Practice round

Prompts: Regulus Black (character), Picture of Dorian Gray (round)

Word count: (1037)

Disclaimer: I don't own author's rights of Harry Potter series and I make no money from this. I won't say no to virtual cookies or compliments, though. I do live off reviews.

Stainless

Regulus looked at himself. His reflection was perfect. His cheekbones were prominent and his eyes a captivating shade of mercury. All that, comb d with his pale skin, soft black hair with few gentle curls, and half-lidded eyelids made him look like the mysterious romantic hero of some novel from last century.

He looked exactly same as yesterday. Well, not really, he thought, glancing at his left forearm. The skin around the mark was still red but was not even close to the vivid red of blood. Regulus Black looked the same as he had yesterday, plus an angry new tattoo.

But he wasn't.

He looked in the mirror again. His reflection had blood-stained hands and his eyes were shadowed. His skin was still pale, but it suddenly did not look like the alabaster white of upper class, but rather as an unhealthy paleness. Regulus turned on his heel and left the bathroom. There was no blood on his hands because he was a hero and heroes never had bloodstained hands, no matter how much death they caused.

They were stainless because Regulus was a hero, and his tender left forearm would never let him forget that.

Regulus carefully applied a soothing balm under his eyes and over the eyelids before casting a handy little glamour charm to hide away the black circles under his haunted red and stinging eyes.

He cast a few other handy cosmetic charms that he had mostly learned from Cissy and Ceres. And suddenly he looked like a perfect little aristocrat with shadowed and haunted eyes. He closed them and went through some Occlumency exercises; when he opened them again, they shone like pure mercury and were just as unreadable. He smiled, a polite little insincere curve of lips, and went out to welcome the guests.

He managed to get a coffee into himself before they started arriving, and he is immensely glad of it as he greets the head of the DMLE. Even if Regulus appears perfectly well-rested, it is quite plain the man still thinks he was on the last night's mission to get rid of the McKinnons. If he had the energy left, he might feel outraged at such close-mindedness, but as it is, Regulus is grimly amused that the man is so close to the truth and yet so completely wrong. Not that it matters; Crouch can't move against an heir of the Blacks without solid evidence, martial law be damned. Crouch lacks that kind of political clout.

Regulus smiles and acts. His hands are already red, he sees it every time he looks into the mirror, yet the hands holding a glass of Firewhiskey and shaking hands with guests are spotlessly white.

He knows that shattering the mirror wouldn't help. He is no Dorian Gray. The mirror isn't magical; it's just his mind playing tricks on him. (He is sure it's his mind and not Sirius, simply because he knows his brother. Knows him better than he knows himself. Sirius wouldn't have touched classics if his life depended on it.)

Sometimes, Regulus wonders if smashing it would make him feel better anyway. He imagines the pain from many tiny cuts caused by glass shards, the perfect contrast of flawless marble white and vivid crimson, the red abstract art on top of the perfect figurative painting. He finds the image strangely calming.

That's why he never really hits the mirror. He is terrified it would take away the small, macabre comfort he has found in it. He doesn't want to see what would become of him if that too was taken away from him in these increasingly unstable times.

He long ago learned that fantasy is much better than reality. Merlin, it was only seven years ago, and yet he cannot comprehend how he could ever have been so naive, so innocent.

The last time Regulus looks into the mirror, there are demons in his eyes and black circles under them. There are wrinkles on his brow, and his cheeks seem a tad too hollow. His hands aren't bloody, but neither are they white. They are stained yellow by his attempts to calm his nerves with help from cigarettes. He is immaculately dressed in green and black, and his hair is combed back. He rests his forehead against the cool glass and closes his eyes.

He is no hero. The ugly mark on his left forearm won't let him forget that. He doesn't think heroes have stainless hands, anymore.

He is no hero. And maybe he is a monster, but he isn't a coward. Never was and never will be.

He takes a deep breath, checks that he has the locket with his note, and calls for Kreacher.

The cave is dark and cold. But he can still hear seagulls cry in the distance and taste the sea in the salty wind. He doesn't even hesitate to slash his palm. He flinches as the bloody palm connects with the dirty stone. He is hastily casting cleaning and healing charms at it while the wall is opening.

He is no hero, but he always liked those romantic heroes that died young.

The dead faces in the water below their boat look at him with large, vacant eyes, and he tries not to look back, tries not to check whether he can find a familiar face. He fails miserably, and only the boat meeting the island's shore manages to snap him out of that morbid search.

Besides, nothing could be worse than being Voldemort's slave.

He regrets that thought as soon as he swallows the first gulp, but he continues anyway. He knew it wouldn't be painless and so far, it's not worse than his Lord's Cruciatus anyway. He soon regrets that, thought, too. And then he doesn't think, just begs for it to stop. He doesn't even notice when he starts to plead aloud when his knees meet the rocky terrain when the cup is forced to his lips again by a crying Kreacher. He just wants it to stop and needs water….

As the cold wet hands are dragging him under, he idly thinks that it is time to find what the humbug around death is really about.