Chapter 1
“So, Bodhi, what’s your story?”
Sirius glances down at his nametag, and peers up at the customer. His head is throbbing and he only wants to go home, take a shower and sleep for a few years.
“If I see him, I’ll ask.” Sirius jokes halfheartedly.
Sirius never uses his real name in the muggle world, and the easier reason as to why is that nobody bloody well names their child Sirius here. The more difficult, long winded answer? Sirius Black is dead. He died the day that Sirius left the wizarding world behind.
Therefore, Sirius has many aliases, and he uses whatever nametag he can get his hands on. He tells his co-workers that it’s a privacy preference, and he usually ends up with Bodhi’s nametag because the guy never shows up for his shifts. It’s a marvel he hasn’t been fired.
Sirius doesn’t tell his coworkers his real name either. When asked, he blurted out his dead best friend’s name and that was that. In hindsight, his quick-thinking skills suck, and now Sirius is greeted with a cheery ‘James!!’ when he shows up for work.
“You’re a funny guy..” The customer with sunburn beneath his eyes says. He’s evidently had a few too many beers, as Australians tend to do. “But why is a guy like you working in a place like this?”
Sirius turns around to fill up a glass with soda, and mimics cocking a pistol and shoving the barrel in his mouth. The brunette swivels, and hides his irritation behind another easygoing smile. It probably isn’t warranted. However, Sirius’ craving is gradually becoming worse.
“Oh, I don’t work here. I’ve been standing here for the past hour, pocketing people’s money.”
The customer smirks, swaying on the barstool lightly. “You look like a… musician. You don’t look like your average Joe working in a plebby old pub.”
Sirius considers this with a hint of trepidation. “How flattering.” He says, placing the glass of soda on the edge of the counter. A woman passes to take it, muttering a hasty thanks.
“Where are you from? You sound English.”
“Ah, yeah.. I’m English.” Sirius replies.
“Bodhi is a strange name for an English man.” The customer comments. “When does your shift end?” He adds, his eyes dancing with promises far from appropriate.
Sirius hadn’t realized the evidently much older customer was flirting with him until now, and his polite expression fades. He isn’t surprised. Sirius works in a bar in Blacktown, and Blacktown is a pocket of unfiltered cessation, at least in his opinion.
“I have a girlfriend.” He lies.
The customer looks dejected, and eventually stumbles off towards the pokies, his dusty work uniform fading in the distance against peeling wallpaper and the glow of the ‘Luck of the Irish’ Jumbo machine.
It’s a relief when his shift finishes, and on his way home Sirius stops at the petrol station. Learning to drive as a wizard had been a bizarre fort for Sirius, but it’s since become second nature.
Trudging on the tarmac, Sirius passes the illuminated entrance to the petrol station and disappears behind the dumpsters. Then, he waits, and waits, because Merlin forbids a drug dealer from ever being on time.
As though his thoughts were heard, a scrawny kid of about nineteen rounds the corner. He’s dressed in strange attire that Sirius finds tacky, but these crowds have an obsession with the whole ‘rockstar that has a rabid sex addiction’ look and they fail miserably at achieving it.
It’s a laughably diligent exchange, and then Sirius is in a hurry to get home. He almost runs a red light in his feverish anticipation, but eventually he pulls into the parking lot, locks his car and dashes up the stairs with little to no setbacks.
Fumbling with his keys, he opens the door to his apartment. His movements are far from graceful. Sirius is trembling, and he forgets to turn the lights on, instead surging forward and tripping over what sounds like his guitar.
“Shit.” He murmurs, feeling along the wall. He finds and opens the bathroom door, flicks the switch and the dingy light flickers once, twice and hums. The vaguest glimpse of himself that he catches in the mirror causes his heart to speed up, and Sirius instantly sinks to the floor, opening the cabinet and grabbing a few miscellaneous things from underneath the sink.
He loops the belt around his forearm and pulls to tighten it. Then, he heats the substance he acquired under a flame, and scavenges for a clean needle to use. This used to be something that Sirius told himself he could control, but he’s surpassed that state of delusion and taken accountability. Sort of. Sirius is choosing this and he knows it.
Self-awareness is his flimsy excuse for avoiding what life amounts to without it, and he’s vaguely aware that his logic is flawed. When Sirius first deserted the wizarding world, he aimlessly searched for a remedy to quell his memories of the life he once led, people he once knew.
Heroin is that remedy.
His arm is already littered with bruises and track marks, but Sirius devotedly finds a free lot of land on his street and injects. The restless, avid twitchiness deserts him and Sirius feels normal, at last. He feels calm, as though he could be pottering around a garden, but detached enough that it doesn’t belong to him.
Sirius doesn’t inject to get high. He injects to carry on with his life. What was once a mistake at a music festival has become as necessary as sleep.
***
Regulus is beginning to think this was a grave mistake. His eyes dart around the station as people pass him left and right, gathering beside the train as the instructor checks their tickets before letting them onboard. He doesn’t know where to start, but a little consternation isn’t going to stop him.
Regulus is going to find Sirius.
The only supporting evidence he’s retained is a document that he found in Sirius’ vault at Gringotts, and it reads, ‘Bank of England.’ Regulus pulled a lot of strings to get that vault open. He inspected every dark corner and high point, in search of something, anything.
Sirius is good at disappearing. He’s shown Regulus that a number of times, but this is the first time Regulus has dared to find him. Sirius would bask in such knowledge as though it were rays of sunshine. ‘He’s always been an attention-whore,’ Regulus thinks bitterly.
He gazes up at the tall infrastructure enclosing Paddington station, pillars adorned with a cream, almost white and sculpted by the hands of people who are at rest with pastures. It further dawns on Regulus that he’s never ventured into the muggle world before, and this is the waiting room.
When he arrives at the ticket office, he approaches a woman with graying hair and beady brown eyes. Somewhat awkwardly, Regulus asks, “Where can I find the Bank of England?”
The woman kisses her teeth as though Regulus had asked her a daft question. “Well you aren’t planning on walking there, are you?” She says with the type of enthusiasm only people who are half-mad possess. “Look, I should be giving you directions to a platform, but… they recently cleaned entrails off the train tracks and my boss is a twat.” The woman leans in and glances around the room as though sharing a scandalous secret. “Get a taxi.”
Regulus blinks, startled, and manages a reserved smile. “Thank you.” He says.
Around twenty minutes later, Regulus finds himself in the backseat of a taxi, on his way to the Bank of England. He wonders what he’s going to do with Sirius’ bank statements. Is he planning to barge in and say, ‘these are my estranged brother’s bank statements from five years ago. Tell me where he is?’
It’s likely they haven’t the faintest clue, especially if the account is closed. It’s a long-shot, but it’s also his only lead.
The thing is, Regulus wouldn’t be so eager to find Sirius if it weren’t a necessity. If Regulus doesn’t find Sirius now, all his efforts will amount to a futile detour for purpose. Sirius knows where, or more importantly what Lord Voldemort’s final horcrux is, and he’s going to tell Regulus.
Regulus had discovered as much from Severus Snape only a year ago, at 12 Grimmauld place. It had been a few months since Regulus’ parents died, leaving the property in his name.
“You have the protection of the Order, Regulus. If there’s anything you know, anything at all about Sirius’ whereabouts, you’ll do well to share.” Severus said, watching Regulus as he nimbly searched through his brother’s belongings. “Sirius is thought to have murdered Peter Pettigrew and if he did…”
“My brother did not kill anyone.” Regulus interrupted him with a scoff.
“Sometimes, we think we know people, what they’re capable of.”
Regulus abruptly stood up, his brother’s belongings tumbling to the floor in a heap, and inched toward Severus. The man didn’t so much as blink, but his eyes displayed a bitter testament. He always reminded Regulus of a perpetually acrid and unforgiving goblin.
“Sirius is many things but he is not a murderer, Severus. Sirius is hiding something, and I intend to find out what.”
Severus was impassively silent, aside from the obvious disagreement he harbored in his eyes. Regulus turned away, his gaze falling on Sirius’ belongings strewn across the floor of his old bedroom.
“Not long after the death of James and Lily Potter,” Severus said, “Lupin met with Dumbledore.”
Regulus listened to the words intently as he stared at a picture in one of Sirius’ boxes with a broken frame. A picture of Sirius, Remus, James and Peter. It had a stain in the corner, ink or soy or something.
“Sirius told Lupin that the Dark Lord had performed magic that is fundamentally wrong. Depraved, if you will. It was Dumbledore’s initial theory that he created horcruxes.”
Regulus’ eyes trailed up to the window, to the black clouds rolling in across the skyline. “Horcruxes. Yes, that’s right.” Regulus muttered. “The Dark Lord ripped his soul into seven pieces.”
“Sirius theoreticized that the Dark Lord created another horcrux.”
“Eight horcruxes.” Regulus said breathlessly. His mind wandered to the seven that he was already aware of. An eighth horcrux; it made sense. Voldemort had grown weak after the death of Lily and James Potter. He could have created another horcrux for insurance.
“Eight horcruxes.” Severus confirmed. “Then, Sirius was convicted for the murder of Peter Pettigrew, and Lupin didn’t hear from him again. I do wonder… if Sirius was not guilty, why did he run?”
Regulus continued to stare out the window in deep thought. If Sirius wasn’t guilty, why did he run? Regulus recalled his brother running away from home at sixteen, abandoning his duties. Sirius always had an innate need to be free.
“Wonder as much as you’d like. He didn’t do it.” Regulus replied.
When Regulus had informed Severus that he’d be leaving to search for Sirius, he’d told Regulus it was a mistake, and an illogical one at that. Regulus doesn’t care for Severus’ opinions. He never did, not when they were at school and certainly not now.
He steps out of the taxi and the bank stands before him. The building itself is old, with a fortress-like element that Regulus imagines king’s horses and men surrounding. The exterior is foolproof, as far as Regulus can tell, and he absentmindedly wonders why.
Briefly, he considers how Barty might have described it. He can picture the slight shake of his head, his eyes alight with amusement as he says, “A bit of brick and a dozen pissant pillars.” It sounds slightly out of tune, because Regulus isn’t half as melodically funny as Barty.
He remembers Barty’s trial, a tightrope of death that Sirius had so narrowly escaped, as though it were yesterday. Igor had named Evan Rosier first, and a member of the attorney pronounced him dead. Not a moment later, Barty himself was named, and that was the last time Regulus saw him, the last time anyone so much as breathed Evan’s name. One died, but Regulus lost both his friends that day.
As Regulus watched from his position in the courtroom, the use of polyjuice giving him the appearance of another, it cemented for Regulus. This was the Dark Lord’s doing, and Regulus would ensure he didn’t get away with it.
With that reminder, Regulus feels further emboldened. In one hand, he carries the trunk that contains his entire life, and in the other he holds Sirius’ bank statements.
***
The grandfather clock ticks faintly in the background and Regulus’ eyes shift around the room, swiftly over the stained glass windows that peak at the top, the manila folders stacked upon the desk beside an empty mug and the strange, boxy contraption (a computer, Regulus is yet to discover) that the man’s eyes in front of him are glued to.
He’s wearing those little round glasses that make it a fight for Regulus to not avert his eyes, a subtle reminder of the war that waged on in the wizarding world not long ago, and those who were casualties.
“What did you say your name was again?” The man asks, his salesman smooth voice reeling in Regulus’ wandering mind.
“I’m Regulus.” The brunette says quietly.
“And your brother is Sirius?” The man clarifies with an amused smile, flipping through Sirius’ bank statements. “Those are odd names.” He mutters.
“Our parents are… astronomers. Look, I’m not fond of small talk. His details are there. Did he close the account?”
“I’ll look into it.”
The banker begins pressing buttons on the computer, and Regulus leans forward inconspicuously. He observes the screen and a flat board containing buttons with the alphabet on it. Like writing, Regulus realizes. He’s decided that muggles are truly, impressively bizarre.
“His last withdrawal was four years ago. He withdrew all his savings and closed the account.”
Regulus tries not to let his expression falter, but he can feel his eyebrows knit together in vexation, and perhaps disappointment. Why should he be disappointed? He knew this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.
“Sir?”
“Hm?” Regulus hums, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. His skin is heating up, his stomach feels tight, and there’s rising flames in the base of his throat like the inside of a coal oven. “Can I take a look, please?”
The banker chuckles in that phony, salesman way of his and says, “Ah… I’m sorry, but there’s this little thing called client confidentiality–”
Regulus is out of his seat with his wand to the man’s throat in record time, an innocent smile on his face. “I don’t mind. There’s nothing you won’t tell me that I can’t easily take.”
“No offense, but…” The banker looks at Regulus as if he’s a zoo animal. “What exactly are you planning on doing with a stick?”
“If you’re lucky, you won’t find out.” Regulus mutters. He gestures to the screen. “It says here that he made transactions to another account. Find out who.”
“Sir, I will lose my job if I disclose confidential—”
Regulus casts a spell to still him, and the man’s eyes bulge comically in wide-eyed incredulity as the zap of light travels toward his body. That’s how Regulus departs moments later, with the name of a club owner in Camden; Carlos Reyes.
***
Sirius listlessly plucks the strings of his guitar before setting it down. His head is banging, and the sound isn’t helping. Sirius swallows a mouthful of paracetamol with water and decides; never again. But if he’s going to quit, he needs one last hit, and that’s it.
He doesn’t feel like venturing into Blacktown today, so a bit of weed will suffice. Sirius’ philosophy is; if you’re going to quit drugs, replace it with more drugs. It’s an oxymoron. He’s aware of that, but his motto is a sort of running joke disguising that he will say anything to enable his behavior.
Later that day, Lewis stops by with a few grams of weed and a bong that has John Lennon printed on the front of it. Sirius saw The Beatles live in London once, before John Lennon was assassinated. It was actually what led him to appreciate muggle music.
“Diane may have a gig for you.” Lewis offers, smoke flowing from his chapped lips. He swats his sandy blonde hair out of his eyes, a habit he often exhibits.
“I’ll blow it.” Sirius waves a hand in dismissal. “And her connections consist of bass players who are still jumping in between bands.”
“She’s only trying to help, mate.” Lewis murmurs. “It gives you something to do.”
Sirius sighs. “I know, I know, I’m sorry.” He takes the bong from Lewis and inhales.
“You’ve got plenty of potential. Diane thinks you could be a rockstar, Sirius.” Lewis smirks.
“She thinks I hung the bloody moon.” Sirius sets the bong down on the table. The landline rings, and Sirius excuses himself, stands up and ventures down the hallway.
He picks up the phone and says, “Hello?”
“Hi– is this Sirius Black?”
“Who is this?”
“This is Newt, calling from the Bank of England. Did you open an account with us in August of 1978?”
“Yes, I did.” Sirius replies, discombobulated. He closed that account four years ago. Why are they phoning him?
“I’m.. calling to inform you that there’s been some suspicious activity. Yesterday, someone came into our facility with your bank statements.” The man has an overly charismatic, phony sort of salesman voice.
Sirius’ heart practically falls into his ass. The only bank statements he had, he concealed at Gringotts. Sirius opened the account eight years ago, before he was accused of murdering Peter Pettigrew and abetting Voldemort. When he left for good, any belongings he didn’t take were placed in his vault. Sirius curls the wire of the phone around his wrist and takes a calming breath.
“Do you, uh… do you have a name?” Sirius asks, swallowing the slight waver in his voice.
“No, sir. If not for the evidence in our database, one could say it never happened. It’s quite odd.”
Of course it’s odd. Whoever’s looking for Sirius, they aren’t a muggle. They’re someone who managed to break into his vault at Gringotts and take his bank statements.
Sirius abruptly ends the call. “Fuck. Okay… Fuck.” He says, smoothing a hand over his face. His disheveled mind runs the worst-case scenarios past him. If this person is an official from the Ministry of Magic, Sirius is screwed.
***
The club is behind a structurally dodgy set of stairs, and it quickly becomes apparent to Regulus that this is no ordinary nightclub. He swings the door open, and a few heads turn to stare at him, their cigarette smoke trailing throughout the dark space.
This is far from a nightclub. Regulus wonders what kind of drug den he’s stumbled into, and whether he’s a little out of his depth. ‘Don’t be a coward,’ he thinks.
He passes a small performance stage and approaches the bartender, a man with an earring in one of his ears and bloodshot eyes. Regulus leans across the counter. The wall behind the bartender is mirrored, and Regulus is stricken by his appearance for the first time since arriving in the muggle world. He looks alien in the sense that his image screams, ‘I don’t belong here.’
To his left, there’s a group of people sitting at a poker table with stacks of chips, shuffling their cards. The bartender’s eyes settle on Regulus, but he doesn’t smile or acknowledge him.
“I’m looking for Carlos.” Regulus tells him. The man remains quiet, so Regulus adds, “If you know where he is, tell him I’m here for Sirius.”
“I am Carlos.” A voice says. Regulus whirls around, and a lean bloke with dark brown eyes, a white singlet, ripped jeans and a silver cross dangling from his neck stands casually, his hands in his pockets. “What do you know about Sirius?”
“That depends.” Regulus murmurs.
“On what?”
“Your relation to him.” He replies. “May we speak in private?”
Carlos snorts. “So formal.” He says, before swiveling and beckoning for Regulus to follow him.
Regulus follows him into a room at the back of the club, with a booth and a mini-fridge. He runs his finger along the dusty table and grimaces, taking a reluctant seat on the edge of the booth, which is suffering a severe case of wear and tear.
“You look like him.” Carlos reaches inside the mini-fridge and screws open a Bourbon whiskey. Regulus wonders what type of person keeps whiskey in the fridge. Probably the same type of person who drinks based on the alcohol percentages on the back of a bottle. “You his brother or something?”
“Yes.” Regulus strains to produce the confirmation. He’s been reluctant to admit Sirius is his brother for a long time. “And I need to find him.”
“What the hell for? I doubt he is even alive, the life he leads.” Carlos chuckles heartily, as though it were a perfectly polite thing to say to somebody’s relative.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Carlos rests his elbows on the table and points wildly at Regulus with his finger. “Your brother..” He emphasizes, “Is a fuckin’ junkie, kid.”
“Excuse me?”
Sirius has always been a wild card, but this… these people, this setting, it’s far from anything Regulus imagined.
Carlos chuckles heartily once more. “That boy has many issues, I tell you. He is rowdy, plenty of fun, but… many issues.”
“Where is he?” Regulus interjects, not so eager to hear about Sirius’ possible drug habits.
Carlos ignores his question. “You are his brother, hm? I sensed a similarity when you walked into my business.” His thick Spanish accent vibrates through Regulus’ ears. “You two have different personalities, but there is something wrong about you, like there was about him. Something unnatural that makes my blood run cold, and that is coming from me!” Carlos’ manic grin widens. “Of all people, me! No level of unsettling can phase me!”
“Unnatural?” Regulus echoes. Is that because Sirius and Regulus are both wizards, or is it because they have the same poisoned blood running through their veins?
“Unnatural. Disturbing.”
“Where is he?” Regulus asks once more. Carlos is ill-mannered, and he can’t bear the faint waft of urine that accompanies him. He wants to get this over and done with.
“I already told you, maricón.” Carlos snaps, his tone taking a turn for the worst. It appears that Carlos is both irascible and off his rocker. “He could be dead.”
Sirius could be dead.
How would he feel about that? How would he feel about Sirius being dead? After a moment of contemplation, he decides that he feels nothing, save for the disappointment that the loss of vital information brings him.
“Tell me something that will be of use to me.” Regulus says, his eyes dark and expressionless.
Carlos’ barks a laugh of bewilderment, and takes a swig of his whiskey. He doesn’t cringe, swallowing the liquid like water. “Four years ago, your brother told me that he was moving to Australia.”
Australia?
“Why would he do that?” Regulus inquires, his voice soft and even, as it has been throughout this entire conversation. Carlos, on the other hand, has been yelling in his face as though he were speaking over the sound of booming music.
“I do not know. How should I know? He is… like you. Secretive.”
“We are nothing alike.”
Carlos puts his hands up in mock-surrender. “I see how it is. You do not get along.”
Regulus glares at him contemptuously before standing up and collecting his coat from the booth. “I must be going.” He informs Carlos politely. And then, not as courteously, “You shouldn’t wear silver jewelry. It washes you out.”
Carlos glances down at his necklace, and Regulus takes the opportunity to slip away. He may not like being compared to his brother, but he too is good at disappearing.
***
“Sirius! Sirius, come on.”
“I don’t need you to coddle me, okay? I’m not a child.”
Sirius swings the front door of his apartment open, and barrels down the corridor length of the balcony, descending a set of concrete stairs that lead directly to the parking lot.
“I’m trying to help you, asshole!”
He finds his Ford Fairmont and slams the car door shut behind him. Lewis bangs on the window. For a moment, he rests his head against the steering wheel, breathless. Lewis opens the door, only for Sirius to try and close it once more.
“Sirius, stop!” Lewis exclaims, holding the door open. “Opportunities are constantly presenting themselves to you and all you do is throw them away. I hate to be brutal, mate, but you do it to yourself. Why won’t you accept my help?”
“Merlin, Lewis, I need to be alone.”
“Merlin?” Lewis repeats incredulously. He heaves a sigh before continuing, “These are the drugs talking, Sirius. You need help! You’re incoherent and you’re lazy all the time!”
“I’m not lazy all the time!” Sirius snaps.
He slams the door shut again, and precipitately reverses out of the driveway. Lewis is upset, but it won’t be for long. Lewis and Sirius’ arguments are always childish in Sirius’ mind.
Lewis only wants to help him. He cares about Sirius, but Sirius cares about very little, save for destroying himself. Which is an observation he isn’t keen on addressing.
Sirius doesn’t fare well when life isn’t a comedy show.
He decides to visit Diane out in Blacktown. She’s never confrontational like Lewis is, and that’s a safety net of sorts for Sirius. On his way, he stops at the petrol station to get some cigarettes. It’s one of the few places Sirius goes these days. He grabs a packet of Winston Blues and hastily makes his way back to his car.
The nights are growing colder as winter approaches, a sting that punctures his skin and seems to settle in his bones. It seems silly. An Australian winter should be nothing compared to an English winter, and yet that does little to prepare you for the mild, somehow prominent chill. Sirius shivers and turns the key in the ignition. As the car begins to warm, he lights up a cigarette.
“You weren’t easy to find.” A voice says from beside him, and Sirius nearly has a heart attack. He’s pretty sure he has a heart attack when he turns his head and locks eyes with his brother.
“Hi, big brother.” Regulus says in a derisive manner.
There he is, seated rigidly in the passenger seat. The light from the petrol station illuminates his narrow, ivory face, his malnourished body hidden by dark, elegant clothing. He appears every inch the Slytherin prince he was when they were younger, albeit touched by time, graced by it like fingertips over the surface of water.
Sirius takes a shuddering breath in, and a shuddering breath out. His brother is dead, and he was just thinking about winter being cold. His brother is dead, meaning that it might be time for Sirius to check himself into a mental institution.
“We haven’t had a conversation in over five years. Where are your manners, Sirius?” Regulus spits.
“I thought you were dead.” Sirius manages to choke out. He steadies his breathing, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel, and then it dawns on him. “Holy shit. It was you. You had my bank statements!” Sirius exclaims with a grin that borders on mad.
Regulus seems unsettled by Sirius’ reaction. “Don’t look so pleased.”
How is his brother even alive? As far as Sirius is concerned, Regulus has been dead for nearly six years. He thinks he’s finally gone mad, because he realizes he’s accepting this and entertaining what could possibly be a figure of his imagination. Seeing Regulus in the flesh, alive, isn’t nearly the conundrum it should be.
“I’m so relieved, you have no idea.” Sirius pulls out of the petrol station, streetlights flying by as he passes them. “I got a call from the Bank of England a couple of weeks ago. I thought someone was coming to collect me and throw me in Azkaban.”
“You’re unbelievable.” Regulus says.
“Nobody from the ministry is looking for me! Hah! I can’t believe my luck.”
Sirius laughs and tosses his cigarette into the ashtray, which consists of a metal cup he has in his car. Immediately, one thing is clear to Sirius. Whatever the reason for Regulus’ appearance, it isn’t out of the goodness of his heart.
“This place is feral.” Regulus remarks, gazing out the window.
“These are my stomping grounds.” Sirius says.
“Yes, well, that is grossly predictable. I’ve heard some fairly pathetic things about you from Carlos.” Regulus drawls.
Sirius abruptly pulls over, the speed in which he does causing the two siblings to lean forwards and then back against their seats with a thump.
“Merlin, Sirius! Did you find your license in the bottom of a cereal box or what?”
“You went to see Carlos?” Sirius exclaims incredulously, ignoring the jab at his driving skills.
“I did.”
“You’re resourceful, Regulus, but sometimes you’re a fool.” Sirius says, frustratedly carding a hand through his hair. Would Carlos have tracked Regulus here, to collect on Sirius’ due payments? He does owe the guy a shit ton of money.
“I don’t care, Sirius. I’m not here because I wanted a vacation with my brother.”
For all his nonchalance and poise, he still allows a note of old scorn into his voice.
“Then do tell; why are you here?” Sirius encourages. He clenches his jaw and fights the urge to knock several of Regulus’ teeth out.
“If I tell you now, I’ll never get what I want.” Regulus informs him ambiguously.
“Shifty as ever.” Sirius remarks. He turns the steering wheel and hits the excelerator, driving out of the dirt and back onto the road. “How are you alive?” He asks.
“I’m breathing.” Regulus replies dryly.
“Asshole.” Sirius says.
“Tosser.”
“Cunt.” After a moment of silence, Sirius is sure he’s won.
“Maricòn.” Regulus says faintly.
“You really have been talking to Carlos.”
Regulus’ intentions may not yet be clear, but the amount of effort he’s invested in finding Sirius makes certain that he has something his brother wants. Regulus is like a merciless politician, and he will use all the phlegmatic rhetoric he possesses until Sirius signs his life away on a dotted line.