Regulus was always the first to want something.
But Sirius was the first to get it.
It started with the little things, the treacle tarts Sirius snatched first, a broom ride that Regulus was too scared to try. But there were bigger things too.
Like the first time Regulus saw James Potter — messy haired and boasting that same smug smile — at Flourish and Bolts the day they went to Diagon Alley for Sirius’ first year at Hogwarts. A look. A smile. And Regulus knew from that instant that James was something else. And he wanted to approach him, to say hello if nothing else. But he didn’t. And then James was being called away by his mother, who yelled his name from the other side of the store. And that was that.
Then Sirius came home from Hogwarts and talked endlessly about his new best friend — James Potter — who was evidently the most amazing person in the world. And he couldn’t fathom why Regulus ran away crying.
Regulus spent the rest of his life dreaming about what how it all could have been different — how he could have said ‘hello’ that day in Dragon Alley, how he could have asked to be sorted into Gryffindor and be in the same house as Sirius and James. He spent the rest of his life blaming age, and experience, and Hogwarts house sorting. But it doesn’t matter does it?
Because Regulus was always the first to want something, but Sirius was the first to get it.
—
Regulus was always the first to know.
But Sirius was the first to act.
Like the way their mother used them as a punching bag, throwing cutting hex after stinging hex. It was Regulus who sat in the corners of the library, reading novels about children with loving parents and kind childhoods. It was Regulus who first doubted that this was proper, that it was normal. It was Regulus who first knew that they needed to get out.
But it was Sirius who ran away. It was Sirius who escaped.
And that’s how Regulus found himself surrounded by the people who curse out muggleborns as ‘mudbloods’, who raid muggle villages and torture innocents. And he knew it was wrong. He knew from the start. But he questioned it, doubted it — too insecure to follow his own instinct. Too scared to believe he was right.
But the scarier thing was that he usually was.
Soon enough they were on opposite sides of a war. Regulus, his life pledged to a man he hated, a man who was a terrorist, a murderer, and somehow, his master. And Sirius, side by side with his friends and his new family, fighting for a cause he believed in — even if he didn’t quite understand it.
Because Regulus was always the first to know, but Sirius was the first to act.
—
But while Regulus was the last to act,
Sirius was always the last to believe.
The little warnings Regulus always gave his brother during their torturous days at 12 Grimmauld Place: ’Sirius, don’t! You’ll get in trouble,’ ‘Sirius, please! If mother finds out —’
But Sirius never listened. Never believed in his brothers warnings. He thought himself invincible, and Regulus admired him for that, even envied him — his bravery, his courage. But it wasn’t just that — it was oblivion, ignorance. In truth, Regulus envied him for that too. But those traits got Sirius in the closet, starving for days. It got him cuts and bruises and broken bones. And Regulus could never stop it.
Because Regulus was the last to act, and Sirius was always the last to believe.
—
Regulus was the last to feel.
But Sirius was always the last to think.
This too, got Sirius in trouble, time and time again. Impulsivity. Brashness. Boldness. Perhaps theses traits could be useful in some places, but Grimmauld was not one of them.
But on the days that Regulus did act in time, on the good days when he wasn’t too late, this is what had him take the fall. Sirius’ mistakes, missteps, thoughtless leaps into the darkness; Regulus would take the blame. He would take the days in the closet. He would take the cuts and bruises and broken bones. Because as long as Sirius was there — as long as Sirius would be there to heal the cuts and ease the bruises and feed him that first meal out of the closet — Regulus did not feel the pain. As long as he had his brother with him, Regulus could even smile through the Cruciatus curse.
Only after Sirius left, throwing the floo powder down dramatically, yelling: ‘Potter Manor!’; only after the green flames licked his black boots; only after Sirius disappeared through the fireplace without even saying goodbye; only after Sirius stopped talking to him at Hogwarts; only after Sirius joined the Order of the Phoenix and Regulus joined the Death Eaters; only after Regulus lost his brother — did he finally feel his mothers’ blows.
Because Regulus was the last to feel, and Sirius was always the last to think.
—
Sirius was always the one to cry.
But Regulus was always the one to laugh.
It came from growing up in an abusive household, from living a traumatic childhood. They used to talk about it at the foot of Sirius’ bed, cuddled in a thick blanket in effort to keep away Grimmauld’s ever pervasive chill. ‘Coping strategies,’ Sirius had said. And so when their mother was at their worst, Regulus would hold his brother until Sirius’ tears had run dry — shaking in Regulus’ arms. But when it was on Regulus that their mother had done her worst, Regulus only grinned, teeth gritted through the pain as Sirius doused his wounds in dittany.
So when Sirius watched from the other side of the Great hall as his little brother strutted into the room, brandishing the dark mark imprinted on his left arm — he cried, running from the hall, James at his heels.
But when Regulus took the mark in the first place, he did so with a grimace and a daring grin. He spent hours in his room, muffling charms in place, laughing and laughing and laughing. Overtime, he developed a reputation amongst the Death Eaters as a nutter, as a psycho. But he was just miserable, a feeling he’d never learned to contend with, a feeling he occluded, deep down inside him, until he hit that fatal breaking point when he found it all quite amusing.
Because Sirius was always the one to cry, and Regulus was always the one to laugh.
—
And so it was, that Regulus had these little epiphanies — apparating to Godric’s Hollow in the dead of the night. It was Sirius who saw him first, running out of the house and crashing through the front door.
Regulus was supposed to be dead. It’s what the Daily Prophet had reported: ‘Black Heir — Missing for a Year — Presumed Dead.’ It’s what Sirius had chosen to believe, too scared to hope his brother was alive, behind one of those masks, under one of those cloaks, within one of those bodies that he had taken one of his spells in one of those battles.
It was easier to believe his brother was dead than a traitor.
But Regulus stood in front of him then with bags under his eyes and blood running free from a vicious gash in his shoulder. Doing nothing. Just standing there, staring back with vacant eyes. And after a year of mourning? Sirius couldn’t believe that this was his brother, alive and with him.
Because Regulus was the last to act, but Sirius was always the last to believe.
“Reg?” He had asked, unsure.
The door opened behind him, then closed again. He heard Remus take a sharp inhale.
That’s when he noticed the body.
Peter Petigrew — their fourth friend, the fourth marauder, their Wormtail, their little Wormy.
Dead.
The world around Sirius paused then, just for a moment, as the realization hit him full force. The war had been raging for long enough that Sirius had come to terms with mortality. Enough of them had perished. Marlene. Dorcas. Gideon. Countless others. But among the four of them? A part of Sirius had still naively believed in their immorality, their safety from the spells of the Death Eaters.
But Peter’s body lay stone faced and lifeless in front of him, face up to the night sky where he fell out of Regulus’ arms. The same mousy brown hair. The same freckled face.
And then Sirius broke.
Tears pouring down, sobs wracking through him, his heart pounding in his ears as he shattered.
“You killed him!” He screamed at Regulus, “You killed —”
The first punch he threw felt unnatural — he recalled a time when he and Regulus had vowed never to harm one another, no matter what. But after the first, the rest came easy. Blow after blow after blow even after Regulus had collapsed onto the cold concrete, shaking.
It was Remus who pulled him back, wrapping his arms around him, demanding that he stop.
And the tears kept coming, and he never stopped shaking, a feeling of inescapable cold settling in.
“He killed Wormy, Moons,” He whispered, “he killed him!”
That’s when Regulus started grinning. Chuckling. Then laughing like a madman. Howling laughter into the moonlight. He looked up at Sirius, still bound by Remus’ arms, shook his head, then laughed harder.
Because Sirius was always the one to cry, but Regulus was always the one to laugh.
Sirius was shocked. He had never thought his brother a murderer. Never. But after he took the mark and joined the leagues of You-Know-Who, he had lost that faith. But this? He had never thought his brother this cruel. This heartless. This —
“You really don’t know do you?” Regulus croaked, “did you really never notice?”
“Notice what?” Sirius snapped, “That you’re a bloody murderer and a heartless traitor? That you aren’t my brother anymore?”
Regulus continued, grinning, seemingly unfazed by Sirius’ accusations. “You and your friends,” he said, “always in those battles, always on secret missions for Dumbledore and the rest of the Order, always together,” he shook his head, “You, Remus, James.”
“And your point is?” Sirius’ voice was venom, but it cracked, just at the end.
“Where was Peter, Sirius?” Regulus cocked his head to the side, “Where was Peter during all those battles, all those missions? Where was he?”
Sirius shook his head, confused, “Peter? Where was he? He was — doing other missions. In other battles.”
The door opened again, two more pairs of footsteps making their way towards a bloody Regulus, a dead Peter, and a broken Sirius, Remus being the only thing keeping him upright.
Regulus scoffed, “Really? You have any proof? Any reason to believe Peter was really out doing those things?”
It was James who spoke this time, “Proof? Why would we need any proof? He was our friend, and he was a member of the Order.”
Regulus shook his head again, clearly disappointed, clearly exasperated, “It was Peter, you fools,” the sharpness of his tone contrasting to the laughing mess he had been only seconds ago, “The rat, the spy, the traitor — it was Peter.”
“What?” Sirius had whispered then, “No. It couldn’t have been, you’re lying, you —”
“Check his arm”
“What?”
“Check his arm,” repeated Regulus, insistently, “You think I’m lying? Then check his arm.”
There was an awkward pause then, three friends looking down at the fourth part of their soul, dead on the pavement, all of them not daring to move.
It was Lily that finally checked, pulling up Peter’s left sleeve to reveal the mark: a skull and twisted snake, etched into his forearm like a curse.
“No,” Sirius breathed, “No, it can’t be, you — you marked him!” He accused, “You put that mark on him, you —”
“You really think I went out of my way to mark your friend and kill him just to hurt you?”
“You —” Sirius broke for a second time, collapsing in a wave of tears, still held by Remus.
Remus, for his part, felt as though he couldn’t breathe, the weight of Sirius in his arms seeming to be the only thing keeping him upright.
“He’s the secret keeper — your secret keeper,” Regulus glanced at James, “He boasted about how much you trusted him to The Dark Lord at the last meeting, that’s how I know.”
“You’re lying!” Sirius croaked, but he sounded unsure, “You have to be lying, you have to —”
“Sirius, you have everything I ever wanted,” Regulus’ voice was unsteady, the earlier manic mirth now gone, “It’s always the way it is; I’ve come to terms with that now, when I want something, you get it. I just thought —” his voice cracks and he turns away because Regulus does notcry, lest not in front of his perfect older brother, “— I thought that I could at least stop you from losing your perfect life, if I couldn’t have it myself.”
Sirius looks at him, dumbfounded, trying to piece together the innocent brother he new, the murderous brother he thought he knew, and the brother bleeding out on the pavement right in front of of him.
“But I’m too late, it doesn’t matter,” Regulus looked down at the body beside him, Peter’s cold and lifeless eyes staring up at the dark sky overhead, “he had already allowed The Dark Lord entry into the Fidelus Charm before I killed him, it’s likely that we will all be dead before the night is through.”
Sirius continued to stare at his little brother. Always the first to know but the last to act. Beside him, Lily held James as he sobbed quietly, whispering a sort of chant of ‘Harry’ and ‘Lily’ and ‘Sirius’ under his breath.
“I —” Regulus stopped, breaking a little under the weight of honesty he never allowed himself to have, “— I just wanted to make sure you didn’t die thinking badly of me,” he looked up then, meeting Sirius’ confused gaze, “I hope that’s not too much to ask.”
In the years that followed, Sirius wished he had said something then, a confirmation, a kind word that let his brother know he loved him, always had and always will. But instead he just watched his brother rise — as he winced at the gash in his shoulder and the bruises Sirius left him with minutes earlier — not even thinking to respond to what had been Regulus’ first heartfelt words to him in years.
After all, Sirius was always the last to think, and Regulus was the last to feel.
The cracks of apparition surrounded them then, smoke clouding the air, figures in black cloaks and masks emerging, wands raised. Hexes and curses were fired, the peaceful night air suddenly filled with flashes of light. Sirius got hit early on — he had thrown himself at the Death Eaters the very second they appeared. Because Regulus was always the first to know, but Sirius was the first to act. He was hit with a cutting hex, nearly costing him his leg. Remus stayed with him, blocking as many spells as he could in a vain attempt to protect Sirius, who was bleeding out on the road. He took a few Death Eaters down, hitting them with a well timed stun, but it wasn’t enough. Soon he was on the ground beside Sirius, a slice across his chest.
They got Lily next. She had been running back towards the house, blocking every spell, shooting stun after stun. It took Voldemort in the end to take her down — a Crutiatus Curse that left her sprawled on the front lawn. She thought it was over then, that she would die at her home, trying to protect her son. But none of the Death Eaters spared her a second glance; the priority was the boy.
Regulus slipped out of sight, a familiar face to many of the Death Eaters, and bolted towards the back door of the house. James caught his arm.
“What are you doing?”
“Let me go, James, I’m going in — your son is in there — they’ll kill him if I don’t get there soon enough,” his voice came out strained, tired, and ultimately, more scared than he had ever sounded before. He spared a glance at Sirius, passed out on the road, Remus by his side.
“I —” James stuttered, obviously shocked by the prospect of a former Death Eater on the way to save his son, “— Okay,” he said finally, “Let’s go, the back door is —”
“Petrificus Totalus!”
He was caught in a sudden full body-bind, falling on his back in the grass, Regulus over him with his wand raised.
“I’m sorry James,” he tells him, “But it’s suicide, I can’t let you —” He pauses, eyes glistening.
“I love you, James. I always have,” he whispers, and then he’s gone, crashing through the back door and running up the stairs to the nursery.
When he gets to Harry, crying in the crib, Voldemort is already there.
“Leave me Regulus,” he commands, “the boy is mine to kill.”
“I’m not leaving,” Regulus replied, smoothly slipping between Voldemort and the child, “if you’re going to kill him, you’ll have to go through me.”
A look of surprise flashed across Voldemort’s face, “Regulus? A traitor? How the tables have turned.” He raised his wand, startlingly bone white against his hand, “But if you insist —”
Regulus turned then, looking reproachfully at the small boy squirming in the crib. He was never one for children, but something about Harry made him smile.
“You look like your father,” he whispered, and Harry made a cute little gurgling sound through tears.
Regulus smiled again, tears trickling down his cheeks. Because in the presence of no-one but a manic terrorist and this innocent little boy, he could allow himself to cry.
Maybe I another life, I could have loved you.
Maybe in another life, you could have loved me back.
The incantation left his lips as nothing but a hoarse whisper. He knew the words all too well — words he shouldn’t have known in a world that wasn’t as cursed as the one he lived in. And the last thing he saw was a flash of green light and Harry’s little pudgy face grinning up at him.
“Avada Kedavra!”
Voldemort had killed before. Many times. He had spoke that same incantation just whispered by Regulus six times before. He knew the feeling it caused, the sudden wracking through his chest as his soul split, ripping out of his body in search of a new host. It was a cursed incantation, the darkest of dark magic. But in the mist of a dead Regulus Black collapsing to the floor, the green flash dissipating, the screams of his Death Eaters just outside, he managed to miss that feeling in his chest. He managed not to notice as a piece of his soul left him, latching on to the only other living creature in the room. He failed to notice as the prophesied child gurgled loudly in his crib, shivering as the Dark Lord’s shattered soul entered him. An accidental horcrux — and the only thing that saved Harry Potter than night.
James saw the second flash of green from where he lay, petrified on the grass, tears rolling down his cheeks. If it had just been one flash then he could have had hope. Hope that it had been Regulus who cast the Killing Curse and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named who collapsed with a crash as the green light glowed through the shut curtains of the nursery. But with the second flash he knew that Regulus was dead, and so was Harry. Little Harry. Light of his life. It was all over. You-Know-Who got what he wanted, the prophesied child was dead, and he would have his way with James and Lily and Remus and Sirius and that would be the end of it. And so James cried silently on the lawn, awaiting his death.
But then he heard a howl, the ear piercing scream of a pained man. Then a crash. Then the cracks of apparition around him.
The other members of the Order had arrived — all was not lost. It was Dumbledore who unparalyzed him, helping him up while blocking the incoming spells from the Death Eaters surrounding them. But James didn’t spare Dumbledore another glance. Instead he ran, as fast as his legs could take him, through the open backdoor, up the stairs, towards the nursery.
Hope.
Hope.
Hope.
He crashed through the doorway just as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named turned from a body on the floor to a cloud of smoke — the shape of a screaming face — which crashed through the window and flew into the darkness of the night with a deafening shriek.
And there in the middle of the crib was Harry. Little Harry. His son. Looking up at him with a curious look on his face, as if asking: ‘Where have you been all this time, Papa?’
James let out a happy laugh, tears rolling down his face, and picked up his son, unharmed save for a curious lightning bolt scar on his forehead. He buried his face in his son’s messy mop of black hair, kissing him and hugging him and laughing in relief. Because Harry was alive.
And then he saw Regulus, his skin impossibly paler, grey eyes eerily vacant. But he was smiling, something James had never seen before, even in the years of their childhood as he watched Regulus from the other side of the Great Hall. Regulus had died happy, and it was in that moment that James new that what Regulus did, whatever it was the he did, had saved Harry.
Regulus had saved Harry.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice faint, as he smiled through tears, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
—
Breaking News: Ex-Death Eater Regulus Black Is Cleared of All Charges after Sacrificing Himself to Save The Boy Who Lived — Harry Potter!
In a recent attack on the Potter family at Godric’s Hollow, Ex-Death Eater Regulus Black, who had been presumed dead for over a year, appeared as a hero, allegedly saving the young Harry Potter from You-Know-Who himself. Although how he saved the child from a Killing Curse is currently still a mystery, the heroic act not only saved the potential Chosen One, but also deprived He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named of his powers. Since the attack, You-Know-Who has not been sighted, and all Death Eater raids on both wizard and muggle homes have ceased completely. The Potter family and many other brave wizards who fought You-Know-Who that night are currently recovering in St. Mungo’s, where the nation’s best healers have given confident confirmation that they will all survive the attack. All other wizards who had been at Godric’s Hollow that night give no comment. In a recent public announcement, Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizenmagot, cleared Regulus Black of all criminal charges in light of his actions during the recent attack. “None of us could do what Regulus Black did,” Dumbledore spoke in his speech, “it took bravery that none of us had, and opportunities that none of us were willing to take. No-one can deny that many of the actions that Regulus Black took prior to this event were immoral and against the law, but, just as well, no-one can deny that those very actions brought him to the moment where he chose to be noble — where he chose to do the one thing none of us could. He must be remembered as a hero.”
—
It’s funny how much nearly losing everything you love can do to a person. You see your life flash before your eyes, and you see not only the things that made your life worth living but also the many regrets that have plagued your over the years. That night brought James and Lily closer together than ever, but also farther away. Little regrets built up into something bigger, and Lily confided to James just a few days after that she couldn’t keep lying to herself. She had told him that she loves Harry and she loves James — but she also loves Mary, a dream she regrets not chasing. And James just smiled and told her, “then go chase it.”
They’re best friends now, and Harry takes turns spending the days with his mums or with his dad. James, for his part, lives with Sirius and Remus. After loosing Peter and Regulus, Sirius became insistent on keeping the people he loved the most beside him at all times, at all costs. They became a curious, mismatched family, but a family nonetheless: Lily and Mary, Remus and Sirius, James and Harry. A family of as much peace as they could find, and so, so much love.
After Regulus died, his final will and testament was carried out. Being the heir of the Black family after Walburga and Orion had disowned Sirius, he had inherited 12 Grimmauld Place as well as the large Black fortune at Gringotts. Most went to Sirius: the house at Grimmauld and much of the fortune. To everyone’s surprise, a large portion of the fortune also went to Harry, with a note to James that asked him to use it such that Harry could have the happiest life possible. A Slytherin locket, a rather strange trinket that produced a dark and ominous aura, went to Remus — accompanied by a simple note that read:
Remus,
I know you and I never knew each other well, but I always admired you — your confidence, your bravery, your resilience, and your wit. Maybe in another life we could have been friends. I know you of all people will be able to solve this puzzle if I can’t. The locket is a Horcrux — Voldemort’s Horcrux. For all I know, there are at least two more. They must be destroyed.
I trust you. With this, and with my brother. Take care of him for me.
R.A.B.
Remus had cried when he read the note, smiling slightly, shaking his head every once in a while. Sirius had shattered, sobbing uncontrollably, curled up into a ball on the couch of their flat. After Regulus’ will had been carried out, he didn’t move off that couch for days. They couldn’t get him to speak to them, or even to eat. He just sat there, crying, whispering, “Reggie, Reggie, Reggie — why — Reggie, I love you Reggie — come back — please —”
Even after they finally got him off the couch, when they finally got him to eat again, Sirius was never the same. He put on a bright facade for his friends — for his family — but a little bit of him was broken inside. After seven months he was mostly healed, mostly Sirius again, but a little part of him died with Regulus that day.
On the anniversary of the attack, exactly a year later, Remus stayed with Sirius in the flat, holding him while he cried silently — listening while Sirius retold countless stories of his childhood with his brother. It was a day of soft memories in lieu of the harsher ones that the day brought back
James, for his part, couldn’t stay in the flat. Being with Remus and Sirius was just too much for him. It brought back too many memories. Too many fears. He left Harry with his mums and apparated to Grimmauld Place. Sirius couldn’t bear to enter the house, despite it being his now. The ghosts that haunt the place torment him and him alone. For Sirius, it’s a cruel reminder. For James, it’s the only reminder he has. Regulus’ bedroom. His journal. His books and posters and little notes in pretty cursive handwriting. Maybe in another life he could have known these better.
He walks through the halls, running his hand over the dusty wallpaper. He gets insults from many of the paintings, old members of the Black family who accuse him of being an imposter and a thief. The first time he came here he was startled and offended, but after months he’s grown fondly accustomed to it all. At the end of the hallway, the last and most recent portrait is the one he’s looking for. Ice grey eyes stare back at him, curly black hair drifting in front of them, porcelain white face adored with a small smile as he approaches.
“You came back,” the portrait whispers.
“Of course I did,” James replies, “why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know,” the portrait retorts, “why would you?”
James smiles slightly, “It was today,” he whispers.
“Ah,” the portrait whispers back, “you miss me.”
James laughs dryly, “who wouldn’t?”
“You know what I mean.”
James chuckles again, then smiles sadly, “of course I miss you, I miss you every day.”
The boy in the portrait looks as though he’s about to spout some witty insult but decided against it. Instead he says, “I’m just a painting, James.”
“So you are,” James replies, melancholy in his voice, “but you’re the only version of you I have left.”
The boy shakes his head and smiles fondly, “How’s Harry?”
“Happy, and growing fast. He’s only two years old, so he’s still enjoying the joy of ignorant childhood.”
“And Sirius?”
James pauses, biting his lip, “better, but not the same. I don’t think he’ll ever be the same, after —”
“And you?”
James looks up, confused, “what about me?”
The boy in the portrait smiles, “How are you doing? You always focus on how everyone else is doing — but what about you?”
James frowns, brows knitted, “I — I don’t know,” he admits weakly, “I — I’m sad. I wish I did more, said more,” he looks up again, “I have a lot of regrets.”
“What’s done is done James,” the boy says sadly, “I have a lot of regrets too.”
James smiles, his eyes glistening with tears, “I love you, Reg, I always will.”
Regulus smiles back, the paint strokes highlighting the blush in his cheeks and the single dimple that forms when he smiles, “I know,” he whispers.
And that’s how James sees him: the eleven year old boy, sitting on the stool, scared, so scared, of where he’ll be sorted; the fourteen year old boy, looking shocked and hurt from the other side of the great hall, the first morning back after Sirius left; the sixteen year old boy, striding into the great hall with the dark mark on his arm; the nineteen year old boy, who petrified him and then died to save his child; the boy who told him he loved him — the last thing James ever heard him say.
The boy who wanted everything but got nothing. Who knew everything, but watched it all crumble in front of him. The boy who was too scared to act, to scared to try, to scared to mess up and fail. The boy who refused to feel. Who couldn’t feel. Who laughed when he was sad because he couldn’t bear to let himself cry.
That’s the only Regulus James ever knew. And it was these little epiphanies that hurt James the most. A silent reminder of all he never got to know.
But Regulus gave his life so James and Harry and everyone that night could live on. And it is this little epiphany that makes James smile through the tears and keep going, one step at a time, knowing that somewhere, sometime, Regulus is waiting for him.