King of Swords [ Regulus Black ]

Chapter 6

I have a brash and accusatory nature when it comes to magical folk, I know. At times, it even annoys myself how much I distrust them. There is a part of me that will always ache to be one of them, but there is an equally vital part that makes me wish I had never met the Fawleys.

I consider myself lucky to have all the wealth and opulence that Haro provides. Do not mistake me; it has come with a hefty price.

When I first went to live with the Fawleys in Pembridge, I was sixteen years old. Ana had just tried to kill me, succeeding only in taking herself out, and the rest of my muggle life was in shambles—a story for another time.
I had never witnessed anything so beautiful as the Fawley manor. The courtyard quickly became my haven. I would sit for hours among the rose bushes and stare into the high windows until I could picture myself staring back.

The courtyard is where Haro gave me combat lessons, taught me swordplay, and even showed me how to fire a gun. It is where he instructed me in general potions that would also work on my muggles and other tricks I could use to get myself out of a bind.

It is also where Maslin and Barty almost ended my life entirely. Maslin had just turned seventeen, still attending Hogwarts but home for a weekend in May. Now capable of magic outside of the school walls, they did a lot of it.
At that time, our relationship was still rocky. An only child, he didn't exactly relish the idea of having a new sibling.

We practiced throwing daggers into a target on the hedge when Maslin got upset because he kept missing. I said something snappy. He looked as if he would drop me to the ground, as he often did, so I started running. I didn't get very far before Barty cornered me against a rose bush.
They both pressed against me to side-along disapparate my body back toward the dagger target. They wanted to rattle me.

I didn't know I needed to hold on. I didn't know much of anything then.
Dittany doesn't work on muggle splinches. It took a week in the hospital, and many specialist appointments to get the skin on my shoulder blade pulled back together.
They never apologized. I never asked them to. It's just one of those things.

I am still screaming when we apparate into a dark living room. It seems that I cannot stop screaming; the sound floods out of my mouth as I run my hands over my body.
The raven looks at me as If I have lost my mind. I think I have.

"Am I dead?" I inquire between choked brays. It's a silly thing to ask, but I cannot be too confident. The house is dark, covered in strange artifacts, and smells like patchouli oils. It could very well be the waiting room to purgatory.

The raven shakes his head, leaning against a shelf and flashing that indiscernible expression I am growing tired of. He places my briefcase on the table and flicks the hinges with his wand.

"Who do you work for that needs a copy of Jarrel Bennett's pay stubs?" He asks, floating the paper in the air toward me.

"I don't work for anyone," I lie.