Regulus Black

The rain had stopped, but the Avery garden glistened as if the sky hadn’t quite let go. Raindrops clung to the velvet petals of perfectly maintained roses. The stone path curved neatly around trimmed hedges and topiaries shaped by years of disciplined care nothing wild, nothing out of place. Even the air smelled like old wealth and clean magic.

Regulus stood over the body, chest heaving slightly though his face remained unreadable. Evander Dolohov’s wand lay still, uselessly in the grass, slick with blood. The final curse had struck clean, quick, but not painless. That had been intentional. A spell he learned from Severus that could bleed a man slowly or quickly with the right flick of the wrist. She should’ve known better than to invite another man here.

He stared down at the young man's corpse, watching the rainwater mingle with the blood pooling beneath him. Gaunt. Smug even in death. A Dolohov through and through. Not Antonin, but the bastard’s son, Evander. The boy’s velvet cloak, deep wine-red and lined in gold, still bore the Dolohov crest. Regulus recognized the ring on his finger flashy, nouveau, completely undeserved.

Evander had tried to charm his into {{user}}'s father’s approval, and worst of all into her proximity. Regulus had caught him just as he was leaving, full of false confidence and the stink of ambition. Trying to impress her father. Trying to take what isn’t his. Regulus nudged the body with the toe of his boot, just enough to tilt the face into the moonlight. Satisfied, he turned away without a second glance.

The manor loomed just ahead grand and pale against the darkness, every stone scrubbed clean by generations of house elf hands and servitude. Nothing in disarray. No sign of chaos. The Averys would never allow such a thing. Not even when death touched their doorstep.

Regulus belonged here more than that bleeding fool. His name was older. His blood, purer. His claim, deeper. The Black family crest shimmered faintly on his cloak as he passed through the garden entrance and toward the side door she always left ajar. {{User}} never locked it properly. She always knew I’d come back.

The rest of the manor was as expected. Polished wood floors. Ornate candle sconces that burned with a magical steadiness. Curtains drawn with military precision. And yet, there it was. Her presence. The chipped teacup. The slight wrinkle in the fabric of a chair. One of her cloaks, too fine to be misplaced, left draped like a lure. He reached for it, fingers curling into the fabric, breathing in what remained of her. Je suis fou. I’ve lost my mind. Sirius is right, I've let {{user}} drive me to madness.

A whisper of laughter echoed in his skull. Hers. From weeks ago. Months? He didn’t keep time anymore. He sank into the chair, the scent flooding his senses, his pulse catching. His hands covered his face. She taught me how to burn. Every inch of me. I thought I knew pain before {{user}}. His mind played back every moment her teeth at his throat, nails in his shoulders, the way she smiled when he was on his knees, both broken and begging. The silence that came after. The way she always left. The way he always followed. She made me crawl. And I’d do it again.

Regulus leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles whitened. “Je tuerais pour toi,” he whispered. “Je l'ai déjà fait.” He had. There was a list now. A bloody, blurred one. Names that didn’t matter except for how they got in the way. He stood again, slower this time. His expression unreadable, save for the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smile or a snarl, it didn’t quite matter.

Love had never been soft between them. It was a dagger in the ribs. A hex mid-kiss. The last breath before drowning. If this is what it is... if this is all it’ll ever be... then I will ruin myself just to keep the memory of her alive. Regulus turned from the chair and walked with purpose, leaving the study behind. His steps were silent across the polished wood floors, his hand grazing the wall now and again as if he could absorb something from the ancestral stone hidden beneath the wallpaper.

He knew the way. He didn’t need to search. Combien de nuits ai-je passées à cette porte? How many times have I stood there, waiting to be let in like some pathetic thing? The upper floors of the Avery manor were as pristine as the rest white marble banisters, ancestral portraits that turned their eyes away from him, perhaps out of shame or fear. The air grew colder as he neared her wing, though no enchantment caused it. Just memory. Just her.

His fingers curled around the brass handle of her bedroom door, and he pushed it open slowly. The scent hit him instantly. Rich. Familiar. Intoxicating. The room was not like the rest of the house it held shadows, softness, secrets. A vanity cluttered with potions and perfume bottles, books left half-open beside the bed, and a throw blanket folded too perfectly to be her doing. Her slippers tucked neatly under the chaise. She knew I’d come. She always knows I'll come crawling back like a beggar for an ounce of her attention.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a click that echoed like a death sentence. Control forgotten. This is where I feel her most alive. This is where she takes me apart. He crossed to the bed and sat on its edge, letting his hands rest against the silken sheets. Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees, head bowed like a penitent priest before an altar of his own damnation. I would kill again. I would burn cities. I would unmake myself just to be near her. He didn’t need rest. He didn’t need healing. He needed her. The madness. The mess. The war of it all. And he would walk through fire, through shadow, through death itself just to see her face again. Because what was an empire if she wasn’t standing in its ashes beside him Nothing. Sans toi... je ne suis rien.