Portraits
“Where the hell have you been?” Sirius asked, his tone sharper than he intended as his wet sewage rat of a brother walked through the door of 12 Grimmauld Place.
“Why the hell do you care?” Regulus retorted, biting back with the same tone, blinking as water dripped from his curls into his eyes.
“Don’t be like that,” Sirius rolled his eyes, “It’s been two days, we thought Dumbledore had you moved.”
“Or worse.” Remus cut in under his breath. Regulus turned his head to see the werewolf leaning against the doorframe to the parlor room. Had anyone bothered to tell him that his older brother was dating a monster like that? No, of course not. Why would they?
But Regulus figured it out on his own, as he always did.
It wasn’t exactly hard seeing as James had hinted at it back at Hogwarts. What really threw him off was when Sirius mentioned “times of the month” for his partner. Regulus had been inclined to believe that Remus was trans at first, which was exciting to think. Someone like him- finally.
But no, Remus kept turning up with more and more scars after full moons and thanks to an incident he’d prefer to forget he learned the truth. He had accidently walked in on his brother and Remus getting dressed for the day leading to the reality that the man was not like himself. Regulus was a different kind of monster.
“Well he didn’t and despite everyone’s overwhelming enthusiasm, I'm still alive.” Regulus huffed, peeling his coat off and tossing it to Kreacher, “I was with…” he stopped himself before he could go on, Sirius didn’t know he had been involved with James- no Barty. He had been with Barty.
Why was he thinking of James?
“With?” Sirius prompted.
“No one.” Regulus said shortly, pushing past the werewolf by the entrance to get up the creaking stairs. Naturally, Remus let him despite Sirius’ protest.
The eyes, god the eyes that were watching him. Every portrait on the walls of the stairwell, every whisper from his brother and the werewolf, every groan of the wood under his feet sent a sharp hiss through his spine. The air felt thin as he slammed his door shut.
Too loud.
He slammed the door too loud. Father would be angry, the door would be broken open. He stumbled backwards, Father would come- Sirius couldn’t save him. Not anymore. Sirius left.
Sirius left him.
His back hit the floor with a heavy thud as he tripped over his own feet, sufficiently knocking the wind out of him. He couldn’t breathe. He needed help, Father was coming, he needed help.
But no one would come, not to hurt him or to help him. He stared up at the ceiling as the enchanted ceiling rippled like the tides. The moving of the water above his head reminded him that he was alone.
He was always alone. No matter how much he secluded himself… he hated it. The water made it easier. The water had plenty of company that never demanded anything more than presence. Maybe he could be like the water.
Father wasn’t coming, Father didn’t live here. Sirius was here, he wasn’t gone. Pandora was here, he could find her if he wanted. But he didn’t. He just wanted to stare at the ceiling until his heart stopped racing.
Maybe even until his heart stopped beating.
He could feel his breath starting to come back as he stared up, not moving an inch. Was he going mad? Why had he panicked?
He must be mad, to stare at the ceiling for hours watching the ripples in veins in order to feel like he was real. His chest felt heavy- tight even. He’d been wearing his binder too long again. He wouldn’t move and take it off in order to relieve the pain and breath freely.
It hurt but he could feel it. He could feel something.
That was all he needed.
He raised a hand to trace along the lines on his ceiling. As he did so, his sleeve slipped down a little revealing a new set of black lines along his forearm. A skulled design that his parents had told him to keep hidden until the time was right. From everyone.
He didn’t know what it meant but he honestly didn’t care, it looked cool. His parents had given it to him and he would obey them, that was his purpose- to listen to the point of perfection. It had been an exchange a few years ago when the Dark Lord first began to stir attention. The mark, in exchange for the ability to be himself. To not be her anymore.
So he’d gladly accepted, how could he not. For once he would feel the warm embrace of his parents in pride that wasn’t from expected excellence. He would finally be acknowledged as a son.
What was a tattoo in exchange for that?
How bad could it be if his parents finally let him join the adult’s table and stand beside them as equals?
It was just ink…. Right?