Your name is Regulus Black and you will never burn as bright
You will scream and claw and push until the life is ripped from your lungs and replaced with water. You will know that this is the end, (you've always known haven't you?) but you will still fight, because even on the brink of death, why admit defeat? You are a black after all.
But that hasn't happened yet.
No, that is then and this is now. When you are young, naïve, and the claws of war, and death, and reality, have not yet sunk into you.
This is now. When the tragedy's you have to face with bright eyes are whether or not your brother wants to play with you.
Your brother is 11 and he is more red and gold then green and silver. Your brother is 11 and your mother screams because she will not have this, she is a black, and your father retires to his study and hides behind the post at breakfast. Your brother is 11 and you uncles and your aunts and your cousins don't look at him the same way. Your brother is 11 and he doesn't understand but somehow he knows it's where he's meant to be, with the brave. But this isn't about him, is it?
This is about you. This is not about your brother-he abandoned you remember? He left you. He doesn't care about you! None of them do!
But lets not get ahead of our selves we still have more to tell. What about you? You had waited for your turn to finally go to Hogwarts. Finally those nights, where you and your brother stayed up under the covers whispering what the castle was like. It was happening. It was real. When you made it to the platform your mother gripped your shoulder a little too tightly when she told you to make the family proud. Your father nodded at you, told you to listen to your mother. Your brother had bolted the second the second he caught sight of a mop of dark hair. But the castle was all you could think about; the train ride was a blur.
When you sat on the wooden stool it was still warm from the last person. The ratty hat dipped over your eyes and you were more glad than embarrassed, because it hid your blushing cheeks. You almost jumped when you heard a low voice in your head. It sounded centuries old. The ratty hat had whispered, Gryfffindor? Suddenly you were faced with an image of your mother and the hat roared SLYTHERIN!
When you make the Quidditch team in your second year your brother comes up to you, ruffles your hair, and gives you a smile you would never see at home. Then he runs back to his mates, bumping shoulders with the potter boy before they turn the corner. Sometimes you think that's the best day of your short life.
It's your fourth year now and you haven't talked to your brother in exactly 4 months, 2 weeks, and 3 days (not that you were counting). You favourite class, perhaps stereotypically, is potions. It gives you a challenge you haven't faced before. You surround yourself with schoolwork and Quidditch and routine socialising. It helps you to forget the crushing weight that's suddenly pushing down on you. It's been there since your brother left. Your mother screamed and stomped and you were reminded all over again of when he was sorted into Gryffindor. The only difference is your brother isn't coming back and now he's just an ugly black mark on the tapestry.
You weren't made for this role. You weren't groomed for it the way your brother was. The spare. That's what you are. Its what you've been reminded of your entire life. It's an anxiety that sometimes keeps you up at night. The only sound you can hear is the wind whistling through the tree branches outside your window and the tiny voice in your head that seems to be getting louder.
"Your not good enough." It sounds like your mother.
You skipped Quidditch practice once, because the voice was especially loud that day. Emma vanity (Slytherin Quidditch captain 1972-1976) yelled at you in front of the entire common room because "Merlin forbid they lose to Gryffindor again." You missed two more practices before she threatened to kick you off the team. You never missed another practice.
6th year has just begun and the voice is a little quieter now. Your forearm feels heavier, but now you have something to be proud of. Your mother tells you she has never been prouder and you think this is the best thing that could ever happen to you. Bellatrix called it an early birthday present and laughed a little too loudly.
You're sixteen years old when you kill your fist person. It's a muggle, an older woman. It was your first death eater raid and you didn't think they would ask you to kill somebody so soon. When it's over you through up twice and Rodolphus gives you're a cigarette and clap on the back. Bellatrix laughs again. You can still taste the blood and the vomit in your mouth hours later.
Your not quite sure how many people you killed in those three years. 10? 20? 50? It didn't really matter now. They're still dead and it's still your fault. You feel guilt creeping up on you but then your mother smiles at you and its gone. Well, not quite gone. Every time it leaves it comes back stronger, until its all consuming. Then one day you hear something mentioned-and off hand remark at one of the meetings. A horcrux. You've heard of them before, but you don't know much a bout them.
Until you do and now you have a plan. Onetime uncle Cygnus had told you that you're too smart for your own good. Your not sure if this is smart or stupid but it doesn't matter now, it's too late.
Your going through your mothers' jewellery box and kreacher is standing next to you chanting nononononono. Now you're in a cave and kreacher, kreacher who's been beside you your entire life, is pouring death down your throat.
Your throat is one fire and you're so thirsty and is that Sirius? What is he doing here? He's yelling at you but you don't know what he's saying-no its not Sirius its your mother. She looks betrayed and now it's your cousin no it's your uncle-? You think your screaming and you see water. You're dipping your hands in and your drinking and your going to be okokokok. Hands are grabbing at you now- who are they? No its not who its what. They've caught you now and suddenly your in the water you cant breath your trying to hold on-to pull your self up but you cant you cant you cant.
Regulus Black sits at the bottom of the lake. He is not dead nor is he alive. He just is. Pureblood runs in him no more. The one thing that was supposed to matter him the most in life means nothing in death. He will not be remembered. He will not be honoured. Only three people shall know of his heroics. And perhaps that is enough.
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