Author's Note: Written for the QLFC Falmouth Falcons Trial Run. Position: Keeper
Write a relationship between a minor character and a hated one.
The Slytherin Common Room was dark and silent, the lake outside tinting the window light an eerie green. Regulus often felt free when entering the common room; the suffocation of the castle walls billowed into dreamlike fantasy as soon as he set foot inside, blurring the lines between everyday life and actual magic. He imagined himself as a creature of the lake, using the vast, empty space as his playground, manoeuvring his way through the carcass of an abandoned ship, something tragic and forgotten. Inside stood the still, water-logged corpses of furniture that others had picked out in a time long past, and he would feel the thrill of time as he saw their lives and deaths play out in front of his eyes.
Sometimes, if a class of students passed the corridor above, the green lamps would wave from side to side, creating the illusion of a sudden current. There was something evanescent about Regulus's reverie. When he entered the Slytherin Common Room, he felt like history was being sung to a mute; their lives would be logged in the endless expanse of the lake, and though they were lying in wait just below the surface, no one would be bothered to search for them.
It felt like walking into the broken hull of a ghost ship. A single, pitch-black silhouette sat outlined against the light from the fireplace when he entered; the lone figure must then be a lost soul haunting the place.
Regulus sometimes felt as if he had found a treasure trove of forgotten lives in the Slytherin Common Room.
"Are you watching me, Regulus?"
The slow, deliberate drawl should not have made him jump, but Regulus did not imagine his ghosts with actual voices. Especially when their backs were turned.
Collecting himself, he took long, calculated steps towards the fireplace and fell back on the sofa with more weight than intended, landing next to the haunted figure. Beside him, a hooked nose sailed into view and turned, almost accusingly, towards him as Severus Snape looked to the side and down at the seat Regulus had taken.
"Good evening, Severus," Regulus greeted, trying his voice and almost smiling when he heard the smooth, unaffected tone. Severus looked up with the dark, incongruous stare, which seemed to define him. His eyes, like black holes, filled out time and space before them. It drew Regulus in immediately.
It was also one of the reasons that Regulus felt wounded by the fact that no one mistook them for brothers. Though they wore the same uniform, they wore it differently: Severus, with his greasy, long hair, not unlike Sirius's, sat motionless beside Regulus's polished but restless frame. The universe seemed to revel in the irony that he had one brother who didn't want him and wanted another he couldn't have.
As usual, Severus sensed what Regulus tried to keep from him and put the book he was reading down on his other side, shielding it from view.
"What are you doing in the common room at this hour?"
Surprised, the younger of the two blinked once. Then he corrected his sleeping robes almost superciliously and without needing to.
"I am allowed to be here," he countered, realising with a sharp pang how like his father he sounded. An awful, pinching pain made a nest in his chest when he remembered Sirius, going down a long list of grievances with his 13-year-old self, calling him a 'mindless copy of Father, perfect and ready for bigoted society'.
Clearing his voice, he asked more softly, "What are you doing here?"
"Enjoying my own company."
It would perhaps have been humorous if uttered with a different tongue, but Severus took no strides to hide when he was serious. Disappointment lodged itself in Regulus's throat, preventing him from responding.
When he didn't, Severus, not looking up, said, "You're welcome to keep seated here."
"Are you going?" Regulus asked with alarm.
"No."
Silence fell between the two boys. Regulus spent a few moments desperately trying to think of something to say and a reason to say it. Then, when nothing came to mind, he watched helplessly as Severus pulled out the book from its hiding and began scribbling awkward letters in the margins.
After a few minutes of Severus tending to his own business and Regulus looking over his shoulder, the older boy sighed and closed the book with a small thump.
"I can't concentrate."
Severus always replied in ten words or less, reminding him of Sirius over and over again. At first, it had made Regulus non-committal; he had lost one person without knowing why, he wouldn't let it happen again. The guilt of losing Sirius had taught Regulus to guard his affections well. With time, however, Regulus had realised he received more words than others from Severus. He had also learned that a sentence like 'I can't concentrate,' was not an admission of Regulus's fault, but a neutral statement.
"I'm glad," he replied, earning him a sharp, questioning glance. When Severus kept regarding him quietly, he offered as his only explanation: "I can't sleep."
Severus nodded, saying simply, "The dreams."
"We all have them, don't we?"
"The Dark Lord is a very powerful man," Severus answered with a tinge of deep admiration, and Regulus thought he could almost taste his friend's ambition. A surge of excitement, low in his stomach, made him giddy with anticipation of what they might share in the future.
"And he chose us."
Severus looked him over, almost approvingly. "Do you want to know why?"
Holding back for a second, trying to come up with a sufficient answer on his own, Regulus asked, "Because we know the right people?"
The boy next to him shook his head, which Regulus thought was rather ungracious of him (Severus was all grease and dishevelled sadness, and yet there was something mournful about him, like the echo of a lonely whale, calling out to his kin but unable to match their frequency). He almost wanted to remind Severus that they had both joined the Death Eaters because of someone else.
Mulciber had introduced Severus. Severus, in turn, had caught Regulus. Of course, Mulciber and Severus had been means to an end. Their reasons had been entirely different.
"It's because we're exceptional," Severus said, pulling Regulus from his thoughts.
Regulus almost had to laugh.
"I am not an exception. If he wanted exceptional, he should have recruited Sirius."
A pause. Then Severus drawled, "The Dark Lord was once a member of The Slughorn Club, too."
Eyes widening slightly, Regulus remained quiet.
"Your brother is not."
"So it is about who we know."
"It's about being something extraordinary, and the gang your brother runs with is not. It's no coincidence."
"No, I suppose I should have accepted that we will never join the same club by now."
"It's not a great loss."
"Spoken by someone who hasn't lost."
Something changed in the air between them then, and Regulus immediately regretted his words. Severus didn't lash out, didn't even answer, but Regulus could easily sense the change. Looking at the older boy, his face awash with emotion, Regulus felt the shame of speaking too soon burning in his cheeks.
"We are all here because we are searching for something," Severus said sagely, which Regulus didn't think fit him at all. The boyish drawl with which he spoke lent itself to contempt and anger, not wisdom. "You are searching for a family. Haven't you found it?"
Looking up in surprise, Regulus's eyes met the gaze opposite him. The flames in the fireplace flickered and spat, though they hadn't fed it a fresh log for the duration of their conversation. The light danced across Severus's face, highlighting his cheekbones and destroying the fine lines of his mouth. The shadow of his nose stretched across his right cheek, the contours of his features charging and retreating at the whim of the flames. He was not a handsome boy at all, nothing like Regulus, who was likened to Sirius and proud of it more often than he cared to admit.
Still, there was something there.
"Yes, Severus." His reply carried on a raspy tone of voice, and he found his eyes flitting downwards, flashing down and back up again before he could help himself.
"Let us make a bond."
Apprehension and exultation mixed in the pit of Regulus's stomach, and for a second, he thought to himself that this must be what Muggles felt when they believed, This is his body echoing in their ears before consuming the host. (Orion Black had taken them to a sermon on witch burnings once to show his family how dangerous and ludicrous Muggles were, and an ungrateful part of Regulus couldn't help but see the similarity between the preacher and The Dark Lord-an admirable demagogue, whom they were right to fear.)
In front of him, Severus muttered something under his breath. His wand, long and crooked to match his nose, pointed to the palm of his hand, and a gash opened the skin, revealing small pebbles of blood flooding together. It wasn't deep, but it was fascinating, and Regulus stared.
Severus motioned for the young boy to present his own palm, and Regulus obliged hesitantly. A small gasp escaped him when the wound appeared, but he quickly took control over himself and the situation and put out the hand for a handshake.
Shaking his head, Severus took his hand and led it to his mouth, holding Regulus's gaze for a second before leaning in and placing his lips on the wound. The warmth of his touch made the cut pulsate with pain for a moment.
Regulus stared.
Then he looked down, took Severus's bleeding hand tenderly, and brought it up towards his own lips.
This is his blood, he thought to himself as he kissed the wound, and the angels sang.
In front of him, he could hear Severus say, "I'm your brother now."