Regulus sat on the top stair, looking down at the battered and bloody mask in his hands.
There was a time — so long ago now, it seemed, though it was mere months in reality — when he had thought this mask could be his salvation. By wearing it and accepting what it meant he could help his father, placate his mother, and keep his girlfriend from harm. He might not have agreed with the Dark Lord's methods, but he thought he could watch from the sidelines and participate as little as possible.
He'd been wrong.
They were always pushing him for more, more. Mother wanted him to move higher up the Dark Lord's ranks, complete every mission with glory and become one of his most trusted men. Bellatrix wanted him to master ever-more sadistic curses. Evan and Barty wanted him to join them in tormenting the first- and second-years. Father… grew ever more distant and barely left his study. Clementine was the only one who accepted him for who he was, had ever accepted him for who he was, but she didn't know. She didn't know the things he had witnessed and the things he had done.
He rubbed his thumb over the dark splatter, not knowing if the blood had belonged to him or Evan or Bash. Not caring.
He couldn't do this any more.