Prelude
They got him on his bike, ten feet from the front door. Were they following him, Sirius wonders, or was it just circumstance? It would have been much cooler to be knocked off whilst speeding down the motorway, headlights on, whizzing through the dark. He imagines the thrill of it- he loves his bike. Loved. These days, Sirius is a dead man walking.
Instead of his action-movie final-stand (Remus taught him these words; he loves them, because he loves everything that Remus Lupin teaches him), Sirius had duelled the Dark Lord with his helmet strap in one hand and his keys his beneath his wand, between traffic cones and pavement litter. He fought well, too- they’d apparated seven times, he’d thrown off four unforgivable curses. In the throes of the fifth, a knock-out jinx had walloped him from behind. Unfair, really. A terrible last stand. Remus’s movie-men would be so disappointed. James would be too, but perhaps for different reasons. He was supposed to be better at this whole on-the-run thing- only made it six months.
Godric, when he dies, James is going to feel so guilty.
Inside the quiet part of him, the bit that he only lets out when it’s the middle of the night and they’re on their fourth cigarette, Sirius would admit that he didn’t want to. Obviously he didn’t. Who wants to die? But for James? For Lily? For the little black-haired bundle in the red blanket, with wrinkling pink toes and unopened eyes?
Of course he had.
He bought Harry his first broom before he was even born- it was always going to go this way.
Who else? Peter, who slept with a silk eyemask and hated thunderstorms? Remus, who wanted more than anything to be a professor, to waste away hours in books, to travel to big cities and to tell little kids it was all going to be alright?
Sirius laughs, and Bellatrix pulls his hair tighter. He went insane about a week ago, he thinks. It could be longer. She slams his head backwards and it crunches against the solid wood flooring. Bella is funny like that- loves the physical violence, getting all up in his space and causing raw damage. The other Death Eaters tend to be less hands-on, more silent spells from the other side of the room (‘Death Eaters’, he must add, is a daft name. What are they eating? Shit, when they trip over those stupid outfits and fall flat on their faces?). Sirius think there’s a sort of rotation of them coming and going for cult-meetings, because she’s not always here. Neither’s the Dark Lord. They flicker in and out in a routine he doesn’t yet know, and it’s not as if anyone will tell him- they beheaded all of the house elves that he tried to question. Not worth it anymore. The only think anyone says to him anymore is-
“Where are the Potter’s?”
Sirius groans. “Don’t kn’w.”
She leans forward. Her knee presses into his back, on top of two fresh lashes. He feels her bones grind against his. “This is so boring, cousin. What’s left to lose, hm?”He doesn’t answer. Can’t. She starts drawing on his back with her knife, pretty little shapes and patterns. “We’ll get it out of you sooner or later.”
Over my dead body, Sirius promises. The fidelius charm dies with him. He just has to keep his mouth shut until then. He coughs, and it rattles in his chest. Not long now at this rate.
“You don’t even fight back anymore!” She laments, easing off his back. “Hunting gets so dull when the rabbits don’t squeak. Did they not grow your teeth back after all?” Without warning, she pushes his grimy fingers into his mouth, drawing them over all of his teeth, one by one. He gags, tasting her sweat.
Sirius rolls over, pushing himself shakily a few pathetic centimetres backwards. “F’ck off.”
“He does talk!” Bellatrix laughs. “Such vulgar, muggle language. My, my, you’re close to it now, aren’t you?” He kicks feebly in her direction. She ignores him, tugging on the shackles that keep his ankles tethered to the wall to pull herself closer. The further he squirms, the nearer she prowls. He holds his breath. Long, unkept hair tickles his chin. He can’t hold in another wet, painful cough. “Now that this is a proper conversation, tell me, Sirius, won’t you? I do hate to repeat myself.”
He presses his lips into a long, firm line.
She gasps, delighted. “I suppose for your simple, muggle-like mind, I must- I asked you, Sirius, where are the Potters?”
His brain explodes with pain. The secret of a Fidelius charm cannot be forced- she may not find it via legilmency, nor an imperious curse, but Bellatrix is the sort of person who just likes hurt for the sake of hurt. A proper psychopath, is what Remus used to say. As a child, she made a hobby out of pulling the legs off beetles, which progressed to small rodents as she got older. And apparently human beings too, these day.
“Tell me.” Bellatrix sings. “Oh, tell me, little cousin!”
“No.” Says Sirius. Or maybe he doesn’t. She’s in his head, on his body. He imagines her in the blood that seeps from him, the stickiness all over the floor, and repeats it, louder. His chest aches, and oxygen alludes him. He is Pain. He is Red and Black. He is nothing but Dark. “No.”
“You won’t win.” She chides, sweetly. “There is no winning. The Lord knows how to deal with blood-traitor scum like you, darling.”
And here is the greatest catch- the boy on the floor’s one great victory over the Dark Lord. The spark that keeps his mawkish heart beating behind those burning lungs. Here is his triumph card: they can’t kill him until he tells them how to find James.
And he will never tell them.
So, there are two options- die now, either by provocation or some over-zealous accident, and let the secret die with him. Or die later, and hope maybe somebody kills Voldemort in the time it takes for this last little bit of fight to leave him. Unlikely, but hope is an unsquishable thing.
Bella claws her way back into his brain. Sirius starts screaming, wailing. He clamps an aching hand over his mouth. Spits out a wad of phlegm and snot. Suddenly, he finds himself seized by the hair again. His pretty, fashionable little metal anklet detaches from the wall with a flick of her wand, instead curling into its twin on his left foot. An intense jealously lurks beneath his inter monologue of ow ow ow and oh shit oh shit oh shit; he misses magic. He misses his wand. This captivity is the longest he’s gone without holding one since he was eleven.
“Concentrate.” Bellatrix shrieks, slapping him across the face. She smiles. “Come along, then.”
He can’t walk. He can, maybe, but he also can’t. There’s not much pride left in him though, so he shuffles in a strange hopping motion after her, dragged by his hair, through the oaken door and out into the corridor.
Sirius hates this corridor.
It’s not necessarily the corridor itself, but where it leads to. He remembers holidays here as a kid- every easter, paraded around the drawing room in itchy dress robes. Serpent’s End is a strange place, full of detailed, serpentine stonework and old fashioned furniture. Unplottable. Inescapable. Seeped in dark, timeless magic, from the days of Salazar Slytherin himself. Lots of it is underground, and Sirius finds himself strangely grateful that has was given a room on the ground floor, despite it being windowless. His feet slide on the dusty black runner, almost tripping on its silver edges. They haven’t redecorated since the late 1800’s. His uncle used to be incredibly proud of the amount of taxidermy it held- there’s a stuffed acromantula chandelier somewhere, which he’d often tormented Regulus with.
“Stand up straight.” Bellatrix says. The hallway has warped around her; they stumble to a stop at a dark, heavy door. Despite being made of stone, it wasn’t there a second ago. Serpent’s End is a little like Hogwarts in that regard. Constantly whispering and changing. The thought gives Sirius a little comfort. There is some quarter of the magic of home, here. He pushes his aching shoulders back. It burns like hell.
”My Lord,” Bellatrix announces, in that manic, sultry sort of way, “the bloodtraitor boy!”
He frowns. He’s seven years younger than her. Boy. Ugh.
At the far end of the hall, on a raised stone dais, sits the only man Sirius has ever hated more than his arithmancy tutor. Between them is about twenty metres of polished black tile, glinting endless Russian-doll squares into the many mirrors. The light is a regular ruby chandelier- no taxidermy in sight, apart from the two beady crows and the dead girl dangling from an invisible beam. Sirius shudders and stifles another wet cough. Her eyes are still open. As Bella opens the door, the draught swings her gently to and fro.
“Come.” Says Voldemort, flicking a lazy wrist. Sirius is shoved forwards- by hands or magic, he can’t tell. Then again, with knee-bruising force. He says nothing, doesn’t even cry out. “Greetings, Sirius.”
That snake is still here. Normally Sirius loves animals, but there’s something too-humanoid about this one. It’s huge, too. Unnaturally so. Almost like an emerald-scaled basilisk, with a sharp, hungry gaze that feels far too like its master’s. He promptly averts his eyes, scanning the now-familiar room instead. There’s a new figure today, on the far left, their hood drawn up high. A new recruit, maybe?
“Won’t you bow?” Bellatrix purrs. “Have you learnt nothing, black-blood scum?” She places one claw-like hand on his head and presses down, hard, until Sirius’s knees wobble. Gritting his teeth, he’s forced to his knees.
“Now, Bella,” says the snake-man, “save your fun for later. We have business.”
He twists his wand with his overly-long, white finger. Every movement is deliberately casual. Sirius’s chin is gripped and twisted, neck pulling uncomfortably until he has to stare Voldemort in the eye. They’re so narrow, so slit-like. ”I have no business with you.”
“I think you do.” He tilts his head. “I have an offer for you, Sirius Black.”
Sirius snarls. He doesn’t want an offer. He wants Death and Salvation. He wants his hope gone and his fear proved true. He wants Remus Lupin by his side, goddamn it, and a future for Harry James Potter. Most of all, he wants to live in a world where those two things could be possible simultaneously. Henceforth, Sirius returns to his new catchphrase. “No.”
The man ignores him. If he had any eyebrows, he might have raised them. “I want you to join me.”
Sirius tries to lean back. The spell keeps its iron grip on his body. “No.”
”We could end this little game right now. No more pain. No more suffering.” He hums. “I wouldn’t even need you to tell me the secret- you could take us right there.”
He swallows, hard. “I’d rather die.”
“That can be arranged.” Bellatrix murmurs.
”Join me. Join our cause- you were born to, heir of Black.” The dead girl swings a little faster. “The pure blood in your viens could cleanse the world.” Through genocide and murder? Sirius wants to scream, but they know him too well and a silencing charm worms its way into his mouth. “I invite you to sit at my table, take my mark.” He spreads his etoilated arms wide. “Your voice will be heard. You will bring an end to this war, Sirius Black, and let it be the Noble one. What say you?”
Sirius, Ender of Wars, champion of ‘No’s, Hater of Arithmancy and snake-people, shakes his head. He doesn’t even have time to finish the motion before the pain comes- a torture curse of some kind, lacing fire through his nerves. The world turns white and hot. Like a dying bug, Sirius writhes silently on the floor. He flounders, gasps, twitches.
“So,” says Lord Voldemort, “so, so stubborn. All this violence- what a waste. Your brother knew better, Sirius. He knew the true path.”
Listen- Sirius knows, abjectly, that Regulus is a bad person. That maybe he always was. That, in his very short lifespan, he has made some god-awful decisions. But sometimes, when somebody says the word Regulus, the image in his head is of a little boy, paler than a ghost, giggling when his shoes make the sound of a fart on a linoleum floor. Sometimes, he hates himself for forgetting that he’s grown up. He must have done- Sirius last saw him in his seventh year and Regulus’s sixth, and he’s thought back a thousand times to that final glance across a busy train station. It came as no surprise he’d turned onto the path he did. He’d always been like that; wanting to do everything in the right way, with the right people. But knowing he’s a Death Eater and actually hearing Lord Voldemort say it are two very different things. And this ache cuts deeper than any spell they’ve used so far.
“Come, Black.” Says the Dark Lord, and not to him. To the figure to his left, in the dark cloak. He’s so tall- god, Sirius is going to vomit, he’s so tall now. There’s nothing babyish about that proud, dark figure. “Watch.”
Obediently, the shape-that-is-Regulus watches. Bellatrix hisses in perverse joy, muttering about family reunions and blood magic. The snake flickers out a dark tongue as it slithers beneath its master’s chair, making a god-awful sliding noise on the tile, but Voldemort’s eyes never leave Sirius. “Let’s give you one more chance.”
Sirius braces.
“Where are the Potter’s?”
Regulus disappears into black spots of pain.
He knows it hurts.
He knows movement- another spell, dragging him backwards from the room. A door clangs. A bolt shutters. Another doorway. A stuffed Komodo-dragon leers at him with beady, blinking eyes.
Doorway. Floor. Dark.
He doesn’t know if it ever stops.
Sirius comes back to himself, aching, at the soft tread of slow footsteps. His body throbs. Something akin to fire is gnawing at his back. They can leave him alone for days sometimes, whereas other times there are only seconds between rounds of questioning. He supposes the lack of a pattern is supposed to wear him down. Water would be nice; he can still feel Bellatrix’s flilthy fingers prodding at his gums, as if he were a racehorse at an auction.
A pair of shoes stop outside of his door, murmuring spells, and a man walks in.
A man.
No boy is left inside of his brother.
“Hullo.” Mumbles Sirius, pitifully, wedged into the corner.
Regulus lowers his hood and locks the door behind him. Somewhere else in the house, Bellatrix is laughing.
He’s so tall. His face is long, like their father, but eyes are round and dark, like their mother. He is the echo of the something long forgotten- a china chin of which he dropped a fork onto, holding his breath incase it clattered. A nose that slopes like their staircase, regal with the pain as he tumbled down it. Eyes like doorways he was told not to cross. Ears like silence he was never to break.
They cut their hair in different ways- Sirius, long and overgrown, frizzing outwards, and Regulus, neat and uniform, short without being buzzed. The shirt beneath his cloak is horrendously outdated, a high-collared velvet monstrosity. Anger and anxiety roll from him in waves, skimming from the surface like sea-foam. Uncomfortable yet practiced, the blades of his gaze prickle against bare skin.
Regulus raises his wand. Sirius closes his eyes and braces.
“Sirius,” Regulus says, in an annoyed whisper. There’s the tell-tale muffling of a silencing charm in the air. “scream.”
The blow never comes.
“What?” Sirius wheezes, eyes suddenly wide. Regulus has lowered his wand. He didn’t hurt him, yet- he hasn’t struck. His panic-addled brain cannot comprehend this.
Rolling his eyes, Regulus repeats, “Start screaming. They’re listening.”
Dumbly, Sirius lets out a feeble moan.
“For Salazar’s sake.” His brother says, and begins to yell. It’s bone-chilling, the sudden, high-pitched keening that comes from his mouth whilst every other feature remains blank and bored. He cracks his neck.
“What are you doing?” Sirius asks, stupefied, when he finally stops.
Regulus shrugs. He suddenly looks a little awkward, standing beside the door and looking down on Sirius. He feels wrong to be in this room- a paper collage cutout to a mismatched background. “Our voices are still similar enough.”
“Oh,” says Sirius, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” He says grimly, all prim and proper. He’s always gone full-whack with the pure blood stuff- all the articulation and the dress, the traditions and table manners.
Silently, Sirius watches his twenty-year old brother fold down by his side and tap his cool, sharp wand across his abdomen. It almost tickles; it feels unreal. He feels his brain heavy inside of his head, like a lump of cold, heavy meat. They haven’t spoken in nearly four years. Regulus still has a mole on the back of his neck- Sirius doesn’t know why, but he expected it to be gone.
“I can’t do too much,” Regulus explains, almost guiltily, in that stupid posh accent, “or they’d know. I don’t have enough healing magic to get rid of the damage without taking away the marks.”
“Hm.” Sirius says. “Nice tattoo.”
”It’s a symbol. A mark, not a tattoo.”
”Pretty serious symbol.”
“I wanted to win.” Regulus informs him. “I wanted to follow a force of change. Is that such a crime?”
Sirius coughs, wetly. “Not so much a crime as that shirt.”
His brother stares down at him with the strangest look he has ever seen. It is completely unreadable. After two or three seconds, he turns back to Sirius’s broken ankle and begins his work again. “It’s traditional.”
“Are you not suffocating?”
“No.” He sighs irritably. “This stupid house is always freezing.”
Sirius nods in agreement. “So fucking cold.”
Suddenly, Regulus turns to him. His tone is stark and serious. “Sirius,” he says, a little shakily, “Sirius, I can’t get you out.”
Sirius stares. “Yeah, no-“
“I thought about it, but the wards are impenetrable, inside or out. This door has a wand-signature key. It just- I just- it just doesn’t work.”
It feels like I’m sorry. “That’s okay, Regulus. I didn’t expect you to be able to.” Suddenly realising they’ve been silent a good while, he adds in an off-hand scream of pain.
“That was a good one.” Regulus offers. “That’s how you usually scream.”
He hates the implication that his little brother listens to him being tortured on the regular.
“I don’t think you understand.” Regulus insists, rather abruptly. “There’s no way out.”
“I know.” Sirius says, between hacking coughs that they both politely ignore.
Regulus sits back a little, spells all done. He clears his throat and announces, “You’ve got pneumonia.”
“I sleep on the floor. It’s winter.”
“You’ll die.”
He blinks. “Yes.”
”For Potter? For a baby that doesn’t even know your name?” Regulus says, incredulously. “Really?”
Out of words, Sirius shrugs. Of course he will. He was always going to.
“I hate you.” Regulus whispers, emotionlessly. “Do you know the power you hold right now? This whole war is in the palm of your hand. Speak, and Voldemort kills the Potter boy and the prophecy is void. Don’t, any we carry on in this dull, repetitive game. You’re in control right now, Sirius- and you’re just going to die? Waste away in this stupid little room in this horrible old house until you rot?”
It doesn’t feel like control, he wants to say. It doesn’t feel like anything important. It feels like suffering for the sake of suffering. He looks down at his oh-so-important hand. The pinkie finger is missing. “That’s the plan.” Sirius wheezes, finally. “Maybe Dumbledore will kill old slithers first.”
Bitterly, Regulus turns away. “Not possible.”
A dark, slug-like feeling crawls through him. Purity, purity- it’s all so damn ugly. “That faithful to your master, are you? Don’t worry- you can diss the boss. I won’t tell.”
He raises one velvet-purple shoulder in an exhausted shrug. “Evan died last week.” Sirius says nothing. They have killed dozens of his friends.
“I told him it was a bad idea to go that night. But the Dark Lord listens to nobody- Evan would have thrown himself off a cliff if he’d asked.” Quietly, Regulus adds, “I want it over with.”
Sirius nudges him with his good foot. It means me too.
His brother sighs. “But it’s not possible anymore. Nobody can kill him.”
“Could get lucky.”
”You learn things about any man in four years of dutiful service. Even one like this.” Regulus states. “He’s creating horcruxes- lots, I think. Around six or so. They’ll keep him alive forever if he does it right.”
Sirius tries to imagine a world where Voldemort is forever. Where the fear never ends. Where Diagon Alley stays dark and padlocked. Where the daily prophet exists only for the latest horror stories. Where no muggleborn or halfblood may step outside without fear.
“Reg,” Sirius says, and this is so serious, suddenly, “Regulus, tell Snape.” His brother stares at him like he’s lost it. But this is the clearest Sirius has felt in weeks. “Tell Severus about the horcruxes. Please. Please, Regulus.”
”Why would I do that? He’ll go to Him, and then he’ll kill us both.”
Sirius shakes his head. “Tell him.”
”Severus is a death eater through and through. And a halfblood. That’s suicide.”
“Trust me.” Sirius rasps. “Please.”
He bites his lip. He’s only twenty. He looks, if you squint, like a scared little boy. “I just-“
“It’s our only chance. You have to-”
“I can try to heal your cough.” Regulus says, abruptly. His tone slides through Sirius’s voice, leaving no room for their previous argument. “It might not work.”
“Don’t bother.”
He grimaces and tries anyways. It works a little. Breathing easier, Sirius manoeuvres his unowned, untethered body to lie on the floor. His brother is a solid presence in the silence beside him. The company is nice. Every now and then, one of them will scream. They’re both right- it’s bitterly cold.
“Will you do me a favour?” Sirius asks, suddenly.
Warily, Regulus looks at him.
“Will you do it, Regulus?” He finds himself unable to meet his brother’s eyes. “I can’t- I can’t live like this. You wouldn’t even get in trouble. Just tell them you went a little far, or maybe even I got a hold of your wand or something.”
Pity fills his flat, father-like face. “No.”
“Why?” Sirius whispers.
““Do you know what you’re asking me to do?”
“I’m asking you to.”
“I’m not killing you!” Regulus hisses, “And don’t ask me again.”
Sirius sniffs and closes his eyes. “Okay.”
His brother gets up without another word. Briefly, his robes pause their rustling, as if he hesitates beside the door. This could be the last time. It most likely will- Voldemort will move him on, if he gets no answers from Sirius.
He opens the door. He leaves.
The dead boy lives to die another day.