/𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒\ [𝒔. 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌]

𝟔.𝟡.𝟣

"I can't-"

"We can forget all of this, we really can. Just don't join up." She was pleading now, but she didn't care.

He steeled himself, not willing to cry in front of her. "No, I mean I can't. I've got to join up. It's just my... my life. It's not the same as you and Sirius, I've got to do this."

She wanted to keep arguing, but something urged her to leave him alone. She couldn't change him. She could only hope he'd changed himself. "Our door will always be open to you," she said, her voice still hushed. "Anytime you need anything. I'll be here to help."

"Thanks."

She slipped off of the wall and started back towards the castle, arms still hugged to herself, probably to tell Sirius his brother had just made a fool of himself. Regulus watched her go, then looked back down at the cigarette in the mud. Then, in one motion, he curled his fist and punched the wall of the locker rooms, hard enough to break his knuckles. He felt the blood on his hand before he saw it, but he merely resisted the urge to groan out loud and swiped it off on his robes, staining the green with dark red. Then, turning on his heel, he strode up towards the castle.

Peter and Mary skipped the match to have a painting party in the girls' dormitory instead. Both felt a little bad about missing out on supporting their friends, but it was rainy and they figured there would be more matches to go to. Instead, they sat on the floor in front of Mary's bed, candles burning everywhere and Rose, the cat, purring in Peter's lap. They'd made a mess of the place, spreading canvases and paints everywhere, but the other girls wouldn't be back until hours after the match so they didn't worry about it.

Mary was free-handing a portrait of Peter. It was her fourth or fifth of the kind, she loved drawing his eyes most of all and the way they reflected light. Peter always marveled at how different each picture of him was, and how she brought out features he'd never even given a second look. He'd made a lack-luster drawing of a tree, and then leaned back against the bed and let Mary do her work. He closed his eyes and listened to the tapping of the rain on the window in the alcove and the humming purrs of Rose, mixed with Mary's light humming as she painted, and he thought, if life was just like this. All the time. Then, I could truly be happy.

"Open your eyes, Pete," Mary said softly.

He did. She was scrutinizing him, a pencil tucked into her hair and another perched in her hand, a little easel propped in front of her. He always relished the look on her face when she was making art. They were the few moments when she seemed fully and completely present in the world, her head out of the clouds, her eyes sharp and thoughtful. Her lips pressed against each other in concentration, and she didn't even notice him staring. She was the most beautiful girl in the world, and she'd chosen him to draw. Peter was always astonished when he thought about it.

"Wait, stay right there," she commanded, her voice lilting like she was singing a song. "I like the lighting there."

"Let me know when you're done." He stayed perfectly still, imagining himself as a statue. He didn't want to mess up her picture. She always hated it when her subjects moved, although she wouldn't yell at them. He'd never seen her truly angry at anyone in his life. She was safe. He didn't have to worry about a thing when she was around.

He stayed like that for a long time, focusing on the ways Mary's expression changed as she drew and how her eyes glided over his face before burying back down in the paper to make a few more marks. "Alright, you can move now," she said, sitting back and admiring her handiwork.

"Can I see?" He leaned forward.

She laughed and pushed the canvas away. "No, you know you can't look at it until it's completely done."