Redemption

Redemption-

The room is bordered in darkness, but around them there is nothing but light. The two figures smile at one another, his arms around her waist and hers around his neck, swaying to a tune that only they know. He laughs as she whispers something to him and points out the fierce eyes that stare at them; their painted fairy tale life stands in envy and they know it. They are young, they are free, and they are beautiful, moving with one another as if they were one. His dark hair brushes against her fair cheek as they kiss; she pulls him closer, finding comfort in his familiar arms.

A banner rises behind them: Toujours Pur. Yes, the Blacks are always pure, and these two are the Blackest, the purest of them all. To be a Black is to be perfect, and they are content in their perfection, watching the reflections in the other's eyes, tasting the familiar forms of themselves on the other's lips. He rakes his fingers through her blonde hair and she sighs in bliss.

She dips, swings within the safe circle of his arms; his eyes sparkle in pride as they move fluidly across the floor. With a kiss and a smile he spins her away, not noticing the tall figure that has stepped out of the shadows of the room until he feels her collide with another and her hand is pulled forcefully from his.

This stranger has eyes of steel and hair of silk, and he clasps her to himself, exuding a power that even this Black cannot match. He smiles hypnotically and she is caught in his trance as he takes her hand and leads her away, making her dance to a new tune that she picks up in no time. From one side, the Black prince pulls at her impatiently, jealousy rising, but she gives him a cold stare; she has made her choice, of this giddy power over the boredom and familiarity that her life has been. Her chosen victor whispers to her and she smiles, drunken and dizzy on her own importance.

Left alone, a raven head bows, a petulant expression rising on his noble face. She sees him and for a moment, cloudy sorrow darkens her face and she wishes she could run back to him, but it is too late; she is swept away, the power binding her to the side of the winner.

With nothing left to him, this boy-lover-has-been must follow; in an instant, his love, his insecurity has turned him from a prince to a pauper, from a would-be savior to a slave.

*

It is not in your nature to question, and it is not in his to answer. It has never been.

But you cannot help but wonder when he knocks on your bedroom door, the unmistakable sound of his four smart raps on wood evoking memories of a past that you choose to remember little of now. You almost throw yourself across the room when you hear the knocking, only to pause in your journey towards the door, unsure of yourself. You are aware of the way the room seems so silent around you, the only sound coming from the wind blowing through the open window, and for a second, you believe that you had just imagined it, that your tired mind is trying to fool you, that there is no way that he could be here now.

All this time, and you will have is tonight... so many months of simply talking, waiting, dreaming, culminating in this one night.

But then he knocks again, and you know that you weren't simply dreaming; it is definitely him. You slide the bolt back, stilling your breath so as the door swings open, letting it out disappointedly as you stare into the shadows beyond it. Of course he would not be here, of course he couldn't...

You're about to close the door when you hear a sudden sound, like shoes scuffing against the carpet, and he appears, almost melting into existence like a dark shadow-sprite, cloaked in black. He does not speak; you hear nothing but the soft sounds of his silence as he stumbles past you without a word.

There is only his silence as he shuts the door behind himself; only his irregular steps on the carpet as he limps across the room; only the creaking of bedsprings as he sits down. You have not seen him for weeks and you start as you notice the pallor to his skin, his face so still as if etched in wax, his features jutting out sharply. The stench of blood and stale cigarette smoke lingers about him in an almost tangible cloud, a sharp smell that makes your stomach twist unpleasantly.

But it is not for you to ask where he has been, and the question dies on the tip of your tongue. It is tucked away and buried at the back of your mind as you take in the tired lines that have made their home on his face, of the complete despair that has replaced his once unshakeable determination. Only mere traces of his handsome youth remain in this man who sits, broken, in front of you; this Regulus is almost unrecognizable as the brash and bold boy you once knew.

He stares up at you as you put your hands on his shoulders, his eyes hollow and his face lined with resignation and hidden pain.

'Cissa...'

No, this cannot be his voice, this low, broken rasp that comes from his lips. Your head hurts and your eyes burn as you try to recall what his voice sounded like but can't remember; his once-hearty laugh is a distant sound that evades your memory, only to be replaced with a hoarse semblance, a ghost.

'Cissa,' he whispers again, and this time, you are sure he is real. The pain in his voice... such pain cannot, could never be imagined. The days have not been kind to him... life has not been kind...

You sit down next to him, resting a hand on his shoulder in a memory of some other time. He turns to you, eyes closed tightly, his mouth searching out yours. You do not need words to tell you what he is here for tonight. You read his body as his hands come up, his aching fingers clutching at you. The ghost of a sigh presses against your skin and you can feel the hunger in his trembling hands, the tense sweat that causes his hair to stick to his forehead. You press to him and it is like being enveloped in the arms of a ghost; his fingers are so, so, so cold...

'I did it,' he whispers, opening his eyes and looking at you, making you start in confusion.

'Did what?'

'I'm not bound anymore.' He laughs as he raises his hands, a weak note of triumph sounding in his hollow voice. 'It's gone. I cut it off, I...'

And then you realize exactly what he has done, mute shock overtaking you as you view the bloodied arm he cradles to himself. The Dark Mark is gone, torn away, and only a ragged wound remains.

His skin is sticky and damp, blood and sweat mingling, congealing on your skin where you touch him. You can feel it trailing away, trailing up as you slide his sleeves back, and you trace the edges of the gash. You kiss the deep wound on his left forearm where he has scratched away his identity. It is fresh, and blood drips from it, the warmth bubbling against your lips, the old magic seeping from the place his Mark once was. You can taste it, crackling over your tongue, copper and fire and overwhelming despair.

'This is treason, Regulus. This is...'

'Redemption,' he whispers, flinching as you trail a finger over the skin, tracing every scratch. In the moonlight you can see the blood crusting under his fingernails. He is pale, his skin cold, his lips upturned in silent, mad laughter. A streak of red mars his cheek and you reach up, testing it, feeling the blood come away on your fingertips.

A fresh stain of guilt.

'Save me, Cissa,' he murmurs, meeting your eyes, and you see the cloudy insanity brewing within. 'Please, save me,' he begs, his voice cracking. You run your fingers through his hair, sitting down beside him, kissing his feverish temple.

'You know I can't.'

You wonder when you had gotten so cold, so unsure. You voice holds nothing back, betraying your dismal state to him; it is a sharp contrast to the blind hope that flashes across his face.

'But...but why?' he asks softly, his voice hitching slightly. 'Cissa-'

'The Dark Lord does not take betrayal lightly,' you tell him, carefully watching as he winces, both at the mention of his Master and as you grip his mangled forearm tightly. 'If I helped you... they'd come for me next.'

And that is all the truth there is. You can only hope that he understands. You have no wish to die. But Regulus...

He looks stricken for all of a second, then his face relaxes into a knowing smile. He laughs unnervingly, his voice bordering on hysteria.

'There's nothing left for us is there? There's nothing,' he says weakly, placing his hand over yours and letting his wand rest in your palm. It is heavy in your hand, like the weight of him against you. The wind blows, a chill reminder that makes him move closer to you, his touch insistent, almost begging for some sort of salvation that you are not sure you can provide.

'Regulus? What are you asking me...'

But you already know what is coming next. Your heart beats faster and the air is almost too thick to breathe, laden with an odd anticipation and the scent of his wretchedness. He stares at you, his eyes already foggy with pain, his lips curving upwards in that same mad smile he had before, his voice trembling.

'You know what you have to do,' he says, drawing your hand up and curling your entwined fingers around the wand before pointing it at himself. His hands are shaking so hard and his blood is still spilling over his sleeves, staining yours and making your fingers almost too slick to hold the wand. You can't help but let out a little cry as he settles the wand and then draws his hands away, his movements desperate and weary.

'Regulus, no, it doesn't have to come to this,' you moan, even if you know that there is no other way out.

'They're going to come for me anyway. I'd rather you be done with it... before Lucius has a chance to.'

He knows. He knows his damnation. He knows.

'I'm sorry, Regulus,' you whisper as he slumps against you, burying his face in your neck. The wandtip rests against his racing pulse and you try to say the words, to utter the curse as his life's blood flows over you. He repeats his plea and you are aware of how tired and sick he sounds, how eager he seems to be for this; he says the damning words over and over as if they will somehow protect you, a mantra that will save you both.

'Be done with it, Cissa, be done with it.'

'I... I can't.'

'You have to. There's no other way out for me,' he begs.

You clutch at him tightly as you whisper the curse and feel the brief burst of energy pass through the wand and into him. They say the killing curse is painless, but you know otherwise; you know exactly what it does and you imagine watching the spark of death flowing through him, gripping his heart with frozen fingers, laughing as it twists a cruel hand and cuts off his life. His fingers dig into your skin sharply, then relax their hold as he slips away. His body sags, his breath stops; his blood flows cold but his tears are still warm on his cheeks as you lay him down.

His face is contorted, the image of his last effort to block out the pain; his eyes are glassy and you shut them, try to smoothen down his rough hair, try to check for any remaining signs of life as you pass your fingers over his face. You kiss him, one last time, easing the final traces of tension from his still lips before you stand up and smile at him sadly.

'Oh, Regulus, you never could face it, could you? But it doesn't matter now.'

As you back away from him, you wipe your mouth free of his blood, clean yourself of the lingering taste of him. A soft scuffing near the window makes you look up, and you smirk as you see Lucius moving forward, sneering at you from the shadows. In the dark, he stands, his hair falling over his face, his eyes glittering coldly as he takes in the scene, the body and yourself, standing there.

'Well?'

You glance contemptuously at the body on the bed by way of answer. Your eyes linger on his face and you try to recall a time when he might have meant something, but find that you do not care. He was always a fool, a cowardly, sentimental fool to believe that you truly cared for him... his death was necessary if you were to live.

Laughing, you cross the room, falling into the waiting embrace. The wand slips from your hands and you hear it crack under your brutal heels. Lucius kisses you and you can feel his smile as you whisper the words he was waiting to hear.

'It is done. He won't be disturbing anyone anymore.'

*

They bury the child in an unmarked grave; those who turn their wands upon themselves are not worthy of recognition. She stands and watches from a distance as they take turns to speak to the fallen prince, spitting on the ground in disgust.

She smirks. Let them believe what they believe. From behind her veil she pretends to wipe away the tears that were never there. There are a few who remember them, remember her dances with her dark-haired cousin and they stop with words of encouragement, words of wisdom; she must act for these few who may believe.

After all... he was family.

A hand rests on her shoulder, and she turns and smiles up at her champion. The devil wears a somber smile. 'You did well,' he says.

'I know,' is her only answer. Treading delicately, she makes her way towards the turned soil, stopping at the foot of it to look around. The land is empty, save for the grass that grows wild over the land; soon the grave will be lost, and so will all memory of weakness. A lonesome bird calls from somewhere overhead, wheeling before it turns for home; he is truly alone, even in death, and at the thought she smiles.

On her finger, a gold band glitters; beneath her sleeve, the Mark rears its dark head, grinning in the fading light.

*

fin

*