He might be trembling. Okay, he’s trembling. But when he speaks– well, when he speaks, even his voice trembles.

                                    “You haven’t been bitten, have you?”

      -- & there’s that scowl that makes his features bitter, that ages him ten years, although youth should paint itself upon him . . . ah, but he’ll be damned if he ever truly looked y o u n g. 

                      ❛ NO. I haven’t.

his brow furrows as he continues in a drawl, rolling his eyes up to demonstrate clearly his annoyance at the question --- it wasn’t the first time he had heard it asked.

x | continuation of the St. Mungo’s thread

                    If it weren’t for the sharp feeling in the back of his throat, he’d have perhaps laughed at that. Ah, the ruckus they’d made! Without a doubt, whatever jovial spirits they’d been in on their last day, Sirius  m i s s e d  the castle. Missed it more than almost anything; those were the days. The ones he’d likely be spending the rest of his years PRAYING he’d be able to return to. Even he, unwise, selfish, immature as he was, knew that. Just not the  e x t e n t.

                    ❛  When’re they ever doin’ a good job of it? Bloody Prophet… Y’know what they’re like; capitalisin’ on it, too, like the rest of ‘em.  ❜    He shrugged, but even with that no one could presume he didn’t care — because, dear MERLIN, he absolutely did.    ❛  Na, m’awright — can’t be arsed; y’know, they gi’ ya  H O P E  in offerin’ ya practically owt, then they  t o r t u r e  ya by makin’ y’wait a bloody lifetime fer it.  ❜

                    ❛  Y’know,  ❜    he started,     ❛  S’good business, though — need papers in times like these, more than ever. Like them vanishing cabinets, y’know how many people’re buyin’ them these days? & bloody loads’ve ‘em are FAKE. S’all sortsa  m i n d l e s s  bullshit bein’ made now, as if any of it—  ❜    

                    He interrupts himself with a  s p l u t t e r .

CAPITALIZING — sure, they’re capitalizing on the war . . . yes undoubtedly, someone within the staff of the prophet is capitalizing upon death. but there is no alternative, is there?  whoever controlled the paper controls public knowledge; that’s a fact— & so the daily prophet is a vantage point for which opposing forces struggled in hopes of absolute c o n t r o l.

& so he dismisses his brother’s commentary, dismisses it with apparent carelessness & with a slight flick of his hand ( hiding still, definite agitation )  —

             ❛ — i don’t know about that. i thought it was more a political thing than anything . . . ❜

he blinks at him. once. twice. he almost nods . . . but does not. instead, he continues his careful tread upon that conversational ground you have laid out. absently, he will speak again. 

             ❛ can you blame them though? what’s war good for, if no one finds any kind of profit in it?”

               “Is that a bad thing?” 

         He doesn’t understand, really, what can be so wrong with everyone knowing that he likes to wish his opponents luck before a match. It’s a show of good sportsmanship, isn’t it?

       “–Alright, fine, I won’t give you the good luck talk. And that was a lucky guess, by the way,” he pointed out, as if it hadn’t been obvious what he’d approached the Slytherin for.

    “Not good ‘nough. I need SPECIFICS, Reggie.”             – put you money where your TWERPY little mouth is.

     “How much money would you pay me to not to shag your brother on your bed ??” 

❛--- more than you’re worth. 

           Charlie is unperturbed by the insult. In fact, he must struggle not to laugh, because he is aware that Regulus is attempting to be scathing with his words, and they are meant to bite, not to tickle. It seems impolite to laugh at his efforts (no matter how much it may remind him of his brothers bickering with one another.)

         “That’s rough,” he laments, shaking his head. “I can’t at least be a pretty tomato? And if I’m a tomato, what does that make you? You could be – ”

          Charlie stops mid-sentence and bites his lip. The idea that’s just jumped into his head isn’t a good one. It’s a joke – a terrible joke – so bad he’s almost certain it would only serve to further irk Regulus. Of course, that’s what makes it tempting, isn’t it? Charlie teases all of his friends, and while he and Regulus are not friends, being the younger brother of a friend is certainly enough for Charlie. Finally, he knows he can’t resist, if only to see the look of irritation it will earn him.

                                                  “You would be a b l a c k b e r r y.”

the other boy may not be laughing - but he is close to doing so, & regulus can see that. how could he not? though the sound did not spill from the boy’s lips, it manifested itself in the quirk of  lips & brow, the easy glint in his eye.

                         for god’s sake.

— certainly, he claims to know his brother’s ally’s intent. & so he only meets this good-natured jest with unsounded acrimony that to increase exponentially second by second. & so he grounds his teeth with furrowed brow & purposely averts his gaze  in a hopefully clear message that this is the opposite of what he had wanted.

 . . . that message didn’t seem to go through. or, if it did, it hadn’t come to anything.

                              & the consequences were painful.

                                           a blackberry.  his greyed gaze returns slowly thus to the other boy, & he watches him — stares at him, blandly & bluntly & bitter — before he brings himself to speak in a dead monotone.

            Charlie removes the glasses, tucking them into his shirt pocket as his lips spread into a wide grin. He ducks down enough so that he can look on Regulus’ hidden face, and his smile only tugs harder at the corners of his mouth.

           "Well, that’s what makes me so nice; you haven’t got to ask. I share the fruits of my learning for free. In any case, yours seem to be in perfect working order,” he said, and it did give him some measure of satisfaction to point out that the younger Black brother had resorted to the use of a muggle accessory. Charlie knew, of course, that he had most likely donned them for functionality rather than aesthetic, but it did not lessen his pleasure.

            As a matter of fact, Charlie thought, this might be better.

            If the glasses were for functionality’s sake, then it meant Regulus was wearing them because he needed them. Charlie had enough of his father in him to be delighted.

                     WRONG, WRONG, NO -- definitely wrong.  gripping disdain bites into his features, twisting his lips into the undeniable painted scowl & bringing dissatisfaction to write itself in the creases, which mar the youthful brow --                really, you are impossible. it’s rather gruesome. 

she listens like a cat, to the tiniest trembles in his tones, the slightest quivering of his words, yearning to paint with them the image of what she might have been, in another world, a nightmare in black whirls && sharp claws, not caged in dresses &&  bows && ties, not to Lestrange, not to his greedy grin && groping hands.  SHE COULD BE A NIGHTMARE.

                       wasn’t that power ? might ?

     she could curse the world if she knew the words. she could kill a dog, maybe, kill some bugs on her way, but those were accidentally incidents, once at a time maybe, she could claw in someone’s skin, yes, but what use was it if red pearling blood dried away && skin closed as easily over the wounds as if nothing ever had been. 

                                                                  ( wasn’t that weakness ? )

 && him, staring, staring as if  he would not bleed, did not feel her     ( weakness  )      P O W E R.

red stained pale cheeks in hectic patterns, swirled over her neck to her chest, heaving under breaths, excited as a shark to see blood, curious like a child almost again. almost, almost bellatrix feels like stretching out gaunt fingers once again, press hard against the small scratch to see what would happen ? does it hurt, cousin, did it hurt, now, now ?

                             ❛ do you mock me ? ❜

                 it is a mere warning for now, a nervous growl by a                     provoked beast, maybe, you were not supposed to                     look a predator in the eye, never, never, && n o w,                      what now ? she had to do something, show what                     she was, HAD over him. D O M I N A N C E, or                      what she thought it might be.                  could be.

patience had always been on shortage, a dangling string with a never ending chiming of a bell, echoes strung through her muscles as her hand rose, to hurt, to hit, yet, paused, mid air to fall back to her side. had she forgotten what she was ?

 instead now, she drew her wand. 

oh, you are something wretched, something horrid— & he can feel the bladed edge of fear heightening his pulse & rattling the blood within his veins. he can feel it . . . but he doesn’t care much fear —

                      — CAN HE IGNORE IT ?                    WHAT’S THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN?

admittedly, he hosts a morbid mind, but he sees unrelenting logic. what is the worst she can do to him? they’re blood related . . . & people will talk, should she do anything more lasting than slice into his skin with sharpened talons.  

those thin, dotted cuts - shallow, insubstantial, insignificant - do sting . . . the immediate instinct is to raise a hand bleached white to assess that open cheek.

                             but he refuses to do so.

indeed, he continues to stare ahead with a composure more militant than customary in a boy his age.  ( ten. he was ten. )

                        ❛ — no.

but that militancy can only last for so long -- there is a flicker in his eye; a flicker as he directs his gaze towards her for only a second . . . the motion is fast, easily mistaken for fear, though it is not. no . . . not fear, but contempt : CONTEMPT. is it tangible ?

             do you think me a fool enough to mock you openly?                                        we all have standards to uphold. 

& so his focus returns to the wall --- but peripherals detect motion, & alarm resonates throughout his bones. fearful though he may not deem himself to be, it is instinct — especially when he knows that she will not hesitate. ( what’s the worst that could happen? )