The price has long been set, love is the only one

Walburga Black is a vicious woman. It's hard to find a person who wouldn't agree with that statement, or at least hasn't heard it uttered by others, after all, the surname of an ancient family has a certain fame that even in the best of times could be called dubious.

So it didn't really surprise anyone when one day word spread among the magical world that Walburga Black, pregnant with her firstborn, continued to dabble in dark magic.

Particularly brave, if not foolish, wizards tried to warn her. They included an unknown wizard with downward-flowing curls and eyes blazing with warmth, his glasses slanting to the side, who seemed unable to resist being near every gossip of the magical world, invisibly present.

But Walburga Black, as mentioned earlier, is a flawed woman, and therefore a proud one. She knows best what she's doing, so every piece of advice that doesn't fit her opinion is rejected.

What is surprising is how the firstborn she gives birth to is a child of light, with a soul wide open. A smile makes dimples appear on his cheeks and his heart is full of innocent childlike love. People look up to him, called Sirius, the brightest star in the sky, which so perfectly reflects a youthful character blazing with the brightest fire.

Contrary to his sparkling soul, the boy grows up in an atmosphere as cold as floating ice floes, as cruel as the cruelest of winters. It does not break him, only slightly cracks the childish enthusiasm, so brittle, so fragile and tender. It should be cherished in warm mittens, gently squeezed in the hands, pressed to the chest, like something especially precious. It should be surrounded with care, a particularly precious gift, so innocent and sweet that it requires full attention and love. He doesn't get that from his own mother, frighteningly aloof and unpleasant, like the bitterest chocolate.

Fate tentatively touches the threads of his future, sees the fragments of the young man he may become, when the strongest of the threads wriggles in the incorporeal hands and begins to crumble, splitting into small pieces and disappearing into the endless darkness of the universe...

Walburga wasn't known for her kindness, and neither were most Blacks. So it was no surprise to anyone when she continued to practise dark magic after the birth of her child. What was surprising was how, for once, she seemed to have miscalculated her sacrifice.

This time the choice to fall prey to the darkest spell she knew had come from what she thought was the perfect person. She was a witch who was famous for living in the wilderness and not practising magic in its usual form, preferring instead the rites and rituals that many had long since abandoned.

Living far away from humans, she couldn't have been a better victim for a magic experiment, but she successfully fought off Walburga as if she were a bug on her worn shoe.

“Black,” her voice whispered hoarse with disuse, eyes glittering with dangerous warning, magic so ancient it had been erased from the books, “how dare you come to my lands and behave like this... Go away while I allow you to.”

She dodges the next spell and a couple more following. Magic swirls around her body in a dark shroud as her dry lips whisper words in a language long since unknown to anyone.

“You, Black, are young and foolish, I can understand that, but you wasted your only warning a moment ago,” her voice trailed off and she gasped in a cough, the life slowly draining from her withered body, but a fanged smile stretched her lips, “so here is my deathbed promise to you, girl Black, you will live a life of wealth and pride, but the next child you bear will bring woe to your family. You will not know,” the spell pierces her, but sinks into the withering earth with the old witch's will, “maternal happiness, you will not know peace as long as he lives, you will perish if you stand by him. Until he finds someone who can break my covenant, who can defeat death, you will know no peace. This is my will. Hear me, Goddess Fate.”

A deafening thud accompanies the body's fall to the ground. And there is silence all around, cold and unapproachable.

Walburga spits on the cooling body and leaves the neglected territory.

She forgets the witch's words.

Fate holds the threads around her and sheds bitter tears.

Her second son is born in a silence that frightens the medic who delivers the baby. The woman in the white uniform only manages to say briefly that everything is all right as she takes the baby in her arms before she drops dead before finishing her sentence. Her face is frozen surprised and motionless.

Walburga, barely up, still recovering, looks at the baby lying ugly on the corpse and wrinkles her nose.

“You,” she growls to the dead woman's assistant, “take him.”

Because there is no way she will touch this creature if it has the power to kill.

The girl, too young to be here, shakes her head uncertainly. It's a shame Walburga doesn't suggest she has a choice.

“Take it,” she repeats hoarsely, and watches as the medic meekly carries out the order, “stay.”

She freezes, hope lighting up in her pale eyes. It's a shame.

“Touch it through the cloth,” ruins the bright feeling.

The nearest cloth wraps around a delicate hand and touches the dirty skin of the creature, who grunts in response. The girl lives, but her hands shake so violently that they are about to drop the poor thing.

The longer she touches the infant, however, the paler it becomes, until she is forced to step back a distance, nearly gasping for breath as she gently places the creature on the ground.

Walburga moozes interestedly and notes that now, as before, she only has one child, and now one problem.

“Kreacher,” she wheezes.

The house elf, as ugly as any member of his species, wearing shabby rags, appears before her, bowing obediently.

“Kreacher here, Mistress,” he whispers.

They fit together, a fleeting thought, also quickly replaced by indifference.

“This,” she points her finger at the writhing child, “is your problem now. The creature's touch kills. Make sure it survives and knows who its master is.”

“Is that you, Mistress?”

“Of course, idiot.”

The creature bows and approaches the other freak.

“Does it have a name, Mistress?”

Walburga looks at the writhing hideous monster she spawned and wrinkles her nose.

“It doesn't need one.”

Kreacher bows obediently and gets out of sight.

Sirius is a smart kid, no matter what his mother tells him, so he knows he should have a brother or sister ever since his mother hurriedly left the dinner table accompanied by the medics. Her belly has been big for a while now, and books and cold parental conversations have made it easy to understand what pregnancy means.

When Mother returns, however, her belly is gone, but the child that Sirius once was is not with her.

“Mum?” he asks as Mother sits down at the table as if nothing had happened.

“Yes, Sirius?” they answer him in their usual cold way, and he doesn't understand.

“Where's the brother? Sister?” he continues and sees his mother's face contort strangely, as if she has eaten something particularly unpalatable, as she sometimes makes him do.

“There is no brother,” Mother replies sharply, and Father makes an equally funny face as he looks at her.

But Mother doesn't answer him, just shakes her head as if disappointed, as Sirius sometimes upsets her. But he's curious!

“Mum? Brother?”

“Sirius!” she barks, and Sirius tries to sound smaller.

His mother doesn't usually scare him, just frowns, but now she seems especially big and angry, which she rarely is.

“You don't have a brother, do you understand me?”

And Sirius, who is two years old and too curious for his own good, swears that Mother just wants him to figure it out on his own. After all, he's the future heir, whatever that means, so this must be a test!

“I see!” he nods enthusiastically and feels a smile stretch his face.

The plan actually wasn't as easy to implement as he'd hoped (which was to look through every crevice in the house), because suddenly, when there was only one unexplored place left that was suspiciously empty, Kreacher blocked his way! That means he's about to reveal a secret!

“Kreacher!” he stomped his foot, frowning unhappily, as his father often does, “away!”

“Sorry Master, Mistress‘ orders,” the elf bows, but that's the end of it.

“I am your Master too!” Sirius puffs up then.

And Kreacher is unapproachable, still standing still, not moving. Well, time for the secret passage then!

Sirius looks into the creature's eyes and feels his own fill with tears. And then he sobs.

The elf shuffles from foot to foot, looks round, but sighs and opens the door.

“Just gently, okay, Master?” whispers he uncertainly.

“Of course!”

Sirius runs inside, quite sure of his victory, but the sight he sees when he enters the room, unknown to him until that moment, is striking: the walls are empty (not like his room, where everything is hung with drawings that his parents never praise him, and other knick-knacks), his room is full of different colours, and here the walls are completely empty, only a cot, as he used to have, in the centre of the room and a small table to the side, completely empty.

“Kreacher, is that my brother?” he whispers suddenly unsure, eager to move closer to the cot, but the elf grabs his arm, stopping him.

“You must listen to me carefully, Master,” the man says and slowly leads him forwards, “the child is a little different from you, so he must not be touched. Not at all.”

“Why?” he doesn't understand.

“It's just the way he was born. It hurts if you touch it.”

How horrible! Sirius shuddered at the possibility that just touching him would hurt him! Though, if he thinks about it a little longer, he realises that every touch from his parents is so firm that sometimes they leave bruises afterwards. But on the other hand, Sirius isn't as small as his brother, so if it hurts him sometimes, he doesn't want to know how much stronger the baby will feel it. That can't be allowed to happen!

“Then I won't!” Sirius immediately shouts and he hears his brother moving in the cot, almost waking him up, so he lowers his voice, “I won't touch him!”

“Okay Master, thank you,” Kreacher smiles, and he rarely does, so Sirius is very, very proud of himself!

He stands up on the chair the elf has kindly set up and bends over the side of the bed to look at his little brother and almost immediately falls in love with him. He's very small, hands clenched into fists and pressed against his chest, and his mouth is slightly open as he sniffles. The clothes he's wearing are just white, a little scuffed and dirty, but overall quite bearable.

“He's so small!” he can't help but muffledly remark, and sees the elf nod sadly, “why is he so small?”

Kreacher is suspiciously silent, but then replies that it's just a peculiarity of some people. Somehow it feels like he's lying.

Sirius stares at him for a long, long time until he gets dizzy, which is strange because normally he can go a very long time without sleep, but here he feels really bad for some reason! He doesn't notice that he's swaying until Kreacher takes him aside.

“Are you all right, Master?” He whispers worriedly, but his little brother is still mumbling in his sleep.

“What's his name?” Sirius asks, and sees a deep sadness appear in the elf's eyes.

The silence stretches on for a long time, so he starts to worry, what if Kreacher forgot how to speak or forgot his name? Then he'll have to tell his mum, because that's not nice at all! But his mum said he doesn't have a brother, so she'll probably get angry...

“He doesn't have a name, Master,” the creature finally answers him, and Sirius can't hold back an outraged cry.

“What do you mean?” He is surprised and almost angry, “Everyone has a name, even you! Why doesn't he have one?”

Kreacher doesn't answer him, so Sirius only gets more annoyed.

“You can make up a name for him, Master…”

“His name is Brother!” Sirius replies excitedly, forgetting his earlier anger and smiling broadly.

He's never named anyone before!

“It's not a name, Master,” Kreacher replies gently, “it's his status as your relative. Think about it for a moment, will you?”

Sirius sulks, but nods.

His brother will have the best name ever!

Sirius doesn't read very well, and it would be too hard for him to look up a name for his brother in books, so he heads to where he knows for sure he'll find names: the family tree.

He still calls out for Kreacher to help him read, much to his embarrassment.

He points his finger at the portraits of relatives, and the elf calls out their names until Sirius finds the right one.

Cygnus.

Alphard.

Ignatius.

Septimus.

Carlus.

Pollux.

Regulus.

Phineas.

Arcturus.

Eventually Sirius gets tired and sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall.

“Which one do you think would suit him?” He asks, resting his head on his knees.

“Kreacher thinks the name Arcturus is good enough. Just like Sirius is the brightest star in the sky, Arcturus is the brightest in the constellation of Volopassus and the fourth brightest in the whole sky.”

“And Cygnus?”

“That's a whole constellation. There are many myths about it, but the most important one is probably about Phaethon. He and Cygnus got too close to the sun, and Phaethon fell into the river, where he drowned. And Cygnus asked God to let him live the rest of his life in the body of a swan. When his request was fulfilled, he took out the body of his friend and buried it. After that it was placed in the sky as a constellation.”

“Maybe we should call him Cygnus.”

“Wouldn't you like to hear the other legends?”

“Okay,” Sirius pulls irritably, but looks at the elf carefully, “tell me about Alphard.”

“A star in the constellation of Hydra. Sometimes it's called ‘the lonely one.”

“No! Not that, then!”

“And Regulus?”

“Tell me.”

“It's a star in the constellation of Leo. It's the brightest star in the constellation, and because of its position, it's called the ‘Heart of Leo’ and the star itself is also called the ‘little king’.”

“Then this!”

“Hear about the others, perhaps? It's a serious choice.”

“I've made up my mind!” Sirius replies confidently.

That's how Regulus came into the Black family.

Regulus Black, though he is not allowed to have that surname, grows up as loving as possible. He has an older brother and a loyal friend, and he doesn't need much more than that.

The world doesn't know about Regulus Black, and Regulus Black doesn't know about the world. His world is a small room, empty and cold, an older brother and a trusted friend.

When Sirius talks about ‘mother’ and ‘father’, he doesn't know what his older brother means, but he nods. Sometimes his faithful friend Kreacher helps him bathe and change his clothes, wrapped in a thick layer of cloth that makes Regulus' skin tingle, but he doesn't know what it means. Sirius never ‘touches’ him, and Kreacher only does so when necessary.

Regulus hugs himself, shrinking into a lump and pretending to be warm, though his blanket is warming, it's had a lot of holes in it for a long time and is quite bad. Sirius tried to bring him his own, but his faithful friend chased him away because it's ‘too conspicuous’.

Regulus is sad, but he understands. He probably does.

He also realises that Sirius is an adult, so he leaves often and rarely comes, only when it gets completely dark and Regulus is very lonely. His faithful mate rarely comes either.

Regulus is very sad, he wants to beg them to stay longer every time, but he doesn't because Kreacher is very nice and has taught him better things than begging.

Regulus has a ‘mistress’, Kreacher says, but he has never seen her.

Regulus sometimes wants to cry, but he doesn't because he is a big boy.

And if at night, when his big brother has gone and his faithful friend has put him to bed, his cheeks get wet, he just sweats a lot!

The world finds out about Regulus Black when he turns four, and six-year-old Sirius can't keep his mouth shut in front of one of his parents' guests.

Keeping a wide smile on his face that makes his cheeks ache, the Black heir finally announces his favourite brother to someone.

From the look on his mother's face and his father's frown, he realises he did it for nothing. A chill runs down his spine as his mother casts only a quick glance at him before politely explaining to her guest that they weren't yet ready to announce their second son to the world, who is so shy and sickly.

Regulus isn't like that, Sirius knows that. He's skinny, almost to the bone, and pale enough to seem like a ghost, but he's not morbid. However, having screwed up once already, he can't afford to do it again, so he keeps quiet.

“And what is your son's name, may I ask, now that the secret is out?”

Mother bites her lip, and Sirius frowns, because he remembers thinking up his brother's name himself. Mother must have forgotten about that!

“His name is Regulus,” he replies as politely as he can, and remembers to address adults as sir.

With that he earns another disapproving look from his mother, even though he helped her, so it's not fair!

When the guest leaves, promising to tell only the most trusted of people about his second son, Sirius knows that punishment awaits him.

“Would you care to explain, young man, how you knew about this creature when I told you crystal clear not to?” Whispers thin lips pressed together in displeasure.

“But, mother, he is my brother!” he exclaims, forgetting himself; why should he hide?

“This creature,” says the mother distinctly in syllables, “is neither my son nor your brother. Don't make the mistake, Sirius, of attributing to it qualities it does not possess.”

“But Regulus is good!” he shouts at last, unable to bear to treat his little brother this way, “he's a good kid that you locked up for some reason! He doesn't even have any toys!”

“Sirius Orion Black,” Oh no, the full name is in use, “if you know what's best for you, you'll stop bickering with me now and forget Regulus ever existed.”

The way his mother mockingly calls his name offends Sirius. He stares at the floor, stubbornly holding back angry tears. All he can think about is how unfair it all is. About his brother's gentle, quiet voice asking him how the sun feels on his skin? And the touch? Is the grass soft?

And who is mum?

“I hate you!” he shrieks completely angrily and runs up the stairs, ignoring his mother's shout.

He abruptly opens the door to his little brother's room and startles him, judging by how abruptly he turns around, jumping up at him.

“Brother!” a wide smile that makes Regulus look infinitely more gentle greets Sirius, as always.

“Come on! I'll show you the grass! And the sun! And everything!” Sirius declares confidently.

He'll lead his brother out of here, and they'll run far, far away, so that no one will find them. Never. Not even Mum!

Though he will write her letters.

But he'll take his little brother out of here!

Regulus is all fired up. He picks up his old, tattered plaid and follows Sirius.

They barely make it down to the ground floor, progressing very slowly considering how Regulus is constantly looking around in excitement, eager to touch everything.

Sirius is so close to him that he can almost feel the warmth of his body. He starts to feel a little dizzy, but he thinks it's stress. Eventually, they run away!

Mother meets them at the front door. A magic wand is in her hand, and that's never a good sign. But Regulus doesn't know that. The older one moves slightly forward, covering the younger one, but it's the only thing he can do, suddenly feeling terrible.

“Brother, who is that?” he whispers barely audible, and Sirius feels as if he's been paralysed.

“Oh my son, I am so disappointed,” his mother shakes her head, suddenly surprisingly downcast, as if she is deeply regretting something, “I raised you with all my heart, but you chose this creature over your own mother.”

“She means me?” Regulus wondered, sounding hurt.

“Yes, you,” his mother bellowed, and his brother flinched, “be quiet. You're not allowed to speak.”

“I am a free man!” Regulus declares confidently, so uncharacteristically, as Sirius sometimes said, “I say what I want and do what I want!”

His mother looks at his little brother, and Sirius feels his whole world suddenly become very, very cold. The portraits from the walls laugh at them, angry and hurtful.

“Kreacher,” Mother calls out to the elf who faithfully appears beside her.

A glance forwards and he freezes just as still, spotting Regulus outside the room.

“Did you tell it about it having a mistress?” Mother asks almost aloofly.

“Yes, Mistress, Kreacher told... the creature that it has a mistress,” the elf replies obediently and ignores Regulus' full body shudder.

“Kreacher?” all the confidence in his little brother's voice was gone, as if it had never been there.

Sirius ached for him, his whole soul cracking and aching for Regulus, so innocent, so tender and weak, his heart beating in a rhythm too fast and his breathing quickening to match. He feels so bad, like he's being torn apart, but he can't move, as if his mother's sharp heel has pinned him in place.

“I am your mistress,” his mum declares to his little brother, and Sirius feels like sobbing, “now, coming back to you, Sirius, what were you thinking?”

He tries to answer, stammering, but nothing comes out. Not a single formed word, just hoarse breaths.

“Do you want to make amends for your great guilt, my son? My traitor?” an all too cold smile appears on his mother's face.

Sirius is very, very afraid. He wants to cry. He wants his mum to comfort him. He nods.

“Are you not feeling well, my boy?” Mother asks almost gently.

He nods.

His head has really ached in the last couple of minutes, almost bursting into agony.

“You only need to do one small action, I think you might even like it, my son, my traitor,” she whispers so softly, so reverently and expectantly.

Sirius feels tears streaming down his face. He's shaking all over.

The little brother next to him feels almost as bad. He's not crying, but he's shaking violently, looking around uncertainly. Sirius wants to comfort him, he is the older brother after all, but he can't bring himself to move. He feels so bad. So scared.

“Mistress, do you…*

He has to protect his younger brother who first came out of an empty, lonely room, but... He wants to be protected too.

“Silence, elf.”

Kreacher closes his mouth with a sharp snap.

“Hey, you,” his younger brother is called out by his mother as Sirius stands shaking in place.

Regulus stares at her uncertainly, unable to speak.

“Lesson one: when people address you, you must answer, ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘Yes, ma'am,’ is that clear?” Mother criticises sharply, as Sirius once did.

“Yes, ma'am,” Regulus shrinks back.

Sirius wants to grab his hand and comfort him, but he remembers Kreacher's words from a distant childhood that his little brother will be hurt. Either way, he doesn't think he'd be able to move. He can't even wipe away his tears, grimacing and sobbing.

“Do you know why no one wants you, except my stupid son and the stupid elf subjugating your mistress?”

Sirius wants to fall through the ground. He's so scared.

“Why?”

“What have you forgotten?” again the sharp voice.

“..Ma'am,” he said under his breath, barely audible.

“Don't embarrass me. Loud and clear.”

Sirius wants to hide his little brother, but he can't move. His dry lips try to call out to his mother, but all in vain.

“Why, ma'am?” Regulus squeezes out in a trembling voice.

“Because you are a monster in the flesh,” his mother smiles, then turns to him, “Sirius.”

“Mother,” he whispers barely breathing.

“Hug your so-called brother,” Disgust oozes from his mother's entire body.

Sirius doesn't understand why she's being so cruel.

“But Mother…”

“Now.”

Sirius looks at Regulus and sees him tilt his head in embarrassment. It's not like he's never known a hug before. Suddenly, he won't actually be hurt? Suddenly Mother is just trying to scare them?

Not that she cares enough to know if Regulus is going to be hurt anyway.

Hesitantly, he steps forward and spreads his arms out to the sides.

“You should do the same and wrap your arms around me,” he explains to his younger brother and steps closer, “it's called a hug. And we're going to hug.”

It's the first time he's ever been this close to Regulus. It turns out that he has very small moles on his cheeks, beautifully scattered on different sides, almost shaped like a star. And his eyes are so beautiful and bright, Sirius can see his reflection in them. He looks frightened in his brother's eyes.

Finally unsure, he wraps his arms around Regulus' shoulders and pulls him against him. His head explodes with pain so intense that he only manages to take a sharp breath.

He suddenly feels too much, but in the midst of all the horrible sensations, he can make out the warmth of his brother's arms around his stomach, squeezing tightly, which would hurt if it weren't for the rest of his body.

He suddenly feels everything...

And then feels nothing.

Regulus Black, though he believes he has no right to call himself that, is more proud of his name than any other thing, of which he already has few.

Much of that is due to the fact that the name was given to him by his older brother, whose love he cherished with every part of his empty soul. He taught Regulus many things, and when he didn't know something, he would go to a place called the library, where Kreacher would help him in his search.

Regulus wants to ask what death is, holding a suddenly heavy Sirius in his arms. He is weak, so he falls to the ground under the weight of his older brother. The man doesn't get up and start laughing like he usually does, which frankly scares the hell out of him.

“Brother?” he tugs at his brother, but gets no reaction, “Sirius, come on, this isn't funny…”

He knows his mistress is watching, some distant part of his mind, but he can't bring himself to pay attention to her. Not now, with his brother so still.

“Sirius, get up!” Regulus hears his voice begin to shake, just before tears fill his eyes.

“Mistress,” Kreacher's quiet sigh makes him raise his itchy eyes, “why did you do that?”

“The boy should have listened to his mother better. I'll give birth to more,” the mistress says boredly, looking Regulus over as if he were worthless, “get up, beast.”

He wants to cry.

He wants Sirius.

But he won't move.

“Why won't he move?” comes out hoarsely, eyes lowering to his brother again.

His gaze turns to the ceiling, but doesn't focus on Regulus. It's very scary.

“Sirius. Sirius!”

He's sobbing.

He's screaming, but it's having no effect.

“Familiarise yourself with the concept of death,” the scary woman grins, stepping closer.

Her shoes clattered loudly in the sudden silence, interrupted only by Regulus' sobs.

“What is death?”

“This,” a thin finger points at the sleeping Sirius, “Now get up.”

Much later, Kreacher will explain to him that Sirius is no longer ‘gone’, that he has gone to another world where Regulus' passage is denied, and the boy doesn't understand why? But now this is his truth: Sirius is not by his side and will no longer be and everything, as the landlady keeps telling him, is his fault. If his brother hadn't ‘hugged’ him, hadn't stood close, everything would have been fine.

Now, however, he follows back to his dark, empty room and endures the pains the cruel woman inflicts on him because....

“If you weren't here, my life would be easier,” she says distantly as Regulus squirms on the floor and doesn't realise, “all you had to do was be quiet and obedient. But now it's over, it's time to educate you, my little monster.”

All the while she stands at the very door while Regulus is at the opposite end of the room and sobs, sobs, sobs.

What this woman calls training turns out to be a brutal session of punishments, each of which his body fights with everything it can muster. He aches and sobs and begs, but she doesn't get any gentler.

Regulus endures it, learns to appear smaller than he already is, learns to read the smallest changes in facial expression to avoid conflict in time and most importantly... he learns to never touch anyone.

It turns out not to be so hard when he hasn't known skin to skin touch his whole life… until that day.

It gave him many nightmares that wake him up in the very night with a gasping sob on his lips and cold sweat.

Some days become especially hard. He grows with a weight of guilt on his shoulders so heavy that it threatens to hide him underground, to a place where Sirius could be, but there will never be a world where they will be together because he doesn't deserve it.

On days like this, he wakes up to the curse of his mistress prodding him to begin their training, where he learns to appear human, though he never has been and never will be. He knows well what death is because he is its physical embodiment, promising to kill everything he touches.

On bad days, he forgets his name and that his brother once loved him. He forgets how he can feel and becomes the monster that Sirius' mother sees him as. Sirius and never him. After all, monsters don't deserve families. He lost his brother for that reason. He shouldn't have had one in the first place at all.

On bad days, he looks at Kreacher, whom he considered a loyal friend until that ill-fated day, and sees nothing more than a toy in his mother's hands, a traitor who turned his back on him. He knows the elf was never on his side, which only makes it hurt more.

On bad days, he remembers that Sirius will never be older than six. He could have been happy without meeting Regulus. He should be in his shoes. Regulus should be underground, not breathing, not alive.

On bad days, all he can hear is Sirius' voice, forever young, doomed to whisper in his ear forever: ‘It's your fault.’

Luckily for him, good days exist too. They're rare, but that's why they're especially precious when they come.

On good days, he remembers that he was once close to freedom with his older brother, with his childhood happiness intact.

On good days he walks around the house, looks at the family tree, runs his hand over the faded portrait of Sirius, never forgotten as long as Regulus lives.

On good days he feels a kinship in his own body, he feels remotely happy, alive. He looks out the big, beautiful window in Sirius' room and enjoys the sight of people scurrying about. Makes up their stories, their lives, their values and thoughts.

On good days, he feels needed.

He doesn't feel like a monster. A murderer.

It's rare.

He's not sure at what point he stopped considering the woman who is Sirius' mother to be his mistress, as he was desperately trying to instil in him.

Perhaps it was the moment when the urge to riot came up. He was fourteen, he thought. The mystery of Walburga Black being his birth mother was solved when he realised what those lines on the family tree meant. Never has he felt so devastated and full of hate.

Nothing had changed, he thought, only increased anger towards the cruel, vicious woman. If Regulus was sure of his future, he would kill her, but he can't afford to do that.

He burns when she tries to make him an obedient, silent weapon. Something that would do her dirty work for her. He hates it and hates himself for not being able to stop her.

His chest bursts with injustice and a longing so deep it reverberates with pain throughout his body. He wishes he could remember the feeling of his older brother's love, but too many years have passed for him to recreate Sirius' facial features. The love for his only sibling in his entire life still lurks in his heart, but it feels more like a once heard fairy tale than his reality.

Against all odds, Walburga has not become pregnant, as she often threatens, which does not upset Regulus. It means less pain for the new creature born to a cruel woman.

On the contrary, he often sees her standing in front of a full-length mirror, twisting from side to side and so clearly enjoying herself and her slim, slender figure.

“Come on, come on,” she drawls boredly, pointing a thin fingernail at the man whimpering on the floor who has somehow pissed her off, “why are you bothering?”

Regulus sighs and banishes the feeling of terror so strong it makes his heart sink, then touches the unfamiliar cheek. Barely a moment passes when a breathless body lies at his feet, another among his many victims. The last thing he sees are empty eyes staring up at the ceiling. The same ones Sirius once had.

“Don't worry, little monster, no one will miss him.”

Just like you, he hears.

Bad days are a big part of his life.

On bad days, he forgets he's human and can think, can feel. The ghosts of the men he has killed sit on his shoulders, wrap their arms around his neck and squeeze, calling him to join them in an endless world of pain and suffering.

On bad days he hears their howls in his ears, their pleas for salvation that will never be heard, never be fulfilled. He turns away from their flickering figures in his field of vision and swallows a sudden bitter saliva.

On bad days, he tries to wipe the blood off his hands that was never there. He scratches his skin until it turns red. He will want to jump out of his own body. On days like this, he won't be able to find a single sharp object and will throw his pitiful, few belongings in rage and helplessness.

Such days he ends by passing out from fatigue and dreaming of the peace of death.

Good, he has good days.

On good days he can almost look at his skin and not want to rip it off. He doesn't hide behind thick layers of clothing and hugs himself, squeezing himself in ways that could seem like a different person.

On good days, he can almost hear the gentle voice of his older brother telling him about the day gone by. He feels a ghostly warmth on his shoulders, almost tender in his first and last touch.

On good days, the ghosts around him are almost caring. Their faces, habitually blinded by hatred, smooth into an expression of pity and something remotely resembling sympathy.

On good days, he could think about his future, forever hazy.

Regulus is introduced to the world at the tender age of fifteen when an aristocratic ball is being held at the home of Walburga Black, whose surname he has already abandoned, leaving himself with the proud name given by Sirius.

The rules he is given that day are particularly pretentious and cumbersome. They are repeated so many times that he gets a headache.

“I got it! I've memorised every rule, thank you very much, ma'am,” he finally barks, for which he receives a particularly nasty curse, but he can't contain the rage he can't unleash.

He has never seen so many people before, his eyes running from one to the next, amazed at every costume and dress, wonderful magic wands that make his hands itch, beautiful hair of all different colours and many, many smiles.

In his wildest dreams, he thought of how the wand would feel in his hands. How his soul would dance when he used magic, how a smile would stretch his lips, almost always drooping. He imagined himself happy, just like the others.

Those dreams were always shattered by the new curse that would pierce his body while Walburga stood over him, curled up on the floor, standing over him, who would so soon move away, not wanting to even feel bad in his company.

Unfortunately for her, he now stands not far from her, who already looks paler than usual, but Regulus knows that she could no longer allow him to hide from society, so forced is she to endure the malaise of his presence nearby. After all, to society, Regulus is her son. No matter how much the woman wishes otherwise.

“Walburga! How marvellous to finally meet your son!” says the tall man affably, but malice slides deep into his voice, his nose wrinkled in an expression too much like disgust. Regulus knows the feeling.

“Thorfinn,” the woman frowned, clutching her wine glass in her hand, “I understand everyone's interest, but this child is too fragile.”

Regulus knows the hatred Walburga must feel at having to recognise him as her child, but it only makes him want to laugh. He intends to give her a good time at this disgusting event, even if he pays for it cruelly.

“And you must be Regulus,” the man smirks, showing slightly uneven teeth, and extends his hand, “a pleasure.”

Regulus' hands are covered in gloves, but even so he has no intention of touching any of these vile people. And even so, he can't hold back a sharp flinch at the all too close presence of another person nearby. Naturally, this rash, stupid action he couldn't contain is ignored by everyone.

“I'm sorry, mister, but I'm very, very sick, so I can't greet you properly!” he replies and tucks his hands into his pockets as he feels them begin to tremble.

“Oh, that's a shame,” Regulus interrupts him, a smirk stretching his parched lips.

“You see, I'm allergic to freaks. And here you are, exacerbating my disease!”

Walburga, beside him, flinches with surprise and instant rage, and Thorfinn stands perfectly still. His face crinkles as he frowns.

“I recognise Walburga's son, indeed. I realise.”

This was not the reaction Regulus had wanted. In the back of his mind, he had hoped that Thorfinn would punch him in the face and die, leaving Walburga to clean up the scandal. Too bad.

People take turns and each one he tries to make touch himself in rage, but none ever do, either ignoring any insult or deftly backing away with Valburga's support. Each new glance from her promises truly great pain. He's having fun while he can.

She's just stepped back to cover up another scandal when a strange man appears beside him, looking all too happy to be near Regulus, not at all burdened by his presence, which is most odd.

“Here comes the star of today, I finally managed to get to you!” he begins excitedly, smiling too brightly, shining too dazzlingly.

He is so eager to show that he doesn't belong to them, he shouldn't be here.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Regulus snarled, wanting to touch the sun that had suddenly appeared.

“I'm calling myself Ulom today, it was interesting to get a glimpse of the Blacks' hidden son. How has she been hiding you for how many, remind me, years?” the man, although up close he seems younger than before, leans impermissibly close into personal space, but looks as fresh as he did a moment ago.

“Are you feeling well?” Regulus can't help but ask, watching the expression on his face carefully, trying to read the man's body language, but it's all in vain, it screams so much about comfort, about pleasure.

“Magical, I would say! You're so funny, I heard you humiliating those aristocrats. It's about time you brought them down to earth, them and their ancestors all, the children and the parents are the same, honestly. So how long did you say they've been hiding you?”

“None of your business.”

He turns his attention to the strange man opposite: he looks like an aristocrat, though he openly insults others, hair mussed, not a drop of nail polish, glasses slanted to the side, about which he is not at all worried, and eyes shining with benevolence.

The strangest thing is that he feels good about himself. The others would be running to vomit by now, being this close.

Regulus needs to get rid of him near him quickly. He has no interest in solving this mystery.

“Glad you were amused by my performance, now go back where you came from, I want nothing to do with you or your…”

“That's too bad, because I'm interested. You know, I understand what people think of me, you're no exception, but see, here's the rub, I'm still very observant, so I couldn't help but notice how everyone seems to pale next to you. And I'm sure it's not for Walburga's sake that they're making that appearance, so either everyone who comes here is a wuss or there's something wrong with you.”

“Wait.” suddenly Regulus is starting to feel insecure himself.

He's not used to this kind of attention, this prolonged interaction with people, to long conversations and stares. It's wrong, wrong, wrong.

His skin is itching so badly it's about to crawl off.

“And given that you asked me how I was feeling, for which I thank you very much, and how thoughtful you are, it turns out I still think it's you. So tell me Regulus Black, what is your secret?”

The man's eyes shine with curiosity, but it seems somewhat kind, such an unfamiliar feeling to Regulus. He has to get out of here quickly, since he can't get rid of the man.

“You must be an idiot to suggest such nonsense. How could I influence all these people?”

He turns away to go in search of Walburga, who, for all his hatred, was doing an excellent job of getting rid of people around him quickly, but Ulom, though he's sure it's not his name, grabs his arm.

Regulus freezes so still he's not sure if he's even breathing. Only a moment later does he remember that almost all of his body is hidden under a thick layer of clothing, so he won't kill anyone, no matter how much he might want to do so to spoil Walburga's mood.

Even so, his skin only itches more, as it sometimes does when he kills... when he clutches himself with his hands in a pathetic semblance of a human embrace.

“So it's not you, is it?” The man's hand grips his tightly, burning through the layer of clothing, “It's just that for some reason you were hidden for a long time and then not allowed to stand around guests for longer than a few minutes? You expect me to believe that?”

“Let me fucking go,” Regulus growled, trying to break free, but all in vain.

“Something about touching? But none of them touched you.”

“You make me fucking sick! Die in a ditch somewhere!” he hisses under his breath, not wanting to make such a scene.

Bless her with all the Gods and then brutally kill her, Walburga comes in at that moment.

“What do you think you're doing?” she spits out with all the hatred she can muster, and Regulus is surprised when he realises it's not directed at him, perhaps for the first time in his life, at least not in its entirety.

“Come on Walburga, don't be such a prude, I was just talking to your sweetest son! How old did you say he was?” he smiles quite shamelessly, not letting go of her hand.

The woman's quick glance at him instructs him to whisper his age with just his lips. That's right, you can't show society that she doesn't care about Regulus at all! Even if with her entire appearance she shows it and without outside help.

“He's fifteen, so I suggest you let him go, Ulom,” she said, “or I'll have to ask you to leave my house. Don't abuse my hospitality.”

“Hospitality?” exclaims the man in surprise, and laughs, “Where is it, Walburga? I didn't know you were capable of it in all the time we've known each other! Hey Regulus, how do you live with that woman? Don't you want to run away with me?”

“Leave me alone, you scoundrel,” Regulus finally breaks free from her weakened grip, shaking off his sleeve, “Mother, I don't feel well, may I go to my room?”

He is answered only by a quick wave of her hand. He leaves as quickly as he can without appearing to flee. The look of the man's gaze from earlier burns down his back as if it had been set on fire.

Regulus thinks he shouldn't be surprised when Ulom finds him again later. He seems like a man who doesn't back down when he's interested in something. The only thing that is surprising is how Walburga let him go not only from herself, but allowed him up the stairs.

“How did mother let you out of her sight in the first place?” he asks, realising that he is doomed to spend time with this man until the ball is over. It makes him want to run away, but there's nowhere to run.

“The good old Malfoys distracted her. A whole bunch of them came and surrounded her,” he laughs and sits down next to her, leaning against the wall.

His eyes only glanced around the room for a moment before returning to Regulus. As if his complete lack of personality didn't surprise him at all.

“Then let's talk about you finally, Regulus,” Ulom smiled, leaning closer into his space, “you see, I know Walburga more than I'd like to admit, and she doesn't give the impression of someone who has been hiding a son for fifteen years. Which makes me wonder why.”

Regulus rolls his eyes.

“I'm already in a hurry to tell you,” he replies wryly and sits back down further, “personal space, ever heard of it?*

“Nope,” Ulom smiles innocently and moves to follow.

“How about a deal?” Regulus suddenly comes up with a brilliant idea.

“I'm all ears.”

“How about this: you help me get as far away from here as possible, and I'll tell you what my secret is?*

The man looks at him carefully, the light coming in from the small window reflecting off his glasses. But finally, he nods.

“Shall we make an unbreakable vow?”

There is a moment's silence. So strong that you can hear sounds from down the hall.

*What's that?” Regulus asks, tilting his head thoughtfully.

They are silent for another moment, Ulom frozen with surprise. Finally he shakes his head.

“Okay, we'll figure it out later. Let's go.”

He grabs Regulus by the arm and lifts him briskly to his feet.

*Now? When no one's left?” He flies out incredulously.

“Of course! On the contrary, it will only do us good!”

The two of them, still not unclasping their hands, which depresses Regulus terribly because he can't break free, go down the stairs, returning once again to a filled room with an abundance of different voices.

Ulom walks confidently forward, deftly sidestepping each person he meets, exchanging a few words with them. Regulus notices Walburga in the other direction, conversing with a suspicious looking woman.

Almost without trouble, with the rare exception of distractions on their way to the front door. Ulom is leisurely turning the knob when Regulus notices the landlady's eyes suddenly fixed on them, but the fresh air is already enveloping him, so without a second's hesitation, he already leaps outside, now dragging the man behind him. He walks so sharply that the man lets out a sharp, ragged cry in surprise.

“Hurry up and get away, Walburga has spotted us!” he drops her name as lightly as ever.

He's out in the open. Inhales a full breath, not realising that a smile stretched his lips until his cheeks began to ache.

“So, assuming from our last conversation, do you know what an apparatus is?” His almost-saviour suddenly asks uncertainly.

“I have no idea!” Regulus laughs and feels, for the first time in all fifteen years, like he wants to live.

He inhales the air, throwing his head back to the sky. It's still bright. He wishes he could see the stars, but instead he looks up at the bright, scorching sun, which stings his eyes, but it feels so good that he endures it.

“Okay. It's been a while since I explained that. So it's a kind of magic that moves your body to another place. It's quite unpleasant for newcomers, but the thing about it is we don't need anything but our own bodies to move.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Regulus wondered excitedly.

“When I say it's unpleasant, I'm not exaggerating. A lot of people throw up for the first time and…”

“I don't care! Hurry up!”

Ulom just sighs, shaking his head incredulously, and sparks of magic fly into the space between them, and then Regulus is split apart, blown across the universe, and reassembled at another point.

He looks around impatiently and finds himself in an alleyway of an unknown city. Ahead he can see people scurrying about, hear their carefree conversations and loud laughter. He can smell the sweet smell of baked goods barely reaching his nose, hear a knock of unknown origin, see the merchants ahead. The smile never leaves his face.

“So, a deal?” Finally comes a familiar, annoying voice from behind him.

“Right... right!” Regulus mutters distantly, preoccupied with looking at the world.

He shakes his head and turns to face the man. The man looks at him impatiently, a small smile resting calmly on his face. Regulus realises his hand is free. Finally.

“So... Walburga kept me locked up and wouldn't let anyone know about me because...‘’”

Ulom leans forward interestedly, watching intently.

“Because that's why!” Regulus laughs, quickly turns around and runs off right into the thick of people.

He hears a loud scolding behind him, but doesn't allow himself to turn around.

His senses are overwhelmed as he runs out, but he doesn't have time to be distracted. Quickly he looks around, not daring to stop for a moment, and picks his route. The crowd of people picks him up, hiding him between their bodies, each of which he recoils from so violently that he crashes into walls and shrinks, becoming impossibly small, but even in all the panic the smell of baking is stronger, and Regulus is mournfully forced to say goodbye to it, but promises to try somewhere else.

He runs without looking back until the square behind him becomes smaller, completely hidden behind a hundred other houses, the streets still crowded, but he runs as long as he can (which, it turns out, isn't very long) until his lungs protest, one side starting to ache unbearably and his legs straining. Regulus turns the corner of one of the houses, moving behind the building itself and resting his hands on his legs, trying to catch his breath. Eventually, he gives up and just sits down on the ground.

He falls silent, listening, but he doesn't pick up any sounds of a chase. A smile stretches his face, his heart pounding in his chest, but only one phrase sounds triumphantly in his head without stopping, constantly repeating itself:

He's free.

To his deep regret, he is soon forced to return back to the city, even though he waits for a very, very long time. Because while he has fulfilled the escape clause, a problem has arisen in the form of needing food, which he has no idea how to obtain.

But according to the books he managed to convince Kreacher to bring him, that requires money, and to get money, you have to work. And he's clearly not going to find work in the forest.

Glancing around warily, Regulus turns back to the sweet smell of baking, so welcoming and captivating. No curly heads he notices, so he lets his shoulders relax somewhat. He can't help but feel his hands shaking, there's no way to calm them. He's too close to people, but he wants to live so badly, so desperately, perhaps for the first time in so long, and he's so willing to fight for that opportunity.

The door opens, accompanied by the sound of a bell hanging overhead. Regulus jumps up in surprise and meets his gaze with the blonde woman behind the counter, who smiles at him welcomingly.

“Good afternoon, what can I get you?” she chirps softly, completely ignoring how fearfully the guy moves.

“Hello,” Regulus replies hesitantly, unsure of how to communicate with someone so simple, “may I ask if you have a job?”

The girl looks him over - neat but obviously shabby clothes, unsure of his appearance and a leg bouncing with nerves - and squints at him.

“How old are you?” she finally asks, when Regulus starts to think about running away and hiding in the middle of nowhere.

“Fifteen,” a quiet, barely audible voice finally says, almost questioningly, unsure if there is a right answer here.

And when the information finally settles, the girl sighs and nods. There are almost no people inside, so she allows herself to speak without haste.

“We'll find it. I'm Marla,” she holds out her hand.

Regulus, still hiding his hands behind his gloves, allows himself to respond to her gesture, stubbornly holding back the flinch he wants so badly to show. He hopes that if he seems polite enough now, he won't be thrown out the door at the first opportunity.

“Regulus.”

“That's great! So, I'm a cashier, but there's a staff shortage, so I'm also a baker, and the pay is better! So, I suppose you'll be forced to do a few things too, but I can't promise, it'll be up to the landlady, but don't worry!” the girl hurries to reassure him just as Regulus flinches at the word ‘mistress’, mistaking it for nerves, though not entirely wrong. Either way he sees no point in correcting her, “she's a good woman, so she'll be fine!”

“Thank you.”

After looking around the place once more, Marla asks him to follow her and opens the door that says ‘staff only’, where she goes to the very last room of the small corridor.

“Sophia! You wanted an intern, didn't you? I brought one!” she says cheerfully, opening the door after a couple of brisk knocks and a muffled ‘come in’.

“Hello,” Regulus bows slightly immediately, looking round at the woman in front of him.

She's sitting at a desk, surrounded by papers, but turns towards them as soon as the door behind her back closes. The room is actually small, hardly a comfortable place for the three of them to stand, but everything they need, he assumes, is present. Even if he feels disgusted and nauseous, being unacceptably close to the people who have so far treated him so kindly.

The woman herself, called Sophia, is full, with braided hair in a bun and attentive eyes hidden behind pointed glasses. Seeing him, she smiles.

“Hello. What position are you planning on taking?” she asks warmly, and Regulus has no idea what to say to that.

Marla, standing beside him, sways slightly and blinks uncertainly. He feels impossibly worse in an instant. He wants to run away and never look back, after which he wants to die somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Regulus is just about to put his pathetic plan into action, but the girl outruns him, running off first.

“I'll be back behind the till,” she mutters and hurries away.

Regulus shuffles from foot to foot, clenching his hands into fists in the hope of calming his nerves at least a little, but it's all in vain. This doesn't seem like a good idea to him now, he wants to leave so, so badly.

“Do you have a job where you don't have to interact with people?” He asks quite quietly and averts his gaze to the floor, suddenly feeling intensely ashamed.

The answer is a thoughtful moo, and he wants to fall through the ground.

“I suppose I could put you on the stove. Or unloading goods. Would that be all right?” Sofia finally offers him.

“That's fine!” He nods assuredly and wants to run anywhere to avoid standing next to the woman, who is getting paler and paler faster.

“What exactly?” The woman smiles, arching an eyebrow as if her well-being isn't getting worse.

“Both... I could combine… I have a lot of free time…*

Regulus assumes that's the right answer, because Sophia smiles broadly.

“Cool! Just what I need! Then come back tomorrow, we'll teach you everything!”

Regulus must admit that sleeping on the ground is a new feeling, and a thoroughly unpleasant one. He has magic, he knows it, even if he doesn't know how to use it, being nothing more than a monster that shouldn't be on par with the rest of us. Though even without his conscious effort he must use it at least a little, because his body doesn't freeze as well as it could.

Even so, the ground is hard, and so lying on it is sheer torture. Plus, he has no other clothes, so he has to be very careful to look decent for work. It's hard, but he's trying.

He's hungry, so he weaves deeper into the forest, hoping to find something. He has to settle for a few berries, which he's not sure are safe and which barely satisfy his hunger enough. Thirst is also a dangerous companion for Regulus, and to get rid of it he has to walk an unknown number of more steps to find a barely visible river in the middle of nowhere. He gives no thought to the safety of the water and drinks greedily.

The road back is worse than before. His already tired to the point of insanity, his legs burn by the end of the day when it turns out that he has travelled much further than he had previously thought, but he finally falls exhaustionless on the crumpled ground and passes out from exhaustion.

The days don't get any easier after that.

He goes to a bakery, learning to make cakes, bread, pies and more, which he sees for the first time in his life. Each time afterwards he returns, drained of energy, weaving into the forest, where he continues walking until he finds a river to at least get a drink. Good thing, while he's learning to cook, he sometimes tastes cooked food, so he doesn't quite need berries.

He looks worse every day, if the way Marla and Sophia's looks change is any indication, but he stubbornly ignores each of the women and hides in the kitchen, disconnected from people and the rest of the world. A couple of days pass before the bakery owner stops him and asks if he has a home.

Regulus freezes motionless and isn't sure how to answer that question. He is so embarrassed that he can feel his face burning. Finally, barely breathing, he admits that he isn't, and doesn't dare look up. The woman opposite sighs heavily, tiredly, which catches his attention, and says he can stay with her until they figure out what to do. Regulus is grateful as hell, but anxiety has settled tightly in his stomach, a constant companion throughout his life.

It gets easier afterwards, Regulus has to admit. He's under constant strain from being close to people, but he tries to avoid it, so he goes for walks often. However, he now has food and water available to him, as well as a soft bed.

Cooking brings him pleasure and gradually, life is becoming a pleasure for him too.

He smiles as he kneads the dough and watches it rise behind the oven glass. He hums barely formed melodies as he tastes different flavours and discovers new dishes. He learns about music, films and songs so different from each other and amazing, having so many different variations that his eyes go wild and his heart flutters in delight.

The thought of what his life might have been like if he had stayed at Walburga's house wakes him up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

The bad days do not leave him, to his deep regret. He keeps waking up to nightmares, sometimes barely formed and sometimes so detailed that when he wakes up he can't immediately distinguish them from reality. Thankfully, he knows how to keep a low profile, so the only things that cause concern for the Sophia who has taken him in are his trembling hands and the bags under his eyes. He masterfully avoids her tutelage by leaving the house. When he returns, the woman looks at him unbearably sad, but asks no questions.

The nightmares change depending on his experiences. Sometimes it's nonsense like a failed dessert that gets him kicked out, other times it's Walburga finding him and nearly killing him when she brings him home, and other times it's good old Sirius blaming his death on him.

Each is horrible in their own way, but Regulus learns to deal with them as best he can. He remembers the love of his older brother who once became his whole world to him, he doesn't forget that he's learning to cook and he's always there to help, he reminds himself that Walburga won't be able to find him as long as he continues to live the way he does now. And he has no plans to change that.

But the days are getting better. Regulus adores it so much he can't describe it.

Thanks to Sophia, he has a roof over his head, a warm bed, and food that allows him to start gaining weight for the first time in his life. Finally, for the first time in fifteen years, he is no longer a skeleton almost dying of exhaustion. He still spends little time with people and avoids them as much as possible, much to his deep regret, this also means Sophia and Marla, who are reaching out to him, but he can't let them get close unless he wants them dead.

He gets money that allows him to buy himself some new clothes, the selection of which turns out to be surprisingly vast, but Regulus decides that if he doesn't want to be found, he should take shapeless, dark clothes. He buys it purely for that reason, but it turns out to be very comfortable, so he is completely satisfied.

Regulus lives and enjoys himself.

As time goes on, Regulus falls into a routine that he enjoys. He works, and in the evening he reads books he couldn't afford all the years before. Self-loathing still clubs deep within his soul and rears its ugly head in moments of weakness, but more often than not it rests at the very bottom.

He's saving for his own flat, but Sophia nags him when he shares his plans.

“You have your own room, and even so you're hardly ever home, what's the problem?”

The argument stands, Regulus stays.

Home. He thinks about it and smiles. Indeed.

When Sophia turns forty-four, Regulus outdoes himself and makes a magnificent chocolate cake, as delicious as he has never made before. Together with Marla, they congratulate the woman and laugh when she calls them brats.

Afterwards, Regulus hurriedly leaves when he notices the tension in their shoulders. His excuse of ‘I've got things to do’ is long since unchallenged by the women, only sighing doomfully.

He doesn't even notice how much time passes until one day Sophia congratulates him on his eighteenth birthday, flashing tear-stained eyes, looking at him proudly.

“How you've grown up, my boy,” she laughs as he habitually dodges her hand wanting to ruffle his hair (as he found out the very first time he flinched so hard he crashed into the corner of the table).

He didn't notice when he stopped flinching at her movements and tensed up at being near her. Regulus avoided people more out of habit, but even so he never let himself forget why he shouldn't go near them in the first place.

“And it's all thanks to you!” he smiles happily, still unable to believe that he is not only a survivor, but also free, “I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't hired me back then.”

“I'm glad I did, kid.”

Regulus nodded gratefully and ran off into the forest that had become almost an extension of himself, so familiar and dear.

It's been a long time since his legs hurt as he follows the familiar route to the river that became his salvation a few years ago. The daily walks have increased his stamina many times over and finally a healthy weight has helped it a lot too. The pallor of his skin is probably a family trait though, because no matter how much he was out in the sun, it didn't change.

The river is habitually small but fast flowing. It's been a long time since he's drank from it, but often Regulus sits beside it, savouring the sound of its flow, throwing him back to a time when he was weak and alone. Though he is still lonely and will be so for the rest of his days, he finally feels good in his body.

Often he imagines Sirius beside him, reliving that night. But each time he has to pull himself away, because, to his deep regret, reality has turned out differently, and he doesn't have his brother by his side, and he never will, no matter how much he wishes he did.

He knows the price of closeness all too well.

A branch snapped behind him. Regulus, too accustomed to the silence of the forest, turns round sharply, squinting.

From behind the trees comes the man who had unwittingly become his saviour then, at fifteen. Not aged a day and still as annoyingly sunny.

“Well, well, well, who do I see here!” he laughs.

The only thing that's changed is the cropped hair that barely reaches his ears and the glasses that finally sit flat. In everything else, this man is the same as he was three years ago.

“If it isn't Regulus Black, the one I've been looking for so long!*

“Ulom,” the boy frowns, getting to his feet and shaking himself off, “it's been a while.”

Despite helping to rescue him, Regulus isn't too kindly disposed, and he thinks it's only fair. Their original agreement was built on the fact that he would tell his secret that he had kept all his life and for which his blood mother hated him. He's not about to start confiding now, especially not to Ulom, who looks too smug standing in front of him.

“A funny situation has actually developed in that it's my alias. I figured if I divulged a bit of information, you'd be more willing to share yours,” the man smiles and steps closer, “am I right?”

“Absolutely not. Disappear into the abyss of nothingness, twat,” Regulus replies irritably and tries to step around him, “nice to see you. Bye.”

Unfortunately, his crystal obvious innuendo was not understood, though most likely shamelessly ignored. It makes him feel his eye begin to twitch in irritation.

“Fine. It's not your name, the real one you're not going to say?”

“I'll tell you all about it and show you!” He laughs, only annoying Regulus more, “We had a deal. You promised.”

“I didn't promise you anything. You trusted me. Now get out.*

He doesn't wait for an answer and runs away, listening to the laughter getting quieter the further he runs.

After that, to his deep regret, Regulus has to say goodbye to a quiet, carefree life, because after that unfortunate encounter, Ulom, whom he can't call anything else, starts appearing everywhere, like a particularly unpleasant leech that he can't get off.

“Regulus!”

“Reggie!”

“Little boy!”

“Reg!”

“Regi-o!”

He stubbornly ignores every call, every almost-touch of skin disappearing at the last moment, the second before he's about to flinch and push away. His head splits from the constant, relentless irritation, the source of which refuses to leave him until it is noticed. Regulus holds on as long as he can, but in the end, his patience is not eternal.

“What?” he barks, turning round sharply.

They're in the forest because he refuses to be among humans and be a threat to their innocent lives, but he wouldn't mind getting rid of one right now.

“What?” he repeats, “what do you want from me? I'm not going to say anything and I'm not going to listen to you, so do me a favour and disappear already!”

Not for the first time, this phrase, or at least analogues of it, fall into the space between them, useless and ignored, making the anger grow stronger each time. Ulom, however, grins wider each time, moves closer and closer, and continues to look carefree and happy, no signs of discomfort, as if Regulus is taking them all in these moments.

On one such day, the man moves too close. Their shoulders, though hidden by their clothes, almost touch, and Regulus, who had hitherto walked on the thin blade of self-control, suddenly feels that thin thread holding his sanity together finally tearing.

And then he feels his breath hitch in his chest for a moment, too fast for him to react before he starts to gasp, barely having time to remember where he is. His heart seeks to burst out of his rib cage and flee deep into the forest like a frightened animal. His knees buckle and his back scratches against the bark of the tree.

There is a loud, shrill ringing in my ears, echoing throughout my body. Regulus, so used to a happy life, almost devoid of the usual anxiety, suddenly feels as if he's gone back three years, scared, desperate, and alone.

But for a moment, whether it be hours or twenty-four hours later, he begins to slowly catch the words flying out of someone else's mouth, soft and soothing, which he thinks he will never be able to get used to. But then the smoke from his eyes clears, and he finally sees the outline of Ulom sitting in front of him, finally keeping his distance between them, that looks at him with gentle eyes.

“It's all right, you're all right. I'm not coming up, see? Everyone's safe, me and you. There's no danger.”

How does he not realise that Regulus is the danger? It's such a known fact, so well-established, that he doesn't know if there was a moment in life when he didn't know it on some level. Regulus is the cause of all the problems, after all.

“No, he isn't” whether Ulom reads his mind or Regulus spoke aloud, it doesn't matter, because either way only lies leave another's lips, probably meant to soothe, but instead pulling out only a desperate, broken laugh.

And so it was back three years.

Once again, a monster.

He was never supposed to forget that.

But before that thought can take hold in his very essence, Ulom grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him violently, bringing him back to reality. Regulus flinches so violently that he bangs his head against a tree trunk.

“Look at me, damn it!” barks the man sharply and stares at him so intently that his breath catches, but his heart begins to calm its rhythm, “you're not a monster, do you understand me? If you asked me…”

“Which I don't,” he wheezes, than he earns a laugh in return, broken but bright.

“I would say that it is Walburga who is the monster in this story. And I swear to you that's the truth.”

Regulus nods only for it to fall behind him.

Reluctantly he is released and only then does he realise that they had made contact.

It was through fabric, but Ulom was still too close for comfort. He doesn't dare ask, instead looking at the gaze so intently that he forgets to blink and only does so when his eyes sting: looking for any sign of pain and fatigue, a suitable fainting spell, but nothing. The man in front of him is either a skilful actor or feels perfectly fine.

“What's wrong with you?” Regulus whispered with parched lips, staring at Ulom, hoping to read his very soul.

“What's wrong with you?” They smile back at him, gentle and bitter in their own way.

After that, the relationship between them grows... warmer, just a little. Exactly as much as Regulus allows them to be, which is too little for normal people. Ulom, on the other hand, doesn't seem to mind, even if he continues to laugh every time he hears the name they call him.

But every time after that, he refuses to tell his real one until Regulus reveals his secrets.

They share desserts between them, and the man brings especially delicious gingerbread from an unknown bakery. They sit far apart at Regulus' firm insistence.

“I'd like to teach you magic,” Ulom whispers once, surprisingly wistful, looking at him so intently that a shiver runs through his body.

“Why?” heart beats, eager to uncover all his innermost secrets hidden beneath each of the masks.

“Because you are magical, you are a descendant of one of the unique, oldest families, but your fate is so tragic, and I would like you to know the happiness that comes when magic leaves your wand and follows your will.”

Regulus looks carefully at Ulom, who is crumpling as if nervous, and feels his lips twitch in the desire to stretch into a small, gentle smile.

“Maybe someday.”

After that, their conversations become muted, a secret spreading between their souls, a secret known only to the two of them, safely tucked away in warm arms. Regulus listens mesmerised to the story of Walburga Black, a flawed woman who could have been great but became a broken, pathetic person. The space is filled with the magic of words, especially subtle and delicate, unfurled by a wizard whose words fly like something especially magical.

He is told a story of a boy who was prophesied many things, prophesied great things that no one but he could fulfil. That boy grew up surrounded by love, like the most delicate of flowers, whose scent was beautiful and reached every corner of the warm, sunny house. But the boy was destined for a difficult fate, for his destiny was great. He was doomed to lose every person dear to him, no matter how much he clung to them, no matter how much he begged the breaking, choking with tears voice not to abandon him.

“And that boy lived a long time... Not long enough to become an old man, but long enough not to know the sensation of death's warm embrace.”

Regulus stares at him, mesmerised and forgetting how to breathe. His heart thuds in his chest and his hands tingle with an unfamiliar desire to touch, a desire to comfort that he will never allow himself to fulfil.

“The boy this…” he mumbles, not daring to continue, as if some sort of injunction.

“The boy is me.”

Ulom looks at him, deep eyes blazing with an unknown emotion, so strong it seems surprising.

“And you... can't die?” The air comes out rather than words, but a soft shroud still lays between them.

“I can't,” he answers him confidently, leaning closer, “I never could. But I haven't been alive too long, don't worry. So you know, I'm closer to your age, honestly.”

Despite the secret revealed, the knowledge of which unknown origin makes the warmth splash in his chest like the sweetest chocolate, Regulus is not forced to reveal his own, so they quietly, carefully continue to talk about everything else.

Hours pass as they sit by the splashing river as his lips part and quiet, uncertain words leave him, carried on the cool breeze.

“Once there was a boy born to a wretched, vicious woman.”

And that boy was unknown to the world, as the world was hidden from him in return. He did not know the warmth and love that should be known to all living things. But time passed, and suddenly the boy realised that the darkness that had surrounded him since his birth and had become his faithful companion, dissipated as sharply as it had appeared.

And a light so bright that it was blinding appeared to the boy. And in a moment he knew the warmth of love, almost close to that of his parents. He basked in it and cherished it, but even then the boy did not realise how precious this most tender of loves was.

And one day the boy wanted to run away with this love into the light, so that the light would surround them on all sides and his love could be free, as the boy wished.

But Fate the fiend, shedding bitter tears, turned away from the boy's wish and pushed him into the cold water, which made his teeth shake and his heart covered with ice.

And the boy learnt a fate worse than the one he had before, imprisoned again in eternal darkness.

He had lost his love and it was his own fault. And the boy will never know the warmth of love again, because he will never be able to receive it again. The curse of the fiendish Fate had woven its web around him, preventing happiness from breaking through the thick cocoon.

The silence between them is interrupted by the chirping of crickets, which come to life when the sun hides its warm rays behind the horizon. Olom looks at him carefully, without pity, but so lovingly that Regulus wonders if the boy will ever feel that warmth again.

“That boy…” the boy repeats his earlier phrase involuntarily.

“The boy is me,” Regulus smiled bitterly and brokenly.

Never before had he shared this, nor had he thought it would feel so liberating and constraining at the same time.

“Then you…”

“I killed my brother with a touch when Walburga ordered him to hold me. Skin to skin. He was six. He never woke up again,” he says detachedly, even though he can feel his heart pounding in pain so savage it will never heal, he knows.

“And you never...?*

“I've never touched a human since. Well, skin to skin, obviously. Through tissue, I've interacted, and no one's ever died. But if you stand near me for too long, you can pass out.”

“That's why you asked me how I was feeling.”

“Case in point.”

Silence descends between them again, tense and sharp, threatening to cut the bright, clear skin as punishment for revealing a secret so important and precious to an unknown person whose name he still doesn't know.

“I'm James,” the whisper reaches his ears, so gentle and nurturing, “James Potter is my real name, Regulus.”

Grey eyes meet brown, despair drowning in tenderness, merging and raging in a chaos of two emotions so strong their owners can barely breathe. Ulom... He means James moves closer, slowly, so slowly he might as well not have moved at all.

“I can't die, Regulus, do you realise what that could mean?” The voice is completely quiet, as if it shouldn't be heard, but he knows otherwise.

He is the only one who should hear that shudder, clawing at every part of his worn soul, every corner of his broken heart, getting under his skin and dwelling there, never to leave.

“What?” he barely exhales.

“If you wanted to, Regulus,” James is so, so close, yet so far away. It's unclear if he wants him closer or not, he's torn in two and hurts so badly he wants to sob, “If you wanted to, I would have done it for you. A touch, a hug, anything you'd let me…”

“Give…” his voice trails off somewhere between a scream and a sob, broken, choked and driven back into his chest as he tries to piece himself back together, a tired, cracking entity, “give me some time…”

“Always, Regulus.”

He doesn't expect his words to actually be listened to. Walburga never did, and you wouldn't normally expect something like this from James, but the relationship between them had changed rapidly in just one day, suddenly stepping to a whole new level never before reached by any living soul.

For a couple of days the boy doesn't show up at all, seriously deciding to give him time to think about it, but Regulus seems to have rolled backwards, wandering through the depths of his troubled mind, morbid and wistful, unsure of anything, as if everything he'd ever known was a mistake. And the biggest mistake of all was his birth.

At the moment when his thoughts become particularly dark, threatening to put him on the thin ice that separates the desire for life and death, James returns, happy and smelling of freshly baked pastries, smiling as if nothing had ever happened between them, as if they had never revealed the darkest of their secrets to each other.

“Lemon cakes, as promised,” he lifted the rustling bag into the air.

Regulus's mind goes still in such a way that he forgets to breathe for a moment before he rumbles back into his body. Knees buckling, he sinks buoyantly to the ground under James' attentive gaze, not moving, suddenly full of discomfort.

“Too soon?” The man smiles bitterly and regretfully, “should I leave?”

“Hell no,” Regulus growls, lowering his head bashfully, “just... fuck, I'm sorry. Don't go.”

The thought of being abandoned again horrifies him in a way it shouldn't, that he can't do anything about the cold sweat that almost protrudes on his skin at the mere thought of it. His eyes traitorously begin to sting and he has to bite his lip to the pain that brings him back to reality.

It was only a moment later that he realised the silence that had fallen, and he lifted his head sharply as fear began to run wild in his blood, making his heart race so fast it would burst his chest.

James crouches down in front of him and watches worriedly, his breathing only slightly hitched, almost imperceptible in Regulus' loud panic.

“I'm not leaving, I swear,” a whisper of falling leaves descends in the space between them, “I'm fine.”

Quick, desperate nods are the only answer he can offer for now.

He closes his eyes and breathes in slowly, regaining a pitiful semblance of control so that he doesn't lose what little human interaction he can afford now, before James realises what a burden he is.

“I'm not leaving, Regulus,” his ears catch the muffled muttering.

How long he sits there, coming to his senses, is unknown to him, but his breathing calms down when no one is prodding him. Finally a careful but firm hand offers him a perfectly smelling brownie.

And Regulus is weak to desserts more than anything else.

They sit in a pleasant, almost comfortable silence after his shameful breakdown, and savour the delicate pastry, the flavour of lemon exploding on his tongue in the most pleasant way, almost making him die of ecstasy right on the spot.

“Is everything alright?” James whispers, as if he's not sure if he's allowed to speak louder than that.

“Well, you bribed me well,” Regulus pulls, but smiles so the other doesn't have to panic at the fact that that's really the only reason he's staying.

“I'd like to give you a hug…”

“Too soon,” he shakes his head immediately and swallows hard, noticing the slumped expression rapidly appearing on the face opposite him, “but... if you'd like to... er, sit closer?”

He won't admit how desperately he wants that small, almost absent contact. So much so that he wants to shiver and jump out of his own skin just to get closer faster than how slowly James moves closer, fearful and cautious.

“Are you sure you can't die?” he can't help but ask, refusing to show how terrified he is at the mere thought.

“I swear. No deaths, absolutely and completely tragically immortal just for you, Regulus,” the boy answers him solemnly.

“Ha-ha, joker,” he rolls his eyes, but admits that he's relaxed, just a little.

Just a tiny bit, but enough to swiftly shorten the little distance left between them and touch James's shoulder, hidden by the layer of clothing, but even so blissfully, scalding hot through that protection.

He sighs convulsively and closes his eyes, lowering his head. Regulus overestimated his opportunity, quickly pulling away.

“Shit... Fuck,” he sobs and raises his head desperately, looking at James waiting patiently for him.

“At your pace, Reg,” he whispers, leaning slowly against the tree trunk, “take your time.”

Regulus nods sharply and realises he's trembling petulantly. He does nothing about it and moves closer. He looks at James like a wild, rabid dog and pulls his shaking hand closer. The guy in front of him doesn't move, even as he touches him again and almost sobs.

James shushes him gently, almost inaudibly.

“It's okay,” he repeats, breathing deeply, “you'll be fine.”

And Regulus appreciates it. Madly, painfully appreciates it, but he can't do it, not right now.

So reluctantly, barely managing to pull away, he shakes his head and backs away.

He doesn't look at James and doesn't want to know the look on his face.

He adjusts, slowly, like a newborn learning to walk, so gently, so carefully supported along the way by the one person that becomes like a steadfast mountain for him, whose support keeps him going.

Regulus will never say it, but James is so quickly becoming an important person to him now that the fact of his immortality is known. A most important person, to be precise, no one has ever gotten this close before, not even Sirius.

His pale, trembling hand moves forward slowly and carefully, touching another man's shoulder, firm and steady under his touch.

“Good?” A barely audible whisper covers him with a gentle blanket.

“Fine,” he answers hoarsely, bowing his head.

A hand clutches at his clothes, but doesn't pull away. Slowly it slides down, tentatively traversing the folds with his fingers until it touches the edge of the sleeve.

“Reg?” James calls out to him without even looking, he knows the other's eyes are full of a quiet, undying concern, so deep he can't look at it for long, “is that it for today?”

He shakes his head, clenching his jaw stubbornly, but dares not move. Breathes deeply and stares hard at the bare, beautiful skin, barely glistening in the sunlight. Swallows down a suddenly dry throat and pulls his hand away.

James loosens his lips again, words forming on the tip of his tongue as he's about to praise Regulus or encourage, who knows when a barely perceptible touch reaches his palm. The tentative, almost weightless touch becomes more confident, the freedom finally gained pushing to explore the boundaries of what is allowed.

Regulus opens his own palm and places it on top of the other's hand, barely breathing. James unwittingly follows suit. So slowly that it is almost imperceptible, he turns his hand over, and Regulus leisurely brings them together again, watching their fingers intertwine like a madman, almost unblinking. Whether from this or from the overabundance of emotion, tears come to his eyes, which he doesn't even try to hold back, releasing them freely.

He has a man in front of him anyway, the one person he doesn't want to hide anything from.

“Regulus?” The whisper reaches him, bringing him back to reality, where no one is dead at the moment and someone else's fingers are gently squeezing his own, “is everything okay?”

His body leans forward, his forehead touching the shoulder hidden beneath his clothes, but his hand grips the other tightly. Regulus shakes shallowly, tears flow uncontrollably down his cheeks, and ugly sobs leave him, loud and messy, the most deafening sound in the soft silence of the forest.

James' arm slowly breaks free from his grip, he is about to protest, but he is wrapped around both sides, pulling him tightly against him. He recognises the hug, the second one of his life.

“It's okay Reg, you're doing great, I'm very proud,” someone else's lips are almost touching his ear, their breath burning his skin there so pleasantly he wouldn't mind burning in such a case.

He lets himself sob at the first embrace that ended so, so blissfully good.

He has discovered a new facet of himself and now he can't stop learning about this wonderful, magical part of the human, curse-free world. Even though this world is free within the confines of just one man, the feelings suddenly pierce his entire body, every miserable, painful part of him, and heal so completely and thoroughly that he cries more often than he ever has in his life. James holds him every time, and it feels so blissfully good.

After the hug, Regulus loves holding hands the most. They touch just a little, far from the whole body as in a hug, but even so the sensation is incredibly pleasant, as if they are souls entwined, an unspoken message that they are together, where one goes, the other goes too. Having never known such a sweet feeling before, he can't get enough of it.

James' eyes, when their gazes cross and their hands are firmly entwined, are warm and gentle in a way that takes his breath away and the warmth piercing through his entire body warms him in a way his blanket couldn't.

And his words are soft, even as he becomes a sarcastic bastard again and doesn't stop teasing Regulus for being so clingy.

It hurt so badly the first time he said it that he wanted to throw the stupid, idiotic guy to the wild beasts, immortality be damned, but he hastily, stammeringly explained that it was a joke, no one was throwing anyone, and Regulus wasn't clingy (‘okay, you are, but I like it, I swear’).

Is it worth mentioning that for a long time after that, James' nickname became “jerk”?

Being with him, being near him, is the magic Regulus wants to learn and he perseveres, with such fervour that he doesn't notice how much time they spend together until Sophia mentions that he looks in love, so she's very happy for him.

Regulus waves off the silly old woman's words, but his birthdays are coming and James is becoming more and more withdrawn, even when his hands aren't trembling touching bare skin and his eyes are still as gentle, but the longing is relentlessly creeping in, taking up more and more space, pushing that warmth away more and more.

“What's going on?” He barks as James, of all people, pulls away first, and ignores the way his heart breaks a little at that rejection.

“I'm sorry... I'm sorry, it's just that I…” The guy stops talking, swallows hard and averts his gaze, but remains silent.

Regulus waits, feeling himself start to shake with every assumption he makes, each one more horrible than the last, so that he's about to burst into tears of despair. What had he done already? Had he bored James, even though he swore it would never come?

“Just– I'm immortal.”

“I remember,” he wheezed, wanting to clutch his own heart in his hand just to calm its wild rhythm.

“And you're not, Regulus, don't you understand?” James sobbed, small tears illuminating the deep, brown eyes, so deeply mired in pain.

“I don't understand,” he whispers, coming closer and whimpering like a battered dog as the other pulls away, “James?”

He turns away, so clearly wanting to run away, but he stands still, clamping his eyes shut. His throat is dry, his body shakes and his own tears burn in his eyes, but he doesn't let them fall.

“James?” he repeats, not moving, “please…”

That one word burns the guy as he shudders his whole body, suddenly turning round to face him. The sight is horrifying: his eyes are red, his nose is sniffling, his body is trembling, and his gaze is so haggard, so tired and pained that it echoes throughout Regulus's body.

“Fuck, I'm sorry.. I'm sorry,” the boy finally mumbles and moves forward, hugging Regulus sharply, wrapping his arms around him protectively, which normally would be warm and gentle but now seems nothing short of desperate, “I shouldn't have left you hanging…”

“It's okay, it's okay,” he whispers painfully, clutching the embrace just as tightly in the pathetic hope that it will bring at least some measure of comfort to the one who pulled him from the bottom, “what's wrong, James?”

“You're going to die one day, Regulus,” a sound, midway between a sob or maybe a scream, falls in the space between them, feeling like broken hope, like something broken and pathetic, “and I'm going to live. Don't you realise? How-”

He sighs deeply and chokes somewhere in the process, breaking down into sobs.

“How will I be without you?” He wheezes, barely audible, barely audible, before losing himself in his own pain.

And Regulus has nothing to offer him but his pathetic, fragile embrace, which will not make him immortal, no matter how much he wishes it would. He touches the top of another's head with a tender, brief kiss and closes his eyes, listening to the muffled cry.

They disengage unknowingly, but their legs have been buzzing with exertion for some time now, and their eyes have long since dried from the tears they have shed. Slowly, still clutching each other, they sank to the cold ground, foreheads touching, lungs sharing the same air tightly enclosed between their bodies.

“What do I do, Regulus?” he heard a muffled question, soaked in pain and longing, clearly not expecting an answer.

“I don't know,” he whispered, holding back a new urge to sob.

They don't talk about it, and Regulus pretends not to see the red eyes James comes to every meeting they have.

Instead, he introduces Sophia to his friend, at whose introduction she rolls her eyes so hard that Regulus fears they might fall out of her eye sockets, and then mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘aha mate, sure.’ He prefers not to elaborate.

They eat dinner together, hidden behind the door of Regulus's room because Sophia is still blissfully mortal and he's still cursed, even if he lets himself forget it in the presence of James, who looks torn between happiness and longing every time he talks about it.

“I'm glad,” he whispers against dry lips, which he glances at more and more often and doesn't understand why.

Perhaps he's also starting to get sick from the frequent skin-to-skin contact, because suddenly he feels hot and his breathing quickens. And it's never happened before, so he tells James about it and then rests and heals for a couple of days. It's amazing how quickly he's recovered!

But then he touches James again, a warm, gentle touch on each other, and the symptoms return.

“What makes you think you're sick?” he asks with a hint of amusement, but the worry doesn't leave his gaze.

“It feels hot and my breathing becomes laboured. Can't you see?” He asks irritably and rests his head on the other man's shoulder, “and it won't go away. It's annoying.”

The silence serves as his answer, so confused, he raises his eyes, looking at James, suddenly too close so that he can make out the flecks of green in the depths of the brown eyes that want to pull him into their very depths. An unknown emotion splashed in them that Regulus couldn't understand, no matter how hard Regulus tried.

“James?” He frowned and watched as a sort of realisation settled on the boy's face and grief quickly took its place next door.

And Regulus felt hot again! What on earth is that?

“Do you know what it is?” he demands and tilts his head uncertainly as the stranger's hand touches his cheek almost weightlessly, “James?”

“I'm afraid I know what it is,” he whispers so close that he almost touches his lips.

“Well? What is it?” It comes out a little too hard, too insistent, but James laughs, so it's probably okay.

“Love is the name of the disease,” he finally hears.

And the world goes still so still he's not sure if he's even awake. The fever that had previously been piercing his entire body is gone as quickly as it appeared, giving way to an icy cold that pierces every cell in his body. His breath hitched for a completely different reason, terror gripping him.

“What?” It comes out strained, almost unintelligible.

“I think you're in love, Reg.”

He blinks a couple of times, trying to make sense of what he's just heard, but he can't. It's like the phrase went in one ear and out the other. That can't be true, can it?

“I only experience it in your presence..”

A small, so incredibly sad smile is the only response he gets.

He doesn't realise that they're still sitting impossibly close, until now, so he crawls away from James, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the pain piercing the guy's face.

“But it's–” he doesn't even know what he wants to say, he just needs to get something out.

“Is it really that bad?” James whispers brokenly and desperately.

“What?”

The guy leans closer, but he doesn't move. It's as if he wants to come so badly that he can't hold his body back, but he doesn't break the suddenly reappeared boundaries. His eyes glisten with tears, and Regulus knows his own have not been left dry.

“Is it so bad to love me?” He sobs, clasping his hands in his lap, suddenly looking so small and ashamed.

“A..” Regulus swallows and tries again, “Is love... between boys... possible?”

James raises his head sharply, looking at him in shock, surprise and, the very least, hope.

“Yes! Yes, Regulus, yes,” he whispers quite desperately, “it's just love! What does it matter what sex? I love you, and you…”

“Do you love me?” he interrupts completely distraught, “James, what the hell...”

“I do! I do, Regulus, and I'm not ashamed to admit it!”

There was suddenly such anger in his voice that Regulus staggered back in surprise before anger replaced it.

“What the hell are you implying?” He asks unhappily, rising to follow, “ah, James, explain it to me.”

“You're fucking embarrassed aren't you? Why? We were hugging, holding hands, Sophia noticed before you did, it's obvious...!”

“I was never in love, you fucking idiot!” he shouts, interrupting again, “did you think I didn't know how a fucking crush was supposed to feel to be able to tell the difference, you prick?”

They fall silent, both with clenched fists, breathing heavily and pale. James shakes his head and rushes forward. Regulus squints and shrinks back, preparing to be beaten for daring to suggest it or who the hell knows why, but finds himself encased in an embrace.

An instant later, his tense posture relaxes and he melts.

Should have expected this.

“Idiot,” he whispers, as he knows now, lovingly.

“Shut up,” James mumbles to him.

After that, not much changes between them.

Regulus doesn't know how to show a crush, didn't even know he was in love until that day, but according to his books, it's something beautiful, amazing. A tender feeling that eats away at his chest so much that he wonders how he existed before, how he didn't notice it, so obvious now. His heart beats to the rhythm of only one person, following him with an invisible thread, bound so tightly that only death will separate them.

The hole in his chest that had been there all his life, aching and growing wider every year until suddenly it was filled by a sun so bright it scorched away the longing and pain, leaving only sweetness and peace, so caring, like a blanket on a rainy day, the sound of a fire that warms the furrowed skin. His pulse racing and chipping away at his name.

“James,” he smiles, stretching the word gently, squeezing their hands together.

“Reggie,” his own name in someone else's mouth sounds like a prayer, a worship of a deity so great it filled the entire space, leaving behind thoughts of him alone, “what's the matter?”

And Regulus, even just thinking of those blessed words, can't help the smile spreading across his lips, his heart warming as the warmth fills his entire body, warming every icy part of him until he is an entity made of nothing but love.

“I love you,” he shared zealously, the way he had been doing lately, unable to contain the abundance of feelings he had never felt before, so strong they needed to be let out.

And James, as he has every time before, smiles so sweetly, shining so brightly, that Regulus keeps muttering the phrase over and over until his lover is laughing, twisting him in his arms.

“I love you too,” he replies each time, tucking his grown out hair behind his ear, “I really… really do.”

Regulus isn't an idiot and sees the sorrow blossoming in his James' eyes, as if he's already leaping forward in time, already seeing their parting and his soon-to-be loneliness that he can't escape, no matter how much he wants to. And every time he hugs the boy, pulling him as close to him as possible, wanting to unite their souls into one, to show the depth of his emotions that no words can convey, to show all the abundance of love that overwhelms him, to show how much James needs and loves him, how much he doesn't want to leave him alone.

But he can't, no matter how much he doesn't want to, and so he is forced to watch as the horrifying hole of grief in the depths of his eyes grows, darkening the radiant expression on his face.

Regulus doesn't believe in any Gods because he thinks they turned their backs on him with the curse, but if he could ever believe, it would be now that James isn't around and he's kneeling in the blazing sunlight with his eyes closed and his face to the sky.

“If there is someone out there,” his dry lips whisper, “who has even a few drops of favour for me, a pathetic creature, then please give me a chance to stay with him.”

He squints as the seemingly unbelievable sun begins to burn down even harder, almost threatening to burn him off the face of the earth. Instead of hiding in the shadows he continues, hoping for a miracle.

“I pray,” he wheezes, stubbornly holding back tears, “if not with favour to me, then to this wonderful, bright boy who shines in my life more than the sun. Don't take away his happiness.”

He bows his head and imagines a phantom hand running his hair through his fingers. The wind sounds like a whisper of love, but it turns out to be James's distant cry, calling to him. A whisper of love indeed.

“I come to you with a gift, oh my love!” singsongy shouts the lad, at last showing himself before his eyes, “Oh Reg, what is the matter?’”

He must have been unable to hold back his tears at some point.

James comes closer and touches his cheeks, wiping away the traces of tears, and Regulus caresses at the touch, unable to believe that he is so lucky in life to have this happiness find him.

“What's wrong?” A loving whisper touches his skin before a quick kiss touches the top of his head.

He shakes his head and wraps his arms around James, breathing in the fresh scent of mint and what has come to be associated with love, the faint scent of lemon reaching him a little later.

“Cakes?” He lifts his head and smiles, but freezes under the guy's stare, “James?”

He barely notices the immortal's hands find their way to his cheeks again, dry after the stranger's clothes have soaked up his tears. When he feels them, he leans against them and hums softly.

James' eyes don't leave him, looking intently and so, so deeply loving that it takes his breath away.

“Hey, Reg?” The boy whispers to him as his fingers stroke his cheeks almost insensibly.

He stares intently, trustingly, and makes the interested sound again. Against his will, his eyes slowly close and he exhales softly.

“I just... really want to kiss you right now,” James shares almost shyly, which makes him open his eyes and see the gaze directed at him, like a stretch of molasses, a promise of safety and happiness, “if you don't mind,” he says.

“I really don't mind,” Regulus smiles and closes his eyes as he feels another man's breath against his own, so close they almost touch.

An instant later, the distance between their lips is erased and it's like an explosion like nothing else.

Even if the rest of the world around them disappeared, Regulus wouldn't notice it now. What he had been missing was suddenly falling into place, like a neatly matched jigsaw puzzle finally completing a marvellous, blissful picture.

And if he were to choose the happiest moment in his life that he would want to encase in a jar, to keep it alone, it would be him, blissful, happy and so incredibly tender that his heart sank before coming alive even more than before.

His hands reach for the solid shoulders and interlock behind the stranger's neck, burrow into the soft, perpetually mussed hair and run through it, feel him being held gently, not restrainingly, but so caring that he wouldn't dare fear anything just by being here.

And when they pull away, Regulus inhales deeply, almost gasping, but so blissfully happy. James' eyes shine brighter than the bloody sun, warm and loving, before he dives in for another kiss, brief but consuming, until the rest of the world disappears again.

And somewhere quite far away, Fate holds the threads of the universe in her hands, watching the swirling probabilities around her, which flicker and change until there remains one unchanging variable in the lives of two people tightly woven together.

“James,” Regulus pulls softly and lovingly, stretching out on the boy's lap beneath him.

The sun is shining down on them, and the wind is getting colder every day, so they spend less time outside than they used to, but on days like this, when nature has it that way, they can't resist getting out to bask in the warm rays.

“Yes?” smiles his love, shining brighter than any of the stars, as if God himself had come down and blessed him.

Her hand runs a gentle hand through his hair, making him want to purr, which he does, tilting his head back happily, and getting a happy chuckle in return. For a moment, Regulus forgets and all that's on his tongue are words that are so far from articulate that you want to laugh because they're just sounds that try to reflect his emotions.

“Yes, my love?” James calls out again, shaking his head amusedly.

“How do you feel about moving to the sea?” Regulus opens his eyes and watches as another rush of concern fills the boy's gaze, one that makes him want to sink in, to wallow completely and irrevocably because even in the deepest depths of his sea would be safe, “I would look at you in front of the sea waves while the wind flutters your hair and your lips are salty from the water.”

“Would you?” smirked James, leaning over him so that there was little time between them, “don't you like me now, love?”

“I like you," Regulus replies suddenly hoarse, heart-stoppingly, licking his lips involuntarily, “you know, I'd even show you how much…”

They laugh, intertwining so tightly that no strongman could separate them from each other.

However, much to Regulus' dismay, this does not mean that the days remain cloudless.

The days pass, the weather gets worse, and with it James' moods, as unpredictable as the playing Goddess. One moment he's laughing and kissing his cheeks as if it were some sort of attack, until Regulus starts laughing like a small child, and the next he's shutting himself away while longing fills his entire body, oozing sorrow as if it were flowing instead of blood through his veins.

“James, darling,” Regulus whispers each time, clutching the calloused hands in his own, pressing them to his lips and closing his eyes, breathing slowly, “my sun, my life....”

“My star,” James answers him with fervour, even though his voice is full of the pain he tries so desperately to hide, but the cracks widen more and more until the mask falls away completely, “my love.”

Their love is vivid, but so painfully tragic that Regulus wants to sob, but he doesn't do it, doesn't let him. Because, in the end, it is not he who will die. He is not the one who will be left alone, abandoned by his love and forced to move on in the hope of one day knowing former happiness again.

He only cries when James' face is hidden in his shoulder, so he presses his face to the top of someone else's head and mutely sheds bitter tears.

Regulus is getting so used to the long, melancholy atmosphere between them that he is surprised when James suddenly bursts in on him with a rumbling glow in a way he hasn't done in a long, painful time, always buried under the burgeoning grief consuming his entire being.

But now a smile spreads across his face, a smile so wide it involuntarily appears on Regulus' face as his heart flutters at finally seeing his dear man happy.

“Regulus!” laughs James laughs with absolute glee, picking him up in his arms and kissing him soundly, “my love!”

The bags under the immortal's eyes are painful, should not cross the beautiful, delicate face, but, perhaps for the first time in a long time, they begin to fade as he lights up so brightly that no illumination would be needed.

“What,” Regulus finally asks, grabbing the other man's shoulders, “what happened?”

“I found it!”

And then James lets go of him and, as if his legs would no longer hold him, drops to his knees with a painful, hard thud that Regulus couldn't prevent, falling in his wake. A single moment passes in painful, anticipatory silence before the immortal breaks into sobs, touching his forehead to the other man's knees.

“What did you find?” Regulus suddenly asks tensely, no longer sure of the sudden burst of happiness, now worried beyond belief, even more so than before, “James? What did you find?”

He touches James' shoulders in a pathetic attempt to lift him up, to see his face and reassure him, but he stubbornly stays where he is and doesn't move, which only fuels the anxiety eating away at his gut more.

“Come on, love,” Regulus whispers softly, painfully, stroking his tense back, “tell me, what happened?”

I found,” he answers in a voice that is husky, almost inaudible, but in which relief slides in so clearly that he is torn with incomprehension, “and only if you agree, but…”

“What's the matter?” He can't stand it any longer, finally successfully lifting the sobbing boy up, looking into the reddening but no less beautiful eyes and trying to understand what's going on, “What do I have to agree to? What have you found?”

*I found a way to make you immortal,” James mumbles, a fragile smile stretching his trembling lips, “if you agree... if you want... you can…”

“James, you're a complete idiot!” Regulus shouts so suddenly that he deafens not only the boy, but himself as well, cringing at his own volume.

“Yeah, I know, I'm sorry..”

“You're an even bigger idiot!” He continues and, still holding the other man's shoulders, shakes the boy firmly, “Of course I agree, how could you possibly think otherwise, you fool! How at all–”

He can't continue his speech about how stupid his awesome, loving boyfriend is, because he is silenced by a kiss from this very stupid boyfriend, which he has to admit is an awesome move and very, very effective.

When they part, there's a salty aftertaste swirling on their tongues, their own hands shaking, but their lips invariably reflect each other's broad smiles, which they kiss over and over again until their breathing picks up and their hearts return to a slightly more familiar rhythm.

“How?” Regulus exhales hoarsely, unable to tear himself away from the other's body for longer than a moment, drawn back as if by a magnet.

“Many sleepless nights, used bonds and finally magic,” he whispers against his very lips, “are you sure you agree?”

What a stupid question.

The ritual turns out to be simple, though James explains why many avoid it, shrugging uncertainly.

“Well, for one thing, I'm the only immortal as far as I know, so others don't get that much of an advantage here, and secondly, well... rituals are long gone for the most part, and who wants to bind souls together so tightly that their lives become interdependent?”

“I do. We do.”

James laughs, snuggling closer to him. A quick, tender kiss on the top of his head, and he steps back to the circle he's drawing with the chalk he's already running out of.

Regulus feels love so all-consuming that he thinks no ritual is needed - he's already addicted.

At the same time, anticipation and anxiety are firmly planted at the bottom of his stomach, curling up there like a poisonous snake and causing him to move restlessly around the room, needing to release some of the angry, nervous energy that has settled in his heart.

“It's going to be okay, love,” James notices this and sends him a smile that is permeated with his own anxiety, “but you can refuse now, before it's too late.”

“I'm not giving up, you idiot,” he mutters unhappily, frowning, “I want to be with you. I'm just worried, so don't start. I'm not leaving you.”

James chuckles to himself and finally finishes, unsure but proudly looking at the work that adorns barely the entire floor, voluminous and so detailed it's beautiful.

“Come here then, my star,” he whispers barely more than an exhale.

Regulus shakes his head disbelievingly and walks over to him.

Hand in hand, the warmth settles in his whole body, effectively chasing away any snake that dares to encroach on his peace. Smile to smile, and their bodies moved toward each other, entwining wherever possible. Skin to skin - and the rustle of clothes getting chalky dirty as they laugh. Lip to lip - breath mingling so closely that it's hard to know where one begins and the other ends. Soul to soul - and never again will they be alone, now joined body and soul, sealed by a vow framed by a blood red ribbon stretching across their destinies.

Heart to heart, they beat in sync.

Walburga Black is a vicious woman. It's hard to find a person who wouldn't agree with that statement, or at least hasn't heard it uttered by others, after all, the surname of an ancient family has a certain fame that even in the best of times could be called dubious.

Time is fleeting, however, and in the long, endless stretch of it, one woman does not matter. Her life and death is but a point on the long, endless distance of eternity. Her legacy may fade into oblivion, her family may fall to pieces and she, the vicious woman who boasted so much of her name, will one day be forgotten.

But one thing will remain true during her life, at her death and much later: at least one descendant of her will live on, watching how cities change, how the world changes and grows, how people die and are born. And he will walk hand in hand with time, because it no longer matters to that descendant, nor does it matter to his companion.

Regulus Black did not know the world for the long fifteen years of his life, nor did the world know Regulus Black.

But that changed at the tender age of fifteen, when two threads suddenly crossed, and Fate's watchful eye followed them at every turn. And her hands wove her beautiful web, whose name she gave to love. That web should have been torn hundreds of years ago, but her son persevered, for he had taken all the paths of the universe and trodden his own.

The world knew James Potter very well, just as James Potter knew the world, adored and cherished it. But what does the world mean if you are alone in it, like the coldest of ice floes in an endless ocean, forced to not know the happiness of being with another person, unburdened by the bitterness of loss?

James Potter adored the world, but one day he met someone in the infinite world who captured his attention so completely that it changed the axis of each universe, where the only true constant was that James Potter and Regulus Black would be with each other no matter how the threads of Fate twisted.

Those threads twisted in all directions, crumbled and twisted, but in the end, they drew the two souls to each other that could no longer exist without each other.

And the two souls walked side by side, eternally together, tender and loving, and the curse disappeared completely unnoticed under the wave of love so strong that Fate herself felt it deeply and completely.