#rr open

His legs moved faster than his mind told them to as he rushed down the street. He doubted he would be on time, but he'd promised to meet them regardless. Must to the surprise of most, Severus was a man consistently late. Late to everything. Last minute procrastinator. That was the type he was.

It was summer. It was also a downpour. 

Rain dived to the ground, giving off loud thumps as it hit against the ground; the noise felt like silence, drowning out the natural chaos of London as it twisted the city to its own advantage. It was a magical thing in a way no actual magic could ever be -- it was so regular, so stunning, so extraordinarily ordinary. It made people run with broken umbrellas over their heads, made them seek shelter in shops and cafes, made them act as if something so beautiful could be something hideous, something to hide from.

Regulus sat in a small park just next to the road. He would rather not hide, at least not from some water falling from the skies. He was already drenched, his clothes hanging tightly from his body and his hair stuck just above his eyelashes, but there was a certain comfort in that. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, perhaps he didn't need to, but the cold water trickling down his skin felt like more of a warm blanket. His eyes closed. A serene expression painting his features and a truly relaxed demeanor were such a rare thing on him, but there he was, calm and unguarded in the middle of London, where anyone could come. But it was as if the worn down swing set and broken slides served as his palace, a bastion no one could break.

Amidst the silent noise, a scream rang out from down the street. Regulus' eye flung open as his whole body shuddered as if he had just been electrocuted. It was a child's scream, it was children playing, it was a game, it was a --

It was him. The man. On the floor. Screaming and shaking and pleading and,

and dying.

Dead.

Murdered -- he was a murderer, he had killed him, it was his lips that shaped the words, his magic that sent the curse, his soul that would pay.

His mind that would crack. His mind that cracked, like a porcelain doll with lines running all along it, warning others of how fragile it was. One touch, a graze and it would be gone. He was hanging by a thread and every new thought kept making it thinner. 

Please, no! Don't!

Avada Kedavra.

Silence.

The rain kept drumming against his skin. It sounded dull, like he was an empty.

He kept his stare in front of him, looking at something, someone, but not seeing it.

"Such a lovely job you've done here --- how do you do it?"