The Unspeakable Sort ||Jegulus||

Chapter eleven: Like a fish out of water

Regulus advanced slowly, his hands deep in the pockets of his uniform and his neck stiff. The green light filtering through certain cracks in the ceiling, a residue of the lake above, touched his skin with a livid sheen, giving him an almost marble-like pallor. The boy knew those corridors by heart, yet they never ceased to convey a sense of alienation in him, as if the castle, while tolerating him, had never fully accepted him.

He turned left twice, then right once. The corridor became narrower the stones rougher, the ceiling lower. He stopped in front of a graceful little door, an almost ironic contrast to the surrounding austerity: dark mahogany, polished by time and the curious fingers of those who had opened it before him.

«Alomora,» he murmured, and the lock responded with a low hiss, like a snake awakening from sleep.

A long, plaintive creak greeted his entrance.

Before him rose a spiral staircase, thin and endless, climbing into the stomach of the tower like a spine. Regulus began the climb with a measured pace. Each step groaned under his weight, and the sound of the steel of the buttons against the fabric seemed amplified in the enclosed space. The air grew thicker, heavier; the stone sweated a sticky humidity that stuck to his fingertips every time he brushed the railing.

That place always made him nauseous. Too narrow, too curved, as if the walls were breathing on him, slowly contracting. There was a smell of iron, of mold.

Despite this, he continued climbing.

His heartbeat accompanied him to the top of the turret.

At the top, he paused for a moment, taking a deep breath of the heavy air that now seemed a little lighter. Then he threw open the door (this time wider, heavier) and the light shone full on his face.

The little room seemed suspended between two worlds. The windows, large and bare, opened onto a milky horizon, where the sky dissolved into the lake and the boundary between water and air seemed to have vanished. The floor was covered in dust, and time had left a faint smell of ash.

That was when he saw it.

In a corner, curled up like a wounded animal, sat Barty.
His body crumpled, his knees awkwardly bent, his features contorted in desperate disintegration. His hair fell over his eyes, which stared at the horizon with a tired intensity, no longer lively, but vacant. His face, though youthful, already seemed worn, bent in a weary sigh.

Gone were the winking smile and the knowing sadism that detonated him every time he opened his mouth.

Regulus remained still, hesitant in the doorway, then advanced silently. His footsteps were lost in the rustling of the glass vibrating in the wind. He sat down beside him, without saying a word.

The gesture, so simple, contained the silent tenderness of someone who dares not disturb a pain, but wants to dwell beside it.

From his inside pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes (the same cigarettes that, ironically, belonged to Barty himself) and pulled out two. With a quiet ease, he handed one to him, letting it dangle between his fingers, halfway between them.

The silence, thick as a canvas, seemed to thicken.
It was then that Barty gasped.
A tiny, almost imperceptible shudder, like an awakening. He looked up, surprised, and a flash of confusion passed through his eyes, then recognition, and finally a fond weariness.

Regulus said nothing.
He stood there, elbows resting on his crossed knees, watching Barty fiddle with his wand and finally light the cigarette, taking a drag before passing it to him. The gesture was repeated several times, until only a single butt remained of the cigar.