The Story of Regulus Black - Years 5-7

XCIX. Cat and Mouse

CW: suicidal ideation

When Regulus Black had first arrived outside of the front gates of Lestrange Manor, he had hesitated.

He didn't want to go inside. He didn't want to see Barty, to look into his eyes and tell him that he had failed. He didn't want to admit that he had lied, all along; every single time that he had told Barty that he would do anything in the world for him, that he would always do everything in his power to keep him safe, and yet here he was. A boy with nothing at all except sadness and guilt so great that he was afraid they might suffocate him.

His lungs were empty, small, unable to accept the air that he was trying desperately to choke down. His eyes were a constant stream of tears, his cheeks flushed and the tip of his nose a bright shade of red that was only worsened by the cold that nipped at his exposed skin. He felt like he couldn't breathe, he could hardly see through the blur of tears, his chest ached with so much intensity that he feared his heart was going to stop before he even got to say goodbye.

To say goodbye. The mere idea of what he was about to do was enough to make him feel as though the very edges of the world were shrinking, closing in on him, like an invisible barrier was crushing him into nothing. He was going to walk into Lestrange Manor, past the gates and into the hallway that he didn't doubt would feel as though it had no end, into the parlor that was full of nothing but violent and terrible memories that he would give just about anything in the world to forget, and he was going to say goodbye. He was going to look Barty in the eye, to stare into the shade of warm brown that he had found such comfort in, to feel the softness of his skin and count the light freckles that were splattered across his nose for the final time. He was going to touch him, to see him, to speak with him for the last time all because Regulus was too much of a coward to do what the Dark Lord had asked of him from the very beginning.

He was going to look into his eyes, to touch him, to apologize for the last time knowing that they should have had so, so much more. Regulus was full of guilt, full of regrets, both weighing so heavily on his shoulders that a part of him hoped it would push him right through the ground, into the earth, out of existence completely. He regretted speaking to Barty on the Platform, convincing him to choose Slytherin, telling him about the Dark Lord. He regretted every fight, every harsh word, every violent stare or disastrous thought that had ever crossed his mind. He regretted those days that he spent ignoring Barty, avoiding him, trying to weasel his way out of a conversation because he had prioritized himself rather than the boy who was stuck suffering the consequences of Regulus's own selfishness.

He was a boy full of regret, full of "what if's", destined to spend the rest of his life alone and wondering just what he could have changed. He was going to watch the boy that he loved, the boy who he had been so convinced he would be spending forever with, die at the hands of the very man who Regulus had once seen as an idol; a hero, even.

Barty was going to die because Regulus was too cowardly, too obsessed with the impossible task of finding grey in a world that was so painfully black and white - good and bad. Excuses, apologies, and everything in between because Regulus was so desperate to pretend that he wasn't exactly what he had been born to be, what his blood had defined him as since the very beginning of his existence, exactly what he had always feared ever since he was a little boy hearing strange noises in the dark: a monster.

He was so caught up in the task of staying conscious for long enough to say goodbye to Barty at all that the crack! of apparation behind him nearly sent him toppling to the ground. He was too slow turning around, he was too weak to fight off the tight grip on his arm, and he allowed himself to be dragged away to the cover of brambles that protected the gates of Lestrange Manor from the world that lived beyond because a part of him wished that it would be the end. A part of him hoped that it was a danger, one that he wouldn't be able to fight off even if he tried (he wouldn't. He knew that, in that moment, anyone could have done anything that they wanted to him and he would have let them because it was exactly what he deserved, what he had always tried to pretend that he didn't). He hoped that it would be the cruel yet comforting embrace of death that a part of him was longing so desperately to feel.