#regulus dies

Always the second choice to James

Always the second choice to Sirius

Always the second choice of his family

Always the second choice of his friends

And

He grew up in a cold house only to move into a cold and damp dorm when he got to Hogwarts. And when he was cold it was that chilling bone deep cold that felt like it would never really leave.

He would have LOVED a hot bath or shower, the ones that are so hot they make you feel alive, like the heat is seeping back into your bones. The ones that make your skin all red, and you have to lie down after to avoid passing out.

He was also always dressed impeccably, full suit or uniform, not a thing out of place. I imagine that would get quite hot in the warmer months, the heat would probably make him sluggish and force his guard down.

I imagine he would of quite enjoyed a cold shower or even a dip in the lake. Anything to make him feel like he could think again. Also the cold would numb pain, and oh how I think he would relish in even a moment of respite.

@jegulus-microfic October 1, Word count 322

The smell of the breakfast cooking was making his stomach rumble. James dragged himself out of bed and to the kitchen, where his mother was busy frying bacon and scrambled eggs. 

“Morning, love,” Effie greeted him when he flopped gracelessly into one of the kitchen chairs. 

“Morning,” He yawned widely, pulling the boring paper towards him. He pushed his glasses up and rubbed his tired eyes before glancing at the front page. The world stopped. 

‘Black Heir Dead at Eighteen’

‘Regulus Arcturus Black, son of Lord Orion Black and Lady Walburga Black, has died. Understandably, the noble family have asked for privacy at this unfortunate time. The Black heir had a promising political career ahead of him. He is a true loss to the future of the Ministry and the country.’    

Tears dripped from James’s eyes as he stared at the moving photograph of Regulus posing for a picture with his parents. 

“James? James, love, what’s wrong?” Effie asked, leaning over James’s shoulder to read the headline. “Oh, no, oh, Sirius is going to be devastated.” She sighed sadly, squeezing his shoulder. He raised his hand and covered her hand with his. She had no idea why he was so upset. He’d never told her, it had been too dangerous for Regulus. He could tell her now, tell her everything about them. How alive Regulus made him feel just by looking at him, but he wanted to keep that part of Regulus to himself. He looked at the ceiling and blinked the tears away. He let go of her hand and pushed his chair back. 

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James saw the second flash of green from where he lay, petrified on the grass, tears rolling down his cheeks.  If it had just been one flash then he could have had hope.  Hope that it had been Regulus who cast the Killing Curse and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named who collapsed with a crash as the green light glowed through the shut curtains of the nursery.  But with the second flash he knew that Regulus was dead, and so was Harry.  Little Harry.  Light of his life.  It was all over.  You-Know-Who got what he wanted, the prophesied child was dead, and he would have his way with James and Lily and Remus and Sirius and that would be the end of it.  And so James cried silently on the lawn, awaiting his death.

But then he heard a howl, the ear piercing scream of a pained man.  Then a crash.  Then the cracks of apparition around him.

The other members of the Order had arrived — all was not lost.  It was Dumbledore who unparalyzed him, helping him up while blocking the incoming spells from the Death Eaters surrounding them.  But James didn’t spare Dumbledore another glance.  Instead he ran, as fast as his legs could take him, through the open backdoor, up the stairs, towards the nursery.

Hope.

Hope.

Hope.

He cashed through the doorway just as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named turned from a body on the floor to a cloud of smoke — the shape of a screaming face — which crashed through the window and flew into the darkness of the night with a deafening shriek.  

And there in the middle of the crib was Harry.  Little Harry.  His son.  Looking up at him with a curious look on his face, as if asking: ‘Where have you been all this time, Papa?’

James let out a happy laugh, tears rolling down his face, and picked up his son, unharmed save for a curious lightning bolt scar on his forehead.  He buried his face in his son’s messy mop of black hair, kissing him and hugging him and laughing in relief.  Because Harry was alive.

And then he saw Regulus, his skin impossibly paler, grey eyes eerily vacant.  But he was smiling, something James had never seen before, even in the years of their childhood as he watched Regulus from the other side of the Great Hall.  Regulus had died happy, and it was in that moment that James new that what Regulus did, whatever it was the he did, had saved Harry.  

Regulus had saved Harry.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice faint, as he smiled through tears, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”