room for tonight because, you know, that's really important in the whole run of things, isn't it?"
"Manners, Black," Damon replies haughtily, stepping gingerly over a pile of clothes. "No need to talk to your guest that way."
Regulus hits his hand into the wall, gently, and with some restraint. !Can we just get on with it? We need to get out as quickly as possible, we've got no time for this.!
"Fine," Damon sighs, exasperated. He leans over Regulus's bed - unmade, he notices, with some degree of pity - and pulls the window to, softly. He draws the curtains and turns back to his best friend, squinting to see clearly in the darkness. He begins to realise how silly it was to shut out the moonlight, even if they are doing this in complete secrecy. "Well then. Where's your trunk?"
"Er, somewhere around here. Near the wardrobe. Just feel with your hands."
Damon obeys and, feeling more than a little self-conscious, even if he's in the dark, he reaches forwards, groping blindly. He hears Regulus doing the same thing nearby him. They stagger around, both feeling rather stupid, before there is a large and very loud thump on the ground.
"Well. Er - bugger. I found it," Regulus squeaks, from somewhere on the floor. Damon not-so-successfully stifles a laugh, earning him a swift kick in the shin. "Look. Just. Shut up, will you? I don't want to be found out."
He struggles to his feet and grabs the trunk with both hands. He pauses. He suddenly realises he hasn't really thought this through. "Er - er - look, Damon. How exactly are we going to get this trunk down the stairs, you know, silently? What about the portraits, what if they wake up? What if Kreacher hears?"
With a shake of the head, Damon sighs. He takes his rucksack from his bag and unzips it, pulling out several soft, linen bags, and thrusts them at his best friend. "Put all your stuff in these, yeah? Then we can just carry them instead of dragging that huge thing down the stairs and waking everyone up."
"Right," Regulus says, regaining composure and proceeding to fill the bags with his belongings. He fills three of them, and they're fairly large too, and gives out small, triumphant sounds. "We're going to have to be extra quiet now. I only just remembered about the portraits."
"We'll just be careful. If they wake up, we skip to Plan B and run for it, alright?"
"Alright," Regulus agrees, though his voice sounds slightly strangled. "Alright. Let's get on with it then."
Damon takes one of the bags for him, like any gentlemen should do, and decides to lead the way this time. Regulus is obviously realising exactly what he is doing, and it's got to be hitting him hard. So it's up to the best friend to take control. They trail slowly and silently down the hall. It's quicker this time, and they both feel a bit more confident for it.
They're one door away from the one behind which Mr and Mrs Black lie, and Damon suddenly realises that he can no longer here the reassuring, gentle breaths of Regulus right behind him. He turns, curiously, to see Regulus at the door behind him, staring at it with a very odd expression on his face, illuminated eerily by moonlight.
"Regulus!" Damon whispers, hoping against hope that the whisper doesn't carry to anybody but his friend. "What are you doing? We need to go!"
Regulus shakes his head, his black hair falling from behind his ears and into his eyes. He brushes it away impatiently, and then jerks his hand forward, and determinedly swings the door open, stepping inside. Damon, very much alarmed at this point, gently lays the bag on the floor and goes after his friend, mystified, if not annoyed at this irrational behaviour, now of all times.
They enter into a small room, with an unmade bed that looks as though it could have been slept in only hours ago, with various, teenage objects strewn across the room. Realisation hits Damon, as Regulus inhales deeply, evidently trying to get the scent of the room into his bloodstream as effectively as possible.
This must be Sirius's room.
Regulus, in the dim light, gives a wobbly kind of smile. "I think I'll miss this room more than my own. But don't ever mention that to anybody or I'll have to kill you, you know."
"I know," Damon says, softly. He knows not to trespass when it comes to Regulus and his brother. It's a long and complicated relationship that nobody understands, even the siblings themselves. Regulus creeps forwards, running a hand across the bed.
"Mum and Dad haven't been in here since he left," he says, in a quiet, choked kind of voice. "I've kept it just as he left it. You know, just in case - well, in case he came back."
His hands move to the wardrobe, opening it. A moth or two fly out, but Regulus bats them away, reaching for something. He pulls out a Muggle shirt, and bundles it up, pushing it into one of his bags. He shoots his friend a fierce, defiant look, as if challenging him to say anything mocking.
It doesn't even cross Damon's mind to, he just stays quiet and observes. Regulus casts the room one last, long look, shakes his head, brushes past his friend and out of the door. The corridor seems darker, somehow, as if something sinister, or something monumental, has just passed.
They reach the top of the stairs and begin their slow descent downwards, with one or two winces at creaky steps. They are close to the bottom when Regulus abruptly stops, turning to look up at his friend, who in turn is getting extremely exasperated at this point.
"Listen, mate," Regulus says, a sudden intensity in his whispering voice. ⌠You don't need to do this. You can still go home, I can do this myself. You know - it's a big thing, and it's my problem really - I appreciate you doing it and all but - well, you don't need to."
"I know I don't," Damon says, indifferently. "But, you know what? I want to. I only ever liked my mother, and she's dead now. My brother and father don't give a damn - I don't give a damn. Sorry, Reg, but you're stuck with me."
Damon catches a glimpse of a rare, sweet and genuine smile on his best friend's face as it moves and glints in the moonlight. The effect of this loyalty is somewhat ruined by the sound of slow, shuffling feet, and the appearance of Kreacher the very-unwelcome-House-Elf at the foot of the staircase.
"What is the young Master doing?" Kreacher asks, eyes flicking between the shocked boys. "And why is his friend with him?"
"We're - we're just going out for a walk, Kreacher," Regulus replies, quickly - too quickly, for the House Elf's eyes narrow instantly with dislike. Damon has never liked the thing, it's always been lurking around and being weird and has a really, really creepy face.
"The young Master is going to break Mistress's heart again, isn't he?" Kreacher asks, reproachful. Regulus quickly shakes his head, desperately trying to shut his supposedly devoted servant up, but Damon senses danger and decides on immediate, if drastic, action.
He shoves past Regulus and throws himself onto the elf, shoving a hand round the thing's mouth. Regulus lets out a strange noise of absolute horror, before he comes to his senses and whispers, "I forbid you to tell Mum or Dad anything about this!". Kreacher glares through Damon's fingers, who in turn grins triumphantly up at Regulus, who's breathing has become even heavier.
Their happiness and relief lasts all of but three seconds, when there is a sudden and alarming set of noises from upstairs. They both blanch, and Damon staggers to his feet, eyes flicking from the silently enraged elf, to the shaking Regulus to the stirring portraits.
"Regulus?" comes a female's voice from up the stairs. It is sweet and concerned, but over the edge bubbles a danger, a danger very real and very horrible to the two eighteen year olds who are now deafened by their own breaths and heartbeats. "Is that you, Regulus?"
"Yes," Regulus says, bravely but a bit stupidly, too. "I'm just getting a drink, Mother."
"I heard voices."
"It's just me and Kreacher. I'm sorry for waking you."
"Yes, well, be more quiet next -"
"It's a lie, Walburga!" comes a screech, from the nearest portrait of a late aunt. Damon and Regulus both wince simultaneously. "He's got a friend with him, and they have packed bags!"
There are louder bangs from upstairs, and a male voice joins the chaos now ensuing as the woman begins to scream and yell. Damon draws back a fist and punches the portrait, splitting the canvas in two but also splitting quite a bit of skin. He hardly notices - it's anger pumping within him now, anger at the spoiled plan, anger at stupid, fucking portraits who can't keep their mouths shut.
Regulus jumps the last of the steps, grabs Damon's arm and yells "Run for it!" just as the door at he top of the stairs bangs open. Damon doesn't hesitate to obey, and the two of them skid through the hallway, wrench open the door and, quite simply, run for it.
The streets are dark and empty at this time, damp from recent rain. They push themselves to the fastest they can possibly run, around corners, through nameless roads. Behind them, all the time, comes the yells from a man, Regulus's furious and extremely frightening father.
"Regulus!" Damon groans as a stitch suddenly feels as though its ripping across his ribs. "What are we going to do? We can't outrun him for that much longer!"
"You're right," Regulus hisses back, stops suddenly, looks around and promptly climbs over the nearest garden gate. Damon stares, before realising he's alone now to face the angry father, and throwing himself over the gate too, lands in an awkward lump next to a breathless Regulus.
"We've got to keep moving, come on," Regulus says, pulling his friend to his feet. "We need to jump as many of these fences as possible and - and I don't know, hide in a random garden. He'll think we've Apparated or something."
The mention of Apparation causes a sting in both of them. They were both marginally good students, talent wise, back at Hogwarts, but both dramatically failed their Apparating tests, both splinching painfully and embarrassingly. Neither want to risk it now, and so scale more garden gates, dropping into the trees on the other side without complaint.
They've managed to scramble over thirteen fences, before they both decide they really can't go any further and collapse against a tree each. Their lungs are swelling and their chests heaving, and yet it can't quite banish the fear or banish the nervous hope that perhaps they have actually won.
"He'll never look in people's gardens." Regulus looks proud and satisfied, although this effect is rather ruined by the fact he's bent over double, clutching his side. "You know, I think we might actually have pulled this off."
"Yeah," Damon agrees. He'd usually be more eloquent, or at least attempt to be, but right at this moment he really doesn't give a damn. All that he can think about is how close they were to getting caught. If they were caught, they would have been murdered on the spot.
They sit down in the damp, cool grass, hoping that nobody is going to look out of their window and see them. The air is cold against their red cheeks and they're grateful for it, and are grateful for the sparks crackling inside of them as they realise they've actually - for all purposes and meanings - won.
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"So," Damon says, balancing a cigarette between his fingers and rummaging for his wand in his pocket to light it. They are leant on the inside of an abandoned warehouse, an hour or so from Regulus's house, in the outskirts of London. They had rested in the garden for an hour or two, hoping that Mr Black wouldn't still be searching in the area. They had then walked slowly in the early hours of the morning, in search of this haven.
It is about four o'clock in the morning. In the sky the black is slowly dwindling into a hazy blue, the stars going out on at a time, like candles being extinguished. It's freezing cold, but they've lit a fire with their wands, afraid to do any more serious magic in attempt to warm themselves up. They're perfectly legal to do magic, they just don't know if Mr Black will be trying to detect it.
"So," Damon repeats. He hands Regulus the cigarette, who takes a long drag, his cheekbones even more pronounced than usual. He blows the smoke out into Damon's face, cheekily. He knows that Damon is trying his hardest to kick the habit.
"So," Regulus agrees pleasantly. He doesn't really care what it is Damon's trying to get him to think about. He doesn't want to think, he just wants to carry on with the contented, if slightly cold, feeling he has at the moment. The feeling of winning. The feeling of escaping. The feeling of independence.
"We did it, didn't we?" Damon says, a grin creeping across his face. "I mean, we really did it. Even though we've been planning it for weeks, you know, I didn't know if it would work. And it did. It's amazing."
"Yeah, it is," Regulus laughs, happy and surprised at the sudden cheeriness and awe in his friend's voice. It's unusual for him to be so pleased about something that had at one point made him so angry. "Great punch by the way. The portrait. How's your hand?"
"Hurts like hell but that's not what matters."
"Oh come on, let me have a look," Regulus sighs. He drops his cigarette onto the concrete below them and stamps in out awkwardly with his foot. Then he takes his best friend's hand, examining it in the dim light.
Damon knows he has every reason to be insecure about this situation, but this is Regulus and Regulus is his best and just about only friend. The fact that Regulus is gay and holding his fingers just a little too tightly doesn't really matter to him. The mere fact that they're both alive compensates anything.
That's where all of this started, really. Regulus being gay. He came out to Damon in the first month of their seventh year and whilst it had caused quite some awkwardness to begin with, Damon didn't care. In fact, he'd thought it was so for quite some time. It appeared to bother Regulus more than him, strangely.
He had lied to his mother, saying that a boy he knew had come out as gay, just to see her reaction. It had been rather predictable. She'd come out with loads of crap about how unnatural and disgusting and perverted it was, and that she wouldn't be surprised if Sirius was gay, and that she was glad no real son of hers was.
It was at that point, when he'd seen the dangerous and very serious look on his mother's face when she said she would kill him if he ever turned out gay, that Regulus knew he had to leave home.
He'd quickly written a letter to Damon, informing him of this dire situation, and they had spent all of the summer, that usually would have been spent happily celebrating the fairly respectable NEWTs they both got, planning how to get Regulus out. It wasn't long before Damon decided he was going to run away, too.
He was a half-blood, and couldn't stand it. He thought he was somewhat inferior to Regulus, even though they both got the same grades thereabouts. His mother, a Muggle, had been sweet and kind and he had loved her, but she had died half-way through seventh year. He was left with a father who was more drunk than sober, and a brother who was more violent than talkative, and doubted very much if either of them would actually care he'd left. He'd just call it moving out, if they did. He was eighteen, after all.
Regulus, on the other hand, had to run away. He'd been told specifically the day that Sirius had ran away that he wasn't allowed to leave home except to marry a Pureblood girl. There was no other option but running away. They've both saved money (and nicked some) and have quite enough funds to get through about a month without needing a job.
Damon sighs, contentedly, as Regulus lets go of his hand, looking concerned. "If it weren't so bloody freezing I'd recommend you get some ice on that. What do we do if it gets infected?"
"Chop it off?" Damon replies, lazily. He really doesn't care about the pain. He's out of his horrible family, Regulus is out of his. "We're out now, Regulus. Well, I know you've been Out for quite a while, har har, but I mean, we're gone from all that now. We can go wherever we want. We've got our stuff, we've got money, we can go -"
He falters, biting his lip so suddenly and so hard it causes nearly as much pain as his hand is in. He doesn't even bother to flinch, he's so distracted with his sudden thoughts. "Er, Reg, mate?"
"Hmm?" Regulus asks drowsily, dropping his head on Damon's shoulder and sighing. "What's up?"
"Well, this has been a really great plan and a great step forward and I don't really want to ruin it or anything, but whereabouts are we going to go, exactly?"
Regulus sits up, tensing. His grey eyes are wide and almost comical, his expression stunned. "Oh God. Oh Lord."
"I think I can guess your answer."
"Yeah, I'm sure you can," Regulus says, voice ever so slightly shrill. "I don't have a fucking clue."
"My thoughts exactly," Damon sighs, fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it. After all, he thinks guiltily, it's not as though everything else besides his reservation hasn't just gone to hell.
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