A/N: This is for Round 1 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Season 3!
Round: 1
Team: Wigtown Wanderers
Position: Chaser 3
Prompt: Beater 1's favorite character, Regulus Black
Optional Prompts:
3. (word) change
9. (restriction) no using a '?'
13. (restriction) no dialogue
Enjoy!
The Regulus Records
The painting wasn't exactly remarkable. It was composed of dull, bland colors that were clouded out even more by a layer of dust. It depicted a woman of indeterminate age - though she looked rather ancient - shrouded in a drab, old hooded cloak that completely hid her face, with sleeves that obscured her hands, in which she held a plain, chipped teacup. A blank leather-bound book, an inkwell, and a quill lay on the desk behind which she sat. She had been painted in the shadows, and her image had been hung in the shadows, the darkest part of an otherwise empty corridor in the dungeons.
Nobody saw her. Nobody cared.
But image is not the most reliable of judges, as she was one of the most remarkable paintings in the entire castle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, all for one very special reason: she saw.
She saw, and she wrote.
Scrawled on the parchment of her worn journal were records. Records of when Salazar Slytherin crept past her, a box containing a toad atop a hatching chicken egg in hand, records of Merlin practicing his magic at age twelve and Transfiguring a dirty tarter of fabric into luxurious silk dress robes, records of teenage Cassandra Trelawney collapsing in the hallway, her eerie, rasping voice reciting a prophecy, of Tom Riddle gathering his small band of followers and coining the titles "Lord Voldemort" and "Death Eater".
Yes, she had seen quite a bit.
She was called - or, more aptly phrased, called herself - the Scribess.
The first time she saw him was his second night at Hogwarts. He'd been muttering something about a "stupid dare from Mulciber" and "getting caught by Filch".
She'd recognized him instantly. The dark hair, the cheekbone structure, the perfect posture, the expensive dragon hide leather shoes...it all pointed to a Black. It was all so familiar.
But something was missing; something was different. She tried to peg it down on his appearance: the darkness of the hallway, how his cloak hid his figure, the fact that he was too young to properly display his hereditary features.
But deep, deep down, she knew that he seemed different because he was different.
He had compassion. He had retained some of his innocence, despite his family.
Someone must have sheltered him from the evils of the other Blacks. The mystery lay in who that someone was. It must have been a sibling. But it couldn't be one of the Blacks in Slytherin; they were far too deep in the quagmire of their family's prejudices.
Another Black, not in Slytherin, seemingly...
She heard his footsteps disappear around the corner and watched as the tail of his robes fluttered out of sight.
Putting down the teacup and picking up the quill, she bent down slightly and began to write.
She didn't see anyone at all after that.
The dungeons had no source of natural light and, for Peverell's sake, she was a painting. One hour could have passed, or one year; she couldn't tell.
She had grown used to waiting.
And in that solitude, she wrote.
The second time she saw him was when he was in his second year. He accompanied a group of raucous Slytherins, his own green tie knotted neatly and worn with a quiet, easy sort of pride that comes naturally only to a few.
One of the burlier, rowdier ones threw his arm around the Black, filling the hall with chants of "Reg" and "Seeker" and "win" and "only his first match". The Black suddenly straightened, now filled with the haughty characteristic of his family. More cheers of "Reg".
The Scribess paused and peered at the group. Reg Black.
That didn't sound like a name the Blacks would use. She thought of how the family named its children: after stars.
Reg...Regulus. It finally clicked.
Regulus Black.
Regulus Black, she gathered, was a second year Slytherin who played Seeker for his team at Hogwarts.
She observed him more with her hidden eyes. For some reason, something seemed...off...about him. He didn't quite look like the young eleven-year-old first year she had seen before.
And then she realized: some of the bricks that guarded his innocence had crumbled away to dust, the chinks allowing weapons to poke through and prod.
Whatever had been protecting him before no longer protected him now.
When you see such few people, you become uniquely and strongly perceptive to each one. Seeing only one person, especially one connected to you by blood, for so long only sharpens the senses.
The Scribess had just barely begun learning about Regulus.
And so she wrote in her journal of innumerable painted pages.
The third time she saw him was when he was in his third year. She knew he was thirteen years old just by glancing at his appearance and the changes in it; he had grown quite handsome by this point and truly looked like a Black. He had grown a bit taller, his cheekbone structure even more defined, his posture even straighter, his hair just a bit longer. He would keep on changing, keep on growing, she knew, but this was the most drastic change of all so far.
He had lost even more of his innocence. Now only a few base bricks remained, providing only a scanty protection, easily jumped over.
He had been poisoned.
Her heart sank at the realization; he was, after all, her kin, no matter how distantly related. She wanted to reach out to him, protect him, teach him, rebuild some of that broken wall.
But she couldn't.
She had failed; at least, she felt that way.
But she was only a painting, and such an unknown one, too. She couldn't have much impact on the lives of the few Hogwarts students that she ever saw.
Or so she thought.
Besides, she was the Scribess. She sat quietly and wrote. That was her only job, her only duty, her only role.
Or so she thought.
In his frenzy, he had tripped over his robes just in front of her portrait. The envelope flew from his hand, even closer to her, and she could now read the address:
Walburga Black
Number 12 Grimmauld Place
London
Judging by his previous mutterings, she assumed that Walburga was his mother.
Considering the size of the letter, Regulus was obviously completely immersed in his family's beliefs.
Her heart almost broke. She could have done something.
Or so she thought.
She wouldn't have been able to; it wasn't her nature.
She gazed at Regulus until he disappeared from her line of sight, preserving in her mind his last shreds of innocence.
And then she wrote.
The fourth time she saw him was when he was in his fourth year. He had been moving so silently that she had only noticed him when he entered her line of sight.
She recognized the movement instantly; it was so iconically Black in every way possible: silent, smooth, and stately, yet still swift.
She remembered moving through the house of her family in a similar fashion when she hadn't been just a painting, when she had been forced to hide her then radical views from a family whose most dominant tenet was a hate and prejudice of all people and things "less pure" or "below them".
Yet painting or person, no matter how old, she was still Regulus's relative, and that alone made it right for her to monitor him in this manner.
A feeling of unease festered in her stomach as she watched him; a Black would not see the need of such stealthy steps when he was just walking to, for instance, the common room.
Regulus was up to something.
She didn't know what that something was.
That, just not knowing, filled her with a kind of fear that she had never faced before.
And so she wrote what she had seen.
The fifth time she saw him was when he was in his fifth year.
But this time, he was not alone; he was accompanying some of his Slytherin friends. Among their group were Avery, Mulciber, Dolohov, Rowle, Nott, and Montague.
She'd had a bad feeling the moment her hidden eyes had fallen on them.
They were all extremists, with views identical to those of Lord Voldemort. Seeing only the patterns throughout the generations was enough to prove this.
But then again, she wasn't one to judge about family reputations; she was, after all, a Black who had fallen in love with a Muggleborn millennia ago.
The group glanced around the corridor nervously and then began speaking in hushed voices, voices that she could just barely hear. She caught the words "Dark Lord" and "Death Eater" and "join".
Her stomach twisted as she noticed Regulus's elated expression and realized that he actually wanted to be a follower of Lord Voldemort, of the Tom Riddle that she had seen so long ago.
She averted her eyes. She couldn't bear it.
The crowd eventually dispersed, with Regulus looking the proudest of them all.
She was appalled, shaken to the very bones, and oddly resigned to Regulus's decision.
Once everybody had left and she could hear the echoes of their movements no more, she wrote.
The sixth time she saw him was when he was in his sixth year. He was with his group again, looking haughtier than ever. They proudly announced their weekly Death Eater meeting.
Regulus had joined them.
How he had changed from an innocent first year.
She hated the Death Eaters and everything they stood for.
She hated them for the views they would have had on her romance with the charming, handsome, passionate Muggleborn who had shared with her the secret of his magic, a secret that would have gotten him killed, to which she had responded by revealing hers.
She hated how they revered the boy with a dark shadow on his soul, the man who once answered to the name Tom Riddle.
But most of all, she hated them for corrupting Regulus.
And then they all lifted up the black fabric of their sleeves to reveal an inked marking of a skull with a snake tongue.
The Dark Mark.
Lord Voldemort's Dark Mark, the insignia of the Death Eaters.
They had joined them.
Regulus had officially joined them.
Had she been a true human being and not an image of one, bile would have risen to her throat.
She almost shrieked.
The Scribess never made any sort of noise, never had the inclination to.
She stared in horror at the rest of the meeting.
She kept staring until they all left.
Breath shaking, hand trembling, she wrote.
The seventh and last time she saw him was when he was in his seventh year. He was alone this time.
Shoulders bent, head down, feet dragging along the cold marble floor, he lacked his usual proud, aristocratic stance.
He looked vulnerable.
He looked human.
He sat down across from her, his back leaning against the stone floor, his head thrown back, his eyes closed.
She didn't know what was wrong with him.
But she was sick and tired of this; sick of just sitting there and doing nothing, tired of watching Regulus turn left at all the rights.
Then she made a wild guess and hoped it would turn out right.
He regretted his decision, regretted joining the Death Eaters.
She could not comprehend exactly why such a religious follower would turn his back on Lord Voldemort.
But hope grew inside of her, blossoming in her core and growing, spreading light and warmth, to every inch of her painted being.
He was not a lost cause.
Something could be done.
She could help him.
She could save him.
And then his head snapped back and he faced forward. His eyes landed on her painting.
Now.
She didn't know why she made the decision, but slowly, cautiously, she lifted her hands to her hood.
Regulus saw.
And then slowly, cautiously, she drew the hood back.
Her thick, long, dark locks tumbled out. Her full, rouge lips parted slightly. Her soft, glowing skin was illuminated in the candlelight, her cheekbones prominent. Her stormy grey eyes reflected the dancing flame of the candle.
She looked just like a Black.
She was a Black.
She gazed at him, and he gazed back, eyes widening in recognition.
And there, in that moment, an understanding that only a familal bond can create passed between them.
Regulus.
He rose, still staring in awe.
Make the right decision, Regulus.
He walked away, glancing at her as he went.
Her gaze bore into him until he disappeared out of sight.
Finally, she had done something for him.
And because of her, Regulus had changed, for the better.
Her heart and mind in high spirits, she wrote, all the while smiling.
Years later, she still thought about him and that moment; it had changed both of them.
She had come out of her shell; she had learned that she could help.
He had maintained his morals and made the right decision, or so she hoped.
Because, despite his lost innocence, he had retained his compassion.
She wondered how he was doing, if he was still alive.
She still remembered him. She still hoped the best for him.
She cared.
She hoped he cared.
She hoped he still remembered.
She hoped that she had made her mark.
She knew she wouldn't do that for anyone no matter what, she would keep writing in her leather-bound journal.
A/N: Annnd scene! :) Thank you, all of you, for reading this! To Emily, whose favorite character is the spotlight of this story, I hope you enjoyed it and that you feel that I've done Regulus justice! And to the deant33, who had to read through this and judge it, I hope it wasn't too much of a bore!
Ink on!
Lil' Quill