Black flies

I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.

Oscar Wilde

September, 1979

The idea has been bothering him for a while - or perhaps he had known since the beginning. Well, that doesn't matter and anyway, Regulus struggles to remember those days. His thoughts are scattered glass on the kitchen floor: sharp and dangerous, broken, difficult to gather together; his memories are blurry: half-burnt photographs of events out of order, disorganised like a child's bedroom. He has shoved anything unpleasant under the bed and in the wardrobe; meanwhile, the rest appears neat and clean. The semblance of control is an anchor so that he may not lose even the weak grip on reality he currently has.

It is insane and yet makes perfect sense for the Dark Lord to have created multiple Horcruxes. The fact alone that Regulus can even consider this option ought to be concerning, but he forgets to be concerned about it too.

(His thoughts are scattered glass on the kitchen floor: sharp and dangerous, broken, difficult to gather together.)

Quickly, he recalls what he has come to discover about the Dark Lord. His real name: Tom Marvolo Riddle, birthed by Merope Gaunt; a mere Squib and Tom Riddle Sr; a disgusting Muggle, for Salazar's sake. Merope Gaunt. Gaunt. Where has he heard that name before? Regulus closes his eyes. Opens them; closing his eyes only results in seeing dead eyes and lifeless corpses. Concentrate. Pursing his lips, he lets his gaze wonder around.

Crazy aunt Cassiopeia's house hasn't been used for months, yet its state is not bad at all. In fact, although small, it is cosy; with a large enough library - which, of course, cannot be compared to the one at Grimmauld or the Black Manor - a simple bedroom, a living room, the kitchen and the bathroom. 

And an army of cats, of course.

He stands up, stretching his bad leg, and leaves the library behind; the cats follow him around like bodyguards. It can be overwhelming, this particular room; it may have something to do with the tapestry. A family tree still intact: no scorching marks; a date of death under the name of the last descendant. The only heir. For her own reasons, aunt Cassiopeia had not erased from existence any family members - not Sirius, not Andromeda, not uncle Alphard. Maybe it's because of her own disowned brother, Marius Black, a dead Squib. He doesn't like to think about it.

Gaunt, Gaunt. Where have I heard it before?

He enters the bedroom - his bedroom now, Regulus supposes. It's a simple one: a four-poster bed with green curtains - he'd ripped them off the first night he couldn't sleep, because they reminded him of green poison and pain. In the middle, a black cupboard; an old wooden desk full of intricate carvings and lots of drawers. He has left everything intact, not wanting to change anything aunt Cassiopeia placed. Which means that the room has everywhere moving photographs of the same child forever seven years old - that is correct, of course, as Marius Black never reached eight.

Regulus curses. The name keeps taunting him, Gaunt, Gaunt, and he can feel a headache building behind his eyes. He leaves the room shortly after that, passes the bathroom and starts descending the stairs with his leg screaming. Regulus ignores it; pain is a welcome visitor after all. It keeps him vigilant, sharp-minded, ready. In some ways, it is refreshing to feel anything at all after months of numbness. 

Gaunt. He thinks it may have been a family of the Sacred twenty-eight: direct scions of Salazar Slytherin himself.Think, think. What else? He reaches the other floor, passes the living room, heads to the kitchen. Aunt Cassiopeia had an Elf - but the poor creature must have passed not long after her Mistress.

A family of the Sacred twenty-eight; direct scions of Salazar Slytherin...

Regulus sits, takes a deep, trembling breath. He puts his head on his hands, rubbing soothing circles on his temples. Reaching out, he grabs a glass half-filled with water and barely manages to drink it; his hands are shaking so badly that most of it is spilled on the floor. 

Yes, he is sure of it now. He had come across the name when reading Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. They were an - extinct by now - family, so obsessed with blood purity that they would marry their own siblings, a line not even the Blacks would dare cross. 

A madman like the Dark Lord is predictable. Slytherin's locket had clearly been a choice made based on sentiment - he shivers, wants to throw up when regarding the Dark Lord as sentimental, of all things. What guarantees that the other Horcruxes aren't objects of value? And perhaps there is a connection with all the Founders, as well. But then, relics the Founders had possessed are mostly lost. Salazar Slytherin is known for his locket. Regulus bets that, if he's right - which he rarely isn't - the location the Dark Lord has chosen to hide his Horcruxes is also based on sentiment.

But where would that be? And how many are those cursed things, anyway? The Dark Lord probably aims for three, or, more likely, seven; the strongest magical number. Yet, there is no guarantee that he already has achieved this. He may as well as only have created two, or - Merlin forbid - five. It isn't a particularly pleasant thought, to say the least.

September, 1972 

He has Charms now, which is definitely one of his favourite lessons. Flitwick already seems to like Regulus who is quickly becoming rather popular for being a Charms prodigy - the Professor's words, not his. Potions have never been an issue to him; mother would always say that he inherited her talent for the subject, which is probably true. He certainly enjoys the dark, cold classroom, the mist conjured by the stirring concoctions. Yes, there is something undoubtedly fascinating about bottling up death and life, obsession and luck.

Of course, he gets to meet Slughorn, for whom he has heard so much about. 

The Potions Master reads out loud the students' name, stopping to comment on the most well-known ones, including Regulus himself. 

"Regulus Arcturus Black," he says, then beams brightly. "How is your mother these days, my boy?"

He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, folds his hands on his lap. "She is fine, sir, and she will appreciate your asking." We are all aware that you couldn't care less.

Slughorn blinks, surprised, and laughs. "Never presume that you know what to expect from a Black, people; they will always surprise you."

Not everyone wants to wear their heart upon their sleeve. Not everyone has the luxury to do so.

He approaches Regulus, pats him on the back, causing him to tense. "Walburga was a prolific potions maker and I can only hope you have some of her talent."

"So I've been told, Professor." Yes, I am quite competent, thank you very much. Slughorn squeezes his shoulder and goes on with the rest of the names.

McGonagall is strict, but at least not a hypocrite and Regulus can work with that. He enjoys the lesson nevertheless; the magic theory they are learning has been a part of the private curriculum he has memorised for years now. Herbology is boring; he already knows History of Magic by heart, being a pure blood and all that; Astronomy is super easy for obvious reasons and Defence Against the Dark Arts is worthless. Why do I need to know how to defend myself from myself? 

He only attempts to talk to Sirius once, who pointedly ignores him. Fine, then. Have it your own way, I don't care. (He won't speak those words out loud until he is seventeen and burning with rage.)

But he does care. And he hates himself for it.

January, 1979

New Year's celebrations at Grimmauld are never quite boring. There is something undeniably fascinating about watching the Blacks interact with their own. The masks - arched eyebrows, polite smiles, kisses on the cheeks - are never down; everything is a show, everyone has their role to play and everyone is performing their own act. If anyone can bring this family down, Regulus thinks with wonder, it's ourselves.

He watches Narcissa smile at something his mother said. She catches his eyes and shoots him an appraising look, before replying to whatever Walburga had asked her. Then, finding an excuse, she approaches Regulus, who is reading a book, sitting on an armchair, his father across him doing the very same thing.

Narcissa Malfoy neé Black is a beautiful young woman: tall - the Rosier genes must be that - and slim, with blonde hair and a sharp face. Her eyebrows are elegant, lips a white thin line, which is a common expression among the Blacks.

She perches on the arm of the armchair, leaning to see what he is reading. Regulus snatches the book shut and glares at her. He wasn't actually reading; people-watching, or watching the Blacks stare daggers at their relatives is much more entertaining.

"Dear Cissa, don't you purse your lips like that," he mocks, "it is unbecoming of a Malfoy. You are supposed to be pleasant."

Narcissa smirks, says, "I'm a Black first."

( - Toujours fucking pur, brother - )

Which is the answer he has been hoping for. Instantly, Regulus smiles at her, first hesitantly, then shyly. He isn't one for displays of affection. She understands, returns the smile with no less unease. "And you, cousin dear, shouldn't be sitting here on your own, reading. Come greet your guests, entertain them."

They stand up and Regulus offers her his arm. She laughs soundlessly, accepts and they silently parade through the drawing room: the heir to a family line he was never meant to uphold and the youngest sister promised to be married at seventeen to a boy she barely knew. (Unnoticed by their own relatives, desperately clinging to each other, because, if not Narcissa, then to whom will he cling to? and if not Regulus, then to whom will she cling to?) Their first victim is aunt Cassiopeia, who is holding close to her chest her favourite cat, Augustus.

"Auntie!" Narcissa exclaims, approaching the poor lady who has no idea what's coming, dragging Regulus by the elbow. He's reluctantly amused. "It is such a pleasure to see you after all this time."

Cassiopeia blinks, lips parting slightly. It is true that she hasn't been around for many events and gatherings, as she leaves in France and has numerous cats that she cannot bare to be separated from.

"Narcissa, my dear, is that you? How much you've grown - a proper lady now." She directs a foggy look at Regulus, squints her eyes, skin wrinkled crow's feet. "And that I assume is your lovely husband - Lucy, wasn't he?"

The two cousins exchange a meaningful glance, trying not to burst out laughing.

"No, aunt dearest, that is Regulus, my first cousin - remember? Besides, Lucius has business to attend to."

Business. So that's what they call genocide these days. He wonders if Narcissa realises it, knows she does.

( - When she left, I was devastated. Then, I realised that it didn't matter at all, what I felt - )

"Oh, yes, you are quite right," the old lady agrees. "Regulus - of course I remember you, young man, always carrying a book around just like your father. But - didn't you have - "

( - A mutual understanding: so the sooner you come to terms with that, the better - )

Don't say it don't say it -

" - a brother? Sirius, wasn't it? Like my Marius?" she continues, unaware of how Narcissa's nails dig into Regulus' arm, or how his shoulders tense at the mention of the blood-traitor.

( - a Squib brother never reaching past the age of seven, a blood-traitor brother with a bark-like laugh, a disgraced sister who fell in love with the wrong person; all of them scorching marks on a family tree, no more important than the other scum of society -

Perhaps Regulus, Narcissa and Cassiopeia are more similar than they realise.)

Narcissa opens her mouth to answer, but Regulus beats her to it. "I'm an only child, aunt Cassiopeia, always have been."

They leave shortly after that and his cousin shoots him a concerned look. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He chuckles and it's bitter and weary and cold. "Since when does anyone in this family talk about anything at all?" It's not an accusation, really. It just feels like one. Seeing Narcissa's continuingly troubled look, Regulus takes a deep breath. "Besides, there is nothing to talk about in the first place, isn't that right, cousin dearest?"

She quirks an eyebrow, but lets it go. Some things are better left unsaid.

November, 1975

It was inevitable in the end and he knows it. Regulus has managed to avoid his former brother for three whole months, which is an achievement, as Sirius is a loud person, difficult to ignore or miss. The truth is, he is furious with the blood-traitor. There is a newfound, chilling anger inside him, which has been building up for years (he is nine and Sirius won't answer to any of Regulus' letters) and years (eleven and his brother turns around, clearly annoyed, What is it and Don't you see I'm busy? and Please leave already) and years

( - Eleven and Potter is throwing an arm around Sirius' shoulders and Sirius is laughing; a bark-like laugh that fills Regulus with resentment - )

and

( - Maybe I will - )

years. 

Sirius confronts him in an empty corridor anyway; just the two of them, no one to bare witness at the lovely reunion which follows. 

It is anything but lovely. 

Regulus is walking - chin and nose turned upwards, lips pursed, posture stone-rigid: the Black heir he was never meant to be - when it happens. It being Sirius: a disaster of his own kind (a former brother, the brightest star, a commet which passes and destroys everything whithin its reach), who appears from thin air. It should have been concerning, but, somehow, it is not. He can't bring himself to care. 

"Regulus," Sirius hisses, putting hastily into his backpack something Regulus doesn't care enough to know about.

He doesn't stop, doesn't spare a single glance at the person (a brother, a companion, an ally, a best friend - traitor, traitor, traitor) beside him. Regulus is a boy made of ice, not snow, because snow can melt, can understand. Instead, he is sharp and dangerous and chilling in every way a fifteen-year old shouldn't be, but is anyway.

"Wait!" 

The end of the corridor is drawing nearer. He thinks he can feel his magical core (screaming: turn around, don't run away, go back to him, go back, go back) desperately reaching for its counterpart, but it might be his imagination. (It is his imagination, he will later say to himself.) His former brother's footsteps echo heavily through the empty corridor - always so different from Regulus' cat-like ones, always so different from Regulus - and yet so similar. 

And then someone grabs his arm and he turns around, wand in hand, points it directly at Sirius' throat where his pulse is throbbing, hand never shaking at all because he thinks he could do it and there must be something wrong with him ( - something has gone terribly wrong with Regulus and it's a feeling Sirius will never be quite able to escape - ) and everything is happening too fast.

Deep breaths. 

Inhale. Exhale. 

Control yourself, Regulus. You are not a child anymore. 

(The thing is, he has never been a child at all.)

He is aware how completely insane he must look; hair dishevelled, the slightly deranged but still bone-chilling look in his wide eyes. Black is the epitome of his - their souls. 

The boy, Sirius standing infront of him, stares at Regulus: eyes round as plates, surprised. (Do you think I wouldn't do it? he wants to ask him. Do you think I wouldn't go that far?) They have never looked more alike; they have never looked more different; they have never been more different; will never be more different than now. Sirius fumbles to lower the wand trained at his neck, but it only serves to infuriate him more.

"Touch me again and I will kill you," Regulus hisses, pressing the wand more like it's a dagger and it's -

(twelve and ten and Sirius says, I knew you would agree, Reggie! and Regulus says, Call me that again and I will kill you, but it's not the same and nor will it ever be )

- not a threat, because he could do it - has the power and the fury required for the Killing Curse - and the knowledge should be terrifying but isn't and he is not surprised. And it's because it's not a threat and it's not a surprise that he starts walking again, gripping his wand tightly, knuckles whitening, robes brushing his shoes with long strides that unfortunately Sirius manages to match. Damn being short. Damn Sirius for being taller. Damn Sirius for looking down at everything he does, even though he knows nothing about it.

"Just - " Sirius gestures helplessly and Regulus waits, watches - "just listen to me for a moment, won't you? And then I will leave you alone - that's what you've always wanted."

"Don't even attempt to assume that you know anything at all about who I am or what I want. You don't."

"Fine! Great - Merlin's fucking beard! Now, stop for a bloody second or I'll be bothering you all day," which is a truly pathetic threat for a Black. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Control yourself. Regulus will not have his former brother think he is upset of all things.

"What. Do. You. Want."

Sirius blinks, mouth hanging open for a second; he is obviously surprised that Regulus actually listened to him. He should be; it's not a common occurrence. (That is, at its core, a lie. He has always listened to Sirius.) "I know I left without a word and I should have asked you to come with me." He pauses. "You can still come - I can still help."

Help. He can still help.

The audacity of the blood-traitor. How dare he? How dare he imply that Regulus would even want to follow his steps: betray his family and all the principles that he has been taught, everything he and the House stand for? Sirius' words leave him feeling strangely numb and cold.

"There is an obvious problem here that you haven't detected," he says.

"Which is?" There is fear and weariness in Sirius' voice - perhaps fear of rejection. Oh how the mighty have fallen. Yet, bitter are the wars between brothers.

Not brothers. Not anymore. Not ever again.

Regulus lets his lip curl in distaste. "You assume I need your help. You think you are oh so noble, so generous, but in reality, you are a self-righteous bully with a saviour complex, parading around the castle with scum you call friends as if you own the place." He inhales sharply and continues, because he has been suffocating for so long and he never seems to reach the shore, "So I don't need you to save me and the small and pitiful amount of interest in my own life that you have showed these past few years only leads me to the certain and undeniable conclusion that you would be the last person on Earth that I would ever have the misfortune of asking for help of any kind at all!"

His throat feels hoarse and only then does Regulus realise he has raised his voice. Well, not raised because he never shouts, but, still. All the hissing hurts his vocal cords. 

The silence is deafening and he enjoys every second of it. How Sirius has the nerve to look offended, betrayed even - he who ran away in the middle of the night of all people. How his eyes are widened and his lips part in surprise. 

"I - I didn't know you felt this way," he murmurs finally, staring at Regulus as if seeing him under a new light. 

I have always been like that, brother. You just never noticed.

"Of course you didn't know," Regulus sneers. He looks away bitterly and hates himself for it. "Since when have you ever considered anyone else besides your own self-interest and satisfaction? Never. No, Regulus is a brick-wall, he will not be hurt by my actions, why would he be?"

"You are hurt? Like, emotionally speaking?"

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, or do something as childish as scream and pull his hair, Regulus bites the inside of his cheek. "Haven't you heard a word of what I said? Of course you haven't. I am no longer hurt by your actions and your obvious inability to stay loyal to your very own family. You have found your dream-family. But, see - "

( - Eleven and Don't you see I'm busy? Please leave already, Regulus, and he does leave, will leave and won't look back, won't regret a thing, because, after all, why would he - )

- he hears footsteps which he recognises and registers his mind thinking, Evan, finally -

" - so have I," he finishes and Evan is beside him. "I may have wanted for your attention, but not anymore. In fact, not for a long time."

Evan is by his side now: blue, narrowed eyes that glare daggers at Sirius, as he throws a hand around Regulus' shoulders in a protective way and asks carefully, "Everything all right here?"

"Yes, Evan," Regulus says emotionlessly, grey eyes never leaving his brother, "we are leaving now."

He turns his back to Sirius and it somehow feels like the last time, until -

"When you come begging to my doorstep on your fucking knees, I'm not gonna help you, Regulus," Sirius shouts from behind with anger. A warning? Perhaps a desperate and misguided attempt at reconciliation. There can be no reconciliation. Good.

He doesn't turn around, doesn't look at him, shoulders tense as he responds, "When I cut bridges, Sirius, I don't just destroy them. I burn them to the ground, so that I am never tempted to cross them again. See, I would rather drown, than beg for your help. After all, Blacks answer to no one."

A sigh. "Toujours fucking pur, eh?" 

"Toujourspur, traitor."

And this time, it's Regulus who walks away, never to be the same again. Evan glances at him, says the same thing he told Regulus years (a lifetime) ago, "He doesn't deserve your time."

And Evan is right, Regulus thinks for the first time, he doesn't. 

November, 1995

It's almost morning but not quite yet, when Sirius finds his brother sitting in the kitchen. A gloveless Regulus is staring at a half filled glass of water as if it holds all the secrets and the answers of the world. Perhaps for him it does. And maybe it's because he's a bit drunk, or maybe he's just lonely, that Sirius joins him. Great. Now they are both staring at a glass of water. He wonders if that's what other families do for bonding. He highly doubts it, but then again, who knows? People are strange. Regulus certainly is. 

"Are you having a staring contest with a glass of water?" 

His brother blinks after something that feels like an eternity, then slowly turns to look at Sirius. "Why on Earth would I do that?"

Sirius shrugs. "You tell me."

A sigh. "You are drunk."

"Only a little," which is true; he's not drunk enough to start bubbling dragonshit, Sirius is just a bit tipsy. Only a bit. 

Regulus sighs again, rubs circles at his temples. He does that quite a lot, Sirius has noticed; it's almost as if he always has a headache. 

"Go to bed," Regulus says sharply but quietly.

"Are you going to bed?" he returns, arching an eyebrow and grinning. He doesn't know why he's grinning.

"I doubt it's escaped your notice, but I don't exactly have a regular sleeping schedule."

"Join the sleep-deprived team, then - if you want to talk about it, you can always come to me or whatever they say for this kind of thing."

Regulus chooses to not dignify him with a verbal answer, instead letting his eyes wonder around the room. Grimmauld Place Number 12 is certainly a grim, old place, which Sirius thinks is both completely ironic and hilarious. Dark and long corridors, windows always closed: never letting the light in, portraits of long deceased relatives in every corner and whispering disdainfully, looking down at everyone who passes. It's a house full of living-dead ghosts and echoes of the past: with memories of two children growing up to become teenagers who will spit hate to each other, the adults now sitting in the kitchen in silence.

"You are sappy, Sirius. It's concerning and concerning me does not happen on a regular basis."

Shit. He said all that stuff out loud? Maybe he's more drunk than he thought.

He beams. Never mind propriety or etiquette. If Sirius doesn't say what he's got in mind, he will explode. It's always been this way. 

"Listen," he begins, shifts on the chair, "listen to me for a bit."

"Last time you said that, you ended up with a wand to your throat. Do you want a reenactment? I would gladly curse you to next week, you know that."

"Rude. Anyway - " he suddenly sobers up and doesn't like it - "a part of me begged for hatred to taint my memories of your stupid face and yet, another part still loved - loves you, moron. It's confusing. Stop it."

Regulus' back straightens. "With your positive attitude, I would have thought otherwise." He sighs and his eyes look less empty and more tired. "We are not doing this now. It's too early in the morning and you are drunk." He stands up and straightens his robes.

"You can't avoid this forever!" Sirius yells after him, lipping out of the chair.

"Until now that's worked in my favour."

"Don't be so proud about that, it just means you're a bloody coward," he hisses, grabbing his brother's left forearm and exposing Regulus' skin, not even looking at it because already he knows it's there. No, instead, he looks at Regulus in the eyes, who stares right back at him and has gone pale.

"Look down, Sirius," Regulus urges him in a confidential whisper that reminds him so much of Bella and of come on, cousin Sirius, come and join us.

He does and sees the Dark Mark but it's terribly wrong ( - something has gone terribly wrong with Regulus and it's a feeling Sirius has never been quite able to escape - ) and twisted and the flesh is mangled and the skin is scarred almost beyond recognition and -

Sirius lets go of his brother's arm. 

Bile rises to his throat but he swallows it, because throwing up will only worsen things and he doesn't want to offend Regulus.

What the fuck. What the ever-loving fuck.

"Did you do that to yourself?" 

"In a way." Regulus' lip quirks. "My defecting the Death Eaters was not a particularly clearly cut case, remember? It was what you would call more of a sly escape and altogether a rather unpleasant experience, however successful." He fixes the hem of his sleeve and returns to his seat; Sirius copies him.

"Tell me about it?" 

Regulus glances at him curiously, thousand of emotions passing from his expression in a flash - a magician's trick: there and gone, leaving Sirius to wonder wether he'd imagined it. Then -

"A Horcrux," Regulus starts lifelessly, as if reciting from a book, "is an object which contains one's fragment of the soul, in order to achieve immortality. To split the soul, one is required to commit the supreme act of evil: murder."

The clock is ticking and the rising of the morning sun bathes them both in sunlight. Gold dust floats in the air and suddenly, Sirius is a child again and believes in miracles. It occurs to him, right then, that Regulus hasn't spoken about this for over two decades. Although he thinks he should feel honoured, he doesn't. He knows that his brother is trying to distract him from the real horror of what happened all those years ago. 

There were Inferi and there was also a boat and a lake and a cave and and a potion, a green potion, Regulus had said, hugging himself, shuddering at the mere thought of this memory. But what had it meant? 

"Why are you telling me this?" he asks instead.

"I suppose that should I die, someone has to know. Don't flatter yourself; it actually has nothing to do with your less than charming personality."

Sirius has missed this; Regulus' dry humour and posh manners. How he quirks his lip, when talking. The famous death-glare, or the smirk across Regulus' face. The way he manages to avoid serious issues - no pun intended - by throwing around information that cannot be ignored.

No, actually, he has not missed that last one at all. That little, sly, sneaky snake...

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

Regulus blinks. "I have not the faintest idea what are you talking about."

Merlin.

"Anyway, who wants to live forever? And who in their right mind would create something that vile?"

His brother stares at him. Sirius stares at his brother. Regulus stares at him. Sirius stares at Regulus. 

Regulus sighs, probably regretting his life-choices. Which, well, he should.

"Although I could do this all day, we have more urgent matters up for discussion. Think, Sirius, think of what you have just said. Who in their right mind would create something so vile?"

"Oh," Sirius murmurs, almost to himself. He did that a lot, back then in Azkaban. Maybe they are both unstable.

"Oh indeed, brother," Regulus agrees, nodding. Brother. "I guess that you understand the severity of the situation we are facing."

The reality of it has yet to hit Sirius. His mind is numb and his brain must be floating in the skies. He runs a hand through his hair, but it gets stuck in the process. He should probably ask Remus to cut it for him, the next time they meet, Sirius thinks. 

"So, Voldemort has made a Horcrux?" he asks carefully, "to achieve immortality? That's not fair, that's bloody cheating."

"A Horcrux? You are under the impression that the Dark Lord would stop at one Horcrux? No, why would he?"

"Why wouldn't he?" 

"You have to understand the process of the Dark Lord's thoughts," his brother says impatiently, "he is a megalomaniac and narcissistic at that. The Dark Lord wishes to achieve something never accomplished before in known history. Therefore, he must have created more Horcruxes, probably seven, which is the strongest magical number."

This is sensible, of course it is, but -

"How can you guarantee that? How can you guarantee that it isn't three Horcruxes, or - I don't know - four, maybe? Surely you don't claim to know Voldemort that well?" Sirius shoots back. For all his talking of Voldmort's arrogance, Regulus tends to be self-assured too.

"Because it may seem impossible to you, but I have already destroyed four. Four Horcruxes, and yet, even after that, a lovely summer evening, the Dark Mark burns again, summoning the Death Eaters after almost two decades of inactivity. So, I return to England, only to find my bloody brother in the house he'd sworn never to set foot in again."

Sirius flinches, trying not to show how it hurts to hear that. "Does it bother you so much? My presence?" There is a knot to his throat, threatening to tighten even more, until he can't breathe. Yes, old Kreacher owes his life to poor Master, poor Master almost drowned, he remembers Kreacher saying. What had that meant? Had it meant the suffocating feeling he's experiencing now? Sirius will never know.

"I never said that! How you manage to twist the meaning of my own words against me will never cease to surprise me." He purses his lips in displeasure. "Your presence isn't a nuisance, Sirius, it is just an unexpected but not unwelcome turn of events. That's all."

Your presence is just an unexpected but not unwelcome turn of events. Sirius tries not to dwell on this phrase and the meaning behind it.

"So you have destroyed four Horcruxes. That means, if you are right, three more to go?"

"Not exactly. You see, it's seven pieces of the soul; six objects and the remaining one in the Dark Lord's body."

"Which means that only two remain, without Voldemort himself."

"Precisely."

"What were the objects?"

A strange thing passes from Regulus' expression, undecipherable. He stands up and beckons to Sirius to follow him. "Walk with me." Regulus starts to climb the stairs, limping heavy. Sirius doesn't dare to offer help. They reach the upper floor and Regulus leads them to the door of his bedroom. A room Sirius had not dared enter in the first day of his return to Grimmauld, half afraid to disturb and confront the ghosts and memories of a long gone childhood, afraid he would find it empty, and afraid it would be the same as he remembered: Regulus sitting on the bed with a book heavier than his head, everything neat and in order. More afraid of seeing a notebook left open on the desk, or an empty glass of water waiting to be drunk, or a half-finished letter explaining everything he could never understand. Except that Regulus wouldn't have been there.

"Do not enter without the express permission of Regulus Arcturus Black," Sirius reads out loud, half-smiling, swallowing his emotions: every single one. "That never stopped me, did it?"

"It did not." 

His hand lingers on the doorknob even as he shuts the door behind them. Nothing is so sad, in my opinion, as the devastation wrought by age. A quote Remus had loved repeating all the time, though Sirius has no clue who said it first. Perhaps Regulus knows - still, it suits the occasion, he thinks. Regulus' room is full of dust; it looks like it hasn't been inhabited for decades. The only neat furniture is the library. A collage of newspapers depicting the rise of Voldemort decorates one wall. His brother looks at it with a curl on his lips, then points his wand at it silently and the collage morphs into small birds that explode into thousands of pieces. 

"Impressive magic," Sirius comments.

"Thank you."

"Haven't you been sleeping here?" 

"I have acquired the habit of falling asleep at the most uncommon places." Regulus opens a drawer of his desk, then closes it, muttering to himself, "Not here. Wait a minute, please. Ah, there it is." He takes a bag from the drawer and closes it. He empties the contains of the bag to his desk and gestures to his brother to come closer. 

Sirius approaches the desk reluctantly and stares at the broken objects. "Are those - ?"

Nodding, Regulus holds between his thumb and mid-finger the remains of a ring. "Marvolo Gaunt's Ring, hidden in a shack located outside of the Muggle village Little Hangleton." He passes it to Sirius, who looks at it with distaste.

"There was a piece of Voldemort's soul in that? Bleugh."

Regulus picks up another object. "This one is Tom Riddle's diary, which came into my possession after breaking into Narcissa's house."

"He put a part of his soul in a diary?" Sirius exclaims, as he takes the small book in his hands. You broke into Narcissa's house? he doesn't say.

"I suppose it was one of his first Horcruxes," Regulus answers, almost shrugging but not, "so it didn't matter whether it was an item of worth or not. He intended to create more, after all."

It is strange, how his brother seems to understand Voldemort's process of thought and actions. Strange and macabre. Regulus wouldn't appreciate the comparison, so he doesn't comment on it.

"What about this one?" 

"It belonged to Hepzibah Smith, a descendant of Helga Hufflepuff herself. I stole it from Bella's Gringotts vault." 

What in Merlin's beard has his brother been up to all these years? Breaking in the Malfoy Manor, stealing from Bellatrix, destroying four fucking Horcruxes on his own... If Sirius didn't know better, he would think he was proud. 

"You said four Horcruxes," he notes, looking up from the objects. 

"I did." His hands travel to his neck and he takes off a black, broken locket with a calligraphic 'S' in its centre. Holding it from above, he presents it to Sirius from a distance. 

He makes a move to take it, but Regulus pulls away sharply. "Not this one," he says, "this one is significant."

Significant. The word echoes to his mind.

"In what way?" he asks.

His brother breathes in, eyes locked into some distant memory. "This locket was Slytherin's. The first Horcrux that I came to possess. The hardest to steal and - " he pauses, purses his lips.

"And?" Sirius urges, frowning. 

There it is again. It keeps making its appearance into his brother's eyes no matter what: the dark and broken shadow Sirius firstly noticed two months ago.

"The one I almost died for." An admission filled with shame and disgust. So unlike cold and calculating Regulus. Confident and bitter and sarcastic Regulus.

Braveheart, broken Regulus, he thinks out of a sudden and quickly dismisses the thought. His brother would never want sympathy. What Sirius identifies as humanity, Regulus views as weakness.

"When you defected." It's more of a statement.

Regulus nods anyway. "I was seventeen, foolish, reckless - and my mental state was questionable, I guess. You know the tale and I know better now."

And, perhaps, this is the closest Sirius will get Regulus to admit his feelings. He treasures the moment, wants to preserve it into eternity, to always remember. There is pride - pride for Regulus - and there is sadness for the brotherhood they missed out and the years they lost. 

July, 1975

The house is silent. 

Silent, long corridors twist inside Grimmauld Place, like a dark labyrinth threatening to trap its victims like a spider's net. No muffled conversations are to be heard behind the firmly locked doors, doors that creak when opened - and there's a door that hides from behind the room of a lost scion (a traitor) of a family which has inhabited the place for centuries. Tightly closed windows allow only forgotten sunlight to pass through the crevices and creep into the house. 

Two boys: one whose name is despised and spat like a curse; a bark-like laugh, leather jackets, eyes gleaming; a scorching mark on a family tree, as if that can erase the boy's existence. It cannot. The other, pale and slim, short, dark-haired and grey-eyed; eyes that stare back at a world that has wronged him again and again, that has shaped him to who he has become now. 

Regulus. The heart of the lion, cor leonis. The little king. 

Sirius. The brightest star in the Canis Major constellation. The dog-star.

Blacks. The mere mention of their name can make the bravest of men shiver. Black, the epitome of their souls. 

The house is silent. 

It is almost ominous, he thinks, the silence that has fallen upon Grimmauld Place. A warning - perhaps, a voice whispering: something is about to happen. He gets up from the bed and leaves his room quietly, closing the door with care so that he doesn't stir up the ghosts that call themselves his parents. He walks through the dark corridors soundlessly, because maybe he is a ghost himself that haunts this house. 

Reaching the down floor, pausing outside the drawing room. The door open, hesitantly entering without knocking. The centuries old tapestry decorates proudly the wall and his mother is standing in front of it, her hands clasped behind her back. He can't see her face. 

"My son," she says. She's sensed his presence. "Come and stand beside me."

He does just that, mimicking her posture, tries not to glance at her. He wants to decipher his mother's expression, but he can only see her profile. A pointed chin, burning eyes, long eyelashes, high cheekbones, pale skin. Walburga Black is certainly a beautiful woman - all the Blacks are handsome, after all. He thinks she reminds him of Sirius.

Quickly, he buries that thought, locks it in a chest, throws the key away. It's forgotten, now. Unimportant. Unrecorded. 

"Family is everything, Regulus," she abruptly says, eyes locked in the wall, "never forget that."

What to answer? There is nothing to say. He remains silent. Words have not been invented for such an occasion. How to help a mother mourn an alive son? Can you mourn the living? And, if you can, how? 

In a blink, she has drawn her wand and pressed it to the spot where Sirius' face was only seconds ago. It starts burning and produces smoke. Regulus doesn't avert his eyes, doesn't step back. He needs to watch. He needs to throw up. Needs to...

He doesn't know what he needs. It's never mattered.

Walburga is mumbling to herself. "He is dead to us. Dead. You are my only son." 

He already knows that. "I will not disappoint you." His voice is raspy. He hasn't talked to anyone this week besides Kreacher. 

Sharply turning to look at him, he finally gets a look at his mother's expression. She is smiling half-heartedly, fire reflecting in her eyes. She has never looked more like Sirius. She has never been more different. 

"I know, darling," Walburga Black says, lips turning upwards but in a sad way. "You never have."

August, 1978

Sirius feels on edge. 

The Death Eaters have been weirdly inactive this past month and it's making him itch for a fight, a sign of life. They have received intelligence from a most reliable source, as Dumbledore put it, so the Order has gathered once again around the table of their safe-house to plan the next attack. It is rumoured that Voldemort and co are going to raid a muggle village this afternoon, as Moody has already debriefed them. Now, they are settling between them which Order member will handle which Death Eater, from the known ones, at least. Damn their bloody masks. 

"Potter," Moody rasps, "you will take Avery, understood?"

James sits straighter and nods, his expression unusually solemn, Lily squeezing his hand. 

"Now - " Moody scans the room carefully  - "Evans, you engage Wilkes; Longbottom - both Alice and Frank - you will handle Lestrange; she's a force to be reckoned with, that mad woman."

Sirius stiffens at the mention of his deranged cousin. He can never escape his family, can he? "I can take Bellatrix," he says. He can. They had the same teacher, after all: Orion Black. He ignores the look Remus shoots at his direction. 

"This is not a negotiation, Black. You will engage both Crabbe and Goyle; they are morons, and if you get the chance, we wouldn't mind Lucius Malfoy either."

He curses through his teeth and folds his arms. "Fine." 

"You, Lupin," the Auror continues, nodding at Remus. Moody shoots him a calculating glance, seizing Remus up, and decides, "You will handle Black - be careful, he's young, but they say he's one of their upcoming fighters." 

"Black?" Sirius repeats, knitting his eyebrows. "Which one are you referring to?" 

The whole room goes horribly quiet and he can hear the clock ticking. Maybe it's his imagination, but suddenly, Sirius feels cold. He shivers and pointedly ignores James, who is nudging him under the table. 

"Regulus Black," Dumbledore replies quietly instead from the farther side of the table, bowing his head. He hasn't spoken for almost the whole meeting, which is unusual for the Headmaster. 

Sirius feels his heart clench and the knot in his throat tighten. "Is it confirmed then? He is one of them?"

"Although there is no clear evidence pointing towards the young man, it is naïve to think Mr Black hasn't joined the war effort."

He abruptly stands up, pushing the chair from the table. It makes a scraping noise. Someone flinches. "He's - what? Sixteen? Let me handle Regulus! I can beat him anytime!"

A hand touches his arm. Remus. "Sit down, Padfoot."

"Absolutely not!" James explodes at the same time. "Professor Dumbledore - you can't allow this to happen."

"Rest assured, James," Dumbledore says, "Sirius will not confront Mr Black, he isn't objective enough to."

"I am very objective, thank you very much," Sirius hisses. "I grew up with Regulus, I know how he fights; our father trained us together, for Merlin's sake."

"And I went to school with him for six bloody years, Sirius," Remus says flushing angrily, "so stop trying to protect me or whatever and teach me how to fight him!" 

Now, Moody leans forward eagerly and with interest. "Go on, Black," he drawls, "tell us about his technique."

He is painfully aware of everyone's gaze on him. He swallows and arches an eyebrow. "Well," he begins, "Regulus is quiet and has a great poker face. He doesn't favour any of his feet and his moves are precise, graceful - just imagine a dancer in a swordfight." This feels like a betrayal. It feels wrong, telling all those Order members about his brother as if he's just an enemy and not a childhood companion. He continues, throat dry, "he is great with non-verbals and a natural at Occlumency - although I don't know if he has mastered Legilimency, so be careful with your thoughts."

What else, what else? Think, think, think...

"And he's not very talkative during a fight either." Sirius looks around to see everyone gaping at him. Did he do something wrong?

"Well done, Sirius," Dumbledore says, inclining his head towards him. The praise only leaves a bitter, sour taste to his mouth. "Well done."

Remus squeezes his thigh and shoots him a half-hearted smile. 

"Promise you will be careful," Sirius whispers to his ear and suddenly, they are the only people in the room and all that matters is Moony. Be safe. Please, come back to me. Come back to me. 

"I promise," he murmurs back, smiling shyly and Sirius thinks he would die to earn that smile again. 

Hours later, the sun has set and the blue has began to fade as well; stars slowly making their appearance into the night sky. The raid was stopped with a low number of casualties. Only fifteen Muggles were killed and seven injured. On their side: two Order members dead and seven wounded. 

Oh, Sirius forgot. Remus is still missing. 

Which shouldn't be concerning, really. Maybe it's Sirius who's making a fuss. Besides, it's not unusual for Order members to linger an hour or two in a pub after a Death Eater attack. But it's also not unusual for Order members to disappear and for later their dead bodies to turn up smashed in bits and pieces. 

Oh god.

He sits down for a minute, stands up and starts pacing, then takes a sit again. Sirius' heart is racing and it has nothing to do with the adrenaline from his fight with Lucius. No, this is a different kind of anticipation, mixed with fear and the morbid feeling he can't get rid of. What if what if what if -

The distinctive crack of Apparation is heard outside the safe-house and he is immediately on his feet and running towards the garden. A tall man is standing there all alone and it's Moony, his Moony - orsomeone who looks like Remus, a voice reminds him. It sounds like Moody. It sounds like Regulus. Sirius pauses and leans against the door, knee bent, wand in his pocket. "When we kissed for the first time, what did I do?" he asks the first question that comes to his mind. 

The man - Remus - smiles faintly and replies, "You turned into Padfoot and denied being gay for three weeks. My turn now; what did you name your motorbike?"

Sirius snorts. "Dora, after my cousin's daughter with the atrocious name 'Nymphadora.' Honestly, who names their child like that?"

They laugh and then Sirius is hugging him tightly, burying his head into Remus' shoulder and clutching at him. "Never do this to me again," he whispers, a bubbling desperation in his chest. 

He takes a step back and squeezes his arms, scanning Remus for injuries. There is a cut that starts from his cheekbone and ends at his jaw, but, otherwise, Remus seems fine. Sirius reaches out to trace it and his face hardens.

"Did my brother do this?" 

"Yes, he did," Remus admits as they enter the safe-house again to slump on the couch. Rage is quickly making its way to Sirius' heart. James says he has anger issues. Sirius likes to say he just has issues. 

"I will kill him." He's said it before.

"No, you won't," Remus says, looking sharply at Sirius. "He's good, Pads, your brother is really good and bloody quick - you can't win him in a fight and neither can I. They are saying that he's rapidly rising into Voldemort's ranks and, if he continues at this rate, Regulus will be considered inner circle in no time. You are not confronting him." 

"But - "

"No, Sirius."

"Remus - "

"No."

He closes his eyes, lets his head fall back on a pillow. "Did he give you a lot of trouble?"

Remus shakes his head. "Not really, no," he answers, eyebrows furrowed. "I think he was just toying with me, not actually fighting - Merlin damn it, he wasn't even putting effort in the fight and he's sixteen!"

Deep breaths. Lily told him to try this exercise, whenever he was feeling particularly angry. He runs a hand through his hair. "My father begun to train us for battle ever since we were old enough to hold a wand," says numbly. "I was six years old? Regulus was four. He has been preparing for war for twelve bloody years, Moons, of course he is a prodigy."

He remembers training with his father. Orion Black was a strict instructor, but a good one nonetheless. Probably still is, as Sirius doubts Regulus has stopped training with him. But, no. Hadn't he heard that his father was sick? He couldn't still continue as his brother's instructor. Bellatrix has must have taken over Regulus' training. It would explain Regulus' quick rise to the ranks. Sirius winces at the thought; Bella has never been one to tolerate anything less than perfection, just like his mother. However, unlike Walburga who wasn't violent, Bella has no restrains and would certainly curse his brother into oblivion for one mistake. 

But you don't care, do you? a cruel voice asks. He's nothing to you. 

A brother and an ally, he thinks, a friend, a companion...

He pauses and reminds himself, a Death Eater. Because, no, Regulus is nothing to him. And he is nothing to Regulus either. 

February, 1971

Regulus is more lonely than usual.

Standing in front of the grand piano, he lets his slender fingers touch the white keys, head tilted to one side. Mother says he should practice less, spend more time doing other things, go out a little, have fun. Have fun? Had he been raised differently, Regulus would have snorted. Now that he is alone in the room, he rolls his eyes. Have fun with whom? Mother is always out with her friends for tea, father is locked up in the study all day and his cousins are at Hogwarts. With his brother. 

He doesn't like to think about Sirius. The mind healer mother had hired for a particularly difficult night had said it would make Regulus sadder. He doesn't want to be sad and he doesn't need a mind healer either. Generally speaking, Regulus is fine. If Sirius won't send him any letters, that's fine. Regulus doesn't care. Just because his brother didn't come home for the holidays, Regulus shouldn't make himself miserable. 

This is ridiculous. He is not miserable and he doesn't care about Sirius. 

Regulus sits on the bench and lets his fingers dance on the keys and play on their own accord. It helps him clear his mind from thoughts like he will leave one day, I know he will and fine, if you don't care I don't care either. 

Music fills the room and travels around the silent house. He is playing Gnossienne, No. 1, by Erik Satie. It's a favourite piece of his and he loves Satie. Childishly, he wonders whether his father has stopped working to listen, quickly dismisses the thought. What's wrong with him these days? He is too sentimental; perhaps he's going soft. Maybe he should see that healer again. 

Continuing to play, he scoffs at that last one. If he can't fix himself, no one can.

He doesn't think about when he and Sirius would play together and their family would come and watch. It's easier this way. If Regulus can resent his brother, he can't also love him, right? Love makes everything complicated. It is dangerous and it clouds your judgement. 

January, 1979

He visits the Hogwarts archives. All the students are enrolled here, but, when Regulus doesn't know what he is looking for, how can he recognise a name? This is fruitless; a waste of time. Then a name catches his attention. Marvolo Gaunt. 

He knows the Gaunts, of course. A part of the sacred twenty-eight; a family so inbred that had gone crazy and, eventually, extinct. They had claimed to be direct descendants of Slytherin and perhaps they had been. It was likely that one of their sons or daughters had run away with a mudblood or - Salazar forbid - a muggle. This could explain the Dark Lord's possession of the locket. 

Sighing, he closes the book softly and leaves the room, heading back to the Slytherin common room. His mind is preoccupied with thoughts of betrayal and blood purity and everything he was taught to stand for. He sits on his bed and runs a hand through his hair pursing his lips. He isn't a blood-traitor; has his family's best interests in heart. The Dark Lord doesn't care about preserving their bloodline and centuries' old traditions. 

Regulus opens his copy of Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy and searches the names. Gaunt. There it is. He moves to the right page and finds the last descendants of the family. Marvolo Gaunt, father to Morphin and Merope Gaunt; all of them probably deceased by now. 

No, actually -

There is no date of death under the girl's name. It's her, he realises with a jolt, Merope Gaunt must have been the Dark Lord's mother. 

The ghost of a smile paints his lips. 

"Regulus?" Barty's sleepy voice startles him and he barely suppresses a wince. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Just some light reading, nothing to worry yourself about - go back to sleep."

He can practically hear Barty roll his eyes. "You get back to sleep, nerd."

"What the fuck is going on?" 

They both jump at Evan's voice but Regulus quickly composes himself. "Who taught Evan the f word?" he questions sharply, looking at Barty and raising an eyebrow. "Stop swearing like sailors, it's inappropriate."

Evan groans. "Who taught Regulus to talk like a posh jerk?" 

"A great number of well paid tutors that mother kept hiring and firing."

"Who let Black think he's funny?" 

He arches another eyebrow. "Truly hilarious, Bartemius, thank you for sharing your thoughts."

Evan shoots both of them a glare, supporting himself on his elbows. "Having a sleepover without me? I'm wounded."

"We are absolutely not having a sleepover, exams are approaching - "

"It's January, swot."

"Your point being?" 

"His point being get a life,man, but in Stupid."

"Well, I am terribly sorry," Regulus says, "but, I am not native in Stupid. I speak English, French, Italian and German, thank you very much."

"German is a shitty language," Evan says sleepily, examining his nails.

"And you have a shitty personality, but we don't hold it against you."

"You have managed to hurt my feelings, cousin Regulus!" Evan whispers, bringing his hand to his heart. 

"Don't be stupid, dear, you aren't accustomed with the concept of feelings."

"Barty, my true love, that's Regulus you are describing."

"Shut up, both."

"So he can talk!"

"And he can also murder for free and get away with it, so go back to sleep."

"Ugh, fine."

He stares at the canopy of his bed, thinking. His friends are not good people, that he is well aware of, yet how can he leave them in the dark? They should know about the Dark Lord and his insane plans of immortality. He has seen Evan slice a man's throat without batting an eye. Ha witnessed Barty torture a woman into insanity. And for what?

Sighing, he turns to his side, cheek pressed against the soft mattress. Barty and Evan have worshipped the Dark Lord for years with him. Regulus cannot risk exposing his change of mind. He will not be branded a blood-traitor, because he is not, unlike -

Unlike Sirius. 

July, 1974

It is the hottest day of summer so far in the Black Manor. The nature of the countryside is completely silent, besides some birds' singing and the long grass is barely dancing along with the almost non-existent wind. It is evening; the kind of evening that no one should be outside to sweat, the sun has yet to set and there is blue sky as far as the eye can see. 

Two boys lie on their backs beside each other; two black and white dots among the endless green sea. The older one has a burning cigarette between his lips, long, black hair sprawled all around him. He seems asleep, though he is not; eyes half-closed in a fruitless attempt to shield himself from the sun. Wearing ripped blue-jeans, a t-shirt and Dr Martens for shoes, he looks like a Muggle. 

The other boy is obviously not as tall, with curly, black hair that is slicked more from the one side and less from the other. His eyes are open; grey orbs that would match the clouds, if any existed at all. He, too, is wearing a Muggle attire; black jeans, a green, black and white plaid shirt and Converse shoes. 

Regulus watches the sky with disinterest, not sparing a glance to his older brother. Sirius keeps his eyes closed, while smoke comes out from the cigarette between his lips. He blows a breath, inhaling slowly. 

"Regulus," he says, turning around to look at the other boy, cheek pressed against the grass. 

"Yes?"

"I'm queer," Sirius blurs out, watching Regulus' expression for any shifts. 

"I know," Regulus says finally. He mimicks Sirius' position, looking at him. 

"You knew? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, it was fun watching you and McKinnon make out like you weren't the gayest students Hogwarts has ever seen."

Sirius nudges his brother's ribs. "Moron."

Regulus hums. "The perks of being a Slytherin, I suppose. Besides, I am not exactly the epitome of heterosexuality myself."

"What do you mean?" He frowns.

Regulus turns again to look at the sky, the blue reflecting into his troubled, grey eyes. "I..." he starts, but seems at a loss. "I would rather fancy romantically someone I have known for some time - whether a boy or a girl, it doesn't matter - I suppose, but the idea of sex disgusts me. Is that a thing?"

"Maybe, I dunno - perhaps you should be older to decide about whether you want sex or not."

His brother sends him a death-glare. "I wonder wether you would say the same to a heterosexual guy."

At this, Sirius shuts his mouth. "Maybe ther isn't a name for it yet - who knows, anyway?" he says, exhaling smoke. "I'm not an expert, ask Remus."

Regulus glares at the sky. "Your boyfriend. Are you seriously - no pun intended -suggesting that I ask your boyfriend for advice concerning my sexuality." 

"I'm always serious." He sobers then, asks, "How did you know he's my boyfriend?" 

"It was not particularly difficult to figure out. It may have to do something with you holding hands wherever you go."

"I hold hands with James! How is that any different?" 

"The difference, brother dear, is that, although you adore Potter, for questionable reasons in my humble opinion and I am not judging anyone, you don't look at him like he is your whole world," Regulus explains. "It is quite simple, if you think about it."

"Oh, Remus," Sirius sighs deeply, "je t'aimerai toujours, amore mio."

Regulus shudders in disgust. "Did you - " he shakes his head - "did you combine French and Italian to use them in the same sentence?"

"I did."

A sigh, which can only mean that Regulus is questioning his life choices at best, and figuring out how to get away with fratricide at worst. "Dimwit."

"Dimwit? Come on, you can do better thanthat - who the fuck uses that word?"

"There is nothing remotely wrong with the word 'dimwit,' thank you very much - " 

"Besides the fact that you sound like a sixty-year old man." 

"Now, that's highly offensive to the sixty-year old men - "

"Are you implying that comparing someone to you is offensive to them?"

"This is a stupid conversation."

"Your face is stupid. "

"I beg your pardon?"

"It is - "

" - Is not - "

October, 1979

It was Remus' idea, really. Visit Andromeda, he had said, it will help you. And that's how Sirius finds himself knocking his cousin's front door. He hears fast footsteps and the door opens only a little, to reveal a small child with pink hair and big eyes. Nymphadora Tonks, a moving disaster. 

"Uncle Sirius!" the child exclaims and opens the door widely. "I missed you so much, but mum said we should give you space because your brother's dead. Do you want to build a fort with me? When I'm sad - "

A woman's voice interrupts Dora's seemingly unstoppable rumbling from inside the house, "Nymphadora Tonks, what have I told you about opening the door to strangers?"

Dora shrugs unconcerned and shouts back, "Stranger danger?"

"That's my girl." The woman in question appears with her wand in hand, expression wary, only to soften, when she sees Sirius. "Oh, it's you." 

He rubs the back of his neck. "Sorry for dropping unannounced."

"It's okay," Andromeda Tonks replies and hides away her wand. "I thought you might, so... " she trails off, smiles. Ushers him inside, sends her child to take a nap. 

Sirius takes in his surroundings. Andromeda's house is relatively small, that he knows, but it is cosy. "Is Ted still at work?" 

"He is," she confirms, glancing at the kitchen clock, "my shift ended when his started, so - yeah."

They sit down and Andromeda sends him an unsure look. "How are you feeling, really?" 

"Like shit."

She sighs. "When I heard about Regulus - " she shakes her head. "A shock, truly a shock. I'm sorry, Sirius." She casts her gaze down and asks, "Did you go to the funeral?"

"No. I wasn't invited." 

"That wouldn't have stopped you."

"Did you go?" Sirius returns, leaning towards her as if they are children exchanging a secret. 

"I did," Andromeda says. A pause. "I saw Narcissa."

Well. Shit.

"And how did that go?"

"We didn't talk." 

"That's for the best probably."

This was a mistake, he can't help but think. He shouldn't have come here. He averts his eyes, lets them wander around anywhere but to his cousin. She sees through him, of course she does; her face kind and so unlike Bellatrix's. 

Andromeda breaks the silence. "He came to see me, you know. The same day he went missing. I reckon I'm the last person who saw him alive. He seemed - " she searches for a word, shakes her head - "so out of character. More paranoid than usual, like he was hunted. Kept glancing around and refused tea."

"Regulus came to see you?" Sirius repeats, brows knitted together, his traitorous heart clenching from jealousy. His brother wouldn't refuse tea for the life of him; it was highly inappropriate. As if checking for poison in his cup isn't, he thinks and chuckles humourlessly. "You realise he was a Death Eater, right?" 

 "Yes, I expected as much." 

"And you let him in anyway." 

"He was acting so strangely, you wouldn't recognise him. His expression kept switching from unreadable to something darker. When did this happen?"

"I don't know." Because he truly doesn't know. When did their fallout begin? He likes to believe it was when Regulus' name was called for the Sorting and the Hat declared him a Slytherin. When Regulus walked towards the snakes' table, without even sparing a glance at his brother, never to be the same again. But, then, Regulus' Sorting had not altered his character that much. He was still intelligent and sharp, polite when the occasion called for it, calculating, paranoid. 

So when did their fallout begin? Perhaps it was before that. Sirius doesn't like to think about the first year he went at Hogwarts. Doesn't like to think about the year Regulus spent in Grimmauld Place alone. About the unanswered, unopened letters his younger self had deemed unimportant. The brother he had deemed unimportant. 

It doesn't matter when did their fallout begin. Regulus' choices and decisions aren't Sirius' fault. He will not feel guilty. 

December, 1995

A dishevelled Sirius barges into their father's study and Regulus looks up, raising an eyebrow. "It is considered polite to knock," he points out.

"Regulus," Sirius pants, trying to catch his breath. 

"How may I be of assistance?" Regulus asks lightly, although he is conscious of the way his hand moves closer to his wand. 

His brother doesn't even roll his eyes at this, which is concerning. "Arthur was attacked," he says instead, as if that explains everything. "They're taking him to Mungo's."

"Arthur? As in Arthur Weasley?"

"Yep, his kids and Harry are coming over for the holidays," Sirius explains, already halfway through the door. 

"And how does this concern me?" he shouts after his brother. 

"They may lose their father, I thought you could help maybe?"

He groans and runs a hand through his hair. "All right, I'm on my way," Regulus shouts back. How he despises shouting. His throat feels dry and on fire, like he drank again poison, and his raspy voice carries out painfully. Sighing, he stands up and starts limping down the stairs.

The Potter spawn is an alright lad, unlike his father. Regulus hadn't really interacted with the kid during the summer months; he was always locked in the study - his study researching, so he can't say anything for sure. Sirius believes Harry to be an angel but then again, Sirius befriended James Potter and everyone saw how that went.

Of course, Regulus knows why Sirius wants him downstairs. His brother's words echo to his ears. They may lose their father, I thought you could help, maybe? He remembers losing his father a month before going to his suicide-mission. Remembers the feeling of numbness, as other relatives and Ministry officials shook his hand, clapped his shoulder, gave him condolences and lied through their teeth about how terribly sorry they were for his loss. All liars, except for his grief-stricken mother, who held back her tears during the whole ordeal and broke down later with her only son to witness. All liars, besides grandfather Arcturus, who squeezed his shoulder encouragingly and whispered to his ear, Sometimes you are so like him it hurts. All liars, with the exception of Cissa, who pulled him into a tight hug and murmured, You are our future now.

All liars, except for his blood-traitor brother, who...

Regulus shakes his head, wishing his thoughts weren't as scattered as they feel. He finds Sirius in the kitchen, talking to a bunch of read-head teenagers and a boy - Potter, he realises with a jolt. The child's resemblance to his father is enormous and, suddenly, Regulus understands why his brother is so obsessed with him. 

The next day, Sirius knocks his door and opens it, not waiting for an answer.

Regulus looks up and arches an eyebrow. "What is the point of knocking, if you don't come with the intention of getting permission and then entering, I wonder."

His brother sits in front of him, stands up, then sits again, fidgeting with his hands. "And I wonder what's the point of talking like a dinosaur, but we can't have everything we want," he shoots back. 

"Although this is a lovely conversation that I wish to continue at some point," Regulus begins, folding his hands in the desk and leaning forwards, "I suspect that the reason behind your presence here isn't my talking like - and I quote: like a dinosaur. So, to what do I honour the pleasure?"

Sirius looks at him, looks away, looks at him again. "I need a favour and, before I tell you, promise me you'll at least consider it."

"I promise, Sirius," he says and makes a dismissive gesture, "get to it."

"Rude. Anyway," Sirius begins, avoiding eye-contact, "you can still Occlude, right?" 

He is a natural at Occlumency; it has always been this way and his brother knows it so why ask? Occluding helped Regulus to clear his mind and collect his thoughts in vital situations right after the cave. It still helps him, sometimes, when things become unbearable. 

Well, Sirius certainly doesn't need to know that. "Yes, I am capable at the art," Regulus responds honestly. He watches his brother's reaction. 

"Great. What about Legilimency?"

That's unexpected. Regulus frowns. "It is not my area of expertise - perhaps you should be directing these questions to Dumbledore, instead. And why the sudden interest, anyway?"

Shaking his head, Sirius answers, "That's not my question and I'm asking you, not Dumbledore - can you do it?"

"Of course I can, though, as I previously stated - " 

"Yes, yes, you are not an expert." His brother takes a deep breath. "You think you can teach Harry how to do it?"

"You wish for me to teach your godson - Potter's child - how to meddle with other people's minds?" 

"No, I want you to teach him during the holidays how to protect his own," Sirius replies seriously. 

He huffs. "Be realistic, Sirius; he cannot master Occlumency in two weeks, he is just a boy." 

"So were you."

You were just a boy, is left unsaid and Regulus gets the feeling this sentence has a double meaning. "This is different," he says, then purses his lips, "you know it is. I was born with this, it is not the same."

"I don't need you to make him an expert or a bloody psycho," Sirius says, his voice raising angrily, "just teach him the basic stuff - Merlin damn it, is that too much to ask?"

Regulus lifts his chin, meeting his brother's gaze, who slowly realises what he said. "A psycho, you say? Pray, be more specific, Sirius. Share your definition of a psycho, will you not?"

Sirius throws his hands up, resigned, knowing he'll lose. "I can't win with you, nobody can. Just do it, please."

Please.

A sigh. He knows he will eventually agree, so why delay the inevitable? "Fine," Regulus says, running a hand through his hair, "I will do it, fine. Are you satisfied?"

His brother beams shyly and says, "Thanks, I appreciate it."

"Anything else?" 

For a moment, a curious look passes from Sirius' expression - hope which rapidly morphed into disappointment - but he settles for a shrug. "Nah, I'll just leave now." He turns his back and reaches for the door handle, only to pause, when -

"You know that you are not bothering me, Sirius?" Regulus questions hesitantly. He hasn't been exactly open about his feelings towards his brother, but then again, when has he? "If you want to stay, you can."

There it is, again. The strange look from before, there and gone again. Sirius tilts his head and fires back, "Do you want me to?" 

Does he?

"That is besides the question. Do you?" 

In a blink, Sirius' whole demeanor alters and he sits on the chair in front of Regulus' desk, crossing his legs at the ankles. "Now you can't get rid of me."

I have never wanted to get rid of you. "That is most unfortunate," Regulus replies, his lips turning upwards. 

"It is," Sirius nods seriously. 

May, 1979

The weather is grim; grey, ominous clouds covering the sunless sky and, perhaps, Padfoot thinks, it is trying to reflect the occasion. Funerals are always grim, anyway. His father's funeral is rather different than uncle Alphard's, he can't help but notice. For one, Sirius hasn't been invited in this one, but that's beside the pont. What's more -

Abruptly he shakes his head. He hasn't thought so far and the reason of his presence isn't to compare funerals. That's what Moony would say, at least, were he there. But Moony isn't here and neither are the rest of his friends. Sirius hasn't even told them that he would be attending the funeral. Maybe he should have. Either way, it doesn't matter; what's done is done. 

So Padfoot watches, as the Ministry officials shake hands with family members ( - his not-mother, his not-brother, his not-family - ) and offer their fake condolences. Watches, as not-grandfather Arcturus pats Regulus' back and whispers something to his ear. Watches, as Narcissa hugs his impassive not-brother, who's not staring at her, but at Sirius unreadably, his stoic face a mask of stone. As the relatives Disapparate one by one, until it's only Walburga and Regulus left; his not-mother breaking into hysterical sobs, when she thinks it's only her beloved son who's witnessing her fall apart. 

As she, too, leaves and then it's only Regulus and the massive, black dog that looks like the Grim that remain behind. Padfoot changes back to Sirius and Regulus doesn't raise an eyebrow, doesn't even spare him a glance; perhaps too absorbed by his father's grave. 

Sirius comes to stand by his not-brother's side, approaching silently. Maybe he has a death-wish, after all, approaching Regulus like that. But of course, he has already noticed him and doesn't even blink at his presence, so maybe Sirius wasn't as subtle as he thought. Or maybe it's his not-brother who is weird. Merlin knows, the kid is paranoid enough.

Anyway. 

Glancing at Regulus, he is struck by the huge change that has occured. He'd always been thin, but now he looks skeletal, paper-white and sick; hands clasped tightly behind his back, chin raised, lips pursed. He looks older, aged, more mature and yet, still seventeen. The perfect Black heir Sirius was never meant to be. 

It's - surprise, surprise - Regulus who breaks the silence. "I wasn't sure you would come at all," he says, tone clipped, sharp, but, strangely enough, not cold. Well, not exactly welcoming either, but that's not the point. 

Sirius shrugs. By this time, they are both socked to the bone and he shivers, before lightening a cigarette. A simple answer: "Nor was I." He hadn't known he meant it, until he said it. "You smoke?" 

Regulus' face wrinkles from disgust. "No, thank you."

Putting his one hand in his pocket, Sirius brings the cigarette to his lips. He has nothing to say. He has everything to say. They both have.

"Why are you here?" 

The question admittedly catches him by surprise. Regulus has never been one to break the silence and today he has already done it twice. Maybe their father's death has affected him more than he lets show.

"That is, instead of celebrating with your friends," Regulus adds. 

"He's - was my father."

"And here I thought you didn't want to be associated with this family."

And he is right. "I don't."

His not-brother grimaces, then shakes his head. "Why are you here, Sirius? Have you even informed your friends that you would be attending the funeral, or did you just let them assume you were kidnapped?"

It feels like an accusation. It probably is. 

He hasn't. "I have. If I'm not back in two hours, Remus will call the Aurors."

Why are you here, Sirius?

He suddenly thinks the main reason why he came is Regulus. It's a stupid thought of course, but a true one nonetheless.

"How did he die?" he asks instead of replying. Remus says he should stop doing that. Changing the subject, when it's convenient.

Regulus frowns and glances at him, for the first time surprised. "Father was ill, had been for almost two years." He looks down. "You didn't know." 

He'd heard something, didn't really know. "I didn't." And doesn't that sound awful, not knowing that his own father was ill? Remus says he should stop thinking like that. 

His not-brother turns around and starts walking, before pausing. Tilting his head - a boy wondering what's next. He doesn't look at him, saying, "Sirius."

"Yes?" He is alert; something is about to happen.

The rain starts pouring down harder.

Regulus responds, his hair sticking to his temple, clothes dripping water to the floor as if he was drowning, "When you see me in the battlefield, don't hesitate." He Disapparates.

A second confirmation; his not-brother, barely seventeen, a Death Eater. 

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

December, 1995

Limping down the stairs, Regulus pauses outside the kitchen. Six children are sitting around the table; four redheads that he cannot remember the names of for the life of him, a girl with exceptionally curly hair and, of course, Potter's spawn. Just the man Regulus is looking for.

He leans against the door, crossing his arms. "Harry? A word?"

The boy in question exchanges a look with his friends and hesitantly stands up. "Hello, Mr Black," Harry mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. 

It feels strange, being called 'Mr Black.' That had always been his father, yet, Regulus supposes, now the name falls to him. "Perhaps you have already had a conversation with Sirius about the nature of our lessons?" he asks. 

"Yes, sir. About Occlum - that thing."

Well. At least the teenager is polite. Regulus nods. "We should continue this conversation upstairs," he says and starts walking again with long strides.

"Where are we heading, Mr Black?" Harry says from behind his back, trying to keep up with Regulus' steps. 

"To the library," Regulus replies. "There is more space there and, should it be required to consult a book, we would not waste time."

They enter said room and Harry looks around awkwardly. "Should I... " 

Almost smiling, Regulus says, "Have a sit." It is strange, watching this less confident version of James Potter. 

The boy complies and looks at him expectantly. "Won't you sit, Mr Black? For your leg?" 

"Ah. So you noticed that." Most people are uncomfortable, when mentioning Regulus' disability. Harry refers to it simply, as if it's just a part of Regulus. It may have something to do with all the attention he's getting from his own scar. 

A shrug. "I'm observant," Harry replies, then quickly asks, "What exactly am I going to be learning?" He pauses and adds, "Mr Black."

Regulus paces around the room, hands clasped behind his back. "Have you ever heard of Occlumency, Harry?" 

Harry shakes his head, watching him.

"That's okay." Regulus draws a chair and comes to sit in front of the boy, placing his hands on his knees. "Occlumency is the art of defending one's mind from external penetration." He takes a deep breath and continues, "It is considered to be an obscure branch of magic, difficult to master and certainly at such a young age, but I assure you that I will dedicate my best efforts to teach you what I know."

"Sirius told me you could do it from a really young age."

"What my brother failed to mention is that I am a natural Occlumens and therefore, was born with this gift - as one may call it, I suppose," Regulus explains patiently. 

"Could I be a natural too?"

He pauses, regarding Harry with interest. The boy certainly is clever; truly a pity he ended up with the Gryffindors. "That depends," Regulus says finally, leaning back to his chair. "Do you ever feel detached, as if you are watching the world behind a glass?"

"No?"

"Ever had severe difficulty expressing your emotions to loved ones?"

"Not really?"

"Ever struggled with actually feeling at all?"

Harry's eyebrows furrow. "I don't understand, sir," he admits.

Regulus exhales. "I mean if you have any long periods of time when you are just processing and comprehending facts, without them affecting your emotional state in the slightest. That's what being a natural Occlumens feels like."

"That sucks. I don't think I'm one."

"I assumed as much." Clasping his hands together, he says, "So, let us begin. I am about to perform a spell which will grant me access to your mind - " seeing Harry's eyes widen, he quickly adds, "only to see your reaction, don't worry. I assure you, whatever I accidentally learn about you will remain a secret, should you wish for it."

Harry doesn't seem particularly reassured. "Yes, I'd like that."

Drawing his wand, Regulus continues, "The spell is called Legilimens. You are not required to do anything - I'm just testing the water. Ready?"

A short nod.

"Legilimens."

He is inside the boy's mind instantly. He is an outsider, of course and watches as Harry boards the Hogwarts Express for the first time when he is eleven, how the boy's eyes travel to the families in the platform...

The scene changes. Harry is walking towards the Sorting Hat and Regulus thinks he can distinguish a voice saying, And Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness...

He feels it, then. A slight pull, a minimal resistance. It is clear that this memory makes Harry insecure. He digs further. They are standing in front of many students. Harry is facing a blond sharp-faced boy with a great resemblance to Narcissa - her son, he realises with a jolt. It must be a dueling club, but the scene is already dissolving...

He pulls out of the boy's mind and watches as Harry tries to catch his breath, panting. "How are you feeling?" Regulus asks carefully. 

Harry gulps. "That was awful," he mutters, rubbing his temple. 

"I'm afraid it doesn't get much better." He pauses, bites the inside of his cheek and says, "May I ask a question?"

He wants to ask a thousand questions: about who raised this boy and how, about the dueling club and the snake, about James Potter's son being a Slytherin. But in the end, there is only one thing he has to know. 

"Yeah?"

"The blond boy," Regulus starts, "who is he?"

Harry's face wrinkles in dislike. "That's Malfoy - Draco Malfoy, you know him?"

"No, I have never met him. But his mother is my cousin - Narcissa Malfoy, perhaps you know her?"

"I do, sir," the boy responds. "She's a blood-purist."

Of course she is. So was Regulus. "For that I have no doubt. That is all for today - for our lesson tomorrow, I want you to try and meditate - perhaps for half an hour or more, if you can. Try to clear your mind from anything that troubles you - emotions, thoughts - and we will learn how to deal with them. Okay?"

Harry nods. 

"Dismissed, then."

"Thank you, Mr Black." 

Well. That could have gone worse.