Regulus Black hasn’t felt truly small since he was eleven.
He decided he wouldn’t allow himself to feel so the moment he saw how Sirius looked at him after the hat on his head shouted “Slytherin”. He told himself that would be the last time he would ever feel so miserably, pathetically small.
He promised himself he would never again allow anyone to diminish him.
It was somewhat poetic, he supposed, that his brother’s disappointment would be, by Regulus’ own choice, the last thing he’d allow to make him feel lesser than.
During his first year, Regulus steeled himself, started to build a shaky, pretentious wall around himself, protecting his heart from the coldness of the world. He made himself freeze over, accustomed himself to the frostbite, so that he wouldn’t need Sirius to warm him up when their mother stood with her iron-gray eyes to cut them apart.
To cut him apart.
Regulus was alone now.
That year was the worst Christmas yet. Coming home after knowing the warmth of Hogwarts, with its dark stone walls and magical fires that didn’t truly burn, felt less inviting than Grimmauld Place had ever been.
With time, his unstable walls grew and hardened like broken bones that mend back stronger. He perfected his stance, stubbornly refusing to let his mother’s punishments break him like they did before. Sooner rather than later, he taught himself not to scream, spitefully keeping Sirius from the satisfaction of knowing his mother was disappointed.
Second year, and Sirius was telling everyone who cared to listen that Regulus was the perfect son, the worst of brothers. Regulus set his shoulders and kept hardening his mask. Keeping his face apathetic, his voice monotone, his muscles relaxed, his emotions locked away.
He told himself he was satisfied that his efforts were bearing fruit. He was glad Sirius saw him as everything he wasn’t, everything he wouldn’t want his brother to be.
Regulus seeked Sirius’ disappointment like he in turn reached for their mother’s.
Except Sirius didn’t punish Regulus for it.
In third year, Regulus was thriving. He walked around the corridors with a confidence he faked so well, sometimes he almost believed he was entitled to it. He sneered and glared, and people scurried away from him. He learned that he could manipulate his expression to elicit some specific reaction from people. He loved it, the power of controlling his own body, the high of having that kind of autonomy over himself.
The power of manipulation.
He feared it, at first, for how similar to his father he was, but in the end, he succumbed to it. It was the most effective tactic to get away from his mother’s fits.
By fourth year, making people believe what he wanted was second nature. His act was pristine, his mask made of marble and obsidian, beautifully crafted for careful disinterest. And Regulus was growing bored. It had become so frustratingly easy to tug people’s opinions for his favor, he almost wished he was back home, where his mother posed a truer risk upon failure. He brushed that aside and focused on his studies.
The first time he broke his promise to himself was during the Christmas break of his fifth year. Christmas had never been Regulus’ favorite holiday, but December 24th, 1976 cemented his true hatred for the tacky decorations and idiotic songs.
It started as every other year, other than the heavy air of conspiratory plans. Family members Regulus knew were considered the most blood purist out of all of the Black family line arrived, and conversation was somewhat tense. Christmas dinner would be a private, exclusive business.
Hours passed of formalities and stilted greetings, where Walburga sauntered around her two children like shiny trophies. Like she hadn’t thoroughly tortured Sirius barely an hour before the gathering started.
They all seemed enamored with Regulus, praising his good manners and cruelly comparing him to their own children. It was terribly easy, for Regulus, to make them all love him.
And then he arrived.
Handsome, brown hair falling over his dark eyes, skin too pale for a living being, a glint of red in his irises. He had a kind of sickly aura Regulus would associate to a ghost, or an inferius – but he was living. Powerfully living, radiating dark magic with every breath, danger seeping from him as he walked.
Walburga lowered her head to greet him, and that was how Regulus realized something was truly, intrinsically wrong. When he came over to meet Regulus, Walburga seemed tense, overly polite, and Regulus was on edge.
“My youngest, Regulus,” Walburga said, her mean smile stilted. “He’s barely sixteen.”
“Ah,” the man said, and Regulus felt a surge of instant dislike for him. He was clearly disinterested, and didn’t make too much of an effort to hide so, although his words lilted at the end in a half hearted, poorly veiled attempt to lie. “Regulus. I imagine you will be joining your brother in tonight’s events next year?”
Regulus felt a cold shiver run through him, but he didn’t move a muscle. He stole a quick glance at his mother, who seemed discreetly discontent, then bowed his head. “Sirius has a terrible habit of making bad choices. If I have the chance, I always try to better him.”
That piqued the man’s interest. He could tell, without even looking up at his face.
“Oh? And how would you do better than him?”
Regulus paused. He didn’t know who this man was, what were “today’s events”, or what Sirius was supposed to do. His mother stiffened beside him.
Regulus straightened, looked the man in the eyes, expressionless. “My brother tends to be careless and reckless. I am confident I would be able to perfect any action of his.”
The man stared at Regulus for a moment, intense gaze fixed on Regulus’ own. After a pregnant pause, he smiled, a cruel, cold, lifeless thing.
“I am pleased with your son, Walburga. I’m looking forward to having him in our ranks.”
Our ranks?
Walburga paled, lips pressed into a thin line that normally would end in an outburst of anger and pain. Instead, her voice came out crisp and sharp, but contained.
“I need an heir, My Lord,” she said, and Regulus’ blood ran cold. “One of my sons should suffice, no?”
Lord Voldemort turned his cold, uninterested glance to her. “I decide what suffices for my army. You wanted to give me your problematic heir and keep the prodigy to yourself.” He leaned closer to Regulus’ mother, and Regulus hung onto the contained and veiled fear in her eyes, delighting in it to keep himself from feeling similarly. “The Black family has been admirably loyal and helpful to me. I hope you choose to maintain that tradition.”
Tense silence befell the three of them, and Regulus realized all the handful of guests were watching the exchange warily. Walburga kept her composure, not outwardly showing to be affected. “Of course, My Lord,” she finally said, cordially. “I simply ask for Regulus to be initiated only next year. He has to take his OWLs this year, and I believe his education to be of value to your cause.”
“Yes, you’re right,” he mused, walking elegantly away from his host. “But I think we’ve already stalled enough. Where is your eldest?”
What followed was a nightmare.
Sirius refused to join Voldemort, sneered and disdained of his power, and in turn, ended up twisted and broken on the carpet. The Dark Lord himself threw the first curse, and Walburga picked it up from there. Bellatrix’s high pitched laugh became giggles with every haggard sound Sirius made, cackles with every scream that seemed to tear Regulus’ brother’s throat.
They took turns. Cycling through from mother, to cousin, to uncle, to father, they each took a step forward to have a go at cursing Sirius, causing him as much pain as they thought was fit. Regulus never stepped forward.
Not to hurt Sirius.
Not to help his brother.
Regulus carved his nails into his palms until he felt the blood wet his fingers and forced his jaw to relax, focused on making his face devoid of reaction, forced his eyes to stay – dry, cold – trained on Sirius as his body spasmed with pain and agony.
Regulus watched. He watched as his family and Lord Voldemort tore his brother apart.
And he never felt so utterly impotent. Powerless.
Small.
Hatred simmered weakly in his heart as he watched Sirius’ entire body shake and his blood stain the carpet crimson as the people filed out of the room, as if they weren’t leaving all of Regulus’ happiness bloodied and ruined to die in a stuffed, dimly lit living room.
Anger burned him and melted the frostbite he had surrounded himself with as the door closed, leaving him alone with his unconscious brother. It blinded him as white fury washed over him, the kind that made him want to scream out all the pain he’d felt, the kind that made him feel he could be harsher than his mother, the kind that scared him, and in spite of it, perhaps because of it, he embraced it with everything he had.
Sirius was dying. He had nothing. Regulus was nothing.
Once the anger had slowed down and Regulus’ vision cleared, his brother was gone, the fireplace returning to its golden red color from the floo green that had taken it moments ago, and Regulus stepped back, his eyes stinging. He unclenched his fists, his shaky palms sticky with blood and floo powder.
Sirius is gone. Regulus took a deep breath in. The flames of hatred danced in his revived heart.
“Sirius left,” he whispered to himself in the empty room. Sirius is safe.
He turned on his heels and walked out of the room, facing his family, back straight and stance firm, expression cold and proper.
“Sirius left,” he repeated, louder, for his killers to hear, his voice full of resentment and anger. “Sirius is a disgrace to the noble name of House Black.”