The Wounds We Wear
The snort that Remus lets out makes Sirius whip his head around with a mock glare as he gasps dramatically, hand coming up to clutch at his chest like an old lady. He opens his mouth to retort but Moody was faster and barked out,
“Black! Sometime today!”
“Yeah, yeah..” Sirius mutters, turning towards his brother once again, Regulus’s confused gray eyes immediately find his once again.
Sirius gives a soft smile, trying to look as open as possible, when Regulus was young and got scared he would often retreat into himself and Sirius found that he had to have patience and be soft to get him back.
“Reg?” He whispered.
Regulus's gray eyes flickered over Sirius, taking in all the details and changes, his eyes got briefly stuck on the gray hairs and the slight wrinkles on his skin.
“You look like father.” Regulus said in a raspy voice.
“Well that's just rude.” Sirius said in a mock hurt tone, though inside he can feel the disgust starting to swell, Did he really look like that awful man?
Sirius forces a short laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He swallows hard, tongue dry in his mouth as he crouches lower beside his brother.
“You always knew how to give a compliment,” he says, voice softer now, less performative. “Ten years dead and still sharp as a bloody razor.”
Regulus doesn’t smile. His eyes keep roaming — Sirius’s face, the dusty room, the half-dozen strangers standing stiffly near the door like they’re waiting for something to explode.
He shifts slightly, a wince twitching across his features. His hand brushes the smooth surface of the table, fingers trembling. Like he’s trying to convince himself this is real. That he’s real. His brows are drawn tight, like the whole room is a puzzle and none of the pieces fit.
He blinks slowly, then narrows his eyes at Sirius.
“I died.”
Sirius stiffens. “Well..your back.”
Regulus scoffs. It comes out as a dry, hollow thing. “Right. Sure. Resurrected from the dead.” His voice is still raspy, but gaining strength — enough to drip sarcasm like venom. “And I suppose this is heaven, then? Dust, mold, and your face first thing I see?”
Sirius snorts despite himself. “If it is, I want a refund.”
Regulus shifts, trying to sit up more, but his arms tremble with the effort. Sirius reaches out instinctively, but Regulus flinches and slaps his hand away, weak but sharp.
“Don’t touch me.”
Sirius freezes, hands up in surrender. “Alright. No touching. Got it.”
Regulus’s breathing is shallow, fast. His eyes keep darting around like he’s trying to catch the lie hiding in the corners. The image of his brother's hand reaching for him sent him right back to that cave, to the hundreds of pale hands reaching for him, clawing at his skin and dragging him under the water.
Regulus gives a shake of his head, like he can physically shake away the memories. He tries to gather himself and sit straighter, though the effort makes the muscles in his arms twitch with strain.
His breathing slows by sheer will. You can see it — the way he pulls it back in, like wrapping a too-small cloak tight around himself. His face smooths out, jaw tightening, spine stiffening.
A Black shows no weakness.
Even now — especially now — that old, poisonous lesson wraps around him like ivy.
“Black,” Mad-Eye growled, his tone a mixture of irritation and impatience, “Get on with it.”
Sirius blinked, startled out of his stupor. He glanced between Regulus, who was still sitting stiffly on the table, trying to look like he was not second from slumping over in exhaustion and Mad-Eye, whose one good eye was practically burning a hole into him.
He cleared his throat, then turned back to Regulus, his voice quieter but still carrying the weight of everything he was trying to process.
“Alright, Regulus… What happened on your fifth birthday?” he asked, watching his brother closely. His heart pounded in his chest. The question wasn’t some random thing—it was one of the first times they’d both really realized the difference in how their lives were shaped by the Black family. The moment where Sirius had seen, even as a child, just how far their mother’s cruelty could go.
Regulus stared at him blankly, the storm of confusion and fatigue clouding his normally sharp eyes. There was a long silence, and for a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t going to answer. His eyes flickered as if he was trying to understand the question, as if his mind was struggling to catch up with reality.
Then, finally, his voice broke through the silence, raspy and thick with disorientation.
“Oh, you mean when mother pushed me down the stairs and forced me to go to that stupid banquet with a broken arm and ribs? Because that was not fucking fun,” Regulus muttered, his words slurring just slightly, clearly disoriented but still holding onto his snark.
Sirius’s heart clenched at the casual way Regulus spoke about something that had hurt him so badly. For a moment, he couldn’t swallow the lump in his throat, the sharp ache of the memory overwhelming him. He’d known about the injury—he’d known it had been bad, had been forced to watch his little brother suffer through it. But hearing Regulus say it, out loud, with that same indifference he always used to shield himself, hit harder than anything.
“Merlin, Reggie…” he breathed, voice cracking slightly as the rawness of the moment hit him. Before he could stop himself, he rushed forward and pulled Regulus into a tight hug, holding him like he’d never let go.
Regulus froze for a second, clearly startled, but he didn’t push away immediately. He just… didn’t return the hug. His body was stiff, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the affection.
“Alright, alright, get off me, you bloody wanker,” Regulus muttered, his voice hoarse, but there was no real force behind it. It was more of a reflex than actual resistance.
Sirius pulled back slowly, a little breathless, trying to hide how much that one moment had affected him. He wiped his eyes quickly, as if the action would somehow erase how close he’d come to losing it.
“Sorry, sorry,” Sirius mumbled, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Just… You’re here. You’re alive, Reg. And I don’t know what the hell’s going on but…” He let the sentence trail off.
Behind them, a faint whisper.
“What the fuck, did that really happen?” Tonks asked, her voice low in disbelief.
Remus, ever the steady one, sighed quietly beside her. “From what Pads has told me about his family, yeah… Sounds about right.”
Regulus didn’t seem to care about their surprise, though. His gaze was fixed on Sirius again, and while there was that familiar hardness in his expression, there was also something else—something buried deep beneath all the layers. Pain. Confusion. And maybe a bit of panic. But it wasn’t showing on the surface.
Regulus was still perched stiffly on the table, trying so hard to seem composed, but Sirius could see it — the slight tremor in his arms, the pale sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his back curved in toward itself like gravity was pulling harder on him than anyone else.
He looked exhausted.
Not just tired — bone-deep, soul-worn, like someone who had clawed his way out of a nightmare only to find another waiting for him.
Sirius stepped closer, lowering his voice as he gently said, “Alright, Reg. C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Regulus blinked, slow and wary.
“I’ll take him to his room,” Sirius said, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of the group.
Moody’s magical eye clicked sharply in its socket. “We’re not done with him—”
“We are for now,” Sirius cut in, sharper than before. “He’s bleeding and about five seconds from passing out.”
Moody’s expression soured, but Remus stepped in then, calm and firm.
“He won’t be much use to anyone if he collapses in the hallway,” he said gently. “Let Sirius handle it.”
With a grunt and a glare, Moody waved them off. “Ten minutes.”
Sirius didn’t wait for more. He turned back to Regulus, offering a hand. “Come on, let's get you up to your room.”
This time, Regulus didn’t protest. He didn’t take the hand, either — too proud for that — but he let Sirius steady him when he swayed on his feet as he jumped down from the table.
The walk was quiet, save for the creak of floorboards and the uneven sound of Regulus’s breathing. Sirius slowed his pace to match, a steadying hand on his brother’s arm.
When they reached the familiar door halfway down the hall, Sirius paused. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that his brother was back, that Regulus was alive once again, Sirius used the grip he had on Reguls to help ground him as he reached for the doorknob.
The door groaned as Sirius pushed it open, revealing the stillness inside.
Regulus stepped in slowly behind him, his eyes sweeping across the room like he wasn’t quite sure whether to expect it to be a dream or a tomb.
Everything was exactly as it had been the night he didn’t come home.
The four-poster bed was untouched, sheets stiff with dust and time. A pair of worn leather shoes still sat neatly at the foot of the wardrobe. Books lined the shelves — mostly pristine, save for one with a cracked spine that had clearly been read too many times. A broomstick rested in the corner, half-hidden behind a long-forgotten school trunk with a faint RAB etched into the brass plate.
Regulus didn’t move any further in. He stood frozen in the doorway, shoulders drawn taut, nostrils flaring slightly at the scent of aged parchment and disuse.
Sirius slowly stepped into the center of the room, hand trailing over the dresser, leaving behind a visible line through the thick coat of dust.
“Godric,” he muttered, shaking his head. “It’s like a bloody time capsule…”
He coughed once, waving away a puff of dust stirred up from the drapes.
“Mother must’ve forbidden Kreacher from coming in here.” His voice was tight, almost bitter. “Didn’t want the place touched. Not after you—” He stopped himself. “After.”
Regulus was quiet behind him, but Sirius could feel the shift in the air — the rigidness in him, the way his fingers clenched tightly around the doorframe.
There was a long beat where neither said anything. Just the tick of the old hall clock echoing faintly down the corridor.
Then Sirius turned, walking back toward him.
“Forget it,” he said, gently but with finality. “Come on.”
Regulus didn’t resist as Sirius guided him out, not back down the stairs but further down the hall — toward Sirius’s room.
Sirius opened the door with his free hand, revealing a space that looked lived-in, if not exactly tidy. The bed was unmade, stacks of old records teetered dangerously on the edge of a battered side table, and posters of Muggle bands covered one wall — some faded, others clearly replaced more recently.
It smelled like firewhisky, parchment, and something almost nostalgic — the kind of scent that clung to old Gryffindor jumpers and ink-stained fingers.
“Sit,” Sirius said, nodding toward the bed as he moved toward a chest near the corner of the room. “You look like you're about to fall over.”
Regulus didn’t argue this time. He sank down onto the edge of the bed with the stiff sort of grace that implied both pain and pride.
Sirius's hands trembled slightly as he knelt beside Regulus, taking in the sight of the younger man, covered in blood and scratches. The gashes—deep, jagged claw marks from the Inferi’s grasp—etched across Regulus’s skin. They were everywhere, covering his arms, his chest, his side, and his ribs. The blood was still fresh in places, dark and oozing, while other parts had already begun to crust over, leaving angry, jagged marks.
Regulus had barely been able to move since they’d come up here. His body was exhausted, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated, but he’d refused to let anyone help him before. This time, he couldn’t muster the strength to push Sirius away, though his resistance was still there, like a ghost at the edges.
The jumper. Sirius’s heart twisted as he took in the sight of it—the Gryffindor jumper, the one he thought he’d lost when he ran away from home in his sixth year. Regulus had it on now, and it was torn in places, stretched out of shape, stained with the blood from his injuries.
“…Is that mine?” he asked, glancing up, a faint spark of amusement in his eyes.
Regulus immediately stiffened.
He looked down at the fabric like he’d forgotten it was there — the deep maroon wool a little too big on him, sleeves tugged down over his knuckles, faintly frayed at the cuffs.
“I—” He shifted, visibly uncomfortable. “I didn’t exactly… choose it. Kreacher must’ve grabbed it.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Kreacher grabbed a Gryffindor jumper?”
Regulus didn’t meet his eyes. His jaw tightened. “It was warm.”
Sirius paused for a beat, then gave a quiet nod, accepting the answer without pushing further — though something warm flickered behind his eyes. Seeing it draped over his little brother’s shoulders, he realized that Regulus had taken it when he’d run away. Taken it for comfort.
“Let’s get you out of this,” Sirius muttered quietly, swallowing thickly as he reached toward his brother. Regulus looked at him, his gray eyes distant but still holding a trace of resistance.
“I’m fine,” Regulus muttered, though his voice was hoarse and weak.
Sirius ignored him, his hands gentle but insistent as he pulled at the collar of the jumper. Regulus shifted slightly, his face twisting as if he wanted to protest, but his body was too exhausted to follow through. His arms were trembling as he lifted them, allowing Sirius to pull the worn jumper off over his head. As the fabric came away, the full extent of Regulus’s injuries was revealed, and Sirius felt a sharp, gut-wrenching pain shoot through his chest.
The injuries were worse than he had imagined. Ragged, deep gashes ran down Regulus’s arms, crossing his torso in jagged lines. There were bruises too, the dark, purple marks from where the Inferi had grabbed him, tearing at his flesh with their dead fingers. The sight of his brother—his baby brother, so vulnerable, so broken—left a lump in Sirius’s throat that he couldn’t swallow down. His fingers trembled as he reached out, brushing against one of the gashes on Regulus's side.
Regulus hissed sharply through his teeth, but didn’t pull away.
“Merlin…” Sirius whispered hoarsely, his throat tight with emotion. His heart pounded as his gaze moved over the rawness of the injuries, seeing how much his brother had suffered. Each cut, each bruise was a silent scream that Regulus had endured on his own. A wave of guilt and regret slammed into Sirius, so powerful that it almost knocked the breath out of him.
“Stop,” Regulus muttered, his voice rough as he weakly pushed Sirius's hand away. “I can handle it.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, not fooled for a second. “You’re covered in blood, Reggie. I think you’re well past handling it yourself.”
“I’m fine.” Regulus’s voice cracked slightly, as if he didn’t believe it himself, but he still tried to pull away. His chest heaved with shallow breaths as if the effort alone was enough to make him want to collapse.
Sirius pushed a little harder, a touch more forceful but still gentle. “You’re not fine. Look at you.”
Sirius swallowed hard, fighting back the surge of emotion that threatened to break through. He gently placed his hand on Regulus's shoulder, trying to steady himself. “You’re not fine, Reggie,” Sirius said, his voice rough.
Sirius exhaled, his own breath shaky, and leaned down to grab the first aid kit from the table. He fumbled slightly, but his hands were steady enough when he reached for the potions and bandages. His movements were sharp and practiced, but his mind kept drifting to the sight of his brother’s body—too many cuts, too much blood, too many reminders of how much pain Regulus had been through alone.
He uncapped a vial of pain-relieving potion, holding it to Regulus’s lips, but his brother barely moved to take it. His eyes were closed now, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
“Reg,” Sirius whispered, gently coaxing his brother to drink. When Regulus took a sip, Sirius felt a flicker of relief. He didn’t have to ask for permission. There was no resistance anymore, no stubborn refusal.
Sirius set the potion aside and began working to clean the deep gashes, dabbing at them with the cloth and potion. Every time he touched a wound, Regulus winced, his breath hitching, but he didn’t pull away. Sirius had seen Regulus shut himself off from the world in so many ways, but here, now, there was nothing to shield him from the pain. Nothing to shield him from Sirius’s care.
It was only when he reached the deepest gash near Regulus's ribs that he hesitated, his heart heavy with the weight of it. The wound was long, deep, and raw—just like the ones the Inferi had inflicted on him. The sight of it nearly broke him.
“Damn it, Reggie…” Sirius whispered, his voice cracking slightly, before he carefully wiped the blood away, trying to be gentle, though his hands were trembling from the effort.
Regulus didn’t answer, but Sirius could see the faintest flicker of exhaustion behind his eyes. The emotional walls that Regulus had built up over the years were starting to crumble, piece by piece, and Sirius was there, holding him up, step by step.
“Let me take care of you, please,” Sirius said quietly, the words a raw plea he wasn’t used to saying. His hands were gentle as he worked, trying to patch up his brother, to undo the years of hurt, to make things right—no matter how broken they both were.
Regulus let out a soft breath, his eyelids fluttering closed. “Just don’t make it worse,” he muttered, the words coming out barely above a whisper.
Sirius smiled softly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I won’t. I swear.”
He dipped the flannel into a basin of warm water and started gently cleaning the dried blood from Regulus’s form. The silence stretched, but it was less tense now — not comfortable, exactly, but beginning to thaw.
Regulus watched him work, eyes tracing the lines of Sirius’s face, the way his hair had streaks of grey now, the fine creases at the corners of his eyes.
“You really do look like him,” Regulus said softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.
Sirius flinched faintly, but didn’t stop what he was doing. “Yeah, well… At least I didn’t inherit his charming personality.” He says, though the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Regulus gave a quiet, tired huff of agreement.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Just the sound of water dripping back into the basin and Sirius’s careful hands.
“…Thanks,” Regulus muttered finally, barely audible.
Sirius glanced up. “What was that?”
Regulus scowled faintly. “I said thanks, you git. Don’t make me say it again.”
Sirius grinned. “There’s my little brother.”
Regulus rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it.