A/N: Another little offering of my HP musings (which btw I make no pretentions of ownership to, all belong to JKR). This and 'A Bird's Eye View' are a kind of writing exercise. Basically I pick a scene, or title- at the moment it seems to be weather-based - and then start writing. So far it's been quite helpful, I'd recommend it for those who still want to practice their writing, but don't have the time to work on something more lengthy. Anyway, that said, I hope you enjoy this, any opinions or advice are welcome and appreciated.
Shadow-Life
The rain sloshed down the roof of the Quidditch shed, splashing onto the rain-soaked ground. The shorn tufts of grass stuck out shining wetly green against the dull brown mud. It really wasn't much shelter. Already the hem of his robes had soaked up the water to his knees, his socks and shoes had long been saturated. Pale fingers, clutched his cloak across his chest. The splatter as the rain hit the ground made him feel queasy. The sound brought back bad memories. Memories of sight and sound that haunted his days and plagued his nights.
The shouts and sounds of the noisy practice session carried above the rain. He could see the dark red blurs of his brother's team darting and diving against the monotone grey sky. A loud whoop rang out as Sirius scored another goal. Regulus watched with envious eyes as he collided with that Potter boy with the cavalier grace that only Sirius could get away with. He didn't need to be close to see the infectious grin spread across Sirius's face as he slung an arm around Potter's shoulders.
It had been years since Sirius had looked at him like that and embraced him as a brother. These days, if he saw him at all, it was with narrowed eyes of suspicion and animosity. Regulus couldn't recall a time when he'd seen regret or sympathy in those grey eyes, so like his own. No, to him they were brothers in name only, maybe not even that if there was any way around it.
He sighed heavily, feeling the familiar ache grip his heart. He knew he must make a pathetic figure, stood huddled in the meagre shelter of the broom shed, watching the brother who didn't love him lavish affection on another. Like a starving child with his face pressed up against the warm glass of the bakery he watched, separated by distance and something else more divisive and enduring than the wide sea.
Each day he'd turn his traitorous eyes to watch him pass, hoping for some scrap, some indication that might show that he cared. Cared whether the brother made of the same blood, the same flesh was swallowed by the dark. Once they'd shared a house, a room, a family. Now, Sirius was just another scorch mark in a long legacy left to him alone.
There were days when he couldn't believe it. Days when he invented a hundred different reasons why Sirius never seemed to care. Where it was all an elaborate ruse to protect him, to shield him, to cover for the brother he loved, just like when they were kids and he would take the blame each time Regulus smashed a window as Sirius tried to teach him how to play beater to his chaser.
But Regulus Black wasn't stupid. Whatever else he might be, it wasn't that. One of the brightest students in his year, all the teachers would say. He took a certain amount of pride in that-no, not pride, but he took a care to cultivate it. His house respected intellect. It afforded him a certain amount of privileges within the walls of the Slytherin common room and dormitories. It had also gotten him noticed. Not by the person that mattered, but still by people who counted. Who would count more in the years to come.
Sometimes he thought he'd made a mistake- no, sometimes he allowed himself to know that he'd made a fatal error, the kind of horrific blunder that seemed to have no way out but the long dark night of dreamless sleep. Perhaps Sirius would know how to break free, he always did have a vast imagination that used to think for the both of them. But Sirius didn't know and wouldn't care.
This standing in the rain, hiding around corners was his shadow life, where he watched and yearned, unable to hate, unable to close his heart to the brother he loved.
He had nothing to offer this reckless, laughing Adonis whose life-flame burned so strong and so bright. Nothing to offer but this- the slim, faint chance that by trawling his soul through the mire and staying this course of blood and curses he might someday be able to reach out his hand to stay another's. To take his turn and protect the brother who had so certainly set his path to collide with the dark. Because there was a chance that if he played the game well enough and purchased his place among them with lies and deceit that he could do this thing. And offer him mercy where love had been scorned.