𝐄𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 || Regulus Black

𝐁𝐞𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠

★★★

Hera was gone. She had finished her job modelling for Slughorn's art class, spent one last evening with Regulus, and disappeared. They had spent one last, blissful evening together and it was all over by the time the sun set.

They were out of each other's lives. As a woman of privacy, Hera had neglected to leave Regulus with her number, her address, or any information to bring them back together. The artist was only left with a few dozen works of art ranging from sketches to sculptures by which he could remember her—as if he would ever forget.

It had only been a few days, but Regulus missed her already.An artist needs a muse. He had one, but now she's gone.

He didn't know what to do. What do other artists do when this happens to them? Does this ever happen to other artists or is he just the most unlucky man in London?

Regulus laid on his bed, staring longfully at the sculpture he had made of her the first time they had met outside of the art studio. It wasn't a perfect likeness to her, but it was good enough. Honestly, there could never be any work with a perfect likeness to Hera. Even though Regulus believed in practically nothing but art, he had little faith that any piece could wholly and authentically capture her ethereal beauty.

Looking at the work they made together was only causing Regulus to drop further into his downward spiral of moping and yearning. He knew it, and he had to work hard to find any care.

As much as he wanted to stay down and deteriorate, the man was young. He was an artist. He had potential. It was far too early to start wasting away in his studio apartment.

Using what seemed like all the effort stored in his lean body, Regulus untangled himself from his soft white sheets and sat up at the edge of his bed. His gaze moved around his flat, finding something to do.

He needed to clean. Not as a coping mechanism, not because it would help take his mind off of Hera's exit, but because it was something Regulus neglected when it came to his art. Their silver and green painting from weeks ago was still on the ground, both the empty and unused bottles of paint sat next to it. The film rolls—yes, rolls as in plural; he had wanted as many photographs of her that she would allow him to take—and the 35 millimetre camera from their boudoir were up on his hardly-used kitchen table.

Every piece of art made since he had met Hera was made to capture and immortalise her radiance, but they all seemed to exist just to taunt their creator. But Regulus wouldn't allow himself to be intimidated by his own work. Not when he had brought them into the world for such a reason as he did.

He would not go in an expected order, instead opting to mix in the most biting reminders of her with the menial chores he had been putting off for so long. Soon enough, his house would be clean and hopefully he would feel better.

He traipsed over to the table, grabbing the film and bringing it over by his front door so he would remember to get them developed when he went out. He would keep them, but the collection of pictures would be the only work of his that he kept all to himself. He tucked the camera away in a drawer, planning to return to the art of photography one day, sometime in the future.

Going back to work on his messy bed, he pulled up the bunched up blanket at the foot of the bed, something red falling out and catching his eye as he did so. It fell to the floor and made a light noise. Now that it was splayed on the hardwood beneath him, he could clearly make out what it was; a bright red bra, Hera's bra.

Regulus wondered if Hera was looking for it right now. If she was rooting through her drawers and letting a spaced-out string of curses out from under her breath. Though, he couldn't much imagine her doing anything and lacking grace or sensuality.