Chapter 3
Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.
The picture of Dorian Gray
October, 1979
Regulus visits the Gaunt shack a cold, rainy day. It's from mere curiosity, he tells himself, scientific interest. He knows it's not. But it is difficult to admit that the Dark Lord may have created more than one Horcrux. It's difficult, because, only a year ago, he worshipped the man. He feels that a lifetime ( - thousands of lifetimes, countless lives lost, he has died but he hasn't, dozens of hands dragging a boy, him, down, down, down - ) has passed from then. It's as if it happened to someone else, to a boy he can no longer recognise, a boy he can no longer be, a boy he never was. (Whatever happened to the boy? Where is he? Has anyone seen him? Has anyone looked for him?)
He seals his mind from emotions, throws them in the lake inside his mind and watches with satisfaction how they sink in the serene, unassuming waters. (He remembers another lake with undisturbed waters and lifeless eyes. Flashes: a cave, an island, a glowing green basin. A potion. Sometimes he remembers everything. The worst times are those when he remembers absolutely nothing and wakes up gasping for breath from a fathom pain he cannot recall the cause of - and the trembling in his hands won't stop until much later.)
Feeling more confident with his emotions under control ( - tossed away, sinking deep, deep, deep, hitting the bottom, a lake with unassuming waters - ) Regulus approaches the shack walking fast despite his limp. He won't have anyone think him weak, although there is no one to witness his coming here. Old habits die hard, they say.
The shack itself seems to have been abandoned for many years. But its state is not what attracts his attention. No, instead it's the eerie, bone-chilling feeling that causes him to shudder almost violently, the deeply engraved knowledge that something is terribly wrong. Sirius would call it having a conscience and Regulus would scoff. It's always been this way. They have always been this way - contradicting each other just because they can, arguing for the sake of arguing.
But that was in the past - before the war, before the Dark Lord. Because suddenly there were sides and everyone was choosing theirs: black or white, good or evil, as if anything could ever be that simple. As if humanity could ever be that simple. As if people weren't different, million shades of grey. An illusion. It had all been an illusion and Regulus knows better now. The world has never been split into good people and Death Eaters.
The war had crept into Hogwarts unnoticeably. At first, it had not been easy to perceive: the angry protests of the Gryffindors, the curious Ravenclaws, the fearful voices of the Hufflepuffs, the hushed conversations in the Slytherin dorm. Yes, the war had been shyly creeping into the castle from the cracks of the walls, from the left open windows for the owls that brought letters from home with news of war, from the newspapers that spread rumours of an uprising threat. Nothing that affected school life.
And then the war had become personal, in the way students were pulled out of class to learn the death of a relative and never seen again, in the way Slytherins would come back from home after the holidays with a snake tattoo branded on their left forearms, an unmistakable shine on their eyes, promises of domination and of preserving the pure blood traditions, of a better future, of the impossible at the tip of their tongues. (He remembers the afraid ones too, their uncertainty, their doubt. Doubtwill get you killed, he'd say then, but now as he looks back, he wonders whether those were the wise ones. Dead ones, now, because their hesitation did get them killed in the end.)
Personal in the way he'd lost a brother. In the way he had to grieve someone alive.
Shaking his head, he enters the shack. The floor is covered in dust and creaks under his boots. The whole place is dingy, left to decay and rot. He wrinkles his nose in disgust; for all their talk of blood purity, the Gaunts were revolting in every possible way. His eyes travel around, taking in his surroundings. A wooden table is in the centre of the main room, its third leg broken, and there is one chair in the head seat of the table. Two doors lead to respectively two other rooms, although he doesn't venture there. He doubts the Dark Lord hid a part of his soul in a toilet.
Instead, his eyes land on the table. An almost imperceptible, subtle veil covers it, trying to keep something magically concealed. The Dark Lord's magical signature is easily recognised; spells always leave a trail behind if you are capable enough to sense if - which, well, he is.
He approaches the table with cautious steps and raises his wand, murmuring different incantations under his breath. At the beginning nothing happens, but he isn't discouraged; patiently waits from a distance, observing the veil slowly reveal what it was previously hiding. It's a green and silver, beautiful box with amazingly detailed carvings, and it radiates dark magic. He picks it up and inspects it carefully, turning it around and looking it from various angles. With some hesitance, he opens it.
An eerie, black ring is lying inside. A Horcrux, because of course it is, because he has known for some time and simply, childishly refused to accept it, clang to the idea that maybe...
Regulus won't be underestimating the Dark Lord any time soon.
He Disapparates, clutching tightly the heirloom. Fiendfyre will do the trick. It's truly a shame he has to destroy the ring, but he can bear it. There are far worse things to do.
July, 1975
There is loud music coming from his brother's room.
He sighs and slams his book shut, carefully standing up, exits the bedroom and heads towards Sirius' door, knocking sharply: one, two, three times. No answer, besides the singer's lyrics, 'Pressure pushing down on me - '
Running out of patience, he knocks more insistently but receives no permission to enter. A sense of dread settles in his chest and constricts the air in his lungs and Regulus pushes open the door, eyes sliding around, taking in his brother's room. Everything is perfectly normal: Sirius' atrocious posters with the Muggle girls on bikinis hanging on the wall, the picture of his friends still proudly stuck beside them, the bed sheets unmade. His desk is a mess of parchment and old quills, ink spilled on the floor.
' - Pressing down on you, no man ask for - '
Everything is perfectly normal, but for the fact that Sirius isn't in his room. Nor is he sitting on the chair in front of the desk, spinning. Nor is he lying dead on the floor.
His brother is nowhere to be found.
' - Under pressure, that burns a building down - '
Then, he sees it. A left open window - curtain dancing along the wind, taunting him. Nothing will prepare him for what is going to follow later in his life.
' - Splits a family in two - '
And then
then
something
breaks.
He searches numbly for the source of music and his gaze locks on the strange, Muggle device. It's a disc that keeps turning around itself and suddenly he feels all the anger and the unfairness of a situation that has been building up for years and years anD YEARS -
' - Puts people on streets - '
- FUCKING YEARS AND IT'S UNFAIR -
He screams and it's soundless. He's soundless; his mind barely registers the singer's muffled voice as he calmly takes a step towards the Muggle device. His ears ring and his blood thrums and his heart is a beating stacatto.
They took him away, he will vaguely remember thinking. He looks at the photo of Sirius and the other boys. Potter. Lupin. Pettigrew. He's left for them. And then - I will never make the same mistake, he will recall swearing, never care for anyone else again. Never to forgive. Never to forget.
- SO FUCKING UNFAIR -
He picks up the black disc, looks at it, tilts his head. There is nothing special about the thing. Then,
then he
breaks it.
And someone is screaming - won't they stop? please please stop - but he doesn't know if it's him or the voices inside his head - THEY TOOK HIM - causing all this mayhem. This fucking disaster. This...
This.
(Mother comes running to the room, his father trailing behind her, and they find him screaming and pulling at his own hair.)
June, 1979
He doesn't know why he visits Andromeda.
By now, he is a dead man walking. Paranoid, keeps looking over his shoulder for anyone following him, hand grasping tightly the wand in his pocket, feeling the reassuringly warm, wooden surface under his fingers. No one is aware of his betrayal just yet, but that might soon change.
They had organised s graduation party; everyone was celebrating - their laughter far away and distant to his ears - too drunk to notice a ghost boy leaving. He knows how to make himself invisible, to remove himself when necessary. Regulus closes the door softly, before he decides to stay. Looking back has proved to be a lot of more trouble and he knows he won't be able to leave if his eyes catch his mother, Narcissa, Evan or Barty. It's better this way.
But...
But. He's been alone for the most part of his life; he doesn't want to be alone right now. Humanity isn't made for loneliness.
So, of course he knows he shouldn't do it. Andromeda is a blood-traitor, ran away with a mudblood, but he can't help himself. Can't go to Narcissa either. She'll see right through him.
His thoughts are too loud - too distracting, too much. Everything has been toomuch for a very long time and he's waiting for all of it to quiet down.
So he Apparates to her house.
There is green as far as the eye can see, rolling fields of grass stretching for miles and miles. It's a sea of flowers and an aroma he can't quite wrap his head around; he inhales deeply, because that's what it feels like to be alive and it's his last chance to cherish something he's never wanted, then knocks the door.
The door opens hesitantly and reveals a woman. She is as beautiful as he remembers: curly, brown hair falling to her shoulders, elegant eyebrows, high cheekbones, long eyelashes. The resemblance to Bellatrix has decreased remarkably. Andromeda looks - although wary - happy. Content. Complete. Everything Bella isn't. Everything he isn't.
"Regulus?" she questions, brows knitted together. So. Andromeda doesn't quite recognise him. That's okay; Regulus hardly recognises himself either. The boy staring him back in the mirror is a stranger.
He thinks about saying, you don't look likeBella anymore. She'd probably like it. Or, you're happy. It looks good on a Black. Foreign, but good.
"Apologies for dropping by unannounced," he hears himself say, glancing around (but it's not paranoia, when they are really out to get you) his own voice metallic to his ears.
Thousands of conflicting emotions cross her expression before Andromeda settles for calmness. Once a Black, always a Black - it may as well be the true family moto. "It's okay. As long as you are here on your own accord."
He hears the meaning behind her words. Are you here on behalf of our family? On behalf of the Dark Lord?
Why are you here?
Why is he here? He knows a hundred of ways to kill Andromeda and knocking her door isn't in the list. Not that he would say that.
"I am here on my own accord," is what he says.
Her posture relaxes, shoulders slumping, and she invites him in. She's gone soft, he realises. How ready, how prepared Andromeda is to believe him. It's sad, really sad. Or perhaps she clings to the idea that he won't kill her. Blood is thicker than water. Family is everything.
They settle down for tea, but he refuses the cup. It's impolite, that he is aware of, but, judging from his ex-cousin's puzzled expression, she is more confused, worried than offended. She shouldn't be and he almost snaps at her at. Regulus can handle himself just fine. Regulus knows exactly what he's doing.
It's easy to avoid serious topics. Sirius. Narcissa. The family. The war -
Dragonshit. The elephant in the room is actually pretty hard to ignore.
He settles for the easier stuff. "Why did you marry Ted?" A blunt question, but he is curious. Always has been. And there is no time, so what did he have that we didn't?
Nearly spitting her tea, Andromeda winces and coughs. "I - " she shakes her head - "I love him. He loves me."
"So did we."
"He makes me smile," she eventually says, averting her eyes. And we didn't. It's true. "It was purely selfish, I suppose." Andromeda looks at him through thick eyelashes, grey eyes shining and she looks like Bella, now. It wasn't his intention to make her cry. But the truth is the truth, as hard as it may be.
"You are the best of us, you know," she says in the end. He blinks. "Not me, not Sirius, not Alphard. So whatever you are doing, Regulus, it's killing you. Never mind what's right, just do what's easy. Keep yourself alive."
Keep myself alive? I am a dead man walking. It's almost funny.
( - Fourteen and another voice, Narcissa's voice telling him, Only do what's necessary - )
He makes a rushed excuse and gets up to leave shortly after Andromeda finishes her tea. Suddenly, being in her house feels choking. She escorts him to the door, hand hovering over his back, unsure if she should initiate physical contact.
She shouldn't. He wants her to try anyway.
"Don't be a stranger, Regulus," Andromeda tells him, squeezing his hand eventually, her palm warm against his cold skin. (So cold, why is it so cold - won't it stop? His thoughts are messy, scattered glass.) It's as if she expects him break down at any moment now. "And take good care of yourself. We can't afford to lose anyone else."
He almost laughs at that. Doesn't she get it? He's already lost. Has been for years. And he isn't going go break down any time soon. If anything, he has been rotting from the inside ever since he can remember, a fraud among good, honest people, a thorn instead of a flower.
Perhaps she gets it too much. It doesn't matter anymore. They either live with regret or die.
Apparating back to Grimmauld Place, he heads straight to his room and grabs the locket - the fake Horcrux. He descends the stairs slowly, not exactly lingering, not exactly hurrying. He has all the time of the world and yet he has so little time left. He feels alive. Feels dead. A living-dead, then. There is ringing to his ears that won't stop ( - so cold, why is it so cold - won't it stop? His thoughts are scattered glass - ) and his heart is racing.
He reaches the kitchen, comes to a stop. He knows where to find Kreacher. He opens the drawer that the Elf was sleeping in, now looking at him with blinking eyes.
"What can Kreacher do for the young Master?"
And he could stop. Could say nothing, go back to his room, pretend nothing happened. Forget the Horcrux. Forget the plan. Doesn't do any of that. Instead -
"I want you to take me to the cave, old friend," he says, lips slightly quirking. He is a dead man walking. May as well enjoy it. "The cave the Dark Lord took you."
Kreacher's eyes widen, before tearing up. "No, no!" he wails, rocking himself, "don't do this, Master - what will the Mistress think?"
A question that has troubled him for a while? What will his mother think?
That he took his own life, perhaps; suicide is not an uncommon cause of death among the House of Black after all. It's a part of the Black Madness that no member can escape. The illness has already claimed his mother. Will she think that he is a blood-traitor? His heart clenches at the thought. Family is everything. It's the very same reason no one will ever learn what happend to him in the first place. He has to protect them from the truth. From himself. Family is everything, and that has been a mantra he's chanted to himself more times than he can count; it's a tether to reality, to his remaining sanity. Family is everything.
In the end, it doesn't matter, what his mother will think. Regulus won't be there to witness it anyway. Sirius wasn't here to witness the fallout after his departure either.
December, 1995
A hundred Dementors are heading towards them, but the scene dissolves quickly and now Potter is looking with wonder at a massive stag. Flashes and snippets of images: Sirius' skeletal face, a rat, Lupin turning into a werewolf, a professor chanting: The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant's aid, greater and more terrible than ever before...
Regulus tries to dig further, but Harry blocks this memory and the scene is already changing; a dead body of a seventeen-year old boy in a graveyard - Cedric - a snake-like face, smooth nostrils and red eyes looking back at him, a voice softly whispering, Bow to death, Harry -
Harry is shouting, he barely registers himself thinking, before everything changes, the tables turn and now -
He is sixteen and kneeling before the Dark Lord; the same, red eyes looking back at him, left forearm outstretched and Merlin, the pain - he remembers his initiation; he had not screamed, the only one among the other recruits not to -
Fourteen and clenching his fists, watching an open window, curtains dancing along the wind -
Seventeen and killing for the first time; seventeen and Kreacher Apparates into the room, barely able to stand to his feet; seventeen and laughing along with Barty and Evan in the common room; seventeen and reading about Horcrux, the art of splitting one's soul to achieveimmortality; seventeen and drinking poison with trembling trembling hands; seventeen and being dragged down by - it's Inferi, they are Inferi -
seventeen and he
has never been
seventeen.
Fuck, they are inside his head and everything is messed up, thoughts scattered glass on the kitchen floor; sharp and dangerous, broken, difficult to gather together and -
He severs the connection with a wandless movement, breathing hard; he's drowning again, because there is water in his lungs and he can't scream because he can't breathe -
Pull it together, a sharp voice commands. Pull yourself together now. It's right - not in front of the kid. Strangely, it reminds him of his mother.
Inhale.
Exhale.
His fingers trace the cold, even surface of the desk, the intricate details carved into wood. Inhale. The scent of old books lingers in the air. Pull yourself together. He is back to the Black library, has never left ( - has travelled so far within a minute, to the hidden depths of his own mind - ) sitting on the chair transfixed, hands gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening and in front of him is Harry, slumped on the chair, trying to catch his breath.
The boy looks up. "Sir, I ... " he shakes his head, at a loss. "Were we inside your head?"
"You are not to tell anyone under this roof about what you saw," he murmurs softly, the same tone he would use when threatening his Slytherin classmates. "Under no circumstances. Am I Understood?"
"I - "
The difficult way, then. Regulus leans forwards and repeats slowly, grey eyes meeting green, frightened ones, "Am. I. Understood?"
"Crystal clear, Mr Black," Harry responds quickly, glancing nervously at the door.
"Dismissed."
The boy is out of the library immediately, door closing with a soft click and only then does Regulus let his head fall to his shaking hands, posture dropping and asks himself how is he meant to deal with this.
September, 1979
Finding Basilisk venom proves to be fairly easy. Regulus won't question the fact that his aunt Cassiopeia had a small bottle of it beside the wine bottles. The Black family is prone to a certain degree of strangeness after all and he isn't one to judge others.
(A lie.)
He is standing in front of the desk inside the library, staring at the locket he almost died for. (Almost wishing he was dead, because everything would have been much easier. Suicide is not an uncommon cause of death among the House of Black.)
What requires more time is to find the word in Parseltongue for Regulus to imitate and open the cursed object. It does open, in the end and, as he is about to crash the locket with a Basilisk venom-invested blade, a figure emerges.
He pauses.
It was expected that the Horcrux would have some kind of a defense mechanism. He had been prepared to face anything: from his parents, to all three of his cousins, or Sirius.
Which is why he is completely caught off guard, when it's Barty and Evan that make their appearance. Both undeniably beautiful, but in a terrifying way. Both blurry at the edges, similar to ghosts but not quite, echoes from a past he has been hoping to forget. Both so Barty and Evan and yet so different, because there is a cruel glint in their eyes that shouldn't exist.
( - Barty torturing some Muggle to insanity - )
Regulus decides that he prefers the old versions of his friends, when Barty starts talking, voice cold and taunting, devoid of all emotion, "We should have known you would turn up to be just a version of your blood-traitor brother but shorter."
( - Evan slicing a man's throat - )
Funny and witty Barty. Easy going and relaxed Barty.
Barty, who is looking at him with murder in his eyes, who tortured a Muggle into insanity and hexed Sirius for betraying his blood (Regulus, he had meant) and fucking off with Potter and his lot.
What did I do, what did you do, what did we do? is the frantic question that dominates Regulus' thoughts because ...
Because it had been him and Evan who would talk Barty's ear off about the Dark Lord. They had poisoned him. He had poisoned him, his mind with ideas and dreams of domination and extermination and the thought makes Regulus want to be sick.
Focus. His mother's voice. Sharp nails digging into his shoulder.
Now it's Evan's turn.
His oldest friend approaches the subject from a different aspect; expression sad and betrayed, "Your mother was a wreck, Regulus, did you know that?" A cruel smile appears to Evan's lips, reminding him that it's not real, it's not real, not real, notrealnotreal ...
Well. It feels pretty much real.
"Yes," Evan continues, nodding seriously, "cried during the burial and stayed after the funeral beside your gravestone. I think she's finally lost it, you know? Crying about a traitor... "
Traitor. The hollow word echoes to Regulus' mind strangely. His breath hitches. He shouldn't be affected that much. It's just a word. Traitor. He knows he isn't a traitor. The knowledge comes to him as naturally as breathing. So, he does what he does best. Inhaling deeply, Regulus wills himself for absolute nothingness to come. His eyes closed, he focuses on every upsetting thought he has produced, every unwanted feeling he has created and ...
Regulus thinks of the lake inside his head - the one with the undisturbed, clear waters that reflect the night sky.
No. Not the night sky, not the stars. Think of something else.
He takes his emotions, his thoughts, his entire existence, everything that makes him human and
drops them inside,
watching them
slowly
sink.
And, suddenly, everything is blank and Regulus just watches himself with interest, as he brings down the small blade he is holding and strikes the locket. There is a bone-chilling scream, his mind supplies him. The Horcrux is gone. Only the locket remains; ever beautiful and full of grace, despite being broken.
July, 1975
Sirius will go mad, shut in that house. It's getting under his nerves, it really is. Grimmauld Place. And its current residents.
We do not approve of your chosen school-companions, Sirius.
His lips a thin, white line, he stares at the canopy of his bed, both hands under his head. The weather is warmer than usual, it makes Sirius edgy, sweaty. He doesn't like it.
Half-bloods and the likes of them ...
His thoughts drift from one thing to another.
Sirius vaguely registers Bowie's song playing on the background. He remembers Remus' fascination with the artist. Honestly, that's why he's currently listening to the man himself. It reminds him of Remus. Everything reminds his of Remus, these days.
'Rebel, rebel, you've torn your dress - '
There had been a fight, during dinner, because of course. About the company he is keeping. About his disgraceful behaviour, which 'brings shame upon the family name' and other dragonshit like that.
' - rebel, rebel, your face is a mess - '
Orion likes to say that his son is going through a rebelious, teenage phaze, that it doesn't matter; him hanging around with blood-traitors, he will eventually get over it. Likes to assume he knows his son.
(He doesn't.)
Sirius likes to say that his father is an arsehole. Not that anyone asks him.
Anyway.
' - rebel, rebel, how could they know? - '
Toujours pur Walburga isn't so sure. She believes that all those despicable Gryffindor friends of his have severely influenced him, irriverseably corrupted him. Purposefully misled him. Misguided him, even. As if. At least she doesn't delusion herself about where his true loyalties lie. At least she doesn't assume she knows him.
(Because, the thing is, unlike her husband, she does.)
' - hot tramp, I love you so!'
How can they hate people like Remus? Brilliant Remus. Sarcastic, melancholic Remus. His friend wouldn't hurt a flie. Does it matter that he is a wereewolf? Does it matter that James is a Potter? That Peter is - well, Peter?
Would it matter, if he told them he's gay?
It was aproximately a year ago, when he'd come out to Regulus. The response Sirius had received still buffles him. It hadn't mattered to Regulus, being gay. Would it matter to their parents? Seeing as Regulus is like them? But, the thing is, Regulus isn't like their parents. He is Sirius' brother. And yet, still a potential Death Eater and a blood-supremacist. And yet, still what has kept Sirius sane all these years trapped inside that house.
'Rebel, rebel, you've torn your dress - '
A brother. A childhood companion. A fading memory.
' - rebel, rebel, your face is a mess - '
A potential Death Eater. A potential threat, seeing as he's a fucking prodigy.
' - rebel, rebel, how could they know? - '
He glances at the window, thinking.
' - hot tramp, I love you so!'
There is nothing truly special about the day Sirius runs away.
January, 1977
He is staring back at his intrigued, red eyes.
Tom is generally impressed by the boy kneeling in front of him. Regulus Black is undeniably dangerous; he can see it in the way he bears himself, the eye-contact he manages to maintain, the slight lift of the chin, how he endures the pain unflinchingly.
How his mind is sealed from him. An unpenetrated fortress.
A clever one, he thinks, a pretty one. And everybody knows you can never trust the clever ones. Nor the pretty ones. What did those Muggles back in the orphanage say? Keep your friends close; keep your enemies closer.
Regulus Black isn't an enemy, but he could prove to be one. Tom has to remember this. Blacks always stick together and he doesn't need the whole House's wrath upon him. Besides, right now, the boy is anything but a threat. He can see it in the way his eyes gleam, a promise of loyalty in his lips, a black snake brand making its way into Black's porcelain-white skin.
Quirking the tip of his lip, Tom releases Black from the spell and the boy is immediately on his feet, standing tall besides his short height. He appreciates strength, knows its value. He appreciates cunningness, only when it's not used against Tom himself.
It is strange, how similar the boy is with him. Or, rather, with his younger self. Cunning. Ambitious. Driven to succeed. Always aiming for greatness. (Tom does that often, drawing comparisons between himself and others.) There is only one difference that clearly separates them. Tom is going to be remembered as an immortal man. Regulus Black will fade into non-existence.
"My Lord," Black says, voice unwavering as he bows his head, grey, orb-like eyes never quite leaving Tom's red ones.
A smirk makes its way into Tom's thin lips. He admits the boy is intriguing. It's almost a pity he will have to kill him at some point. After all, you can never trust the clever ones.
December, 1979
She comes here and stays for hours.
Sirius has desperately tried to visit the gravestone at a time she won't be there, but, with all the Order missions, he no longer has any other choice. So. He Apparates straight outside the graveyard in the Black Manor.
The sky is blue as far as the eye can see. He thinks the weather is mocking him, being all bright and sunny. There is nothing happy about this day, so, perhaps, Merlin is condemning him for simply being here. Paying his respects to a long-lost brother. A Death Eater. It feels like a sin. But, then again, not coming at all would also feel like a sin.
Drawing a sharp breath at the chilly air caressing his face and messing his hair, Sirius looks around. Maybe she hasn't come here today, maybe ...
Maybe not.
She stands as tall as ever, but that's where the similarities end.
Walburga Black had once been a young, regal, ethereal woman, charming. She is anything but her old self now; face wrinkled from time and grief and weariness, cheeks hollow, skin sickly pale and grey hairs starting to make their appearance to her skull. By the way her shoulders tense, he understands this; his mother has sensed his presence, knows he is here, without even turning to look at him. There is no turning back. Not now.
Preparing himself, Sirius approaches her, comes to stand by her side. The grave is pure black marble - of course it is, he can't help but think - and the dates of birth and death are painfully close to each other. Only seventeen years old.
Regulus A. Black
Beloved son and dutiful heir
27.12.1961 - 30.6.1979
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land.
The quotation awakens a foreign anger in him. Regulus wouldn't have wanted this. His brother's relationship with religion had been complicated, broken and damaged and unrepairable - unlike Sirius, who has always known where he stands. Regulus wouldn't have wanted this.
But does he really know what Regulus would have wanted? And, besides, hadn't Regulus been bearing a heavy burden? Meek: someone afflicted, or carrying a heavyburden. Perhaps the quote suits him just right. Perhaps it was per his brother's request for it to be engraved there. Of course they don't mention he was a beloved brother as well. Beloved son and dutiful heir. Regulus had been so much more than that. Yet, the boy Sirius had encountered in the battlefield had truly been a stranger.
He clenches his fists and feels it. Her gaze. Walburga is looking at him from head to toe, her grey eyes unreadable and undecipherable as ever.
"You are late," she says.
"I wasn't aware we had an appointment."
"I expected you would have come sooner."
To visit him. His brother.
So did I, he doesn't say, because she is right. Not that he'd ever tell her that. "You always had expectations, mother," Sirius replies, lighting up a cigarette. " I don't see why you are upset - expectations always lead to disappointment."
Walburga purses her lips. "Why are you here, son? To watch the fall from grace of our House?"
Son. Not blood-traitor, not scum. Son. If only everything was so simple.
He shrugs, shakes his head, looking anywhere but her. It's easier this way.
"To pay my respects," he answers.
"Your respects are not wanted."
"Says who?"
"I do."
Sirius smiles. It's a beautiful day. "What you say has stopped mattering to me since I was twelve." A pause. He inhales the smoke. "You didn't invite me to the funeral. I found out about his death in the Prophet."
"Would you have come?"
No. "Does it matter?"
Yes. "If you wanted, you would have come anyway, with invitation or not."
She is right. It doesn't help that Andromeda said the same thing. Neither of his relatives would appreciate the comparison, so. Yeah. And, speaking of his cousin ...
"Andromeda came," he observes. A distraction. He should have gone to the funeral.
She nods.
Loyal and understanding Andromeda. Caring and rightful Andromeda. She is the best of us, Sirius can't help but bitterly think. He says this thought out loud without even realising it. Perhaps he's gone soft.
His mother snorts. "The best of us, hardly," she repeats, not sarcastically, not friendly either. Shaking her head, she adds, "That would be Regulus and, perhaps Narcissa. She did marry a Malfoy, though, so... "
Cold and ambitious Regulus. Paranoid and cunning Regulus. Loyal Regulus? He doesn't know. Maybe he didn't know his brother as well as he thought.
He should have gone to the funeral, he thinks again.
"Regulus would stab you in the back in a blink of the eye," he says for lack of having something to say.
"He would. But he would also kill for those he loved."
"My brother was a coward who got cold feet and ran."
"So did you." She sighs. "But never mind. Is this how you pay your respects, Sirius? By insulting your dead brother?" His mother looks at him in the eyes. "I will ask you one more time; why are you here?"
Your dead brother...
Why are you here?
Why am I here? Balling his fists, he shrugs. "Tell me who killed him." It's not a request.
Your dead brother.
"So you can do - what, kill him?" She huffs. "You really are just like us, Sirius - don't attempt to deny it. Blood is thicker than water."
"So it's a he? Was it Voldemort?" He wants to, needs to know. Revenge, his mind chants.
A shake of the head. "You know your brother - " does he? " - he was too clever to be killed by the Dark Lord."
"Regulus was too clever for his own good," Sirius replies bitterly. "Perhaps he knew too much and someone cornered the Little King and - " he snaps his fingers and Walburga flinches.
The boy who knew too much. He likes the sound of it. It has a certain ring - a melody, if you will. Makes his brother seem more human. More innocent. Innocence is the first victim of war. "And how did he die?"
"We don't know."
Oh. "So this has been a complete waste of time?"
"I suppose."
He blinks. "Okay. So - I will leave now."
"You do that." She returns her gaze to the gravestone, not once glancing behind to look at her only son. The only thing that alerts her to his departure is the crack of Apparation.
December, 1978
He has Kreacher repeat the whole story the very next day.
It is baffling, really. What would require such protection? A very valuable item. And what would the Dark Lord find worthy? Regulus can't stop himself from thinking of Voldemort as the 'Dark Lord.' It's not that he is afraid of the name - that would be stupid. Sirius would say the name just to spite their mother.
Voldemort. Vol-de-mort. Flight from death. But, still, it's not the first time he makes this thought. The name keeps leaving him edgy. A conviction that Regulus is missing something. There is a knot on his throat.
Flight from death.
Is this the Dark Lord's fear, then? Death? A surprisingly childish fear. Who is it who can escape death? Apart from the Philosopher's Stone, there is no way to achieve immortality and that is a fact.
To achieve immortality ...
Suddenly, Regulus is thrown back two years ago. He is fifteen, reading in the Black library. He is in the dining room with father, asking about -
Horcrux ... When one spits their soul to achieve immortality ... To create it, one has to commit murder ... The supreme act of evil ...
His father's words echo through his head. A strange, muffled sound. Regulus feels sick, repulsed; the knot on his throat tightening. What have we done? He looks at his shaking hands as if they hold all the answers of the world, filled by the certainty of the situation. The Dark Lord has made a Horcrux.
The Dark Lord has made a Horcrux.
The urge to bang his head against the kitchen table is huge. He resists it, knows Kreacher - loyal Kreacher, mistreated Kreacher - will immediately stop him. He vaguely wonders wether the Elf will do it out of loyalty of obligation. Perhaps ignorance is bliss. But knowledge is power.
Instead, he looks at Kreacher, who is making tea. "Is the Master be wanting a cup of tea?" the Elf asks, his back turned.
Say no. Refuse, a voice encourages him. It may be poisonous. But maybe it's the voice that is poisonous. Poisoning his mind with paranoia. Say yes; another, new voice in his head. He thinks he agrees with the second one. He says yes and Kreacher offers him a cup. Regulus thinks the Elf would have done it anyway.
"Thank you, Kreacher." He inclines his head. Never to be said that Regulus isn't polite.
"Kreacher lives to serve the House of Black," the Elf simply replies; an answer thousands of times said, practiced, recited, learnt by heart.
So do I.
He takes the tea, strangely doesn't check for poison. His hands are shaking and Regulus accidently drops the mug. It clatters to the floor and breaks easily; hundreds of sharp, little porcelain pieces scattering around. Regulus watches them with fascination and wonders how would it feel if they pierced his skin.
Not seeming bothered by the damage, Kreacher automatically gives him another mug, huge eyes never leaving his trembling hands. Regulus brings the mug to his lips, lowers it without taking a sip. He closes his eyes, presses the back of his hand to his mouth, counts to seven. It's enough, he decides and drinks the tea. It's burning hot, but Regulus doesn't mind. Sometimes pain is a bliss.
Horcrux, Horcrux, Horcrux, his mind chants. The Dark Lord has made a Horcrux. Regulus wishes sometimes the voices would stop. He would do anything for them to stop. The Dark Lord has made a Horcrux. The Dark Lord has made a -
September, 1971
Tensions are high over dinner.
Regulus thinks he could cut the tension with a knife; it's so thick it chills his bones and almost makes him shudder. But he knows better than that. Anything you do, anything you show can be used against you. Better be ready, vigilant. Stay sharp. Pretend, lie again and again, until you become a master of it.
On the head of the table is his father, reading a newspaper and ignoring both his son and wife, hands drumming impatiently against the paper. Said wife is sitting across him, looking absolutely livid. Walburga's lips are pursed in disapproval - it may have something to do with Sirius getting Sorted into Gryffindor. How preposterous. Truly.
It is still hard to believe. Sirius, a Gryffindor. Then again, his brother has always wanted to be at the centre of attention, so maybe it shouldn't be so surprising. And yet, it is, it is surprising, because, yes, Sirius has shown rebellious behaviour, but, at the end of the day, he is a Black. Always will be. And Blacks belong to Slytherin. Why did Sirius chose this path? Why separate himself, brand himself as someone associating with scum? Why choose to distance himself, why choose them over us why -
Emptiness. The only word - though clearly insufficient - to describe the feeling dominating his mood. His mind is floating, has gone blank - wrong, it's his feelings that have stopped working; Regulus' mind is functioning so quickly, so precisely it is unbearable and he can access millions of thoughts, can process hundreds of facts at a time -
It's overwhelming - another insufficient word, his mind supplies; a thought registered and deemed unimportant, unrecorded, forgetable - and no ten-year old can go through such an experience normally for the first time. So Regulus' frail organism reacts in the only way it knows.
It shuts down. Stops functioning.
And
Regulus
faints.
It is the first time and won't be the last. The next day, he is diagnosed a natural Occlumens. Orion claps him at the back, half-smiling. "We are proud of you, son," he says, because, apparently, Regulus can protect his mind from penetration. Which also means he has huge control over his emotions.
His mother nods, lips twitching. Walburga Black isn't an emotionally expressive person. No Black is.
They are proud of me. I should feel something. He knows this to be a fact. Every child wants their parents' to be proud. But, the thing is, Regulus has never sought out his parents' approval. Nor Sirius'.
Every child ...
The thought that occurs to him next is automatic. Not 'every child.' I am something else - a freak.
He debates writing to Sirius about it and, at first, decides it's not worth it. It's not that Regulus doesn't try. But every sentence he writes seems meaningless. Empty words on paper. The sharp tip of his quill is dripping on the parchment, tainting it, creating small, black pools of ink.
Sighing, he purses his lips. What is he hoping to achieve with this?
Dear Sirius, Regulus writes. Not a moment passes, and he scrubs away the words. It's too intimate. Too ... personal. He needs something else.
To Sirius. No, wrong. He takes the parchment, curls his fist until it is shaped like a ball, then throws it in the rubbish bin.
Another parchment. A new beginning. Sirius, he writes. Yes, that's better. More detached. How are you fairing? Have you made any well-connected acquaintances yet?
I suppose you will find strange that I am writing so soon. Not to worry about it, I was simply diagnosed a natural Occlumens. You see, brother dear? I am not cruel, as you have insinuated multiple times. We are the same. The same blood.
Mèreand père miss you. I don't miss you much, only sometimes. Don't flatter yourself too much.
He doesn't talk about the feeling of devoid emptiness, about how his mind is always functioning - about anything, really. The loneliness, the big and silent house.
Signing as R.A.B., Regulus stares at the letter. Perhaps he could do better, but maybe not, so he just sends it.
Sirius doesn't answer. It is only the beginning of the end.
(Years later, Regulus will look back and think how similar to a phoenix their relationship is. It blossoms, it burns. It is reborn from the ashes and again thrown into the fire.)
August, 1979
The next day, the scars are still here.
He doesn't know why he thought they would disappear - a stupid, childish hope, perhaps, that he can be pure, innocent again.
Who is he kidding? Regulus has never been innocent.
It's there - the urge to disappear forever, fade into non-existence among all the others. How difficult would it be? A knife would certainly do the job. No. He had locked all the knives in the drawer ever since he started to have dark thoughts.
His wand, then? An Avada to the head will surely be efficient. Or ... The sea near the village is tempting. He can hear the crashing waves. Can smell the salty air. Surely, the horizon would swallow him if he attempted to swim out too far? He doesn't, can't bother to care anymore.
Regulus lays in his bed and wonders how it must feel to die.
Perhaps Fate, Karma, call it whatever you like, does exist, because the next time he opens his eyes he is still very much alive. Which is - strange. He is sure he died, can still feel the phantom touch of cold hands and the water in his lungs and the sentence his mind keeps repeating like a prayer, drowning, drowning, drowning.
He wants to hit himself. He wants someone to hit him.
Regulus was supposed to be dead. He should be dead - everything would have been easier if he was dead and the world is better off without him, anyway. He wishes he were dead.
It doesn't matter.
Maybe Sirius was right after all, Regulus thinks. Maybe God exists and is punishing him. Merlin, maybe even hell doesn't want him.
Yes, that's why he is alive.
Alive, alive, alive. He watches his pulse on his wrist, wonders how it would feel if he slit it. Regulus lays in his bed and wonders how it must feel to die.
From the desk, the locket - that cursed thing! - is taunting him. Poisoning his thoughts.
Bullshit. It's not the locket that has caused ... this. Whatever it this. Perhaps it's the Black Madness.
He wants to set it on fire. The locket. The world. But he doesn't have a lighter, doesn't have the will. It's for the best. The rational part of his mind reminds him that it wouldn't work anyway. Only Fiendfyre and basilisk venom can destroy a Horcrux. And he has neither of those. Not yet.
It feels wrong, sitting here and moping. Regulus should be doing other things. Months have passed since his graduation day - he refuses, won't think about the lake - and what has he done?
Nothing.
The realisation is what puts him off the semi-trance. What have you done? Nothing. It's almost like waking up but not quite, because nowdays waking up means -
No. He won't think about it. He simply blocks the memory - it comes natural, with Regulus being an Occlumens.
He is going to bring down the Dark Lord only to prove he can. Not for his family, not for Sirius (and not because it's necessary or right or easy). Regulus has never needed their approval anyway. He is doing that for himself.
December, 1995
When Harry corners him, it is almost midnight. Sirius is preparing to sleep; tomorrow the year changes and they will all stay up until late to celebrate. Perhaps, he thinks, he might manage to convince Regulus into joining them. Merlin knows, the git never leaves his room.
The boy clears his throat, fidgets. "Sirius?"
"Yeah, kid?" he says immediately. They start going up the stairs and Harry won't look at him. It sets Sirius on edge. Something's wrong. "Everything alright?"
"I ... "
Sirius stops and sits down, patting the step for Harry to sit beside him. He shoots him a glance. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"
Hadn't he said the very same thing to Regulus years ago?
"I know," Harry says, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's just that - I was specifically told not to mention what happened to 'anyone under this roof.' "
It's as if he's quoting someone, Sirius observes. The phrasing reminds him suspiciously of Regulus. He tries for a smile and ends up grimacing. "We can go outside, if you want," he suggests. "Technically, it won't be under this roof."
Harry glares at him - just like James. He immediately dismisses the thought. Harry isn't James, as much as they look alike. "Anything happening during your Occlumency lesson?" Sirius asks. He wants to trust Regulus. He wants Regulus to trust him.
"I - maybe you should talk to him."
"Talk to Regulus, you mean? No one can do that. He speaks a completely foreign language."
"I'm serious - "
A wolfish grin. "So am I." He quickly sobers. "If you think I must ... " The thought fills Sirius with dread. Until now, both he and Regulus have been mainly content to ignore their past. A serious conversation would only disturb the fake peace. Then again, he supposes they will eventually have to address unspoken topics.
From outside the house, a bell starts tolling. "Midnight," Harry says. For a while, they both sit like this lost in thought, Sirius staring at the wall intently. Small spiders are hanging from the ceiling. They really need to clean up the house. It's full of ghosts.
"Sirius?"
Full of ghosts -
Distracted: "Hmm?" And painting the walls wouldn't hurt. He will have to ask -
"Have you ever met someone mad?"
The question catches him off guard. Sirius frowns, his eyebrows knitted together. "I have," he carefully replies, glancing at his godson. I am mad. "Why would you ask that?"
Harry shrugs. "No reason." He stands up, says, "Goodnight."
"Night, Harry."
He doesn't mention it to Regulus on New Year's. Not yet, Sirius promises. The days that follow are full of excitement - 1996 has began and no one knows what the future holds. They all wish to each other 'Happy New Year!' and secretly hope it will not be their last.
At some point, Remus stands up and makes a toast, "May the war end."
Everyone loudly cheers, which causes an affronted Regulus to finally honour them with his presence, if only to reprimand them for making noise. A very drunk Sirius even shakes hands with his brother, who looks scornful.
(And in the back of Sirius' mind, maybe tomorrow. Not yet.)
Putting off discussions has never worked for the Black brothers. Sirius confronts Regulus when the kids have returned to Hogwarts. He knocks for once and waits for his brother's short 'Enter.'
Strangely, it reminds him of seven and waiting nervously for his father outside the office. He opens the door, leans against it, folding his arms. "Hey, got a minute?"
Looking up from his book, Regulus fixes him with a sharp look. He looks so much like their father it's painful. "It depends," he shoots back, raising an eyebrow. "Is the minute going to be productive?"
Sirius blinks. What the fuck.
"Sit down, Sirius," his brother says eventually, sighing.
He does that. But now that he is here, Sirius has no idea what to say, what to ask. Maybe he should settle for easier questions. Test the grounds once again. "I was wondering," he says, glancing at Regulus' impassive face for a reaction, finding none, "where did you go, after you defected."
For a moment, Regulus' shoulders relax as if relieved, but almost immediately he tenses again and Sirius wonders if it was a trick of the light. "Well, I remained to France, mostly; aunt Cassiopeia had conveniently passed away nearly a year ago and the residence was empty - that is, besides the army of cats," he answers.
"Mostly?" Testing the grounds. Questioning the boundaries. Can he ask more? Will Regulus answer?
A quirk of the lips. An almost-chuckle but not quite. "I travelled around," Regulus says, rather unhelpfully.
Ah, the difficult way then. "To business trips, I suppose?"
"Horcrux hunting, actually."
Oh, of course. Sirius lifts an eyebrow, fires back, "Anything you want to share, brother dear?" A silent question. Not a plea, but close enough. Won't you trust me?
"Anything you want to ask, brother dear?" A challenge. Perhaps a give me a reason to.
Damn that idiot for being stubborn. Fuck's sake. He has so many questions. There is no time for all of them. They have no time for all of them. Sometimes - most of times - Sirius hopelessly, naively wishes they were children, when everything was cut simple and clear. Black and white. Light and dark. Bad and evil. Too many shades of grey, he sometimes thinks. Sirius' own shade is much lighter, compared to Regulus'. His brother's is lighter, compared to others. Humanity is complex. The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters. He knows that now.
(Correction, he accepts that now.)
The silent questions, the performance - they are tiring him. Sirius realises this as he realises his own mortality. He thinks Regulus may have made peace with death - may have come to terms with it - years back. 'Someone forced to the knowledge of his own mortality,' Regulus would probably quote Frank Herbert.
Sirius clasps his hands together, rubbing them. "So ... How have you been?" And he internally scolds himself. 'How have you been?' Seriously?
Regulus, too, seems to make the very same thought, raising an eyebrow. "That was your question?"
No.
He shrugs. Honestly, he hadn't thought that far.
"Just spit it out already."
A silent question passing through his mind: aren't you tired of dancing around each other? Because - he is. "It's high time we talked about something meaningful."
"You are the one who remains silent." It is a remark. It is a challenge. Something to distract Sirius from the real problem.
"I'm thinking," he answers.
"Take your time, then. Doing something for the first time is always difficult."
A remark. A challenge. Distracting Sirius from the real problem.
"Why do you always have to make things so difficult?" he snaps - Merlin, it is working. He is angry. He is just not sure about the source of this rage. Not Regulus, never Regulus.
Something dangerous passes from his brother's expression - just like all those years ago and not in a good way. A flash, a magician's trick, there and gone again, leaving him wonder wether he imagined it. "I make things so difficult?" It is a sharp and yet soft thing, his reply, barely more than a whisper. "It is always Regulus the Death Eater, Regulus the coward, Regulus the one to blame, Regulus the villain, isn't it?"
Isn't it?
It's unfair.
"I have never said those things to you," Sirius says, folds his arms.
"Only behind my back then," Regulus fires back.
It's unfair.
"You don't get to act hurt, not when they are fucking true!"
"And you don't get to judge me, when you have never bothered to know me, Sirius!"
It's unfair.
"And how could I ever hope to know you, when all you have done is hide behind a mask?"
IT'S -
"Maybe I am doing you a Merlin-damned favour!" Regulus yells, then lowers his voice, "Maybe it's high time you trusted my judgement."
- unfair.
Sirius sits down. He didn't register himself rising on his feet. When did this happen? Running a hand through his hair, he says, breathing hard, "Maybe it's high time you trusted me to be the judge of my choices. Maybe it high time you trusted me at all."
A silent laughter shakes Regulus. He is not shouting anymore. "Has it ever occured to you that the world doesn't revolve around you? Maybe it's myself I do not trust."
His concealment charms have long faded by now. A white, thin scar, barely visible, crosses the edge of his eyebrow. What have they done to you?
"I ruined myself. They didn't do anything."
Oh. So Sirius said that out loud. "Perhaps it did too much."
"Perhaps." Yet is a silent disagreement and Sirius can sense it.
"How did you defect, Regulus? And why?" He is tired. I can't do this. I don't know how to do this. Tell me how to fix us.
Regulus huffs. "So you only want to know how to absolve me of my sins? To forget what I did?"
What did you you what did I do what did we do -
His brother doesn't, won't stop. "How about I tell you about the Muggle we tortured into insanity? I was there, I saw it. I was content - I did it." He takes a deep breath, lips twitching, continues, "How about Lupin? That's a good one - I beat him up, I gave him a cut to remember, I sent him home running to you, bruised and hurt, remember? Whatever you may think, there is no redemption for me."
"I have always known what you are capable of," Sirius snaps, because, he has. He is not delusional.
"Then why are you still here?" Why are you still trying?
"Because I am capable of it too." The admission costs him everything. "The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters."
Regulus cracks a smile then, a real smile and Sirius thinks he would do everything to make him smile like that one more time. Just one more time. "I disappeared the night upon my graduation. I had been planning this for months: hunt Horcruxes, bring the Dark Lord down." He swallows. "As for the reason why ... " He averts his eyes. "It was complicated. You know."
"We have all the time of the world." They don't.
"I had just discovered that the man I had pledged my loyalty to was insane and a half-blood. I am not proud of that last one. And the fact that he hurt Kreacher did play a major role, I suppose."
Sirius whistles. "I can't wait to see you trying to explain that to Bella."
"I would rather not - "
"Come on, killjoy, it would be fun - "
" - Fun - "
"I am serious - "
Regulus groans and Sirius grins. Maybe things will get better.
December, 1979
Things aren't getting any better.
Two whole months of inactivity. Two. Regulus has destroyed the locket and the ring, but he is no closer to finding any other Horcruxes. He is getting restless. Mother would scoff. Narcissa would be disappointed.
Narcissa ...
She is his favourite cousin. They have always found comfort and solitude to each other. Exchanged secrets in the dead of the night, spoke of forbidden things they would have never dared to. Until she married Lucius Malfoy. Honestly, Regulus thinks she could have done better - Narcissa surely deserves more than a Death Eater who always boasts about his achievements. Lucius would constantly talk about being in the Dark Lord's inner circle. Our Lord trusts me completely, he had said at one point. He has entrusted me with keeping one of his most precious objects.
One of his most precious objects ...
He is so, so stupid. It's obvious. He can remember the strange notebook Malfoy was holding. It's probably in the Manor's library. Which means it could be anywhere, really. But Regulus has spent a great part of his life in that library - in libraries, generally speaking. How hard can it be?
Not a lot. From the instant he enters - the wards still recognise him, isn't that strange? Even after his 'death', Narcissa hasn't changed the wards - he heads to the library. It's almost like he is home, but not quite. Regulus is an outsider now. Many would call him a blood-traitor, although he is not one.
The Malfoy Manor's enormous library is imposing as ever. Everything is the same as he left it, months ago. And everything has changed since then. Nothing feels the same. Nothing is the same. He wonders how can he feel like an intruder to a place he used to call home.
It's not hard to find the Horcrux, in the end. In fact, Lucius hasn't even bothered to hide it in a particular way; the object - a diary, for Salazar's sake, what's next, a tiara or something? - is stuffed between some heavy tomes about Muggle hunting. No repercussions or whatsoever. The man truly is a disgrace to Slytherin.
Regulus picks it up, inspects it carefully, always wearing his gloves. One can never be sure, after all. But, besides the disturbing aura it radiates, the diary is rather uninteresting, completely blank. What a strange object to choose to put your soul inside, he thinks.
Well. It doesn't matter. He is going to destroy it anyway.
December, 1975
"You have to eat something, Regulus."
He scoffs at that. "The human body can endure starvation," Regulus answers, not looking up from his book.
They - that is, Barty, Evan and himself - are in their dormitory. It's the last day before the holidays, before Regulus heads back to Grimmauld. That's not what makes him sick, of course. But he remembers the silence, remembers the absence, remembers the loneliness.
And the anger. Especially the anger.
Barty climbs to his bed, causing Evan to whistle and raise an eyebrow. "I mean it," he says, grabbing Regulus' book and snatching it shut.
"Hey! I was reading that, dimwit!"
"Now you aren't," he replies smugly.
Regulus stares at Barty. Barty stares at Regulus. Regulus stares at Barty.
Wilkes enters the room. "Are Black and Crouch having a staring contest?" he asks.
Shaking his head, Evan responds, "Barty is having a staring contest. Regulus is plotting revenge and hasn't remembered to blink for the past five minutes."
"Oh." Wilkes blinks, then turns and leaves the room in a rush.
"I think we scared him," Evan giggles.
"I think Regulus scared him."
He doesn't mean to say it. It is an accident. Because Regulus' mind is filled with thoughts of Sirius and him in Grimmauld. Because Sirius and him playing duets on piano. Because -
Because.
Because he is tired and more relaxed than usual, so it casually slips, while he's silently chuckling. "Shut up, Sirius."
Because Barty has always reminded him of Sirius. Loud and rebellious Sirius. Cheeky and crazy Barty.
And now Evan is gaping like a fish and Regulus is mortified and Barty ...
Barty looks hurt.
He hadn't meant to say it. It was an accident. He hadn't meant to say it.
"That's how you see me?" Barty chokes out, eyes accusing. Condemning. It's like a slap to the face. "Like a brother? Like - " he gestures around helplessly - "like a replacement for Sirius?"
"Careful," Evan warns, eyes narrowing.
They ignore him.
"How am I supposed to see you? You are my - " thousands words passing his mind: ally, companion, classmate - all of them untrue - "friend."
And look what it took you to admit it.
Now it's Barty who looks like he has been slapped. "How?" he repeats, incredulous. "You ask how? I know you're oblivious, Regulus, but, this - "
"Barty, that's enough," Evan drawls.
"But - "
"Enough."
Regulus glances at Evan, shifts his eyes to Barty. They have secrets from him, eh? So be it. He gets up, closes the door with a thud not loud enough to drown the thud of a fist hitting the desk.
During the holidays, only Evan visits. The two of them are in Regulus' bedroom, who traces the edges of the newspaper clips attached to his wall.
"Are you having a depressive episode?" Evan asks from the bed. It's meant to be a joke.
Depressive episode? He wants to huff. Hit something. Someone to hit him. I'm having a depressive series. We are on season five.
Regulus does none of that. Instead, he scoffs, clasping his hands behind his back. "I am fine," he snaps.
I am not fine.
I am drowning in memories, thoughts, my own mind betraying me.
I am not fine.
"I'm fine," Regulus says again, calmly. He hopes his eyes show what he can't say: I'm sorry.
Evan sighs, doesn't press it. "Keep pushing us away, Regulus, and you will end up alone."
And what do you know of loneliness, Evan?
June, 1972
"Another school year comes to an end."
Sirius scoffs, pushing Remus' shoulder friendly, James and Peter across them. "Come on, Moons, don't be so cliché," he says cheerfully. "If anything, I should be the dramatic one."
They are on their way home and spirits are low.
"When does the judgemental express arrive, Pads?" James asks, leaning towards him.
"I told you not to call him that. Regulus will come get me in an hour. We are reaching London." His accent has unconsciously slipped back. The silence that settles among them is tense. No one wants to say good-bye; therefore they are all more snappy than usual.
"I want to break free, I want to break free," Peter starts humming the lyrics of the Queen song under his breath. He smiles at Sirius and Remus, then nudges James at his side. "C'mon, guys! Don't be miserable!"
"You know something?" James says, "Pete is right." He gets this dreamy-like face and continues, "I want to break free from your lies - "
" - You're so self-satisfied I don't neeeeed you," Sirius continues, a reluctant smile morphing into his feature. "Come on, Moony!"
"I've got to break free," Peter says, nodding his head to the rhythm.
The three of them together sing, James throwing an arm around Peter's shoulders, "God knows, God knows I want to breaaak free."
Remus smiles, and joins in, looking at Sirius as they sing together, "I've fallen in love, I've fallen in love for the first time, this time I know it's for real, I've fallen in love, yeah, God knows, God knows I've fallen in love." And Remus is smiling, shining like the moon and the only thing Sirius can think is, beautiful, beautiful boy. He blushes at the thought - it terrifies him, the implications of this. Boys aren't supposed to - well. Right?
Thankfully, Pete picks up another song. Which is - Love of my life. Oh, Merlin, is God punishing him? What has he done and when?
The door of their compartment slides open sharply and a boy - Regulus - looks at them, folding his arms. "Sirius?" he says. "Are you coming?"
Sirius sits straighter. "It depends who are you sitting with," he shoots back and, just like that, the tension returns. Why does his brother have to destroy everything?
"You know who I am sitting with."
"Rosier and the Crouch kid."
"Evan and Barty," Regulus corrects, then purses his lips. "They are my friends."
"Progs, Moony and Wormtail are also my friends."
Regulus' piercing gaze falls upon his companions and, again, grey meets grey. "So be it," he says. He looks at Sirius intently, knowingly, says, "I am not - "
Going to tell on you to mother.
Sirius nods gratefully. "Thank you. If you - "
Want to see it with us -
"I know, Sirius. I will see you later." With this, Regulus leaves, closing the door with much less force than before. One could even say that he was suppressing a smile. Leaning back to his seat with a small smile himself, Sirius releases a breath he didn't know he was folding. He notices his friends' thunderstruck faces and barks out a laugh.
"Did you - " James stutters " - did you understand each other? How did you do that?"
Oh, you have know idea, James, he wants to say. How we would have whole conversations in silence - a glance, a nudge to the shoulder equal to thousands of words. How we understood each other without understanding each other, how we are so different and so similar.
Sometimes we still do, he thinks. Understand each other. It used to be the easiest thing in the world, because it was us against the world.
But that was before. That was before, so he says, "A good magician doesn't reveal his tricks. Because, then - " he shrugs - "the trick loses its worth, its mystery. Its value." A lump forms inside his throat. "And no one wants to see it. Not anymore."
Why do I feel grief? he asks himself. No one is dead. Can you mourn the living? Should you?
And his mind replies, perhaps it's a magic trick that you are mourning. A flash - there and gone again. Leaving you wonder, was any of it real? When did it happen? Why didn't I notice?
Nothing makes sense. Sirius feels sick.
July, 1975
The room with the piano is not empty.
Sirius sticks his ear to the door, listening carefully. He recognises his brother's technique and his lips twitch. How similar they are, seeking peace of mind in music. Music, the art of the soul. When Regulus plays, the whole house falls silent; even the portraits stop murmuring. Yes, Regulus is clearly the superior pianist, Sirius thinks. He could make a career out of it. The way his long and slim fingers caress the white-black keys, how he never misses a note. Merlin, his passion, the vulnerability his music possesses; delicate and intricate, loud and suddenly silent, piano, forte, then pianoforte, his perfect legato - the vulnerability this family has managed to kick out of Regulus. Control your emotions and, if you can't, at least bury them.
It is relaxing, listening to Regulus playing. Of course, when they were younger, they would play at each other's presence, spend hours together. They would play duets and Regulus would try to explain to him his mistakes ...
All of it gone now. They never play together, not anymore. In fact, Sirius hasn't touched the piano for months. He wonders if this is symbolic. Wonders if Regulus still plays their piece alone. Wonders if Regulus remembers it. Wonders if he remembers it.
Sirius sits down beside the door and lets his head fall to the wall.
Ah, Regulus has stopped playing Satie. He is playing - is that Asturias? Sirius asks himself, brows knitting together. He knows Regulus has been trying that one since forever, but ...
But he hadn't known Regulus had mastered Albeniz's piece. They used to tell each other everything. Regulus always came to Sirius' room to drag him to the piano room when he mastered a song.
It's beautiful. Regulus begins with the introduction, the main theme of the song, never once missing a note, his B notes - the ones not part of the main melody - barely audible, just enough to hear them. And then the notes fade away and he changes an octave.
Sirius wonders at the imposing sound of the piano keys. This part always reminds him of the east culture.
And then, then the main theme begins again and it's better than before, it's better than any other time - demanding attention, imposing and fast and sharp and he can imagine how his brother's hands dance along with the keys.
Now it's the almost complete silent part, before Regulus plays the theme again, but this time it's delicate and soft, before it ends. It is haunting.
The music stops and Sirius barely has the time to hide, before the door open and closes - slamsclosed, by the sound of it. From the corner, he watches Regulus stand outside, back turned to the door. Sirius, who only has the view of his brother's profile, sees him look down, short black curls obscuring his grey eyes. It pains him, that he cannot see Regulus' eyes. It's where he used to find the strongest emotions. A silent agreement from the other side of the table, anger, sadness, some happiness.
Nowadays, Regulus' clever eyes are always occupied by frost. Still orb-like and wide, but no longer the eyes of a child. These days Sirius only finds apathy, coldness there. Disappointment. When did it come to this?
"I know you are there."
Regulus' voice startles him, pulling him out of his thoughts. His brother remains in the same position, back turned to the door, only his profile visible.
Won't you look at me? Sirius wonders, as he gets up. Won't you smile like you used to, when we were younger? You don't smile anymore, not with me. Won't you laugh again with my silly jokes, when it was you and me against the world?
What happened to us?
"Regulus," he starts, unsure, testing the waters, careful, don't slip away, "who changed first? Was it me?" Or was it you? Uncertain. Afraid of an answer. James would scoff at him.
Not everything has to be about Potter.
A quite chuckle, an exhale of breath. It is a cold sound - no real emmotion behind it. He thinks his brother's eyes are dull; he thinks his lips twitch in a grimace.
"Yes." A shake of the shoulders - a huff. "It was you."
And that's how Regulus slips away from Sirius' lax now grasp; that's how he disappears like the ghost he is.
Sirius feels it then, the grief, the lump in his throat that has been forming for years, a knot around his neck that keeps and keeps tightening, threatening to choke him, threatening to leave him breathless, because he doesn't know how to fix this and he doesn't know if he should, but he wants to and he can't, because he is sixteen and sixteen is too young to live in chains and fourteen is too young to learn how to be a ghost and -
they
are
just
kids.
But he knows Regulus has never felt like one. And he begins to understand why. Sirius doesn't want this. Doesn't want to lose his childhood. Doesn't want to mature earlier.
Sirius doesn't want to become a ghost.
When he goes to his room, he puts on Rebel, rebel and wonders.
February, 1976
They are still not in speaking terms. Which must be the main reason for Barty to throw him a book, instead of just waking Regulus up.
He does eventually wake up, head aching. "What in Merlin's beard - " Regulus looks around, his mind still half-dreaming. "Where am I?"
"Heaven," replies a dry voice. Barty.
Blinking, he decides to play along, not because he misses Barty or something, and says, "Oh. I didn't think I would be here."
"Nor did I," is Barty's response, before he leaves the room and slams the door shut.
"Rude," Evan comments, raising an eybrow.
Regulus sighs, then gets up. "I don't get it," he says, "why is he acting like that?"
"Let it be, Regulus. He will grow out of it."
Grow out of what? He still thinks he has missed something.
For you, Barty would practically do anything.
Regulus can't help but feel lonely. He misses Barty ( - the way he misses Sirius; enough for it to hurt, not enough to bruise). And what if he sees Barty as a brother? Why Barty doesn't understand?
Why does no one understand?
(His thoughts are scattered glass on the kitchen floor; sharp and dangerous, broken, difficult to gather together.)
For you, Barty would practically do anything.
Why doesn't he understand Barty?
Regulus knows this; he is not a sympathetic person, but other people's motives he can figure out. It's a gift and a curse, the way his mind works. Logic comes naturally to him and he seeks it to everyone else. But having expectations always leads to disappointments, as he had told Sirius once.
For you, Barty would practically do anything.
The thought that passes from his mind is absurd. What if -
Surely not. He would have noticed.
"Evan?" he asks carefully.
"Hm?"
"Does Barty - " Circe, it sounds absurd " - does Barty have a crush on me?"
Evan bangs his head against the desk. "Dear Lord, help me," he murmurs, before turning to look at Regulus. "Yes, Regulus. Welcome to reality. I hope you enjoy your stay."
"How long have you known?"
"God, I - " Evan runs a hand through his hair " - four years?"
After that, Regulus heads straight out of the room and goes to find Barty.
He finds him sitting by the lake, throwing pebbles in the water, his legs up to his chest, watching how the dark surface is gently disturbed. Regulus doesn't sit beside him, doesn't kneel, doesn't hug or comfort, doesn't squeeze his shoulder. Instead, he stands behind and waits. Waits for Barty to turn around. To speak up. Say anything.
Barty turns around to look at him, eyes red. "Say something."
Oh, neither of them are good at this, are they? "What do you want me to says?" he asks, folding his arms. The weather is still chilly. But then again, he's always been cold.
"Say that you like me back."
"I can't do that," Regulus says, then comes to sit beside him.
"Do I disgust you?" Barty asks, wiping away tears. He's never seen him cry before, not when his father sent him a Howler, not when his mother deteriorated.
His eyes widen for a moment. "Of course not, Barty," he quickly says, "why would you think that?"
"Sometimes - " a tremor in his voice " - sometimes I disgust myself. Boys ... Boys aren't supposed to like other boys."
Regulus huffs. "You don't follow society's demands. You set them up yourself and expect everyone to follow," he says. "You don't blend into a crowd to disappear, the crowd blends into you. Thus, you become one and, thus, you disappear."
"Isn't it easier to just blend into a crowd?"
He thinks of Narcissa, answers, "We don't do what's easy, Barty. We only do what's necessary. When the world won't respect you, you demand its respect anyway."
"When did you become so wise?" Barry sniffs.
"You spend too much time with Wilkes and Avery that you can't appreciate common sense."
The next days are tense - though not the tension of the previous week. There is a new mutual understanding between them. Of course, that doesn't mean that Regulus has become soft. It happens like this:
Evan attempts to leave the dormitory the same time with Barty, who quickly stops, saying, "Ladies first."
Scoffing, Evan bows. "No, after you, dearest."
"I insist."
Regulus rolls his eyes and pushes past them. "After me."
From behind, Evan shouts, "If you were my husband, I would poison you!"
"If I were your husband, I would drink it," Regulus deadpans, pursing his lips. So much for friendship.
April, 1995
Time passes slowly in Grimmauld Place.
Oh, how Sirius aches to go out, see the world, feel the sun. Become Padfoot once again, run without stopping, the air caressing his face. Padfoot doesn't have the same grasp of emotions Sirius has. Sometimes, it's easier to be Padfoot. Sometimes, it's better to be Padfoot.
Regulus finds him at dawn.
Padfoot is sitting on the kitchen table, has put his paws under his chin. The sun has started rising and light bathes him. It's almost peaceful. Almost, but not quite, almost because Padfoot misses Prongs, misses his Moony, misses everything. Almost. Such a strange word. Almost changed. Almost happy. Almost there, but not quite yet. Maybe tomorrow.
Regulus finds Padfoot at dawn.
His steps are not quiet and the floor creaks. Padfoot's head shoots up, searching for the source of noise, ears alert. His brother doesn't raise an eyebrow at the sight of a dog napping on his table. Sirius would wonder how he knew they were Animagi, but Padfoot doesn't care.
"Good morning, Sirius," Regulus simply says, before sitting on a chair with a mug that smells tea from thousands of miles. How British of him.
Padfoot scowls, then approaches tentively. He has never liked tea, so he nugdes the mug with his nose and it is spilled all over his brother.
"You absolute moron," Regulus hisses, snarls, looking affronted. "Look what have you done, you - "
Sirius transforms back into a person, unable to restrain his laughter. "You dog?" he suggests, before bursting out laughing.
A soft sigh. "Yes, Sirius. Very funny, hilarious." But a tiny smile - the ghost of it, there and gone again -- appears on Regulus' lips.
Things will be better, Sirius thinks, knows.