A big, bold headline, flashing in his face. Taunting him. Laughing, maybe. A cruel, cold, metallic laugh.
"I'm so sorry, Pads," Remus says from behind him, another punch to the gut. The blood is rushing through his ears, it's deafening, and he refuses to hear what Remus has to say next.
Big, bold.
Regulus Black, heir to the House of Black and the last son of Orion Black, stated dead.
Sirius isn't sure what to make of that. He clears his throat. "Well," he says as he folds the paper in half. "There's that, I suppose." He folds it again.
Then again.
Once more.
His vision is blurring. The couch is swallowing him whole.
He feels the familiar weight of a hand on his own, and he stops and looks up. Remus tries prying the newspaper out of his hand, like you would try to take away a predator's hunt from it's clenched jaws. Sirius shakes his head and pulls his hand from Remus' reach. "I wanna read the rest of it," he bites out firmly. Remus eyes him warily.
"I don't trust you."
"What?"
"You'll go off doing something stupid now, won't you? I don't trust you."
Sirius wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Please. I barely knew the kid." He grinds his teeth, forcing the words out his mouth. Remus raises an eyebrow and folds his arms.
"He died a death eater," Sirius insists. Still holding onto the newspaper. "What do you want me to say?"
"Whatever you want to." Remus takes a seat next to him. "Or whatever you don't want to. Just don't act like you don't care."
Sirius opens his mouth to protest, and Remus cuts him off. "I know you care. Don't– don't to this to yourself. Don't cut yourself off from your emotions, Sirius."
Does he care, though?
Sirius thinks of Regulus, and he gets angry.
Not for saying no, so many times over. Not for his sharp glares, and twisted sneers.
Only.
He was stupid. And soft. He was everything Sirius hated to be. Somebody, he supposes, had to take that burden.
And now, Sirius feels– not there. As if Regulus had stolen away chunks of him, kept them for himself. Never bothered to return them.
Regulus had been selfish like that.
Who'd he learn it from?
"Shut up," Sirius says aloud.
"What?"
...
"Nothing."
Remus nods and turns away.
Sirius watches him disapear into the bedroom without a word, and he wonders why.
Just... why.
He wonders when and why it all started going down the drain. When Remus' soft hands began to feel cold and unfamiliar. Or when his scent, which Sirius would breathe in so deeply, had changed so completely.
He tries not to think.
Instead, he manages to get up, practically crawl to the bathroom. He's tired. He turns the tap on, splashes water on his face.
Only, it burns. It stings on his cheeks, and he can barely breathe as it floods through his nostrils.
He turns the tap off and looks in the mirror.
Almost cries.
Almost.
He can't bring himself to actually tear up. He can't remember the last time he's had tears rolling down his cheeks, or even resting in his eyes.
He almost cries at the sight of his reflection.
Grey eyes, black curls— it's haunting.
...
Sirius should not care.
He shouldn't, he shouldn't, he really shouldn't. All of this, over someone he hasn't seen ages. All of this over someone who would've spit on his shoes if he had gotten the chance.
(pronoun) someone; an unknown or unspecified person; some person.
Someone does not share the same blood as you. Someone wouldn't have been raised by your side. Someone isn't your baby brother.
Wasn't.
Sirius wonders how Regulus died. What killed him. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was in an attack. Maybe it was Sirius' own wand that hit him. He unfolds the newspaper and smooths it out.
The picture of Regulus is supposedly a moving one; though he stays still as a statue. It's a horrible picture, Sirius thinks bluntly. His skin looks pale and patchy. His hair is greasy and stuck together, his eyes near black. Lines crease his face, age him about ten years. The oldest he'll ever look. Sirius pulls out his wand, trims around the picture neatly and stuffs them both in his back pocket.
He reads on.
Circumstances of death are unknown, and his body is yet to be located. Parents Orion and Walburga Black suggest it may have been murder. They offer a reward of-
That is about all Sirius can read before he shoves the paper under the running tap and watches it turn to mush, then nothing as it slips down the drain. Then he swings open the cabinet and rummages through it with shaky hands. He grabs what he needs and leaves, careful not to slam the apartment door too loud.
You could say that it's stupid, to stand out in the open in the middle of an ongoing war. Sirius takes pride in his stupidity. He wobbles down the street, eventually slumping against the trunk of a tree.
He keeps his eyes trained on the ground, careful not to look at the moon or the stars. They seem to be extra bright tonight, flashing at him just as the headline had.
He wonders if the universe is plotting against him.
"Fuck you," he mumbles, and pulls out his wand; ignites the blunt in his hand before bringing it to his lips and taking a drag that makes him retch.
"Man..." he coughs. "This one's for you Reg..." His eyes flicker to the sky. He gets no response.
Stupid kid.
He squeezes his eyes shut, lets the back of his head knock against the trunk of the tree, and takes another drag.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale-
Everything's getting blurry now.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale-
Remus wouldn't like this.
But then again, Remus doesn't even like him. Not anymore.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exh-
Sirius throws up. All over the grass.
And he giggles.
And then he decides he's had enough, so he pushes himself up from the ground, groans as he realizes he shoved his hand into the puke.
He rubs his hand against his pants and rolls back his neck before stumbling blindly on the dark road.
It's Kreacher who carries Sirius’ trunk, trailing behind the two boys as they run across the platform, matching limbs flickering underneath the same trademark robes that their mother makes them wear. Speaking of their mother, she walks stiffly, like a puppet, right behind Kreacher, her hand clenching and unclenching around a handkerchief behind her back. Her heavy breathing remains unheard by the excited boys– Sirius, more than Regulus.
In a matter of days, Sirius has grown taller and more like an adult, as if his body has been preparing itself for Hogwarts. His hand does not leave Regulus’ grip, the pulse that beats against both their palms.
Sirius squeezes a little harder and gently nudges his Reggie with a bump of his shoulder. Regulus sways a little, from the sudden movement.
“Only a few months,” Sirius promises him in swift French. “I will write, you know I will. And…” Sirius trails off, reaching his free hand into the pocket of his robes, pulling out a small, black figure of a raven made out of marble. “I have you with me,” Sirius says, holding the figure between his fingers and waving it in front of Regulus’ face.
“You nicked that from my room!” Regulus claims, reaching forward to pull it out from Sirius’ too strong grip. Sirius clicks his tongue as he pulls it away from Regulus’ reach.
“He's mine, now.” He pretends to admire the figure as he brings it close to his eye. “What shall I name him? Reggie, you say?”
Regulus blows air from his mouth and tries to copy the same careless smile that takes up Sirius’ lips, but he feels the strain in his cheeks as he tries. Sirius laughs, pinching Regulus’ cheeks with two fingers. He doesn't hear any of the children on the platform weeping, or laughing with their parents. Just them, and the inherit breaking of their hearts, if they even had those in the first place. Everybody knows that the Blacks are more godly than they are human, and that gods never have hearts.
“Boys.”
Regulus twitches at the sudden, perfect English that comes from behind them. Sirius' face tenses as they both turn to look at their mother, who holds an uncanny resemblance to Sirius’ rock-hard expression.
“That's enough with the dilly-dallying. Sirius, you should be on the train by now.”
“I know, maman,” he tells her, feeling uncomfortable. Though he can understand English perfectly, he has never been too eager to try it out himself, too afraid of the unfamiliar flicks of tongue and smack of lips. He had never been able to control the emotions that hurl out as he would whisper English to his mirror, unlike his French, which is controlled and precise, just like the rest of him.
“Sirius?” Regulus says carefully and Sirius blinks back into focus. The two seem to be staring at him expectantly.
“I'm going now, Reg,” Sirius’ voice softens and his shoulders loosen up. “I have to go.”
Regulus begins to blink rapidly, tears clinging onto his eyelashes as he tries to push them back in. “Okay.” He nods shortly.
Sirius wraps his arms around Regulus’ back, pulling him in like a black hole and squeezing tight. Regulus cannot manage to squeeze back, so he stands, arms to his side, as he lets Sirius envelop him.
“Love you,” Sirius tells him in English, and it sounds so flat without the way his voice curves in French. Emotionless, like it is prepared to leave. Regulus hums and nods in return.
Sirius only spares their mother a fleeting look, which is probably more than she expects, before taking his trunk from Kreacher.
He hears a hiss release from his own mouth unconsciously as he walks towards the train, like he has suddenly been deprived of something he did not know he had the privilege of having. He feels it slowly slip from between the cracks in him as he leaves Regulus with it, all alone. Will he share it? Throw it away? Will he forget? Anything can happen, now that it is no longer his. But at least he had it. At least he will get it back when he returns.
And somehow, he's at a graveyard. A black dog, standing int he middle of a foggy cemetery.
He doesn't know which graveyard it is– (lie. This is where they all are. This is where he is.)
He's standing in front of a grave.
Regulus Arcturus Black
1961-1979
Nothing else. Only a label, stamped on and shoved aside.
Sirius whips his head around, checking his surroundings before changing back. He falls on his knees in front of the grave, ignoring the cold piercing through them.
The name on the grave feels like an old dream. Something that itches the back of his mind, makes him anxious. But he cannot place why.
He settles down on the floor, legs crossed.
"Hey. Reg."
He hears a cricket chirp in the distance.
"I know-... I know it's been a while, and it's really... inconvenient that, you know, I show up when you're dead. But."
He chews the inside of his cheeks, trying to figure it out.
"I didn't think it would end like... well, this. I thought, maybe."
Shifting into a dog, he leans forward, snout in the dirt but he smells nothing. They weren't able to recover his body.
An empty grave, the name of a boy no one will remember in a few years time.
No.
No, not Sirius.
He pushes his nose into the dirty, sniffing desperately. Praying that the dirt will hold some hint of the scent he was raised with.
Reg? Reg, if you're there, let me know.
...
I'm waiting for you Regulus.
...
He hears a muffled crunch of leaves behind him and whips his head around, away from the grave. He hears a soft gasp from the dark figure in front of him– a woman– before she moves forward.
Stepping towards Regulus' grave.
"Shoo," she commands harshly and the voice is one Sirius would've recognised anywhere. "This is no place for filthy mutts. I said shoo!" Walburga waves a hand at him, urging him away.
Sirius stays grounded, looking up at his mother.
"Get away you filthy dog! Get out! Get out! There's no bones here for you, leave!"
And he wants to say something. He desperately wants to transform back, put a hand on her back, say something.
But he only whines and barks at her.
He can't see her face, only the silhouette of her long dress, a hat, and a veil.
Still mourning.
She glances at him. "There's no bones. There's no body," she sighs. And then, "He was seventeen. Both-"
Sirius sees her raise a handkerchief to her mouth, and he moves closer.
"Both my boys," she manages, her breathing heavy. "Taken away from me, you know."
He watches her fists around her knees curl up as she shakily exhales and wipes her nose. "Oh, what do you know, you're a dog. You don't care if your child leaves you."
She pauses. Perhaps she's beginning to wonder why she's talking to a dog. "I care. I pretended not to, but I did care. They might've–... they... they were my blood. They were torn from my flesh." Her eyes flicker to Sirius and he sees her face properly for the first time.
His mind blurs; she is unrecognisable. She does not look like his mother. Not the mother who would kiss his forehead goodnight, nor the mother who's sharp hand would sting on his cheek for days. Not the mother who's silent weeping he would hear from behind locked doors after hours. The mother who told him she never wanted to set eyes on his face again? No, not her either. She was someone else entirely.
She turns back to the head stone and Sirius cannot help it.
He snarls at her with bared teeth, cornering her. She doesn't shift, but keeps her eyes fixed on the stone. Sirius tries harder, louder, something in his guts rumbling as he moves closer. She doesn't tell him to shoo, not this time.
So he leaves.