Contradictions.
The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black held a secret that was considered as shameful as it was powerful in their ranks. The Blacks had always maintained a severe reputation as one of the oldest wizarding families of England, and their heritage was as important as the pure blood that coursed through their veins. While the Blacks did not dare disrespect their origin for fear of repercussion, they did not acknowledge what they drew no attention to.
The origins of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black are traced to the city of Jericho, there the family was known as Al-Sawda’ . The family were peasantry who survived the Israelite conquest and are said to have borne witness to the miraculous destruction of the wall. If you were to continue the long thread of mythology, it was said that the family had been present during the lessons of the angels, Harut and Marut. When the attendees of the trial were warned that the lessons were a test, and if they fell for the temptation of dark magic, they were turning their backs to the holy, the Blacks had turned their attention elsewhere, believing the words of the angels and in turn they were gifted blessings on their land. When the war came, and Regulus’ grandfather joined the extended family in London, this was all lost. However, maintaining their blessings, the remnants of the family in Jericho had refused to leave, and stayed steadfast on their land, Samidoun.
While Regulus’ grandfather had continued this tradition, his estranged family and son had not, and when the Black name had been handed over to Orion, he rejected it entirely. What use was a blessing in the face of magic that had lost them everything, broke down the walls of their land and made them weak, and forced them to capitulate to powers greater than them. Instead, Orion allowed for other whispers to enter his heart, and the magic that they had once turned their backs to began to infiltrate the soul of the Black family. To Regulus, before he had become a man, this was the most vital warning to not succumb to the indifference he was shown. However, Walburga’s whispers were louder than his grandfather’s, and perhaps the same indignance that had poisoned his own father had begun to settle in his chest. Therefore, the successors spoke Arabic, maintained their blood ties to the earth, but did little else to understand who they were. This was a burden that Regulus intended to carry, for the sake of a language that lived and died in his throat.
The house was a mere extension of this state of perpetual rot. Grimmauld was an entire being of its own. The severity of the place was innate, the black hue seeping through its cracks like a living thing. Those who missed it should be happy that they had never known it; those who had the displeasure of knowing, would surely do whatever they could to unlearn such a grim old place. A place where the weight of a lousy name was plastered across the walls, but the history remained in the grey area between heritage and legacy. Those who had the particular dishonour of knowing the place as if it were their very soul, count down the days till they’re permitted leave, while others took that leave by force. This was another fact, Grimmauld did not bend to the whim of its inhabitants, leave was only given when deserved, and it had long since decided that Sirius did not.
Regulus Arcturus Black’s life and being were two contradictions. His being belonged to everyone, his mother, his father, the house of Black. His life, what should have been his and his alone, belonged to one other. In the quiet night Regulus was brought home to Grimmauld, it was not his indifferent mother who attended to him, nor was it the frazzled house elves, it was his brother. His brother, with knobby knees and shaking steps, had come to the edge of his bassinet, balancing precariously on a chair, and watched with a wonder that rejected the premise of indifference entirely. Regulus’ life, the burning that rattled his chest, that warmed him in the cold of his indifference did not belong to him either. Sirius, the bright star who intensified the scorching heat of the sun sat in his ribs. His being had been marked by his birth; his life was marked by the one who stoked the fire that spurred him. It is no wonder then, that every story of Regulus’ life begins with the day that it was extinguished.
Regulus had stumbled behind Sirius at every stage of his life, feet tripping to keep up with his brother; scared, that if he stopped following, Sirius would surely leave him behind. This was another fact, Regulus had loved Sirius with every rotten bone in him, even when he shone so bright that all that was left of Regulus was his shadow. Regulus followed Sirius from room to room, from one unwalked path to the next. When came the day he could not follow him he had stayed exactly the boy that Sirius left behind; waiting for the day he could join that life.
There is not much more to say. Sirius fought for his freedom from the thresholds of Grimmauld, he gave everything he had so he could leave. The behind was a whisper that could not reach Sirius’ ears. Bloodied, bruised, and stubborn, Sirius Black left. Regulus’ life had freed itself from his shackles and had not looked back. He died in perhaps the only way that mattered in this world. So, the spare was given life on the day that the heir died. Grimmauld did not permit leave again.
When he returned to Hogwarts for his fifth year, he had felt every bit the man he wasn’t. As children do. Yet, most children had not yet braved the heavy business of carrying a mark that leaked with intimacy that a starving dog longed for. Regulus was practically foaming at the mouth for it. He had made a religion of intention, he committed himself to obscurity and ambiguity, he entered the summer someone else entirely and the man he is now has to reflect his steadfastness, Sumud, as his grandfather had put it. Whether he had deviated from the beaten path was of no use now, he was and now he had become. His chest rattled with the weight of his intentionality.
So, it was up to the 15-year-old man to pick up where the other left. He had put away childish things, for they no longer served him, and in his haste to mature he had put more than that away. What was born in darkness, nurtured in darkness, comes to view biting the hand that fed it as the purest form of intimacy.
Regulus was at home, then he was at the train platform, and then he was alone, until he wasn’t. Time hadn’t looked upon him favourably since the summer, and the passage of time refused to wait for him, and in his obstinance he refused to ask why.
For now, prying eyes hovered over his figure. It was the memory of this shackled life that flickered in his mind as he sat now in the carriage, Pandora's voice cutting through like a crack of lightning.
"it’s rather ugly, Regulus.” Pandora, never one for graces, pulled at his hand and inspected his forearm, the sleeve of his shirt wrinkled with the force of her probing. Her bangles chiming, protesting against the movement. She traced the figure with her gaze before looking up with a smirk and twinkling eyes. She dropped his hand and went back to a battered book, her hair falling in her eyes as she twirled it with a careless finger.
Regulus was taken aback for half a second, Evan snorted at his sister.
“Well, I doubt that was his priority, Pandora.” He said disbelievingly, rubbing his eyes before settling back into his seat, eyes following the scenery outside. The Rosiers had an effortless grace about them, dark skin accentuated by shockingly white hair. They moved with little regard for others, imposing and owning every space they entered. Something that had once grated at Regulus’ nerves but now a quality he had come to admire.
“I don’t know Regulus.” Barty started; eyes upturned with mischief.
“You don’t know what.” Regulus knew he was about to regret entertaining Barty, but the temptation of a moment’s respite was too enticing.
“Regulus, lover.” Barty’s face had turned solemn. He was met with a kick to the shin.
“Bartemius, leave him alone.” Pandora chimed in, face still buried in her book, above feigning any type of interest in the conversation happening around her.
“Oh, but Pandora, look at this beautifully inbred face.” Evan snorted at the remark, and Barty glared at him before continuing. “I would never stain this.” He motioned to Regulus. “With a mark like that.”
“And every day Morgana weeps tears of joy that you are not, Crouch.” Evan cuts him off.
"I’d make a dashing leader for our cause, Rosier," Barty quipped, pulling a face at the other boy before dropping into the space beside him.
“Our is a bit of a stretch, no Barty?” Pandora looked up, unimpressed, at the sight of Barty and Evan squabbling over a chocolate frog card, though a slight smile was playing at her lips.
“You know there is no way we would let our poor baby Reg do this all alone?” he bit back at her, with a small, unhinged grin.
“Blood purity is so boring.” She sighed and proceeded to turn the page in her book.
“Merlin forbid Pandora is bored.” Evan spoke up, in between a mouthful of chocolate, the words resembling Trollish more than English.
“These muggles seem to know much more about magic than any of us could bare to imagine.” She supplies instead. The carriage hums, and Barty made a motion as if to say, go on.
Regulus, eyes still focused on the scenery outside chose this moment to listen in and shifted his gaze to Pandora with a raised eyebrow. He could never fault Pandora for her obsession with knowledge, she had long outgrown the wizarding world in her quest, and she had found her next challenge in the muggles; but this was their world, and to shift a narrative here was more than to just read a book, it was to take everything that they had made holy and to defecate it.
“Take this for example- oh don’t look at me like that Regulus.” she waved the book over her head, hand holding her place. He nodded at her before moving to face her entirely, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall with a lazy gaze.
“Right. There’s this man, Dorian Gray, devastatingly handsome apparently. He traded his soul for eternal youth because he saw a portrait of himself and wished he could remain the same forever. He literally ruined his own life because of a reflection. There is something magical about that, no?” Her eyes twinkled. “This muggle, Oscar Wilde, theorised and retold the Mirror of Erised without ever knowing of it.”
“Surely a squib.” Barty, who had undoubtedly not listened to a word she had just said, bit back.
“Oh, don’t give me that, brilliance isn’t marked by proximity to our world.” She settled back into her original position, rolling her eyes.
"Definitely a squib then." Barty turned to look at Regulus for back up, he was not met well.
Regulus considered Pandora for a second, deciding if it were better to let her live in her own ambiguities. “Pandora.” He let out, uncrossing his arms, grabbing the book, and turning to the small biography of the author at the back.
“Wilde.” He pointed at the still photograph of him. “This man, was brilliant, and you’re not the first to know that.” He took that second to meet her gaze, and then flick through the book. “He wrote this book about greed, but also a reflection of his own inner condition. Wilde was gay.” Pandora nodded slowly, waiting to see what point Regulus would land on.
“The muggles who adored Wilde destroyed him when he deviated from them. They imprisoned him, bankrupted him, erased him—just like they do to anyone who doesn’t fit their narrow mould. That includes us, Pandora. Would you trade all our lives just to read a dead man’s words?” He settled, but the point was perhaps slightly muted as his eyes were running greedily along the pages.
Pandora smirked at Regulus as she met his gaze. “Oh, you really had me there Reggie, how will I ever respond to such a comprehensive rebuttal?” she laughed before she continued.
“Regulus the point being, when muggles come closer to our world, and us to theirs, there is just so much good. Imagine what Wilde could have done if he knew about the Mirror of Erised? If the wizards who drove themselves mad for it knew what he knew? Imagine if Wilde had lived in a society like ours which pays no mind to these matters, its - ah - what’s that muggle word, for those types of relationships?”
“Symbiotic.” He supplied.
“There’s much to learn, and so little time.” She looked at him lightly. “I, for one, do not think that a world left to the imagination of Walburga Black is one I would like to inhabit.” She winked, before grabbing her book back and resuming.
“Hear, Hear.” Snickered Barty, before being hit on the back of his head with a book by Evan. Regulus was silent, and not for the first time he opened his case of childish things and let them flourish.
The next day, Regulus woke with a start, chest heaving, bated breaths spreading a deep-set nausea throughout his body. Barty shuffled slightly, disgruntled at Regulus’ jerky movements. The two had shared a bed since first year. Regulus, who had slept in the same bed as Sirius for the first ten years of his life preferred the company. Barty, who could not be left alone lest he allow a singular thought he could not share to drift in his mind, welcomed this.
Regulus sighed and pressed at his eyes with his palms till he saw stars, the dawn had barely broken but he began his day anyway and woke his friend with a shake. Barty gasped as he woke up and fell to the floor. A low groan coming out from the tiles.
“You catch more flies with honey, Regulus.” Barty groaned again, voice heavy with sleep and limbs flying as he attempted to right his posture.
“Who told you I wanted flies?” Regulus snorted.
"I put honey on my toast." grumbled a half asleep Evan from his corner of the room, and with that the trio began to get themselves together to head to the Great Hall.
In his first year, Regulus had thought himself a god for the way he lead his friends to the Great Hall. He had felt quite important as he took prideful steps that echoed on the stone floor, letting his robes billow in the air of his importance as his friends walked on either side of him, haughty at the thought of entering breakfast, lunch and dinner, with the spare of the Most Ancient and Noble house of Black. These days the importance had faded completely, and turned into disdain at his inability to maintain the reverence his friends had once had for him. These days, Barty and Evan would poke his shoulder, pull at his hair, and try to trip him all the way up to the Great Hall, and once they entered put salt into his tea and make jokes about his shiny princess hair.
That day was different, Evan and Barty knew this, so every bit the loyal Slytherins they are they flanked Regulus, in an attempt to make manifest their support for him. This would be the first time that he would see Sirius since all of it, and Sirius did not know what it even was. There was something so bittersweet at having shared the very soul of who you are with someone else and having to make peace that everything you have come to know about them is meaningless, there's something even worse in knowing that they would never know who you could be, that the potential of a person they won't ever know was twisting and gnawing aching to be known by them.
So Regulus held his breath when he saw the centre of the Gryffindor table. Their laughs echoed and occupied the space as if it was theirs alone. Sirius was laughing at something the smaller one, Pettigrew, had said, his face twisting as he wheezed out something that Regulus could not make out. His tie was sitting loose on his neck, and his hair held together recklessly by his wand. The reminders of the summer did not show on his face, and all-in-all he looked fine. Regulus swallowed bitter thought after bitter thought, putting away the childish things in a dark corner of his mind. He looked at his brother, who was fine. Fine, he was fine and without him. All of him ached for a comfort and a potential and a person he could never come to know.
Grey eyes met grey eyes, and Regulus’ neck almost snapped with the speed he looked away. He couldn’t be fine, but he will be better. So, he wore his pride rather than swallow it, leaving his fear on its own settling in his stomach. A reminder that after all, his being was not his own, it belonged to a reflection that would meet his eye wherever he was.
The day passed with a similar buzz, which turned into an unsettling restlessness. Regulus moved when he was moved, he spoke when spoken to, and wrote when instructed to. Feet tapping in every spare moment, and every word directed at him from his friends received with acknowledgement but never response. Time struggled to reacquaint herself with him, and the seconds of the clock burdened him with every movement. Regulus burned, but in the same breath he quelled the fire within him. The child-made-man could do little but chide himself.
When the afternoon came, he moved, for the first time, with intentionality. He left a confused Barty with an amused Evan, and he took slow steps through the corridors of Hogwarts. He had spent years in the school, but the hallowed halls had never been friendly to him, but the confidence in his steps was not conducive with the pit in his stomach. The nausea grew, but it seemed that the stone beneath his feet spurred him on. Turning down winding passages, he climbed up stairwell after stairwell, he finally settled in a desolate attic room that had once been a classroom and let himself breathe.
The room was hazy, the only light coming through three tall arched windows. The proof of disuse found in the settled dust in Regulus’ lungs, and in the way it clung to his clothes and skin. The desks were practically rotting, and carcasses of spider skins laid in the crevices of the broken wood.
Regulus shook off his robes and jumper, loosening his tie, and wandered around the room. Running fingers where he probably shouldn’t, collecting dust and spiderwebs. He came to a halt in front of a locked closet.
Perhaps the fact that the closet was locked should have deterred the action he took next, but since when was curiosity a vice to a teenager?
Regulus cast an alohomora, but the closet barely rattled. Frustrated he continued his casting until he went red with effort. He wiped the sweat off his brow and collapsed cross-legged in front of the enigma. It was an unremarkable wardrobe, dusty, and grey with age.
His brain raced until he was faced with a stark reminder of one of his much earlier displays of incompetence, at the ripe age of 8. When he was young, he could never quite get the spell, especially not with his safety wand and the secrets of Grimmauld required a lot stronger than a revelio or alohomora to unlock them. He had shared a moment with his grandfather, in a study just as dusty as this room, about the very same fact.
Regulus, young, pouty, and ever-as-troubled was sat at his grandfather’s desk, feet tapping on the hardwood floor and fingers sinking into the leather of his chair. The frustration had exploded from his chest as he stared at the locked chest his grandfather had placed in front of him. The challenge, as his grandfather had repeatedly informed him, was not a test but a lesson.
“Seedo esbor, if the magic does not come to you do not attempt to force it.” He had said, eyes wrinkled but twinkling in amusement as he stared at his stubborn grandson.
“What’s the point? If it doesn’t do what I tell it, then what’s the point of having it at all?” Regulus pouted.
“Zay abook enta.” He had said with a shake of his head. He tapped Regulus’ head to get his attention.
“I’m not like father! I just-”
Regulus turned his head to meet his grandfather’s gaze, when he saw the knowing smile, he knew that he was fine.
“We did not choose magic, but it came to us anyway. It chooses what to show, not at the will of the caster but of its own volition, you understand this by now, yes?” Regulus nods.
“Magic is triggered by language and intention; and yours, despite what your mother and father would have you believe is not Latin, but Arabic. So, try again.”
So, Regulus tried again, this time whispering a small ‘eftah’.
The chest opened, it was empty, but it was open.
Regulus collected himself, and the vague bitterness of nostalgia stung on his face and in his chest.
“Eftah.” He whispered once again, and as soon as he had cast, his wand dropped from the scene he was affronted with.
In front of him was a mirror, but the reflection was not himself at all. He was rotted, through and through. Eyes dark and gaunt, his face skeletal and his hands bone as he moved to touch what was left of his face. His fingers had holes of decay and he could see where his flesh had fallen off from his forearm, unmarked. He was positively blue, jaw chattering, and what was left of his hair floating around him as if underwater.
Yet, he was smiling, a partially toothless smile filled with pure joy. Regulus moved closer to inspect the scene, he saw a figure swimming to meet him with the same unadulterated elation, and when they met the figure grabbed his hand and pulled him to the surface. When the water broke, a scene he had only been privy to in his grandfather’s study emerged. Olive groves dotted the landscape, with vast hills weaving a perfect story, and there Regulus was, more perfect than he had ever been.
“How did you? -”
A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Regulus jumped back from the mirror into the arms of the intruder.
If Regulus had enough foresight, he would have probably locked the door of the classroom in his haste to enter, he would have and done so in the same haste. Regulus knew he was down on his luck, but perhaps he would have overdosed on Felix Felices prior to coming to Hogwarts had he known the extent of his misfortune in this damned school to have to fall into the arms of his brother’s best friend.
“Wotcher Reg!” James offered, holding Regulus by his shoulders, gazing down at him with light concern and curiosity. Ever the vice of schoolboys. Regulus noticed his predicament a second too late, before wrenching himself out of the grips of the other boy.
“There’s a reason this is locked, Reginald.” He smiled cheekily at the smaller boy; it made Regulus nauseous.
He considered the boy in front of him for a moment, but ultimately didn’t deign him worthy of a response, so he instead made a move to put on his jumper and robes.
“Hey!” James shouted at his back. Perhaps not used to such a display of indifference, unluckily for him this was specialty of Regulus’. “You know, you catch more flies-” he huffed, and Regulus would have laughed at the irony if it weren’t for the company.
“With honey, I know. Unbelievable though, Potter, I’m not in the business of fly catching” Regulus sniped back, the nausea was building in his stomach again, and his jumper suddenly felt a tad too tight.
James on the other hand took Regulus’ remark in stride.
“Well. I don’t know about unlucky since I’m not a fly, are you in the business of catching nice, respectable, gentlemen?” He said, smiling slightly, Regulus stared back at him in full frontal disbelief.
“Right then-” James dawdled after a long silence. “We found this in first year, you know, that’s why the lock is so tight, how did you manage it?” Regulus doesn’t deem this worthy of a response either, patting his person looking for his wand.
“If you want this back, you’ll have to reveal all Reg.” James, ever-infuriating, dangles his wand like a carrot on a stick in front of Regulus. Never one to play games, Regulus reaches for it only for the older boy to pull it even higher.
"Cast a revelio then." This does little to persuade the other boy, so, of course, Regulus steps on his foot, hard. James yelps.
“What the fuck? Ow?”
“Give it back, Potter.”
James raised an eyebrow. “You really don’t want to tell me what it showed you, do you?”
Regulus' gaze flickered to the mirror. The reflection still haunted him—rotted, perfect, alive.
Now, there are many battles that Regulus will have to face, and he was not above a strategic loss, for the sake of sanity.
“The thing in there?” Regulus barters. “What is it?” James’ eyebrows raise to the top of his head before he lets out a slight chuckle and manoeuvres himself to stand in front of Regulus. Regulus’ stomach churned, he picked at the frays of his jumper with his thumb.
“Straight Os and you can’t recognise the Mirror of Erised in front of you?”
Regulus is slightly disconcerted. Not slightly, one could say egregiously. This was his life’s truest desire. Perhaps he was well and truly made wrong from the get-go. A life of decay in the bottom of the sea. Regulus couldn’t even swim.
“I don’t have to answer that.” Regulus once again rubbed his eyes with his palms till he saw stars. Maybe the dark mark had skewed his receptiveness to the magic, but surely it should amplify the dark aspects of the mirror? It should have shown him something that would truly drive him mad with pure want, but it didn’t.
“Latin is weaker than most of the ancient languages, the spells it casts are too.”
He moved his hand out and Potter deposited his wand back. Not bothering to bid farewell, Regulus swiftly exited the classroom, leaving a perplexed James Potter trying to make sense of his riddles. If he was nicer, he probably would have told him exactly what his grandfather had told him. But he wasn’t, and he really did not like James Potter that much. The ground buzzed beneath Regulus once more. Had it always been like this? Regulus couldn't remember anymore; the last few years were slipping away.
With a sigh, Regulus returned to the dungeons, where Barty and Evan were waiting for him in the common room. Both with sly grins, Barty grabbed his arm and Evan pulled him down between them on the couch.
“Oh, how you wound me, lover, who has led you astray from our bed!” Barty collapsed himself on Regulus’ lap, the other boy rolled his eyes at the display.
Evan adopted the same haughty face and accent. “Oh, my dear Bart, come to me instead! Don't let him hurt you more than he already has.”
Regulus shoved Barty off, his head aching. “It’s 6pm,” he muttered.
“Whore,” Barty shot back, but the grin on his face was too wide to be taken seriously. Regulus collapsed back into the couch. He was fine.