Chapter 1 : Dear Mary.
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Wow, what a rubbish start. I can just see you rolling your eyes at me, bright blue and spinning in their sockets as you laugh, and your playful voice says, Merlin, can’t you think of anything more original than ‘Dear Mary’? There must be zillions of letters which have been started ‘Dear Mary’. Besides, I thought we agreed I was changing my name to Minnaloushe! Or was it Malandra? Now there’s a greeting - To my most beloved, dazzling Malandra. Bet nobody’s ever put that in an envelope before, eh, Reg? Notice how I put a compliment right in there too, Reg, straight away. Gotta tell a girl she’s dazzling once in a while or she’ll lose interest. Little tip for you, there, Reg.
You always did like calling me Reg. It’s Regulus, I would say, over and over, getting more and more annoyed, but I didn’t mind, not really, not when you did it. Just like I know you don’t mind really about my rubbish greeting - you were always amused by my utterly unromantic soul. Anyway, you’re probably more concerned with the fact I’m hearing voices. Well, just the one, to be fair. It’s just the one that matters.
Maybe I should explain what I’m doing. I thought today, when I came to the Room of Requirement like I do every day now, I'd try something different. I thought instead of crying myself dry and making a pensieve play memories of you, or pretending you were there really but you’d popped down to the kitchens for snacks because the room doesn’t make them (that one never works anyway, because I know you’d have made me go), I thought - well, like I say, I thought I’d try something different. I thought I’d maybe write you a letter. I thought I’d tell you about what I’ve been doing for the last few months, since… well, you know since what, and I still can’t even think it without wanting to follow suit. I thought I’d ask how you’re doing, too, even though I know you can’t reply and I can’t even send this in the first place. And I thought I’d just tell you, Mary - Merlin, I thought I'd tell you how much it hurts, how much it goddamn hurts, not just that you’re gone, but that I wasn’t enough for you to stay for.
I sound like a right spoilt brat now. It was your life, Mary, and you knew that, and you chose to end it on your terms. I respect that (except I don’t).
Oh Mary, I think, hand on my heart, that you couldn’t just sit around knowing there might be something you couldn’t control. You’d told me so many times you’d die before you were forty, that you’d kill yourself if you had to, because you wanted to be remembered as young and beautiful forever, not an old hag. Like you could have ever been anything but heavenly. But I think it was more than that. I think that knowing you could get mown down by a hippogriff or fall off the Astronomy tower any day, completely accidentally, drove you mad. It was out of your control, Mary. That’s the way it’s meant to be, for everyone, but apparently not for you. You’re special. You always were.
I also think, in the deepest, darkest, bitterest part of my mind, which probably sees the clearest because it knows even you weren’t perfect, that you probably loved the attention.
That’s a horrible thing to think, but we both know it’s true, don’t we? The scandal, the investigation, the elusive suicide note (‘There’s nothing for me here. I’m off to find a better place. Wish me luck.’ Not as great as I imagine you thought, Mary, not as poetic as I’d have expected. It’s in my pocket now, despite how crap it was, I stole it for a little closure or a keepsake or something, and no one’s noticed yet).
You just had to go out with a bang, didn’t you? So yeah, if you can see from wherever you are now, if you know what’s going on, what went on, for so long after you did it, then you must be in your element. You were the centre of attention for so many months, Mary, just like you always wanted. Your funeral was beautiful and hundreds turned up, I hear. I wasn’t one of them. It cut right into my denial period. Of course, I’m over that now, Mary. Now I’m grieving. They say eventually you reach acceptance, but it seems unlikely to me.
It wouldn’t have been suspicious if I had gone, in case you wondering, because most of the school turned up. Even the Slytherins, even the people who made fun of you for being a show-off and a mudblood and for changing your hair colour all the time just to keep people guessing, and for strutting around like you were oh-so-cool and oh-so-sexy and you just owned the place. Of course, had I gone to your funeral, Mary, how upset I was might have been odd. Merlin, even when we’re not in a relationship it has to be kept a secret. Some Death Eaters were there, apparently. The school might not have cared that I loved you but they sure as hell would have.
Some other Death Eaters, I should say. I’m officially one of them now. The ceremony was last month. It hurt a lot, and now my branded forearm is still sore and it tingles at strange times. The you inside my head is angry now. God, Regulus, you say, flipping your newly died blonde hair over your shoulder (I always did prefer the blonde. Not your natural ash, but the honey shade you did that time. It’s still how I always picture you), standing with one perfect hand on one perfect hip. You only called me by my real name when you were mad, remember? Merlin, don’t you ever listen to me? What have I got to do to get your attention for one freaking SECOND! Listen here - those Death Eater guys are bad news, Regulus. Serves you right your arm hurts, it does, if you’re gonna be one of them. They’re dancing about killing people on account of they’re muggles, no other reason, least that’s what Daddy said. And don’t even get me STARTED on this Voldemort character. Going round saying only purebloods are real wizards, everyone else is just animal? Is that what you think, Reg, huh, that you’re better than me ‘cus your parents are a little bit inbred?
Oh Mary, we both know there’s nobody better than you. Nobody quite like you, either, that’s for sure.
But you’re not here anymore, Mary, because you made your own choices and they led you one way and now I’m making mine and they’re leading me another. Maybe one day I'll find out Voldemort’s secret, and then I'll kill him, just for you, like a present, so he knows even Muggleborns can be powerful, if you’ve killed him from beyond the grave. But then maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll never do another thing that means anything for as long as I live. Maybe you took all the best parts of me with you.
I’m gonna change the subject, because this letter was supposed to make me feel better, and I think we argued enough when you were here that we don’t have to now you’re not.
So as soon as I found out about you I came down to the Room, Mary, ‘cus I thought it was like our Room. Some couples have songs, but we just had the Room of Requirement, where we would arrange to meet, secret from even our best friends because we both knew we'd be killed for it, and you would either be really late or a bit late, or maybe you wouldn’t turn up at all, just to keep me guessing, you’d say, except sometimes when you’d be late for so many times in a row I’d think it was safe to be late myself and then you’d already be there when I arrived, angry that I kept you waiting - those times, I'd think you just liked yelling at me.
But we always got past the yelling pretty quicksmart, didn’t we, Mary, because it was the only time we had together. Just us in our room. Always the same few rooms you’d make it go to. That’s where I am right now, on the sofa. Our own little house, you’d say. And you’d make it so there was a kitchen, even if it didn’t have food in, and a bathroom, and a living room, and a bedroom (that might have been my favourite room for the memories). We’d make believe that we were married, or at least living comfortably in sin, and we’d both wish it so hard it was almost real. We could have had that really, Mary, if we’d wanted. We could have moved to Australia, or America, I know you always wanted to go there and be a Hollywood star, and that one summer you made me watch all those move-ey things with you, like books come to life, and I couldn’t really see the appeal, but you adored them, Mary. That’s all a dream now. We could have made it happen. I could have made it happen, if it weren’t for…
Well, anyway, I come here every day now. Once everyone else is in bed, I creep out, and I spend an hour or two in here, for you, with you, whatever. The penseive lets me watch you over and over again, watch you laughing too loud with your friends across the Great Hall, dancing around the Quidditch pitch so wonderfully aware that you were being watched, that time you beat me in duelling club in front of everyone and I'd never loved you more - it's all like one of your move-eys. With you the star. Just like you always wanted. And they make me so sad, God and Merlin they make me so sad, but Mary, I can’t not do it, don’t you see? It kills me to do it but it kills me worse not to, d’you get it? It’s like you’re not really gone, Mary, when you’re fresh on my mind, when I can pull your angel's face into my head at a moment's notice and pick out every detail, and when I can remember the exact shade of pink those favourite shoes I brought you were, the ones you wore when you did it, those platforms that perfectly clashed with that mini-skirt, in your words, the miniskirt that you wore with them too that night. When I can still see all that, it’s like you’re not really gone, Mary.
It’s like you’re not really…
It’s like you’re not really dead, is what it is.
That’s the first time I’ve used that word since it happened.
And I know I said I was over my denial period, but that’s not the same - just because I know it's true doesn’t mean I want to believe it.
Sometimes in the Room the memories get too much for me, Mary, and I'll stop them and I'll just sit. And I mentioned this earlier and I know it’s stupid, but sometimes I'll pretend like you’re with me, but you’ve nipped out for a second, for a fag because you know I can’t stand the smell or to fetch something or other (it varies depending on what mood you’re in). And y’know, it’s stupid and sad, but sometimes I can almost convince myself. Because in this room was where you were most alive to me, Mary. And when you’re so alive, you can’t be dead. You just can’t be. I’m sorry, it’s stupid, and you’re rolling your beautiful blue eyes at me again (I’ve never met anyone with eyes like yours Mary, it’s like that shade is reserved just for you, and it makes me love you so much and it makes me hurt so much too), I just know it, but it’s just how I feel. I’m not a soldier, I'm not perfect, but then neither were you. We both had our problems, Mary, and you ended yours. I’m still working on mine.
‘There’s nothing for me here. I’m off to find a better place. Wish me luck.’ That’s what you wrote. And by now, you must have found your better place, Mary. I wished you all the luck I had, and I loved you enough while I did it that I know it had to work.
And you know what else I know? I know where that better place of yours will be, Mary. I know where you are. It's easy to figure out, really. You’re soaring in the skies. Simple as that. You’re chasing after the sun and the moon. Not on a broomstick or a magic carpet - you always hated those. Something about crashing or losing control or them just being too unpredictable - too much like you, I guess. So no, you’re not flying on a broom. You’re soaring, just you, up in the sky, sparkling just like you did in life.
You were always a star, Mary. The way I see it, you’ve just gone home.
A/N: So. That was the story of Mary and Regulus. At least in my incarnation of them. This was a really different style to what I'm used to writing so I'd love to know what you guys thought! Especially whether or not you fell in love with Mary and Reg as much as I did... I know it's not cool to cry about your own characters, but, well, here I am :P Thanks for reading <3
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