You Are A Black
“Cissa,” he says, “hand me that comb. The purple one.”
His fingers are gentle as they separate Narcissa’s white-blonde hair into sections. He knows how much effort she puts into making the color smooth and natural, in hiding her brunette roots and curling her hair into soft ringlets, so he does his best to show her that her effort hasn't gone unnoticed.
Your hair looks wonderful, he’s told her many times. But he thinks she sees through it, because her smile is always a little tight around the corners, and he catches her glancing at the mirror sometimes, searching for signs that she’s still herself. He can’t say he doesn’t understand.
Today, it’s just the two of them. Lucius has gone to some important business meeting and his mother is out at some society party. They can breathe, now, he reminds himself. He can breathe.
Slowly, he drags the comb from the top of her hair to the bottom, making his way through each section as Narcissa hums something. A lullaby, he thinks, and his heart aches.
Once he’s done, he again parts her hair into three sections, and then methodically braids them together. It’s something that started after Andromeda left. He knew this was something the sisters had done together, and after Andy left, he was happy to step in, to help fill the void in Narcissa’s heart that he now knows all too well.
He ties a rubber band at the end.
“The french braid looks good on you.”
She turns around, feeling at her newly-braided hair.
“You know how to do a french braid?”
He blushes. “I’ve… learned.”
She smiles, and with a knowing look in her eye, she says, “For me, Regulus? You’re too kind.”
“Shut up,” he tells her, without any real spite. Narcissa doesn’t smile very often, so he savors the few and far between.
“Really, what a gentleman you are, learning how to french braid for your cousin—”
“Narcissa, your point has been made.”
“Has it, darling? Well, maybe I just want to hear you say it.”
“Say what?”
“Don’t play dumb, Reg.”
“You’re right, I do know what I need to say. Narcissa, I don’t know how to tell you this, but…” Regulus can’t help but smirk, “When you wear that black dress, you look like your mother.”
Narcissa faux gasps. “How dare you.”
“It’s true. In fact, you’ve both even got similar—”
“Do not even think about finishing that sentence.”
“But—”
“Hush. Or I will glue your lips shut with nail glue. Do not underestimate me, cousin.”
He smiles, and after a pause, he sighs.
“I learned how to french braid for you.”
She laughs. “So he does have a heart after all.”
He glares at her, because that comment cuts a little deeper than he’d like. Do you even have a heart? Do you ever feel anything, you sick bastard? But Narcissa doesn’t mean any harm, so Regulus lets it go.
“Thank you,” she says later, after they’ve talked and laughed and exhausted themselves. Quietly, as if the words are sacred and saying them any louder would ruin the spell. “Thank you,” she repeats.
“Of course,” he replies just as softly, his head in her lap as they both desperately try to postpone the inevitable. But it will come. She will come.
They build their walls up in silence, laying each brick down until their eyes are hollow and their faces are impassive. Narcissa slowly removes her braid, and ties her hair into a tight bun, not a hair out of place. Then she sighs, and reaches for Regulus’ own tied up hair.
His chest squeezes as he feels his hair brush his shoulders.
Narcissa is quick, and ties it back into a loose ponytail, but still, it weighs him down, the light touch of his hair at the top of his spine mocking him, a constant reminder of what he is. Of what he isn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and the last sliver of the cousin he loves disappears with a cold kiss to his cheek as she gets up and moves to the other side of the room. She sits and starts knitting, a baby blanket, Regulus’ mind supplies, and his chest compresses even more. But by now, the front door has opened with a bang, and Regulus picks up a book.
The act begins.
Walburga Black opens the door to their room. Narcissa and him stand.
“Mother,” he says politely, “how was your evening out?”
“It was fine,” she says, clipped and short, barely sparing them a glance. “Lucius is waiting for you at home, Narcissa. I suggest you get going. Pregnant women entering their third trimester should always stay close to home,” she adds, her eyes pointed and sharp.
“Yes, Aunt Walburga,” Narcissa says. Without a look at Regulus, she leaves, almost-finished blanket in hand. There is no place for goodbyes when Walburga Black is around.
“Lycoris,” his mother commands, and oh, he feels the burn of his throat, the curdling of his stomach, the ache of his heart, “have you been practicing your song?”
“Yes, mother,” he says, and remembers the sharp slap of his music teacher's baton on his knuckles.
“You will perform it next weekend, at the Black Family banquet.”
He nods, and shakes off the twist in his chest, willing his throat to not constrict.
She leans down and roughly grabs his chin in her hands, and Regulus knows the threat in her eyes like the back of his hand.
“The Dark Lord will be there. Be sure your performance is satisfactory.”
He nods again, and she releases him.
He does not breathe until he hears the door upstairs slam shut.
Kreacher appears in his room with his dinner when the moon is high and full. He stares at the tray, unseeing, casting around his hollow chest for some courage.
“Mistress Lycoris, here is your dinner. You should know that Mistress Black has invited the Crouch heir and his family next week for courtship.”
“Thank you, Kreacher.” He replies, and sighs. Barty was coming over. Just one more thing to worry about.
Kreacher turns to go, and Regulus feels panic rise in his throat. “Wait,” he blurts out, and Kreacher turns around.
“Was there something else, Mistress Lycoris?”
Regulus winces.
“Kreacher….” he starts, unsure of how to phrase his request. He settles on buttering him up first. “You have treated me very kindly in your time here. I cannot thank you enough for all that you have done for me.”
The old elf smiles, or at least, does the equivalent that a house elf can do. “Of course, young Mistress. Kreacher is pleased to serve you.”
Regulus’ tongue does not move. The silence becomes awkward as he struggles to ask what he so desperately must.
Remember who you are, Regulus, Narcissa had whispered to him, eyes trained on his when he quietly told her of his ideas. You are a Black.
Isn’t that what’s damned me? Regulus softly chuckled, unsure of Narcissa’s meaning.
Yes, she conceded, but it is also what will set you free.
“I have a favor to ask of you, Kreacher.” He swallows. “I wish that you address me as Master. Master Regulus.”
Kreacher tilts his head in obvious confusion. “But why, young Mistress?”
Regulus pauses, uncertain of how much to reveal. Kreacher had made it clear that Regulus is his favorite, and has even, on certain occasions, overrid his Mother’s orders to fulfill Regulus’ own. But what he is asking is dangerous, and he does not know how much more accepting a house-elf will be than a wizard, no matter if that house-elf adores him.
“I am not a girl, Kreacher. I am a boy. My name is Regulus Arcturus Black, and I am a boy.”
He waits as the elf in front of him stares, eyes wide with confusion, curiosity, and yes—revulsion.
“Kreacher has heard of such people. They say they are a girl when they are a boy, say they are a man when they are a woman.” Kreacher meets his eyes. “Mistress Black says they are disgusting freaks.”
Regulus holds the old elf’s gaze, cursing himself for his attachment to Kreacher. He knows it will hurt too much if he is rejected. “And me, Kreacher? Am I a disgusting freak?”
The elf is quiet, and Regulus feels his heart drop as he turns away, but then he hears it. A murmur. A confession. A promise.
“No, Master Regulus. Never.”
Five days later, he stands in front of the mirror, scissors in hand. There is a letter from Narcissa and a small brown package filled with bottles, which he realized she had carefully hidden in his room when she had come over yesterday to talk to his mother. She had invited his mother over for tea today, giving him the additional gift of two free hours to do what he's been wanting to do for years. Regulus could not thank his cousin enough if he tried.
The letter reads:
Dearest cousin,
You said you didn’t know if you could live like this anymore, and I believe you. I know Sirius leaving has made it harder for you to bear all the suffering in silence.
I have sent you the potion you were talking about. Do not worry—Lucius does not know about the account I drew the money from. The merchant confirmed that it will not allow any magic-induced hair regrowth.
I will never ask you to not do this, but I feel I must warn you of what I’m sure you already know: Aunt Walburga will punish you severely. But I know how important this is for you, so I have enclosed some healing potions as well.
Please be careful, Regulus. My child needs his godfather.
Yours,
Narcissa
He feels guilt creep up his spine as he reads the words again. Those healing potions were high quality, most likely expensive and part of Narcissa’s personal store for when Lucius drank too much. And he knows which account Narcissa drew the money from—her personal account for which she was saving up to run away with her child.
She was the second person to offer him the chance to run away with them. He declined both offers.
Regulus thought he would hesitate. He thought he would back out. But when he makes the first snip, it’s as easy as breathing. His fingers know exactly what to do—he has studied the hair of Evan and Barty and Sirius too long and with too much envy to not know precisely where he needs to cut. Halfway through, he calls Kreacher to help him with the back, and when he’s done, he grins.
For the first time, when he looks into a mirror, he sees himself.
Regulus dumps the hair potion Narcissa sent him on his head, uncaring as it soaks into his clothes and onto the floor. He feels light—he feels happy.
“It looks good, Master Regulus,” Kreacher says, and Regulus picks up the old elf and spins him in a circle. Kreacher looks like he’s seen a ghost, but Regulus doesn’t care. He runs through the house, laughing, delirious, and when he hears the tell-tale sounds that mean his mother is home, he still does not stop smiling. Not even when she grabs him by the chin, not even when she screams in his face, What have you done?, not even when she backhands him across the cheek.
But he does feel fear blossoming in his heart when she pulls out her wand and yells Crucio.
The pain is not unfamiliar, but it scorches his skin all the same. He has often thought that the Cruciatus curse was a way for your curser’s demons to finally feed on someone else, because Walburga Black’s Crucio always felt like having every inch of your skin crushed under a mountain of expectations. He’s convinced he can feel his lungs collapsing.
He has not told Narcissa that since Sirius has left, his mother has become unstable, erratic, and even harsher, but he quietly researches the long-term effects of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse on his own. His mother is using it at every inconvenience, and already he can feel stray tremors in his hands long after he has gotten out under her wand.
When the pain finally stops, he is thrown into the cellar to starve until Friday. But Regulus feels his lips turn up into a crazed smile as he reaches his hands into his hair.
Kreacher comes later, to sneak him food and the healing potions Narcissa sent.
“Kreacher,” he whispers, delusional from pain and hunger, “Can you ask Sirius to come? I’m lonely. Tell him I’m sorry for whatever he’s mad at me for. Please.”
The elf only looks at him with wide, sad eyes. “Master Sirius left, last month.”
Regulus turns on his side. Oh, he remembers. Right.
When his mother drags him out of the cellar on Friday and realizes that the change to his hair is permanent, his second punishment is a series of cuts across the left side of his ribcage. There are 37 in total—he received 7 for this infraction. They are neat, tight, cruel lines scarred white—bright red when they are fresh. His mother was careful that her punishments never marked her daughter's skin— a pureblood lady must be pure in every sense she would whisper as she meticulously healed every bruise on his skin she made—but when Regulus does something that warrants harsher punishment, thin lines of scar tissue were a small price to pay. He has seen his own mother's white lines—hers are across the backs of her calves, and he watches her glamour them every time they go out.
In a way, Regulus never feels as close to his mother as he does when she glides her silver dagger across his skin, deep enough to hurt, but shallow enough to heal. Her face is always impassive, but her touch is always light to keep him in place. She knows he will take it, like the good daughter he is.
Here is what Sirius has never understood: he loves his mother, and he will forgive her for hurting him a hundred times over.
What about me? Sirius had yelled, when Regulus told him this that fateful night one month before. Will you forgive her for hurting me?
Regulus had been quiet, the bitter truth on his tongue. No, he mumbled. No.
What the history books will never say is that Regulus Black was the one who told Sirius to run away.
When his mother has made the last cut, she bandages Regulus up and wipes the blood off her dagger. Then she kisses his forehead, cold and light.
“Lycoris,” she says, and Regulus has never wished so much to be the good girl he knows he is not, “you have made me very mad. And you know what happens when Mother is mad.” She taps the bandage. “But you are still my sweet girl. Tomorrow, you will wear the red dress, and you will make sure your chest is showing, but not too much, darling, we must remain pure. And then you will sing, and I guarantee you will receive offers of marriage much better than the Crouch family. You are beautiful,” she croons, drawing her nails down Regulus’ cheek hard enough to hurt, “because you are my daughter. Never forget that.”
He hasn’t, and he won’t. He is not naïve—she does not love him. It was Sirius she loved—bright, handsome Sirius, her heir who ensured she had finally fulfilled her duty. But it was Regulus who she’d cry to, who she taught a woman’s secrets to, who she whispered the cruel truths of the world to. She does not love him, but she needs him, and Regulus loves her for that.
He wears the red dress. It itches and makes him uncomfortable in all the wrong ways, but his mother does a half-smile when she sees him, so he forgets his dreams of wizard's robes and ties and makes sure his chest shows just enough to entice. He knows he looks stunning—his short hair perfectly complemented the dark line of eyeliner that traced his lashes and the black S necklace his mother had personally put around his neck.
She is back to the cold, perfunctory mother he knows best, and Regulus feels himself go numb in preparation too. I learned from the best, he muses, as he watches her put on eyeliner as well. She is beautiful—always has been. Beauty has followed Walburga Black like a loyal pet, and even at 45, she turns the heads of society members like no other. But there are things Regulus can see—faint lines around her eyes, a crack in her smile. She is still grieving the absence of his brother.
They walk downstairs together. His father is already dressed and entertaining guests. This is the first time he has seen Orion Black since he got home for summer break.
Sometimes, Regulus forgets he’s even there.
He makes a beeline for Narcissa, who has little baby Draco in her arms. His mother had not allowed him to see the little Malfoy or Narcissa as part of his punishment, so this is the first time he lays eyes on his godson.
“He’s beautiful,” Regulus says, awed by the little baby’s angelic features and soft snore.
“He is,” Narcissa replies, and then with a sly, rare smile, “and so are you. I like the hair, cousin,” she says, and then ruffled his curls. He blushes. Then he hugs her.
"I was so worried, when I heard. Are you both alright? Should you even be up and about?" He pulls back, raking his eyes up and down Narcissa as if he could know the answer just by looking at her closely enough.
Narcissa laughs, but her eyes betray tension. "We're fine," she whispers, but Regulus knows that they are lucky, that a few weeks earlier and neither would have survived.
“Can I—”
“Of course.”
He watches little baby Draco sleep in his arms, even as the crowd murmurs loudly. They are no doubt talking about his hair, Sirius’ departure from the family, and Draco’s premature birth just two days prior. The pureblood gossip mill is rather predictable.
He was rather against being named godfather (godmother in public, of course), on account of he doesn’t even trust himself with his own life, but now, staring at the white-blond head of Draco, he knows he would do anything for the little bundle in his arms. Maybe, if Narcissa asks again, even leave. Strange, he thinks, how one baby can change everything.
Narcissa arrives back with two glasses of lemonade, but an apology in her smile.
“Aunt Walburga wants you to sing. Now.”
He shrugs. “Damage control, I’m guessing. Our family sure does create a ruckus.”
Narcissa’s eyes are mischievous as she takes Draco back from his arms. “A ruckus, indeed. Break a leg, Reg.”
Regulus gets up on the makeshift podium and casts a charm to louden his voice.
“If I could have everyone’s attention,” he says, his charm a little too boyish, a little too Sirius. He adjusts his smile. He is not a replacement for his brother. “I’d like to start off this evening's entertainment with a song.” He was never one for drawing out introductions—that was always Sirius’ habit, and Sirius is not here.
He has often been told he has the voice of an angel, and though Regulus is not as vain as some of the other Blacks, he’s inclined to agree. He sings something pretty, something French, and he feels everyone’s eyes gravitate towards him, feels their lust awaken, feels their hearts in the palm of his hand.
You are a Black, Narcissa had whispered, and he thinks he finally understands. There will be no more questions about Sirius leaving or his hair or his godson's birth. He has them, right where he needs them.
But he makes a mistake. He closes his eyes, lost in the moment, and does not see the Dark Lord entering, silent and watching. When Regulus finishes the French song on a high note, the first thing he sees is the wanting eyes of the Dark Lord.
And Regulus is scared. Because those eyes… want him.