part I
There were specks of magic in the air, some voices in the distance, muffled, undecipherable shouts and sharp whipping sounds. A fray? A battle? The air was charged as if there was an upcoming storm, except the storm was already happening, there was no calm before it and no minute to prepare for the turmoil. Never that.
Regulus stirred in his bed. He tried to take a hold of his sleep, enveloping his duvet all over his head in a poor attempt to shut himself off the noise, but it was quickly getting away from him. The voices got louder as the slumber dissipated; there were stomps and clatter downstairs.
Again.
Half his summer was filled with Sirius fighting their mother, and there surely was no way to shut any of them. Half the time rows occured in the morning, which deterred Regulus' mood for the rest of the day.
He was coming to his senses with his face smack-dab on the cushion; it prevented him from opening his eyes, so he just breathed in and out. He squeezed his fists on each side of it and eased the grasp, repeated, and sighed heavily. No desire to wake up and face the day whatsoever. He lay for another minute and strained his ears. No whips, no shouts, the stomps stopped not far from his room and ended with a loud thud of the door to Sirius' room. Figures.
No, no, no, it doesn't, because the next second he heard a creaking sound of the door opening back, a click of a shoe stepping over the threshold, muffled low voice, and then,
"—mindset? Ridiculous! There's no mindset at your age. And what you are talking about so incessantly is not something worth pursuing. Apparently we should work a bit harder to make you a proper Black."
Sirius certainly said something in return, something probably nasty if the thud of his dresser that punctuated his response was anything to go by. At that moment there was a soft pop and Kreacher appeared by Regulus' bed and looked expectantly at his Master with clothes hovering next to him. Yes, better to get prepared and look decent. Regulus sighed and began untangling himself from the duvet.
"We'll see to that." His mother's voice was ringing through the corridors, like a scrape of an ancient rusty metal, making his skin crawl and hair stand up on his arms and nape. "The more you meddle with that grime the harder you make it for yourself. And you well know that it's not such a hard job to keep your face, it's in your blood, boy! You'll stay here for today. Kreacher will bring you food if you behave yourself".
Regulus put on the clothes quickly, and Kreacher made his bed with a wave of magic. Regulus made his cuffs and looked over his room with a frown. Everything looked neat, he glanced at the treillage— well, everything except for him. His hair was all messy, so he brushed it hastily and made an appearance as if he were ready to leave his room. First he'll make an appearance, only then with a minute to breathe will he actually go to the bathroom to wash his face. Kreacher skimmed the room and his young Master and disappeared with a final approving nod.
The door to Sirius' room closed loudly, there was another wave of magic in the air as it was magically locked. Mother's steps were nearing his room now, and despite his bones filling with lead, he straightened and stepped over to the door and reached for the doorknob. His face blank, feigning nonchalance.
The door opened at him — harsh, no knock — as he knew it would. His mother's figure towered over him, more sheer power than true height prevailance.
"Good morning, Mother."
Her face cleared slightly off the distaste left after the bickering with her eldest son as she saw Regulus fully prepared (for what? There was no family meeting or any official call, but it was his duty to always show his pureblood looks even if it was just in front of his bedroom mirror. He had so much to uphold). She nodded as if ticking off another nuisance in her list.
"I see you've got up already. Good. Breakfast is in ten minutes. And keep away from your brother today." At that she gave his room a once-over and shut the door with a thud.
Regulus let out a breath, shoulders sagging a little.
And that's for a good morning.
*
If Regulus had to describe his family House and be succinct at that, he'd choose to call it a black hole, with all due respect to their tradition of claiming celestial bodies and objects. For all he knew about black holes, they were all-consuming darkness, ruthless eaters of light, soulless, basically just natural (even though they didn't appear as something natural at all) entities with no purpose other than eliminating anything that would do something as harmless as mere passing by within their radius. And so his family, whose descendants ate all the light in their way, crushed those who cultivated and encouraged it.
But that, of course, is too muggle a term to call them. Hence undignifying. And oh, he respected the ideals.
As a more appropriate word, acceptable for a pureblood family that radiated dark magic, Regulus would choose dementors. For they sucked out any hint of happiness and brought so much anxiety, one could even lose their soul and die; but not before they were left an empty shape, a mockery to real human. Their use of magic was as crass and vile as their word; sometimes it was enough for them to just open their mouth. Just like dementors.
The thing about the Blacks was that their place in society was so concretely rooted by centuries of cultivation of their brand magic which grew stronger, sharper with generations; of inbreeding and scrupulous selection, so that an offspring could be recognized by their looks only sparing them of the need to actually announce their name; of their sophisticated traditions. Their frozen-in-time values made them the constants of the Wizarding world, that gave them the power of a name, no need to wave a wand even.
He always liked the tradition part. It made it easy— life, that is. As a Black, the minute he was born he had a fate on his hands. The one that guaranteed everything: concrete background, funds, governors, a book with all the names he was related to, strong magic. As a Black, he was expected to thrive, using those resources that the Family provided, only on the condition of him fitting firmly in the frames they'd built. Certain mannerism, faceless etiquette when in communication with others, good (scratch that) excellent grades, accuracy in everything, and, of course, absolute support of the beliefs.
Meaning, they split the world in half, in which their half was so much smaller but had so much power, it seemed absurd. The Black family (except for some rare but nonetheless headstrong individuals whose names were burnt from the family tapestry down in the drawing room by Mother, of course, and were deemed dead should they be brought up in conversations) was thick as thieves, respected by blood and not sharing it with anyone but those who proved to be worthy by their centuries of sticking to the ideology and constant reaching for power.
All that made it easy. He just had to remember; it was like a collection of knowledge that guaranteed him effortlessness in life.
But then there was Sirius.
That what was given to him at birth and what could be counted on one hand was not like discipline to Sirius, but rather formed a constrictory grip on him. The tools that were offered didn't fit his hand, they were not enough. Or rather— they were way too much. Restricting and diminutive of others. That tapestry for him was more like a grid; metallic and stiff.
When Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor, his Mother was enraged, and Regulus was puzzled. From Mother's words, Gryffindors were disloyal, stupid, and cowardly. As far as Regulus knew, his brother was anything but.
Of course, they had a copy of Hogwarts: A History in their library, multiple copies even. About a dozen, to be more precise. Some were of the same edition and only differed in the notes left on the margins, or lack thereof. Some were really old and were considered more antique rather than books consisting of valuable academic use. The copy that'd end up in Regulus' hands a few times when he was young– younger than a Hogwarts attendant, that is, was his Mother's. It was a book that showed a badly composed temper of its owner. Its pages were ripped off in some places, some passages were roughly scratched off with ink. Unsurprisingly, half of the chapter about Hogwarts founders and the Houses they created was simply torn and filled with ink. No surprise there that Regulus didn't know how Gryffindor was praised for its bravery and camaraderie.
He would only figure this out when he himself settled at Hogwarts. But that's for later.
After Sirius had been sorted into Gryffindor every single mischief would further on be labeled as typical insolent Gryffindor behavior. Their numerous cousins would scoff and sneer at the boy whenever he did something more or less funny, and that'd be a fortunate outcome – their scoffing, because their Mother would rather screech or jerk him by his collar and haul him out of the parlor if a staunt appeared at a public/family meeting (she tried to be scarce, but her temper always prevailed), have some house elf disapparate the boy to his room and not let out (and then later in the night there would be shouting and pounding, of course).
After he'd been sorted into Gryffindor they all quickly forgot how that insolence was a family trait, how breaking laws, ever so slightly, was a Slytherin trait as well, how the boy didn't change from what he had been before the Sorting. That said, they saw him as an outcast from there on.
Since then, during every summer or holiday they spent at Grimmauld Place, if Regulus dared to joke at the table or voice his thoughts on some matter, always being rather mild and never as scathing as anything spoken by his relatives, he would be having a talk later. Sirius would go to his room as soon as he finished his plate, quickly out of the room with a glance to his brother and raised brows as if saying don't let them dump you (and Regulus didn't trust himself to not do just that, really). And Regulus never dared to leave so soon; he would sit rigidly, trying to eat methodically moving his hand from plate to mouth, even though his hands seemed to tremor a bit, and mouth twitched and tried to close before he even reached a fork to take a bite, he tried to act neither too eager nor too impassive but ended up not feeling his body and failing in operating it at all. It felt like he was an old doll, limbs rusty at their metal hinges. Because he knew that when he spoke something of his own, something too sincere for that table he was sitting at, he would get a dressing down later. Granted, he never was slapped or got any other sort of punishment that was common in reprimands directed at Sirius; his were another sort of torture.
Once he would finish his plate, almost half an hour after Sirius had left, his Mother would lay her cutlery next to her plate, ever so neatly (the accuracy only marred by dents in the silver, left after years of being held— or rather clenched– in her hands. Those were claimed by her and no one was to touch them. Some long-ago new elves suffered from their mistake of confusing those with other items from the same set: after all they all were silver, what's the difference? Old elves knew better than that, though, and stayed with their heads on respectively). She’d tap a napkin to her mouth and then train her eyes on Regulus. And a second later his Father would impassively glance up as well, letting know he’s somewhat a part of an upcoming conversation, too; only he wouldn't stop eating or drinking his wine, he wouldn't lay his fork and knife. That was too dull, and well, he was a busy man.
Then Mother would start going on about family values and the image of a perfect Black, how she wasn't at all pleased with his juvenile attempts at speaking with them, and do not be like your brother. The last part was almost engraved into his mind, with each year all the more aggressively being squashed into his head.
He always replied with "Yes, Mother. Of course. I understand."
*
And understand he did, though it did nothing to erase the sympathy he felt towards his brother. Regulus considered Sirius his first friend, and honestly, you could say the list of friends ends here. (Except for Kreacher, who truly was not only a loyal servant but also a good friend to Regulus, but of course as a pureblood he wouldn’t admit it and prefered to avoid such a confession even in his mind for a very long time.)
There was a low chance for Regulus to become even remotely like Sirius. Yes, they shared much resemblance, their looks coming from Mother (though with all inbreeding tendencies it’s rather pointless to decipher the roots or certain features) and making them almost twins in the eyes of unfamiliar people. However, under the surface they didn’t share much.
As years passed, it got worse.
Sirius had fire in him. He was flamboyant with his friends, but when he came back to Grimmauld he’d become volatile.
He never listened to his Mother, because she never listened to him.
It was evident even in small things that piled up and up and up, and in the end made an awry reality. Mother would screech at Sirius to keep things in perfect order as if not touched in the first place, and Sirius wouldn’t have any of that.
Mother’s obsessive behavior only escalated with time, as such Regulus would become neurotic, too. He became more attentive of small things, knowing that if Sirius left a chair a few centimeters off the table, or left crumbs on the tablecloth, or wouldn’t close the door tightly when he left the room, Mother would be very angry. Any off-thing that Regulus has come to notice made him very apprehensible, anxious, his insides would thrumm with the feeling of an upcoming plight. So he just fixed everything that would make Mother unhappy. Anything that would make him endure another few hours of scandal.
It was a mess.
***
part II
Brave Men Run (From My Family)
In all honesty, I never considered myself a brave person. Unlike the white sheep in my family, who were brave enough to see through all the brainwashing, see themselves and their ambitions that could only be fulfilled when away from this House. They were brave and ran. Sooner, like Sirius, or later, like Andromeda, or Uncle Alphard. I'm not.
I am running away, though.
Sirius told Regulus to dream, aiding him with a spark of imagination. Unfortunately, the spark couldn't land and ignite fire. The wood was wet; not something fire can work with. Regulus had been doomed before he could even try and change anything for himself, let alone others.
He stood in front of a treillage mirror, tugging his shirt into his trousers waist. Kreacher held out a strict black tie towards him.
With a machinery precise movement Regulus made the first knot folding the fabric over his collar. He looked at his face in the mirror. Dark circles settled under his eyes, it felt like his skin was tugged down with dumbbells, the exhaustion felt tangible after months of distraught sleep and overwork. He looked sullen, chin down and eyebrows low, as though he was going to fight with himself if only his reflection made an attempt to become sentient.
"Kreacher can help Master." The elf didn't even try to hide his worry; in the past few months, or years rather, he grew more fond of his young Master. Seeing him like this, like tarnished silver, probably evoked his urge to serve - the only way of caring he was let to do for years - even more. Regulus saw that, but he couldn't help but push his own limits. He had a mission. And after he’d be done, Kreacher wouldn't have to worry about him anymore.
"Master knows, Kreacher." He fixed the position of the tie on his collar and checked on his cufflinks. "I just want to do something on my own for once."
Kreacher sighed and proceeded to clean out whatever was laying askew around them.
Regulus turned from the triliage and walked towards his desk. There, from the drawer he retrieved the fake locket. While Kreacher was muttering something in the back of the room, Regulus sat in the chair and grabbed a quill. He took a small parchment from the stack on the side of the desk, and reached for an inkwell that stood by a lamp. There was ink just on the bottom, a few drops. That'll suffice. Just a few lines is all I need. He scraped the ink and sat back at his chair looking at the yellowish parchment in front of him. What was that he wanted to say to him, really?
Ah, right. To the Dark Lord—
***
He folded the letter after the ink had dried off, and opened the locket.
"Kreacher, do you remember how we're going to proceed?" He put the letter inside, it fit neatly. Regulus closed the locket and looked up at Kreacher, expectant.
"Yes, Master. When we're being at the place, I'm not to stop you no matter what. And then I'm putting the trinket into the basin." He looked at the locket and then at his Master. Regulus nodded.
"Correct. Good. Then we're ready to go." He stood up and hung the locket on his neck.
Kreacher didn't move but kept looking at Regulus with an unreadable expression. Regulus ignored and moved to grab his travel cloak.
"May Kreacher ask young Master one question?"
Regulus checked his wand at the holster, and said distractedly, "Whatever."
"Is Master going to live after the task?" Kreacher stayed put by the desk and tilted his head slightly, his ears wavering.
Regulus looked at him for a moment and replied, "No. Master is not," He flipped his hair out of the collar of his cloak and went towards the door out of his room. "Hopefully everybody else is, though."
part III
I Dreamed I Dream
In some families, blood was a blessing. The looks children shared with the people -parents, to some- that bore them to life were a subject of pride. Kids would look through their family albums, point at their parents’ photos and say see, my smile is just like mother’s all the while showing off a grin that, indeed, looked just like their mother’s. Old family friends would cordially smile at them saying how much their eyes resemble their father, the kid would preen, knowing they belong.
Not Sirius’ case, though.
By the fifth year, he cradled an idea, a plan on lucky days when he felt especially mighty of his own fate, of running away from Grimmauld and changing his name to erase himself from their hawk eyes for good. However, sooner or later he would sober up and realize the idea was bound to end up futile. Not in the Wizarding world would it ever work out for him. His looks would betray a Black in him.
He cursed at the silver surfaces of mirrors whenever he saw his reflection and thought first of his Mother, or Father, or cousins, or of any other clones-descendants of their snake nest. Not of himself. His reflection made him churn and spit bile at times.
The only way for him was to bear the name proudly, despite feeling utter disdain for it. To embrace it as well as his face, and carry it out in the world as something of his own.
Fate’s been generous to him with granting him James first, then kindly offering him a place among the Potters. He might have appeared like one taking it all for granted.
Wrong, though. He never believed that it was something more than a dream. However, he always was one to make dreams come true. At least giving a try to do so, with way too much fervor sometimes, unlike his brother who seemed to have stuck in their bloodline like it was quicksand.