Cigarette Daydreams- ꜱɪʀɪᴜꜱ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

Part 65.

Regulus Black stood by the black lake, mercury grey eyes staring unseeingly into its murky depths and receiving nothing but an empty, blank stare back.

The water broke. Pale, claw-like hands shattered the smooth, clear water, and grasped blindly at the damp cave air-

His reflection wavered as a gentle breeze rustled the trees around him, porcelain, gaunt cheekbones sharp against the rippling night sky. His fingers twitched, and he forced them into his pocket.

A slippery weight grasped him around his wrist, and tugged him forward. Sharp fingernails cut deeply into his scarred forearm; somebody was screaming his name. A shapeless blob shoved him roughly to the side, and the pressure on his arms was suddenly relieved.

The moon was whole and calm, and the night itself was cloudless. The stars twinkled pleasantly above him, chatting ideally with one another, but Regulus' eyes remained locked with his own, soulless reflection.

Kreacher was weeping; somebody was screaming and thrashing and mumbling watery apologies. His throat burnt, liquid acid trailing into his stomach. Somebody tugged at his face, and molten metal trickled down his chin. He chocked, curling into himself and mewling pathetically as his head was lit on fire and his stomach turned inside out.

The lakes surface has flattened out once more, and suddenly Regulus found himself staring once more into his own eyes, dull and brimming with despair. They were darker than Sirius' by a shade or two, and not nearly as exciting. Sirius' always had that twinkle, that glorious and captivating twinkle that Regulus so desired to be directed at him. They had been once.

He hissed and coughed, a strange heavy weight tugging at his insides. His mothers voice echoed in his sub conscience, and images of his scorched threadbare portrait flashes in his blurry vision. Kreacher's howling was nothing but hazy white noise, and the terrified screaming had been subdued. The lakes surface bubbled, and then lay still. Calm.

He didn't register kneeling down until his fingertips ghosted the surface of the lake, and he flinched back, hands clasped tightly in his lap. His eyes followed the little ripples that cascaded gently outwards, barely making any impact but still being there. Perhaps he was like that, in a way.

His throat burnt so terribly that Regulus thought that if he didn't get water, he would surely die. He heaved himself upwards, a newfound strength propelling his desperate body towards the silent surface of the lake that lay beneath him. It was cold and crisp, refreshing and so very nice. His chest ached. He submerged his head into the lakes tempting grasp.

He could see it, now, why his mother always confused the two of them. He had the same defined jawbone, the same textured hair and proud posture. Regulus was taller, by an inch or two, but Sirius' shoulders were broader, and his head held higher. They shared the same straight nose, the same full lips and high cheekbones. Sirius' hair had been longer, but now Regulus' hung just below his ears, and Sirius' was cut just above. Sirius took up a lot of space. Regulus hardly took up any.

Grotesque hands seized his neck, and Regulus startled, his eyes flying open. The murk of the lake blinded him, and another set of hands grasped his ankles, flipping him over and wrapping him in shock and confusion. He kicked as another set scratched his thighs, waving his hands frantically above his head and thrashing manically; hands scoured his body, gripping onto his shoulder and pulling, pulling him down, down, down. He could see nothing but a dull green haze, could feel nothing but knives carving into his skin and cutting him open, nothing but unwanted hands, inhumane desires. He reached desperately towards the light.

Regulus looked a little like his father, he supposed. Perhaps it was the dead, haughty look in his eyes – the look of a fallen soldier, of a man who had outlived his age a thousand times over. Sirius, though he would have detested the comparison, was short and stubby and burnt from the inside out. He had a short fuse, was brutal and brave and slow with his words but quick with his wand. Walburga Black had left her mark on her eldest son, whether or not Sirius believed it.

He stilled. The light grew dimmer, and his movements slower, as if he was wading out of a sea of clay. Hands clawed their way up his torso, and Regulus didn't have it in him to fight.

His eyes drifted subconsciously down to his left forearm, and he drew up his sleeve.

Death would take him eventually.

He would come back eventually. Regulus could feel it. Cheering and bright lights erupted from his left, and he turned as the unmistakeable sound of canon fire shot into the distance. He whispered Aurora's name under his breath – a prayer or a superstition, he did not know – and unrolled his tattered jacket.

There is no point fighting it.

He could imagine his niece coming out as victorious, could almost see the pride in her eyes, the excitement, the genuine adrenaline. Perhaps she would erupt with childlike glee, and skip off to go and rub her victory in Potter's face. Regulus certainly hoped so. The kid needed to be knocked down a few pegs.

And then she'd turn to him, face almost splitting in two, and they'd celebrate together. They could invite Kreacher, and the others house elves too, and they'd have fun and just forget about what they couldn't have, about what they thought they didn't deserve.

Regulus stilled, and water quelled the thirst in his lungs.

He gasped in pain as the dark mark on his forearm burnt.

He was going to die.

The lake's surface glowed green.