when we were young and still innocent, II
“What are you doing?”
Ursa put her fingers to her lips, a smile curled along them, head inclined to the door. The room was in a state of chaos; the royal blue duvet was flung over the desk, the curtains were torn and hanging off the curtain pole, a pile of books were haphazardly thrown open across the wooden floor, discarded in a manner unusual for his cousin and there was a broken glass jar, scattered over in the corner as somebody had quickly tried to hide it away. Regulus toed a throw pillow, stolen from one of the lounge rooms, and frowned.
“Don’t worry,” she jerked a thumb to where his brother was balancing precariously on a chair, which was on two, very heavy and certainly strictly kept within the library walls, which were on a nightstand pulled from beside the bed and placed beside the wardrobe. The only reason Regulus could see that he hadn’t fallen over was the stolen broom - and he didn’t ask where they got that, since Blacks hadn’t swept the floors since they still lived in fear of fire, silver runic engravings and all - and Ursa propping up the books and chair as she sat on the nightstand.
“Don’t worry, she says,” Sirius grumbled, head turned into the dark space between the wardrobe and the ceiling. His clothes were stained with dust and dirt, scratched along the sleeves like somebody had grabbed at them with talons. “It’s not like the floor is hard enough to crack my skull.”
“Kreacher can heal.”
“I’m talking about my mother.”
“...Kreacher can keep secrets?”
“You’re not asking Kreacher to cover for you." Regulus snapped, flushing red as Sirius and Ursa broke away from their conversation. Then the memory of Kreacher nursing a bandaged finger resurfaced as he helped Regulus get ready for bed, organising his school work even though he was expected to do it himself. “He already has, this week, if you can’t remember.”
At this, Sirius frowned. “So why can’t he do it again?”
He seethed. “Because Mother punishes him instead. She doesn’t even hurt you, just yells at you a bit. Compared to how she makes Kreacher hurt himself, can't you-”
“‘How she makes Kreacher hurt himself’.” His brother snickered mockingly. He and Kreacher had never been close, heir apparent that he was and attention lavished upon him for the smallest things. Their mother had focused on primarily raising Sirius, however dubiously, and had regulated Regulus to Kreachers’ care for most of his early childhood. He never resented him for it, but sometimes he wished that he had a bit more sympathy for the elf. “Besides, it’s not like we’re going to get caught, are we, Ursa? You always assume the worse, Reg.”
“You think too highly of yourself.”
“What, so you agree?”
“No,” she repeated slowly as one would to a toddler. “I never get caught.”
His brother scoffed, but he had turned around to root around in whatever business he was enthralled with before. Regulus was totally tattling on him, regardless of what they thought. It was better than suffering at the hands of his mother when she found out he knew too. “Sure.”
“I don’t.”
“Right.”
“I’m telling you-”
“And I- Found it!” His brother grinned manically, triumphant, until- "Oh, hell!"
Too frozen by fear to even scold him, however half-heartedly, for his language, Regulus and Ursa both watched in horrified tandem as his brother tipped forward. His heart caught in his throat as the chair swerved, surprised by the sudden shift in weight, and he watched in slow motion as his brother fell to the floor.
Literally.
His brother landed, the doxy in his hand thrashing in unholy fury, with a soft plop on the wooden floor without nary a bruise.
“Well,” Sirius grinned at him, absent of any of the previous malice.
“That was brilliant, Reg!” Ursa bounded over from the tipped-over pile of chair, books and nightstands and swung around his neck with an arm as she latched around his neck, sending them stumbling over each other. Regulus couldn’t stifle a smile. “Hah, better than any of Sirius’. He only ever Summoned cookies.”
Regulus choked as her grip tightened and he felt his brother’s fingers loosen her grip, tugging her attention away to him as he snarked back unrelenting. “And how would you know, Miss Paint-The-Kettle-Blue?”
He watched them, still partly trapped underneath his slightly bigger cousin’s arm and decided he wouldn’t tell, after all.