Black flies

Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.

Oscar Wilde

June, 1979

It is the night of his graduation, when the boy is washed up on a lonely, English shore. The sky is grey and ominous and the wind howls, ruffling his hair. He is lying on the mud, cheek flat against the sand, eyes closed. Wounds cover his elegant features, most of which will probably scar. (But everyone knows that physical scars are not the worst ones.) Otherwise, he is a fine teenager, has barely reached seventeen, with the pale complexion of someone who has never seen the sun - someone who has spend all their life locked away.

A sea gull screams and the boy startles awake, body spasming. As if sensing danger, his eyes crack open - grey, cold eyes staring back at a world that has wronged him again and again. He turns over, faces the sky and watches it with a glassy look. Not a minute passes and he is on his knees, breathing hard, clutching the wet sand like his life depends on it; his fingers dig into the mud, knuckles whitening. Regulus Black vomits sea water and poison - the darkest of the kind, one that he will never be able to escape the effects of. Its colour is murky green - he used to love green, but maybe not anymore.

The air is thick with moisture and the taste of salt; it clings to his skin and the back of his throat, sweat and sea water running down his forehead. His eyes squint at the intrusion of moonlight, dim though it may be.

The irony, he cannot help but think. One should never cease to appreciate the irony, not even after near-death experiences, when death has refused you and spit you out. The unfortunate fact that he is alive should be enough. Not for long, though. Regulus Black will be dead to the world in three months from now. He had planned - waited for it, even. Being dead means you don't have to hold up appearances anymore; you don't have any obligation towards anyone but yourself; you are all alone in the world. Isn't that what he's always wonted? Solidarity. Besides, better a dead son than a living traitor.

September, 1972

"Black, Regulus Arcturus!" Professor McGonagall's voice is sharp, commanding and with a thick, Scottish accent. Regulus wants to scoff at her - he is a Black and he answers to no one - but he simply settles for a sneer. He could practically ruin her career; in fact, he'd be encouraged to do so. 

Posture rigid, nose upwards and steps confident, he walks towards the dusty hat that will determine his House - his family, Sirius will say, the sentimental idiot - for the next seven years of his life. Regulus has no doubt in which one he belongs - Blacks belong to Slytherin, my son, never doubt that. The whole ordeal is overdramatic and unecessary, yet Dumbledore - the mudblood lover, Bella hisses beside him, her breath cold on his ear sending shivers down his spine - has always been one for drama. 

Well, well, says a voice inside his head - the Sorting Hat, he realises with a jolt. Regulus refuses to flinch, although he is startled, heartbeat shooting up, blood pounding in his ears. He isn't the only one surprised, the dusty thing seems much more caught off its guard.

What do we have here?The youngest Black - I Sorted your brother last year, you know. When the Hat sees that Regulus doesn't dignify it with an answer, it sighs. You are quite courageous.

He stiffens. 

But the Gryffindors wouldn't know what to do with you -your bravery is different... quiet.You do have a great thirst for knowledge, but you intend to use it for your own purposes - how Slytherin of you, I guess.

I wasn't aware anyone asked your opinion. He clenches his fists; no one insults the House of his ancestors. (Blacks belong to Slytherin, my son, never doubt that.)

The Hat laughs. My, my, now, that's quite the loyalty to the family.

If you put me with the Hufflepuffs, I will rip you apart.

When I suggested to your brother Hufflepuff, he threatened to set me on fire. A rather Gryffindor move. You, on the other hand, threaten to kill me - more convenient.

He purses his lips. I'm not my brother. 

You needn't worry, boy. I knew from the beginning that you are a snake, so you'd better be in - 

"SLYTHERIN!" The Hat shouts the last word, which echoes in the Great Hall, and as Regulus Black joins his fellow Slytherins, he can't help but think, don't you know? Blacks never worry. He certainly does not. He is a snake, for sure, but, more importantly, he is the little king. Blacks answer to no one.

December, 1978

The day he becomes a murderer it is snowing. It is chilling cold and snowing heavily and a seventeen-year old like him normally has no business outside of school, but, well. It is the holidays, after all. (Nothing about Regulus makes much sense, Sirius would say.) 

The village he's visiting on his mission is quiet, a muggle one. Church bells ring in the distance, the carols sang by a choir carried off with the wind. There is a religious harmony to it that he's never quite understood and doesn't think he ever will; Regulus can't decide if he envies or pities those who put their faith in something invisible. But he gets loyalty and so maybe this isn't so different; Sirius has proven that not every family is bound by blood. The cobblestones under his boots are slippery with melted snow, and he manages to lose his balance at least once. If only his friends could see him now - but Regulus shakes his head. He doesn't think he'd like for them to witness what he's about to do, because they'd approve, which doesn't sit right with him. Then again, he's never cared for what is right.

The mission is simple, too simple for someone like him. Yet, he accepts his duty in silence - unlike the blood-traitor, he isn't stupid to challenge the Dark Lord openly. Regulus only has to track a family down - a member of the Order, his husband and their adopted toddler - and assassinate them. Although he doesn't really mind killing, the fact that his first murder should be ordered by a half-blood like the Dark Lord... is disturbing. Blacks answer to no one; that has always been a fact (toujours fucking pur, brother) and the Dark Lord is no exception. But to bring him down, he has to discover the madman's weakness.

A shudder wrecks his body, and he clutches his coat closer. His insomnia has been acting up and the sleepless nights of endless research come back to haunt him. Regulus is tired in the way his eyes are heavy, in how his body aches.

There is nothing special about the day he becomes a murderer, in the end. It isn't even snowing; his mind has simply supplied him with an image of twirling snow. Huge, white flakes swirl around in his imagination, land on his black hair and shine out like stars. Maybe he imagines it like that because it makes him appear more innocent. Or maybe he wants to, needs to feel that this day is somehow significant. It is, just not in the way he thinks.

Tracking down the family is easy enough and, before he knows it, he is standing besides the couple's bed, watching how their chests rise and fall and feeling envious. Sleep has always come with great difficulty to him and what he is about to do won't exactly help. Then again, Regulus doesn't do what is right. That's what heroes do and he is no saint, just a fuck up with a god complex and a very poshattitude, if Barty is to be believed. He doesn't do what is wrong; he is not the villain of the story, despite what every one seems to think - despite what everyone wants to remember. But it's easy to put the blame on some people, he thinks. It's easy to point your finger at the obvious solution, especially if the solution doesn't try to make it easier. It's just, at the end of the day.

The room around him is evidence of a lived life. The clothes littering the floor, the light turned on in the bathroom, water dropping down from a sink. A book left open beside an armchair, a half-empty mug of coffee on a desk with scattered papers. The air is heavy with the smell of food, unwashed dishes on the kitchen table. This house is more real than Grimmauld ever felt. Regulus idly wonders if these people have problems, whether they can agree on anything - do they argue? He wonders whether this is how he might die, one day: a book he never got to read the ending of beside him, unfinished business left behind for his relatives to take care of. It doesn't sound that bad.

Something had caught his eye, earlier; he doesn't know why the image comes back to haunt him now. There's a drawing stuck on the fridge with a small magnet. A kid's drawing: a house (a square and a triangle) and three stick figures that are holding hands, one of them slightly smaller. The sky is depicted as a blue line on the edge of the paper; the sun is in the corner, a yellow quarter of a circle with thin, wavering lines posing as rays. The picture fills him with an unnameable emotion, almost aching but not quite.

Regulus does what is necessary. He murders the whole family. 

August, 1979

The aftermath of the poison is painful. Regulus manages to heal his wounds and, boy, does he have a whole lot of scars. It's like a collection of them, on his face, his hands, his torso, his legs. Where once was his Dark Mark (a voice whispering, join him, my son, sharp nails buried into the flesh of his shoulder) is now just mangled flesh. He settles for wearing long-sleeved robes, even during summer, to obscure some of the damage that has been done to him. He can't hide everything, but no one has the courage to ask. He wears leather-dragon gloves that reach up to his elbows and his robes always have a long neck, to hide the white lines that circle his skin like veins.

Some things are a bit harder to hide, though. He walks with a limp, now, but doesn't use a cane. And he has a strong aversion to water and physical touch; he learns this the hard way. Taking baths becomes his own personal nightmare because the dread that fills him every time his skin comes into contact with cold water has him bolting up and shivering on the bathroom's tiles. The marble is cold under his touch but it's not the same with the water so it helps. In the end, the best solution he comes up with is to let the water warm up so much it reddens his sensitive skin - but it's either that or a panic attack and, honestly, the pain isn't that bad.

At night, terrors frequent his mind: hands dragging him down, dead eyes staring back at him, a flash of a cave, a green poison, a long lost brother's bark-like laugh - I am everything that you are too afraid to be. He doesn't dwell on any of it. What is done is done; Regulus cannot change the past, only the future. It doesn't stop him from waking up gasping for air, or screaming; doesn't stop him from being afraid of sleeping because of what his mind might supply him with, the memories lurking in the back of his unconscious.

In the end, he does what he does best: hides in the shadows unnoticed by the rest of the world - still pretty shaken by the disappearance of the Black heir, whatever happened to the poor child? - in a small house, his crazy aunt Cassiopeia's, and searches. He plots and plots and finds more Horcruxes. It is insane, but with the locket in his possession, he is filled with new passion to destroy the man who believed he could bring the Black family to its knees. If there's anyone who can bring their family to their knees, it's themselves. Regulus will be getting his revenge, he has made sure of it; only success is acceptable. It has always been this way.

He still hasn't looked himself in the mirror.

September, 1979

Three months later, in the Great Hall, Dumbledore delivers a speech about his dead ex-student because of course he does. The Hall is silent during the speech; the realisation that no one is really safe from the war - not even a Black - shakes the students to the core. Dumbledore talks about bravery and the importance of unity, says some more bullshit, gives Gryffindor points.

"Now, chop chop," he tells them with a strained smile, then sits down and is immediately engaged in a conversation with Minerva McGonagall. Plates clatter and glasses clink and the students proceed chattering, nonchalant and unconcerned, but there is a forced tone in it. Their laughter is too loud, their smiles too big; they're pretending happiness, eagerness, enthusiasm. 

The Slytherins who knew Regulus also know he didn't give a shit about the rest of the world. What mattered to him was family above everything else. Dumbledore, however, does not know this. 

November, 1971

Sirius doesn't answer to any of Regulus' letters. He eventually stops sending them. The boy that returns from Hogwarts will not be the same Regulus remembers. (The boy Sirius will meet, will not be the same he knew either.)

September, 1979

BLACK HEIR DECLARED DEAD, say the newspapers and all Sirius can think is, oh.

Oh, indeed. 

He goes on with his day. Talks to Prongs, to Moony, to Wormtail. Attends an Order meeting and ignores the whispers behind his back about his dead Death Eater brother.

It's good news, really. Another Death Eater is dead which means Sirius' side has achieved another victory, right? They won this - was it a battle? A sudden attack? And how did Regulus die? Who was it that managed to sneak up on him, on the boy that always looked over his shoulder, that learnt to muffle his steps when descending the stairs, that always checked for poison before drinking tea? Because Regulus has - had been always paranoid. His death is just so fucking surreal, to say the least. He had seemed to be made of stone and ice; frosty eyes and cold smirks and -

We won, he thinks abruptly. I won and he lost. I was right, he was wrong. Then, remembers Bella and Winning always makes you right and thinks he is going to be sick. It's just another Death Eater - but it's not, is it - brought to justice -

Justice. But whose justice? The Aurors' ? The Order's? And who are they (we) to decide who gets to live and who gets to die? But it doesn't matter, in the end. It doesn't matter, because Regulus is dead, his brother is dead - a voice, his voice (Sirius' voice) hissing, you are no brother of mine - and Sirius is alive - fine, have it your own way, I don't care, blood-traitor - and Regulus is dead. Meaning not-alive. Meaning deceased. No longer breathing.

It's like a punch to the gut that forces the sir out of his lungs. There is a strange emptiness in his chest, right between his ribs, where his heart should have been. His organs have withered away like wilted flowers and the physical pain all over his body hurts so much it is near unbearable. His expression threatens to turn into a grimace every time he so much as thinks of his brother - dead, he'sdead - and Sirius doesn't know how he will survive this. His grief is an ocean of tears he hadn't shed for anyone before; he's working through the unimaginable and words don't reach, a distant, muffled noise. They only give him a headache. 

His eyes are burning and Remus finds him in the morning drunk. Oh, indeed. 

July, 1995

When they meet again, it is not, surprisingly, in the afterlife. Well, Sirius has never believed in that superstitious stuff. But, seeing his supposedly dead for over a decade not-brother is a close call. Maybe he's delusional; maybe the Black madness has caught up to him. If the person in front of him is any indication, Sirius' mental state cannot, should not be trusted. It's okay, though, since Regulus has never been one to trust.

"You aren't dead," Sirius says, narrows his eyes.

A twist of the lips - the only indication this hallucination actually has emotions. Not-Regulus' face is a mask of stone: frosty grey eyes staring down at him, even though Sirius has always been taller. And then he opens his mouth to speak and it's just so posh and so undeniably Regulus and Sirius knows he isn't imagining things. He isn't imagining this; his brother is here, breathing and whole in front of him, but here. Alive and well. A feeling bubbles inside him, one he knows too well: anger. 

"I apologise for the disappointment," says Regulus - he is alive, he's alive, how is he alive - hands clasped behind his back in military attention. He is wearing a black robe and leather gloves, even though winter has yet to arrive. 

"Where have you been?" He is confused and scared and furious and, honestly, he wants to fight; it's the house, getting under his nerves, and it's not difficult to be any of those things. Anger is good, preferable to processing the fact that his supposedly dead for over a decade not-brother is not so dead after all. The way his blood boils tethers him to reality; it's an anchor, a life jacket so that he might not drown again in grief's sea.

Regulus hesitates, purses his lips. "That, I'm afraid, is none of your business."

Of course he is going to be an insufferable git. 

"You made it my business, since you walked through this fucking door. My fucking door," he adds, because he can. His brother raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. It has always been this way with Regulus: disappointed glances, bitter remarks, a deafening silence.

"I was under the, admittedly wrong, impression that you despised - " he gestures around - "this house. Am I wrong?"

Sirius barks out a surprised laugh. Regulus hasn't changed at all, has he? The more the things change, the more they stay the same.

"You aren't wrong."

"Then, why are you here?"

That is a very good question. However -

"Why are you here, Regulus?" Sirius asks - snaps. "Instead of six feet under, that is. I bet it has nothing to do with a certain Dark Lord's return."

"If you had bothered, you would have known that they never found a body. There was no corpse in that coffin."

An empty casket, then? Of course the noble House of Black wouldn't accept the fact that there is nothing to bury.

His brother has always been a raw subject for him. Unnecessary fights, arguments, more arguments, shouting, anger, fury and more fury, a Dark Mark tainting an arm, a Death Eater, an Order member, a duel, curses flying around -

A funeral he'd never attended. He remembers reading about it like it was yesterday. BLACK HEIR DECLARED DEAD. Not so dead, in the end. The realisation keeps hitting hard, like a kick to the stomach that cuts his air and leaves him gasping for breath. Sirius is drowning in the present and past.

"And, as you mentioned, my return has everything to do with the Dark Lord's," says Regulus, lips twisting again, maybe even smiling, and how preposterous that is, "just not for the reasons you believe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Regulus starts descending the stairs and -there is something wrong about the way he walks. The boy - a man now, really - he knew would never make so much noise. He sees it, then. It is barely noticeable, his brother's slight limp, while his expression remains stoic in a familiar, painful way. How he supports himself with the assistance of the railing, his face paper-white. Sirius knows a man in pain when he sees him.

What the fuck happened to you?

Regulus stops a few metres away. It reminds Sirius of two actors on a stage, illuminated by light, everything dark around them. In other circumstances they would have been face to face, shouting, because that's what they were good at, and in another world, Sirius would stand alone in a silent house and wonder about how things could have gone different, and how they went so wrong. He would think, when did we lose our way? and can we do this again?

The house would be silent.

"It means," Regulus starts quietly, "that the Blacks are about to be in the right side of the war for the first time in history." He smirks then - his Slytherin, ex-Death Eater, baby brother - and it is wry and twisted, but not in a bad way. It's the smile of someone who had lost hope and kept fighting despite it. Sirius knows this expression well enough, has seen it in the mirror only too many times to instantly recognise it.

"Does that mean that you are no longer participating in morally questionable extra-curricular activities?" Sirius asks warily. This is almost too good to be true.

"Seventeen was a long time ago."

"Well-spotted, genius." He is only half surprised to discover that he has missed this - Regulus, and his creepy, mysterious and overly dramatic self.

They sit down and Regulus stares at Sirius directly, his face morphing into a grimace. Then, he starts talking. It's a story that, for now, Sirius will get in bits and pieces, left to try and put together all the crumbs to create a complete picture of what happened almost twenty years before.

"Over a decade ago," Regulus says and begins playing with the hem of his robe, hands still gloved, "I discovered information that was never meant for my or anyone's ears. " He pauses, perhaps uncertain of how to put into words what he means to say. "This information lead me to another conclusion; the Dark Lord was a half-blood - not that it matters anymore." He meets Sirius' eyes, as if daring him to comment. Sirius keeps - surprise, surprise - silent.

"At the age of seventeen, it had seemed a great deal. Imagine the shock, the disappointment to realise that I had pledged my loyalty to such an inferior creature." 

He thinks he can imagine that clearly: the audacity of a Black serving a being of impure blood. Truly preposterous, but that doesn't explain why Regulus isn't dead. But Sirius does not dwell on that. Instead, he casually asks, "What was it?" and seeing his brother's furrowed eyebrows, adds, "The information you stumbled upon."

Regulus huffs. "You see, brother, I did not, in fact, stumble upon this information. I got suspicious after certain events, proceeded doing research and acting appropriately."

Sirius snorts. "By acting appropriately do you mean faking your death and fleeing the country?"

"An oversimplification of facts - what happened did have an unexpected outcome, although not an unwelcome one."

Whatever the ever-loving fuck that means. Creepy little shit.

"And?" Sirius urges him to continue. He cannot push Regulus for more than he is willing to offer, not immediately, at least. Otherwise, he will shut down, become like a shell. Slowly, Sirius remembers how to work around his own brother, like a muscle gone atrophied. The process is tiring and so worth it.

Regulus shudders, then crosses his arms. "A quite unpleasant experience followed, one I would rather not talk about and then I fled the country."

It is unnerving, seeing someone so private showing what Regulus would call 'weakness', which Sirius identifies as 'humanity.' Still, there is something off. "You are not telling me everything," he notes, and purses his lips in displeasure.

Regulus manages to look down at his brother yet again. "And be assured that I don't intend to share more, at this moment, or ever." 

July, 1975

There is nothing truly special about the day Sirius runs away. Of course, a fight takes place during dinner - nothing unusual - which ends up a screaming match between mother and Sirius. Regulus cannot think of anything really bad that may have caused his ex-brother to flee - to run away like the coward he isn't, disgracing the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. They discover it the next morning: an empty bed, yet not a single note to inform them of his decision. Walburga is heartbroken and locks herself in her bedroom crying. Orion isolates himself in his office, as usual, and pretends nothing is going on, as usual. Regulus...

Regulus stands in front of the wide-open door of his brother's bedroom. He takes it in: the unmade bed, the open window, the dark curtains moving along with the wind as if dancing. He doesn't enter the room, prefers to observe it silently from a safe distance. He feels it then: the unmistakable bitter, cold fury, the quiet disappointment, the betrayal which will later lead him to make terrible decisions. He is an angry fourteen-year old (and fifteen-year old, and fifteen, and seventeen - )

"Where is your Gryffindor bravery now, Sirius?" he wonders in the dark.

With Sirius' departure comes the realisation that Regulus is the heir, the future of the noble House of Black. He can feel it: the responsibility, the power flowing down to his veins, straight to his core. The question is, what will he do with it?

(Mother burns Sirius off the family tree a week later.)

May, 1979

It is in the battlefield, when he sees his brother for the last time.

( - When you see me in the battlefield, don't hesitate - )

Neither snow, nor rain is falling from the sky. The day is truly unremarkable but Sirius will remember it for years to come. Random curses are flying around and he dodges to avoid a green one - possibly an Avada. Then, he sees him. The Death Eater is rather short, probably still attending Hogwarts. Their movements are slight, calculating and purposeful, almost as if dancing with their opponent, rather than attempting to curse them into oblivion. Yet, the way the Death Eater flicks their wrist, how they gracefully slide, is familiar. Sirius has only ever known two people duelling like that - besides himself, that is. His father - who taught them - and his brother. Regulus.

Regulus. A Death Eater.

But he had known, hadn't he?

Sending his own opponent flying backwards easily with a Stupefy, Sirius moves to engage the masked Death Eater that is probably his brother. He needs, has to know. He already knows. He fires first and, although he should have caught the Death Eater off guard, he has not. Instead, the man - because it is probably a man - turns with incredible speed and deflects the spell, his wand cutting the air in a knife-like fashion. And then, that's it, they are duelling full force. The rest of the world seems to have blurred around the edges, to have disappeared, left forgotten, unimportant, and Sirius vaguely registers at some point that they must have an audience, but he doesn't care.

A strong spell hits him directly at the chest; which is what happens when one loses their damn focus, he supposes. He falls, supports himself with his elbows and the Death Eater approaches him almost reluctantly, ever the graceful bastard he is, grabbing him from the upper arm and Disapparating them both to an unknown location.

Sirius hits the ground with a groan. His head is spinning, as he watches the blurred figure with blinking eyes. Suddenly, the world grows bright again and he looks around. Surprisingly, they are not in a torture dungeon, but in an open field full with those flowers that he can never remember the name of. Unsurprisingly, he realises with a pang, the person - Death Eater - pacing a few metres away is, in fact, his not-brother. He has removed his mask and his hair is messier than Sirius has ever seen before.

Running a hand through his hair, Regulus stops walking and regards him with both coldness and the interest only a scientist shows.

"I should probably kill you," he says thoughtfully, tilting his head as if Sirius is the weird one.

( - No, Sirius isn't going to hesitate. But Regulus will, mere days later - )

The only thing that Sirius spits, is, "Death Eater."

( - No, Sirius isn't going to hesitate - )

 He chuckles then, but it is a dark and - dare he say it - crazy laugh that only his cousin would manage to produce. "I see that your communication skills have not improved, which is hardly surprising." He shakes his head. "No time for formalities, I am afraid. It was wonderful seeing you, brother, but - "

"You are no brother of mine," Sirius hisses, trying and failing to stand up, because it is James and only James who will ever be that.

If Regulus is hurt by that, he doesn't show it. Instead, he raises a single eyebrow and huffs, opting silence as always. "Fine," he says, voice sharp as a knife, "have it your own way, I don't care, blood-traitor."

It is hardly an insult anymore, but it still fucking hurts.

His not-brother probably sees Sirius' suppressed wince and something strange passes from his expression - a flash, a magician's trick, there and gone again. He regards him with new interest, shakes his head, lips a thin line.

( - But Regulus will, mere days later - )

"Kneazle got your tongue, Death Eater?"

Sad smile: "Ever the rebel, are we, Sirius?"

He actually spits, then, at the boy which he grew up with, who stands in front of him, dressed in black robes, looking unrecognisable. "I am everything that you are too afraid to be." 

The strange thing passes again from Regulus' expression. He bows his head in mock-respect, says, "Until we meet again, then," and Disapparates because of course he does. 

"See you in hell, fucker," Sirius shouts at the empty space before him. It is not until four months later that he will look back and think that maybe he wasn't so wrong after all. See you in hell. Maybe he will and it is that which frightens him. 

July, 1995

The fact that Regulus gets along with the rest of the Order is truly a miracle, but Sirius will not comment on it. The fucker would probably treat everyone like shit if he knew it would spite Sirius. Still, that doesn't explain his open disapproval of Dumbledore - which Sirius cannot blame him for because, honestly, who likes the man? - or how secretive he gets, when asked about his defection over two decades ago or what led to it and the aftermath. 

Regulus has also - as Sirius soon discovers - acquired the habit of locking himself in their father's office and, in the end, falling asleep there, to Sirius' great amusement. Well. There is nothing funny about the fact that his brother cannot otherwise sleep except from when he is utterly exhausted - which he is, if the heavy bugs under his eyes are any indication. It is strange, that his brother barely looks twenty-five, when he actually is thirty-four. Maybe it's the concealment charms he applies to his face which make him look younger, but, the fact is, Regulus has never been particularly vain. Which leads to the question, why the charms? 

November, 1972

They meet after a lesson of History of Magic for the first time. Regulus is probably the only student paying attention, which is why a Ravenclaw boy with straw-coloured hair and freckles all over his face approaches him later, to ask for his notes.

He lifts a brow, says "No," watches, as the boy frowns in distress, but can find no satisfaction in it. This is new and he doesn't like it. To this day, he is still not sure why he did what he did next. 

"We can study together," Regulus hears himself saying, which is... strange, to say the least. He has no reason or motive to do this - the boy's father is Crouch, who is openly against the Dark Lord. It is madness, it is, but, well. His family is prone to it.

He is surprised that the boy - Barty, he will learn - agrees. He is even more surprised that he enjoys spending time with Barty. Something about his witty remarks and his clear cleverness... it may even match Regulus'. Introducing Barty and Evan is a decision he will regret; those two will manage to equally piss him off and amuse him for the next six years. 

With this new acquaintance and Evan's companionship, Regulus comes to a realisation. He doesn't need Sirius in his life. (Even though he would like him to be - a naïve child's hope and folly, he will think when he is older.)

August, 1979

Magic can both do wonders and cause great manage, he thinks. 

Taking a deep breath, Regulus comes to stand in front of the mirror and opens his eyes. Grey orbs stare back at him, but that is not why his breath hitches. Regulus watches with sick fascination the white, thin lines that circle his neck like veins, one of them crossing the edge of his eyebrow. He has - scars. Many of them. It's - well, not unexpected, he was aware he would have them, yet it's strange, seeing it. Some of them will fade, that he knows, but it will be necessary to apply a concealment charm, so that he doesn't attract too much attention. It's the last thing he needs, right now. 

He is not ashamed of them, Regulus thinks, as his back collides with the cold marble of the bathroom's wall and he slides down - they are a part of him, they tell his story. But he is seventeen, and seventeen is too young to have the solo mission of bringing down a dark lord. Seventeen is too young to have to heal as well as he can on his own, to stitch himself up, unable to find all the pieces because he is unrepairablly broken and there are too many shrads. Too young to be alone with this burden. To be covered in scars. 

He is seventeen and he has never been allowed to be seventeen. Has never allowed himself to be.

December, 1978

Regulus waits for hours for Kreacher to return. He keeps pacing and there is an uneasy feeling that he can't escape from, yet he really needs to discover the Dark Lord's weakness. Looking back now, lending his House Elf to a madman may have not been a great idea, but an impulsive one. He snorts. Regulus is many things, but impulsive he is not. 

A loud crack! echoes through the bedroom and he is instantly on his feet, wand in hand, only to realise that Kreacher has come back. He is relieved, though not for long. 

"Kreacher!" he watches the Elf struggling to get on his feet, water dripping on the floor. "What happened to you?" 

He rushes to assist Kreacher, who is shaking horribly and keeps looking frantically around, eyes never staying somewhere for too long. There is something haunted about the Elf's gaze; it reminds him of wounded animals and strays that won't approach strangers for the fear of being hurt. It reminds him of the aftermath of a Death Eater raid, how the victims shake and shake, how their voice quivers, how their knees wobble. Reminds him of himself after a particularly difficult night, but, well, you know what they say. No rest for the wicked. 

"Tell me what the Dark Lord did," Regulus commands, though it is more of a request. Talking to Kreacher has always been easier than talking to people. Let alone that he despises people. Or talking. Or... whatever. 

And Kreacher, brave and mistreated and still loyal Kreacher, tells him everything. He tells him of a cave, of a lake, of a green poison and of dead bodies that walk like puppets and act like serial killers. Of the horror of being dragged down by dozens of hands and how dear Master Regulus' command saved poor old Kreacher.

Regulus wants to laugh - or cry. He is anything but dear. 

December, 1975

He stumbles upon the word during Christmas holidays. Horcrux. The act of splitting one's soul, in order to maintain immortality. A fragment of the soul which remains concealed inside an object. Regulus feels his lips curl in distaste. Who on their right mind would commit something so atrocious, an act so vile that it would taint one's soul forever? It is unthinkable and the fact that a Black finds it so disgusting says a lot. 

Later, during dinner time with father - his mother away at some of her friends - he gathers the courage to ask: "Father, what is a Horcrux?" Regulus is being reckless, that he is well aware of, but he has to know. It has to do with the part of himself that seeks knowledge for the sake of knowledge. You do have a great thirst for knowledge, but you intend to use it for your own purposes - how Slytherin of you, I guess. 

Orion Black inhales sharply and looks up from his plate. "Why would you ask that?" 

If Regulus was not properly educated, he would have shrugged. Fortunately, he is, so he opts for folding his hands on his lap and answering diplomatically: "I was reading a book in the library and came across the word." He watches his father's expression. It remains passive. 

Orion chooses his next words with great care, watching his fingernails with sudden interest. "It is when one spits their soul to achieve immortality. The object which hosts the fragment is known as a Horcrux." He pushes his glasses onto his nose and leans back on his chair. "To create it, one has to commit murder; which is considered to be the supreme act of evil."

The idea of a Horcrux is both horrific and fascinating - in a dark and disturbing way that makes him shudder. To achieve immortality. But who wants to live forever? He remembers reading Crime andPunishment, a small, rebellious act of defiance no one but him will ever know. 

We're always thinking of eternity as an idea that cannot be understood, something immense. But why must it be? What if, instead of all this, you suddenly find just a little room there, something like a village bath-house, grimy, and spiders in every corner, and that's all eternity is. Sometimes, you know, I can't help feeling that that's what it is.

Yes, there is something unmistakeably terrifying about eternity. To live forever, it would be so, so lonely. Regulus knows loneliness well enough. He greets it every morning. Smiles at it during day. Wishes it good-night, when about to sleep. He is well-acquainted with it.

"Son?"

His father's voice brings him back to reality. Seeing his worried expression, it is not the first time Orion has called his name.

Regulus blinks. "Sorry. I was lost in thought."

"It is quite common for the Blacks to do so." Then, he sobers, watching his son with concern. "You are young, Regulus, but, know this: one should not meddle with the soul. It is as sacred as blood." 

'I am well aware, père." 

"You should show respect to your elders, young man," Orion says, amused. He shakes his head in-mock disapproval, smiles slightly. 

Regulus beams; it is not common to have this sort of moments with his father. It feels - surprisingly it feels nice. Relaxing. Casual in a way he has never been allowed to feel. It terrifies him. He fights the urge to shut down and pull away.

August, 1995

When Remus casually brings it up, it is a fine morning - for London's standards, that is. At least it's not raining. He sits besides Sirius in the table and supports his chin with his fist. 

"We need to work on your Patronus, love," he says finally.

Tonks looks up from their plate with a grin. "That's a great idea. Everyone in this house needs to - besides, how would we recognise someone's Patronus if it's the first time we were seeing it?" 

"Well, I'm sure you can identify the voice," Bill says thoughtfully. "Still, it's not a bad idea." 

Sirius sighs. For one, he's not sure he can convince Regulus to join them - the little shit is still in their father's study, has probably fallen asleep, though Sirius isn't going to be the one to bring that up. What's more, he isn't sure Sirius himself can produce a Patronus. He hasn't tried for years. Still, seeing Remus' hopeful expression, he cannot bear to disappoint him. He has been a disappointment for the most part of his life and it's getting tiring.

And that's how they are all heading to the drawing room - that is, Sirius, Tonks, Lupin and Bill. Regulus is not here, of course, although it's noon by now.

Tonks looks at Sirius nervously, says, "You think you can call your brother?" 

He shrugs. Disturbing Regulus when he is locked up in the study is like tickling a sleeping dragon. He remembers the Hogwarts motto well enough not to do that.  "Why do I have to go?" 

"Well ... " Tonks chuckles. "He's kind of scary if you ask me."

"Regulus, scary?" 

This is - unexpected.

It has never occurred to him that anyone could find Regulus scary. Well, Sirius supposes, his brother is an expert when it comes to the Dark Arts and joining Voldemort's cult has certainly done him no favours. It kind of adds to the whole mysterious, paranoid persona Regulus has. Defecting the Death Eaters almost two decades ago under unknown circumstances and for questionable reasons can do that to a person. 

Remus sighs deeply. He gestures vaguely, as if saying, don't question it. 

The stairs creak, alerting them that someone is coming. It can only be Regulus, of course, and Sirius suddenly understands why the Muggles say speak of the devil. 

"Good morning," his brother says. "What's the commotion for?"

There is an uncomfortable silence, when no one seems to know what to say, Remus having already reached the drawing room, Tonks averting their eyes and Sirius taking in his brother.

Bill clears his throat. "We were heading to the drawing room, to practice our Patronuses, you know." He takes a deep breath. "Want to join?"

Regulus stares at him. Bill stares back. The kid either has guts or a death wish. Or both, Sirius thinks. In the end, Regulus agrees and they enter the drawing room. Remus is already there, waiting, and has cleared the centre of the room from the furniture. Looking pained, Regulus takes a sit and stretches his bad leg, while managing to produce a book out of his pocket. 

"I can try first," Tonks volunteers cheerfully. They draw their wand and cast the spell. A small jackrabbit erupts from the end of it and starts running around the room. They smile at it and Sirius feels his heart warm up. He has missed this. 

It is Bill's turn, then. He raises his wand and yells, grinning, "Expecto Patronum!"

Sirius' first thought is, it's beautiful. Bill's Patronus is an albatross, which is surprising, when it shouldn't be. They symbolise good luck, stability, and trustworthiness. Those who conjure this Patronus are the epitome of what it looks like to be reliable and faithful, Sirius remembers reading. Or was it Regulus who told him that, once? He forgets.

Remus looks awestruck. Even after all this time, he still manages to bewitch Sirius, who pointedly looks away from him. Only to lock eyes with Regulus, who looks up from whatever he was reading and lifts two eyebrows. Sirius sticks out his tongue like the mature adult he is and Regulus rolls his eyes. 

"This is wonderful, Bill, truly magnificent," Remus says, Tonks clapping the his back. 

You are wonderful, Sirius thinks but doesn't say. The realisation that he is slowly falling in love again with Moony hits him hard. He feels light-headed, dizzy and his heart melts.

Bill shrugs his shoulders and beams, hugs Tonks in return. We are best friends since forever, they confessed to Sirius, when he'd asked. He doesn't doubt it. 

Taking a step forwards, Remus says the incantation and produces the proud wolf Sirius has been expecting. The animal is beautiful and Remus, for all his self-loathing, smiles shyly at him. Sirius is suddenly filled with nostalgia and melancholy. Memories flood back to him like an unstoppable river; James transforming into a giant stag, James smiling, clapping his back, lips twitching uncontrollably. A more relaxed and less tired Remus; small smiles, shy touches, exploring each other and learning their bodies in the dark confines of their room. Peter -

No. 

Opening his eyes - when did he close them? - Sirius is back in reality. He refuses to think of Peter as anything else other than a traitor. But the thing is, he wasn't just that, was he? This was the reason his betrayal had hurt. Pete - shy and slightly awkward Pete, who could find the best excuses, when they were caught doing mischief. He was, had been a part of their brotherhood and, perhaps, that's what makes it worse. 

"Sirius, it's your turn," Remus reminds him patiently. 

He swallows, suddenly aware that even Regulus has closed his book to watch. Taking a step forwards, Sirius draws his wand and tries to cast the spell that used to come so easily to him.

"Expecto Patronum." 

There is no heart behind his words, and he knows it. Only mist comes from the tip of his wand, which is nothing in comparison with the black, massive dog he was accustomed to. 

Sirius sighs. "I can't." It was inevitable; his stay in Azkaban has changed him as much as he tries to deny it. 

"Don't say that," says Remus, folding his hands. "You need to find a better memory, perhaps, a stronger one." 

Brave and lovely Remus. Beautiful and patient Remus.

He vaguely registers the sound of rain, how the small drops keep tapping the window. There was a lot of rain and moisture in Azkaban too. But that had not been the worst. No, it was the ghosts that would haunt his dreams, the hallucinations, which drove him insane. James sitting besides him, a wide grin painted across his lips, ruffling his hair, an echo of distant laughter. Remus, his hot chocolate mug and the huge jumpers he would always wear. Even Peter, snippets and flashes of a short, chubby boy with fat cheeks and crooked teeth. And Lily, of course, sharing a cigarette with him, while they would complain about their siblings. Dorcas, Marlene - god, Mary and so many others, and Frank, and Alice. Regulus, leaning against the wall, his arms folded, knee bent, eyes always judgemental.

The Longbottoms are worse than dead now, he recalls, driven insane by his own cousin. James, Lily, Marlene, Dorcas - all of them gone and, for a while, Regulus had been one of them. One of all those who had haunted him. But who had haunted him most? He would never know. 

( - Regulus, leaning against the wall, his arms folded, knee bent, eyes judgemental - )

Regulus stares at him intensely, brows furrowed, lips a white line. Waiting? Or perhaps thinking? He can never be sure, when it comes to his brother. Isn't that sad? Everyone seems to think so. 

( - A fight, and another, and another, a growing distance between them, no, wrong, a whole ocean, miles apart, years of light apart - )

"Remember that time, when you got your letter?" Regulus' voice is quiet, but Sirius hears him anyway. 

A hesitant nod. Of course he remembers. 

( - Two boys; one running around, dancing, the other one sitting on a bench, long, elegant fingers touching the keys of a piano a hot summer night - )

His brother chuckles, lips twisting slightly, gaze piercing Sirius, head cocked to the right. He folds his arms, gloved hands gripping tightly his upper arms and leans back, supporting the chair with only its back legs. It reminds Sirius of himself. 

( - Walking around the school with James by his side, laughing until his ribs hurt, getting drunk and snogging Remus - )

"You were so happy," Regulus continues, his eyes locked to somewhere he is no longer seeing. "And, then - then you went to Hogwarts and came back. You had changed."

( - The smirk of a lost brother, cold eyes, laughing hysterically, a fight, a last meeting, exchanging words he had never meant to say, but had said anyway - )

It feels like an accusation. He knows it's not one, it doesn't even sound like one and it isn't meant  to be one. In the end, he shoots back anyway, "So had you."

Regulus makes a dismissive gesture, as if saying, never mind. "That's not my point. I recall how you would talk about this boy with the atrocious haircut, how you smiled, or, some years later, when you told me you were in love with Lupin, or maybe that time when you all realised Pettigrew was the first to ever snog someone - "

Sirius flinches at the mere mention of Peter. 

"You see," Regulus goes on, shaking his head, "that's the problem. You need to accept Pettigrew as a part of your life."

"All my memories of him are tainted - " 

"He contributed to your happiness and, were you not so blind by hatred and bitterness, you would at least acknowledge that," Regulus snaps. "I spent nearly a decade resenting you and Potter. Sometimes I still do." He averts his eyes. "Do you really want to make the same mistake?" 

Someone clears their throat. It's Remus, ever the peacemaker. "Do you want to try again, Padfoot?" 

Does he? Can he? Sirius isn't sure. In the end, he doesn't have to answer at all.

"Yes, he would love to," somebody says and it's Regulus, because of course he is. Cheeky bastard who looks at him in the eyes, challenging. 

"Fine," Sirius snaps.

He feels the long, wooden stick. Feels its power taunting him, flooding him; the magic travelling straight to his heart, feels the anticipation, the expectation, the happiness. The sadness. 

He feels everything and nothing at all. 

Sirius casts the the spell. He fails. Does it again. He fails. And again. 

The vast, massive, black dog - the grim, Padfoot - that he is so familiar with, erupts from his wand and starts circling around his caster, barking and jumping, trying to reach the man before him. Sirius looks at the silver Patronus, his eyes wide and full with wonder. He hasn't felt that alive since... he can't remember the last time he felt so alive. Somehow, he is complete, has regained some part of himself that he didn't know he had lost. 

Remus is hugging him tightly and then they are kissing and Tonks and Bill start cheering and whistling and he doesn't care, because, oh Merlin, he has missed this so fucking much and he never wants to let go. 

"I love you, Sirius Black," Moony, Remus is whispering to his ear, so that only he will listen, "it's you, it's always been you."

"And I love you, Remus Lupin," he murmurs back, burying his face to Remus' hair, "I never stopped loving you."

Eventually, he has to let go. Reluctantly. Sirius doesn't really want to; holding Remus seems almost like a promise of a future that he doesn't want to lose. Doesn't want to break. His eyes automatically wander around and find Regulus.

Who is apparently reading his book again. 

"Well, brother," Sirius starts, "it seems that everyone has casted their Patronus but you. Will you do the honours?"

He thinks Regulus' eyes narrow only for a second, but maybe he imagined it. Instead his brother lifts his chin - that's always a bad sign - and snorts. 

"I will spare myself from the embarrassment of attempting to," Regulus says nonchalantly and Sirius' brows furrow, "seeing that I have repeatedly failed to since I was seventeen." 

There must be some kind of story behind that, a story that will either make Sirius puke, or will have him pulling his own hair. Which says a lot, considering that he loves his hair. 

Remus stares intensely at Regulus. "What troubles you?" he asks in a tone that Sirius identifies as Teacher Mode. "The pronunciation of the incantation, the movement of the hand?"

His brother's expression hardens slightly. "I can't come up with a strong memory."

Whatever Remus had been prepared to say dies in his throat and he glances at Sirius helplessly, as if he would know how to handle Regulus. Truth is, no one is qualified to deal with Regulus. Not even Regulus himself.

"Well," Bill says, when the silence becomes so thick you could cut it with a knife, "can you at least tell us what was the form of your Patronus?" 

"I bet my money on a snake," Sirius interrupts, then face-palms, because he remembers, "no! It was a fox, wasn't it?"

Regulus fixes him with a strange stare that makes him feel uneasy. "Yes, it used to be a fox - "

"I knew it!"

" - But my Patronus changed, after fourteen."

Tonks whistles. "A Partronus can change its form?"

He looks sceptical, and nods. "Although it is rare, sometimes a great shock... an emotional upheaval - " he shoots Regulus an uncertain look - "they may cause such a change."

It doesn't take Sirius long to realise what that means. "I ran away when you were fourteen," he says bluntly, then winces, because, oh.

"You did," Regulus agrees, his eyes distant, which seems to be a common occurrence, "the 5th of July, 1975."

"You remember."

"Of course I do."

"I thought you didn't care," because what was he supposed to think?

( - fine, have it your own way, I don't care, blood-traitor - )

 He smiles faintly. "So did I." 

"So," Tonks starts, rubbing the back of their neck, "what did your Patronus change to?"

Suddenly, Regulus shifts uneasily, almost uncomfortable. He glances at the door for a moment, then responds sharply, "It was a black dog, if you wanted to know."

He pushes his chair and exits the room, without looking back once. 

January, 1972

"The Dark Lord will change our history, Evan, I can feel it," Regulus murmurs; he is lying on his bed back. "And he will cleanse our world from the undeserving."

Evan, also staring at the canopy of his respective bed, turns his head slightly to face his friend, cheek pressed against the mattress. He is grinning while he whispers, "Do you ever dream about joining him?"

"All the time," because it would be an honour to serve someone with so noble a cause. The Cause. "Do you think we can convince Barty, as well?" He can't bare the thought of fighting against Barty. Regulus still is not sure why. He likes him, although not as much as Evan, with whom they share relatives. (Family is everything, Regulus, never forget that.)

Evan giggles. "Oh, you needn't worry. For you, Barty would practically do anything."

For you, Barty would practically do anything.

Regulus feels his brows furrow. "What are you talking about?"

Instead of answering, his friend snorts. "For someone so clever, you can be pretty oblivious sometimes, Regulus."

Regulus blinks, thinking he has missed something important.

 July, 1971

Sirius drags his feet towards his parents. His mother watches him, lips twitching slightly, as if trying to suppress a smile. Father regards him with both impatience and some love. (He tries not to feel guilty, as he neither replied to their letters, nor did he send any.) Yet, the first thing Sirius notices is the absence of his younger brother. 

"Where is Regulus?" he asks. 

Arching an eyebrow, Walburga seems troubled, before she exchanges a glance with her husband. She looks back at her son. "He was feeling unwell again, dear."

"Again?"

Father shoots him a curious look. "Didn't he write you about it? Regulus has been having unbearable headaches this whole year." 

Didn't he write you about it?

The thing is, Regulus probably did, but Sirius didn't answer any of his letters, didn't open them at all, busy as he was with homework and his new friends. He isn't going to tell his parents that. 

Instead, he shrugs. "I don't remember."

Besides, Regulus gave up trying to communicate with him two months later. 

Together, they Apparate to Grimmauld and mother unlocks the door, tapping it with her wand. Sirius immediately runs to the other floor, reaching his brother's bedroom with excitement. He barges in, without knocking (there has never been a need to knock, but that's about to change), falling to the same routine they had before easily and expecting to find Regulus ready to welcome him. 

Regulus isn't in his room. 

Nothing to worry about, Sirius thinks, he's probably in the library. Still, he can't quite get rid of the feeling that something has gone terribly wrong. 

In the end, he does find Regulus in the library. The little swat is pacing in an almost adult-like fashion, his hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid. He looks older. 

Sirius approaches him from behind, trying to muffle his steps, but his brother has always been paranoid and somehow manages to turn around just in time to be crushed into a tight hug. While he hugs him, Sirius registers how frail and thin Regulus is, how he can feel his ribs, or how bird-like and delicate his wrists seem to be. How he has stiffened as if a marble statue, shoulders tense, not returning the hug.

"Hey," Sirius murmurs, as he lets go and takes in his brother. "Missed me?"

Regulus stares at him for a moment, eyes tired, before shaking his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He looks - ill, Sirius realises with a jolt. He was feeling unwell, again, dear, he vaguely recalls his mother saying. Unwell is clearly an understatement. Regulus is pale, paler than usual - which says a lot, considering how marble-like all the Blacks are. No, his complexion is sickly pale, paper-white, porcelain-white (strong but can easily break) and the dark, heavy bugs under his grey eyes come in great contract with his skin. His expression, too, is strange; calculating and cold in a way that has never been addressed to Sirius. 

Until now. 

"Sirius." His voice raspy, as if it hasn't been used in a while.

(The boy Sirius will meet, will not be the same he knew either.)

Yes, he thinks, something has gone terribly wrong. 

 August, 1995

Something has gone terribly wrong with Regulus. (It's a feeling Sirius has never been quite able to escape.)

It's the small, daily things he notices. The concealment charms; the slight limp. How Regulus never seems to sleep at night; how he loses himself, when thinking. The gloves he never takes off; the aversion to any kind of physical contact. (Eyes full of hatred, touch me againand I will rip you apart.) His inability to produce a Patronus. 

And it's the small, daily things he notices, until it is the last day of August and the kids are about to leave for Hogwarts and there is a commotion upstairs and, suddenly, Sirius hears wailing - is that Mrs Weasley? - and the floor creaks, because someone is limping and it's Regulus, oh Merlin, and what if he is not in our side in the end and -

He has no time to complete this thought and he's already running up the stairs along with Remus and they are inside the drawing room before they know it and Mrs Weasley is crying hysterically and whispering something like Riddikilus (so it's a Boggart, his mind says) without even pointing her wand at the things (so it's Inferi, his mind says) that are crawling towards her -

Wrong. He follows with his eyes who they are looking at. It's not Molly. 

It's Regulus. 

Regulus, whose wand has fallen from his trembling hands, who is staring at the Inferi with open-wide eyes and shaking his head frantically in denial, who has paled even more and whose gaze is distant; no longer seeing the drawing room at all, locked in some other memory -

Cold and distant Regulus. Calculating and cruel Regulus. 

Regulus, who for the first time in Sirius' life, looks terrified.

Remus murmurs the incantation, "Riddikilus," and the Boggart turns to a full moon, before disappearing completely. 

It seems that, with the disappearance of the Inferi, Regulus' expression becomes horrifyingly numb, blank.

Dissociation, Sirius thinks. 

Then, his brother turns around and walks out of the room with mechanical, automatic movements, as if nothing happened, his limp more pronounced than ever. Sirius registers a door slamming shut and thinks, he's in thestudy. He feels a hand to his shoulder, thinks, Moony. 

He flinches anyway. 

"Should I talk to him?" he asks, because Moony always knows what's best. Always has a solution. "You know, follow him and confront him about this?"

Shaking his head, Remus seems wearier than usual. Somehow, more grey, more scarred, more aged. They are only thirty-five and Sirius feels sixty.

"Not now. Wait until tomorrow, when almost everyone will have left. And, Sirius - " he glances him quickly, then looks away - "don't press him to talk, or he will shut down."

Sirius thinks he'll shut down anyway.

The floor seems to be very interesting, out of the blue. "What do you think happened to him?" He is aware that, logically, he shouldn't be asking this question. He does it anyway.

Remus is aware of that too. He answers anyway. "I think that," he starts, carefully, testing the waters - is the water cold enough? - "it's high time you had a conversation with Kreaher."

So Sirius finds the Elf the next morning. 

Kreaher is cleaning the kitchen, when he approaches him. "Kreacher," he begins, fidgeting nervously, "are you and my brother still close?" 

The wrinkled Elf regards Sirius with contempt, but responds with pride, "Old Kreacher is Master Regulus' most trusted servant." Then, he adds under his breath, "So unlike Kreacher's poor Master, the blood-traitor is. Oh, the bad Master doesn't deserve Master Regulus' affection."

Sirius snorts. "Regulus hates my guts," he sneers. 

Continuing to clean the table, Kreacher glares at him. "Bad Master is very mistaken, indeed he is - but Kreacher won't betray poor Master Regulus' trust, not after what he did for unworthy Kreacher." The Elf sniffs. "Yes, old Kreacher owes his life to poor Master, poor Master almost drowned."

He rolls his eyes. Kreacher has completely lost it, it seems. "My father didn't drown," he snaps, "he was ill."

Kreacher considers him with a strange look, then whispers to himself, "So the blood-traitor doesn't know... "

"What is that?" He feels desperate, out of a sudden, "what do you mean, I don't know? Kreacher, that's an order!"

Shaking his head, the Elf mutters, "Kreacher will not betray poor Master's trust, no, he won't, no he won't, despite the mutt's orders - no, Master Regulus' orders are older."

Sirius cannot describe the fury he feels. How his blood boils from the anger directed... But to whom? Kreacher? He's just a House Elf following orders from a beloved member of the family. Regulus? He's -

And then the realisation hits him, because, what does he actually know about his brother, anymore? A huge gap exists between them and they haven't had a sincere talk since... He can't remember. It only infuriates him more. 

The house is deadly silent. No children's laughter echoes to its dark and long corridors. No muffled conversations his parents used to have, no steps sounding, no floor tricking. Complete, utter silence. Sirius hates it. Hates it all. He feels the judgemental gazes of the portraits, as he sinks to his ankles, hand covering his mouth, because he's going to be sick. He wants it to stop. He wants everything to stop. He can't take it anymore. Why won't it stop?

The thought that passes his mind makes him laugh hysterically. He could burn this house to the ground. Doom them all to death. He could do it. Does he want to? oes he? He isn't sure. Because, in the end, he can't escape the truth. Black is the epitome of his, of their souls. Nothing is going to change. Nothing will ever change. 

His mother's portrait starts screaming from below.

"Fuck's sake!" he shouts, rushes downstairs, gripping his wand tightly, only to come to a stop, because. 

Because. 

Regulus has come out of their father's study, it seems. And. He is talking to their mother. And. Walburga Black. Stops. Screaming. 

He comes closer. Since Regulus' return from the dead, Sirius has never seen him interact with the portrait which is all that remains from their mother. His brother has raised his right hand, almost touching the canvas but not quite, a strange look painted on his expression. It's heartbreaking, how Walburga stops and her breath hitches and then she is reaching out with her own hand, trying to make contact with a son she had thought long lost. Tragic, how their hands should be touching but are not, how both son and mother immediately withdraw their hands at the same time, as if burnt. 

His mother's expression softens to something that could be a smile and Regulus seems transfixed, as he looks at his own hands, perhaps trying to imagine how it would feel in real life. Not sparing a glance at Sirius, as he removes his gloves. Not blinking, as his pale hands, scarred hands are exposed to the rest of the world. Scarred hands, because the thin, milky-white lines that circle his wrists and travel along with his long fingers can only be scars. Which probably explains the concealment charms to his face. 

Regulus reaches out again, caressing the portrait lovingly and Walburga leans in her son's touch. Then, he slowly closes the curtains.

The house is silent again.

Clearing his throat, Sirius manages to catch his brother's attention. "Will you ever tell me?" he asks, uncertain, insecure out of a sudden. Will you ever tell me what happened to you? he means. 

A deep sigh. "No. No, I don't think I will." Not yet, he thinks, hopes, is left unsaid.

October, 1979 

It takes him months to comprehend what his brother's last words to him really mean. It is almost poetic, that Regulus would say good-bye. It's so like him, Sirius can't help but think, to be dramatic in this way. 

Until we meet again,then. Which meant: I'm a dead man walking, brother. 

It had been sarcasm and Sirius had missed it. Hadn't seen it, until it was too late to do anything at all. Because. Regulus had known he would sooner or later die. He had known and he hadn't told Sirius. Had known and had held his head high with pride, as he walked towards his own death.

As he walked towards his own death. 

And what had Sirius said? You are no brother of mine.

Sad smile: 'Ever the rebel, are we, Sirius?'

I will be hunted down as a defector. They will never find a body. 

I am everything that you are too afraid to be. Coward. 

Regulus had known, he had known, had known, hadknownhadknownhadknown. . .

And, of course: see you in hell, fucker.

He should have realised it, should have recognised the signs. The sad smile. The crazed chuckle. The strange, dark and twisted thing that for a moment had passed from his brother's eyes. He should have recognised the signs. Regulus had known and he hadn't minded.

Don't you see I'm busy? Please leave, Regulus.

Maybe I will.

And he had. 

 April, 1972

He and Evan come across Sirius and his blood-traitor friends in a corridor. 

Regulus has been meaning to confront his brother for a while, ever since his mother asked him to do so. His heart clenches at the sight of bloody Potter throwing an arm around Sirius' shoulders, who barks out a laugh. Honestly, his brother needs better friends. 

Willing his composure to remain intact, he walks towards Sirius with all the determination a eleven-year old boy can muster.

"Sirius!" 

His brother turns around, annoyed. "What is it?" 

He clears his throat, wishing he was a bit taller. "Why haven't you been replying to mother's letters?" he asks, folding his arms as he raises his chin. 

"Ohhh," Potter exclaims, voice dripping honey, "look at the little Black crow flocking to do mummy's bidding!"

The boy with the scars nudges Potter to his side, but it's Sirius who says sharply, "Shut it, James."

Then, he addresses Regulus again, glancing at Evan with distaste, "Don't you see I'm busy? Please leave, Regulus."

The four boys continue walking, with only the one with the scars sending an apologetic smile at Regulus. He sneers at him (never accept pity, never let them see you break) then clenches his fists.

"Maybe I will," he shouts after his brother, knuckles whitening. He means every word.

Evan fixes him with a sympathetic look. "He doesn't deserve your time," he says, clapping Regulus' back. 

But he does, Regulus doesn't say.

January, 1979

It feels different, this time, having all this power in his hands. The burden is heavy, but not like the duty of being a Black, which comes naturally to Regulus. (Lieagain and again, until you become a master of it, learn to protect your mind; you never know what's happening - )

No, the knowledge of the Dark Lord's potential Horcrux is a whole new level of heavy. It is vital information that could change the route of history, that could end the war. It is information that only Regulus has. Once again, he is faced with the same question. What will he do with it?

Regulus thinks his life always tends to lead him to a crosspoint, to a point of no return. It's time to choose between what's right and what's easy, Dumbledore would say and then order some teenagers to die for love, or - Merlin forbid - for the greater good. 

What will he do with it?

There is a great deal of ambition inside him: the desire to do something, to be remembered and to achieve greatness. It's one of the main reasons Regulus is a Slytherin - despite what Sirius likes to believe. But, one of the other reasons is self-preservation, a concept unknown among the Gryffindors, who are raised to be the heroes, to save the day. Like pigs raised for slaughter. It sends shivers down his spine. 

He could become a spy; he is a natural at Occlumency, which has helped him keep his emotions at a check, but Regulus isn't a blood-traitor. He has honour, pride and he is a Black. Blacks bow to no one. If Blacks bow to no one, nor will Regulus be in Dumbledore's debt. He doesn't need saving and, if he can't get himself out of this situation, he is certainly not worthy of the title he will one day inherit. 

Then, comes the matter of the Dark Lord's mysterious past. Kreacher's description of the Horcrux matches the one of Salazar Slytherin's locket, leading to the question: How did the Dark Lord come to be its possessor? Were he a pure-blood, a direct scion of Salazar Slytherin himself no less, wouldn't he brag about it? Why does he not advertise the fact? Unless he doesn't want to bring attention to his heritage ...

The fleeting thought leaves Regulus with a bitter, morbid feeling. The very same man he has practically worshipped and pledged loyalty to (Blacks bow to no one), to be less than pure? 

To be, for example, a half-blood?

He desperately considers the Dark Lord's name. Lord Voldemort. Vol-de-mort. Flight from death. Regulus used to find it fitting and clever, but , now, it seems childish, that a man would announce his pathetic fear of death for everyone to see. Those who attempt to prevent the inevitable are fools. Sirius leaving was inevitable; Regulus knew his brother would crumble under pressure. Well. That didn't exactly prepare him for what happened, but, still.

But what is the Dark Lord's true name? He needs to find out. Quickly. 

September, 1975

For once, it is Narcissa that sees him off. They side-along Apparate in the crowded platform and people are quick to make space for them, once they see the Black characteristics. Or maybe it has to do with Narcissa's sneer and Regulus' deadly glare. Or maybe it's a combination of the three. 

"Well," Narcissa lightly starts, attempting for a smile but failing miserably, "another year of school begins for you, young man."

Regulus chuckles, which lightens the mood considerably. "Worry not, cousin dearest, for I shall not disgrace our family any further." Both a joke and a promise. 

She sighs, then reaches out to caress his cheek lovingly. "I regret giving you these books. You have become insufferable."

"More than usual, you mean?"

"A whole new level of insufferable."

They both chuckle. Then -

Then, they hear it. The unmistakable

sound of 

a bark-like 

laughter. 

They both tense. Narcissa's grip on Regulus' shoulder tightens and he clenches his fists, knuckles whitening. He is overwhelmed yet again by this cold, bitter fury, similar with when he discovered his brother had left at night - from the window, no less, like a coward that he wasn't.

She turns around, perhaps seeking confirmation. He doesn't. Doesn't need to.  Regulus would instantly recognise this laugh, even if his ears stopped working. The way it vibrates the room, or how it is contagious and wants to make you join in. The way it changes the mood of a room, or how it brings light to everyone it touches. It will always leave, though, keep that in mind. The way his traitorous heart tightens. The way his brain ceases to function, then starts to hyper-function all at once, overwhelming Regulus with thoughts: blood-traitor, he brings the Black name to shame, coward, coward, coward - and contradicting emotions: sadness and anger, disappointment and longing for something that will never be again, a lost brother, a burnt name in a family tree. 

His cousin's voice brings him back to reality. "He could have had it all, had he not ran like a common thief at night," she whispers to his ear, her blond hair hiding them like a curtain from the rest of the world, or, perhaps, from an audience. They are on stage, after all, and both are giving a performance. 

A short nod. He already knows that. (He is dead to us, a voice muttering. Dead. You are my only son.)

"When she left - " Narcissa pauses, takes a deep breath, an unspoken name passing between them, left forgotten, unimportant, (Andromeda, the chained woman) - "I was devastated. Then, I realised it didn't matter at all, what I felt."

But, Narcissa, I know that too. 

"So - " she shoots him a glance (a mutual understanding) " - the sooner you come to terms with that, the better. Never do what's right, Regulus, and never do what's easy." She straightens her back. "Only do what's necessary."

Although Narcissa herself doesn't know it, her words will be carved into Regulus' memory for years to come. Only do what's necessary.

July, 1971

It is a hot, summer night in the Black Manor and two boys are in the garden. One is sitting on a bench, reading a huge book, his knees close to his chest. The other, lies with his back to the grass, eyes tracing the stars that decorate the black sky. 

"Regulus?" the older boy says. 

The other boy doesn't look up from the book. "What?" 

"Do you want to do something fun?"

"What gives you the impression that I want to?"

The boy grins brightly, clearly not caring about his companion's unwillingness. "You sound sooo posh, Regulus, I never realised it before." He pauses, then does a great imitation of his brother, "What gives you the impression that I want to?"

Chuckling lightly, the other boy's expression softens. "Fine - " he closes his book. "What do you want to do?"

"I knew you would agree, Reggie!"

"Call me that again and I will kill you," the boy - Reggie, apparently - sniffles, raises his chin. "It's not a threat. It's a promise."

"I know you will," the other one mutters, scowling, and folds his arms. "Merlin, you are no fun at all, are you?" 

"I suppose you prefer your friends, then?" 

At the mere mention of his friends, the boy's expression brightens once more. "Have I told you about James?"

"Let me think... About a hundred times."

The boy blinks, then throws back his head and laughs. "Regulus Arcturus Black, did you actually attempt to joke? I'm honoured to be the first to witness that."

"I did not," he says, trying and failing to suppress a small smile. 

"You did!"

"I beg to differ."

"I'm sure you do."

"Shut up, Sirius."

A stern, but beautiful woman appears at the open window. Her name is Walburga Black and, for now, she watches her children argue with a smile, before shouting, "Boys! It's getting cold outside, come back."

"Coming, mother!" They both shout back. 

Although they don't know it yet, Regulus' and Sirius' Black relationship will never be as carefree as it is at this moment. For now, however, they enjoy the rest of their summer. 

September, 1995

Sirius hesitates, before knocking the door of the study. Were he younger, he would have barged in without permission, only to annoy Regulus. Now, he knows better than to startle his brother. He may be reckless, but even he doesn't have a death wish. 

Footsteps near the door. The floor creaks. The door opens slightly and Regulus leans against it, folding his arms, eyes narrowed. "Yes?"

"What happened with this Boggart," Sirius asks bluntly, "the other day?"

If Regulus is taken by surprise, he doesn't show it. Instead, his brows furrow as if in confusion. "Boggart?" he repeats, "what Boggart?" His act - for only an act it can be - is so genuine that Sirius almost falls for it. (Lie again and again, until you become a master of it.)

He raises an eyebrow. "I know you're embarrassed, but that doesn't erase what happened yesterday." 

Regulus looks at him sharply, pursing his lips. Oh, he's really good at this, his brother that is, isn't he? How he pretends nothing happened; the way he ignores his own emotions, burying them deep inside the confines of his brain. He could be a greatactor, Sirius thinks. 

"Get to it, Sirius. I don't have all day."

"I'm referring to the Merlin-damned Inferi."

It is now that Regulus really looks confused. His lips part and his gaze grows distant and numb-like. "Inferi," he repeats, brows furrowing yet again, then nods thoughtfully, as if hypnotised, "yes, there were Inferi." He pauses, glances at Sirius warily. "But that was two decades ago. Who told you about them? Kreacher?" 

He's not wearing gloves, Sirius observes. "The old Elf didn't tell me anything, idiot," he says instead, "I'm talking about yesterday."

"There were Inferi here," Regulus rasps, voice metallic, "yesterday. All the Founders and their wands, what happened?"

Only Regulus would use this medieval expression. Honestly? 'All the Founders and their wands?' Who says that anymore? Sirius casually wonders who's gone crazy from the pair of them: is it him or Regulus? Maybe it'sboth. Whatever. It's not his sanity they're questioning right now, it's Regulus'.

"Yesterday, there was a Boggart in the drawing room. When it looked at you, it took the form of Inferi. Don't you remember?" 

Fiddling with the hem of his robe, Regulus doesn't look up. He looks in a world of his own. He looks unhinged. He looks like Bellatrix, but emo.

"Yes, yes," he says, "there were Inferi and there was also a boat and a lake and a cave and - " he shudders " - and a potion, a green potion." 

Regulus huffs, then smiles wryly at his brother; lips twitching upwards, but there is something wrong with this smile ( - itreminds Sirius of a crazed laughter and a mocking voice: winning always makes you right and 'come on, cousin Sirius, come and join us.)

"You know," Regulus adds, making a vague gesture with his hand, (something has gone terribly wrong with Regulus), "Slytherin's colour and etc."

What the ever-loving fuck.

"I know what green looks like," Sirius says numbly. This is bad, this is really bad, what the hell?

"Of course you do."

"Regulus, what do you remember from yesterday?"  

"Your band of vigilantes were celebrating Weasley and Granger becoming Prefects. It is a great responsibility; I was a Prefect."

"Where were you?"

Now, he looks genuinely confused. Trying toremember. "I ... I was upstairs, in the study. You had asked me to come down and join the celebrations, but I declined the offer. Is that it?" 

Sirius rests his head in his hands. No, you podge.

"And then?" 

"I heard a noise," Regulus says, bites his lip, "a commotion. I left the study, went to investigate further and ... "

"Yes?"

His brother folds his arms. "And nothing. I quickly found Mrs Weasley crying - whatever for, I am not aware - band returned to my room. I have been here ever since."

"You didn't sleep?"

"I found it unnecessary," Regulus states, the dark circles under his eyes saying otherwise. "And, besides, there is always work to be done."

Merlin, most people would think sleep deprivation is an issue, but you seem quite proud of yourself for it.

He knows what the boy Regulus would answer. I have many talents.

That's not a talent.

Sighing, Sirius shakes his head. "You are not replaceable, you know," he admits, looking at his feet. "Just because you fucked up as a teenager, that doesn't mean you should never get a break." He glances at his brother, who is still as a statue. "And you are not allowed to make yourself replaceable either."

Regulus laughs silently, stares at Sirius, shrugs in an un-Regulus-like fashion. "I am not allowed, am I? Will you not let me? Since when are you responsible for my well-being?" 

"Since you seem to care so little about it," Sirius fires back. Are we messing around with each other? Or are we having a serious conversation? He can never be sure - not when it comes to Regulus. Especially when it comes to Regulus. Sirius hates it.

What happened to us?

June, 1979

For many, green is the colour of life. It symbolises nature, or, perhaps its rebirth; how the flowers blossom during spring, or the way trees grow old like men with wrinkles of time and wisdom and years of experience. The orange and gold leaves during autumn and the black sky in a hot, summer night, decorated with countless of stars, ageless against the infinite universe. 

Green is the colour of Slytherin, for others. What is it, to be a Slytherin? To be ambitious, determined, ruthless. To know when to stop, to have self-preservation, to never abide by the rules. To never get caught. To rebel silently. To be human, which usually lies forgotten in the back of everyone's mind. 

For Regulus, as he stares back at his own blurred reflection in the basin, green is the colour of death.  

You see, the potion is green. A carefully conducted poison, aiming to torture, to taunt, to burn, to break. Never to kill, though. Because death would be a privilege, a kindness, a mercy to the beaten soul who drinks it. Besides, keep in mind that broken things are the most beautiful ones - that is, according to Bella. Regulus doesn't mind Bella a lot. She is deranged, but, then again, most of his family is. And he loves his family. 

He's being all sad and dramatic again, isn't he? At least, that's what would Sirius would say. But it's okay. That's okay. Who's there to witness it, anyway? Only Kreacher. Braveheart, loyal Kreacher. Mistreated, caring Kreacher. When he gets back to Grimmauld, Regulus will make Sirius treat the Elf better. 

Wrong. Firstly, Sirius is gone. Ran away like a common thief at night, as Narcissa had put it. Secondly --

Secondly, Regulus won't be getting back to Grimmauld Place any time soon. 

His throat is burning and he is unable to make out his surroundings. What's happening? Where is he? Why is he here?

"Master ordered Kreacher to make him drink, it, sir."

The voice pulls him out of the dark place his mind is. Kreacher.

Right. The potion. The locket - the Horcrux. 

He drinks and he drinks, until he can't see at all and he is lying on his left side against the hard, cold stone; eyes half-closed, left arm outstretched; the Dark Mark tainting his porcelain-white skin.

He wants to rip it apart (erase it from existence, destroy it), but he can't, because he feels so heavy and tired and his head is swimming and - sweet Merlin, the thirst!

"It's done, sir, you has drunk all of it," a voice - Kreacher's voice echoes through his head. 

It'sdone, his brain repeats. Now, what? Wait for death to come?

No. He puts the fake locket in the basin first.

(There is a letter inside, saying, To the Dark Lord - )

Now, what? his brain asks again. Wait for death to come?

( - I know I will be dead long before you read this - )

Yes. Regulus is thirsty and he barely registers Keacher slipping inside his pocket a locket - the locket - as he approaches the shore of the lake. 

( - but I wanted you to know that it was I who discovered your secret - )

Don't touch it, his mind supplies. Whatever you do, don't touch the water. 

( - I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can - )

Fuck logic. Fuck Sirius. Fuck the world. He touches the water. 

( - I face death in the hope - )

Then, there is a hand grabbing his left wrist, moving up and up and then there are two, three, four, hundreds of cold, lifeless hands grabbing him, dragging him down, down, down and he screams, but it's soundless, because his throat is burning and he can'tbreathe, because there is water in his lungs and he can't swim, because he's drowning in a sea of corpses and there is no escape. 

( - that when you meet your match - )

And someone else grabs Regulus' wrist, but it's a wrinkled, old hand and he vaguely remembers thinking, Kreacher.

Braveheart, loyal Kreacher. Mistreated, caring Kreacher.

( - you will be mortal - )

Kreacher, who Apparates them out of the Cave, is inconsolable, mumbles thousands of apologies about defyingorders from the poor Master and then, after Regulus' sharp Go back and tell no one of this, Disapparates with a loud crack that has his ears ringing.

( - once more - )

Alone now, as he always ends up, Regulus leans heavily on the hidden entrance of the Cave - the rocky, uneven surface harsh against his back but grounding, nonetheless - slides down, clutching desperately his left forearm to his chest, his other hand holding in a death-grip his wand. Then, supporting himself with the wall, he slowly rises and Apparates away in the middle of the sea, falling unconscious. 

( - R. A. B. - )

Later, a boy is washed up on a lonely, English shore.