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bakerstreet2017-01-20 02:05 pm
LIFE HAS GONE TO HELL, ABED! THIS IS REAL! LOOK AT US! LOOK AT ME!
 DARKEST TIMELINE MEME The darkest timeline is a phenomenon when there are multiple possibilities for a situation to turn out and progress forward. Each has a different outcome, but one of those possibilities. One of them is the darkest timeline. The timeline in which everything goes wrong and there's no turning back. The villian gets the weapon that will end the war instead of the heroes, you fuck up someone's food order and they turn out to be the health inspector, the cabin you picked has an axe murderer in it, you come back from a pizza run and the whole room is on fire or everyone has grown evil beards--wait, what? |
evan rosier | hp
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But he deserves it, doesn't he? From a lap dog for the Dark Lord to a lap dog for the Order, it's hardly different. It's just one side isn't openly genocidal. Many of Regulus' ideals are just the same as always (you don't take away inherent superiority, after all), but he's never wanted to torture or kill. Which makes his current job all the more ironic. A cruel karmic punishment from a group that hates getting its own hands dirty. That's what Albus Dumbledore does, isn't it? Keeps his hands clean.
Regulus' are stained in mottled shades of red and rust and brown from old sins and new, but it's not going to stop any time soon. They'll never be clean, just compounded over and over and over.
The ends have to justify the means. So he remains steadfast, does what he's told without questioning or flinching or trembling. Other Order members avoid the cold-eyed ex-Death Eater, mostly out of hatred and revulsion but he doesn't care. He knew what he was getting into. Perhaps it's funny on some kind of cosmic level that the first thing he'd been sent to do once his magic behaved again (coaxed so slowly out of his fingers, convincing it that a drowned man wasn't dead anymore - even a brief shutdown before his lungs had been cleared and body jolted back to Earth had scrambled the inherent power in him) was to torture a Death Eater for information.
Confusion and dawning hate had almost made him smile. The job had gone well; he got what he needed and Obliviated the man before dumping him off. It's only at night, alone, that he sits on his balcony and smokes with trembling fingers that let the cigarette dangle until it burns him.
Business as usual today. Someone's been captured and detained and it's Regulus' job to get what they need. It's a small room they use - little more than a chair, no windows. It's impossible to Apparate out of. He usually has a chaperone until they're sure he's doing what he's meant to. Then they stand outside so they don't have to watch his methods. Regulus steps through the door with his escort and looks at his quarry
and stills utterly. He looks at the form lashed too tightly with magical ropes to the chair he's sat in and frowns. When he speaks it's flat and dead sounding, but his voice is instantly recognizable to anyone intimately familiar with it. ]
You want me to torture a blind man. This is how the Order works now?
[ If Evan could see his face, he'd register the open disgust there. ]
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The Dark Lord is back.
After his narrow escape from death in ’81, Evan had managed to retreat to a muggle neighbourhood for recovery. He had stayed there for a month before he’d moved again and again and again. It wasn’t much of a life, but he had no other choice. Blinded by Moody and wanted by the Wizarding community, he could only learn to adapt to a muggle lifestyle. Ironic, really; but it was for survival and it was that resolve which enabled him to overcome every single obstacle thrown his way.
His life has never been ideal. He’s never experienced life’s kindness or its generosity. There was a time when he thought he would, but—
So, the years have passed. He’s learned how to be a blind man in a magicless world. He’s earned his living the only way he knows how – through his wit and his willingness to sacrifice himself for a desired aim. People are easy to take advantage of and Evan has always had a knack for getting people to do what he wants.
Honestly, he could have chosen to stay in hiding among the muggles. Some of them aren’t so bad. But he’s never been a coward and he’s never been the type to turn away from an opportunity for something better. No matter how he looks at it, his life is currently the life of a fugitive and he can’t allow it to continue holding him down.
His life may have never been ideal and he doubts it'll ever be, but it doesn’t mean he should let it continue to beat him down. It’s done that for long enough.
Anyway, he has unfinished business with one Alastor Moody.
The Dark Lord has welcomed him back into the fold. His blindness is a casualty of war and, in that way, he is considered a war hero. But just because he’s been accepted back into their ranks doesn’t mean he’s proved himself to them – and so he does.
His run-in with Moody is purely by chance, believe it or not. He would have loved to seek him out on his own right from the get go, but he’s not a bloody moron – which makes the ensuing fight and capture all that much more vexing for him. Unplanned. Unprepared. Unwanted. Close. He almost had him, but outnumbered. Again.
Wanker.
They’ve bounded him to a chair. Empty room. Warded with spells. It smells dirty and damp in here with the subtle fragrance of something metallic in the air – Ah, yes. Blood. It makes him laugh. He knows what’s coming. He’s been in a similar place to this, except he’s always been on the opposite side of this scenario.
Moody must be having a bloody good day.
—but it’s not Moody who enters the room. It's someone different. The sound of his footsteps are different. Well, that’s disappointing.
But then the man suddenly stops midway. What, he doesn’t like what he sees? He opens his mouth to taunt him, but he’s interrupted by the sound of a voice – a voice far too familiar and distinctive, yet it’s not... possible.
It’s not possible. It’s not—
He’s dead. It’s not possible. ]
Well, no need to be discriminatory. Us blind folks are just like anyone else, mate. If you spend a little more time with me, you’ll see for yourself. [ a slight pause and then a wry grin later: ] Or you can make my day and send Moody back in here. I was expecting him. We didn’t get to have a nice chat earlier and I’ve prepared a whole speech for him while you were wasting away valuable time getting here.
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[ Yes, he recognizes you, prick. He'd been unsure at first, since he looks so different and surely there are more people than just Evan irreparably changed by war, but as soon as he speaks Regulus knows and it twists in his gut. His chest. He chews on his lip, rips at the skin so hard that it peels off and bleeds, but that's fine. The metallic taste is grounding. The man with him is just behind him and is self-righteous, arms crossed over his chest as he smiles.
Chickening out, Black? Or were you friends? Do Death Eaters even have friends? Should I tell them all you're emotionally compromised today? Need a break from dragging out fingernails and teeth?
Like he's so sloppy. The magic roils through him sharp and angry and fierce and palpable but it doesn't escape, doesn't lash out. ]
It's funny, isn't it? That you should talk about being brave when the only reason you keep me alive is because you're all too afraid to do this for yourselves. Whatever would you do without me?
[ Be rid of some vermin, is the reply. The sides really are too similar to one another, aren't they? He smiles, slow and sickle-sharp and only for show. ] Leave us, Green. I wouldn't want to offend your delicate sensibilities.
[ There's a brief silence, footsteps, a sound like someone that's rather slight stumbling, and the door slams. They're alone; Regulus stands stone-still and breathes through his nose, staring. He's not smiling any more. ]
Rosier. [ This time it's barely audible. ] I can't believe they got him to bring you in without killing you.
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A part of him wants to keep denying it, to make up excuses – it could be a bloke with a similar voice, he could have simply forgotten what he sounds like or maybe he’s confusing it with someone else’s voice. He’s politely telling that part of himself to go jump off a bleeding bridge.
It is him.
If his voice wasn’t confirmation enough, then the conversation he has with his colleague does the trick – surname Black and apparently not very well-received for his association with Death Eaters. It does cross his mind it could be Sirius Black, but nobody tells him to shut the fuck up like Regulus Black. No, it’s him and it’s a sick, twisted joke.
Cheers to you, life. You played him good with this one.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment even after Green’s left. Just allows the silence to hang between them. It’s not that he needs time to process what’s going on. What’s going on is obvious – Regulus Black didn’t die. He turned his back on the Dark Lord, joined the Order, and now he’s their personal lapdog. All these years, he— ]
Bloody hell. [ He tips his head back with a slight groan. ] If you’re going to torture me, [ He angles his face toward him even though his eyes remains closed. ] do it. I’m not here to chitchat with you. That’s reserved for Alastor Moody, wherever that wanker’s gone. [ A low chuckle. ] Or are we saving me the best for last?
[ Moody did want to finish him off. Unfortunately, he had been stuck with a bunch of rule-abiding pansies who'd insisted they bring him in for questioning first. Lucky him. Not that it matters. He’s not saying shit. But at least they’ve bought him some time.
—except now he’s not entirely certain he wants it. ]
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That and there's no guarantee that what he did isn't known. That he wouldn't just be immediately killed. Not that they care about that part. Still, he'd prefer not to again any time soon. He's very quiet a while longer, unmoving, before he slowly steps over to where the older wizard is seated with the slightest scrape of his shoes on the floor. His wand isn't out, but of course he won't notice that. ]
I don't want to torture you.
[ Murmured. It's the soft sort of tone that was always reserved for when they were on their best terms, when sitting together quietly and not arguing. Just talking. He knows that Evan is angry - perhaps rightly so - because even after all this time he knows him well enough. Regulus doesn't blame him.
Instead of anything aggressive, his hand reaches out to brush his fingers through his much-shorter hair before dropping to grip his chin and turn it this way and that, studying him. This is probably worse than physical pain, though. ] You shouldn't be so quick to want to die. It's not very pleasant, I can tell you from experience.
[ What the hell does that even mean? ] Moody won't be joining us today. Too much of a loose cannon. All you get is me.
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If this is how the Order plans to get information out of Death Eaters, they’re not going to get very far in the war. Or perhaps he’s being lulled into a false sense of security. Whatever game Regulus is playing at, he frankly doesn’t have the patience for it.
And he would tell him rightly so if he doesn’t feel fingers stroking his hair all of a sudden. His entire body tenses at the sensation as his jaw clinches and his mouth sets into a rigid line. He lets Black get a good look at him – that’s what he’s doing, isn’t it? – before he finally turns his head away from his grasp.
He hates this.
It’s bringing back unwanted memories – the softness of his tone, the gentleness of his touch, and the familiarity of his smell. They’re stirring up emotions he’d buried long ago. Emotions that have no place here. Not like this. Not with him. ]
Don’t touch me. [ It comes out calm, matter of fact, yet there’s an evident edge to his words. ] What are you attempting to achieve here, Black? [ He tilts his head to face him once more, expression solemn and tone devoid of any feeling. ] Trying a hand at psychological torture? Going to try and sway me with what we had? [ A small smile settles over his countenance as his brows lift in amusement. ] You think too highly of yourself.
[ He nods toward the entrance. ] If I were you, I’d stick to what I know will work. You’ll only be wasting everyone’s time otherwise. [ The corner his lips curves up. ] Need me to help get you started? I have some good recommendations in mind.
[ Sorry, Regulus. He has no interest in indulging you with a conversation on mortality. ]
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His wand is in his hand almost instantly and he doesn't speak, just stares at Evan quietly.
He should do his job.
Instead he moves to the door, pressing his hand to the surface of it, wand in hand. Maybe this magic is palpable as well. Colloportus isn't quite what it should be called - it's no First-year spell he casts to lock the door. It's something tailored, ingrained, personal. The Muffliato he casts is audible, though. That one suits well enough.
If he's supposed to torture, wouldn't it be better to have it be heard?
His feet scrape again as he moves closer. He still hasn't spoken. He's too busy regarding him, watching his face and his expressions. Finally: ]
I'm not so easy to rile up any more. On top of that, I hardly need your suggestions on physical torture methods. Like I said, I don't want to.
[ A soft noise and then an inhale, an exhale, the smell of tobacco smoke. He's trying to be steadfast but his nerves are singing. This isn't what he wanted, or expected. He never wanted any of this. When he finally speaks it's calm, somehow. But it's also earnest. He knows Evan is thinking traitor. He is, but... ]
It was supposed to end the war for good. [ A beat. ] I'm sorry. I miscalculated. It would have been so much easier if it had worked. Could have just... Disappeared. No Aurors to worry about, no more death looming over our shoulders.
Instead I ended up dragged out the bottom of a lake and made some personal pet torture device. [ It's audibly wry. ]
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He should have known it would happen too. It wasn’t like Regulus had volunteered to be a Death Eater; he was handed an invitation – and no one who’d valued his life turned down an invitation to join back then. It's the same even now. He also always looked up to Sirius, didn’t he? His older brother who’d left the family because he doesn’t believe in the cause. It wouldn’t surprise him if Sirius is the reason why he’d left.
A brow arches questioningly when he hears Muffliato cast, but his features have smoothed over again by the time Black returns to his side. His head has dipped, no longer feeling the need to face him. No point in doing it when he can’t even see him (outside of apparent emphasis). And what he hears from him next—
He doesn’t know what to think.
At least Black isn’t denying it, but what comes after that — Well, it certainly brings up a number of different emotions. None of which he wants to sort out. None of which he wants to acknowledge. He can’t trust what he’ll do if he does. Nothing good for sure.
So instead, he responds to him with derisive incredulity. ]
You miscalculated. Brilliant, really. I would applaud you, but my hands are a bit tied. So, what was it? What could have simultaneously ended a war and guaranteed your survival? [ There is no “our” in this, Black. ] Although, you didn’t really need it, did you? [ It’s now that he finally lifts his head back up to regard him. His voice has taken a lighter, cheerier tone. ] You clearly aren’t dead. If anything, you sound perfectly fine to me— and you should really show more gratitude towards the people who have kept you safe all these years, even though it must have been hard for you, I'm certain.
They’ve cleared you of your crime though. Clothed you, fed you, and probably even given you a comfortable place to stay if they haven’t allowed you to keep your property. What’s returning the favour with a little torture now and then?
Be careful, Black. You don’t want to sound ungrateful. You did choose them, after all. I know you’re posh and you’re used to having everything handed to you on a silver platter, so you may not be aware of this, but sometime you actually have to work to earn your keep.
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He takes another drag, trying to steel himself. There aren't many people that drag this kind of reaction out of him. Evan is one of them. ]
You don't get it. I was supposed to stay at the bottom of that bloody lake. No one else was going to do what I did because it was supposed to be a death sentence. But I wanted to end it.
[ It's almost a hiss. ] It wasn't supposed to guarantee my survival. It was supposed to guarantee everyone else's. I don't care about myself. That wasn't the point. If I cared about my survival I wouldn't have done anything different than I was already doing. Why would I have? Stability, community, the winning side in a war. I had--
[ He cuts off abruptly. No. He won't. After a breath, he snorts. ] After this is over they're either going to throw me in Azkaban or let Moody kill me. Maybe I should just let him kill me now instead of prolonging the inevitable, but I've still been trying to fix things. [ Another breath. ] Tell me absolutely truthfully that you believe genocide is the way to make things better and I'll just torture you and be done with it. But be careful, you know that I can tell when you're lying. No hesitation, no faltering.
[ A beat. ] You don't deserve this. You never have. You're a prick, but you're still... [ Another silence. ] He doesn't care. He never has. He doesn't even blink over killing people that have been loyal to him for years. Do you really think he's not going to just clean house when everything is over? What the hell does he need anyone else for after that?
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Oh, I get it now. You want to be a hero. You want to pull the ultimate gesture and sacrifice your life for the greater good. [ He nods his head in mock understanding. ] Very noble and selfless of you, mate. Shame you’d failed the first time. Perhaps, you’ll do better now. Then, you can go down in history as the Black who’d saved the Wizarding community from the Dark Lord and His fiendish group of Death Eaters! That is the entire purpose of your life, isn’t it? There is no value to it outside of that.
[ He doesn’t say anything for a while after that. A small frown has creased his brows, but it clears from his face once he speaks again. ]
If you want Moody to kill you, you’re going to have to get in line. I have him first since, frankly, he wants me more. [ He smiles at him. ] I’m cuter. [ Tipping his head back, Evan blows at a loose lock of hair before he continues: ] I’m not going to lie to you, Black. When have I ever felt the need to? [ He snorts. ] You do it enough for the both of us. [ He attempts to shift slightly in his seat, but— nope. This is very uncomfortable, for the record. ]
I don’t believe genocide will make things better for a lot of people. I don’t believe following the Dark Lord will result in a happy ending for just as many. I don’t believe everything is going to be fine and dandy no matter what the outcome of this bleeding war is because I’m not an optimistic git. [ He angles his head to the side. ] I do know, however, that He at least provides a chance of something better for me than what I would get anywhere else.
[ There is clear vehemence to his next words. ]
With Him, I won’t have to go to Azkaban. With Him, I won’t have to be a bloody fugitive. With Him, I can have a smidge of hope back that, perhaps, if I survive and I’ve proved myself enough, I won’t have to live my life like complete and utter trash. I won’t have to walk the streets under the judgmental gaze of society because I have no wealth to my name or because I’m a good for nothing pest who deserves to be imprisoned in a place worse than death.
[ He takes a steadying breath. ] You may have the luxury to toss your life away for a glorified aspiration, Black, but, if I die, it’ll only be after I’ve done myself proud and put up a good fight. I’m not one to ponder over the morality of the side I’m on, but I reckon that’s the difference between someone like me and someone like you. You have the notion there are people worth dying for; I believe in dying only for myself.
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You're not good for nothing. [ Bland, but genuine. ] You've always pestered me but you're not good for nothing. [ With a bit of false humor, this part. But he seems thoughtful. When he paces now it's slow, measured. He has a lot to think about. A lot of people, a lot of events, a lot of options. ] I've thought about going back. Over and over. I can't now, never again, but... [ There's something familiar in his tone now - when he gets passionate about something. ] They're fighting a losing battle and they know it. With the Ministry squashing everything down they're scrambling for damage control and... [ A breathed-out laugh. ] They're using a Death Eater to get information. Desperate.
[ He moves closer very suddenly but all he does is sit astride Evan's knees. Not his lap - this isn't supposed to be some mockery of sexuality - but it's his old intensity right there on the tip of his tongue. ] That's here, isn't it? The UK. Being here is what makes that. No one knows who you are elsewhere. [ He's not touching him with his hands. This amount of contact is enough. It isn't actually, not nearly, but this isn't the time. ] What really keeps you here?
[ He breathes and it almost shakes. He knows at least part of it. ] He's still furious about his nose. Never the same. [ Murmured quietly and close to him, but still not touching. ] It's beautiful, the indignant way he acts. He's so fucking angry, Eva--Rosier. [ A genuine slip, one that makes him stand and take a step back instinctively. He's getting too close. ] But that's what keeps you here, isn't it? Being angry at him. It won't end until one of you is dead.
[ Then, very quietly. ] There are people worth dying for, just not as many as most martyrs seem to think. Usually there's just one or two, really. [ Then, businesslike. ] You are not cuter than me, but I'll admit he does want to kill you far more. He's here still. In the other room.
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[ He’s cut off mid-sentence, caught off guard by the unexpected warmth and weight of Regulus. The shock is enough to silence him as his head lowers and a frown creases his brows once more. Too much liberty. He is taking far too much liberty here. There is nothing he can do about it. He can attempt to free himself from his binds, but they’ve taken his wand. Even if he succeeds, he won’t be getting too far, especially not in his current state.
He catches that slip up – how could he not? – and chooses to ignore it. The bitterness and contempt in Black’s voice for the Order isn’t faked, but allegiance never required one to like the people who you fight with or even to agree entirely with their cause. ]
I am cuter than you. I only don’t look it because I’m all scratched up. [ Moody didn’t bother to hold back on him. He’s surprised he didn’t try to take out another one of his sense organs or a limb. ] But you’re right. I’m only still here because I have unfinished business with Moody. He owes me his life. [ A beat. ] I have considered leaving this country. There is nothing to tie me down here except for vendetta. But I’m a wanted man, Black, if you haven’t forgotten. I’m a blind one at that. It’s not as simple for me as someone else.
[ He turns toward the entryway. ] I can’t decide I want to go and expect it to work out. The world has never been so kind to me and, considering how slim the chances of success are for somebody who can see, what do you reckon the odds are for me when I have my own personal Auror to watch out for? I may as well stay and fight. It’s at least the more honourable of the two choices. [ A coward he’s not. ] You should send him in. I didn’t get myself caught to listen to the justifications of a traitor. We both know I’m not leaving here alive.
[ His eyes opens then – a pair of milky white orbs – as he regards him. ]
Stop prolonging the inevitable, Regulus. You can either torture me or let me end this with Moody. I recommend the latter since you know it’s futile to get me to talk. You want to disappear, don’t you? [ He tips his head towards the entrance. ] Door’s that way.
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And if you weren't alone? If you had someone that can see? To put your head together with and plan and sneak away? [ It's soft. Almost dangerous. But then he's quiet again save a huffed-out laugh. Then he's moving and it seems as though he really will leave. He moves to the door, dispells what he's done, and the heavy door scrapes open. Green's right out in the hall - he says something snide about not hearing any screams, but then there's a silence and what are you-- ]
Imperio.
[ Oh. Well. But he doesn't send the man off to do anything else, just brings him inside the room without fuss and closes the door again with that locking spell and Muffliato.
This time the silence drags on. Regulus is breathing. Steeling himself. The spell he casts next is barely audible but it's a curse, whispered sharp and tight and while it could be faked why would it and the very suddened pained gurgling sounds coming from the direction Regulus' voice had just come from - sickening and wet - would be almost impossible to make sound real. Then there's a soft thump. The choked gasps for breath don't stop until a moment later though until finally, finally, there's stillness.
Regulus is trembling but Evan won't know that, of course. Green is crumpled on the floor in a pool of his own blood and the next time he moves it's to make sure he's really dead, kneeling down and looking. There are no outward wounds. He bled out for no visible reason. Out his mouth, his eyes, his nose, his ears. Easy to clean up so long as you get rid of the blood.
Sneaky.
Finally, finally, Regulus steps back to the chair that Evan is sat in. This time he does sit in the older man's lap, just as slight as ever. His voice is low, musical. Almost heady. ] What if you had someone to help you kill him?
[ His hands grip Evan's face and they're wet, almost sticky. Then he's kissing him. It's not gentle and it's not kind, but it is intense.
A murmur and the ropes holding him in place fall away and Regulus is pressing a wand into his hand-- ] Moody has your wand. This will have to do for now.
[ Evan could try to kill him now, he knows. Might. He wouldn't blame him. But still, he's smiling. ] I've missed you.
[ He kisses him again, if he's allowed. The metallic scent in the room is practically overwhelming. ]
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—and then he listens as he walks away.
He doesn’t move or say a single word throughout what he could only make out to be a rather long overdue murder. (Look, Green is a wanker. He figured that out seconds into hearing him open his condescending mouth. Good riddance, honestly.) It almost makes him smile if he didn’t think Black has finally gone off the deep end here. What the bloody hell does he think he’s doing? ]
You’re mad. [ He states unceremoniously once the room has stilled of the choked gasps of a man seeing the last of his days. It doesn’t bother him as much as he knows it should. ] What do you think you’re— [ He’s on him again. Closer now than before. His breath hitches slightly at the invasiveness, but, before he can even reprimand himself on it, he feels fingers – sticky with blood – and lips – warm and intent – pressed to his own. His brows furrow in response and, when the kiss is finally broken, he finishes flatly. ] ...—doing.
[ He isn’t impressed. There is no hint of amusement or satisfaction in his expression. As he’s released from his binds and a wand is shoved into his hand, Evan repeats more firmly: ] What do you think you’re doing, Black? You’ve gone out of your mind. [ But there’s a slow smile beginning to spread across his countenance and he doesn’t stop him from kissing him again. Raising his hand, he cradles his face, leaning into him. His arm snakes around his waist before he pushes them out of his seat. Lifting Regulus with him, Evan nips at his bottom lip, tasting the copper tinge of where he’d split his skin earlier. There is a rising bubble of excitement in him. Anticipation, really; for what comes next. It’s enough to temporarily excuse whatever he’s feeling now. ]
Lead the way. [ Breathed against his mouth as his head dips and he angles it toward the exit. They’ve taken his walking stick too and he hates how reliant he is upon others without it, but it’s not the time to allow pride to get in the way of caution and care. He plants one hand on Black’s shoulder as he feels Green’s wand in his other. It’s foreign – flimsy to the touch. He suspects he can force it to work until he can retrieve his own. ] Just don’t pull any further heroics on me [ Translation: Don’t get yourself killed. ] if you mean it.
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A battered and broken home, but home nonetheless. ] Can't pull heroics if we're not the heroes of the story, Rosier. No one's a hero any more. [ Then they're moving.
Regulus is as slow and silent as ever, borne from being a spy (and a good one at that). He knows this place like the back of his hand, every snaking corridor and dark corner. After a moment he stops, hand on Evan's arm to still him without saying anything. There's the tiniest scrape of feet as Regulus crouches down before the door, spell murmured under the crack of it. It won't help against Moody's damned eye but filling the room with smoke is still a distraction for a split second. When he straightens he takes Evan's wand hand in his own so they're pointing the same way and leans up to whisper in his ear. ] Three stunners in succession on my mark. You'll get the final go at him once he's down.
[ There isn't much time: the door slams open with a roar of I knew we should have killed you, Black and Regulus squeezes down on Evan's hand at the same moment as he sends out his own stunning spell. Then another. Then another.
Hopefully it's enough, or, well, they're probably both some kind of dead. ]
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Not until now.
Perhaps, they’re not mad; they’re simply morons. They’ve refused to let go of the past and give themselves a chance to start anew. He desires vengeance; Reg covets an end. What they should have been focused on was a beginning.
Better late than never, he supposes.
Despite his inability to see, his footsteps are barely audible as he walks. There is a certain steadiness and assuredness to the way he moves. His eyes have fallen shut once again, head angled slightly. He listens for any noise as he allows Black to lead him to where Moody is presumably located. As calm as he appears, a nervous energy quietly emanates from his body. Over a decade. He has waited over a decade for this.
As Reg readies the spell to lure Moody out, Evan takes a steadying breath as he stills himself. He gives a single nod of his head at the plan of attack whispered to him. Either Moody is going to die or they are. He’s not going to fuck this up even if he’s always imagined he would be doing this alone.
Time seems to slow for those few short beats before the familiar sound of Alastor Moody erupts forth from the doorway. A smile immediately breaks over Evan’s demeanor. As soon as he gets the signal from Reg, he lets Moody have it. One stunning spell after another. A shot of thrill courses through him at the guttural noise he hears in response.
It almost makes him want to laugh, but he can save it for later. For now, he’s more intent on finishing this once and for all. Everyone knows what the Dark Arts does to the soul, but his soul has been tarnished enough. What’s one or two more spells? He wants to extend it, to torment him and make him suffer for what he did – yet this isn’t only about revenge for him anymore. He can’t be overindulgent.
It should suffice just to have him dead, so, without further ado (or any more wasted time), he breaths out with an unhinged edge to his voice: ]
Avada Kedavra. [ Fucking wanker. ]
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But then he's pulling back, voice little more than a murmur. ] He's dead. [ They both know already. But it's a verbal confirmation. He's never liked Moody anyway.
When he steps away it's with another smile that's audible when he speaks. ] Stay here a moment while I sort things. Just a moment. [ There's a jittery energy to him but he's fast and efficient. He darts into the room that Moody came out of and comes back out with both Evan's wand and his walking stick, pressing both into his hands. ] Give me Green's wand. [ He takes it either way. The wand used to kill Moody.
Regulus moves back into the torture chamber (because that's what it is) and a flick of his own wand clears up any remaining mess. He tucks the guilty (hah) wand into the dead man's hand, making sure he's holding onto it properly but loosely. Dead, after all. He pauses, thoughtful, before dragging the point of his wand across his palm. It moves over the line of an ugly scar already there and instantly opens back up with a well of blood. It's important that it's his. He's silent though, no hiss of pain even when he massages the heel of his palm to bring out more of it. He's meticulous about how it gets spread around, and there's a point where he uses his bloody palm to grip at the front of Green's shirt - grasping the fabric and bunching it like one would do while arguing with someone and dragging them closer.
Simple.
His hand's wrapped in a strip of his shirt by the time he returns but the metallic tang still lingers. They can take care of actually stopping the bleeding later. He exhales harshly through his nose before crouching next to Moody's body. ] He didn't have time to attack.
[ A beat as he picks up Moody's wand carefully. ] They're going to check what he cast last. [ There's something heavy there, meaningful. ] On me. [ It's his blood in there, after all. His voice is placid now, matter-of-fact. ]
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He feels too calm. Then again, what else should he feel? Happy? Liberated? Pleased? It’s what he always thought he would feel when this day came, getting his vengeance and settling the score between him and Moody once and for all. But here’s the thing about revenge, it rarely ever does satisfy. If anything, it’s rather underwhelming and it doesn’t actually change much. It should have, arguably.
Arguably, this should be the best day of his life. This should be the day where the past no longer ties him down.
His fingers close around his wand and his cane as they’re pushed into his hands. A reunion. It snaps him out of his musing for a moment. Giving Reg a nod, Evan listens to him walk off as he crouches down to where Moody’s body lays in an unmoving heap. He couldn’t even watch him die. It makes him snort. What a waste. ]
That was for my eyes, mate. [ Pitch blackness, even when he opens them. He stands back up and, with a simple flick of his wrist, snaps open his collapsible walking stick. He feels much more settled now. Less defensive, but still on guard.
This isn’t over yet. Not nearly. He doubts he’ll be relieved until they’re out of the country – or until he’s out of the country. Honestly, he doesn’t know about Reg. He doesn’t trust him or his motivations. This gesture – the more hopeful would consider it an act of loyalty or conviction, but he’s never been much for hope.
He could easily leave now. Apparate away before Black returns. The thought festers in his mind, yet, by the time Regulus makes his reappearance from presumably the torture chamber, he finds he hasn’t moved. His head is angled down almost as if he’s observing the corpse of the man who’d stolen his sight. As Reg lowers to Moody’s side, Evan gives the body a sharp stab with the end of his cane.
He has an idea of what Black has done. They’ve been in this field for far too long not to have a notion of how cover ups will work depending on a given scenario. ]
You can tell me all about it once we’re gone from here. We need to hurry. [ A pause and then: ] It won’t benefit either of us to stay any longer.