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Regulus’s head lay on Peter’s shoulder, their bodies entwined and cooling in the night. The darkness of their bedroom was illuminated only by the glow of the lanterns lighting up Phyne Alley outside their window, and the red points of their cigarettes as they smoked. Here, in this moment, there was no trace of the buttoned-up, untouchable pureblood Regulus Arcturus Black. There is only Reg, warm and malleable, blood and bone, flesh and sweat, the picture of spent pleasure.
The galleon sitting on the bedside table lit up, cutting through their ease with an unwelcome red glow. Peter shut his eyes, willing it away, willing the entire world away that he might stay where he was.
“Can’t you ignore it?” Reg asked.
“Can you ignore the Dark Lord?” Peter said as he reluctantly rolled out of bed.
He hunted for his clothing, pulling on trousers and robes. Reg watched from the bed, his eyes glinting in the shadows.
“Malfoy is having the lads over on Friday. You’ve been invited,” Reg said.
Peter fumbled for his wand, his hands clumsy under his lover’s scrutiny. “I can’t think why.”
“Just because those idiots you insist on calling your friends think little of your company doesn’t mean everyone shares their opinion.”
A shiver went down Peter’s spine. In the few weeks since Reg tumbled into his bed, those offhanded words of praise have done the most to lead him down the darker path. Reg never laughed at him. Never called him stupid, or excitable, or any of the thousand names Peter’s friends had applied to him over the years.
Come on Wormy, can’t you take a joke?
After all these years, it seemed that Peter couldn’t, after all.
Peter gathered his robes around him, shoved his wand and his galleon in his pocket and started for the door.
“Dumbledore knew,” Reg said.
Fuck. Peter did not have time for games. “What are you talking about?”
“About the McKinnons. He knew we were coming for them. He let it happen.”
Peter let out a bark of bitter laughter. “That’s too far. If you’re trying to turn me, stick to praise and fucking.”
“I’m only telling you the truth. It’s your own fault if you refuse to believe it.”
“But how—” Peter’s voice trailed off. “You have a spy.”
Reg’s lip curling around his cigarette was his only answer. Peter wrenched the door open, and stumbled through it, his heart pounding in his ears. The world that had once been simple was all confusion now, swirls of grey where it should have been clean lines of black and white. Often, Peter had no idea which way was even up anymore.
He wondered how long it would be before he drowned.