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Summary
Regulus pulls his cape closer around his shoulders, pinching it tighter under his chin and peering out from beneath the low hood. Dark fabric and concealing shadows; this is where Regulus finds his solace. And he follows muddy boots and a tall silhouette on instinct, past labourers and farmers and vagabonds, and smoke that leaves the mouths of those who glance with dead and barely curious eyes.
There’s vague murmurings that disappear into the wind—Regulus is used to this—yet one sharp, bitter comment stands out amongst the rest: “Is that a Black? Disgustin’. Foul creature—”
Regulus falters in his step. His heart skips a beat of panic. A heavy arm slips around his shoulders.
“C’mon,” James murmurs. Regulus’s knight. “Not far now.” He doesn't stray from Regulus's side.
One step. Two steps. Breathe. Don’t look up. Another step. A fourth. Stay together. Safety. With him.
[Or, The kingdom of Grimmauld is dreary and crumbling, rotting from the inside out, and kept barely functioning by the ruling House of Black. It is a responsibility and heartache that Regulus Black never wants to inherit.]