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Regulus always liked the rain. Liked the cold that seeped into this bones, and the uncomfortable way it stuck to your hair and clothes. Liked how it made people hurry though life. Liked the way it smelt, as though the world was finally allowed to breathe. Like he was finally allowed to breathe.
He remembered being young. Maybe he scraped his knee. Maybe he fell. Maybe Sirius pushed him, or tried to catch him.
It was long ago. And Regulus’s memories are beginning to blur.
He fell, and he cried. And then mother shouted, and Sirius shouted back, and Regulus cried harder.
And then- well, mother was never the most patient women. He and Sirius would later agree she should have never had any at all. That it would have been better had they not existed.
It was the last time he ever cried. That’s what everyone will say.
•
But when the sky was dark with thunder, the air heavy with rain, and his skin decorated with bruises, or cuts, or curses, Regulus would slip out. Wander the gardens behind their house, through the damp, muddy grass and perfectly cut hedges. Past the small pond, alive with movement from the battering raindrops on the surface of the water.
It would be quiet, except for the rain, which was so loud.
Loud enough to soak his bones. And muffle the sound of his tears.
Heavy enough to scrape clean the blackness of his soul, just for a bit. Scrape away the misery that cling to him, that had always clung to him. Like his mother. Like his father. Like the very fucking walls of the house, seeped with hatred.
Regulus bets Sirius never had to scrape his soul clean.
Sirius, who was sorted into Gryffindor this year. Who doesn’t respond to his letters, and exchanges howler after howler with Mother.
Sirius, who is better than Regulus will ever be.
When Regulus slips back inside, he’s not sure if he feels lighter or not. Not sure if anyone can distinguish the tears on his face from the rain. Not sure if it matters.
•
It doesn’t rain often at Hogwarts. But when it does, Regulus will sit by the lake. So much bigger than the one one their gardens at home. He watches the ripples on the water, staring. Sometimes it feels like it’s stretching out infinitely, like the world is infinite and the rain is infinite and so is Regulus.
Perhaps he is infinite. Perhaps he is dying.
And sometimes the rain batters his skin and he is so so small.
Because he is mortal. Because he is dying.
His robes are soaked by the rain, and the water of the lake that laps at the bottom of them. Tears will streak down his face, even though he never cries, and he will curl up and pretend he is warm. And safe. And loved.
Those are the worst nights.
And when he walks back into the dorm in second year, dragging water back with him, he will see his friends exchange worried glances. He will wonder if they can see the tears on his face, so carefully disguised by rain.
And he will notice that he is rarely alone, when he comes back inside. Even if it is just Evan talking without cease, or Barty reading near him, Pandora sitting with him quietly.
He doesn’t sit in the rain as much in those years. He doesn’t miss it.
•
And then Sirius runs away.
And mother gets angrier.
And Father kills himself.
And the blackness clings to his soul, rotting his bones. Clings so tightly that the rain can’t wash it away. That his friends can’t scrape him clean.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever be free again. He is right.
The next few years pass in a blur. Exams. Avoid Sirius. Don’t cry.
The rain seems to seep into his bones. Blood made out of water. His eyes are distant, and he knows his friends worry, and him mother is angry.
But the water tastes like apathy, drenching him. Caring about anything is hard. He wonders if he has always been a dead thing. A husk. Wonders how he could have been anything else.
He doesn’t remember much anymore.
His arm is marked. He barely feels it. Just more rot.
•
And then the horcruxes.
He imagines tearing his soul to pieces. He imagines what kind of a man it takes to do such a thing. He imagines the piles and piles of bodies this man has left in his wake. The rot and misery and death he has caused.
And he resolves to do something about it. A small fire, deep within him, embers eating away at the edges of the apathy that still claws at his very being.
This is right. This is stupid, but right. This is bravery.
Would you do it again?
He wonders what it would he to be Sirius. To burn, always, like a supernova. To not have to fight to keep yourself just breathing. To not cry because if you start you’ll never stop. To not sit in the rain for hours and hours, trying to hold yourself together.
But he clings to this small fire of determination. And he studies, and prepares and makes his way to a cave far away.
He walks in. Jagged stone overhead. Brave. He will never come back out.
Yes.
And he’s dragged under the water, cold and dark. Feels the claws against his skin, writhing and seething. Sees the red clouding the water.
Gasps where there is no oxygen. The water floods into his lungs and into his soul. Scrapes away the rot that became part of him. The hatred that perhaps was born into him.
His memories begin to slip away from him. A boy with long hair and a red tie, grinning. The soft smile of a girl with long, blond hair. Memories of screams, slipping away, drowned out old echos of laughter.
Perhaps he cries. The water surrounding him masks it as always.
And finally, all he is left with is the cold. The quiet. The water.
Regulus Black dies, cold and alone and crying. And free.