Disclaimer: I really own nothing beyond the perception of the characters and the situations they are put in. And even most of that isn't mine.

Shadows of Marlene

I.

"Idiot," he hears, a soft, warm hand pulling his.

Regulus opens his eyes, clenches them shut against the glaring sunlight and attempts a squint. He can't make much out through the thick of his eyelashes, but there is a thin, tall silhouette, sunlight that fades into vibrant yellows and orange-reds, and his eyes meet familiar crystalline blue. Reminiscent of misted ice between flames. He closes his eyes again, violently, quickly, and winces at a sudden thought.

"Am I dead?"

A scoff and a sarcastic reply of, "Now why would you think that?"

Because the last thing he remembers is being dragged into cursed waters by cursed corpses. Because he's certain that a minute ago, all that surrounded him is the feel of clammy, wrinkled skin, the ugly green lighting through murky waters and the monstrous image of empty, pruned faces and flat eyes before all he knew was black. But the kicker is definitely seeing her. Because mostly…

"You're dead."

"Don't sound so offended, Reg. Least I thought to take out life insurance."

"I'm sure that's very helpful over here." He opens his eyes fully and waits until his vision adjusts before taking her in. "You look…"

He wants to say peaceful. Content. Can dead people be content? Better yet, can Marlene McKinnon be content? It seems so, certainly, but with her, appearances can be deceiving. He would know, as he's been an adroit interpreter of Marlene-ism since the age of four, and she isn't giving off that particular aloof vibe, where her eyebrows are stiff and her eyes bite. Curiously, she looks complete, whole and more alive than she's been since childhood. He gives a wry smile at the thought, the idea that she's actually dead, corpse in a grave and Orders of Merlin in her brothers home in the south of France. How she can be that much more whole here, in the afterlife, is beyond him.

"Like I'd kill you if you hadn't managed to beat me to it quite so spectacularly?" she challenges as he stares, and her brows are in her fringe, fringe in lashes, eyes glowing through it all just the way he remembers.

He wrinkles his nose, an old childhood habit he's never managed to shake. Not that it matters anymore, he's dead. Not alive, no longer breathing.

"Sorry to inconvenience you," he replies bitterly, sitting up and forcing her off her knees and onto her bottom beside him. "I'll make an attempt at consideration the next time I'm murdered on a quest to end the Dark Lord."

"Idiot," she repeats, exasperation leaking through amusement and sadness. It's an odd concoction on her fine, cool features. "What in the bloody hell possessed you to be so stupid-"

"Hmm, donno, was it the evil tyrant who doubles as a psychopathic murdered? No, no, must've been all the deaths I could prevent. Or was it because I was long overdue for a heroic, idiotic adventure? Figured it looked so fun-"

She punches him, cuts him off and lets out a choked laugh. He smiles, more of a smirk really, one that's being overcome by simply being beside her again. Seeing her. Hearing her voice and laugh and feeling her- even if it's only a punch.

"You're such a git."

"A dead one, apparently."

Maybe it's not so bad, being dead with Marlene McKinnon.

"Shuddup, Reg."