Two brothers, nine and ten, play a game of hide and seek in their backyard. Ten is seeker. Nine is meek and small, a young boy. Still, he is not very good at hiding from Ten. He chooses a pretty bush; a very big one with red berries hanging from its stems. He covers his mouth as Ten gets closer, but Nine is not very good at hiding from Ten.
Soft giggles erupt from behind Walburga’s cranberry bush, and Sirius grins.
I hear you, Reggie.
It is breakfast, and also Regulus’ birthday. Their father stands to speak, and Regulus coughs out a laugh at the slight crack in their father’s voice. Sirius bites his lip to stop him from smiling.
I hear you, Reggie.
Suddenly, nine is fourteen and ten is fifteen. The house is painfully quiet, like a pin waiting to drop, and Sirius is tense. And then the screams begin, and Sirius is running up the stairs to his brother’s room.
I hear you, Reggie.
Sirius catches Regulus’ eye from across the Great Hall, and Regulus reddens at being caught staring. But Sirius doesn’t mind; sixteen walks up to fifteen, who is standing with his Slytherin friends, and drapes an arm around his shoulder, his supper forgotten.
I hear you, Reggie.
Sirius stares at Regulus—no, not Regulus. The mark. The snake wriggling around his arm like a parasite latched under his skin—incredulously, betrayal stinging behind his eyes. But Regulus doesn’t notice him, as he’s too busy clutching at his painful forearm. Sirius walks to him briskly and barely gives Regulus enough time to acknowledge him before he makes a grab for his wrist and sixteen is forced to look up at him. His eyes were burning with fear. Seventeen’s anger dissipates, and there are two brothers hugging, crying, sobbing in the dark corner by the Charms classroom.
I hear you, Reggie.
Sirius is eighteen and on the battlefield, Death Eaters raining curses left and right. He dodges them all. All except one, a recognizable burst of green light, and Sirius thinks he’s going to die.
He doesn’t die, because a masked Death Eater shoves him hard, and they both fall to the ground, the curse flying above them and into the chest of Mulciber. Sirius is pinned under a Death Eater and he struggles, he fights, he kicks—until the Death Eater unmasks himself.
Regulus, mask in one hand and wand in the other, brings his pointer finger shaking to his lips. Be quiet. It’s okay. It’s me.
Seventeen stares at him with desperate eyes. Sirius’ muscles unclench, but he’s still tense.
I hear you, Reggie.
Sirius is dead. He has to be, because there is no other explanation for the absolute numbness that overtakes his mind when he sees Regulus torture an Order member with vile hexes set on his tongue. There is no other explanation for the sinking feeling in his chest and in his gut when he sees Regulus cast Crucio, and then Imperio. There is no other explanation for the hatred embedded in his brain and in his heart when Regulus casts the killing curse and smiles awkwardly when Bellatrix pats his head, a job well done. He has to be dead, because Sirius would never—whether he was ten or fifteen, sixteen or seventeen—hate his little brother as long as he was alive. But he does, now, and he feels like he’s dead.
Sirius returns to Grimmauld Place, his wand gripped so tightly that his knuckles are white, and breaks down every door in search of Regulus. He’s not there. Their parents aren’t there, either. Sirius rummages through the drawers of Regulus’ nightstand, and amongst the sketchbook paper stacked neatly inside, there is a locket. A pretty locket, green and gold and silver, with a shiny ‘S’ on the front. Sirius opens it—there’s nothing there. Just another trinket. He shoves it back inside.
His hands shaking, Sirius slams the door on his way out. His brother’s voice is grating in his mind. Regulus won’t shut up. Sirius, Sirius, Sirius, his mind is screaming at him. I don’t care, he thinks with bitter resentment, your voice means nothing.
By the next evening, the locket is gone. It sits clutched in Regulus’ hand as tightly as Sirius held his wand.
-
Regulus thrashes in the lake, the blood in the water staining his pale skin. The Inferi claw at him, ripping him apart.
When eighteen’s head goes underwater, it is pitch darkness. There is nothing but the water in his lungs and the undead nails in his chest, and he is nothing. There is no point in fighting to swim up, because no savior awaits him on shore. The fact that nothing is there for Regulus hits him like a curse, and suddenly the pressure in his chest is significantly more excruciating.
His nose bubbling and his mouth choked on water, the last name Regulus ever calls is Sirius, begging for his brother to come save him. But underneath the ice-cold lake and the Inferi claws digging into his throat, his last thought is that Sirius would never hear him again.
-
Nineteen sits in the hospital ward, his wounds from battle being brushed over softly by the nurse.
Twenty is dancing, smiling at his brother, James, as James twirls Lily on the dance floor. Her white dress is long and delicate, and her discarded veil sits on the table.
Twenty-one rejoices as he holds his godson in his arms.
Twenty-one loses everything.
Twenty-one sits in the darkness of his cell as the dementors pass by, cold and deathly. Twenty-one has nothing for him outside his bars, anyway. Twenty-one’s chest feels like it had caved in, and sobs wrack his shaking frame. James, Lily, Regulus. James, Lily, Regulus. James, Lily, Regulus.
Twenty-one mourns.
……
Sirius is standing in front of the Black family tapestry in Grimmauld Place. He stares at one particular point.
Regulus Arcturus Black.
In the tapestry, Regulus is stoic. His face is cold and uncaring, just like how a Black should be. It’s not how Regulus really was. Was. Regulus is a was.
Thirty-five stares at eighteen, and all he wants is to hear his brother again.