Chapter Text
Evan Rosier wraps his fingers around Regulus Black's thin, pale wrist. So thin his fingers touch, so pale it's translucent; the veins crawling up his arm are like pain-brush strokes, a dull blue. His skin is cold and rough, and Evan can feel the grooves in Regulus' wrist where he bears healing scars.
They are not made by Regulus' hand, Evan knows, though Regulus claims they might as well be. In their privacy, in the quietness of their lonesome, with Evan trailing the scars with his thumb and forefinger, Regulus would tell him that all could've been prevented had he been made of shinier silver. Scars that cannot heal with a magic touch because Walburga knew of special cruelty; scars that never fade because she was too fond of her hexes to leave Regulus be—a woman who likes to see her son marred.
Evan has tried potions, spells, and divine prayers to undo her curses, to help Regulus heal. Alas, all he can do is trail them with his thumb and forefinger, so on Regulus' thin, pale wrist the scars remain.
It was only after Sirius Black fled the Black household—disgraced the Black family name—that Regulus dared embrace his touch, though. Only after Regulus remained the sole heir to the household, with Sirius Black disowned from the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Sirius Black, disgracing and disowning Regulus Black in the aftermath. (It is a secret whispered between Evan and Regulus so quietly, that not even the winds of an eclipsed night knew of it.) Though it was Walburga who burned Sirius' name off the tapestry, it was Sirius who disowned Regulus first.
Since then, Regulus has freely hurt with them, hurt so that they would notice. Hurt so they could treat him, too.
He'd been too afraid before, too worried to let them in. So adamant to stay quiet and stew in it, even when he did not let them carry their burdens the same.
Back then, when Sirius bore half their parents' ire and half their shared pain. Then, when Sirius was not a phantom presence haunting the hallways of Grimmauld, but flesh and bone that protected Regulus like a shield and that Regulus protected like his shadow. It was easier, then. Regulus could bear it, then, because he was not bearing it alone. (Even if it felt that way, sometimes. Since Sirius turned 11. Since he'd learned how good Regulus looked wearing green.)
Evan is a Rosier to his blood. A vile, mean, and bloody-fucking-cruel wizard. A blood-fucking-proud one, too. But, though he is a Rosier, he is Evan first. And Evan, and Evan alone, is damned loyal before wicked. Bloody. Fucking. Loyal. That, too, is in his blood; engraved into his wrist. And these markings were unlike Regulus' scars, for he bore them with pride, and of his own hand. Yes; Evan—and not Evan Rosier, but just, Evan—is damned loyal, and it is Regulus—and not Regulus Black, but Regulus—who he is damned loyal to.
Why should he be loyal to a flock of still-practising inbreds?
Evan cannot forget what Regulus looked like after the summer when boarding the express, spine so rigid Evan could've bet on his life that they'd hammered bolts into his vertebrae. The moment the compartment door slid shut, he'd collapsed against Barty, hands tremoring as he weakly reached for Evan.
He needed them to keep from falling apart.
It wasn't the first time Evan had seen Regulus break, their friend group had learnt to let themselves come undone when in each other's company—and only in each other's company—if only to live to another day, but never had Regulus unravelled so pitifully and willingly before. Bloodstains were darkening the ends of his robe, though it'd been Regulus who taught Evan how to clean them out with trouble. (At the time, as Regulus and Evan watched the water soaking the material go pink, all Evan could think was how tragic it was that a boy, so young, knew of such things at all.) Pandora's usual ditzy expressions were struck with fury, and in the same breath that Dorcas called Regulus' a walking dead man, she'd threatened to slaughter him if he dared become one.
Yet, it's expected of the purebloods of the Sacred 28 to be loyal to the Black household? To be loyal to batshit traditionalists who praised the word of a sick man?
It's expected of Evan to be loyal to the people who disregarded and destroyed the same boy who'd gladly carve Evan's name into the deepest layer of his skin as proof of his care and love?
Ha.
Set the inbred on fire, for Salazar's fucking sake.
Barty Crouch Jr, who's walking alongside them, darts his eyes to Evan's hand. He raises a curious, bushy eyebrow, stare lingering when he notes why Evan reached out.
Regulus is quivering.
Regulus is having a BAD morning.
Lightheartedly, Barty points out, "Your hands are trembling, Reg." He curls his lip, down-turned eyes glinting with mischievousness, bleeding the tension away with a teasing, "Spend the night with me, and I'll have your legs trembling, too."
Evan bites back a smile.
No one pivots a trodden mood like Barty Crouch Jr.
Regulus, who'd tensed up at Evan's touch, relaxes. He lowers his arms—Evan's fingers never leaving his wrist, fingers still touching because Regulus is so very thin—and turns to Barty with an unamused smirk. Evan refrains from sighing in relief. Any expression is aeons less unnerving than the one of perfected apathy he bore that morning. After all, when it came to Regulus, he and the rest of their group knew better than to dismiss such a look.
Since he was a child, Regulus has been forever drowning, and he learnt early on that apathy could mimic what it felt like to breathe, again. But Evan knows better, he knows all it does is make him forget he's suffocating. It makes him forget the water he's drowning in is thicker than slime, thick as blood.
(The water he's drowning in: Sirius Black's broken promises of brotherhood. The water he's drowning in: James Potter's warm brown eyes and acidic tears. The water he's drowning in: All the aspects of Regulus' life that fall through his fingers and keep falling through his fingers like sand, washed away and never close enough to reach for again.)
Apathy wears him as opposed to the wrinkles and lines of agony that should age him to 30 at 15, lines he leaves cut into his insides as if bleeding only mattered if you could see it.
So Evan likes the unamused smirk. He likes the raise of his brow and the slight show of his teeth. The sharp, witty words Regulus spits out cruelly and flirtatiously are comfortable, a promise that he can sound sharp, and flirt cruelly. (A promise he is not sinking in apathy.)
"You think you can handle me, Barty?" Regulus teases back.
He gently shakes off Evan's hold to thread their fingers, a touch so light their palms don't touch, before letting go. He's no longer trembling.
[Regulus says, 'I know you are here. I feel you. I'm not drowning so deeply, any more.']
[Evan replies, "You are, but it's fine. We'll drown with you, as we always do. Drown together, as we always have. This is who we are.']
[And so Regulus will whisper, both in sweetness and melancholy, 'I know.']
"I did once," Barty fires back like clockwork, crowding Regulus' space comfortably. Evan leans against the pillar behind him, watching their banter amusedly. "You know we're free to test the theory if I still hold up any day, right?"
Regulus shoots Evan a look, remarking, "Your boyfriend is a total slag, Rosier."
"Oi— "
"I know," Evan cuts off Barty's rebuttal, shooting his slag a wink. "It's how I like 'em."
"Poor taste."
Evan rolls his eyes, "You dated him, too."
"I never said I didn't have poor taste in men," Regulus counters.
Evan deadpans, "I know."
Barty interrupts, "I am not poor taste."
"It's fine, honey." Evan pushes himself off and walks to Barty's side, kissing his cheek. "You're lovely, nonetheless."
"He offered to sleep with me," Regulus reminds him.
Evan shrugs. "It'd be hot."
Regulus pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're honestly too perfect of a match. Two slags in love."
"And you can always be number three," Barty replies, not missing a beat.
As Evan's about to add a 'You are number three', he catches sight of two unpleasantly familiar faces at the end of the hall. Barty does too, his expression dropping, arm wrapped around Evan's shoulder slipping off.
Regulus follows their line of sight, his playfulness and exasperation bleeding out of him for anger.
'No. Not today.'
Regulus' trembling starts up again.
'It's a BAD morning.'
Evan watches as Regulus' composure wavers, the threads and ribbons that have been holding up his anger and pain thinning and stretching and threatening to rip to open him up for the world to see. BAD mornings make him vulnerable and hot. BAD mornings break and burn him between the sound of two heartbeats. BAD mornings mean loose tongues, stripping Regulus of the iron-clad poise he wears as a second skin.
He's proven right when Regulus, whose eyes bore into them, uncharacteristically insults, unprompted, "Talk about a real bitch and whore."
It's said coldly, the wizard's fingers curling into his palm. The wand is held so tightly between his fingers that a thin bead of blood drips down the wood and onto the floor, staining the marble tile. Evan swears, noting a smear of red passing the bend of his fingers.
James Potter and Sirius Black, having come back from having breakfast at the Great Hall, look up, their easy expressions melting to ones of disdain. It makes Evan want to gouge their eyes out and have them weep blood. How dare they look at Regulus as if he wounded them? How dare they meet his eyes with an apprehension reserved for those who intend to maim, break and ruin them? All because they're Sirius Black and James Potter.
Is that how little they know Regulus?
Regulus is hurting himself, digging his nails into his palms deep enough to draw blood, all because they are Sirius Black and James Potter. Regulus is burying the intensity of his feelings beneath his ribs, refusing to truly lash out at them, yet to be pushed far enough. Evan isn't sure if a far 'enough' even exists when it comes to those two and Regulus. At the edge of the cliff, Regulus would always be the one to dive first.
Evan's anger burns, eyes raging with enough fury to strike a man dead. When he directs his stare at the two bastards glaring at them like they were nasty circus freaks, he rejoices when they falter at its intensity. This. This look they have reserved for Regulus should be directed at people like him, instead. People who would hex off their fingers in a heartbeat if Regulus let them.
'What a bunch of pussies with victim-complexes.'
Sirius scowls. "And what would one call you lot, then? A whorehouse, a slut and a piece of shit?"
Evan steps forward, pulling out his wand and spinning it between his fingers in a careless, silent threat. He lavishes on how his reputation as impulsive and wicked immediately brings apprehension to the Gryffindors' faces, how they instinctively shift their footing in defensive poses. Evan Rosier is known to be a boy with a short fuse and a powerful hex, after all. He does not speak up, though.
Regulus does.
"I'd say we're dignified slags, at the least," he says, tone hardened. "Not just a bunch of cowards and bastards whose destined futures are to be 7-year has-beens."
Potter flinches like the insult slapped him, and Sirius' jaw clenches.
Sirius drawls, scorned, "What charming dignity."
His sarcasm does nothing to keep Evan's grin from taking up his face, pride needling into his smile lines. Barty barks out a loud, obnoxious laugh. He drapes an arm over Regulus and hooks his shin over the young heir's shoulder with the sort of audacity only someone like Barty Crouch Jr could get away with. Regulus chooses to ignore his brother's scathing response, tuning to face Barty without much care for their proximity. They're so close, their noses almost touch.
[Barty reminds him, 'We will drown with you.']
[Regulus' reply is a steady, 'I know.']
[So Barty reminds him again, 'All of us.']
[And Regulus' reply is a shaky, 'I know.']
"He really is quite charming, isn't he?" he says lowly, twisting Sirius' words, speaking to Regulus intimately. Barty leans in enough to push the tip of his nose into Regulus' cheek, smiling. "Why don't you take me up on my offer, darling?"
Regulus turns his head slightly, glancing Barty's way with an arched brow. "Offer?"
Evan, not at all bothered by the display of affection, keeps his attention on Sirius and Potter. He can't fathom the sort of nerve it takes to dare wear such easily read expressions of betrayal and envy. Did they not leave Regulus with the untreated scars on his wrist? Was it not them who turned their back to Regulus, despite the smiles and freedom he sacrificed so they could keep theirs? They are the ones who tore and flushed away the limbs of his labour like spoilt leftovers. It was Sirius who ran, so Regulus couldn't. It was James who gave up, despite promising eternity.
Evan's rage comes back with a gusto.
'How dare they?'
Barty turns away cheekily, still pressed against Regulus' side. He continues to flirt, oblivious to Evan's growing temper, "Since you admitted it, I don't see why you don't become the slut to my slag?" He doesn't miss a beat. "Or the bitch to my whore. A bastard in my bed?" He chuckles, "Feel free to take your pick, darling."
Potter questions Evan, heatedly, "You're okay with this? Isn't he dating you?"
'The colour of jealousy really clashes with the red of his scarf.'
"Evan will be there too, of course. A lucky spectator." Barty winks, answering in Evan's stead. He reaches for Evan's sleeve and pulls him in so he's sandwiched between Regulus and Evan, shoulder to shoulder to shoulder. "Or, you know, he could be a participant. It wouldn't have been the first time—"
Regulus raises his wand in warning, cutting Barty off. Barty relents, letting go of Evan and Regulus, though he remains situated between them comfortably.
"I get it, some things are for our ears and eyes only..." he trails off, wincing. He, like Evan earlier, has noticed the line of blood still dripping down Regulus' wand, staining his sleeve. Regulus immediately notices the shift in mood, and the cartoonishly flirtatious smile Barty plasters on like a poorly made theatre mask. Hastily, Barty lowers Regulus' wand, urging, "Anyway, as lovely as this chat was, I think it's time we head off to class."
Noting his franticness, Regulus' eyes zero on his hands, the lines in his face smoothing to a look of passivity when he catches some of the blood splatters on the tile.
"Yes," he agrees, turning on his heel, "this interaction has exhausted—"
"What is that?"
'Shit.'
The bloody Gryffindors noticed it, too.
Met with silence, Sirius repeats, "What is that?"
"What?" Regulus replies dryly, indifference played like a fiddle. “Don’t come anywhere near me, half-wit, I’m not here to engage in any further conversation with the likes of you.”
(You: the person who left me to rot. Evan can hear the accusation like a single, fine piano note. Never; You: a blood traitor. Impossible, not with Regulus Black. Not when it came to who he loved and how he loved, indiscriminately but selectively; always intensely.)
“Is that blood dripping down your wa—"
"I haven't any idea what you're talking about," Regulus interrupts with a voice void of inflexion. It never betrays him, never breaks, especially not when faced with those who left him. Even at the climax of his hurt and anguish, or the anger spoken in the clash of their wands, Regulus will not feel with loudness. Regulus will not let himself come apart in rage. It simmers, writhes, raw anger that desperately wants to wrench out of him, cut off the lines of thread as thin as spider silk and as intricate as spiderwebs that hold him up by his limbs.
But it is only when they leave again, only when Evan brushes his fingers across Regulus' ice-cold skin and the scars on his wrist, sharing his heat, that Regulus drops like a marionette without strings. Made hollow, a husk of dug-out flesh left to rot in the blistering sun. The aftermath of Regulus Black left to Evan and their friends. (And what of Walburga Black and her 'Noble' and Ancient House? May they take their wands and shove it so far up their arse they bleed out, for all Evan could give a shit.)
"We see it, Reggie—"
"Shut up, Potter." His last name is spat out like an insult. Potter flinches, struck again. "You have no right to speak to me."
It sounds pretentious, sounds like the words of a proper, pure-blood Black, is taken as so. But Evan held the pieces of Regulus that broke in his arms as he sobbed and wailed and screamed because James Potter loved too much and Regulus loved harder. He knows better. Evan knows it is not a feeling of superiority that has Regulus saying, “I don’t know what gave you the impression that you could treat me like we’re amicable with one another. I’d rather bed Barty and Rosier.”
Barty, never missing a beat, cocks his head and teases, “Would you, now?” He leans into Regulus’ space and meets his eyes again. Grabs his attention and diverts theirs.
[Evan says. Barty says. They say. 'We. All of us. We'll drown with you.']
[Regulus almost breathes.]
Regulus elbows Barty's side gently, and responds with a lighthearted, “Don’t get cocky, now, Barty.” His expression, stone-faced and brutal, eases as Barty engages him in everyday banter, a comforting familiarity that helps Regulus on BAD mornings. It's barely a wrinkle in his porcelain skin but, for someone like Regulus, whose eyes are so icy Evan is positive blizzards feel warmer, it's practically a new face. The two gits by them notice the way he falls into and with Barty with ease and safety, and Evan stifles the urge to laugh outright at their heartbroken expressions.
'How dare you still care about the boy you abandoned?'
It's these moments, these breaks of their anger, that tug at Regulus' vulnerability. Regulus loved Sirius enough to stay. Regulus loved James enough to let go. He still loves them too much, and so Evan must bear watching him sob, heart heavy, to know how silent he is as he does.
Evan subtly leans back, tilting his head, his gaze falling to Regulus' hands, unsurprised but no less concerned to note he's still squeezing both his fists. The blood down his wand drips faster, and if Evan was a lesser person, he could pretend it was crimson paint that was splattering against the floor.
“Let’s head off then,” Evan suggests, blatantly ignoring the arses in front of them. “We have Dark Arts with the Ravenclaws, no? Dora always gets there early.”
“Now, hold on—” Sirius steps forward.
Evan sees Regulus' defences sharpen and rise. They've grown quicker and more violent in the last few months. He's grown more brutal and unrelenting.
Sirius Black steps too close.
Regulus flicks his wand and calls out, “Flipendo!”
The older Black, much to Evan’s amusement and Barty’s proud disbelief, flies backwards, millimetres from slamming against the wall. The few students still around startle at the shout of “Pads!” as ‘Golden Boy Potter’ runs over to his disoriented friend slumped on the floor.
Regulus stares down at the trickle of blood splattered against the floor where he’d flicked his wand, a red so vivid against the grey-brown tiles. Barty, taking advantage of the distractions, seizes the wand out of Regulus’ grip and pries open his fingers.
The wounds his palms bare are three times too deep for the length of his nails, and far too straight to resemble crescent moons. Evan recalls how Regulus barely touched his palms when holding his hand earlier, nostrils flaring.
“What the fuck?!”
Really, what of the Noble and Ancient House of Black?
Evan isn’t above cursing the affluent and aristocratic. Evan isn't above calling the scum of the earth. If he fantasized about splitting Walburga down the middle, head to cunt, if he made promises to Regulus that he'd do it instantly, it would mean nothing in comparison to the vileness that was that House of Black. Evan will use his bare hands to gouge out Orion Black's eyes and trip the blind. At least, then, Orion Black would not be a wretched liar when he'd claim not to see what went on under that roof.
So what of them? 'The Noble and Ancient House of Black'? Evan is seconds from setting their mansions alight and skinning them like pork roast.
Regulus snatches his hand back, clutching his robes, his eyes glaring at the floor. Evan doesn't say anything, despite the words sitting on his tongue. Regulus stares at the splattered blood on the floor as though it cursed his lineage; he briefly glances at the ceiling as though it drew his blood. His gaze is harsh as he stares past the alcove as though it stabbed his palms, and then back at Evan, knowing his eyes could no longer lie, not to him, and true blame lay in the hands of the woman who claimed to love him.
Barty, gently, takes back Regulus' arm, palm upwards, and casts a quick healing charm, only for it to flash hot red as it hits the skin, the wound sinking deeper as more blood slips past Regulus' fingers. Regulus watches it drip and dares to look ashamed. Softly, he murmurs a charm to slow the bleeding, letting it pool in his hand without seeping through his fingers or running down his arm. He murmurs another charm to clean away the blood, lowering his arm when all that's left is a shallow cast of crimson wetting his palm like a layer of paint.
“That vile bitch!” Evan swears in anger. He casts a hex that slams against the wall, and casts another three, yelling, “That fucking wench! One day, I swear on my bloody name, I’ll curse that cunt until she’s screaming mad from injury! I’ll cut her fucking tongue off!”
The Gryffindors, still reeling from Regulus' hex, look over at them, expressions of shock like a jester's mask painted starkly on their features. As if Evan were going mad; as if Barty were grieving nothing; as if Regulus ruined them so personally. It was they who ruined him—they who left, they who ran. They, who couldn't take it because they were weak. Barty bears the burden of his father's hand, Evan bears the pain of his family's ire, and Regulus bears the madness of his mother's glare. They bear it and do not run because running was a forfeit. Because staying meant surviving.
“Let’s go,” Barty says, dragging Regulus by his shoulders. Evan raises his wand behind him and blindly casts a hex to keep the nuisances away just before they turn down the hall. It hits the wall, inches from Sirius' head.
'Shame it missed.'
(Regulus has yet to stop trembling.)
༺༻
Regulus wakes from a night terror with blood under his fingernails and scratches across his arm.
Evan calls them BAD mornings. It's rather simplified—two words, three syllables, twelve letters.
BAD mornings: Mornings when he wakes up and the air feels shallow. Mornings when his reflection is all scars, bruises and blood, dark circles and thick lashes that cast shadows under his eyes. He’s told they make him pretty, that those shadows rest his face in demure and enigmatic expressions; Regulus thinks they remind the world of his sickness: darkness. His clothes sit on his skin and he can feel it down to the microfiber, skin sits on his muscles, and he aches to peel it off him like an ill-fitting latex suit.
BAD mornings.
Evan and Barty follow him out of the Great Hall when he leaves his breakfast untouched. Their eyes follow his trembling hands, and they understand; do not judge him like others have. Instead, Evan offers his warmth and touch when he wraps his fingers around Regulus' wrist with the same gentleness he uses to caress Regulus' scars, and Barty flirts with his lips ghosting the shell of Regulus' ear like they were 11, 12, 13, 14—now 15—again, a comfort. Regulus does not melt, but he is no longer frozen solid.
And then Sirius shows up, James at his side, and any part of him thawed out hardens to ice then metal.
'Stay gone!' he wants to scream. 'If you are to leave, then stay away and do not torture me. Already your ghosts haunt me though you are alive, why must I come across you, too?'
Regulus cannot help the scorn on his tongue or his sharp words. But Evan's touch is still there, Barty's lips are still pressed against his ear, and Regulus remembers that he can be more than the merits of their hurt, thawing out slowly and again.
He does not bother explaining the wounds in his hands. They are not crescent scars from the curl of his nails, and his friends know it too. Know enough.
(They know enough that Evan lets Barty kiss and bite hickies on Regulus' sharp collarbones and the juncture where his neck meets his shoulders the times he is called home for an odd weekend. They know enough that Barty lets Evan widen and stretch the collars of Regulus' blouses to show off the bruises like trophies, and they laugh at the sketches Regulus makes of his mother's raging expressions when she catches sight of them. It is their quiet defiance, the little they can do without holding their heads over a guillotine, still 15 and staring at the soles of their parents' shoes.)
Regulus is the newly appointed 'Heir of House Black'. He is too precious to let go of, even though they frown in disappointment at every vowel that leaves his tongue. They are not how they were with Sirius. They're anxious to keep Regulus branded and ugly, marking him with too many scars to keep him too injured to run, unlike the first son who knew so long as his legs weren't broken he could. Regulus does not have a brother to protect and be comforted by, and uses this freedom and their anxiety to act out the way he never could, before. He lets them beat him harder, lets them think that there has ever been a moment where Regulus was anything but branded and ugly, ever without broken legs.
It is worth every scar on his wrist.
(Regulus is bitter to know that this means he and Sirius share blood. That defiance has been sewn into them with white and red and thread. A symbol of the purity of going against the wicked, and the blood they spill in consequence.)
Regulus and his friends stroll to the Dark Arts classroom. Evan's fingers remain intertwined with his despite the blood, and Barty keeps an arm looped around Regulus' shoulder as he sings praises about Regulus' 'brilliant' spell-casting moments ago.
Regulus feels a chill crawl up his spine when they're at the door. The room is swallowed by black light, dim and eerie; cold. It reminds him of the catacombs beneath Hogwarts, the damp walls where the Slytherins throw their parties to keep the dungeons free of the stench, filth and sweat of the other houses. The Gryffindors, mostly. His limbs lock in place, an intense anxiety plaguing him, a foreshadowing.
"Reg?" Barty's voice is uncharacteristically soft. Regulus reaches for the sleeve of his robe, looking up at him with terror tattooed in his eyes. Barty, without a response, hooks their elbows together to hold him close again, and though he is shadowed by Regulus' height—tall limbs and porcelain skin—the touch is so kind Regulus slumps into it so they're almost shoulder-to-shoulder. Barty guides him to a seat right at the front, hidden from the obscuring light illuminating the centre of the room, taking the seat to his right while Evan takes the one to his left.
It is Slughorn who scampers in, dark circles like rings under his eyes and the familiar sound of one-two-two trot that Regulus can recognise blind.
"Are you filling in today, Professor Slughorn?" Barty asks.
"Yeah, yer teacher wound up sniffing too much of one of me potions, still recoverin’.” Slughorn looks their way, raising a curious eyebrow. “Ain’t it desks of two?”
“Reg is just having a disorienting morning,” Evan explains, “‘s best he got two people on either side of him today.”
“Ah well, so long as ya don’t disrupt the class too much. We gots an important lesson today!”
A sudden, cold dread swallows Regulus, drowns him...chokes him. Regulus pillows his head in his arms, forehead gently thumping against the wood. His heart rate skyrockets and the anxiety is ants on his skin. He hates it. He hates that he can't just rip his skin off to make it go away.
"You'll be fine, Reg," Barty whispers to him as the rest of the students scamper in.
Regulus needs to fucking breathe.
“Panda, Cass, over here,” Evan calls over to their other friends as Regulus finds his bearings. He lifts his head, looks up at Evan and Barty and nods, tucking a stray hair behind his ear. He corrects his posture, pulls on his robe and straightens his tie, fixing the sleeves of his uniform.
“Are you alright?” Pandora asks, coming to the front of them with Dorcas at her side. Evan and Barty share a look when Regulus nods shakily.
“Are you sure?”
“BAD morning,” Regulus admits, adjusting his collar. Understanding dawns on them, accustomed to the intimately vulnerable parts of Regulus that so few are privy to. “I’m alright now.”
“He hexed Sirius on our way over here” Barty gossips with a wide smile, “it was fucking marvellous.”
Dorcas whistles lowly. “I would’ve paid a thousand galleons to see that.”
Pandora giggles, “Seems you’re taking on the role of a rebel in Sirius’ place.”
“Might as well act out every so often now that he isn’t there to piss off the parents,” Regulus shrugs. “‘Sides, being submissive meant he took fewer beatings in my stead. No need for that any more.”
“Ah, cherry-picked docility,” Pandora understands with a nod.
“Or cherry-picked defiance,” Evan counters.
“Or my lovely influence.”
“Barty, your influence is arse.”
“You love my arse.”
“Merlin," Regulus half-heartedly groans, making a show of rubbing his temples, “you lot are going to be the reason I’ll have streaks of grey hair in my early 20s.”
Dorcas rolls her eyes. “Sod off, you histrionic emo.”
Regulus turns to her with wide eyes. “Emo?!”
“Yes. Have you seen the way you dress when we’re with the muggles? It’s all emo.”
“Notice how he doesn’t deny the histrionic part,” Barty whispers loudly, though Regulus pays him no mind, still staring at Dorcas in disbelief.
“I do not—”
“Alright, students, take a seat,” Slughorn calls out loudly. Dorcas pulls her eyelid and sticks out her tongue at Regulus, cocky for getting in the last word, as she and Pandora take the seats behind him.
“I am not emo,” Regulus mumbles to himself.
Evan leans forward and cocks an eyebrow, whispering, “You sure about that mate?”
“Oh, can it, Rosier.”
Regulus pulls out a parchment, ink and a quill, focuses on the lesson and reminds himself to breathe every so often lest he spirals again.
“Unforgivable curses,” Slughorn says, “three spells that have been banned to say, never mind use, against others.”
Regulus fights the urge to roll his eyes. Though the ambitious learner, unforgivable curses always seemed like a childish notion to him. Besides, isn’t it just Avada Kedavra? What else is so perilous that it ought to be banned from even being uttered? Murder is considered the ultimate sin, objectively—though Regulus would argue that morality and justice are never so black and white. Even then, a death curse that kills you instantly and painlessly could be mistaken for a blessing.
Regulus acknowledges his upbringing is a hair’s width or two harsher than average. (Or, perhaps an arm's length or twenty if you were to ask Evan and the scars his friend cradles to his chest and kisses softly in a promise to soon take Regulus away. Maybe a leg or a hundred if you were to ask Barty, and the deliberate and bright love bites he leaves to decorate Regulus' décolletage as to maim perfection. Possibly, a bridge or a thousand if you were to ask Pandora and the canvases streaked with messy paint that she hangs on her walls with their names signed in cursive at their corners to remind Regulus of freedom in the abstract. Potentially a lake or a million if you were to ask Dorcas and the brush and bobbles she uses to braid Regulus’ hair, soothing his scalp knowing Walburga liked to tug his roots raw as she dragged him around like a doll.) But, surely wizards and witches have tougher skin. Regulus should think so. They have potions that grow missing limbs and send people into dreamless sleep, spells that heal wounds, and charms that silence screams. Outside instant death, all is manageable.
He has managed.
“Firstly, there is the all-known death curse.” Slughorn raises his wand and a bushy silver eyebrow, daring anyone to speak it. They do not; know better than to be so careless with their lives and tongues. “If cast, the victim will die an instant, painless death. There is no recovery from the curse, ‘s far as the Wizarding World is aware. Once a person is dead, they remain dead forever.
“Fer the spell to be cast, the wizard ought to hafta have a strong intention to kill. If not, the spell'll be ineffective. Murder can split the soul in two, so it takes a great deal of intention to cast an effective death curse.
“The only known way of deflectin’ the curse is to dodge it, ‘fraid. No shield charm or barrier 's been proven to bein' effective.
“The death curse also wields alotta of energy 'n is difficult to cast in succession ‘less yer one talented dark mage. It takes a toll on 'e body of the caster 'n, often but not always, hinders their ability to cast spells efficiently for a wee bit afterwards.”
Though Slughorn is smiling, the tilt of his lip is too slighted to be a proper show of sobriety, and there is a sternness to his tone that Regulus seldom hears. The kind of tone he’d use with an unruly guest in his ‘Slug Club’ social meetings their first—and oftentimes last, if he’d gone so far as to be stern with the potential recruit—invite.
Slughorn pulls out a box, then, lips still curled. A frog lay in it, unmoving save for its vocal sack, expanding with air, deflating, repeating and repeating. (It remembers how to breathe, it knows it is alive.) Regulus stares at it, an incomplete note on the death curse staring up at him, waiting for his quill to finish off the word ‘intent.’
“However, though it requires the most power, the death curse is the easiest to cast of the unforgivable three.”
A hand shoots up along with Regulus’ spine.
“Ye, Mr Wilkes?”
“Sir,” Rupert’s nasally voice grates Regulus’ ears, “if it requires the most power, wouldn’t it make more sense that it’d be the most difficult?”
“Thing is, Mr Wilkes, people underestimate how easy it is to wanna kill.”
Regulus feels like water, being poured into bottles after moulds after lakes after oceans, taking on the shape of wherever it is he is being poured into until he starts to spill over the brim.
How easy is it? To want to kill?
“Sir?”
“Well, it only takes one second of unbridled fury; sadness; even joy. Just that second, the flick of a wand, 'n two words. If, even for that wee second, the caster is overwhelmed enough to wanna kill, the curse'll be cast.”
Regulus thinks of his mother. Regulus thinks of the scratches and scars that litter his arms and how slowly they heal. Regulus thinks of how much his mother fancies digging talons into his palms like a reminder of her touch he can never wash off. He thinks of the gleam in her eyes as she watches him writhe on the floors in pain; thinks of the smile she wears on her thin lips as he screams, none of her mahogany lipstick staining her teeth because Walburga Black was flawlessness in the form of a woman blessed by Salazar himself.
“If someone provokes us just right, we’d burn the world if it meant watching them fall,” Regulus whispers into the silence, shattering it and shining a spotlight—mahogany like the lipstick that never stained her teeth—onto him. He looks up and looks around. The faces that stare back at him are riddled with intrigue and fright. For Regulus, thinking of Walburga Black—never with lipstick on her teeth—could kill them all if it meant bringing her to her knees; would kill them all if it meant she’d lose her composure and kill him, forgetting it was an act of mercy.
Regulus feels like water, spilling over the brim of another bottle that cannot contain him, larger than the seven oceans, placeless, lost…drowning.
A hand is gently placed on the small of his back. He drops his quill, startling, as the hand gently traces nonsensical patterns on his robe, a touch so warm he can feel it through the fabric of his clothes. He passes a glance at Barty, tension ebbing through the cracks of his spine to spill out of him as his friend offers a comforting smile in return.
“Spot on, Mr. Black,” Slughorn praises, like a blubbering fool. Regulus can smell his greed and wilful ignorance. Regulus is not only a Black but a grade-A potions master—a genius amongst geniuses!—and before Slughorn was a good man, he was a greedy one. “Never underestimate a wizard’s ire, includin’ yer own.”
Barty teasingly slips his hand right to where the hem of Regulus’ pants sits under his robe before pulling off with a quick wink when Regulus shoots him a cold look. (It is as if they know that Regulus drowns because he likes it, and that is why they drown with him as opposed to pulling him up. See the world through the eyes of a man trapped between the darkness of a never-ending sea and the light of a never-ending sky, floating—dying. See the world through the eyes of a man who prefers it to being alive.)
And so, Slughorn casts, quick and in a flash of murky green, like swamp water, “Avada Kedavra!”
The frog falls limp. The vocal sack, full of air, deflates. It does not repeat. It cannot repeat. It is not alive.
It is not alive.
“Why did you do that?!” Pandora exclaims, shocked and angry. “That frog didn’t hurt you.”
“It didn’t,” Slughorn agrees, “but I’m terribly bothered by them near where I live. There’s a whole cesspool of frogs 'n toads 'n tadpoles by a swap. Those buggers are everywhere, I tell ya! Don’ think they do much good, so findin' the intent is pretty easy.”
“My elder sister took this two years ago and never did they showcase the spells,” a young Ravenclaw comments, shaken, “why was that necessary?”
Slughorn explains, “This year, to emphasise to yer bunch the real travesties of these curses, we’ve been permitted to show a demonstration in class.”
“You don’t seem drained, sir,” Wilkes remarks.
“No teacher at Hogwarts ‘s worth their salt if they’re wiped out by somethin' like this, I’ll tell ya that. But, say a young lad like yerself, Mr Wilkes, might have knackered out instantly.” Before Rupert can rebuttal, Slughorn adds, “Not that we will be doin' any o' that. These are unforgivables, remember. ‘Less ya wanna go to Azkaban, ya sit down 'n listen.”
“Now, the next curse ain't quite as quick 'n easy. Is anyone familiar with the Imperius Curse?”
Regulus is. Most children and members of The Sacred Twenty-Eight are. He does not raise his hand, though.
Evan does.
“Mr Rosier?”
“The Imperius Curse allows the caster to control another person’s actions. Whoever is Imperiused is at the complete mercy of the caster and will be forced to do their bidding until they are released or break free.”
“Very good, 5 points to Slytherin.” Slughorn pulls out another box, this time holding a small nymph. An Oread, Regulus can tell, from the large, stony feet and leather-brown skin. As a child, he’d thought Oreads would be large, daunting nymphs who protected mountains with their height and strength. He’d later learn that, though they were often no larger than two palm lengths, they were twenty times more ferocious than any beast or giant.
This one was strangely docile.
“Everyone, meet Dayonette. Nette volunteered to be Imperiused fer the sake o' demonstration.”
The twigs in Dayonette’s hair glow a faint, glittering gold, flecks of light like embers dusting off them. Regulus recognises it as a form of greeting and gently bows his head forward in return. Dayonette’s eyes of gold light turn to him, the glitter falling faster as she waves at him enthusiastically, embers raining around her.
“Seducing the nymphs too, huh, Reggie?” Barty teases.
Regulus swats him off, a question in mind.
'Why the fuck would she volunteer?'
Considering most of the children of The Sacred-Twenty-Eight were Slytherins, it was no surprise that many classmates wore similar looks of confusion. Pure-bloods were sought after, valued more than muggle-borns and half-bloods, and were sold off for better prices, especially when coming from an untainted bloodline. Though Walburga was no mother to her children, and Orion was a sod-off for a father, Regulus remembers, so vividly in his memories, how his parents warned him and Sirius sternly of bad men who wanted them for their purity. They were told they’d be put under a spell that made them walk on their hands instead of their legs, smile when they were desperate to cry, and keep them silent as they were cut open and sold in parts. Their body, given up to someone else...at their mercy. They were told that they could fight it, that they should no matter what, for being sold off as a family of The Sacred-Twenty-Eight was sullying to their reputation, especially the untainted bloodline of the House of Black.
Walburga had sat Sirius and Regulus down, once, and made them watch as a man's mind splintered in his attempt to break free from the Imperius Curse. It was a spell that infiltrated the head—too delicate of a place to tread lightly. She said that they must harden themselves so that, come the day it's used on them, they can strike back and remain sane. It was embarrassing, otherwise.
“As Mr Rosier stated, the Imperius Curse is the only unforgivable that can be resisted, 'n its efficiency depends on the state o' both the wizard 'n the person bein’ Imperiused. If the Imperiused person has a strong mental fortitude, they can resist or ‘break free’. The stronger the wizard, the harder it is to resist.
“To warn, the mind is fragile. A caster who doesn’ know what they’re doin’ can wind up hurtin’ the Imperiused person’s head to a point of no return. A person wi' a weak mind tryin' to break free can wind up splittin' their head in two. Plenty o' people in mental hospitals are there because o' young wizards like ye lot who’re messin’ about.”
Dayonette is taken out of the cage and placed on top of it, sitting on the bars, thighs wrapped around the iron. Slughorn raises his wand and asks, “Ya sure about this, Nette?”
The Oread nods her head rapidly.
“Alright then…Imperio.”
Regulus sees the nymph dim, gold glitter turning pasty yellow and rotten mustard, spherical eyes slating over, dulled, lids blinking, so slowly Regulus can count the seconds they meet, shiny like they were wet. (He recalls staring at his reflection, feeling the parts of himself that were never and would never be whole be wormed into by her; violated.)
“Dance for me,” Slughorn orders, gently.
┌────────── ✧ ──────────┐
“Sing for me, my little lark.”
└────────── ✧ ──────────┘
The nymph dances and it is a spectacle. She dances with elegance, fervour and gracefulness. Her feet are light, the way nymphs are. Despite Oreads’ lacking wings and having larger builds, all nymphs dance. It is their first celebration, and it is their last, their first language and the final word they die on. As a child, Regulus had often dreamt of stumbling upon one of them, to see the thing for himself.
It must be something ethereal, no?
This…this isn’t ethereal. This isn’t beautiful.
It is perfect.
┌────────── ✧ ──────────┐
“Sing for me, my little lark.”
And not a single note is out of tune.
└────────── ✧ ──────────┘
The nymph dances and Regulus wants to turn his head. He doesn't. It is still a performance, a train wreck come to life. This isn’t the dance he spent his childhood dreaming fantasies of. This isn’t a language, this doesn’t speak to an audience. She does not glitter as she dances, the way she did when greeting Regulus moments prior.
It merely is a flawless execution of steps.
This is the Imperius Curse.
Some of the Sacred Twenty-Eight go so far as to task their children with an order under the Imperius Curse to show them what it feels like. They would make their children clean, walk, spin, twirl…dance. Only once, for even they feared the shame it would bring to their family if rumour spread of a potential heir or mistress breaking under their guardians’ Imperio. It is a barbaric, practice, though, one that's been abandoned by most families.
Not Walburga, though. Not her Blacks.
(Walburga made Regulus sing.)
The nymph’s hands brush the edges of the cage as she glides. There is not a misstep, not a slip of a finger or even a heavy breath. Dayonette dances and music like small bells follow. Each nymph played a note of their own, a noise that was special to them.
The bells make very pretty, dainty noises, but they are not Dayonette’s. They are the sounds of an Imperiused execution of perfection.
The difference is impossible to overlook.
┌────────── ✧ ──────────┐
“Sing for me, my little lark.”
└────────── ✧ ──────────┘
“Stop.”
Dayonette freezes in place.
There is no applause.
┌────────── ✧ ──────────┐
But Regulus did not sing, as he did in the quiet of his room, to himself and the stars.
For not a note was out of place.
└────────── ✧ ──────────┘
“This is what the Imperius Curse does. Ya lose any sense o' identity or will and give it up for the castor. It is also noted that anythin' done under an Imperius curse, includin' Unforgivables, can be forgiven if viable proof shows that the person was Imperiused.”
Regulus can understand why the Imperius Curse was deemed an Unforgivable, both for its dangers and the way it manipulated men.
Regulus watches the moment the curse is lifted, colour coming back to life on the Oread, glitter now gold again and eyes bright and wide as ever.
“You were a doll, Nette,” Slughorn praises, the nymph brightening in response. “How 'bout ya pop right back in there 'n I’ll take ya to Ogg and Hagrid. If ya fellas could give me less than five, I’ll be right back.”
Dayonette does as ordered, and Slughorn hoists her up to take her away.
The classroom bursts into chatter the moment the door to the classroom is swung shut. Regulus, Barty and Evan swivel in their seats to face Pandora and Dorcas, the former looking forlornly at where the nymph danced moments ago.
“That was incredible,” Dorcas murmurs.
“Not really,” Barty and Regulus reply at the same time.
“You’re not of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” Evan explains as Dorcas shoots them a dull look, “so you wouldn’t get it, but the Imperius Curse turns people into zombies.”
“Wouldn't you argue slaves?”
“No,” Barty disagrees, “slaves still have their individuality, a sense of personality even if they are bound to their masters. Zombies don’t.”
“That was awful,” Pandora whispers sadly. “I’ve heard nymph dances are their first language, that looked like the kind of thing you’d perform at a theatre.”
“I don’t get it,” Dorcas huffs.
Regulus starts, in a worryingly apathetic tone, “The Imperius Curse feels like someone is trying to wear you like a skin suit and use your body to do their bidding. It is done to perfection, but it is not authentic. It’s been almost 6 bleeding years and I still remember how it felt.”
His friends’ eyes whip over to him, shocked.
“You were Imperiused?!”
“You weren’t?”
“It’s an Unforgivable!”
“Well, yes, but my mother only used it once—”
“Your mother?!”
“Christ, Barty, don’t yell,” Regulus complains. “But yes, some parents of the more…intense families in the 28 use the curse on their children once to show them what it’s like. My mother made Sirius play Gaspard de la Nuit by Ravel on the piano, and I had to sing La Java Bleue.”
Evan scowls, “I know of the practice, but it’s fucking ancient. Why the hell…Oh, for fucks’ sake, your parents should just take it up the ass and choke.”
“What’s done is done.”
Pandora’s frown deepens.
“Regulus, the only time you ever sing despite your lovely voice is when it’s the two of us, or you're alone. Is this why?”
Regulus doesn’t dignify a response.
“And here I thought you didn’t do karaoke because you were no fun,” Barty jokes, but it’s dry and mean and hostile.
“I just want this lesson to be over,” Regulus says, an abrupt subject change. “How many more Unforgivables can there be?”
“You don’t know?”
“It just never struck my fancy. Everything is either curable, with time constraints, manageable, or can be properly countered outside of death. I didn’t get it. Though, I suppose I understand why the Imperius Curse was banned.”
“Seriously, I will carve a stick into a spear the muggle way and shove it into your mother’s—”
“Evan, please, I appreciate the anger, but it’s wasted.”
“I don’t think it is,” Evan mutters bitterly. “But you're in luck, there’s only one curse left. The C—”
The door slams open, cutting Evan off and effectively silencing the classroom.
Slughorn stumbles in and walks back over to the desk in that same one-two-two step. It sets Regulus’ skin on fire like it did earlier, the recoiling feeling of slime climbing up his throat making him sick with a sudden rush of nausea. Slughorn pulls out a decent-sized square cage with many thin bars. Inside is a bat, hung upside down, wings hugging its body, blacker than Regulus’ hair.
Pandora whimpers.
“Now, this little vermin bit quite a few students 'n teachers, so don’ feel too bad that I’ll be usin' it for this demonstration,” Slughorn placates, though it does nothing to ease Pandora’s distress. The room is grim—grimmer than during the previous demonstrations—and Regulus feels it like a physical discomfort lodged in his throat. He swallows.
What could the spell possibly be...
“Now, can someone tell me what the final unforgivable curse may be?... Yes, Ms Lumeer.”
“The Cruciatus Curse.”
Regulus’ knee jerks, hitting the table, and in a moment as quick as lightning, Regulus remembers how the room had been swallowed by shadows. He cannot see the looks his friends shoot his way; the worried eyes they exchange with one another. Regulus skin blanches, any and all colour washed away. The edges of his vision are going black—caged by shadows—and he wills himself to hyper-focus on Professor Slughorn and the bat in the cage.
'The Cruciatus Curse?'
“No,” he responds, quietly. Too quietly.
“Pardon, Mr. Black?”
“The Cruciatus Curse…it isn’t an Unforgivable.”
Slughorn’s lips twist in a confused and nervous smile. “It is, Mr Black.”
“No,” he argues, “it isn’t.”
The smile drops further into confusion.
“Mr Black, The Cruciatus Curse is said to break people’s minds because of how painful it is. Of all the curses, it requires the most intent, and is extremely difficult to perform if the caster has even the slightest doubt at all the pain they are to inflict.”
“That can’t be true,” Regulus denies. “That…it—” He swallows, composes himself, and reaffirms, “That can’t be true.”
“Mr Black, perhaps this is a discussion to have in private—”
“It isn’t true,” he repeats. “It isn’t. Unforgivable Curses land people in Azkaban.”
“They do,” Slughorn agrees, his smile falling off his face. “Mr Black, have ya been a witness to someone usin' the Cruciatus Curse?”
A witness.
“No, no. Sorry, it’s just…it’s just pain, no? Surely most wizards can tolerate it.”
Regulus puts his hands under the desks and scratches his wrist. Over his scars, over old wounds, scratches and scratches and focuses on how intensely it burns.
“It seems ya don’t quite understand the severity…” Slughorn trails off, some tension bleeding out of his shoulders at Regulus’ excuse. “I suppose 's good they’re allowin' fer demonstrations this year after all.”
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N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝N_͒͒_̴̢̧̼̗̯͚̗̰̍ͦ̂ͣ̈ͪ͆͊͞Ȏ̶̡͔͍̬͇͍̣̞̆ͦ̌ͧͧͥͩͩͤ́̉͂͛̚͝
N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕
N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕N̦͊ͤ̾̅͗Ọ̡̍̓͊̌̄ͫ̅̕
N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨN̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞OͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨN̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞OͫN̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨNͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭OͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫN̦̘̦̰ͮ͒͗ͥ͋̀̓ͮ̍ͨOͫ
N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞ŃOͬNͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭ŃOͬŃOͬŃOͬŃOͬŃOͬŃOͬŃOͬNͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭ŃOͬŃOͬŃOͬNͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭ŃOͬŃOͬŃOͬŃOͬŃOͬNͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭ŃOͬ
Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭
Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭Nͅ_̵̶̧̡̫̫͔̜͂̆ͪ̔ͯ͊̐ͧͦ͜O̭
N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞
Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠
N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠
Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞N̶̴̢̝̘̥̻̥̪̮̩̯̫̗͍̙͙̘ͥ̈́̒ͬ̉ͮͪ̊̈̆ͬ̔̒̋́͆͝͠͠
Ǫ̴̴̷̵̨̩̼͈͙̮̻ͨͭ̌͐̌̔̎̐͛̒̅̀͢͞
NO—
“Sir, I don’t think—”
Whatever Dorcas says is cut off by Slughorn’s loud, strong and impending, "Crucio.”
Within a heartbeat...
The bat screams and writhes, beating against the cage wildly, desperate. It shakes, twitches and screeches, the sounds it makes so piercing it is drilling holes into Regulus' ears and Regulus is watching. Regulus is watching, hands scratching up his arms, fingernails caked and coated with blood like the daggers used to stab holes into Regulus' palm to remind him of her touch. Evan tries to stop him, but Regulus shakes him off, falls out of his chair, falls onto the floor, falls and falls and falls...sleeves rolled up and arms of bleeding, broken skin, the end of a bruise in the shape of her fingers wrapped around his bicep glaring at him and the bat has not stopped screaming and writhing and twitching though Slughorn has put down his wand. Regulus drops his sleeves and scrambles to stand up, and they’re staring at him, but he’s looking at the bat, can't take his eyes off the bat, still screaming, still writhing, still twitching, and you don’t stop twitching for hours, for days, for weeks, you don’t stop, and your veins start to go black, and your muscles start to hurt and there's blood spilling down your nose and your head starts to spin, and it doesn’t stop, it never stops, it'll never stop for Salazar's sake make it stop DEAR GODS MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT S̴̢̛̟͓̫̝̜̜͍̤̹̥̺̼͍͆́̏̑̉̌ͬͭ̎̋̊̎̉ͫ́̈́̊ͯ̀̍̈́ͧ̄͟͟͜͝ͅT̨̛̮̫̱͕̦͚̱̺̩̺̾̊̂̈͆ͩͦͬ̏ͬ̉̕͘͢͜Ȏ̰̹P̴̷̴̸̡̛̭͔̱̭̠̙̗̫̗̤͎̳͋͑̄̓̀͂͆̏̃ͮ͋̈ͭ̃ͨͨ̚͢͝ͅ—
“M-Mr Black?”
And Regulus sinks into his skin and ruined muscles and drowns, and it's almost like he's breathing again.
Back into his body.
(The bat is unconscious.)
“Sorry Professor, the noise startled me and my ears are particularly sensitive after a mishap with a potion yesterday," Regulus lies with a smile he’s practised a thousand times in a thousand different reflections; he knows how to fit it on his face perfectly. His sleeves fall down his arms, his tone both polite and apologetic, blessedly neutral. “I understand now. I can’t imagine the amount of pain the poor bat was in, I simply thought it was a little more powerful than a sting.”
“Ah, a-alright, of course. I should’ve warned you all.” Slughorn’s imitation of a smile is nowhere near Regulus’, but it is enough. Greed does wonders. “Anyway, I will not be repeating that, so do not worry.”
Regulus takes his seat, keeps his arms under the desk, and does not scratch his wrist because he can feel the blood drying on his arms that still burn, can still see the blood under his nails, the wounds on his palms that are hers staring back at him. He does not move, does not blink, the world fading to black, to white, to grey, to red…again and again and again.
(Black: The colour of the night sky. The colour of Regulus' hair. The colour of the ruined veins that spiderweb down his back and across his shoulders. The shade of her eyes, usually ice-blue and striking, as the roots of her anger in her heart tightened, and so she would raise her wand...)
The world, fading to white, to grey, to red…again and again and again.
(White: The colour of a dove. The shade of Regulus’ skin. The colour of Sirius’ lips as he screamed in agony. The colour of Pandora’s nails. The colour of his mother's teeth, never stained with her burgundy lipstick, as she stretched them into a smile, raising her wand...)
The world, fading to grey, to red…again and again and again.
(Grey: The colour of asphalt. The colour of smoke when it passes through Barty’s lips as he hands Regulus the lit cigarette. The colour of a darkening cloud right before it weeps. The shade of Regulus’ world as saturation bleeds from it with every click of her heels as she walks away from him, immobile on the floor. The colour of Regulus' wide eyes that follow the raise of her of her wand...)
The world, fading to red…again and again and again.
(Red: The colour of James' jersey. The colour of her robes. The colour of blood. The colour of their blood, staining the wooden floorboards and old, ugly carpets as they slammed their head hard onto the ground, convulsing. The colour of the word as it leaves her tongue, after she raises her wand...as she says...)
The bell rings.
Regulus does not bother picking up the parchment of his incomplete notes or the quill that lay by it. He does not pick up his book bag; does not fix his tie; does not hear his friends; does not see the floor.
He walks, he walks and walks and walks, eyes on his wrist and her scars staring back at him.
Her. She did this. She hurt you like this. She hurt him like this. An Unforgivable Curse that does worse than kill. A curse that turns your mind to mud. A curse that she uses like tea leaves and pots. A curse that's burned itself on her tong—
Someone hits his shoulder.
“Ah, so sor…Oh. You.”
Regulus flinches.
(A witness?
A witness.
Sirius' witness.
He could not stand on his legs for two days the first time.
He lost his voice from screaming the second.
He threw up blood the third.
He ran away before she could try a fourth.)
Regulus looks up at Sirius. James is right by him. Sirius' witness, and Sirius his.
(But Regulus didn’t run.)
༺༻
Regulus couldn’t.
༺༻
Barty’s heart drops to his stomach as he and his friends hurriedly take after Regulus, who’d fled the classroom like the floor was set ablaze.
“That fucking whore!” Evan screams, fury framing him like wildfire. The students in the halls note the anger they wear on their faces and part like the Seas did for Moses. “That fucking vile, disgusting bitch! I’m going to rip off her fucking head! I’ll send her to the bloody centaurs! Fucking hell, I hope someone chops off all her limbs and makes her eat them raw! Fuck!”
Regulus doesn’t hear him, quick on his feet and long legs keeping him ahead, head bowed down, arms held out. He doesn’t seem to be hearing anything, seeing anything. He walks like the ground isn’t solid under his feet, seconds from caving in.
┌────────── ✧ ──────────┐
“That can’t be true.”
Barty feels like throwing up.
“That…It—”
Barty feels like throwing up.
“That can’t be true.
Barty feels like throwing up.
└────────── ✧ ──────────┘
Not that he’d be alone. Not that he ever is.
If the ground gave out and swallowed Regulus only, Barty would split it open and follow in a heartbeat.
“Shit, is that his brother?” Dorcas asks in a harsh whisper. Barty looks up and realises, along with the others, that Sirius Black and James Potter are about to crash into him. But Regulus keeps his head down and his arms out and…
Fuck.
“Ah so sor…Oh. You.”
“Shit! Regulus is going to—”
“You slimy bastard!” Regulus’ shout interrupts Pandora. The four of them jog right behind Regulus, and though the Gryffindors see them, Regulus doesn’t. “You fucked up piece of utter shit! You disappointment of a person! You’re worse than our fucking parents! You’re heartless, Sirius Black!”
The hallway goes quiet, the students turn to stare at the two brothers. Regulus falls apart, the thin thread he’d ruined his hands stitching himself up together with coming undone, the foreign parts of him that he'd kept hugged between his ribs fall onto the floor, and Barty is a statue in place, a spectator.
“What—” Sirius’ shock is drawn into every wrinkle of his face. Barty needs to move, to take Regulus away, to hold him, to help him sew himself up with something stronger and lovelier and nicer than old threads. Those foreign parts he'd forced himself to swallow and sew had fused with the very real and lovely parts that belonged to Regulus only, so it all went to rot. This time, Barty would let him pick what parts he keeps and what parts he discards, promising him that he was whole regardless.
“Shut up! You don’t get to talk! You always talk! You always get to scream! You riot! You do it and don’t, for a fucking second, think about the consequences! Not even for the people you claim to love!
“I saw the way Lupin couldn’t bear to look at you at the start of the year. You fucked up! You always fuck up! You’re disgusting! You’re despicable.”
“Who the hell are you to—!”
“I said shut up!” Regulus screeches, loud loud so bloody loud, and it strikes something in everyone who bears witness to it because Regulus isn't. Not even screaming has he ever been loud.
And Barty wonders if he needs to unravel, too. To cut his thread with his own hands and fall apart with Regulus. He looks at his friends, and he realises there is no putting Regulus back together. That they'd already come apart and been sewn up again, and again they're too worn. They are not lovely enough, not kind or sweet. They were not Gryffindor brave, not Hufflepuff soft, children who were raised in meadows and flower fields under sunlight. No, they do not love in perfection.
Rather, should Regulus drown, they will sink with him, and together they turn themselves to rot and ruin.
༺༻
Regulus' hands still tremble.
BAD mornings, Evan calls them.
But they’re just mornings. They’re every fucking bleeding morning of every fucking bleeding day, and Regulus is so scared of becoming more scar than flesh. He is so scared of becoming the kind of ugly you that wears you like a second skin because he is already so ugly on the inside. He is so terrified of the colour of mahogany staining his teeth the way it will never stain his mothers'. His nails are bloodstained like her daggers, and it’s. Every. Fucking. Bleeding. Morning.
“I said shut up!”
He has never been so loud, so frantic, his vocal cords torn and tearing and blood spilling out of his eyes and ears and throat bubbling.
Sirius has their mother’s eyes, and they stare at Regulus with the kind of anger he’s grown to know so much more intimately. He looks up and Sirius has his mother’s eyes and her long charcoal hair and pale pink skin.
Walburga. Walburga is staring down at him again. Regulus falls to the floor, scrambles back on his hands until he hits a wall, pulls his knees to his chest and stares up and...
“What is she doing here?!”
He wants to weep, and so he does; he doesn’t know why, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts so bad he wants to choke and hurt all the more. He remembers being 9 and told to sing and yells, “I don’t want to sing! Get away! Go away! Why are you here?! You aren’t supposed to be here!”
Regulus pulls up the sleeves of his robe and drags his nails down his arms again and again and again, feels someone near him and knows what that means, what those eyes mean. (Sirius has their mother’s anger in his eyes, and Regulus knows what those eyes mean.)
“C'est la java bleue,” Regulus sings in apology, “la java la plus belle, celle qui ensorcelle.”
He’s crying. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t remember much. He’s in a lot of pain. He’s in so much pain, his muscles won’t stop twitching. His veins are a deep black, they must look like pen marks on his skin. God, he truly is so ugly.
Regulus' eyes find his palm, the indents and his mother’s touch, the wounds of her daggers. She'd been so content, so at ease, casting hexes to make sure they would not heal fast enough. A reminder, she'd tell Regulus, that, unlike his brother, he could never run away from her or the marks on his skin.
Oh, but nothing came to the way she spun her wand and flooded his world in a true, damning, red.
Red: The Cruciatus Curse.
He screams. Again, he screams.
He screams. He’s drowning. The ground is swallowing him up. He’s dying. He’s dying.
Why is he dying?
Why isn't he dying?
Regulus feels his wand in his grip and knows Walburga’s eyes are staring at him with the kind of anger he’s grown so familiar with since Sirius left. Unforgivable Curses. She…she used them. She uses them, nails coated in Regulus’ blood, no mahogany lipstick on her teeth, in the same voice she instructed Regulus to sing in. She uses them. She uses them and smiles.
┌────────── ✧ ──────────┐
"I cannot be as lenient with you as I was with Sirius. I’m doing this to teach you not to act out! You will not become like your brother. You understand, don’t you, my little lark? You understand, right? This is for your good.”
Regulus nods. He does and never learned how to say no to her. Only knows rebellion in the smaller things, like the hickies on his neck or the drunken nights with his friends.
“Crucio.”
And breaks.
└────────── ✧ ──────────┘
He points his wand at his throat as she did, and says, the word falling off his tongue in the colour of red...
“Crucio.”