Regulus
You're sixteen when you notice him, really notice him, for the first time. You see a boy, deflated, dejected, used. Usable. There's fire inside him. You look him up and down and your gaze lingers a bit too long and you see. You remember your brother's comments about a boy who needed a bit more help than the others, and you know, instinctively, that this is that boy, a boy that everyone else overlooks. You won't make that mistake, because you know that those everyone overlooks are frequently the most dangerous tools. After all, people have a tendency to overlook you. Always the youngest child, always the afterthought. You thought that maybe after Sirius's fall from grace you'd be noticed, but apparently it doesn't work that way.
You can tell when you look at him that even as you see him, he sees you. He sees you, Regulus, not just Sirius's brother. You store that image for later examination, quirk the corner of your lips at him, and move on.
.
One month later you find him alone in the library at a table with parchment sprawled in front of him and you sit down without much contemplation. He looks at you with something akin to adoration and you bask in it, unused to the unabashed emotion in his eyes — this boy is clearly not a Slytherin, you think, and then you realise that you've thought it fondly rather than derisively and that's the first time you notice that your feelings toward him are not what they should be.
"Hello, Peter," you murmur.
"Regulus," he says, and your name sounds like music on his tongue.
You make a witty comment and he laughs and time slips through your fingers like it's made of sand until you notice that curfew has slipped away with it and you chuckle as he panics and dashes off.
The chuckle stays on your lips longer than you expect it to.
.
It scares you when you realise that you're falling for him. You only ever meant for him to be a tool, but you can't get over the fact that he sees you for you. He adores you, and you love that. But it's more than that. Merlin, but you look at him and you see a world of potential, and you're almost jealous. He could be anything. And you love having a hand in deciding where he winds up. It's a rush, heady and intoxicating. Addicting. Enchanting.
.
You're very careful the first time that you mention the Death Eaters to him. You aren't surprised when he knows what they are — the name has been whispered in all sorts of circles by now — but you are surprised when he hears you out despite that and his eyes don't lose the admiration. You know how to play it, you know that. You may love him but you aren't a fool for it. You play all the right cords to string him along (and the first bit of doubt niggles at the back of your mind but you shove it down and ignore it).
.
One month later you kiss him for the first time. You're sitting on the ground just talking about school and friends and life and you can't help yourself because the way he looks at you and you want to kiss him so you do. You know that he loves you. You aren't unobservant; he isn't subtle. It's a risk, you know. You're getting in too deep; this is dangerous. You're a fool after all.
But here, in this moment, you don't care. You don't care about the risk, you don't care about the long run, and you certainly don't care that you might be ruining him as a tool. You don't care. Or, rather, you do care. About him. And that terrifies you and exhilarates you all at once and you're caught up in it and you can't get enough.
.
Two weeks later, he graduates and leaves you and you knew it would happen but that doesn't stop it from aching because dammit you're in too deep and you miss him. You try to write him a thousand times but it never comes out right and you hate it, this loss for words, because you have never felt so helpless. You see him at meetings (and something inside you aches and says neither of you belong here and it's all your fault but you stuff it in a box in the back of your mind and you ignore it).
.
Christmas holidays come and you find him, just once, but that's enough. He kisses you promptly and you kiss him back without hesitation and it scares you how much this matters to you.
.
You graduate before you see him next and you know immediately that he can see that you are changing. You don't know what you believe in anymore but it isn't death and that's all you see. He kisses you and you know he just wants to fix it but this isn't something kisses can fix — because it's not just you, it's the world that's broken and that's too big for him or anyone.
"I'm sorry," you whisper once in the broken spaces of the night to his back as he lays behind you and you startle when his voice comes from the dark.
"For what?"
You feel the weight of your world land on his shoulders and you hate that he's suffering for you but you don't know how to take that away from him and you're just so confused that you can hardly bear it anymore and it threatens to shake you apart. He kisses you and you desperately want to kiss him back and pretend it's all okay but you can't and you know he notices.
"Reg?" he asks and you hear the surprise in his whisper as his hand comes up to cradle your cheek and it's only then that you notice that you're crying.
You can't put the weight of your doubt on him because that's not his burden to bear because if you're wrong you've ruined him, but you have to say something and the words slip out without your permission.
"What if I'm wrong?" The whisper is as broken as you feel, but you know immediately, intuitively, that he doesn't understand and maybe it's better that way.
"Wrong about what?" he asks and you can't answer and your doubt grows and it's consuming you until you can't remember what it feels like to be sure of anything anymore.
.
Less than three weeks after that conversation you finally make your decision. You're wrong. You've been wrong all along. You've destroyed him, led him astray, and you can't really bear that. You don't know how to tell him so you don't. You martyr yourself instead because you are a fool (and maybe there's a bit of Gryffindor in you after all) and you can't think of any other way to redeem yourself but this. This is the only way to free him from the prison you've caged him in.
This will break him, you realise. Or perhaps it will make him. Perhaps you are the only thing keeping him trapped. You remember the look of adoration in his eyes when he looks at you and the way you knew he could be so much more than he was, and you think of how you've warped him, twisted him into your own version just because you could, and you wonder if this is what everyone else means when they think of love.
You hope not. You hope the rest of the world isn't as twisted as you are.
You die with his face on the backs of your eyelids and his name on your lips and the hopes that this disappearance of yours will set him free.