AN: Well, after a long hiatus, I have decided to continue this story. The chapters will progress as Regulus continues through his school career - but don't expect an enormous amount of action. I hope you enjoy it, anyway, and let me know what you think.
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter characters do not belong to me.
Part Two
When he was eight years old, Regulus decided that emotions were a nuisance. He was lying in his bed at the time, running his fingertips over his coverlet and listening to Sirius screeching from downstairs. The silk was soft and cool under his hands.
His brother had been arguing with their parents for approximately forty-eight minutes, if 'argument' was the appropriate word. Their dispute consisted almost entirely of Sirius screaming at their father, ranting about how unfair his life was and how ridiculous their family traditions were. Occasionally, Regulus would hear their father's stern baritone as he gave a response and, even less frequently, the scraping soprano of their mother's voice.
Orion Black always sounded as though he were issuing orders, his words laced with authority. He didn't demand respect; that would imply some exertion of effort on his behalf. People respected Orion in the way that a dropped wand fell to the ground, natural and consistent, as if there were no other option available.
He had passed some of that on to his eldest son, but not enough. Sirius had the confidence that bordered on arrogance, the careless egoism, without the reverence that their father's presence commanded.
Regulus, meanwhile, seemed to have inherited none of Orion's power. He was small and shy, easily overlooked and often ignored in favour of his brash, aggressive but infinitely more self-assured sibling.
The eight-year-old rolled over, so that he lay with his face pressed into the pillow.
Perhaps if he could overcome his little problem, his parents would pay him more attention. Perhaps if the medicines and charms that their mother brandished at him actually worked, he would be able to regain even a fraction of their respect.
Perhaps if he could wake up in the morning without the cold dampness between his legs, the chafing of his pyjamas on his wet thighs and the patch of foul smelling urine staining his bedclothes, he would be worthy of pureblood status at last.
His father had only spoken to him about it once. It was after dinner one Sunday night, at the time when Regulus usually took a bath. He had been called into Orion's dark, mahogany-panelled study, to stand weak and humiliated in front of the fire.
Their father had watched him through eyes as black as his own, and then told him firmly that he was far too old to wet the bed. Regulus, who was shamed and more than a little frightened, had begun to sob.
Orion snapped that he should not be embarrassed, that pureblooded boys did not feel embarrassment, but that it had to end.
That night, Regulus had visited the toilet three times before finally crawling into bed. He squeezed his thighs together, clutching his pillow, and prayed to his ancestors to cure his ailment.
The next morning, however, he rose to the familiar, disgusting sensation of soiled nightclothes and a stinking mattress.
Yes, Regulus told himself firmly, emotions were nothing more than irritating and useless. If he weren't so ashamed of his bed-wetting, so desperate to stop, and so mortified by his mother's accusatory rage every time she discovered the evidence, he might be relaxed enough to stop.
If Sirius was stripped of the frustration and fury that seemed to define his personality, the nightly arguments could end.
If Regulus felt nothing at all, he wouldn't mind being the least favourite child, wouldn't notice the smaller portions at dinner and the withering looks.
He vowed, at that moment, to strip himself of these troublesome emotions, and to become the blank, flawless Black he knew he could be.
Regulus shook his head. Why did he make so many promises that he could never hope to keep? His legs were starting to ache, bent into an awkward position, but he ignored the discomfort. It had been five years since that night, and to an outside observer, he might appear to have maintained his childish vow.
There was the occasional dispute with his brother, the one being that could stimulate such an intense dislike it could almost be called hate in the second-year, but apart from that Regulus remained cool and detached.
He had acquaintances, not friends. His grades were perfect, although teachers frequently remarked that he seemed unenthusiastic and even disinterested at times. He spent his free time studying, or practicing his Astronomy, or composing letters to his parents.
Actually, there was one other activity that Regulus frequently occupied himself with. It was, in fact, the activity he was pursuing at the moment. Sitting in a broom cupboard, his knees bent up to his chest, his eye pressed to the keyhole, waiting.
It was like one of those tests given to Muggle children, the ones he had read about in his Muggle Studies class. Find the odd one out: Banana, Apple, Orange, Australia.
Studying, observing the night's sky and writing home were all appropriate activities for a young pureblood. Hiding in cupboards was not.
This was the one gigantic flaw in Regulus' emotionless façade, the crack in the mask, the continent in the fruit bowl. He could ignore his classmates all he wanted, but it didn't stop his heart from beating madly every time he caught sight of a slender figure disappearing into the common room, a waterfall of blonde hair bent over a book in the library, a glittering Prefect's badge.
His breath hitched as the person he had been waiting for appeared. Lucius Malfoy was dressed casually in informal dark green robes, the intense colour contrasting beautifully with his pale skin.
Regulus shifted closer to the keyhole. He knew the shape of the prefect's body perfectly, from hours spent cramped into cupboards, behind statues and outside windows, tracing the slender contours until he could remember Lucius' form off by heart.
It didn't stop him from biting his lip as the older Slytherin moved with the fluidity of water along the corridor, that shimmering mane of silver-blonde hair tossed back.
With him, her mouth opened in a laugh, was Regulus' cousin Narcissa. People said they looked like twins, but Regulus couldn't see it himself. Lucius' features were elegant, refined and angular, whereas Narcissa reminded him forcibly of a horse.
He watched the girl press herself closer to the prefect, forcing him up against the wall. A really ugly horse.
Lucius caught the girl's waist, long fingers spreading over the black velvet of her cloak, and twisted her so that the power balanced was redistributed and he was in control.
He bent his head to murmur something to her, his hair brushing against her more yellow strands, and Regulus pressed his ear so firmly against the keyhole that the metal dug into his soft skin. He persisted, but Lucius' voice was too soft for him to hear anything. He pulled back to watch the older boy capture Narcissa's lips in a hard kiss.
There was something vaguely incestuous about watching his cousin being ravished, but Regulus couldn't bring himself to care. He watched Lucius' hand travel down her arm, stroking her as he kissed her neck. She threw her head back, eyes closed, as the boy licked at her throat.
Regulus touched his own collarbone gently, imagining wet lips and sharp teeth. His fingers ghosted along his jaw, remembering how Lucius' had felt when he touched him that day.
Like ice, and fire.
Lucius slipped a hand beneath Narcissa's cloak and Regulus let his eyelids slip closed, following the older boy's movements with his own fingers. This feeling, the desire and the heat and the pain, made his chest ache and his toes numb.
This must be love, for what else could hurt so beautifully?
Review, please!