fragments.

i don't know how to stay tender with this much blood in my mouth. private mumu, by emma.

[frcgmented]

frcgmented  — a private multi-muse blog featuring marlene mckinnon & regulus black. written by emma, she/her.

m. mckinnon. intro. interaction. muse

your body is the eerie calm before the worst kind of storm.

r. black.  intro. interaction. muse.

i don’t want to set things on fire anymore. that’s all. that’s all.

[frcgmented]

fromruins​:

-

They were always ordered away at the best bits. Alecto had a bit of fun capturing the Order members - watching their faces as they realized they were caught, taking away all of their so-called power with a flick of her wand. She only wished their evening could continue. Instead, she was directed back to the manor - where she currently scrubbed the dried blood off of her hands, eyes roaming the spots where it had splattered elsewhere. It was this part, the distractions and grand events - that Alecto disliked the most. It was almost tortuous, having to converse with others. Her mind was with the captives at the stables - wondering when they would get called back for questioning, seeing what answers they could rip from their throats.  

A light knock pull her out of her thoughts slightly, still a far away look in her eye as she answered the door. A twisted grin pulled at her lips, stretching them quite awkwardly, as she took in the state of the younger Death Eater. “Well don’t you look like shit.” Others prided themselves on getting the job done and looking put together - but Alecto never understood the fun in that. At least she carried the look well. The younger Black son looked burdened by something she’d never understand. “Cheer up! It was a good night.”

-

Only Alecto Carrow could make you look like shit sound like a compliment. A compliment she meant. Alecto, for her part, looked vicious. She was beautiful, of course. The Carrow siblings always looked beautiful, and they both set every hair in Regulus’ body on edge. Even her smile was wrong, as though she’d never really learned how to. He did not attempt to return it, offering her a curt nod instead. “I know, and we have a party to return to, so we’d better clean up quick.” With luck, no one would notice they were gone. What if someone did? Should they agree a cover story? The obvious was – well, two adults slipping upstairs at a party and returning slightly rumpled hardly needed an excuse. A coy smile could do the trick, let people believe what they wanted. Except, who would believe it about him and Alecto?

He stepped past her into the bathroom. “I suppose things have gone smoothly so far, but it’s early yet.” Hours left of the dullest kind of partying, before he might escape home. Would he be asked to return? Unlikely for questioning, perhaps to guard. Regulus rolled up his cuffs and turned on the tap. The water came out searing hot, painful and necessary as he scrubbed at his hands. “Are you any good at mending spells?”

[frcgmented]

cruciatvs​:

regulus and bellatrix.

where: lestrange manor.

when: about an hour before the gala ( and extracurricular activities ) kick off.

with: @frcgmented​

“Regulus,” she whispers, hisses, demands, pulling her youngest cousin close, a perfectly manicured finger around his collar. A gesture that turns more soft when he looks at her, a hand on his shoulder. She hopes he realises how lucky he is, to have the opportunity to be at the forefront of the action tonight when she has to play happy host, lovely wife, the pureblood woman her mother had wished her to be. Not that she doesn’t enjoy selling the world a picture of perfection that stands opposite of the brutal truth. How, after all, could the delightful host of a charity gala possibly behind a red trail of blood that haunts the wizarding world? The only thing blood-red about this Bellatrix is her lipstick.

“You look very smart.” The compliment is made with care, not something that comes natural to her ( even when he does, in fact, look quite smart ) and so it almost feels insincere. She straightens his tie a little, gives him a look. “Have some fun for me, will you?” Her smile turns a little, from something almost affectionate to something more demanding. “Make us proud.”

-

Bellatrix looks beautiful, as always. Someone who knew her less might think of her as soft, feminine, gentle on a night like tonight with her elegant makeup and carefully groomed hands. Regulus knows better. He feels it best to maintain a healthy, low-grade fear around his loving cousin lest he lose her favour. She grabs his collar and he turns his head to meet her, his own face reflecting nothing of the dread that comes with his job tonight. In truth, his face reflects nothing at all: a carefully maintained absence of emotion. Empty. That was his default. Regulus smiles as she adjusts his tie like a doting sister, a hint of the charm he is capable of seeping through the mask. “Thank you.” Bellatrix could smell fear as a shark could smell blood, he would do his best to keep her at bay. “Though I look nowhere near as lovely as you.”

Despite the small talk, there is no distracting from tonight’s task. His cousin tells him to have fun. Fun is some drinks in a rowdy bar, or an interesting game of CHESS, or an old adventure novel. The mask and robe that awaited him are not fun. “I’ll do my best, of course.” The tone of his voice is flat, the cadence stiff. He is a better liar than he once thought, but it is never good enough. “Everything I do is to make you – our family – proud.” Regulus spends most of his time around masters of deceit, and he pales in comparison. Too robotic, then too sincere.

[frcgmented]

fromruins​:

-

Peter wasn’t supposed to be working that night. At the pub, anyway. He spent the first part of his night in a safe house of the Order - one that had stopped feeling safe a long time ago. But he sat there, picking at a hole that was forming in the couch cushion, driving himself mad. He was never that valuable as an Order member. Never trained to be an Auror, quite shit at healing spells. He was always left behind in those houses, doing nothing but growing anxious of the return of the others. But he had found his purpose somewhere else. It gave him power - to know the moves of both sides, to be the one with the insight for once. And then - James was pronounced missing. It was either get sick on the couch or run away from the claustrophobic room - and so he found himself arriving at the bar, begging to be put to work.

It’s how she found him. Marlene’s appearance shouldn’t surprise him - places like this were where they knew each other best, wasn’t it? But as she approached him, injured from something he played a part in, he wondered if they knew each other at all. He wanted her to leave, to not have to look at her in the eye - but instead he pulled the tequila from the shelf, grabbing two shot glasses and sliding one her way. "Yeah,” he said with a shrug, downing the shot before his coworkers can see. “Best to keep busy and all that.” Peter looked at her - more focused on her wounds than anything else - and felt the tequila turn in his stomach. “You alright?” 

-

It was difficult to know what impulse had brought her here, to find Peter and sit with him while he worked. Marlene couldn’t recall the last time they’d been alone together. It was ( hopefully ) mutual avoidance, a tacit agreement that if they hung out alone they might actually have to talk. Peter was always quiet, and Marlene could speak just fine until it was about how she felt. It was just –she was glad he was safe. She had needed to see it, even if he hadn’t been out on tonight’s mission. It meant something to see it.

She downed her shot, watching him as his gaze traced from her wounded forehead to her carefully held arm. No grimacing at the taste or the burn in the back of her throat; Marlene was a pro. “I’m fine.” Fine was relative. Gideon. Moody. James. Alice. Fabian.  How could she be anything but fine while Gideon lay in St. Mungos and four more of her comrades faced the unknown? “Think I’ve got a good shot at the record for most broken bones.” A tight-lipped smile was all she could offer him, but it felt unnatural, forced. “What about you? I’m…” How to say it? Whether to say it at all? “I know you must be worried about James.”

[frcgmented]

warremains​:

who: marlene mckinnon @frcgmented​ where: tonks family home when: post-ambush

There were many names that came to mind when news of the failed ambush arrived to him in the form of one heavily injured Gideon Prewett. He wondered if Iris was still safe at the Tonks residence, with Susan sleeping soundly in a bedroom upstairs; he hoped Amelia and Moody weren’t in the same state Prewett was, somewhere unable to access help; he prayed Marlene hadn’t done anything so reckless he couldn’t fix it, anything worse than a broken bone and she would get a(nother) lecture. It took hours was intense healing, but Prewett was finally stabilized with healers watching him through the night. At that point, Edgar was finally able to return to the safehouse, making sure the names that raced through his mind were unharmed.

Iris and Susan were okay, but the young girl was confused by the arguing downstairs. Amelia was alright, but Moody and a few others were reported missing. This caused his blood to boil, his palms to sweat. Marlene was - well, she had the broken bone he expected her to. “ There’s nothing you can do about it right now, Marls. ” He placed a hand on her back, guiding her to a pair of reading chairs in the corner of the room. The center was crowded full of infighting and inquiries about how the Death Eaters were so prepared for their raid. But Edgar was concerned with their well-beings at the moment, the bones that needed to be set and the bleeding that needed to be stemmed. “ Do you want to talk about it? I can tell you Babitty Rabitty if you’d rather. Susan’s got me to memorize it at this point. ” It was a weak attempt at levity, but he hoped she knew his offer was real - she could talk if she wanted to.

-

The first time Marlene had heard the word safehouse, back in her early days with the Order, she had thought of run-down cabins in the middle of the woods, empty warehouses in London with secret rooms and large tables for covert meetings. The reality was this: the soft furnishings and gentle clutter of a family home overwhelmed by adults in various states of disrepair. It was too crowded, too hot, too loud and Marlene had accidentally smeared blood on a beautiful quilt before getting a shot at washing her hands in the kitchen sink, its white ceramic bowl tinted sickly pink. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been here, pacing between rooms. The kitchen, the centre of the arguments she can’t stay out of; the living room where she sits by her friends in pale, defeated silence; the garden where she smokes and smokes and smokes until she runs out of cigarettes and the ache in her arm gets the best of her. Repeat.

It was a relief when Edgar steers her to a chair. She could never say it, but she finds his presence soothing. There were many things tonight too broken to be fixed, but he would not let her feel like one of them. “There’s something someone could do about it.” Marlene couldn’t help the retort after spending so long sharpening her tongue in the kitchen, but it was half-hearted at best and she took her seat and offered him her arm without complaint. “Babitty rabitty.” It made her smile despite herself. “You are such a dad, Bones. I think I’m a little past fairy tales tonight.” She looked down at the odd set of her elbow. “I can’t believe I broke it again. It’s broken, right?” This was the only way she knew to talk about it: oblique, specific, physical. “Did you see my great attempt at healing my forehead? I even stopped it bleeding, eventually.”

[kavnskys]

“Remember that the world began in a manic episode, too. God likes to hoard sharp things, just like you. We are saving you. And we need to hear it one more time: Who knows best?”

— Lydia Havens, From the Voices, published in “Pouch” (via mythaelogy)

[askyfullofwinterstarsss-deactiv]

[frcgmented]

who: peter pettigrew ( @fromruins​ ) where: the leaky cauldron where: late in the night, post ambush

It was late in the night when Marlene finally entered the Leaky Cauldron. She was alone now, already a few drinks in and feeling twice as bad as she looked. She had cleaned up a little, in a bathroom back at the safehouse. She had washed the dirt out from under her nails and the dried blood around the wound on her forehead. She had brushed through her hair with her fingers and tied it back into a bun, half-neat. Edgar had set her broken arm, now aching faintly at her side. Thank Merlin for magical healing because she couldn’t imagine resting her arm for a month. Marlene would be back out there now, if they’d just let her go, looking for the friends they had lost.

She slid onto a stool at the bar. The Cauldron was empty but for a few old men drinking in the corner. That was fine. Marlene knew how to keep Peter busy all on her own. “Tequila, I think.” She said, in lieu of greeting, offering Peter her best attempt at a smile. “Impressed that you made it to work, with the night that was in it.” There was no judgement in her voice. The Order asked a lot of them all, but they still had rent to pay.

[ngalitzine]

[soracities]

Rita Dove, “Primer for the Nuclear Age”, Collected Poems 1974-2004

[Text ID: “Any fear, any / memory will do; and if you’ve . got a heart at all, someday / it will kill you”]

[frcgmented]

who: alecto carrow ( @fromruins​ ) where: lestrange manor when: the lestrange gala, post-ambush

The captives had been dropped off at the stables, and Regulus had apparated back. He had thought about making a detour, stopping off home. Maybe sitting with his hands in his head on his bed for a while, bickering with one of the portraits, but the orders had been clear and he was not one to disobey. Besides, Alecto would have noticed him missing immediately. He apparated into the assigned room in the Lestrange Manor, an unused guest room with a bathroom attached. A full length mirror lay to his left. Regulus removed his robes and his mask and examined his reflection. There was blood under his nails. The mask had stayed fixed during the fight - a relief - though it had messed his hair badly. The robes must have moved some, because there were splatters of blood on his coat and a cut in his trousers with a thin gash beneath. Fuck. He had never been one for mending.

The tap in the bathroom turned on, the sound of gushing water grabbing his attention. “Alecto?” He called, rapping lightly on the bathroom door. Was she in a similar level of disrepair? And could she fix his trousers? “Do you mind if I come in?”

[frcgmented]

who: lucius malfoy ( @vainglcry ) where: lestrange manor when: the lestrange gala, post-ambush

The night was wearing on and the atmosphere was strange. In some ways, Regulus had been to a hundred parties like this. He had sat through many of them as boy, humped over a book in a chair in a corner once photos were taken and greetings were made. As an adult, he didn’t have the luxury of hiding. At least, not for long. He’d taken a moment of reprieve in one of the bathrooms, double checked his cuffs for blood and dirt and then headed back out into the crowd. A waiter offered him a flute of champagne and he took it with a curt smile. Regulus was aware, peripherally of the journalists and ministry officials interspersed through the crowd. Had word gotten to them of events earlier in the night? Were they looking for anyone behaving suspiciously? 

He caught Lucius’s eye and made his way over. Despite the sweat beading under his collar, he would try to live up to expectations. “How is your night going, Lucius?” Regulus tried for an easy smile. “I saw your wife a little earlier, although I haven’t had the pleasure of speaking with her tonight. I’ve been kept busy.”

[frcgmented]

who: evan rosier ( @wartcrn )​ where: the gardens of lestrange manor when: the lestrange gala, post-ambush

Mr. Rosier requested your presence in the garden. The waiter had kept his voice low as he relayed the message to Regulus, who had been trying his best to act charming to the a French diplomat. His stomach had fallen, through the floor and down into the wine cellar. Regulus had excused himself politely with his mediocre French and moved through the crowd. The doors into the dimly lit and beautifully manicured garden were wide open, allowing a necessary late summer breeze into the ball room. The patio, jutting a few meters out from the house, was full of smokers and people catching a quiet moment away from the festivities, but Regulus hardly saw them. He looked out into the yawning dark of the lawn and wondered what awaited him. 

He could not afford to be spotted standing around and looking nervous. Instead, he stepped out. Regulus brushed a hand through his hair, sticky with product. He had fixed it up again after returning from the ambush. He moved past the crowd and out onto the grass, towards the softly gurgling fountain perfect for deterring eavesdroppers.

“You asked for me?”

[frcgmented]

who: mundungus fletcher ( @cruciatvs​ ) where: order hq when: the night of the ambush

There was a flush across Marlene’s cheeks, from anger not from alcohol. Not yet, at least. She was warm too, steaming hot and probably a right mess. Her hair had started the night in neat, careful plaits. Out of the way. It tangled around her face now, catching in the thin cut on her forehead she hadn’t given Edgar a chance to look at. The atmosphere in the safehouse was tense, and she could hear distant yelling. Clearly she was not the only one feeling the stress of their disastrous night. Marlene wasn’t sure she could face another screaming match tonight. She needed a drink. To wallow in a corner with a firewhiskey and a scowl on her face.

The corner she chose was already occupied: Mundungus Fletcher. Not really an obstacle to her goals, she supposed, collapsing onto the couch next to him. It made an unhealthy creak under her and she heaved a heavy sigh. “You got anything to share?”

[frcgmented]

who: amycus carrow ( @swcrdnstone​ ) where: lestrange manor when: the lestrange gala, post-ambush

This tie might choke him. Regulus pulled impatiently at the fabric around his neck. Everything was too much: his shirt was scratchy and starched, the band, playing beautifully, was far too loud and the the room was too opulent. Light bounced off crystal chandeliers and hurt his eyes. He needed to go home, to the dark and quiet of Grimmauld Place but a night like this could stretch on for hours. And, he reminded himself, his discomfort was nothing compared to the four hostages tied up in the Rowle stables. How scratchy could his fine shirt be compared to the ropes around their wrists and ankles? One of them had sustained a wound the fight right on the inside of their wrist. Regulus knew, because he had tied some of that coarse rope around it himself. Would the fibers get into the gash? Cause an infection?

It was these deep, spiraling thoughts that caused him to almost miss Amycus. He should have held his chin high, like the Black he was. Instead he was adjusting his tie like a petulant child, no drink in hand, eyes on the floor. Regulus wasn’t sure who’s instincts saved them from an embarrassing crash, but it forced him back into the moment. “Sorry, Amycus, I didn’t see you there. I didn’t spill your drink, did I?”

[frcgmented]

 MARLENE MCKINNON. 

˛    (   priscilla quintana, cisfemale, she/her   )   :    MARLENE LUISA MCKINNON was last seen in mungos, seeking a healer. according to ministry files, the pureblood is a 25 year old ministry curse breaker who graduated from gryffindor. they have been said to remind others of lip gloss over bruised lips, black coffee and cigarettes, pounding heart and pounding music, the rush of adrenaline that comes from a brush with death. the hedonist has publicly declared their allegiance to the order.

BIOGRAPHY. 

1955-1966.

In a small hospital in rural Mexico, Marlene is born to Isaac and Adriana McKinnon. She is the second of three children, and this is not the plan. They should have been in England, among the familiar comforts of St. Mungos hospital but Marlene arrives two weeks early and her father, leading an excavation at nearby Mayan ruins, could not tear himself from his work. It is possibly the last time in her life that Marlene is on time for anything.

The McKinnon’s life is one of constant movement. There is a house near Manchester that they call home. It is cluttered with pictures and ornaments and the mess of two untidy adults and three energetic children and they are only there half of the time. The other half, Marlene spends travelling, wherever her parent’s jobs take them. She is taught to read and write and count on excavation sites surrounded by dust and dirt and always carefully kept back from the delicate work happening around her.

Marlene has a handful friends in British wizarding society, and at some sites there are other children to play with. Mostly, it’s the three siblings. She is never bored.

1966-1973.

Though she is no stranger to travel, the train ride to Hogwarts is terribly exciting. Her mother had neatly plaited her hair that very morning, but Marlene is barely out of London and pulling them out. She does not even think to feel fear at being apart from her family. She’ll miss them, of course, but Christmas isn’t so far away.

Marlene is sorted into Gryffindor with little fuss. It makes sense – no one at home is surprised, though her mother did not attend Hogwarts and her father was a Ravenclaw. She makes friends quickly and easily, with her sharp wit and loud laughter that echoes through the halls.

She is a mediocre student. Average. Her reports home say if Marlene made schoolwork her focus, she could do very well. As it is, she gets by. She likes History of Magic, it’s in her blood. As she gets older and the world outside presses in on her, she begins to take Defense Against the Dark Arts seriously – she’s good too, when she tries. Marlene learns that dark magic holds its own kind of interest. There is a darker path she might have gone down here, but Marlene is an ideologue, and her interest remains on taking curses apart rather than casting them.

It’s in her fifth year that Marlene first gets a taste for parties. The seventh years throw a few that year, in the common rooms and down by the lake after dark. They’re mostly innocent affairs: butterbeer snuck in from Hogsmede, a bottle of firewhiskey someone with very relaxed parents brought back from Christmas break. She loves them. Dressing up, flirting, the burn of a swig firewhiskey down the back of her throat and the way the warmth rushes to her head. They get rowdier over time; she gets caught twice. Marlene is the main instigator of a party that gets most of Gryffindor tower detention, though no one rats her out.

At first, Hogwarts keeps the war out but it begins to seep in, through the cracks under doors and whispers in the corridors. The newspapers spell trouble and Marlene counts enough muggleborns among her close friends to know that the extremist beliefs touted by Voldemort’s followers can be found within the school itself. She clenches her fists when she hears mudblood. In sixth year, she gets into her first fight with a young man almost twice her size. Marlene does not even think to use her wand.

1973-1975.

Marlene graduates Hogwarts and moves into a terrible cramped flat in London with some other young witches. That time is a blur of strong emotions: happiness and pleasure, fear and anxiety. She gets work as a bartender, and her muggleborn co-worker drags her into her first muggle nightclub. It feels like another world, tucked far away from day-to-day reality with its flashing lights and pounding music. Something clicks inside of Marlene.

She does not want to be a barmaid forever, she knows this, and when the opportunity arises for her to take a cursebreaking apprenticeship she does not hesitate. It’s a natural for her interest in defence against the dark arts and history and it offers her a path to the career she dreams of, working on the kinds of excavation sites she was raised on. It’s a gruelling two years with her mentor, a grumpy old cursebreaker who works freelance and Marlene takes every opportunity to blow off steam that she can. In mid-1975, the man falls ill and discontinues her studies. He does her a final favour, and gets her a spot on the ministry programme, where she will complete her apprenticeship.

It’s her brother, who introduces her to the Order on Dumbledore’s request. A cursebreaker is an asset to the organization and Marlene has the passion for it. She has a strong sense of right and wrong and the Order is right. She thinks she understands what it will involve. She is naïve.

1975-1980. (tw violence)

The violence is not what Marlene imagined. The Death Eaters wage a war of terror, and they strike it into her deepest heart. She sees more than she could have imagined. Red had been her favourite colour once, now it is just bruises and cuts and blood and blood. Worse yet, she has participated. Marlene understands better now. The Order fights for what is right, but it goes beyond self-defence. Is it right, when she throws a curse at a man in a mask, and he screams with the voice of a boy? Is it right when she’s the one shedding blood? Marlene is unconvinced.

These days, Marlene laughs less and parties more. She always liked the thrill, sure, but she needs it now. She needs something to get her through the days – sometimes it’s sex, alcohol, or something harder, the adrenaline of a good fight. Maybe all of this self-destruction is about distraction, maybe its about absolution. Either way, it might kill her faster than the war.

PARALLELS. 

faith lehane - buffy the vampire slayer; nina zenik - six of crows; fleabag - fleabag. 

CONNECTIONS.

tba.

[frcgmented]

 REGULUS BLACK. 

˛    (   jordan bolger, cismale, he/him   )   :    REGULUS ARCTURUS BLACK was last seen researching in grimmauld place. according to ministry files, the pureblood is a 23 year old junior official in the department of international magical cooperation who graduated from hogwarts. they have been said to remind others of carefully pressed suits and tired eyes, each hair in its place, an old house heavy with rot and decay, a quiet obsession with the old myths – full of heroes and monsters and clear choices between right and wrong. the resolute has privately declared their allegiance to the death eaters.

BIOGRAPHY. 

1957-1966.

Black is not a family name one bears lightly, but Regulus was never supposed to feel the weight. He was the second son. Second should have sounded like free. It did, for a while. Perhaps that’s why it was easier for Regulus to fall in line: they focused on Sirius. Regulus learned the lessons, because they were hardly taught to him directly. Instead, he sat quietly in the drawing room – the meek, eager son – and listened to his father lecture his brother. He watched with empty eyes as Walburga complained to family friends about interbreeding and impure children, or ordered the house elf around as though Kreacher were the dirt beneath her feet.

Regulus was an observer, more than a participant. Guests came, and he was trotted out in neat sweaters and starched shirts to offer charming smiles and polite conversation. They left, and his parent’s interest was limited. Regulus was free to climb trees in the garden, read in his room, explore the dusty old cabinets full of family heirlooms. And of course, to play with Sirius – the brother he adored.

12 Grimmauld Place was never a happy home, exactly, but it was home, nonetheless. Regulus felt safe in its dark, carefully kept rooms

1966-1968.

Platform 9 ¾ is crowded, the day that his brother departs for Hogwarts. Regulus held his mother’s hand as the train departed. He understood, somehow, that his life would change. Sirius left for school, and it felt permanent, long before it was.

With his eldest son gone, Orion gave Regulus his undivided attention. Regulus sat quietly while he discussed politics with Uncle Cygnus, scurried to keep pace as they pushed through Knockturn Alley, tried not to flinch as his father sent a doe to its death on his first hunting trip. Orion’s lessons were brutal, and his tests always harsh.

1968-1975.

Regulus had been at home when his father learned that Sirius had been placed in Gryffindor. The house had turned angry and haunted. It was a betrayal, the first of many his brother would deliver. When the hat touched his head, it almost sent him the same way. Regulus prayed for Slytherin. He allowed to hat to pick through every ambitious thought that had ever crossed his young mind. The hat gave him his wish. Regulus wore a green tie and took his place a table eager to receive him, a prince in all but name.

In his second year, Regulus joined the Quidditch team. He was the Seeker, a natural fit for the boy destined by name to rise high. He loved Quidditch.  He excelled in his lessons – he had spent much of his childhood buried in books and he took well to research. In his third year, he was invited to join the Slug Club. In fifth, a prefect. In his seventh year, head boy.

Regulus was fourteen when Sirius left Grimmauld Place forever. That time seems blurry now, more a series of images than a distinct memory: the door slamming in the wind, his mother’s face a deep red, breathless from anger, the smell of burnt fabric as Walburga singed Sirius of the family tapestry. It felt final, like death. The brother he loved was gone. The Black name was his to carry.

The Slytherin common room was never quiet, and the most frequent topic of conversation was the war, the man behind it and of course – pureblood supremacy. Regulus had been taught early that he was better than those around him, as a Black and as a pureblood. He rarely participated in the common room debates but the propaganda burrowed its way under his skin. Each summer, his cousins and uncles and in-laws brought him a little further into the fold. At fifteen, Uncle Cygnus gave him a book of dark spells and encouraged him to begin learning real magic. At sixteen, Orion allowed Regulus his first cigar and a sip of firewhiskey. Voldemort is the future, he is our family’s future, his father told him, and you are too. The implication was clear: Regulus’s future was marked out. His star would rise at the Dark Lord’s side.

1975-1978. (tw murder)

NEWTS finished in May of 1975 and Regulus boarded the train back to London for the last time. At King’s Cross, he did not go home. He followed the instructions received in a letter from his father and made his way to a manor house outside of the city. There, he met his Dark Lord for the first time. Regulus was seventeen, barely an adult. Voldemort burned a mark onto his skin and the pain was like nothing he had ever known before.

The skin was still red and sore when Regulus first donned new robes and made his way to the Ministry to begin work in the office of International Magical Cooperation. The family had pulled some strings – Regulus had not needed to interview for the internship. Still, he did not waste the opportunity. Regulus enjoyed the intricacy of international relations. He worked hard: late nights and early mornings, weekends. He did the grunt work without complaint and fetched coffees though his mother complained it was below his station. In 1977, he was promoted to Junior Officer, perhaps the proudest moment in his young adult life.

Outside of the office, there was more difficult work to be done. The Dark Lord did not offer Regulus an easy path among the Death Eater’s ranks. There were tests far crueller than he could have imagined. He flinched, the first time a man died in front of him. When he first issued the killing curse from his own wand, he puked for hours – cried for days, though nobody saw.

1978-present.

Orion Black died in February of 1979. It was a hunting accident: a damaged wand, a spell that misfired and suddenly, Regulus was no longer the heir but the head of household. He carried the coffin, delivered the eulogy though he did not shed a tear. His mother haunted Grimmauld Place, a ghost in mourning black – she still does.

Regulus is no longer expected to sit quietly in the “war rooms” of pureblood mansions. He is invited to speak, though not freely. He is his uncle’s equal, the only one who will carry on the Black name. A heavy burden to bear.

In the year since his father’s death, Regulus has seen more cruelty than he can bear and inside of him, there is doubt brewing. He sees the violence first hand, reads about it in the newspaper. He speaks with muggleborns, reads histories of the magical world, and learns about societies, magical and muggle, outside of Britain. The ideas he is exploring are forbidden – and he is not sure where they will lead him. He will not stop pursuing them.

PARALLELS. 

zuko  – avatar: the last airbender, tba,

CONNECTIONS.

tba.