★★★
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.
Then a new thought popped into his head—an intriguing, very possible thought.
Hera left her bra as a message for Regulus.
Why else would she leave a bright, unmissable piece of clothing behind? Regulus hasn't been home alone much lately, but he's sure he would have noticed this before now if she had just discarded it forgetfully. No, he was sure of his theory. She had wanted him to find it. Hera had wanted Regulus to find her.
He was going to get her back, and he was going to do it as soon as possible. He dropped his plans of cleaning his flat so that he could get some kind of information on her. Seeing her again would bring him out of his mood much quicker than cleaning.
He racked his brain trying to recount all their interactions and remember something, anything that she had given him as a clue to where she was. Yet, he was stumped. Hera was the most mysterious person he'd ever met. She spoke in omission, carefully piecing together every sentence to keep all aspects of her life separate.
Regulus remembered her odd schedule—how she would only come at certain, seemingly random times, then leave in a rush. He had assumed awkwardness at first, but he knew that was nothing like Hera, so he had settled for the theory that she worked. Certainly the pay for a model in a part-time adult art class can't support someone by itself.
Then a lightbulb went off in his mind. He didn't have to put in all this effort and reenact every conversation they've ever had, he just had to ask Slughorn. Surely he would have information on Hera if she had been employed by him. Focused on one thing and one thing only, Regulus used his tunnel vision as a compass needle to the telephone across the room.
He dialled the familiar number—just like he used to constantly before the professor just gave up and made a copy of the keys so Regulus would stop waking him up in the middle of the night. It took two and a half rings—Regulus had counted nervously—before there was an answer.
"This is Horace Slughorn." He started in his practised greeting.
Regulus wanted to let out a sigh of relief that the professor answered, but he didn't want to waste any time, even just to breathe. "Slughorn, old sport, I have a favour to ask you."
"You didn't lose your studio key, did you, boy?"
The artist chuckled at that, then returned to the phone call. "Not this time, don't worry." All humor was dropped from his tone after the reassurance. "No, I was actually wondering if you still had Hera's information. Address, phone number, all of that."
Silence echoed from one line to the other while Regulus waited for an answer. Regulus was worried they had been cut off until he heard a small sound of hesitance from the speaker.
"I'm not sure I can give out that kind of information, especially now that she isn't working with us anymore." Slughorn told him solemnly.
But Regulus wouldn't give up, even if he had to think on his feet and stretch the truth just a bit.
"She left me with it anyways, but she wrote it down in my sketchbook and I must have misplaced the damn thing. I guess that's a disadvantage to using a smaller one. I'm not asking you to help me find the book, I just need her information again. Come on, she'll be so upset if I just disappear on her."
Slughorn knew it was a lie; it was obvious. But he couldn't protect the young man forever. So reluctantly, he relayed the woman's address to Regulus while he quickly scrawled it down on the sketchbook he had absolutely not lost.
The young man quickly thanked his professor, revealing his desperation, before hanging up. He rushed to change his clothes, hoping to look as presentable as he could while surprising the model with his presence. He brushed a jittery hand through his dark curls, then decided not to waste any more time than he already had by moping and waiting.
Regulus recognized the name of the street she lived on. Her place wasn't too far from him, but he still travelled as quickly as possible in order to see her sooner.
✩✩✩
When he arrived on her block, he scanned the numbered signs by each front door and was excited to see hers. He noted that all the houses looked large and pristine, like every resident was perfect in every way. He knew that description applied to Hera, so maybe everyone living there was the same.
Breaking his focus on the gardens in people's yards, a car drove past him and pulled right into Hera's otherwise empty driveway. He looked to the driver's seat so he could watch her exit the vehicle, but he was only met with the image of a man.
Now, he was standing half a block away from it all, but Regulus was certain she wasn't a tall blond man last time they saw each other.
He then saw Hera get out of the car from the left side, meaning the man had given her a ride from wherever they were coming.
And the image just kept increasing Regulus' confusion. Hera opened the back door to the car, and instead of getting groceries from the backseat, she picked up a child no older than three or four. She held the toddler to her side and closed the door with her opposite hip, saying something that made the girl burst out into a loud giggle.
Everything connected in Regulus' mind as he watched the three of them walk into the house. All the questionable things Hera had done over the past few weeks had suddenly made sense. Even though it was a logical conclusion to their romance, it just filled him with resentment. Towards himself, Hera, the man with her, he wasn't sure. He was just angry at everything for now.
Hera and her family had closed the door behind themselves. Almost instantaneously, and aligned with the barely audible sound of the entrance shutting, Regulus felt all his passion die inside his chest.
★★★