He is six and he’s a child.
His eyes are already dark and petrifying like a man's. Men fall on their knees at his sight, they kiss his hand, they call him a prince. He is no prince. He is a boy in ridiculously elegant robes, sitting on a throne made of gold and dust.
There was a time, before this, when he was a real child. He would play in the garden with his brother, and they'd yell and giggle and roll around in the dirt. He would scar his knees falling on the cement. He would write terrible poems, and hate mathematics like any other child, and he would read about monsters and dragons and knights in shining armour. He would read of a young man's fury at the death of his lover, and he would think: “One day, I will be like Achilles”.
Of course, those days are gone now.
He sits at the dining table and stares at the stream of people entering his house. His mother sits on his right, her face unreadable, cold as stone. She watches as her husband greets their guests, all fake smiles and small conversation. And Regulus says to himself: his dad is nothing but a hitman, a pawn in Walburga Black's unbeatable game of chess.
Sirius sits in front of him, his head down. A nasty, bleeding wound graces his face, and Regulus remembers that cut would have belonged to him, had Sirius not taken the fall.
He wishes he could tell him: I'm sorry I didn't help. I was scared. Please don't be mad.
But he doesn't, because he is terrified and a coward and a child. Instead, he looks at his brother and thinks that he will love him forever. He thinks Sirius is his guardian angel, that he will protect him until his death and beyond. When he thinks of Sirius, he thinks of chocolate and Exploding Snap and Quidditch. He thinks of home. He can feel it in his bones: Sirius and Regulus will be brothers forever. Even if Sirius is mad at him. Even if Regulus is a coward.
Just then, his mother starts speaking. Her voice is cold, sharp as a knife, and she speaks in slow, calculated sentences. He does not understand English yet, but he does understand the ferocity of her voice. Her words are stained with screams and blood and death. He recognises some of the people around her, like uncle Cygnus and aunt Druella and their daughters; but many people he does not know, and he can only see their smiles, nauseatingly big and taunting.
And he feels it, the heavy weight on his chest that freezes him. He does not know her yet, but death is knocking at the door. Pulling at his robes. She is waiting, creeping under the floorboards, flooding his sink and hiding under the covers. He does not know that death will push him underwater, and he will not fight her.
But he is six, and he is only a child.
<<<<<
He is eleven and he is alone.
He speaks English. His accent is funny, Sirius tells him, but that’s okay. They’ve been living in London for just a bit more than a year, and he doesn’t speak much English at home. Sirius uses a lot of funny words, like “lad”, and “loo”, and “bloody”. He talks about bands and singers with strange names and Quidditch teams. And he talks a lot about James Potter.
Neither of them mentions the scars on Sirius’ back.
It turns out that James Potter is the most annoying person Regulus has ever met in his entire life. He’s rude, loud, and makes fun of everyone. He wears a pair of stupid glasses that are always crooked and he behaves like he’s the king of the world. Regulus does not understand how Sirius likes him more than he likes Remus Lupin. Remus is kind, quiet, and he seems nice.
Remus did not steal Sirius from him like James Potter did.
Now, sitting at the table dressed in robes of black and green, he wishes he weren’t a coward. He wishes that stupid hat had placed him in Gryffindor. He wishes he was brave enough to be one, to take the curses like his brother did and then simply not care about it. He wishes he was loud and funny like James Potter so that his brother would love him again.
But he is none of that, and the only thing he can do is stare at his brother and his group of friends from afar. He catches Sirius’ gaze for a split second. He is upset. Disappointed. Regulus wishes he could say: I’m sorry. I’m a coward.
Later, when he is to go to his dorm, Sirius meets him in the corridor. His hair has grown over the summer, and it reaches his chin now. His eyes are grey, but they hold none of the stiffness and harshness of Regulus’. They sparkle with life and hope; after all, Sirius is the brightest star in the sky.
“T’es à Serpentard.” Sirius says. His French is rapid, slurred, like when they were kids and they would play together, but it does not have that same fondness that is so characteristically Sirius. His brother is only a year older and a few inches taller than him, but Regulus feels like he’s six years old again, sitting amongst strangers and silently begging his brother for forgiveness.
“Oui.” He answers, as a matter-of-fact. Regulus does not remember when his voice turned to stone, does not remember sounding this much like his father. He sees his brother falter. He thinks Sirius might cry, but of course he does not, because Sirius Black never cries, and especially not in front of his brother.
“T’es content? Enfin, t’es un vrai Black. Toujours pur et toutes ces conneries.”
Regulus does not have an answer, but Sirius doesn’t wait for one. He turns around and walks away. He can hear James Potter’s loud whispers from behind the corner, and he realises that Sirius hasn’t been his brother in a year.
And Regulus feels like he’s lost a part of himself. He feels like his wings have been ripped from his back, like his home has lost its roof. He tells himself that it’s okay, that they will make up like they always do. Regulus will cry and beg and Sirius will tell him that it’s fine, they’re fine, it’s just a meaningless house. But deep inside he knows that it’s not true, that it’s more than that. It’s a crack in their friendship, a crack in their brotherhood.
He feels death calling him from afar. She is like dust in the corner of this old castle. She will scare him while he is sleeping; will follow him in corridors and hide behind pillars. In seven years, Regulus Black will be dead.
But he does not know that, because he is eleven, and he’s alone.
<<<<<
He is fifteen and Sirius Black is not his brother.
He supposes that, after a whole year of being the only son of Walburga and Orion Black, it shouldn’t hurt anymore.
But it does, and it knocks the air out of his lungs.
He wishes he could erase the memory from his brain. He wishes he could erase Sirius’ pained pleas, the blood on his face. He wishes he could erase his mother’s prickly voice, his father’s silence. He wishes he had helped the boy that he once called brother. But he did not, because he is a coward. And so here ends the tale of Sirius and Regulus. Here ends the tale of two boys who were born as brothers, but will die as strangers.
So, Regulus clings to school. He reads and writes and studies until he passes out on his books. He speaks four languages. His potions are lethal, and his charms murderous. His hands are calloused and bloody and pale, but he does not care. His magic is nothing but cruel, ruthless and vicious, just like his mother’s.
Regulus looks like he is invincible, like he could destroy the world with a snap of his fingers, but he is putrefying. Awake in his bed, at night, he thinks of ending it all. He thinks of his mother’s face if Albus Dumbledore told her that her son - her heir - is dead. He imagines she wouldn’t do much, and sometimes that thought hurts, but then he remembers he is nothing but a pawn in Walburga Black’s unbeatable game of chess. His mother does not care about him; he is not a product of love, he is a product of war.
So he thinks about Sirius. Sometimes his mind registers him as his brother , but then he corrects himself, because he is not anymore. He imagines what he must be doing right now, though he’s aware it’s quite a pathetic thought. He asks himself if Sirius is happier now that he’s not a Black anymore, now that he lives with James Potter. He wonders if he goes around calling himself “Sirius Potter”. And he wonders if he’s found a girlfriend, if that stupid big heart of his has found someone to bleed onto. Sometimes, when he catches him eating breakfast in the Great Hall, Sirius has only eyes for Lupin. It is a funny thought, Sirius with a boy – Sirius with a mudblood , but then again, Sirius has always been full of surprises, and then again, Remus has always been the least insufferable out of the lot of them.
But the person he thinks about the most, funnily enough, is James Potter. It’s ironic, really, how a boy that holds death in his hands has only eyes for a boy that is nothing but sunshine. It’s an annoying thought, like a fly in his brain that he can’t kill. He supposes he should hate James Potter, because he stole his brother, and yet Regulus finds he isn’t capable of doing that. He thinks it’s because he knows James Potter makes Sirius happy, and everything that makes Sirius happy makes Regulus happy. But the deepest part of him whispers that Regulus Black cannot possibly hate James Potter because he’s in love. The thought terrifies him, and he pushes it back, deep in the space between his ribs. He can’t possibly be in love with James Potter. He’s immature, and loud, and infuriating, and bubbly, and so very handsome.
And when the realisation sets in his stomach, in the middle of a warm April night, he feels death steal his lungs. Barty snores in the bed next to his, and Evan is sleep-talking about Merlin knows what, and it’s hot, and his brain is melting and he can feel his muscles shake and he can’t breathe and he is in love with James Potter . Death steals his eyes and it’s all dark around him. She steals his calmness, she steals his breath. In three years, death will steal his life.
He wishes he could scream, and ask Sirius for help, but he can’t, because he’s fifteen, and Sirius Black is not his brother anymore.
<<<<<
He is sixteen and he’s kissing a boy.
Regulus has never understood Icarus. He’s always thought he was stupid and hopeless and lovesick. How can you be so stupid to fall in love with the sun? The sun will melt you. It will light you on fire, and burn you until you’re nothing but ashes.
But now that he’s kissing sunshine, he thinks Icarus was right. Because James Potter is the sun, and now he’s kissing him and his lips are all puffy and his limbs feel soft and numb and his mind is full of sunlight.. He tells himself he should hate James Potter, because he is nothing but a thief. But he finds he simply can’t.
The truth is, James Potter is everything he’s ever craved. He's the ray of sunshine that wakes you up on warm spring days. He's the scorching sun that kisses you in the torrid summer. He's powerful, and overwhelming, in a way only the sun is. James Potter makes his head spin, and his heart leap out of his chest.
“What are you thinking about?” James asks.
Everything. Nothing. I’m thinking about the fact that I’m supposed to hate you. I’m thinking about the fact that you’re so beautiful. I’m thinking about the fact that you haven’t kissed me in a whole 35 seconds and that is a crime.
Instead, Regulus makes an awkward sound. James stares at him with those stupid doe eyes and his stomach does a funny flip. His face feels hot, but he does not know why. Maybe he’s so close to the sun that he’s already started burning.
He feels James on every inch of his skin. It’s a nice feeling. A very nice feeling. His sunlight spills out of his hands and fills Regulus with a warmth he has never known before. It’s a good kind of warm. James’ soft hands stroke his cheeks, his closed eyelids, his nose and then his lips. His skin is blazing, and for the first time in his life Regulus feels truly alive.
And Regulus wishes he could stop time. He would stay like this for eternity, a mess of legs and arms and mouths and hearts. He knows a war is coming, but he selfishly does not care, because he is a coward. Regulus will love him, even in death. He will love him when their faces are bloody and beaten and unrecognisable, and their wrecked bodies will die together.
“Regulus?” It’s barely above a whisper, but Regulus hears it anyway. James is so loud, so explosive, and it drives Regulus mad; but his whispers are so gentle, and shy, and Regulus takes pride in the fact that this side of James is for him and him only.
“Mh?”
“You’re so beautiful you put the stars to shame.”
Regulus thinks he’s pretty much gone after that. He kisses James stupid, lips on lips and hands on cheeks and body against body. His mind is hazy and James, his boyfriend , is the only thing he can think about. Their breaths are short and their faces are flushed and their hearts are so very full of love. They are a masterpiece; an intricate display of colours and movement and feelings. He’s golden , Regulus thinks. Golden and holy and mine. Where James is an explosion of bold reds and fearless yellows and insolent purples, Regulus meets him with soft blues and hazy greens and pale pinks. Where Regulus’ magic is dark and deadly, James is light and full of life. Regulus feels his own skin warm up under James’ touch, and he thinks he wants to be warm forever.
Regulus Black will die in two years. Death is just around the corner, waiting for him to meet her. She fills his lungs when he breathes, and strokes his cheeks like a lover in the dark; she is in his warm skin, in his lovesick eyes, in his puffy lips, and she will steal him. In four years, James Potter will join him.
But he doesn’t care, because he is sixteen, and he’s kissing a boy.
<<<<<
He is seventeen and he’s scared.
Fear is something he had got used to. It coloured his world in dull greys and petrol greens, but he had never given it much thought. It was his destiny: he had always been a coward, and it would’ve been only fair for him to live in fear for the rest of his life.
Then James came, and James was so brave and daring. James had held Regulus’ hand in his and had guided him through hell. He had kissed his scars and healed his wounds. The world with James was vibrant and loud, and delicate and gentle, and Regulus had soon decided that the sun was his favourite star.
But now James is not by his side anymore, and Regulus is, once again, alone. It’s almost ironic: his sky is destined to be empty of stars; it is destined to be a sky without a brother and a lover, without Sirius and the Sun. It’s okay, it really is: he does not deserve either of them, and the Mark on his arm proves it.
He walks in the corridors, Barty at his left and Evan at his right. Though he is the youngest out of the three of them, he is the only one who’s arm has been etched with death: the others are too young, too immature. Regulus bears knowledge in his mind. He bears wit, and skill, and of course ambition, so much of it. Yet everyone around him fails to realise that this is not what he longs for. He longs for warmth, for light and for hope; he longs for games of Exploding Snap, and chocolate, and Quidditch. He longs for bold reds and blazing golds. He longs for a boy he once called brother and boy he once called lover. Boys, what a strange word. They are men now, out of Hogwarts, with houses and girlfriends and boyfriends. But he can only see them as boys, as children who grew up too quickly, children who were soldiers before they were people. He thinks of them and thinks of a youth he was not allowed to live: he thinks of pranks and stupid jokes, he thinks of silly pickup lines and nights of detention. He thinks about Sirius snogging Lupin in the Great Hall, in front of everyone, and his stomach lurches in jealousy. That was supposed to be me. Me and James. He thinks of James looking at Lily Evans like she is the only person in the world, and it hurts, it hurts so much.
Which is funny, because Regulus is a child in a war he will not survive and all he can think about is young love.
His owl delivers him his mother’s letters every Thursday at breakfast. Regulus barely reads them, because they all say the same thing. The Dark Lord is rising. You are his servant, and you shall honour him. Do not disappoint me. She never writes I love you , or See you soon , or Take care . Walburga Black is not a mother: she is a war general. Regulus learns this thought doesn’t hurt him anymore. His heart has been stabbed and poisoned and torn apart, and now it’s frozen.
He really doesn’t want to do this, but he can’t back out now. His help is valuable, and his knowledge essential. They all forget he is just a child. He pities the parents that will lose their creatures, pities the children that will lose their siblings. He pities young mothers, and old friends, and he pities families who will hold a funeral without a body to bury. Most importantly, he pities his mates, the people around him, because he knows they won’t make it out of this. They will never grow old. They will never grow up . Their corpses will fill graveyards and their memory will become dust. He looks at them and he thinks: Most of you will be dead. The rest will be scarred.
What Regulus Black cannot realise is that he is going to be one of them. In a year, he will be dead. There won’t be a body to mourn. His memory will be reduced to a headline in a newspaper. His mother won’t cry. His brother will rip himself apart, and his lover’s heart will rain all over the floor.
Yet, when his time comes, Regulus will greet death like an acquaintance. A friend, even. He will hold her hand and let her push him under, and he will hug her while his body screams and his heart stops. Death is not following him anymore, because she knows he will come to her.
But right now, he doesn’t know that, because he is seventeen, and he’s scared.
<<<<<
He is eighteen and he’s drowning.
Dying is a bittersweet feeling, he realises. He likes the feeling of it, because he’s free, and because he’s not a coward. The water fills his lungs and his nose, and he’s forced to close his eyes. His body begs him to fight, it begs for oxygen, but his mind knows that this is it. And he’s happy. He’s happy he’s dying like this: dying like a man, not like a boy, dying like a hero just like Achilles did.
But then again, it makes him sad, too. He thinks of the few people that will notice his absence, and he thinks of the ones who won’t, too. He thinks of Kreacher, of course, and he suddenly wishes he had apologised to him, before dying. He hopes he won’t be mad at him; and he hopes he will be able to be free, one day.
He thinks about his mother. When her face comes up in his mind, he wants to scream at her, and tell her how awful she made his life, but he finds he can’t. He can’t because, in the end, she’s his mother. His blood is her blood and his flesh is her flesh; and so he is not mad, he just wishes she’d been a different mother, a mother he could kiss and hug and play with. You were never my mom, he tells her, you were just a mother.
He thinks of Evan and Barty, and how they’ll think he died for the Dark Lord. He wants them to know they’re the most annoying people he’s ever met, and he wants them to know they’ve been the best friends a boy could possibly wish for. He wants them to know that they need to fight, that they need to put their heart in the right place and finish what he’s started. And he wants them to know that he loves them - Merlin, that sounds so stupid - and that he will protect them.
He thinks of Pandora Lovegood, and he thinks of blue. He thinks of blond curls and wispy eyes; he thinks of cats and strawberries, he thinks of Saturn. Pandora will survive this war, because she is smart, because she is courageous. She will survive because she has never been a coward, unlike him. He wishes for her to find love. He wishes for her to see the Moon and Mars and Venus. And he tells her not to mourn him, that his death is nothing but a mere death of a star. Farewell, Dora, you fool.
He thinks of Peter Pettigrew. He thinks of the bastard and he feels disgust. Regulus knows he will kill them all. Their blood will be on his hands and their memories will be crushed under his feet, and he will do it with no regrets. Fuck you , he spits out, fuck you fuck you fuck you , because he is nothing but a rat.
And then, funnily enough, he thinks of Remus Lupin. He thinks of him as the kindest person he’s ever met, because he is. He thinks of Remus and he thinks of the messy scars on his face, he thinks of tired eyes and bloody hands; but more importantly, he thinks about the looks Sirius gave him whenever he was around, and he comes to the realisation that Sirius Black will only ever have eyes for Remus Lupin. So he tells Remus: Make him happy, and make him shine . And then he adds, you deserve to shine, too.
It’s only logical that he thinks about James Potter next, and his name still makes him smile. There are so many things he wishes he could tell James, but he can’t put them into words. He can only think about a house on the hills with blooming flowers and warm air. He thinks of homemade biscuits in the oven and laundry hung outside and a big unmade bed. He thinks of laughter, and love, so much of it. And he thinks of James, every part of him: his eyes and his smile, his nose and his skin, his touch and his smell. And he wishes for him to marry Lily, and to have many beautiful children, and to grow old with his family. Do not forget me , he prays, you put the Sun to shame.
But the last person he thinks about is his brother. He thinks of Sirius, of his crazy hair and silly voices, he thinks of afternoons playing in the garden and he thinks of their house on the trees in France. Oh, how much he misses France. He thinks of ugly scars, and bitter curses, and he thinks of tears. He thinks of a boy made of paper and stardust, a boy crumpled and torn but still so magical. He thinks of Freddie Mercury, and David Bowie, and Elton John. He thinks of chocolate and Exploding Snap and Quidditch. He thinks of home. And he hopes he has made his brother proud, even if Sirius is mad at him, even if Regulus is a coward. Even in his death, Sirius is the last of Regulus’ thoughts. Thank you , he says, for being my brother. I’m sorry I never helped. I was a coward.
Let it go , a voice whispers in his head. You’ve been so good, Regulus. Let it go.
And he is so relieved, and so tired, and he finally closes his eyes.
He is eighteen, and he’s drowning, but he is finally free.