The first fire of the winter when Regulus is seventeen comes early and feels cold. He lights it by himself in the kitchen where the chill creeps in the quickest and remembers Sirius, how when he still lived here this would be his favorite time of the holiday, the first fire, how it lit the room and threw his little smile into warm relief.
He wonders what Sirius would say if he could see him now, a year out from his Mark and two from Sirius’ going, and winding down. He thinks how he could tell him: I’m going to be a traitor, Sirius. I thought you’d like that. If only there was more time. But he’s thought that too often in this short and rapidly shortening life of his, despite the times when he’s despaired in the certainty that his life is also the longest thing he’ll ever do. It could be longer, though, and it won’t be. He’s seeing to that himself.
Though it’s worth it – isn’t it? He pulls his knees up to his chest in the wing-backed armchair beside the fireplace and watches his fire crackle halfheartedly, a harbinger of the season, the first really inescapable indicator that warmth is over and snow will follow soon. Strange, this listlessness; Sirius never taught him how to die. That’s not something that’s in his brother’s oeuvre, he thinks, dying. No, that always seemed more to be Regulus’ specialty. Though he’s upon it now and he has absolutely no idea what to do.
The knowledge that they’ll remember him as a coward rises in his mind like fog, and, finding nothing it can cling to, dissipates. He’s forfeited his chance to be remembered any other way – though he wishes Sirius could know something, could be chased by the spectre of him in some way other than this, a way more solid, with purchase and finality. He’s read in the old poets what happens to unburied men.
The fire tails down; he goes upstairs to the tapestry room and touches two fingertips to the ashy spot where Sirius used to be. His skin comes away grey and crumbling, and that’s all he has left to do. It’s a little warmer up here, but outside he knows it will be the coldest of all.
His cloak on, Kreacher in the hall, the locket curled in his fist. He looks at the charred remnant of Sirius’ branch again, looks at his own intact, and closes his eyes. Once against this spot Sirius had kissed him, touched his thin chest, left a mark with his tongue and teeth in the cool hollow of Regulus’ throat – but it’s almost laughable to think about that at this moment, of all the god damned moments. Upstairs their bedrooms are both shut up now. There are ghosts in this house, and at times he thinks Sirius has joined their ranks, thinks he hears him on the stairs or feels his hand on his arm in the night.
As ghosts go, though, this won’t be his place to haunt. The tin-mosaic ceiling in the hall is mottled with rust. He sets his hand on the doorknob, and as he goes asks of no one, asks of Sirius, look back on me.
sirius/regulus - want nobody to mourn
He wonders what Sirius would say if he could see him now, a year out from his Mark and two from Sirius’ going, and winding down. He thinks how he could tell him: I’m going to be a traitor, Sirius. I thought you’d like that. If only there was more time. But he’s thought that too often in this short and rapidly shortening life of his, despite the times when he’s despaired in the certainty that his life is also the longest thing he’ll ever do. It could be longer, though, and it won’t be. He’s seeing to that himself.
Though it’s worth it – isn’t it? He pulls his knees up to his chest in the wing-backed armchair beside the fireplace and watches his fire crackle halfheartedly, a harbinger of the season, the first really inescapable indicator that warmth is over and snow will follow soon. Strange, this listlessness; Sirius never taught him how to die. That’s not something that’s in his brother’s oeuvre, he thinks, dying. No, that always seemed more to be Regulus’ specialty. Though he’s upon it now and he has absolutely no idea what to do.
The knowledge that they’ll remember him as a coward rises in his mind like fog, and, finding nothing it can cling to, dissipates. He’s forfeited his chance to be remembered any other way – though he wishes Sirius could know something, could be chased by the spectre of him in some way other than this, a way more solid, with purchase and finality. He’s read in the old poets what happens to unburied men.
The fire tails down; he goes upstairs to the tapestry room and touches two fingertips to the ashy spot where Sirius used to be. His skin comes away grey and crumbling, and that’s all he has left to do. It’s a little warmer up here, but outside he knows it will be the coldest of all.
His cloak on, Kreacher in the hall, the locket curled in his fist. He looks at the charred remnant of Sirius’ branch again, looks at his own intact, and closes his eyes. Once against this spot Sirius had kissed him, touched his thin chest, left a mark with his tongue and teeth in the cool hollow of Regulus’ throat – but it’s almost laughable to think about that at this moment, of all the god damned moments. Upstairs their bedrooms are both shut up now. There are ghosts in this house, and at times he thinks Sirius has joined their ranks, thinks he hears him on the stairs or feels his hand on his arm in the night.
As ghosts go, though, this won’t be his place to haunt. The tin-mosaic ceiling in the hall is mottled with rust. He sets his hand on the doorknob, and as he goes asks of no one, asks of Sirius, look back on me.