Back to Black
It takes one week for Arcturus Black to reveal he knows Regulus is alive.
It was due to a foolish mistake on Regulus’ part, a pure lack of thinking. The tapestry.
Of course, the damned piece of cloth, which has felt like a death sentence for so long, betrays him like this. Will his lineage ever stop trying to get him killed? He doubts it.
Every family has one, each one different to the last. The Lestrange’s have a book, a misogynistic telling Bellatrix frequently raged over, one that shows the women in flowers. The Rosiers have a scroll that lists the names and accomplishments of their members. The Selwyn’s have a whole hall that depicts their family line, and even the skulls of its members (which is rather dark, even for Regulus’ more Black tastes).
If anything, the Black Family Tapestry is rather timid in comparison. Merely a piece of cloth.
You should have known better than to overlook the smaller things. You saw what it has done to the Dark Lord, and you are lesser than that.
He also should be grateful, at least Grandfather changed the records before his mother could notice. He is not sure she would be as remarkably quiet with the news.
However, he is apparently unwilling to leave Regulus to his peace. No, Arcturus Black has demanded a meeting with his Grandson.
He would refuse, had the man not stated it was one of his terms for his involvement in their plans to foil the Dark Lord. He has made it clear that with no Regulus, there is no help.
Alicent had asked him about his Grandfather, the night with the fireworks. When it was him communicating with his Grandfather, Evan apparently seemed to believe Arcturus had regrets. Over his family, a family he claims to have cared for.
Regulus finds that difficult to believe. Perhaps once upon a time that was true, and he is sure he only wished for the grandest of futures for the house that would continue for the next hundred years, and regrets now it may not even last the next five.
Ever since his grandmother died, Arcturus has shown little affection for anything beyond his own company. He became more of a gravestone than his grandmothers, a cemetery for life and dwindling power.
So no, Arcturus did not care for his family, could not have. When Sirius was desperate, he wrote to their grandfather for help, begging for it. When Father was dying, even his mother tried to turn to Arcturus, who she never liked. Regulus became the acting lord to the House of Black a month before his own ‘death’, and yet there was not a peep from Arcturus fucking Black.
As he walks down the path to the entrance of the estate, Regulus lifts his hand to the horror that mars the skin above his heart. Toujours Pur it says, the words carved into his body, turning him into a temple of bigotry.
He carved it out himself, with his mother watching attentively over his shoulder. He remembers the way she cooed over him, stroked his hair and told him she was proud of the courage he displayed as she convinced him to draw his own blood.
Sirius has one to match, remembered the way he seethed as he did it. The way his mother's gaze was like fire, burning the occupants in the room with her heated vitriol for his brother.
Always Pure, but Regulus is not sure any of them can ever be pure. There is nothing pure in their sinful existence, the poisonous upbringing they were forced into.
Purity is not sacrificing one's children, cutting them open simply to relish in seeing your blood pour out of another.
It is a sick perversion his family has always shared in, lust for the spilling of their own blood from others. Yet they had rules on who could spill it, standards. Only a Black may spill Black blood. Perhaps it is grief over his pride from hearing how Regulus was 'killed' that has caused Arcturus to act this time.
Regulus looks at the manor as he trecks to the front door, and he finds himself unimpressed. Manor Noir has always been an impressive estate, had to be to reflect the family it has housed inside. With its gothic statues and stygian walls it rarely fails to intimidate. The large spiked gate with Toujours Pur does not mean to welcome, but to warn.
When he was younger, Regulus loved the manor. Whilst it was made to cow the most grown of adults, it always failed to do so with Regulus. He spoke to the gargoyles with their bared teeth of his lessons, played catch with Sirius with the mysterious skulls that lined some mantelpieces. To Regulus, who had only ever known Grimmauld Place besides, it may as well have been a fairy nest for all he loved it.
He finds the state it is in now much more frightening. It looks abandoned, which cannot be the case for Arcturus has holed himself up here for years.
About halfway through his walk down the path, he spots a gathering of gnomes, and through spite and his hatred of the little beasts sends a dozen nasty jinxes their way.
He concentrates on the mossy stone under his feet, the way it is cracked and worn. It makes it hard for him to keep his balance without concentration, not to slip and fall upon the befouled state of their shared family pride.
How could he let it become this? Regulus knows Arcturus was neglectful, yet the Grandfather he remembers would consider this cruelty.
As he reaches the grand archway that makes up the entrance of the manor, and hesitantly lays his hand against the ebony wood. He focuses his eyes on those of the silver raven in front of him and awaits the clothed embrace of the wards to welcome him.
They do, of course they do. Even dead, Regulus will be immortalised as a Black. His grave is even here somewhere, the empty casket too.
The door creaks open, and on the other side, he is met with a familiar face.
“Hello Weasel” he greets the grumpy house-elf from his childhood.
“Hmm” Weasel croaks, and moves closer to him with suspicious eyes. “Come here” she demands of him, attempting to drag him down to her level by the front of his muggle shirt.
There is something about Black family house elves that always seem to be more imperious than most, almost as if they chose them based on it.
He goes willingly, allowing the old crone to inspect her until she is pleased. “Yes, hmm, it looks like Master Regulus, it does. Yes” she declares, almost throwing his face away from her. “Weasel can see it is Master Regulus, even with those ugly scars.”
Regulus can always feel the scars that wrap around his body like chains. They are unsettling, and not only to him. Alicent seems to flinch each time she lays eyes on him, seems to use a physical force to tear her eyes away from the one that wraps around his neck that he cannot hide, not even with high collars.
Regulus hates them, yet finds comfort in the display of his punishment. I have paid, they scream, I did not go unpunished.
Yet for Weasel to mention them feels like an unnecessary insult, but Regulus lets it slide. It will be a long enough afternoon without starting fights at the front door. Not only because he does not mean to prolong his morning here, but Weasel was also an incredibly powerful house elf if he remembers correctly, so he is not entirely sure he would even win.
“It is good to see you too Weasel,” he says sarcastically. “I believe you have somewhere to escort me?”
Weasel goes to pfft at him, but instead Regulus’ trousers just get an ungodly amount of spittle on them. “Telling Weasel what to do, how grown up of Master Regulus. How mature.”
“Thank you Weasel” he chooses to politely reply.
“Come then” she snaps back.
He keeps an irritatingly slow pace, one he is sure she does simply to annoy him. He is not sure what it is he has done to earn her ire, but it always has been easily earned. His grandfather was always more lenient with his house elves than his son, and whilst it is a practice Regulus agrees with, it has caused a rather mouthy escort.
One bonus to his achingly slow pace is that he is given the time to evaluate his surroundings. He is pleased to realise that despite the shabby state of the interior, it is at least an improvement upon the rest of the manor.
It still makes his stomach clench, having to see the depths his house has fallen to. He knew this would be a consequence of his ‘death’, was even pleased with the knowledge such depravity would no longer live through them, yet it is still discomforting to see it in real-time.
At least the house-elves should have kept order, he thinks, and for the first time, he notices the distinct singularity of Weasel.
“Where are the other house elves?” He asks Weasel.
“Gone” she sharply tells him.
“Gone? Gone where?”
Weasel gives him a positively evil glare from the corner of her wide eyes. “Master Arcturus sent them away after Mistress Melania died. Only Weasel is left to serve now.”
That sends Regulus’ jaw-dropping. He sent them away? The idea is preposterous, yet by the derelict state of the manor he can see the truth in it.
Arcturus is not a soft man. His Head of House was not generous, not warm and loving. One would sooner receive a smile from a dementor than Arcturus Black.
It was what always made his fondness for house elves so peculiar.
Most of the families within their ‘circle’ are known for treating them poorly. His father was one of them, always despised Kreacher for his mere existence, and whilst his mother seemed to love him, she was always known for her cruelty towards those she loved. Even Sirius, who always made a point to love those he was told were lesser than him, seemed to take pleasure in the mutual abuse he and Kreacher engaged in against each other.
His grandfather didn’t. He always kept at least five house elves, and cared for each of them better than he ever seemed to care for his children. Regulus thinks he may have loved them, as unnatural as it is for him to associate love with the man.
It was the only thing Regulus could think to have had in common with the man, the only weakness they shared.
Apparently, Arcturus’ self-exile was worse than he thought.
Whilst in his head he forgets to watch where he is going and nearly kicks over a now stagnant Weasel.
“You!” she calls to him. “Hmm, listen close Master Regulus. Master Arty”- and Master Arty? Perhaps that is too much even for Regulus’ liberal tendencies- “is very… very… delicate. You be nice to Master, you will be. Weasel does not care for more Blacks, but Master Arty says you must come. Do not make him regret it.”
By the end of her inspired speech, she is waving a knobbly finger in his face, which he has had to bend down for so that she can reach it.
Arcturus? Delicate? He would not have believed it had he not seen the dilated state of the only sanctuary Arcturus has refused to leave for years.
It is known for older wizards to lose their sanity, for their magic to turn inwards and for their minds to go soft. Old Mr Selwyn was one example, his other grandfather Pollux was never the most stable in his old age either. It is not unheard of.
Alicent did not mention it. Yet she did not know the man he was before, so perhaps she did not have a full understanding of it. Or even better, perhaps she did not tell him so he would not change his mind.
There is only one way to find out, so he steels himself whilst Weasel opens the door to the study.
He does not look well is Regulus’ first thought.
The man himself is sitting in a high-backed ebony chair, or perhaps a throne would be more fitting. Yet he does not look like a king in it, looks little more than a beggar. The thing has practically swollowed him whole.
His previously stocky build has been reduced to little more than a stick-thin skeletal frame. His pallor is ghastly, his eyes lifeless, his hair white. Nothing is intimidating about a man as frail as a bow truckle.
He does not look delicate is Regulus’ second thought.
He thinks to be mad at Weasel, the way she led him into the belief this man had gone soft.
Frail as a bow truckle he thinks scathingly. There is nothing frail about the gaze that has landed on him now.
As he meets the dark gray eyes that are boring into him, he unconsciously feels his back straighten and his chin lift. He meets it with a glare of his own, and for once he feels it is well-matched.
They do not say something for a few seconds, simply take the other in like wolves stalking their prey.
Call me a child, I dare you he hopes his says.
Are you a man or a boy? his seems to ask.
Regulus is the first to break, but only to send the traitorous house-elf a glare before she leaves. He could accept her rudeness but is not fond of her manipulation.
*Pop* and the two of them are left alone.
“What did she do?” A harsh and gruff voice asks.
“Why did you send away the house elves?” Regulus sternly asks.
“Excuse you?” Arcturus shoots back as if it is not a perfectly fine question.
“I asked why you sent away the house elves?”
“Yes, yes I heard you boy. I was more asking why it is you think to ask me that question?”
“Because they did not deserve to be sent away and the manor is in a state.”
Arcturus grumbles to himself at that, and it sounds awful like he is saying Bloody Orion, but Regulus does not pry.
“The house elves are fine, boy. Now, have you any other pointless questions that cannot wait until you sit down? No? Good.”
Regulus sits facing opposite the man, and they stare at each other like two opponents playing chess.
“I’ll call Weasel to make us tea,” Arcturus says, yet Regulus interrupts him before he can call back the unpleasant crone.
“I will make it,” he says, and gets up to do precisely that.
He has always enjoyed making tea, does it to sedate his nerves and finds using the familiar black and gold teapot touching.
As he works, Arcturus speaks up. “You prefer to make it yourself, I see.”
It is something he vaguely remembers his grandmother Melania doing, making tea during difficult moments. She taught him to when Sirius was learning the ways of the House of Black from his grandfather and Regulus was nothing but the spare to all but her.
She was soft, more so than any other member of his family. It was with her he felt closest to as a boy, rather than a scion. Her laughter was musical, her tastes eccentric, her words kind. All Macmillan and all Black and made all the better for it.
Once, when she was teaching him the completely unnecessary yet enjoyable skill of baking a cake he asked her why she does it herself.
“Because they are a labour of love, my child. It does not come easy, but it comes from me.”
Regulus is sure that is not why he feels the compulsion to make richly herbal tea when he must face a conversation, but it does soothe him to release some energy into something he enjoys. It is almost a reminder he is himself, has not lost his love for everything.
“Grandmother taught me this way, it feels wrong to delegate the job elsewhere.”
“Sounds like her lessons. Just so” he mentions wistfully.
He finishes adding what has been described as an ungodly amount of sugar to his tea and finally takes the proffered seat in front of his grandfather's desk.
“So, I assume I do not have to state the obvious to get this conversation going,” Arcturus says.
“Which is?” Regulus asks back.
“That you are alive, boy. Do not mock me.”
“Both of us are defying expectations here Grandfather, I was simply unsure which of us were the erumpent in the room.”
His grandfather ignores the jab at his recent lack of company or interest. “Did the Rosier boy know?”
“You’re asking about Evan?”
“Clearly. I had always gotten the impression he did not, unlike the girl. So, did he?”
“He knew I was alive, but he remembered nothing else.”
“Ah, so he was obliviated. Makes sense.”
He knew Evan was meeting with his grandfather regularly through Alicent. He does not know what it was they spoke of, he knew little of Evan’s dealings but has come to the assumption it was concerning the obscene amount of time he was spending at Gringotts.
He must have also been successful in swaying Arcturus. Whilst the meetings were secret, it was public that Arcturus Black had finally left his exile after his grandson's ‘death’, that he was seen at the Ministry increasingly often. He is building up his power, yet Regulus is not yet sure what for.
“Why did you want to meet with me?” Regulus simply asks because he does not intend to discuss his murdered friend with a man such as this.
Arcturus barks a laugh, one that has him near flinching back from the sharpness of it.
“You ask why I wished to meet with you after you betray a dark lord and declare yourself dead? Do not be foolish boy, it does not suit a Black.”
“You wish for me to be heir” Regulus summarises, because the only thing that moves a Black seems to be legacy. It cannot be pleasant for his grandfather to look into a crystal ball and see the end.
Yet he still manages to surprise him. “I doubt it, unless you truly surprise me. Your brother is my heir, always has been.”
“Sirius is disowned.”
“By whom? Your mother? I am not a fool, I would never trust the bint with anything more than a piece of cloth.”
Regulus is not sure how he should react to such a statement. It hurts, knowing that he was never considered as the true heir, really is simply the backup plan only in the case of death. That despite doing the thankless work of heir, and even lord for a short time, he was never a contender for the title itself. He has become used to such disregard, yet it never fails to sting.
“You have entrusted her to our entire house in the past years. If that makes a fool, perhaps a jester's hat suits you better than the Black insignia nowadays.”
“I entrusted our house to Orion, yet it seems he was as willing to forsake it also. You are no different boy, nor your brother. We have all ignored our duty, yet we will pick it up again.”
“We?”
“Yes, We. I am not the fool you claim I am, I know you will be working for something. A Black does not hide, but one does know when to lay low. So tell me, and we shall plan.”
So Regulus does. He explains the cave, and whilst he makes no specific mention of the Horcruxes, he thinks his grandfather may have understood regardless. It was Regulus’ father who educated him on the dangers of the dark arts, but he had to have learned somewhere too.
He also explains his plans to reach out to Sirius.
“And how will you do that?” Arcturus asks.
Regulus is honestly slightly surprised by how attentive Arcturus has been throughout his explanation. He has even refrained from the majority of snide comments that surely spring to his mind.
“Alicent has been looking for a way to use my blood to track him. I will not be moral” he admits “but it should work. We don’t expect either of us to be hurt.”
“You don’t expect?”
Regulus sighs. “There are no guarantees, but Alicent is our best chance at finding him.”
“And if there were another way you would take it?”
“Of course, but there isn’t one I can think of.”
Yet Arcturus apparently disagrees as he reaches down into a drawer and pulls out a heavy-looking tome that makes a thunk as it hits the desk. “That is because you do not know of it.”
Before Regulus can utter a word, Arcturus has drawn his wand and sliced his palm open. He lays his bloody hand upon the top of the tome flat, and it suddenly lights up with runes that not even Regulus knows despite his ardent passion for the subject.
These are old runes, lost to them now in spite of the way they still power us. Regulus will never be able to decode them, no matter how hard he wishes to.
When the glow from the runes finally dies down, Arcturus finally looks up at him and seems amused by Regulus’ expression.
“You did not think I merely found out you were alive through the tapestry, did you?”
Regulus thinks it may be the first time he has ever seen his grandfather giddy.
“That can show you where Sirius is?” Regulus asks, still staring at the book in wonder. The runes were incredible.
“It can, correct. It will not show me should I mean to harm the boy, but of course, I don’t. Now” he says and flips through to the middle of the tome “this is the page.”
The page in question is a two page spread, titled SIRIUS ORION BLACK III & XV. Underneath it seems to contain details on Sirius, from his hair colour to his exact height and weight. And in the centre of the pages is a compass, with what seems to be changing coordinates and moving constellations across it.
“That is Sirius’ location?” Regulus asks, pointing to the numbers.
“They are,” Arcturus says, and spins the book around to face Regulus so he can see it more clearly.
“How can it track this so well?”
“You must have heard of the naming rituals. Did you think they were all pomp and ceremony?”
“The naming ceremony was so you could stalk us?”
“The Nobel House of Black is more than some names and titles. It is the lives of foolish children and ambitious heirs, on which I must keep an eye on. It is how we have always functioned, and how I will continue to function.”
“Does it show me on there?”
“Not when you’re under the fidelius, but otherwise yes.”
Regulus feels discomforted by this revelation, knowing he has never truly had a moment's privacy in his life when for so long it was all he wanted. He has it now, granted, yet it does not give back the freedom he hadn’t even realised he never had.
Sirius will like this even less. Never did Sirius enjoy impositions on his life, this will likely be little different.
“So where is he?” Regulus asks resigned because this invasion of privacy is at least useful, and potentially less harmful than the blood magic they were planning anyway. Damn Sirius’ paranoid privacy wards.
“Muggle London, by all accounts.”
“And they’re correct? Definitely?”
“Of course they are, do not insult. Send an owl to his address, best it be from someone not his dead brother, and it should be that Sirius will come running.”
“He may not even wish to meet with anyone, that would be the smart thing to do.”
“Older brothers are rarely smart about younger siblings” and it reminds Regulus that Arcturus himself had a younger brother called Regulus, alongside a sister called Lycoris.
Regulus does not often ponder on the future, but if he did, he wonders if he would become the man in front of him. Whether this is a mirror into his future or his past.
‘So you agree? With involving Sirius?” Regulus asks his grandfather.
“I do, the boy is trustworthy with your secret and Dumbledore’s daft order.”
“Good, I- thank you, Grandfather.”
Pfft. “Do not thank me, boy. Just as I was getting used to your gumption” Arcturus mumbles under his breath.
Merlin, Regulus hopes this is not in fact a glimpse into his future. How dire.
“What will you do in the meantime?” Regulus asks his grandfather. Only because he is curious, it has little to do with concern over his safety.
“I will meet with the Selwyn girl, do not panic. You have upheld your side of the bargain, I shall too.”
“And what does that mean?” Regulus is prying for information here. There is no need for his grandfather and Alicent to treat him like a child. He destroyed a piece of the Dark Lord’s soul, for Merlin's sake.
Arcturus clearly understands what it is he is doing, Regulus was never nearly so good at manipulation as his Head of House.
At Arcturus' raised eyebrow, Regulus conceeds. “Fine. You and Alicent can keep deals with Goblins to yourself” Regulus says, waving his hands in surrender. “If that is all?”
Arcturus clears his throat, and for the first time since his not-dead grandson walked into the room, he seems uncomfortable.
“There is one last thing I owe you.”
“I do not think you owe me anything, Grandfather.”
“Were only that were true. It appears that I owe you an apology.”
An apology from the man tilts Regulus’ idea of him on an axis because if there is one lesson Regulus understood wholeheartedly it is that Blacks do not apologise. There were other lessons; Blacks do not cry, Blacks do not show weakness, Blacks should always come out on top. Never was Regulus very good at following those rules, was always too soft to turn his sharp edges inwards and prevent his heart from pouring out his eyes. Yet he understood not to apologise, not even to himself did he allow such a concession.
“Blacks do not apologise” Regulus reminds Arcturus.
“Is that what Orion was teaching you? Nonsense, Blacks do not apologise to anyone other. The family comes first, Regulus, even over any selfish pride. Do you truly think I never had Orion scampering for forgiveness for his childish misdeeds?”
Regulus doubts there has ever been much Orion Black ever felt guilty of, so he is sure those apologies were insincere. However, Regulus believes they existed. His father was always scared of Arcturus.
“Fine.”
“You do not go easy on an old man.”
“Would you prefer I did?” Regulus asks with a challenging gaze.
“No, I would not. Your brother never did, nor did your aunt or grandmother. I had never expected you to pick up the trait, yet I see it is an improvement.”
“An improvement?”
“You think we grew this” and he raises an arm to gesture to the manor, “by having people go easy on us?”
“Of course not.”
“Good. Now, as I was saying, I owe you an apology. You were correct. I have neglected my duty, the family I have been sworn to from my first day on this Earth. I allowed Orion and Walburga to run amok with you children, and Cygnus and Druella the same with the girls. Had I not, we would not have our future in ruin across five different directions.”
“That may be true.”
“That is true. The Nobel House of Black is under my leadership, and now we are heading towards ruin.”
“Perhaps it should stay in ruin” Regulus has the nerve to suggest, because he has felt little love for his family in recent years.
Huff. “Now you sound like your muggle-loving brother. The House of Black has stood for centuries and has successfully ingrained itself as a pillar of the Wizarding world. For better or for worse, I will strive for such a history to remain. Unless you would prefer it to be replaced by your Dark Lord?”
“He is not my Dark Lord, he is more yours than mine.”
“Yes, I can see that is true now and I am proud of it. We lead the way, and perhaps one day you shall do a fine job of it. Better than this old man anyways” Arcturus finishes.
‘What about Sirius?”
Arcturus sighs. “For all Sirius is my heir, he may not want it. Maybe you do not either. The two of you are grown now, you can decide amongst yourselves.”
“And if neither of us want it?” Because whilst Regulus is fairly confident Sirius will be reluctant at best, he is not sure he wants it himself. He is no longer a boy trying to ride the coattails of his family, never wishes to become him again.
“Bah, then do it together, or hand it to bloody Malfoy’s if it makes you feel better. Melania would get a real kick out of that, the bloody peacocks inheriting my legacy.”
“The Malfoy’s?” Regulus asks increduously, because for all Arcturus and Abraxas have been close, he doubts he is willing to let Lucius claim his inheritance.
“Ha, I knew that would get a rise out of you. Yes, the Malfoy’s. That should be enough to get you or Sirius to continue in the name of the family indeed.”
Arcturus is right. For all Sirius and Regulus found different values in their peers, neither were overly fond of the smug peacock that was Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa be damned.
Noon is nearly upon them now, and whilst he doubts Arcturus gets many visitors, it will still not do for Regulus to loiter around the estate his grave lies on. It would give a poor family image.
He rises from his seat and brushes off any imaginary dust from his muggle suit.
“I suppose you will be going now,” Arcturus addresses him.
“I will be, yes.”
Arcturus does not rise from his seat, but Regulus does not think the act one of defiance or disrespect. The man is old.
As Regulus readies himself for departure in awkward silence, his grandfather merely basks in it with a contemplative look on his face.
“You remind me of her,” he says to Regulus.
He freezes. “Who?” Regulus asks and hopes he is not insinuating his mother. Regulus has never found such a comparison flattering, despite his sympathy for her at times.
“Melania, I see much of her in you.”
His grandfather seems to be holding back tears now, and Regulus finds it a task to do the same.
Blacks don’t cry, yet here it is clear they want to.
“Despite her anguish over the situation, she would be proud to see you now Regulus. Between the two of us, you always were her favourite,” he says as if Regulus was not starkly aware of the fact.
Regulus’ throat becomes choked up, he can feel a hand reaching around his heart to cut it off. Grandmother, the best of them all. Regulus does not flatter himself with the comparison his grandfather does, knows it to be untrue. One only needs to look at the strength of the house whilst Melania lived and the weakness of it whilst Regulus did. Yet he is warmed by the thought she would be proud, unexpectedly so.
“Thank you Grandfather” he chokes out, and this time Arcturus does not berate him for it.
Arcturus merely nods in acceptance. “Should you need anything, the House of Black will always accommodate its members.”
“Of course,” Regulus says, and turns around to leave through the door. His home awaits.
He is pleased with the productivity of the meeting, surprised with it too. Arcturus will help, it does not matter why. Together, with both his grandfather and Sirius they stand a small, fighting chance. It may be that for once, the House of Black will leave a mark upon their world that is not a dark stain. For once, they will help with the efforts to wipe it clean.
He opens the door, and in the split second before he crosses the threshold, he thinks of one last request. Regulus is a Black Arcturus said, it is basically treason not to follow through.
“Actually, there is one thing I should like,” Regulus says.
Arcturus raises an eyebrow. “And what is that?”
“Nothing much, I doubt you will disprove. After all, it is only ‘a bit of cloth.’”
Arcturus laughs at that, and perhaps finally Regulus understands family.