Chapter 2
“The sofa is a pull-out mattress. That’s all I’ve got.” Sirius says, tossing the frayed, stained cushions onto the tiled floor.
Regulus watches regretfully as Sirius untucks the mattress. For the second time, he wonders if he’s making a grave mistake.
What if Sirius never tells him what he needs to know? It won’t matter if Regulus destroys seven horcruxes without knowing what the eighth one is. He hears Severus’ voice, ‘You’re making a mistake, Regulus, and an illogical one at that.’ But when have Regulus’ plans been anything but methodical, even if theoretical? He knows why and how to execute his plans.
If he doesn’t do this, Barty will rot in Azkaban, Evan’s death will be without justice and Voldemort will reek the benefits of his impunity. Regulus is more than willing to pay with his brother’s blood if that’s the price. His brother, who is wasting his life away whilst Barty and Evan’s were stolen from them. It’s inequitable. It makes him angry.
“I’m hungry.” Regulus informs Sirius. “What can I eat?”
“Kitchen’s that way,” Sirius makes a vague gesture that could really mean anything.
Regulus rolls his eyes and wanders down the hallway. It’s clear that Sirius isn’t going to be a tour-guide in any sense, so Regulus begins opening doors. He soon finds the bathroom, and flips the light-switch.
He recently became acquainted with the concept of muggle electricity through his various experiences in London accommodation. The light flickers, and Regulus observes the space. The floor is tainted by needles and decorated by small droppings of blood. The mirror is covered with duct-tape— likely for a reason he doesn’t want to know.
“This looks like a warzone.” Regulus mumbles, closing the door.
He finds the kitchen; a cramped wooden crevice with cabinet doors missing and an odd, gaping hole in the wall separating the fridge from the counter. The cupboard is practically empty and the sustenance in the fridge is not fit for human consumption. With a disapproving scowl forming on his face, Regulus makes his way back to the living room.
Sirius is sitting on a chair that Regulus assumes he took from the dining room table, although there didn’t appear to be one. The legs are badly scraped and missing chunks. A lot of Sirius’ house is filthy, desecrated and hazardous. Either he has a pest infestation, an angry ghost is tearing apart his house, or most likely; Sirius is a destructive mess.
The orange glow of candles makes Regulus feel more at home, however. It would seem that Sirius also prefers natural forms of lighting, and not the artificial ‘electricity’ that muggles are so fond of.
“You haven’t any food.” Regulus says.
Sirius swirls a clear liquid around the shot glass he’s holding. Regulus’ eyes drift to the bottle of vodka on the floor beside him, and he struggles not to roll them back into his skull.
“I wasn’t expecting guests.” Sirius responds curtly. His earlier elation has warned off, and something cold and indifferent that Regulus is trying to wrap his head around has replaced it. “And I’m not about to go scavenging for food because I have work tomorrow— I need to sleep at some point.”
Regulus scoffs at that. “So you’re a functioning addict. You eke out an existence with your ordinary muggle job, and pretend you aren’t killing yourself. I had been wondering.”
“I’m not obliged to let you stay here, Regulus. If you’re going to be condescending, you can leave. As you said, this isn’t a family reunion.”
“You’re right. This isn’t a family reunion. This is a business trip.”
Sirius chuckles and rises from his chair. “That’s hysterical.” He says.
“I wasn’t joking.” It’s so typical for Sirius to find Regulus’ threats harmless. He never saw any strength in Regulus, and it seems time has done little to change that. He still sees Regulus as his weak, impressionable little brother.
“Right, a business trip. What exactly does that entail? Are you spying on me for the Order?”
“Now that’s hysterical. Completely ludicrous.”
“Ah, but you darkening my doorstep and telling me you’re on a business trip is average.” Sirius retorts.
Regulus expeditiously jerks his sleeve up to his elbow and presents his arm to Sirius, wordlessly, and yet more is said in that singular movement than in their entire conversation. He avoids glimpsing the abhorrent stain on his skin he has attempted to abrade countless times and failed to.
Sirius takes a step back, slowly seating himself on the pull-out mattress. His face has paled.
“I thought you might need a reminder of who I am, Sirius.” Regulus says. Does the dark mark unsettle his brother? If so, he’ll be exploiting his advantage where needed. It may even aid him in securing Sirius’ knowledge of Voldemort’s eighth horcrux.
“That’s not who you are. Don’t be so dramatic.” Sirius says. “That’s what you chose.”
“You’re insinuating there’s a difference.” Regulus replies. “There’s not. What I chose is who I’ve become.”
“Hold on, let me get this straight. You aren’t spying on me for the Order. Did you come here because you think…” Sirius trails off. There’s a lack of emotion, a lack of care that is so unlike the brother Regilus remembers having. “I would never support him. I never have and I never will.”
“I know you wouldn’t, Sirius. That isn’t why I’m here. “
“Then why are you here?” Sirius asks quietly. His eyes are dull, but his expression suggests exhaustion and intolerance. Regulus comes to a conclusion.
For a moment, he studies his brother silently. “Me being here is an inconvenience for you.”
Sirius looks up. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I told you. I’m relieved that you aren’t an official from the Ministry.”
Regulus sighs. Soon, his brother will cut the bullshit, but he’s convinced Sirius enjoys the theatrics.
“That doesn’t mean you’re even remotely happy to see me, Sirius.”
“Keep in mind I thought you were dead.”
Regulus chuckles humorlessly. “I’m sure you had a field trip with that.”
“Is that what you think?”
Sirius’ eyebrows are furrowed together. He stands up, running a hand through his tousled hair. He becomes frazzled when faced with anything remotely uncomfortable. Sirius always has, and the deja-vu Regulus experiences could almost be fond, if it weren’t laced with hatred.
“It is an utter misery to see you, Regulus. Truly unfortunate.”
He doesn’t wait for Regulus’ reaction, instead trudging off and disappearing into the darkness of the hallway. A moment later, Regulus hears a door slam shut, hard enough that the wood might have splintered. Then, he allows himself to smile, amused by his brother’s words.
***
Someone is knocking on the front door. Scratch that. They have been knocking on the front door incessantly for the past ten minutes. When Sirius finally opens his eyes, the clock beside his bed stares back at him accusingly, reprimanding him for waking up so late.
The knocking ceased long ago, but Sirius still drags himself out of bed and into the living room, where Regulus is sitting across from Lewis. Sirius freezes in place, glancing between the two. Their chatter stops.
“Sirius.” Regulus’ cold gaze falls on him. “I was just getting to know your muggle friend.”
“Muggle?” Lewis repeats.
“It’s ah… English slang, Lewis. Elegant society and all. You wouldn’t know.” Sirius says, still reeling from the shock of seeing his haughty brother make casual conversation with his uncultured friend.
“Alright.” Lewis shakes his head, bemused. The light pours in through the window behind the couch and reflects on Lewis’ blonde hair, causing Sirius to squint. He can’t close the blinds because he tore them off a few months ago and didn’t bother to replace them. There have been many incidents like that, and he often doesn’t remember how they happened.
“I’m a bit upset with you, mate. We’ve known each other for four years and you’ve not once mentioned to me that you’ve got a brother.”
Sirius lowers himself to the floor and sits in front of the coffee table, earning him a critical look from Regulus. “Yes, well, I’m sure you can understand why I wouldn’t exactly brag–”
Regulus clears his throat. “What he means to say is that our family is rather private.”
Sirius scoffs, and Lewis’ eyes dart between the two brothers like a distressed rabbit that might pull its hair out. Sirius can understand his disconcertment. Being around more than one member of the Black family can be disconcerting.
“What’ve you been talking about?” Sirius asks, offering Lewis the chance to recover.
Lewis swats his hair out of his eyes. He’s wearing board shorts and a Metallica band t-shirt, to which Sirius has noticed Regulus’ calculative eyes observing. He wonders, is Regulus at all fascinated by the muggle world? Or is he too proud?
When Sirius was a child, there were often times he wished he could crawl inside his brother’s broody, resourceful brain and examine his thoughts. That curiosity has crept up on him as of late.
“We were talking about you, Sirius.” Lewis says.
“Fucking brilliant.” Sirius mutters.
Regulus smiles a cruel smile. “Don’t worry, brother. I went out of my way to inform Lewis all about your volatile ways.”
Sirius only finds it comical.
“And I regret to inform you that Lewis is well aware.” He reaches across the coffee table, opens a packet of Winston Blues and lights up a cigarette, unbothered by Regulus’ attempt to rattle him.
“Are you two alright?” Lewis inquires, just as discombobulated as he was moments prior. “This conversation is… quite heavy with something.”
“Quite heavy with ‘something.’” Sirius echoes with a chuckle. “You’re funny, Lewis.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“That’s what makes you funny.”
“It sounds like you’re laughing at me and not with me, mate. How would you feel if I made fun of your more oblivious moments?” Lewis says, feigning offense.
Sirius laughs. “Calm down, Lewis. You’re so sensitive.” Then, he feels the need to make a jab at his brother again. “Your heart is too soft for my brutality, let alone Reg’s. This polite facade of his is just that, a facade. Soon he’ll be insulting the womb you departed or the way your balls hang—”
“Don’t be crude” Regulus scolds and rolls his eyes, which only serves to irritate Sirius further. Why must his brother roll his eyes in such an obnoxious manner?
“Oh, the irony. You started this!”
“You have no proof.”
“I have, like, err… I have a witness, right here.”
“How come you’re in Australia? Just visiting Sirius?” Lewis interjects in his simple, easygoing way.
Sirius and Regulus share a look.
“I’m here on business.” His brother says, and Sirius bites his tongue as he puts his cigarette out on the ashtray. He isn’t sure whether to laugh or send a string of curses Regulus’ way.
“Cool. What business?”
“I signed a nondisclosure agreement.” Regulus replies dismissively, tilting his chin up and looking down his nose at Lewis. Sirius hopes he doesn’t crush the poor guy’s ego any time soon.
“Oh.”
He has a tendency of disregarding poor attitudes and seeking warmth out of people who don’t possess it. Lewis reminds Sirius of James, and perhaps that’s why he keeps the bloody reject around.
Lewis perks up quickly, eager to sway Regulus’ mood. “So, who’s the youngest?”
“Regulus is my little brother.”
Sirius is somehow caught off guard by the lighthearted question.
It’s odd to say. He remembers when the words had more meaning to him. At one stage, they spent a lot of time together between their alcoholic father and overzealous mother. Although it had never been normal, per-say, it had been a sibling relationship. They always ignored each-other at school, had childish disagreements, and yet they ended up sharing their time with one another.
Those days are like another lifetime altogether.
Lewis nods. “I had a hunch.”
Regulus snorts. Lewis casts a furtive glance his way. Watching the two interact is almost like a literary juxtaposition, as though they were representing something, but an unsettling one at that. Sirius isn’t keen on seeing it again.
“Ah, well, anyway… I thought I’d stop by and offer you a lift to work, Sirius.”
Lewis stands up, slipping his hands into his pockets and subconsciously stepping away from Regulus. If Regulus notices this, he doesn’t mention or acknowledge it.
“Thanks, mate. ‘Preciate it.” Sirius replies. “I’ll go get changed, yeah? And meet you in the car. We can kill some time before my shift.”
“Sure.” Lewis says.
***
Sirius and Lewis end up leaving Fairfield and venturing into Blacktown to visit Diane. Sirius was supposed to meet her last night, but Regulus spoiled his plans.
He stares out the window distractedly. Many buildings in Blacktown are still undergoing construction due to a fire that wreaked havoc a couple years ago. Inexorably, Sirius’ mind begins drifting to his next fix. He doesn’t get paid until Friday, and he’s considering how he can scrape together some money.
Sirius wishes he were as resourceful as Regulus. Ultimately, if that was a reality, he would still be living in the wizarding world; because he would have found another way to escape his conviction. That’s what Regulus would have done. Then again, Sirius is fairly certain Regulus faked his own death to avoid his conviction, which isn’t all that different from what Sirius did.
The news had been shockingly sudden. It was late 1979, and Sirius was twenty years old, living in between the muggle and wizarding world with Remus. He had a flat in Soho, where he kept his guitars and performed in pubs, in the street, in various places.
Remus, on the other hand, wanted to be a professor, and Sirius thought that suited him well, despite his troubles. They were never eager to stray too far apart, though. Especially Remus, no matter how much Sirius encouraged him to follow his passions. A part of Sirius didn’t want to see him go either.
The way in which Sirius discovered his brothers supposed death had been, admittedly, quite horrific. It was also when he first discovered horcruxes. He was walking the narrow, charming streets of Soho in the early evening on his way home. Expecting to see doormen, Sirius instead saw somebody else. Albus Dumbledore.
He recognised the wistful twinkle in the old man’s eye. Dumbledore slowly turned, entering the building without checking to see if Sirius would follow. Of course Sirius followed. It wasn’t every day that Dumbledore paid him a visit.
Sirius tailed the headmaster into a stairwell, the spiral stairs dimly lit and damp at the bottom, gradually brightening as they ascended and the dying light from wood paneled windows suffused them.
“Hello, Sirius.” Dumbledore said. He stood with his arms behind his back, beneath the spiraling flurry of light, and then he smiled, benignly. “This is a lovely neck of the woods.”
“Oh, I agree, sir. Might I ask what you’re doing here?” Sirius questioned. He hadn’t been expecting anything of utmost precedence. Dumbledore’s tranquil manner led him to assume he wanted to speak with Sirius about the Order.
Dumbledore’s smile faded, and he solemnly averted his eyes, taking a few steps forward until his back was facing Sirius. “Do you know what a horcrux is, Sirius?”
Sirius paused in surprise. Growing up, he had access to many ancient texts about various dark forms of magic. In short, Sirius knew what a horcrux was.
“I know of it.” There was a dubious edge to Sirius’ words as he tried to preclude toppling and falling into traffic consisting of paranoid prophecies. “Horcruxes are a rare form of magic. Dark magic.”
“That’s right.”
“What about it?”
“Patience, my dear boy. There’s no easy way for this to be said.”
“For what to be said?” Sirius was anything but patient. He’d never been on friendly terms with patience.
“Have you been in contact with your brother as of late?” Dumbledore asked.
Sirius was possibly more puzzled and anticipatory than he’d been a moment before. He hadn’t spoken with his brother in years, but Dumbledore didn’t need to know the particulars.
“Uh, not as of late, I’d say. He’s been missing for a few months.”
“Yes, he has.”
Sirius sniffed and scuffed his boot against the ground, dust rising and evaporating within seconds. Sirius didn’t think his brother was actually missing. Regulus had likely shacked up somewhere after he’d finally come to his senses and realized the Dark Lord was a psychopath.
“According to Severus, Regulus has been missing since he failed to fulfill a task Lord Voldemort bestowed upon him.”
Although Sirius thought he’d long buried any sympathies or affections for his easily swayed little brother, his throat constricted and he made contact with the traffic of paranoid prophecies. Was Regulus in danger?
“Why are you only telling me this now?” Sirius’ voice was gruff, as though he’d taken sandpaper to his rapidly constricting throat. “Why would you keep this from me?” He turned around to find a pitiful expression on Dumbledore’s pale, wrinkled face.
“He was missing,” He began. “But he’s been found.”
“Oh.” Sirius said. “He’s alright, then?”
“No.” Dumbledore said, in a dolorous yet resigned manner. “Regulus is dead. He’s been in search of horcruxes for the past few months as he was under the impression Voldemort had created them for himself. It resulted in his death, Sirius.”
Sirius let out a delirious bout of laughter. Regulus. Hunting horcruxes. Dead. His little brother, dead before him. “Regulus isn’t dead.”
“I’m afraid he is.”
“Bullshit.”
He wanted to run away. Is loss a shadow that he’d remain tenaciously oblivious of if he didn’t stop to perceive it?
“Sirius,”
“Don’t offer me your fucking condolences, Mr. Headmaster, sir.” Sirius' voice had become something ugly and bitter.
His little brother, who Sirius scarcely knew after a certain point.
Sirius had to leave. To this day, he can vaguely remember clambering up the stairs, his legs on autopilot.
There were many questions he had, but his thoughts were unclear and he wasn’t able to sublimate them into a clear train of thought. His head was filled with dark, swirling shapes of madness. There were moments his vision stuttered and he shivered, and the faint noise of someone meddling about in their kitchen on the floor above became distorted. In those snapshots, he felt as though he might be sensing the presence of another realm, sinister and enigmatic.
After that, Sirius had abhorrent fits of rage in which Remus attempted to handle.
One night over dinner, Sirius accidentally stabbed himself with his fork. That pissed him off, and he began to stab himself repeatedly with said fork, until his hands were cut up and Remus was nearing him, pleading with him to stop. Blindly, Sirius picked up his plate and smashed it over Remus’ head.
Remus cursed and touched his cheek where blood bubbled up, and then without a word, he gathered his things and left. Sirius saw Remus numerous times after this occasion, but he’d never been in the right mind to apologize. Remus never brought it up, either.
After James’ death, having lost his brother and then his best friend, he no longer had the energy to be angry. Sirius detached from both himself and his emotions. He found somebody else in his reflection, as though he were an entity trapped in the body of a human. Sirius has people (they’re more aesthetic replacements to Sirius than actual people) in his life today, but he doesn’t allow himself to invest in anyone. He hasn’t since he diverted from the wizarding world permanently.
“Sirius, we’re here.”
Sirius blinks and finds himself parked in front of Diane’s house.
“Earth to Sirius.” Lewis says, snapping his fingers in front of his face.
“Piss off.”
Lewis grins and opens the door, stepping out onto Diane’s overgrown lawn. Sirius follows suit, sinking his boots into the muddied grass without caution. Diane’s house is a small, brick front, with broken gnomes beside the front door.
Swatting his blonde hair out of his eyes, frizzed due to the rain, Lewis raps on the door.
“Oi! Let us in!” Lewis yells. Goading, slow footsteps can be heard, which is classic Diane behavior, and then the door opens. Diane’s black feathered hair surrounds her face as she rolls her eyes at Lewis, cigarette between her pierced lips. She removes it and her intimidating stare falls on Sirius, immediately softening.
“You didn’t say you were bringing Sirius!”
She slings an arm around Sirius’ shoulders and lazily pulls him inside. Sirius casts a look back at a meek Lewis, and pouts in an unknowing manner that suggests, ‘hey man, I don’t know, I’m just along for the ride.’
Diane’s house smells of a roast, and vaguely, mildew. She forfeits her hold on Sirius and drapes herself on the sofa. Sirius finds himself staring at the streets of London in the background of a movie playing on her television, and pointedly averts his eyes.
Diane puts her cigarette out in a beer bottle and says, “I cleaned up.”
Sirius takes a seat and checks the room, the dust collecting on the floors, the crumbs on the sofas, the boxes stacked beside the walls and the clutter suffocating every table surface. He amusedly scoffs.
Diane grins. “Shut up, Sirius. At least my house isn’t the bloody Warsaw Ghetto like yours.”
“Touche.”
“Good to see you acknowledge it, mate.” Lewis chimes in.
“Yeah, real big of you.” Diane agrees sarcastically. “Where were you the other day? You were supposed to drop in.”
Sirius had been internally dreading the question, and he now knows he was right to do so as Lewis lights up like a Christmas tree.
“Sirius has been keeping some major shit from us.”
Diane’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, he has, has he?”
“He has a brother he never mentioned, one that’s always dressed like a renaissance priest. No, wait— he looks like something out of Dracula.”
Sirius waves a hand. “Oh, stop it, he does not.”
“Maybe not, but he’s… oddly royal. Gothic at the same time. Put it this way, he could give the three bloody princes of England a run for their money. He’s awfully rude too.”
“He sounds kind of hot. Is he hot, Sirius?” Diane asks.
“You wouldn’t like him, Diane. He’s like 5 '4.” Lewis says quickly, diverting his eyes to his knees in a furtive manner. Sirius observes this mirthfully. Poor Lewis has had a pathetically unrequited crush on Diane for years.
“Regulus has no interest in dating.” Sirius answers. He’ll likely drop dead before it so much as crosses Regulus’ mind.
Diane shrugs, unbothered, and a moment later she says, “How come you’ve never mentioned him?”
“Well… It’s…” Sirius begins, “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated? How come?” Lewis says.
“It’s not something I’m keen on unpacking.”
“You’ve not once mentioned–”
Diane interrupts lightheartedly, in a teasing tone, “Lewis, sweetheart, Sirius clearly doesn’t want to talk about his family.”
Sirius is, for the millionth time, grateful that Diane is an unserious person. “Thanks, Diane. I feel like we’ve only been talking about me lately. I’m really not all that interesting. What about you, huh? You still seeing the meth head?”
“No, I’m not. It got severe, actually. Get this—he wanted to cook in my backyard—his mate had this shipping container in the middle of nowhere that they were using, but it flooded and…”
***
Sirius is at work when the symptoms become more prominent. He’s irritable, sweaty and he can’t concentrate for love nor money. The noises around him are overstimulating.
The pub is packed tonight, as there’s a major sporting event; State of Origin or something. Sirius doesn’t know because he’s never been interested in muggle sports. In his opinion, it didn’t hold a candle to Quidditch.
Anyhow, muggles love to gather in pubs and watch people kick a ball or slap it with a racket on the little boxy contraption they call a television. It’s quite comedic.
Sirius is wiping the grease off the counter vigorously and briskly, not unlike his heartbeat. Humming a tune, (which he absentmindedly believes is Bon Jovi) Sirius turns around to fill up a glass at the beer tap and prepare a few shots. He wonders if he should sneak one for himself.
He does.
Sirius turns around, and flinches at the sudden appearance of Regulus, sitting on a barstool before him. His back is straight like a board, as he wouldn’t dare slouch or rest his elbows on the counter, courtesy of their mother’s inculcations.
“Regulus,” Sirius hisses, “What the hell are you doing here?”
He’s beginning to feel a woundedness superseding the prior emptiness each time he comes face to face with his brother.
“No, Sirius, what are you doing here?”
“Uh, I’m working? Have you become senile from the dark magic coursing through your veins?”
Regulus chooses to ignore this. “I’ve been going over it in my head and trying to decipher why you left London to come here.” His voice is as quiet as his demeanor.
“I didn’t think you were interested in why I do anything, Regulus. You were certainly never interested in my reasoning for leaving Grimmauld place–”
“Do not bring that into the equation.” Regulus says brusquely.
Sirius sighs. “If you want to know why I chose to move to Australia, it has a lot to do with a passage scheme funded by the British and Australian governments.”
Regulus narrows his eyes, uninterested. “Why did you leave?”
Sirius grips the counter, his head falling forward as though it were too heavy for him to hold any longer. After a moment of staring at the dark wood, blood rushing to his head, he flicks his hair back and looks up at Regulus.
“Because it fucking suffocated me, alright? I had to.”
Regulus says nothing. The sound of cheering can be heard. New South Wales has scored.
The noise rings in Sirius’ ears, and he’s reminded of how hot he feels. He tugs on the collar of his shirt irritably as his mind graciously provides him with ten different ways he could pacify the noises around him. This somehow morphs into Sirius wondering if people are observing his behavior, knowing he’s the gum on the bottom of their shoes.
But that’s a laborious process, one he’s too sick to consider. He takes a few deep breaths, and his eyes land on Regulus once again, who is already staring a hole through Sirius introspectively.
“Stop that.” Sirius mutters. “You’re giving me the creeps.”
Regulus merely hums, his eyes drifting and falling somewhere behind Sirius. “What’s a cocka-collar?”
Sirius follows Regulus’ eyes to the red cans of Coca-cola in the fridge. He finds himself smiling despite his irritability. “Coca-cola, Regulus. Coke for short.”
“Get me one, then.”
Sirius bristles slightly at his brother’s demand, but plies the door open and obliges him nonetheless. He places the can on the counter and pushes it toward Regulus with a faint whoosh.
Regulus observes the top of the can, unsure of what to do. Sirius pretends to focus on the television, which becomes a blurred whirl of colors, and in the corner of his eye he catches his brother looking between him and the can in a way Sirius is sure he believes is clandestine.
Then, he jabs the top of the can a few times and Sirius snorts. Regulus immediately halts.
“You do it, if you’re so clever.” Regulus mutters, pushing the can back towards Sirius. He crosses his arms and watches as Sirius opens it simply. A familiar scowl forms on his brother’s face. “I’ll have you know I would have figured that out soon enough.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Sirius says dryly.
“Good, you shouldn’t.”
Regulus takes a sip, tilts his head and soon takes another with what Sirius can only interpret as alacrity.
“You like it?”
“Oddly, yes.”
Sirius finds that both fascinating and amusing. His haughty, blood-supremacist brother, enjoying a muggle-made beverage.
Sirius chuckles, and then as though derived from a sector of hell meant to squalor any of his luxuries in life, nausea settles in his stomach.
***
The dome light remains on, glaring in Regulus’ face as he waits for Sirius to return. They’d been driving home, at a speed he’s sure Sirius wasn’t supposed to be traveling at when he pulled off onto the side of a dark back-street and swung the door open. Regulus watched as Sirius neglected to close it and stumbled off into the parkland to be sick.
Regulus reaches into his pocket, withdrawing the small plastic bag, and he realizes he can’t do it. He’d been planning to wait until Sirius’ withdrawal symptoms became severe enough for Regulus to spring his concoction on him.
He’s aware it was cruel to begin with, and that hadn’t bothered him, initially. Regulus’ plan was for Sirius to become so desperate for the heroin Regulus happened to have that he would be willing to offer up any information Regulus desired.
It had started in Sirius’ bathroom, earlier that day. He’d found small flecks on a spoon and had a moment of ingenuity, using his wand to duplicate the substance and contain it in a small bag he found under Sirius’ sink.
He’d briefly wondered why Sirius didn’t do the same, and then he remembered that Sirius left his wand in his vault at Gringotts. It made sense, seeing as wands could be traced to their owners if the circumstance made it a necessity.
Over the course of the evening, as Sirius shook and grew weaker, Regulus had gradually cowered.
Apparently, his interest in moral nihilism didn’t provide for his objective that requires egocentricity. Regulus has discovered that there is a limit to how malicious he can obliquely be, and that he has some moral objectivity.
He hardly heard the door shut, but he hears the voice that follows urgently, “Where the fuck did you get that?”
Sirius is staring at the bag in Regulus’ hand with wide-eyed incredulity, a flash of anger and most of all, perhaps worst of all; desire.
This time, Regulus doesn’t wonder if he’s made a grave mistake. He knows he has.