It seems I've been here for some time.

How much does someone usually change?

(OOC: As usual, all replies are coming from rably)

Er. Hello. I was wondering...

If you were in a city you've never seen before, what would you do there?

Also...

Do you think it's safe to come out now? It's been rather... murky, recently.

(OOC: due to laziness on my part, please pretend all of his posts are coming from a journal called rably!)

How much have things changed?

(OOC: Regulus is back. But he's going to be anonymous for awhile.)

[His voice is flat. Doesn't wobble. Or weeble. Or fall down. There is the click of a cabinet door opening. The flicker of candlelight.]

Kreacher. I need you to take me where he took you.

[Some argument, here. Not important. Confusion, mostly. The creak of floor boards. A piece of parchment being torn apart and crumpled and--

Nothing.]

---And remember, Kreacher, come right back when you're finished. Is that understood?

[There's a soft pop. And a sort of slumping against a countertop, before the feed clicks off.]

(OOC: all replies will be before Kreacher's return. AKA: Part one of the canon move. It's happening. Now.)

Mother's so proud of me lately. More than usual, at least. It almost doesn't seem entirely real.

(OOC: sorry about the post delete, I just realized I needed to forshadow his canon update a bit more)

It's been quiet lately. Has anyone else noticed?

[Regulus isn't here right now, in this drafty, dingy home. Relatively more maintained than usual, but the dust is gathering and the curtains are tearing at the seams. Frantic footsteps and loud shouting can be heard, dimly. Muffled. Indistinct. Sometimes a phrase makes it through. "Turned out like the blood traitor."]

[The parchment focused on a tapestry. Vast and well cared for, except for the holes strategically burned into it every once in awhile. There's one more hole than there used to be. One less person that lives here. One less person part of this family.]

How do you make yourself stop caring about someone?

What are you like when nobody's around to see?

[Locked to Rachel Berry]
I haven't found anything of use yet, unfortunately. I'll keep looking. Is everything all right over there?

[Regulus sits on a hill that does not exist. The grass is green. Overgrown. Hasn’t been touched in days-weeks-months. Lies back, leaves an imprint in the tall grass. Waves overhead in the wind -cold. Almost fall. Not quite. Sky clear as day, crystal, cut glass. Sky a deep indigo, small line of red-orange at the west edge. Regulus watches, lying back, lying down, lying on the field of grass beneath a field of stars.

Bright pinpricks. Blurred at times. No moon in sight, must be new. Stars form shapes, constellations, order out of dots out of unmeasurable single stars. Ursa Major Minor Orion Cassiopeia more than can be named. Bits of brightness in the black, formed into rows and maps and destinies and patterns. Bits of brightness in the dark, slowly growing, expanding, shrinking, moving. Glowing, always. Slowly popping into focus in the almost-night but not quite. Venus at the edge, first star but not a star at all, something worlds apart.

Regulus lies on the hill, looks up, tracks the names. Tracks the brightness in the Black. Regulus looks up and tries to find himself.

Before he can, he shakes himself back to awareness and Transfiguration notes.]

How do you distinguish the right sort of people from the wrong?

(OOC: He's not affected by the virus, but feel free to be affected *at* him))

[His script loops around a bit, and is written neatly, as if every word is chosen carefully before it's put to the parchment.]

I'd quite like my transfiguration notes back now, thank you.