Regulus Black
"Take my honor from me, and my life is done."
William Shakespeare, Richard II
I was a year younger than she—a year younger than he—and I was to live a shorter live than either of them. Yet, I was still the "young one"… I was the second in my family linage, even though it was my name on the family's tree that stated my inheritance to our fortune. It was my elder brother who got all the glory in Hogwarts—it was true, that I can not deny. He had his women, his brandy, his good times, his excellent grades—he also had his immaturity, his snobbery, his fickle words and snide intelligence, but I… I was the King of Slytherin. In my hand, I held everyone in that House between my fingers with the ability to set the group aside, all but one, so I could play cat and mouse, or simply achieve pleasure in my bedchamber in the dungeons. But, there was a young woman who I had become… obsessed with… over my years. She was the one who taught me how to kiss—and, oh, how so many young suitors wished to be "taught" by her as well, I presume.
She was my cousin. Don't you arch your brow at me? Scoff at me? Sneer at my sin? This secret that I have hidden away within the folds of my mind even past death? You do not while I am here, while you are reading this, no… but you will go back to your room, and curl up in your small chair, and stare at that knot in the wall where you will sneer and spit at my memory. Oh, what shame I have brought to my family! What horrible, nasty curses I have gotten the Almighty and all his angels to put upon the name "Black". And how I adore this… I have not only managed to retain my place beneath the warm arms of Mother Earth, but I have been able to trip fate enough so that what I could not have, could not have been had by Sirius. A typical romantic tale of two brothers fighting over a single woman like two wolves would snarl and wrestle for a scrap of meat. The difference between this and nature, however, is that, unlike Sirius I would not have succeeded, and then grow tired. I would have been there for her always—caressing her hair, placing upon her skin, soft pearls from the depths of the ocean—expensive black pearls, as dark as our hair, laid to rest in palms of silver that would be so soft, it would allow the beads to follow the curve of her neck, shoulders, and chest perfectly…
Bellatrix was of my blood. She was a cousin to me by blood relation—not by marriage. She understood me. We were the same—lustful creatures, pining for life, but unable to see it through the foggy windows of the back seats of magical cars, or through the steam of the shower where we met our many lovers. I went though Hogwarts watching her and Sirius act as if nothing was between them—their adverted eyes during classes, or in the corridors… oh, but it was obvious if you knew how a Black watches the ones they have relations with. They will never see your gaze in the room—they will look down at you as if you are nothing more than a House Elf—blow them… But, when you have turned away from them, their eyes will scan over your shoulders, undressing and revealing you and all your weaknesses—your pleasures, and your fears… There is something that needs to be explained about our heritage.
The Black family tree is the oldest, and purest of the families in Briton. We date back extraordinarily far, our roots weaving throughout the oldest and most sacred Celtic soil. But, we did not achieve our wealth from them. We did not achieve our wealth until the medieval times, actually. You see, if you go back far enough, you will stumble upon a young man named Edmund Black. He was a naïve of sorts, and wed a young woman whose name has since been burnt off our tapestry. The fact is, is that this woman brought with her power that… well, gave us our power, influence, and beauty. Our family's legends have it that she was Roman—the occasional has said that she was Greek… One even said that she was French, but found her roots, on her mother's side, in Egypt. Whatever she be, she was the one who started our lineage of black hair, smooth, flawless skin… and introduced the thirst for power to our blood. How she accomplished this is unknown—but, in simple words, it was through sex, magic, and murder that she put gold to that penniless Edmund. After his death—under the most curious of circumstances—she vowed that none who were tied to her children would hold any remorse for their actions. They would all uphold the family name, and, of course, the family wealth. She was wrong.
Edmund emerged with all his might and glory through Sirius. I doubt they are the same person, of course, as Sirius is not in the least stupid, nor naïve. He would have been the perfect son between our ancestors—he was sexually driven enough to hold lust on his sleeve, but good enough to tempt Bellatrix with a simple wink here and there. He was the apple on her forbidden tree, and how many times she sunk her teeth into his skin, I am not aware—but I do know it was countless. Countless enough, that I was surprised there was enough of him to be killed… It wasn't as exciting as I thought it would have been. His death—the starting points for controversy as we all know it. Oh, what a gem he was—a precious jewel to Dumbledore. Little did the great and powerful wizard know that while Sirius wasn't at meetings, he was shagging a Death Eater on the back of his motorcycle, or in that shabby apartment on that mattress and sheet he called a "bed"?
Then came the day where I had made my choice. I had weighted the options with ease, and careful accuracy. I can not say that I knew the Dark Lord would fail—I had an idea that he would. But, I chose to do what Sirius did not. I attended my first meeting, and I was branded like a steer at an auction—Narcissa had begged me not to, she had even attempted to keep me from going with Lucius to meet the infamous wizard that caused devastation and fear in order to prove his point. The Mudblood himself that sneered in the face of his Muggle father and demanded respect from Purebloods because of his mother's ties… the Lord Voldemort. Bellatrix had been shocked when I arrived—her eyes, dark and hungry watched me from under her hood, from beneath that mask that hid her elegant and aristocratic features that she otherwise paraded around. I had come in a casual outfit—nothing special. Obviously, this was different from how the rest had greeted "his majesty"—I was wearing nothing more than a white Oxford, grey wool slacks, and polished black shoes. My hair was tied back at the crook of my neck into a loose hold that would keep it away from my face… His cold fingers had gripped my arm, rolling up my sleeve with jerks that scraped the hems against my skin, and it was over in a matter of minutes.
He pressed his wand to my forearm, and it burned—I never let my eyes leave my arm. Magic is powerful, but this was not magic—this was devilry. It was pain beyond measure—it was not only burning itself on my arm, on my skin, it was etching itself onto my soul, removing me from a normal life into one of torture, death, and rot. The porcelain white of my forearm went though a series in seconds—it burned red, blistered, and then melted away into a red etch that smoked once his wand was removed. The pain had raced up my nerves, choked my mind, and had made it back to be removed within that time period, leaving me dazed and tired… I was not made to stand in the meeting that night—I was assisted to the back where I laid down on the ground, my head on my right arm, and my eyes closed, though I was not asleep… 'Twas Bellatrix who offered to assist me home—her husband, Rodolphus, was away on a mission, and it would be obvious that my elder cousin should take care of me—I was the young heir to the family. 'Twas her duty, she claimed.
She was the only one that was unaware of my decision—and she let me see her disappointment that she hadn't been told—"Regulus Black, how dare you do that to me. How dare you make a choice without consulting your family, your blood, your relations? Have you no shame? Have you no consciousness—no peace at night when you sleep?"
With a sigh, I leaned back on the couch located in her drawing room, propping my feet up on the dainty, French coffee table, arching my brows at the carved cross on the tabletop. My arms folded over my chest, and I grinned up at her—eyebrows arching, and strands of black hair falling from their respective hold, "You dare to lecture me?—oh, you have a bit of dog fur on your blouse, cousin."
Her face was expressionless. Her hand reached up to brush off her blouse, though she did not look away from me to see if I was lying—my message was registered by her… It would be hard not to. Her head rose, her eyes looking through dark eyelashes down her nose at me, "Regulus Aries Black, are you suggesting that I am rolling about with mutts? Maybe, you would think I play fetch as well, since I am obviously a stray—unfit for this family, oh wise heir…"
"A dog? No, dear cousin. A naïve puppy who has just realized that rolling about with mutts seems to be the fashion?" I grinned, and stood—my brows arching high over my oval eyes; blue irises that seemed to entrance the young women at Hogwarts into my grip. There was a table between us—a small table, one that could easily be kicked away to form a path, and though she didn't take a step back, I could see her tense. "No, no, no—you are a lady. One from the same tree as I, yet you choose the one that has fallen—that has been plucked from our branches by good nature…? How come..? How could you, dear cousin, choose him?—Sirius is not your type. Rodolphus is your type. I am sure that the sex is not as good, yes? The French were always too sensitive to satisfy you… Frilly shirts and soft velvet… But, can you honestly have an educated conversation with Sirius? That is, between romps in the grass…"
"What then, of your affairs? You have not yet settled down. You are slowly aging, and your younger years shan't last long. Eventually, you shall be too old to bare an heir, and your lovers shall be dead—your shagging shall be a thing in the past… You are, in your own part, a disgrace to this family—the way you hop around England and shag like a rabbit." Her lips curved into a grin, and with a sigh, she turned away from me. Her hands reached up to her dark cloak from around her shoulders—"I do not think it matters if I have lovers. I am wed. I am not the heir. I have not the need to care about your family, Regulus. I am a Lestrange, now…" She looked over her shoulder at me, her lips curved into a knowing smirk—she knew how to anger me.
Narcissa was a young lady before her time had come—as for me, Bellatrix, and Sirius? We were the ones that, during the family reunion, were out in the backyard, playing "Spin the Bottle", or some other such nonsense. Andromeda had long since gone to Hogwarts—and… Sirius seemed to feel alone after she had graduated. Thus, our trio seemed to revert to a duo—Bellatrix and I. Especially after our first year of Hogwarts. Sirius was never the same after he met James Potter. I did not mind—I did not care. I hadn't cared about Sirius, really, honestly. The only person I worried about had been Bellatrix—always, Bellatrix. And she seemed distraught after Sirius clung to Gryffindor's motto… Since then, she seemed to be crushed—and, though she would let no one see it, she took it out on me. She pushed my buttons deliberately to see how I would react, and I would do the same to her. Our relationship was one full of insults and snobbery, hierarchy and passion… Passion, meaning feeling—not passion in the respect that her steady relationship with Sirius had been constructed on. My face was wiped clean—it was my turn to be shocked. I side-stepped the coffee table, my eyes narrowing, my brows pulling together, my lips curving into a sneer; my hand reached out, grabbing hold of her slender shoulder, and spinning her around to face me, "You are apart of this family. You are my cousin—you are linked to this name as much as I, and both of our mistakes reflect upon our responsibilities as children of our ancient tree—dare you argue and yell with honor and blood?"
"Are you questioning me out of genuine feeling, Regulus, or are you still being a spoiled brat?" She jerked away, but I retained my grip, thus she took a step back, and I followed. We began an odd waltz of sorts—dancing over the room by following the other, stepping closer when we sneered at the offender, and taking a step back when the other pressed against us. As I held onto her arm, her free hand reached up using my shoulder to keep her balance as I twisted my grip out of anger and disgusting pride at seeing her in pain—
"I am a spoiled brat? Look at you, you whore. Spoiled and draped in finery—but if you remove the paint and the clothing; you are nothing more than a rich man's slut…" I paused then, and she arched her brows—dark eyes watching me, and when she attempted to step back, she couldn't. Her back was against the wall, my knee propped against the paneling, and my free hand palm-flat against the wall. "What is wrong with me? Why never me?"
She allowed her lips to part in curious suspicion, "Never you?" She blinked—"Did you ever want it to be you? What, since we are questioning preferences, is the difference between the rich man's whore and your own sleazy lovers?"
"Nothing," I frowned, shaking my head. I let loose my hand, and I left that night—one last glimpse of her, and she was sliding down the wall to sit on the floor before the door closed behind me.
If I had known the series of events that would follow that, I wouldn't have said anything that I had. Instead of hurting her, I would have said what I meant, and I would have kissed her—for the second time, I would have felt her velvet lips on mine, brushing over mine with passion and grace… But, I did not know fate—I was not a Seer. I was a young man too far gone to see what I had gotten myself into… That I had signed my warrant for my own death.
Most say my death was romantic. A tale for Shakespeare—I say that my death was God mocking me. I was cornered on a cliff just north of the Scottish border by Lucius Malfoy—his dark form stepping out from the shadows of the moonless night as if he were taking off a black cloak. He hadn't drawn his wand, and he hadn't worn his Death Eater robes—he simply walked up beside me, his arms mimicking mine in the respect that they were folded behind his back. I was looking over the edge into the ocean, the crash of the cold water far below screaming out hymns to me of my life—small poems that spit out what I had done in this life, and what I had neglected. Mocking me with snickering faces as they told me what was to come of me after I would hear those soft words hissed in front of me. But, Lucius did not say anything. It had long seemed that we both registered that he would kill me, and I would disappear into the abyss that is darkness.
He arched his brows at me, his long platinum hair held back in a loose ponytail at the crook of his neck while mine was loose in the nighttime breeze. From his robes, he pulled out a dark brown envelope, and passed it to me in silence. I looked down, my brows arching with curiosity—upon the front of the envelope; in even and curved handwriting was my name… The handwriting was obvious to me—only one person that I knew could write with such beauty. I slit open the seal, and out into my palm fell a golden necklace—a locket. My brows pulled together, and I turned the envelope upside down in search of a note of some kind… Out fluttered a tiny note, and as I read it, I slipped the chain over my head—I didn't even hear Lucius utter my death sentence.
The last thing I knew was that I was falling towards the ocean, looking up and seeing Lucius turning his back to the cliff—the note fluttering down after me, the words barely comprehensible with such little light, before I felt the cold surf engulf me and my locket for eternity—'You're asking me to take on too much of a burden for someone I've no relation to, Regulus. Sirius.'