King of Swords [ Regulus Black ]

Chapter 11

Another owl waits for me in the window of my flat. This time, he is clutching a note from Riverina Fawley. It is a dinner invitation for Saturday night, just the two of us.

The owl does not try to bite me as I pat his soft down feathers. Maybe I still wear the scent of Regulus' dark magic on my skin, and the bird thinks he better comply.

In truth, the ethics of magic are lost on me. I cannot brandish the light or the dark, so it affects my personal affairs very minimally. I want to think that there is a safe center point between the two.

The Avada is a terribly powerful curse used to rip body from soul. Yet, I imagine it could be manipulated to inflict a painless death on those who seek respite from sickness or injury. The imperius steals one's own volition but could be employed to bring someone down from a very high ledge.

Even fiendfyre, with its every burning flame, could be used to clear underbrush from a desolate wheat field.
As I run my fingers over a lit candle, I think it is probably for the best that not everyone can wield magic. There must be a reason that the ministry completely rages against the use of the dark arts. Someone like me who is incapable of that straight thinking shouldn't have the ability to use it.

I have read just about every book on the topic. In the previous Junes, Maslin's return from Hogwarts would signify a time I could rifle through his schoolwork. Runes, defense, arithmancy, I delved into it all with such hunger.

It seems silly now, sitting in my old bedroom at Pembridge and wondering what house I might have been sorted into. Maslin, like his father, was a Ravenclaw but tends to attract the Slytherins. I used to wonder if it were possible to be mistaken for one house when they are another through and through. Perhaps a student in his later years found himself to hold more bravery than wisdom, loyalty than cunning.

I ponder whether it is possible to be something other than what we are. Or more so, what we are told to be. One could always take a damp sponge to an antiquated oil painting and find a different scene beneath the weathered landscape.

-

I go to sleep early, and when I wake, it is in a sweat. This summer is sweltering for Britain and demands the windows to be open at all times. Upon showering and finding a suitable dress that will not cause me to melt, I venture over to Maslin's flat in Charing Cross. I need to get into Diagon Alley, and I cannot do so without an escort.

Upon knocking on his door three times, I am met with no answer. He wasn't on the balcony when I arrived, but I know he is home from the music filtering under the doorway. It is possible that he can't hear me, so I knock again with a bit more force.

The record grinds to a halt, and I hear the hushed tones of someone else in his apartment. The voice is starkly female. I slouch my shoulders and take to leave. Assumably, it is the same girl he was with the other day, and I don't wish to intrude on that. I'll have to find another way into the alley.