WHERE: Holding Room, location undisclosed. WHEN: 19th July, 2002. STATUS: closed / @spareheir
The mental gymnastics required to stay ahead of his worst thoughts were a level of exhausting that the sad cot in the corner really weren’t cut out to cope with. Instead, in a bold move, he’d taken to prowling their glorified cell at night, when the truth stalked just a little closer on his heels, until his brain stopped chattering.
Tonight it seemed he wasn’t the only one.
Even under the shadow of night, he recognised that face, staring determinedly into dead space with the same tight-lipped expression that Regulus had worn since he’d shown up in holding. It had graced headlines and bylines for weeks, eclipsing the endless, tragic list that populated the obituaries and the missing for the sake of a name. Regulus Black.
Fabian slowed in his pacing, forehead furrowing as he considered the implications of that kid in this place, a mystery thread that begged to be tugged at. What had a Black, so perfectly positioned to steer clear of the retribution of the Dark Lords agenda, done to be wiped off the face of the earth? Were the rumors that had crept up of his involvement with the Death Eaters true? Almost certainly, if Moody had been right (and he usually is.)
It was a story that the intrepid reporter locked in his hindbrain couldn’t ignore for the life of him.
Fabian approached, leaning back against the wall and sliding down it to settle cross-legged upon the floor, half-a-meter away and entirely unwelcome. “Are you always this rowdy or is it a special occasion?”
His fingers tapdanced across his knee for a moment, weighing his options on the tip of his tongue before, “You’re Regulus.” It’s less a question than a statement. He leaned across the space between them to offer a hand, “Fabian Prewett.”
