The eyes of the entire Slytherin house follow Sirius starting the second he steps foot into the Great Hall for breakfast. His hackles rise, and the Marauders immediately move to flank him, James and Remus at his shoulders and Peter watching his back.
“Think they’re planning something?” Peter asks, shoulders hunching slightly.
James throws a dirty look at a gaggle of Slytherin third-years who are blatantly watching the four of them make their way toward the Gryffindor table. “I don’t know what else they’d be doing,” he mutters. “The only time they pay this much attention to us is when they’re gearing up to call us blood traitors.”
“Or to try and hex us,” Remus adds helpfully.
Sirius scowls. “Whatever it is, I’m certainly not in the mood for it. I swear, the slimy gits have been near unbearable since my dearest mummy burned my face off the family tapestry.”
“What’d you expect, mate?” James says, nudging him with his shoulder. “They finally have proof that you really are a true blood traitor like the rest of us.”
Sirius’ face twists and Remus shoots James a sharp look from the corner of his eye. They pile into their normal seats at the far end of the table, and Sirius staunchly ignores the continued stares from across the great hall. A few Ravenclaws are looking too, and the other Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors are taking notice. Sirius piles eggs and toast onto his plate and refuses to make eye contact with anyone.
The Marauders start eating their breakfast in silence, and it’s only a few minutes later that Professor McGonagall strides into the hall, her brows pinched tightly together. Her gaze sweeps across the Gryffindor table, and once her eyes lock onto Sirius, she turns and heads towards them.
“Sirius,” Remus begins carefully, “please tell me you haven’t--”
“I haven’t done a thing,” Sirius snaps. “I don’t know what’s going on any more than the rest of you.”
James lays a calming hand on his shoulder just as McGonagall reaches their end of the table. Her face is more serious than normal, and she has deep frown lines etched into her skin.
“Mr. Black,” she says gently, “I need you to come with me.”
“Professor, I don’t know what--”
McGonagall holds up a hand. “You’re not in trouble, Sirius.” The Marauders all startle at the use of his first name, and they glance at each other uncertainly. They can count the number of times McGonagall has used a student’s given name on one hand. “However, I do need you to come with me.”
Sirius swallows thickly, pushing away from the table and getting to his feet. James rises to go with him, and McGonagall motions for him to sit back down.
“This is something Mr. Black needs to speak with the Headmaster about. Alone.”
“The Headmaster?”
McGonagall spares a short glance at Remus. “Yes, Mr. Lupin. Like I said, you’re not in trouble, Mr. Black, but it’s truly necessary for you to come with me. Now.”
Sirius nods mutely, waving off the others to keep them from attempting to follow him. Rather than trailing behind McGonagall like he normally would, the Professor steps back to allow Sirius to stand in front of her, and she guides him out of the Great Hall with a careful hand on his shoulder, reminiscent of James’ reaction moments early.
The path to Dumbledore’s office is one Sirius knows well, and he swallows thickly as they near the hidden staircase that leads to the headmaster’s tower. McGonagall’s hand doesn’t leave his shoulder, and Sirius feels worry curl deep in his gut. Nerves flood his system, and he clenches his hands into fists to keep them from shaking.
Before Sirius realizes it, McGonagall calls “Acid Pops,” and the stone gargoyle rumbles as it moves to reveal a familiar set of curving stairs. McGonagall motions for Sirius to continue, and she follows him up the stairs before the gargoyle returns to its post and they can step inside Dumbledore’s office.
It’s just as Sirius remembers it, with far-reaching bookcases and lines of portraits upon the stone walls. A large oak desk sits nestled between the two sides of the grand staircase, and a magnificent fireplace spans across a large portion of the wall, illuminated by the sunlight that streams in through the arched windows.
Dumbledore is seated behind his desk, and Sirius blinks when he sees Slughorn standing off to the side of the room. His stomach lurches when he realizes that the potion master’s eyes are red and puffy. McGonagall nudges him forward, and Sirius exhales shakily as he’s ushered into a plush seat across from Dumbledore.
“Good morning, Mr. Black,” Dumbledore says, offering a small smile. Sirius doesn’t miss the fact that the signature twinkle is absent from his eyes.
“Professor Dumbledore.” He swallows. “Professor Slughorn. Is everything okay?” He takes a deep breath in a fruitful attempt to steel his nerves. “Is Regulus alright?”
Dumbledore sighs heavily, leaning forward so that his elbows rest on his desktop. He meets Sirius’ eye as a look of sadness sweeps across his face.
“Mr. Black,” Dumbledore begins, and Sirius feels his stomach drop, “early this morning, one of the Slytherin prefects found Regulus in the astronomy tower.”
Sirius’ ears begin to ring. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Professor, please, I think I’m misunderstanding you.”
McGonagall’s grip on his shoulder returns, her fingers holding tightly to his robes, as though she is attempting to ground him.
“The prefect immediately sent for Madam Pomfrey, and we had a Ministry official called to school grounds to do an assessment on Regulus’ wand. The last spell cast was the killing curse. Madam Pomfrey and the investigator both agreed that the curse was self-cast.”
Sirius doesn’t remember anything after that.
He wakes up sometime later, and it takes him a moment to realize that he’s in the hospital wing, a privacy curtain cutting him off from the rest of the world. He pushes himself up, the blanket pooling around his waist as his head throbs. It takes him a moment to gather his wits, to remember why he is there, and when he does, Sirius curls forward, gasping as tears flood his eyes.
He can’t see, he can’t breathe, he can’t think.
Sirius doesn’t know how long it takes for him to realize that someone is sitting beside him on the bed, holding him close and carding a soothing hand through his hair. The fabric under his cheek is wet, and Sirius belatedly realizes it’s the neckline of Madam Pomfrey’s robes, and he’s currently sobbing into her shoulder.
He cries harder. He cries until he can’t cry anymore, until his tear ducts have run dry, and all he can do is gasp as though he’s forgotten how to breathe.
Eventually, he comes back to himself, although the world around him is muted, as though someone has stuffed his head full of wool, leaving him feeling disconnected, unattached, from anything and everything around him.
Madam Pomfrey bustles around him, returning with a potion bottle held gingerly in her hand. She presses it into his palm, curling his fingers around it.
“A calming draught,” she informs him softly. “I gave you one earlier, but it’s been long enough now that you can have another one.”
Sirius swallows the potion in one gulp, barely noticing the hints of chamomile and lavender that linger on his tongue. He hands the bottle back to Madam Pomfrey, who tucks it in her apron before sitting on the foot of his bed.
“It’s midday. I’ll have an elf bring a small lunch up for you in a bit, something easy to stomach. You’ve been excused from classes for the rest of the week.”
Sirius nods numbly. The matron sighs, running a hand through his hair, gently working through any knots that tangle around her fingertips.
“Can I see him?”
Madam Pomfrey hesitates. “I’m not sure that’s wise, dear.”
Sirius glances up at her through his lashes, ignoring the dry burn that fills his eyes. “Please?”
She sighs. “Follow me. Just for a moment, and then back to bed with you.”
Sirius bobs his head in agreement, kicking the blanket to the end of the bed and swinging his legs over the side. He clumsily makes his way to his feet, following Madam Pomfrey as she leads him toward a private room in the back corner of the hospital wing. Sirius has been there with Remus after a few particularly terrible transformations. The matron opens the door and allows Sirius to enter first.
Brilliant yellow sunlight reflects off the ancient stone walls. A single bed is tucked against the far wall, a sheet pulled over the head of the still figure tucked underneath. Sirius slowly steps forward, until he’s standing next to the head of the bed. Reaching out, he tugs the sheet down, and tears flood his eyes.
Regulus looks peaceful, almost like he’s asleep. Sirius brushes a strand of stray hair back from his pale face, tucking it behind Regulus’ ear just like he used to when they were small. His lips are bloodless and his skin is cold to the touch. There’s no pink to his cheeks, no rise and fall of his chest, or soft little snores filling the room. Sirius slips a hand under the sheet, finding Regulus’ own and gripping it tightly.
His knees collapse beneath him, and Sirius doesn’t even feel them hit the floor. His forehead presses against Regulus’ arm as he clutches his hand, squeezing his eyes shut in a futile attempt to stop the tears.
“Reggie,” he hisses, “you stupid little idiot.”
Madam Pomfrey chooses to leave him to his tears.
Sirius doesn’t know how long he cries, clutching Regulus’ hand beneath the sheet. If his blood still flowed, Sirius is sure that bruises would blossom across his brother’s pale skin where Sirius holds him. He wishes that he would have held Regulus more, before Hogwarts, before Regulus’ sorting, before he left Grimmauld, before it came to this.
He can’t help but think back over the past few years since he and Regulus both came to school. He remembers eleven-year-old Regulus standing on his tiptoes to find Sirius the night of his sorting, his faint smile and his little, shaky wave before the hat declared him a Slytherin, and Sirius turned away. He thinks of fourteen-year-old Regulus, pale and silent the night Sirius fled London for the safety of the Potters’ cottage. Sirius was so, so angry. He thought that Regulus was nothing but a puppet for their parents to control, the perfect, pureblood heir, ready and waiting to replace Sirius, the rebel, the failure. He wonders if Regulus would have come with him, if he’d asked.
His chest feels tight, like his ribs are collapsing in, crushing his lungs and tearing through his heart.
Sirius can’t help but wonder if it hurt. No one has been hit with the killing curse and lived to tell the tale, so no one knows what it feels like. Did it hurt, when Regulus brought his wand to his head and used his final breath on one last, irreversible spell? Did he think of anything? Of Sirius? Was he afraid? Sirius always thought Regulus was a coward, had said as much to his face more often than he’d like to admit. Did it take courage to raise his wand to himself, or was it an easy way out? Sirius always said that Regulus would take the easiest path available to him. He wonders if Regulus remembered that as he sat in the astronomy tower, alone with nothing but his wand and his thoughts.
His little brother. The little boy he snuck sweets to, whose first burst of accidental magic he witnessed, just him and him alone, just Sirius and his little Reggie. Regulus always said he hated the nickname, but he always flushed when Sirius said it anyway. He loved chocolate-covered oranges and adored the battered copy of Around the World in 80 Days that Sirius kept hidden in a loose floorboard under his bed and read to Regulus when he couldn’t sleep. His favorite color was yellow, of all things, and he loved house elves more than he loved anything or anyone else.
Sirius squeezes Regulus’ hand and wonders if this is his fault.
He’s sitting in McGonagall’s office later that night, not able to stomach eating dinner in the Great Hall with the rest of the school. McGonagall is sitting behind her desk, grading papers and sipping on a cup of tea.
Sirius barely finishes the half sandwich and bowl of stew that McGonagall insisted he eat. His stomach is churning uncomfortably, and he feels vaguely nauseous, in an absent sort of way. He watches as cat fur drifts through the air, reflecting in the dim light of the lanterns. His attention is pulled away from the nothingness he’s surrounded himself in when McGonagall clears her throat.
She’s waved away his dishes and her mug of tea and is peering at him over the lenses of her glasses, her hands folded on the top of her desk. She doesn’t smile, but her look is soft and worried as she meets Sirius’s eye.
“When the house elves packed Regulus’s belongings, they found this.” She holds out a thin envelope. “They believe that it is a…” she trails off, not quite uncertainly, but as though she doesn’t want to cause Sirius any more distress, “goodbye letter.”
His eyes are burning, and Sirius’s voice cracks when he speaks. “He left a suicide note?”
“No one has opened it,” McGonagall says softly, “but yes, we believe so.”
“Why…” Sirius clears his throat, “Shouldn’t it be given to our parents?”
McGonagall purses her lips. “Technically, it should be given to a parent or guardian, yes, but between the two of us, Mr. Black, you were much more of a guardian to your brother than either of your parents. I believe that you deserve the chance to read it before Walburga Black burns it so no one will ever have the chance to see what’s written inside.”
Sirius laughs hoarsely. “Sounds like dearest mummy, the right old bitch that she is.”
McGonagall doesn’t even blink at his language. Instead, she holds out the envelope. Sirius takes it in trembling hands. He breaks the wax seal, noting distantly that Regulus didn’t use their family insignia, instead pressing the wax with something plain and flat. More careful than he thinks he’s ever been in his life, Sirius pulls out the single piece of parchment tucked within. His breath is quickly stolen from his lungs when he sees the addressee.
Kreacher,
My beloved friend, I hope you know that you are the one person who has kept me going as long as I have. Your love, your support, and even your scolding when I made that mess in the library over the summer hols, have kept me sane for too long to truly remember.
You couldn’t have changed my mind, Kreacher, so please, whatever you do, don’t blame yourself. Don’t punish yourself. You don’t deserve to be hurt, my friend. I beg you, as my last request, that you don’t let mother or father hurt you any more than they already have. You deserve better than House Black has ever offered you.
Please know that one of the last things I did was arrange for you to work for my cousin, Andromeda, if you wish to do so. She has a young daughter, Nymphadora, who could use an elf like you to keep her in check and teach her how to be a proper witch. I know you love my mother, but know that should you ever want to, Andromeda and Nymphadora will welcome you and love you, just as I have for all of these years.
You are welcome to any of the things in my room, despite what mother, father, or anyone else might say. My room is your room now. Take care of my books, if you don’t mind. I loved our days reading together under my bed, even if you insisted that it wasn’t proper. Those are some of the best memories I have.
Thank you for caring for me, for loving me. I wouldn’t have been who I am without you. You were the only one to truly love me, from the beginning to the end, and for that, I am thankful beyond words. I will miss you, my friend.
You are a good elf, Kreacher, you always have been.
All my love,
Regulus
Sirius turns the letter over in his hands, peering back into the envelope to confirm there is nothing else tucked inside.
“Is this it? Is this the only thing he left?”
McGonagall nods. “The house elves said that it was the only thing Regulus left that wasn’t his school items or personal belongings. He had already packed everything, and the envelope was left on the top of his trunk.”
Sirius blinks furious tears from his eyes. He feels a sob building in his throat, and despite his best efforts of fighting it, hears it break free with a horrible shudder. He hunches forward, clutching the letter, feeling it wrinkle in his hands, as he drops his head between his knees. He feels a firm, warm hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles as he cries, shoulders shaking as tears streak his cheeks and stain his clothes.
“I’m so sorry, Sirius,” McGonagall murmurs. “I’m so sorry, lad.”
“He… he thought that the bloody elf was the only one who would care,” Sirius manages to say through the sobs. “He didn’t think anyone else loved him enough to give a damn.”
McGonagall doesn’t say anything, merely continues to rub those soothing circles on his back as he weeps. Sirius doesn’t think there’s anything she could say, that anyone could say, that could make him feel something other than the absolute, all-consuming despair that comes with the realization that his baby brother died believing that Sirius didn’t love him.