So I should probably be working on Before Dawn. Yeah, cool, I got that. But this is a very, very, VERY belated birthday present to my lovely friend Leah, or shall I say, Gloo. Happy birthday, Gloo! Also, I must say, if you're looking for a cheery story all fluffy with a 'happy ever after' you might not get it in this story. But if you want almost-decent grammar, writing, and such, you've found it. Unless you think my writing is crap.
In the dark night, the brambles were illuminated with a pale moonlight that shone on withered flowers. It also illuminated on a girl with her face cast in shadow. Her hair was long, trailing down to her elbows and swept over her face in dramatic waves, appearing black. She was still; deathly still, it appeared.
In the other side of the forest, a boy walked among the trees. At a first glance, he would appear to look like the notorious Marauder Sirius Black, but although the relation was apparent, his face was too haughty. He liked pain, but not for himself.
And between the two was the matchmaker. The matchmaker knew no love. She simply paired two people together emotionlessly, for it was her job.
But Regulus never, ever, played along.
Regulus looked up when the matchmaker arrived. "Oh," he said rather irritably. "It's you."
"Give the girl a chance," the matchmaker said idly. "She's not even aware of our little deals." Her eyes narrowed at Regulus. "You aren't supposed to be aware of my little deal with the devil."
"You're cursed to have to find matches for everyone until you yourself find love with one who loves you back," Regulus said in a bored voice, rolling his eyes. "And you're not even finding the correct match for me. She's quiet, boring-"
"They always seem like that," the matchmaker hurried to say.
"Lumos," said the boy and his wand lit up. The matchmaker blinked, stunned for a bit by the sudden illumination, and then she sighed. In the opalescent white-gold light from Regulus's wand, her brown eyes looked darker then ever and her pale gold hair caught the light. She looked younger than Regulus's seventeen years, though he knew that she was at least a hundred years old.
However, that didn't stop her from being effortlessly gorgeous. To be brutally honest with himself, Regulus was always a bit blown away by her. Not so much from the unfeeling look on her face, but from her eyes. There was just something ancient about her eyes that made them look sad. Maybe because of the ancient look in them.
Although time never affected the matchmaker's body, Regulus could see how old she was in her eyes. And the way her lips quirked in a half-smile that quickly faded away.
"Give her a chance," said the matchmaker, and for a minute, her face looked drawn. "Please."
Then, in a feat that Regulus could never understand, the matchmaker drew her hood over her head and simply vanished. And though he instantly waved his hand through the space she was before in, there was nothing there. Only the imprint of two feet in the dirt was left.
He tried.
But she—and she was Damaeya Widow—was a Hufflepuff girl, for heaven's sake, and was edgy to be around him for too long. And Regulus was the good son; the only son now that Sirius had left. It wouldn't be completely accurate to say that Regulus missed Sirius, but it wouldn't be correct to say that he didn't. For Regulus had mixed feelings for his brother.
And Regulus had to admit that his brother was very popular in school. Always flashing that infamous smirk of his that soon faded when he spotted his brother.
Regulus' thoughts went back to the Hufflepuff girl when she scurried by again. Long, black, and wavy hair that framed a tiny face with huge gray eyes framed with long curly eyelashes, she was pretty. He had to admit that. And Regulus Black was completely certain that if he wanted to corner her, he would be completely able to. She was predictable at the best of times.
Yet there was always something that stopped him. Something that stopped him from pursuing that pretty Hufflepuff girl that always blushed whenever she saw him coming; something that stopped him from drunkenly kissing that Ravenclaw girl with the coy smile and the batting eyelashes.
Regulus refused, however, to admit that the said thing that stopped him had brown eyes and pale hair.
"Lift up your arm, Regulus."
A cold voice.
He was out of school now - and somehow, he still saw that Hufflepuff girl. She worked at a coffee shop that he went to regularly. Every time she handed him his order - black coffee, bittersweet - she blushed and ducked her pretty little head so that her glasses looked in danger of falling off her face.
"Yes, sir," Regulus said faintly.
There was a whispered incantation and the feeling of something being burned into his arm. The smell of burning flesh. And then everything was black - blacker than tar, and pain. Painfuller than burning himself when he was younger.
And he woke up in a sea of white.
It wasn't a sea of white, respectively. It was more like he was swathed in a million white blankets. Now that his eyes were focusing, his bed was made of a light honey-brown wood. Sunlight poured through windows, tinting the white walls with rays of gold, and there was a girl sitting next to the bed he was in and she was watching him.
He recognized her. How could he not recognized her, when she haunted his thoughts whenever he had time to think? Regulus sat up and the white blankets slipped to his waist. He wasn't wearing a shirt, he realized, but he was wearing pants.
"You've gotten the Dark Mark," the matchmaker said vaguely. The honey-colored sunlight wove through her hair and made her eyes seem like chocolate. "I knew you would, but..."
It was so good to see her - and it made Regulus's chest hurt. He looked down at his arm and recoiled. The Dark Mark was burned prominently into his arm, and the skin around it was red and puffy.
"Matchmaker," he said. "What's your real name?"
The matchmaker opened her mouth, and then closed it. Abruptly, tears glimmered in her brown eyes. "I-" she said, and then a tear actually made its way down her pale face. "I don't remember. How-how can I not remember?"
Alarmed, Regulus tried to kick his way out of the blankets, but it didn't work. "Matchmaker," he said. "Matchmaker?"
"Yes?"
"It doesn't matter."
The matchmaker turned away, crossing her arms. The neckline of her bodice gaped slightly open with this movement, and Regulus forced his eyes to focus on her face. She looked a picture, eyes downward and lips slightly parted. "I just can't remember," she said. "That's … that's not right."
"Well," Regulus said in an attempt to make her smile. "I can't when I'm drunk. I'm all, ''Lo, my name is Reggy!' and yeah."
For a second, her lips twitched, and then she sighed. "You know you're not here in real life," she said.
"I'm not?"
For a minute, she looked sadly on him before reaching out and tugging lightly on one scraggly lock of hair. "You aren't," she said, and now her face was just a breath away, teeth tugging slightly at her lip. "Sorry."
"So this is a dream?"
"Not quite. But hey—if you want, it can be."
And then she let go, and Regulus woke up. In his own room. With green swathing everything.
And at that moment, he really hated green.
He tried.
He tried for three people. One: Himself. Two: the girl, Damaeya. Three: The matchmaker.
"Hello, Damaeya," he said casually in passing when he picked up his regular coffee. Damaeya looked up, eyes wide. Her eyes were strange, to say in the least. Grey, faraway, and surprisingly like the matchmaker's. There was this ancient quality to them too, like this girl had seen much. Knew much. Her hair was long, down to her elbows in dark waves, and she rarely fidgeted. A quiet statue.
"Regulus," she said, and her voice was faint and whispery. Breathy, and sweet.
It was a start.
He started being polite to her, and then even talking to her. Every time, her voice retained that sweet, breathy air about it, though she shied away from him sometimes. It was like she was afraid of him; and not because he was a Slytherin.
The swelling around his Dark Mark had reduced noticably. The mark stood out luridly, and he always wore long-sleeved shirts to cover it. What woman, he wondered at times, would want to marry a man who was cohorts with Voldemort? Only a pure-blood Slytherin purist, he figured.
Stumping into his room, he saw Kreacher. "Kreacher," he said, voice hoarse. "Hello."
"Master," said the old, ancient house-elf with that adoring look that he reserved only for the Blacks (excluding Sirius.) "What can Kreacher do for Master?"
"Nothing, thank you," Regulus said. Though most of the Blacks held contempt for Kreacher, excepting Bellatrix, Regulus had fond memories of Kreacher. Such as, when Sirius left, Kreacher had been there to listen to Regulus' ranting. When Regulus was four, his parents had tried to figure out whether he could talk Parseltongue or not. The snake, a harmless garden snake, had bitten him and it was not Regulus's mother that clucked over the wound and healed it. Instead, his mother had shrieked in that awful scratchy voice of hers for Kreacher to come and heal her worthless boy, and it was Kreacher who healed the wound and asked if "Master Regulus" was all right.
Kreacher, present-day, bowed and backed out of the room. Regulus fiddled with the clasp that held the front of his robes closed and stared at the ceiling.
"It's about time."
He knew that voice immediately, but it didn't stop him from turning to see her—to see her strangely lovely face with the eighteenth century look to it. Today she was nervous, playing with her long, lacy sleeves.
He hadn't seen her so. . .so dressed up before. "Going to a party or something?" he asked, referring to the long pearl earrings that dangled from her earlobes and the frothy, fancy white dress. She gave that quirky half-smile of hers and shook her head. "No?"
"Nope."
"Playing dress-up?" A vivid image of himself being dressed up as a girl by Sirius when he was little darted in front of his eyes and he shook it away.
"Actually, no," said the matchmaker, and then blushed.
He never saw her blush before; not when he was in Hogwarts and not when he was an adult. It made him grin. Her cheeks turned pink and her grin, which had faded away before, came back. "Why're you here?" he asked.
The smile faded and the color in her cheeks drained away to a ghostly rose that still lingered on her high cheekbones. "Oh," she said. "Um. Really, I was surprised."
"Surprised? How?"
"That you were actually giving Damaeya a chance."
Regulus snorted, and the sound lingered awkwardly in the silence between them. "I—" he said and found that he didn't know what he was going to say after that. "I—" he tried again, and frowned, running a hand through his hair distractedly. The matchmaker was waiting, her fingers twining and untwining together.
"Never mind," the matchmaker said, with a soft sigh. In a long step, she was beside him and one hand reached out to tug away his hand from his hair gently. "Never mind." Her hand was cold and soft at the same time, like it had recently been washed and air-dried. Her lips were very, very pink, and—oh Merlin—they were getting closer and closer to him. They quickly brushed over his cheek, a flutter of a kiss, and then she drew away.
Her cheeks were flushed again, and Regulus was speechless. "Matchmaker," he said, his voice half-elated, half shocked, but the matchmaker shook her head and stepped into the shadows. "I'm sorry," she said. "I think." Though her hair was pale and her dress was white, she somehow managed to fade away like a ghost until only dust that glittered faintly in the light was left of her.
But she'd be back. That's what Regulus hoped.
For a while, now, Regulus had wondered why He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was so strange looking. The flashes of red in his eyes, etcetera. Of course, he daren't ask the Lord himself that, for he would be either killed or shamed in some way. But he knew—he just knew that the Lord had delved into sorcery.
It was because of the matchmaker that he finally found out.
"Do you know about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" he asked when the matchmaker came one sunny day. He was in the park when he bumped into her. Although she was obviously dressed to look like a muggle, he knew instantly that it was her.
"Yes," said the matchmaker, who looked slightly irked that her cover had been blown so quickly.
"Do you ever … wonder about him?"
The matchmaker passed a hand over her fair, light, hair. "I tried," she said. "I tried setting him up with some nice filly that'd put him to rights. But by the time he finally came to my attention, it was already too late."
"Already to late for what?"
"He's not entirely there, you know what I mean?" said the matchmaker, biting her lip. "Not solid."
"What, do you mean he's missing a bit, perhaps his—"
The matchmaker cut him off before he could finish his sentence. "No, no, not physically—" Regulus fancied that she was blushing because of the implied meaning in his sentence. "It's more like his innards...that bit that dementors eat—"
"His soul?" Regulus asked, inwardly sniggering at the 'dementors eating' bit.
"Yes, his soul. It's not entirely there."
Regulus frowned. "That's not possible," he said.
The matchmaker rolled her eyes. "Trust the woman who's about four hundred years older than you," she said. "And how's Damaeya?"
"Fine," grumbled Regulus, even though it wasn't 'fine'. Damaeya was still hopelessly shy and scared of him, barely answering his questions with a breathy 'yes' or 'no.' And, four hundred years old?
The matchmaker raised an eyebrow. "All right then."
He knew that she knew.
One day, he bumped into Damaeya.
She, he had to admit, was looking her best. Long dark hair tied up with little curls escaping and framing her face, face flushed from exercise and eyes sparkling. "Oh, hello," she said, a bit winded. "I—I didn't know you came here to this park often."
"I don't," he said a bit belatedly. "I'm just passing through."
"Ah," said Damaeya.
"Listen," he said half-heartedly. "Coffee?"
And there the relationship began.
Damaeya, he was pleased to discover, was witty, funny, and intellectual, often bantering with him. However, she lacked that spark that he wanted. No, the spark he needed. She was pleasant, but not the person to stand up to him. Whenever they argued, she always backed down, leaving him with a sense of emptiness. There was no reward in a battle won, if it was already won at the start.
Funnily enough, a few years ago he would've been wishing for this kind of woman. He'd been around too many headstrong, wicked-ish people for a lifetime. But it was very, very strange.
"Regulus?"
Damaeya looked up at him expectantly, and Regulus realized that she had said something to him. "Uh," he stammered. "Damaeya, I'm going to have to..."
"Oh." For a minute, Damaeya's face fell. "All-okay. Yeah. Sure." Hesitantly, she stood on her tiptoes and lightly kissed him on the cheek. He felt his normally waxen complexion blush as he mumbled something incoherent and stumbled away.
"Good luck," said a light voice, the voice of the matchmaker. Her voice was wispy and sailed away with the wind as he looked around almost desperately for her. But still, she wasn't there. She was never there.
"Matchmaker," he said, remembering her kiss, and his tone took on a desperate edge. "Matchmaker?"
There was no answer.
He knew.
He knew about Voldemort's secret, and his Lord knew that he knew. Voldemort was avoiding him, waiting for Regulus to trip up so that Regulus could be disposed of properly.
Horcruxes.
Regulus knew of them, very vaguely. He looked up 'Horcruxes' and he knew, he just knew that Voldemort, who was actually quite sentimental, had used a founding wizard's relic. And Voldemort, who was from Slytherin, must've used the Slytherin locket.
It all made sense.
He walked quickly down the hall of Hogwarts. His hood, a dark green with a shimmer to it, was thrown over his head. Professor McGonagall stopped and looked at him. Her eyes narrowed as she let him pass.
"Toffee-Coffee," Regulus said in a monotonous voice as he stepped before the gargoyle. The staircase was revealed and he went up.
Knock.
"Come in."
He went in.
Dumbledore looked up from the papers that he was inspecting. Shock shone in his watery blue eyes for a second, and then he said, "Regulus. How are you?"
"Fine, sir, thank you."
Regulus carefully sat down, on edge. A gloriously fire-colored bird was on a pedestal, occasionally ruffling the magnificent wings. A phoenix, as Regulus knew. He'd heard of them, but never had he thought that he'd see one.
"Horcruxes," Regulus said.
The word slipped out, lightly.
"Ah. So the loyal follower of Voldemort finally finds out."
"I—" stammered Regulus, but Dumbledore put out his hand. "I understand," Dumbledore said lightly. "You are in need and you do not know what to do. And I'm afraid that I cannot help you, Regulus. I am sorry."
He was dismissed, stumbling down the stairs and pass McGonagall's eye.
"Regulus."
He turned around, half-hoping that it was the matchmaker and knowing inside him that it was not. She had not visited for over a month. Instead, it was Damaeya, smiling prettily, albeit nervously.
"Damaeya," Regulus said raspily, and then realized that she was staring at his dark mark. His sleeves on the hot day were rolled up. "Damaeya."
"I already knew," Damaeya said. "You're Slytherin, and you wore a white shirt that one day. I could see it, Regulus. You're not very good at hiding it."
He took a step towards her and she cringed slightly.
"Damaeya," Regulus said, his heart breaking at that movement. "I—I'm not going to hurt you."
"I know that," Damaeya said in a trembly voice. "But—yet—oh, Regulus." She flung herself at him, winding her arms around him, and she was shaking, slightly. He hugged her back, clutching her thin frame, and then she was sobbing. "I can't do this, Regulus."
"Neither can I, Damaeya."
"No, no, you don't understand. My mother—she—" Damaeya broke off.
"Hush, hush, don't talk about your mother." He knew about her mother, and how her mother died. It had broken Damaeya.
"Shush, you don't understand. He's not what you think he is, Regulus. He's invincible. He has this special...this weapon that'll keep him alive forever. You'll have to kill him over and over again and then he'll just kill you, Reg."
"I know, I know..."
"My mother, she followed him one day, and she saw him go into a cave with a stone with blood." Damaeya was babbling now. "He's alive, but dead. He's nothing, Regulus, he's—and you're going to die along and oh. I can't love you if you're going to die, Regulus. I just can't."
"You don't know what you're saying; I'm not going to die." This was a lie, and both of them knew it.
"You're going to try, aren't you."
"Yes," Regulus said. "I'm going to try."
Damaeya, shaking, lifted herself so that her mouth was a breath away from his ear, and whispered directions to that cave. Then she stepped back and said, "You're a brave fool, you know."
"I know," he said.
"I can't love you if you're going to die."
"I know."
"Even so, I loved you." There was a crack as she disapparated.
And from then on, he never saw her again.
Dear Sirius,
If I never see you again, I'm sorry. You were – you've always been – my brother. And it was wrong of me to think otherwise.
Reg.
He sealed the letter up all pretty-like in an envelope embossed with the Black seal and sent it away to the Potter residence, where he was fairly sure Sirius resided. Perhaps it was a mishap on his part to emboss it with the Black insignia, because when Sirius saw it, he threw it in the fire where it curled up, edges turning black and burned.
It was sentimental of him to write all these letters to people and put them in a box that would never be sent out. To Damaeya, how he was sorry and he hoped that she found love at last. Another one to Sirius, because he had too many regrets for his brother. One to his mother, about how she was wrong to exile Sirius.
One to Dumbledore, about how he was sorry. One to James Potter, to take care of his brother. One to Lily Evans, to tell her how much Severus loved her. One to Voldemort, about how he was going to eventually fall. One to Kreacher, for being a close friend. So many more for so many other people.
One to the matchmaker. About how he was sorry. For everything.
That night, he told Kreacher to wait for him at the mouth of the cave. But when he took one foot out of the Black house, she was waiting for him.
"Regulus," she said, her voice like a whimsical sigh. "You never loved Damaeya."
"I did," Regulus said. "To an extent."
"You didn't love her properly."
"She's gone, matchmaker. Damaeya's never coming back."
"I know that."
Regulus stared at her. "I'm sorry," he said abruptly.
"What for?"
The matchmaker stepped closer. He could see the moonlight reflecting off her dark eyes, see the pale lashes framing them flutter as she blinked. She was so close that their breaths mingled, and he swallowed. He could see her chest rising and swelling as she breathed, and she clenched his collar in his hands.
"I'm sorry that you're stuck with this job forever. I'm sorry that I couldn't fall in love with Damaeya. I'm sorry that I'll be dead soon. I'm sorry—"
"Shut up, you great lout."
Then she was kissing him, kissing him so passionately that his stomach had butterflies in it, and Regulus never had butterflies in his stomach. His hands rose to her pale hair, wound in it, and her dark, dark and old brown eyes were shut. Her eyelashes fluttered against his cheek, ticklish, and her hands were wrapped around him. "Don't go," she said, her voice breaking as her lips parted from his. "Please, Regulus."
"Matchmaker," Regulus said, his heart torn. How fickle the heart was, to be torn and mended so hapazardly. "Matchmaker."
"I love you," said the matchmaker. "Even if you didn't already know that, I love you. And I'm sorry that we didn't have more time."
He kissed her this time, fiercely. Like he was trying to pour everything he was trying to say into her, and somehow she might've understood. Something wet landed on his cheek – she was crying. Crying for him.
"Goodbye," Regulus whispered, pulling away from her.
"No," said the matchmaker. "No..."
She grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him flush against her and kissed him desperately, one last kiss and now he was about to cry himself. He kissed her cheeks, her closed eyelids, her mouth, her forehead, and then pulled away. Her dark eyes flickered open, tears forming and spilling over onto her cheeks.
"I love you to," Regulus said. "For what it's worth."
"Regulus," she said.
Then he apparated.
The potion drove him insane. "Water," he croaked. "Water."
Pictures flickered in front of his face. Pictures of life, of his family, of Damaeya, of the matchmaker. Of those precious laughing minutes in Hogwarts. Of Kreacher's terrified face saying, "Master, master."
Regulus, mouth burning, staggered to the basin and flung the locket into the potion that was already refilling it. He coughed, mind swirling.
"I'm leaving!" Sirius shouted.
Regulus watched, eyes wide.
"Leave then!" his mother screeched. "Leave and never come back!"
Regulus followed Sirius into his room, and watched as his brother packed. "You're actually going?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.
"Why would you care?" Sirius asked snidely. "You're one of them."
"Perhaps I'm not," Regulus whispered to himself.
Water. Water.
The thirst made him crawl to the lake filled with inferi, and he took a sip. Slimy hands crawled out, as Kreacher cried out, "Master!"
"Go, Kreacher!" screamed Regulus. "Go! Hide the locket!"
"Master!"
"I command you!"
Kreacher was sobbing horrifically. "Master!" he wailed, before apparating out.
He was dragged under.
Water filled his lungs, water made him choke and his eyes closed involuntarily. An arm was around his neck, choking, strangling. The last air bubbles fluttered from his mouth and it was as if his whole body gave a sigh. His soul ripped from the shell of his body and he was gone now. He was gone, and then he was hurtling towards white.
Everything was white.
It reminded him of the matchmaker, dressed in all white.
It reminded him of his time with the matchmaker, where everything was white.
He was in a room now. A room with train tracks running through it. There were other people in the white room, all dressed in white clothes. He, himself, was dressed in white, and there was a mirror. He looked in it. He was looking younger than he was before.
"Where am I?" he wondered.
A girl, about fourteen years old, wandered over to him. Her eyes were sad, and old, a deep green that reminded him of Slytherin. They reminded him of the matchmaker's. "There's a train coming," she said after a minute. "You can either get on it, or you can wait for the next one."
"What happens if I don't get on?"
"You wait for years until it comes again."
"Why would I do that?"
"You could be waiting for someone," said the girl after a pause. "If you loved someone, if you truly loved someone, you would wait forever for them, wouldn't you?"
Regulus paused as well.
"Yes," he said finally. "Yes, I would."
The next day, a girl walked to the park. She was young-looking, about eighteen years old, and carried a bouquet of pure white flowers. Roses, lilies, and sprays of small, round ones, with green stems and leaves, shocking against the white flowers. All of this was carefully wound around with a golden ribbon.
The girl, herself, was lovely. Pale gold hair, long and spilling down her back, and dark brown eyes. There was an ancient quality to her face that others had seen. Her eyes were old, old.
She walked down a well-trodden path to cut off into the woods. There, she walked deep into the woods and laid the flowers down on a tree.
"Good-bye, Regulus."
She took off her cloak and laid it over the flowers. There was a shimmer in the air and the flowers disappeared.
"Not so fast, matchmaker."
The girl froze and turned around. "Oh. It's you, Eros."
"Yes, it is I."
"What do you want?" She turned towards her employer, eyes guarded. "What could you want? You haven't talked to me in nine decades. I've done almost everything right."
A man stepped into the light. He was almost completely covered by a large white cloak, save the tip of a golden nose. "You fell in love."
"Yes—I...did." Her eyes welled up and she had to look away for a second.
There was a pause, and then the matchmaker gasped. "You mean..."
Tears trickled out of her eyes, splashing onto her white gown.
"Yes, I do. You fell in love, matchmaker."
"But he didn't love me back! He-he couldn't have. He shouldn't have. It was to make me feel better that he did..." she was babbling and her employer knew it.
The man raised a hand, and beneath the white cloak, a gleam of white was formed into a smile. "Be free, matchmaker."
Something much like a star came out her body, as the remainder of her body crumpled to the ground. Eros blew slightly on the star and it winked out, as the body, beautiful in death, crumbled to a silver dust that blew away.
"Good-bye, matchmaker. I wish you well in your time with Regulus."
Harry walked through the house one last time. He was twenty-four, and the death of all the Marauders still pained him. So he was just going through this house one last time before he moved to his new home with Ginny and James Sirius Potter and infant Albus.
He walked into R.A.B's room again, to see Kreacher crying.
"Kreacher!" Harry said, a bit surprised. "What's wrong?"
"Master Regulus wrote letters."
Harry's eyebrows pushed together. "What?"
Kreacher shoved a small box overflowing with parchment into Harry's hands and ran out of the room sobbing and blowing his nose on his terrycloth robe.
A bit confused, Harry took a paper out of the box. "Dear, Sirius," he read. "I know you probably didn't get my last letter. You were always my brother. Love, Reg."
Harry set down the paper, his eyes wide, and then pulled all of them out.
"Dear, Kreacher. You were the best house-elf one could ask for. Thank you for everything. Reg. Dear, Mother. I'll never forgive you for being so mean to everyone I cared about. Your son. Dear, Damaeya. I'm sorry things never worked out between us. I wish they had. Even so, I wish you find someone you love. Reg.
"Dear, Dumbledore. I'm sorry I was never a model student. You were the wisest man I knew. Regulus Black. Dear, James Potter—" Harry looked up, eyes wide. "Dear, James Potter. Take care of Sirius for me. Reg. Dear, Lily Evans. Severus has always been in love with you. Do not squander that. Regulus Black. Dear, Voldemort. Someday, you're going to fall. Someday, someone's going to be greater than you. I only wish you would repent. Regulus. Dear Remus Lupin. I know that we haven't officially met, but I'm pretty assured that you're a good guy. Take care of Sirius. Regulus Black. Dear Father. You're dead. I hated you. Love, Regulus."
There was one last one at the bottom of the box, and it was full of crossed-out words and such. "Dear, Matchmaker," he read slowly. "I love you, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything, I suppose. But it's funny. I met you a long time ago, and you said that I was the first one you knew that was able to talk to you. Perhaps it was because I was lonely. But you changed me. And I'm sorry. Love, Regulus."
Harry sat back on his heels. "He never sent these," he said.
And then Harry Potter decided that he would.
Respectively, the part about the train belongs to accioheadcanons, a lovely girl whose idea I borrowed and sort of reworked in a way. The matchmaker idea belongs to me. The idea of Regulus/OC belongs to anyone who wants it.
Review?