SET FIRE TO THE RAIN ━━ regulus black

my heart

CHAPTER II

THE DAY OF the wedding began gruesome. The night before, Arabella wept into her pillow, and her eyes were swollen and puffed in the morning.

The person she loved the most was gone—forever, most likely—and now she was to marry the one person she despised the most in this entire world.

Arabella had many reasons to hate him. She had known him ever since they were little, and he had never changed.

When they were eight years old, he locked her in a wardrobe for an entire day.

When they were ten years old, he put insects in her sheets and she woke up the next day with rashes all over her skin.

When they were thirteen years old, he poisoned her meal at a ball.

The list goes on, and of course for everything he did to her, there was never any proof that it was him who did it.

When they were fifteen years old, she finally tried to do something back, but she ended up with an acid spell on her leg, which sent her into shock. It was the closest she had been to death. Luckily the royal family’s Healers we're the most talented.

“Do not look so pessimistic,” said the house elf who was helping Arabella with her wedding gown. “It is your wedding day after all.”

Arabella stayed silent as she looked at herself in the mirror. Her gown was so long that she needed a separate servant holding the ends, and it was so large around her. The part around her waist was tight against her corset, and the long sleeves were made of lace, but the silky part on her shoulder that was puffed up.

Only sixteen, she looked so grown up.

The house elf was now putting her hair into an elegant low bun, and then added a tiara jeweled with so many diamonds. A long, sheer veil was attached to the tiara, and Arabella put it in front of her face.

Later, she finally arrived at what she dreaded the most; the wedding ceremony. It was at the Blacks’s palace, and a large crowd of commoners were already there, cheering, when the door of her coach was opened by a footman dressed in red and black.

She stepped out, holding her spacious dress and a bouquet of red and white roses, and putting on a fake, princess smile. Inside of the ceremony were only those invited; Black family relatives, Knight family relatives, other royal families, and the Pope.

As she entered, the crowd rose, and the person at the organ began to play music. A very young girl, about seven years old, was the flower girl, it was Arabella’s cousin. She held a small, woven basket, and sprinkled flower petals onto the floor. Regulus regarded his shoes and now glanced up at Arabella. His eyes widened the slightest bit, his pulse quickened, and lips parted.

She was beautiful in white. Her raven black hair, her defined eyebrows, and her big, warm eyes, contrasted so well with the white veil over her face and hair, and the lustrous diamonds flickering on the crown of her head, and on her collarbones. The pearls around her neck made her look pristine, with virginal pureness, like an angel.

An appalling, sinful, vile, repugnant, and abhorrent angel, that he very much loathed, he reminded himself.

Arabella looked away from him and fake-smiled, and when she got to the end of the aisle, she glanced back up at him, blushing a little. He was practically gaping at her. They could not look each other in the eye, so Arabella faked a smile at the audience. She looked anywhere but his face, and tried her best to not seem disinterested.

Regulus then put the engagement ring onto her finger when instructed to. His hands felt hot on her skin, and goosebumps rose on the back of her neck. He was wearing a white suit, and his hair was styled the best Arabella had ever seen him with.

The words, “You may now kiss your bride,” had startled the both of them. They finally looked at each other and both their cheeks reddened. There was a short silence, the eyes of the crowd, lingering and expecting.

Regulus made the move first, slowly lifting the veil from her face which made her heart pound in her chest, and putting one hand on the side of her waist, he pulled her in with one hand and set his lips onto hers. Arabella inhaled, and her eyes fluttered close.

He smelled and tasted of firewhiskey, which grossed her out. Of course he had to be drunk at their wedding, she thought. There were no fireworks, or even a single spark—the way people would describe what a kiss felt like—it was just . . . a forced kiss.

He pulled away, and she stared wide-eyed at him, flushed and frozen, as she wiped her lips in disgust. She didn’t realize the crowd was cheering until Regulus was smiling at everyone, and then grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her through the middle of everyone.

Commoners outside cheered even louder. Flashing lights from photographers. The footman opened the door for them, and they entered the large white coach, pulled by a duo of lean, black horses.

They sat opposite each other, in silence, no more smiles. Arabella kept wiping her lips, the red smearing on her fingers.

She could not believe she had just kissed Regulus Black.

Regulus sighed, looking for a way to break the silence.

“You really had to get drunk before the wedding?” Arabella retorted.

“It is none of your business,” Regulus replied.

“You better not make a fool out of me, and everyone else.”

“Or what?” he said, looking her up and down. “It is not like we wanted to marry each other.”

“Yes, it should be Sirius sitting here, not you.”

Regulus furrowed his eyebrows, but before he could reply, the coach stopped, and they arrived at the complete other side of the palace. When the two entered the ballroom, it had already been decorated, and some other royal families were already there. There was music and waltzing and house elves with trays.

Of course, the groom and bride had to have the first dance in the middle in front of everyone. Regulus sighed as he offered Arabella his hand. She rolled her eyes, and took his hand. He placed his other hand at her waist and pulled her close. She rested her other hand on his shoulder, and he led their steps.

He was so uncomfortably close, his warm hands burned on her skin, his intoxicating firewhiskey breath immersed her. He was firm under her hands and she could barely breathe, her body was stiff.

“Relax,” he said, “it is not like I am going to kill you—not in front of everyone.”

“Generous of you.” Arabella let loose a little, and began to dance more elegantly. His grip on her waist made her sweat. “At least pretend you like me, so no one will suspect anything,” murmured Arabella.

“I am already pretending I am not drunk,” he answered beneath his breath.

Soon, people started to join the dancing, and when the dance was over, she was happy to get away from him, and rushed to the nearest restroom.