Regulus Arcturus Black, 18. LONDON. Presumed dead at the hands of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, missing since November 18th, 1979. Regulus was born January 16th, 1961, and was the heir to his family name. He is survived only by his father and mother, Orion and Walburga Black, who still reside in London. A private memorial will be held by his family on December 2nd. As there is no body, a burial will not take place.
Sirius’s head filled with white noise as his blood seemed to boil and run cold all at once. A pristine portrait of his brother blinked up at him from the Daily Prophet’s obituary page with his ever-present look of disgust.
It had been over a year since the last time he had seen Regulus. The day he had graduated from Hogwarts, his brother had sought him out and socked him in the jaw.
By that point, the two of them had spent the majority of two years avoiding one another. There had rarely been words between them, only the occasional fistfight when they accidentally crossed paths. They were both highly skilled when it came to curses, but they had both always favored fists over wands when dealing with one another. The physical satisfaction of beating the snot out of each other was the only thing that could release all of their pent up anger.
Sirius never found out exactly what had prompted Regulus to approach him on the platform of Hogsmeade Station—maybe an outsider had made a comment that got him reeling for conflict, or perhaps he had been feeling conflicted all on his own. Shouting had surrounded them while outside hands grabbed at their clothes, trying vainly to separate them—but Regulus hadn't said a word. He had been all hot anger, gritted teeth, and enraged tears. Sirius hadn’t seen tears from Regulus since before either of them attended Hogwarts.
When they had both been held back far enough they couldn’t get a swing at each other, Regulus had finally resorted to drawing his wand. He had gotten out the beginning of what sounded like an unforgivable before Hagrid had stepped between them and yanked the wand right from his grasp.
Sirius had never tried to contact Regulus again. He had given up on him long before their final fight; his brother was a lost cause. A Death Eater. A murderer. And now he had paid the price for it.
Sirius felt sick.
A voice called from the bedroom, and Sirius ignored it. He balled up the pages of the Prophet and dunked it into his mug of coffee, sending brown liquid spilling over the sides and spreading over the stained wood of the tiny kitchen table.
The familiar voice rang out again.
“Sirius?”
Frustrated, he stood quickly, and his chair scooted loudly across the cracked linoleum.
On the dresser in his bedroom, James’s bespectacled face looked out from a small, square mirror. Sirius scooped it up with one hand and fell backward onto his creaky mattress.
“What, James?”
His tone was harsh, and the look in his best friend’s eyes told him that he had seen the Prophet. He knew.
“Pads, you doing okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to talk about it, but don’t lie to me.”
Sirius sat up again, his firm grip on the mirror turning his knuckles white.
“Why should I give a shit that he’s dead, James?!”
“I know it’s complicated—“
“It’s not! It’s not complicated at all! He made all his fucked up choices, and he got what was coming to him. I don’t care!”
“Sirius, don’t. I was there. I saw how hard you fought to get through to him. His death doesn’t justify his choices, and you had every right to give up on him—but don’t try to tell me you don’t care, because I don’t believe it for a second.”
“He’s always been a coward, he just finally decided to run away—“
“Aren’t those the same words he always said about you?”
James’s words cut deep, and Sirius covered up the wound with more anger.
“That was different!”
He threw the mirror face down on the mattress and stalked out of the room, ignoring James’s calls in favor of pacing the tiny living room.
Dead at the hands of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. As if Regulus had been so important—he must have been killed by other Death Eaters, the ones he had considered friends. If he had really deserted, where would he have run to?
If Sirius hadn’t given up on him, would he have shown up on his doorstep? If Sirius had persisted in offering him a place to go, would he still be alive?
More than likely, he still would have stubbornly refused the offer—but that was something Sirius could never know for sure, and to his dismay, guilt gnawed at his heart.
Stepping back into Grimmauld Place was like being surrounded by ghosts. The house of Black had been long dead to Sirius anyway—but now he was the only one left to carry that dreadful name.
Sirius had heard of his father’s passing shortly after his brother’s, but his mother hadn't kicked it until he'd been in Azkaban. Learning about their deaths meant little to him, both then and now. His capacity for sympathy with regards to his dear parents had shrunken and become nonexistent when he had still been a teen. When he had left this place, he had never intended to see either of them again. And he hadn’t.
But now the circumstances had led to him returning to the one place he hated most. The dark atmosphere was suffocating—he would prefer returning to Azkaban than staying there. However, providing headquarters for the Order was the only way Sirius could be useful right now. He would do it, but he wouldn’t be happy about it.
He and Remus had worked through the first floor to make it more suitable for guests; Remus with a certain amount of care, and Sirius with as much carelessness as he could put out. Everything they had found just stirred up more anger in his heart. The residents of Number 12 may have died, but they had certainly left enough remnants of themselves behind.
Kreacher, for example, was dreadfully alive. He had shrieked and screamed upon seeing Sirius in the house. The noise of his tantrum had starkly reminded Sirius of his mother, and awoke a painting above the stairs of the wicked witch herself. Sirius had been both relieved and enraged to find he had the power to silence Kreacher, and he and Remus had made it a priority to install curtains around Walburga’s portrait.
It had been a delight, staying with Remus for a while. They had both gained some gray hairs and a few wrinkles around the eyes, but they could both pretend their friendship had picked up right where it left off. As soon as they stepped into the old, dark house, however, Sirius’s attitude had shifted. Remus was being nothing but helpful, and it was pissing him off. He was being too careful, too quiet. Sirius didn’t want someone to feel bad for him, he wanted someone to be angry with him.
He wanted James.
Alone, Sirius climbed the dusty, carpeted stairs to the top floor to find the state of his bedroom. He had always pictured it entirely trashed, all of the old things he had left behind torn apart by his hateful relatives—more logically, he was sure he would find the room re-purposed, without a trace of him left. The last thing he'd expected was to find his old nameplate still in place on a door that was locked by magic.
He worked at spell-breaking for about twenty minutes, then gave up and sat down against the wall. In his frustration, he didn’t have the patience to properly work through it. He could enlist Remus's help later, he supposed. He leaned his head back against the peeling wallpaper, and his gaze fell onto the door adjacent to his.
Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black.
Pompous asshole. He hadn't changed until the day he died.
Without thinking, Sirius got to his feet, and his hand hovered over the serpentine door handle. Regulus hadn't crossed his mind once since he had last been at the mercy of the dementors—maybe that was why he was getting so weirdly sentimental now.
He turned the handle, and was surprised to find it unlocked. The door slowly swung open. In contrast to the rest of the house, which was coated floor to ceiling in grime and cobwebs, the bedroom was nearly pristine. Everything was still covered in a thin layer of dust—but it had clearly been better tended to than any other room.
The enormous family crest painted over Regulus’s bed was the first thing to draw the eye. It was horribly intricate, and brought up the same rotten feelings Sirius had felt sorting through the any of the other rooms.
Sirius took a step into the room, his eyes searching the walls and furnishings—for what exactly, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he was hoping to find something that would clear Regulus’s name and let him feel like he could finally, properly grieve for him.
Instead, he found Voldemort’s name plastered all over the room. The articles had been cut from the Prophet with too much care, and hung on the walls with too much adoration. The desk drawers yielded nothing better. There was no letter expressing regret, nothing that could even vaguely hint at a change of heart. The more he searched, the more he became convinced that Regulus might have even been happy dying on orders from Lord Voldemort. Nothing could have been a greater honor to him.
He slammed the desk drawer shut as loudly as he could, grunting in frustration. Sirius was cut from the same cloth—he could sympathize with Regulus's wish to live up to the expectations put on him. Maybe that was why he couldn’t just shrug off his death, like he had with their parents’. He was still here, searching through remnants for some sort of hidden answer—searching for closure, for some way to say goodbye.
There was nothing to be found. Regulus hadn’t left to do what was right; he had run away out of cowardice, and died with the mark of darkness branded on his arm.
Sirius stalked out of the room and pointed his wand at the door handle—the snake seemed to be mocking him.
“Colloportus.”
The stairs below him creaked, and Remus’s head peaked around the corner. “Everything alright up there, Padfoot?”
“It’s fine,” Sirius answered, turning his back on all that remained of his brother. “My bedroom’s locked, I’m trying to break into it.”
“Want some help?”
Maybe Remus wasn’t angry enough for Sirius’s liking, but he was still grateful for such a friendly presence amid this hell.
“If anyone can do some spell-breaking, it’s us, right?” Sirius’s charming smile returned, even if it was a little forced.
Regulus’s door remained locked, and Sirius never forgave him for it.