l'osservatore della bellezza | wolfstar

this life is so very fleeting

A few hours away from this corner of Florence was another corner, almost exactly the same on first appearance, except there was a difference: where Remus and Sirius' corner was warm and golden, Regulus Black's was cold.

Sure, the street outside and the surrounding houses mimicked each others' cheerful demeanour, and the sun was just as bright and vulgar as anywhere else. But the home of the younger Mr Black (and that of his very dear, very close friend, Mr Crouch) was the perfect example of 'sticking out like a sore thumb'.

The front was a dark shade of paint, and the inside was darker still: all was wooden panelling and olive-hued wallpaper. Furniture had been chosen for its understated elegance, and any carvings were subtle and generally went unnoticed (unless you looked for them especially).

As for gaudy ornaments, there were none, for both men had an inexplicable abhorrence for gold. What little ornaments they did keep, were made of silver or bronze, and instead of being the centre of attention, were tucked away here and there, as if unimportant.

It's certainly a dark picture I've painted, is it not? Not to worry, however: almost every room had a multitude of windows, which were more often than not thrown open, allowing light into the house.

The reason for this was that the two dear, close friends had often been subjected to artificial darkness in their old homes, and the gloomy atmosphere created was so invariably reminiscent of their pasts, that they were now determined that light should touch each corner of every room, so that the dark might be chased out.

So really, was the house so dark? It might seem so at first, but on further inspection, there was a certain ingrained cheer to the complete lack of life, as if the entire building had accepted its gloomy nature without much resentment.

Besides, many rooms were lined with bookcases, filled with books with worn pages and bent spines, which added a warmth to all the coolness.

Sadly, it seems I stray, once again, from the point. My sincerest apologies.

In one of the rooms - a study of some sort, I suppose - was sat Regulus Black, who was completely absorbed in his accounts. It was a dull business, but necessary all the same (as are most boring things).

"Regulus, love? There's a letter arrived for you."

The young man looked up from where he was hunched over his desk, and smiled his thanks as Barty handed the letter to him.

It was from his brother, by the style of the careful writing. He read the first couple of paragraphs, then gasped, dropping the sheet.

"Is something the matter?" Barty asked, standing close behind where the other was sat.

"Yes... Sirius has wrote me, saying..."

"Saying what?"

"Mother... has fallen sick. He doesn't expect that she will survive much longer."

Letting out a long breath, Barty pressed his face into the top of Regulus' head. "I see."

There was silence, save for the heavy tired tick of their clock. It seemed to pulse inside him.

Regulus tried to understand what he was thinking, leaning into Barty's hands as they began running through his dark tufts of hair. He felt strangely off-balance, as if someone had pulled a rug from under his feet.

His mother, dying? Perhaps even dead?

He remembered her fierce eyes, her twisted mouth, her bony hands grabbing his arm tight enough to bruise it.

A being so alive with hatred could not be dying. He refused to believe it, and that disbelief seemed to be suffocating him, making him dizzier and dizzier. It could not be. It could not be.

But after a few moments, his face pressed into his hands, his heartbeat slowing again, the disbelief gave way, and there was a sense of... if not pleasure, then relief.

His father was fairly older than his mother, and without her was unlikely to last much longer. Soon he would be without parents.

He still often woke at night, sweating and frantic, imagining that his parents were at his door, imagining the sound of their knocking filling his ears, loud and awful and unrelenting.

At least, even if it were cruel of him, they would no longer be here. At least he could rest easy in knowing they would not find him and drag him screaming back to their house (unless their ghosts decided to fulfil his dreams).

In a way, he felt guilty for thinking they deserved this. In another way, he knew they did.

"Is it terrible that I don't believe I care?"

A muffled laugh, and Barty raised his head. "I don't think so. I wouldn't expect it of you, after all they've done."

"It would be akin to you caring about your father."

Barty nodded. "And we can both agree that I should do no such thing."

"Absolutely not." Regulus got up, facing his wonderful friend with a soft, mildly regretful grin. "We are so very horrible, are we not?"

"The worst." Barty smiled slyly back. "Even Hell would not take us."

He pulled the other closer by the hips. "I would consider it a compliment."

"As would I." Barty pressed suddenly forward, pushing their lips together, hard and warm. Regulus responded with equal heat.

"My God," Regulus breathed, as Barty moved his mouth downwards, "am I not allowed even the privilege of mourning, before you attack me so violently?"

"You can mourn her when she's dead."

Regulus considered it, then shrugged. "I probably won't, in all honesty."

"Then why wait for mourning now?"

"Why, indeed." With that, they continued their advances on each other, paying little mind to parents and other such insignificant factors in their lives.

***

In another corner, somewhere not in Florence, there was a home that was dark and silent.

A woman lay thin and shrivelled in her bed, glazed eyes turned to the ceiling. Sweat had dried on her brow and in her hair. It had matted itself against her skin, shiny in the light of a single candle.

Her husband sat beside her, holding her hand, with an expression of barely noticeable disgust at the smell.

Time and illness had gripped the room tightly; the outside world did not touch, nor dare to invade, such a careful image of grief. It was like those painted by artists, who had the nerve to romanticise even death. An artist we all know would have appreciate the scene, no doubt, but was unfortunately not there to witness it.

"Was... there any... any reply?" the woman croaked out.

"No, dear. Our wretched son did not think it worth his time, apparently. The younger did not send any either, which leads me to believe he either does not know or does not care."

The woman swallowed, jaw clenching with something that would have been anger, had she the strength to feel so strong an emotion.

Then she relaxed, head falling to one side and eyes falling on the candle on her bedside table. "I would that Hell... have mercy..." Her breath rattled through her withered ribs.

"On you?"

"On them... though they don't deserve it..."

The candle died with her last breath, and so did she.