Fic: Where The Eagles Fly (Potterverse, PG-13)
Title: Where the Eagles Fly
Summary: Sirius ran away from home over Christmas 1976, and Regulus followed him. Now, on his return to school, Regulus has to confront the Slytherins...not to mention rage, hatred and slander.
Rating: PG-13 (for sex talk, mild profanity, and cruelty)
Ships: Remus/Sirius (mentioned)
Warning: Second person, present tense. (I've never used that voice and tense together, and wanted to see if I could.)
A/N: This is a sequel to my AU story, "On a Wing and a Prayer" and which spun off of Thistlerose's "This Bird Has Flown". Both stories deal with Sirius' running away from home for the last time, and from Regulus' point of view. Thistlerose follows canon more closely. I allow thirteen-year-old Regulus a shot at redemption--after putting him through utter hell.
Here are the links:
On a Wing and a Prayer:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
And here are Thistlerose's stories:
This Bird Has Flown, which inspired "On a Wing and a Prayer."
A Meeting With Strangers, sequel to "This Bird Has Flown."
This story has been cross-posted to the Regulus Black Y! Group.
Thanks to Thistlerose for the quick and accurate beta.
***
This is the moment you've been dreading--the moment that you have to step onto the platform and face the Slytherins.
You can't think of them as friends, because they aren't that and have never been. Most of them are cousins, thanks to the convoluted, almost incestuous lines of descent in all pureblood families. Some have been in study groups with you, or have helped you play pranks on Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors. Especially on your brother and his friends.
That's the extent of your bond--blood kinship (which they would disavow now, given what you have done), and sharing a house, a lesson, and a joke.
The Slytherins are facing you now. You, your brother and his friends stride across the platform in a line. Lupin is on the far left, walking just a fraction too close to Sirius. His brown eyes are quiet, alert and--the word surprises you--territorial. He's facing straight ahead, but he seems to be sheltering Sirius all the same. Next comes Sirius, lost in his new overcoat, his flushed skin taut on his cheekbones. His pale blue eyes are sunk in shadows. He looks...not ill. Beyond ill. As if he has been dragged around the dark side of the moon. James is on his right. He has placed one protective hand on Sirius' shoulder, and is glaring fiercely at Severus. As he keeps pace with James, Peter stares at the Slytherins with dispassionate loathing--the look of a Healer forced to contemplate a new and highly contagious magical plague. And you, at the tag end.
Peter keeps one hand close to your elbow to steady you, and you're grateful. After your marathon run from Carlisle to Windermere during and after a snowstorm--legs and feet slashed open by one of Bellatrix's curses, and ankles thoroughly chewed and clawed by the Crups that Lucius Malfoy, in poetic justice, sicced on you--you are lucky to have feet. You should be walking with a cane, but you swore up and down that you would be damned if you walked onto the platform with anything remotely resembling one of Lucius Malfoy's possessions. Later--you packed a collapsible cane in your trunk, and you'll use it at school--but not now. This battle, which you knew would be waiting, has to be fought with you standing on your own two feet.
The Slytherins--Narcissa, Rastaban, Terrance, Alan, Severus--are all clustered together in a way that makes you think of coils. They're staring incredulously at you.
You know why. You've broken cover. You have always been the go-along-to-get-along Black, the quintessential conventional pureblood. A follower, not a leader. You've spent most of your life mutely obeying this or that dictatorial witch or wizard--your mother, your Head of House, your elder cousins, your supposed friends. You've always been a mouse, quiet, scurrying into shadows, and hoping not to be noticed by the other, more powerful beings around you.
Only somehow, over Christmas hols, the mouse turned into a lion. And you found out that you love your brother beyond sanity. Beyond life.
You can see the anger and resentment and the bafflement--above all, the betrayal--in your housemates' eyes. It's as if you had cheated them in some way, chasing after Sirius across the length and breadth of England in midwinter. Mice are not supposed to turn into lions.
Narcissa steps between you and the train, the results of a recent Beautification Spell showing in her once-black, now blonde curls, in her once dark blue and now newly grey eyes. It's like looking at a female version of Lucius. For a moment, you picture the two of them in bed together, and it's horrible. Does Narcissa really want to change so drastically? Does Lucius really enjoy having sex with his own reflection?
But then she speaks, and her voice is as chill and inexorable as ever. "You are contemptible," she says, hatred blazing from those unfamiliar eyes. "How could you betray the family that way?"
It's on the tip of your tongue to say that you didn't betray the family, that Sirius is family and you certainly didn't betray him. But you don't say it, because she's right. You were supposed to stand with the family, close ranks and forget that you had ever had a brother. You didn't do any of that. Worse, you got yourself badly hurt in the process of trying to find Sirius. The Healer the Potters summoned on Christmas Eve to see to Sirius (and who remained to Heal you as well) was shocked at the state you both were in. So much so that after you healed a bit, you both had to be examined at St. Mungo's.
The Healers were appalled by the thousands of traces of curses in the bones, muscles, optic nerves, ears and vocal cords of both of you. They were (and are) even more sickened by the physical evidence of repeated uses of Imperio and Crucio.
That's one of the chief betrayals that Narcissa is talking about. Your body and Sirius' both gave evidence against your parents, without either of you speaking a word. Evidence strong enough to get your parents thrown into Azkaban. The Potters have agreed not to prosecute--if your parents relinquish custody of you.
Blackmail, pure and simple.
Your parents are still fighting it--you are the last male Black in this generation, for they have already written off Sirius. If they lose you, the name might well die out. (Not the line, though. There are too many purebloods with Black ancestry for the line to be extinguished by one boy.)
You think that the Potters will win, somehow. Maybe because they have been talking about shared custody with Uncle Alphard. Maybe because they told a Healer to examine you in spite of the fact that they knew nothing about you, save that you were hurt and starving and had done something appallingly evil. Maybe it's the fact that James now refers to you both as his brothers.
You can't mention this, because the custody battle could leave negotiation and go to the Wizangamot, the wizard court, any minute. You would be a witness. Witnesses can't publicly discuss cases they are involved with. It's illegal. Also, speaking could ruin the case for the Potters. You will not risk that.
So you don't contradict her words about your treachery. And she sneers at you.
"Lucius said that you screamed when the Crups were after you," she says, referring to the fork-tailed, ferocious pit bull hybrids that the Blacks use as trained guard dogs. She smiles, a smile of dark, unclean satisfaction. "He said you screamed and cried like a weak, cowardly little girl. "
You expected taunts using Lucius' name, and you prepared an insult ahead of time. You say it now in a loud carrying voice that the entire platform, as you enunciate each syllable meticulously.
"Lucius. Malfoy. Blows. Dead. Male. Underage. Transvestite. GOATS."
Narcissa's mouth falls open in utter shock. You grin in real pleasure--you can count the times you've got the better of your housemates on one hand. Your brother laughs...a harsh, barking laugh that doesn't sound much like his old one. Peter shoots you a covert thumbs-up.
You start to sidle toward the train, but the other Slytherins surge toward you. The anger and betrayal are still in their eyes, but now they look scared as well, as if the world had just started spinning counterclockwise, as if gravity had ceased to function. No one mocks Narcissa Black's Dark Wizard fiance, least of all a thirteen-year-old weak sister like Regulus Black.
It's funny. Before Christmas hols, you never would have thought of publicly mocking any of them. You would have wanted to, and been too frightened. Now you calmly look up into the furious, scared eyes of wizards and witches two or three years older than you, and you realise that you're not afraid of them any longer. You have faced worse than them, and survived. They are still kids, despite the fact that they are older, stronger and more capable than you. You, in some ways, have ceased to be a child. You are not looking forward to four years of non-stop bullying (and you're really not looking forward to sixth and seventh year, after Sirius and his friends leave school), but you will survive it.
"Please let me pass," you say in a calm, unruffled voice that seems to startle them. Most stay where they are, gaping at you and Sirius. A few skitter backwards. It doesn't give you much room to walk toward the train, but there's enough.
Then Severus steps forward.
Severus is not a friend, any more than any of the other Slytherins are your friends. But...you have wanted him to be. He does not like you, for reasons that you can't quite discern but which have something to do with your physical resemblance to Sirius, with the malleability of your personality, with your brothers' friends and with Sirius himself. You have been Severus' confidante rather than his friend (for there is no one to whom you could betray his secrets) and his pawn more often than that. You've put up with the illusion of friendship with this other hopelessly lonely boy because the bitter rage in Severus echoes--used to echo, rather--something equally bitter and hateful in you.
Severus' beetle-black eyes flick contemptuously from you to your brother to Remus Lupin and back again. For a moment you hope that Severus said nothing about your brother and Lupin to the other Slytherins, but it is a vain hope, and you know it. Exposing as homosexuals two boys who roundly dislike him and whom he virulently hates would be too much of a temptation even for a saint, and Severus is anything but saintlike.
"I thought that you had higher standards, Black," he says, twisting your surname into a profanity. "After you discovered your brother and Lupin, indulging, shall we say, in recreation in an abandoned classroom, I thought that you would be sickened by his behaviour. I never suspected that you would become a willing supporter of his...debauchery."
You want to close your eyes, partly because the eyes of the other Slytherins are gleaming avidly with the lust for scandal, and partly because Severus is right. The memory of the two of them together does make you sick. And you don't understand how your older brother could possibly want another boy. Sirius has dated girls. Sirius has HAD girls. Gorgeous ones, some of them. Remus Lupin is ordinary--a brown-haired, brown-eyed, rather bookish halfblood boy with a pleasant smile and a habit of showing up once or twice a month looking as if he had been attacked by a herd of rampaging Erumpets.
And yet your brother loves him.
Loves, not merely desires. When Remus walks into a room, Sirius' face fills with sunrise.
It's an expression you've seen in a wizarding photograph--six-year-old Sirius gazing with adoration at the off-camera elder sister that you cannot remember, and your three-year-old self smiling worshipfully at Sirius.
You don't understand it, cannot even imagine it, but you've seen it in Sirius' face. Sirius loves Lupin. You don't think even your brother comprehends how deep that love runs.
You look at Severus, and then at the tense and anxious faces of your brother and Lupin. Then you ask the question that has been bothering you since you saw them in what Severus would probably call "a compromising position."
"Why did you tell me?"
Severus steps back, startled. "Tell you what?"
"Why, " you say slowly, "did you go to all the trouble of telling me that my brother was shagging someone in an abandoned classroom? You knew who he was shagging. You could have guessed how I'd react." You glare at Severus, who winces away from that look. "You wanted to hurt me. You wanted me so angry that I'd lash out at Sirius. It took months, but I finally did it. And I nearly killed my own brother."
"And you couldn't even get that right!"
As soon as the words are spoken, Severus looks as if he wishes he could call them back. You feel as if you have just received a sledgehammer blow to the stomach.
Sentences crowd to your lips. You refuse to say them. "You set me up" sounds whiny. "You used me to hurt my brother" would be stating the incredibly obvious. "How dare you?" is just pathetic. And "My brother almost died and it's your fault!" is a lie. Whatever Severus did, or didn't do, he didn't force you to set the dogs on Sirius. The responsibility--and the guilt--is yours. Always and forever, yours.
You shift position and lean against Peter a little. This makes Severus sneer a bit, but your feet are starting to ache, and you need desperately to sit down before you fall down. Sirius starts to say something sarcastic to Severus, but he is hushed by a look and a headshake from Lupin. You're grateful to Sirius for trying, but this is your battle, not his. He can't fight this one for you.
And you know that somehow Lupin has seen this. It has been almost impossible to think of him as a friend since catching him and your brother together, but...maybe he still is.
"McGonagall got your tongue?" Severus is saying sardonically. "I shouldn't be surprised--your wit, not to mention your intelligence, was always somewhat limited."
"Yes, I suppose so," you say, sighing. "For instance, I thought for years that my brother was my enemy. And I wanted to believe that you were my friend. Looks like I got things a bit mixed up. But I'll tell you this, Severus," and you look up into his eyes, "I'm not hurting him again. Or his friends."
"Or," and Rastaban Lestrange steps out of the cluster of Slytherins to stand beside Severus, "his catamite?"
Peter inhales sharply. James looks as if he wishes that he had a rogue Bludger to throw at Rastaban this instant. Your brother is muttering swear words and imprecations under his breath. Lupin's face is shuttered and blank, reflecting nothing.
"Or," you say, mimicking Rastaban's tone, "my brother's friend...and...lover."
The last word is very hard to say. It's difficult to think of that as love. But you can tell from the pride in Sirius' eyes and from the smile on Remus' face that you made the right choice. It won't make the Slytherins like you any better, but you told the truth.
There's some muttering about perversion and degeneracy and incest (which nearly drives your brother and James to punch...well, anyone within reach--and at this point all they need is a target). Peter is shaking with fury. And if looks could kill, Remus' would have Severus and Rastaban not only dead, but dissected.
The stabbing pain shooting through your feet is making you dizzy. You must end this now, before you have to crawl onto the train.
You hold up your hand like a Muggle traffic warden. "Enough. Enough!"
The Slytherins' vile accusations peter out as they stop and stare at you. You gaze at them with what you hope is utter contempt.
"This is unworthy of you," you say in a cold and formal tone, realising, even as you speak, that the tone and the phrase both belong to your father, Rigel. "If you are thinking of trying to impress us"--you emphasise the word--"with your high standards of morality, slandering my brother and his friends with salacious gossip is not the way to do so. As for your sexual mores, I am aware--having shared a dormitory with most of you for the past three years--that as far as sexual experience goes, most of you are limited to wanking off to Playwitch in the bog, or using Polyjuice Potion to experiment on each other...which, judging by the discussions I've heard on occasion, has never worked well."
You survey them with cool loathing. "And in case you're telling yourselves that I would have no idea who had used that potion for such a purpose, please believe me when I tell you that some of you are in desperate need of remedial work in Concealment Charms. I think I might be scarred for life."
You sigh dramatically. "I don't know why you bother, any of you. You don't like each other. You don't respect each other. You aren't even allies. You're merely foes and potential foes. You spend your entire lives trying to prove that you're better than other house members, better than each other..." You shake your head sadly. "You must really doubt your superiority if you need to prove it so perpetually. I--I feel sorry for you."
"You feel sorry for us?" Rastaban is trying to hiss menacingly, but it just makes him sound like he's lisping.
"Yes, I do," you say, and your voice rings with sincerity. "You have nothing--nothing but competition. You compete with your parents, your sibs, your kin, other houses. You spit venom at each other like black mambas. There's not a single person any of you can look to if you want praise or need help. You're empty--and alone. I know. Until this Christmas, I was just like you. And now I'm not. And let me tell you--it's good. Being alive is good."
The whistle of the Hogwarts Express blows twice. The Slytherins, who are gaping as if a chair had spoken, don't even seem to hear it.
"Gentlemen, our carriage awaits," says James cheerfully. And with no more fanfare than that, the five of you turn away from the Slytherins and board the train. Peter and James have to help you aboard--the steps are too steep for your injured feet, and the rail next to the steps is not strong enough to bear your weight--but they help you with humour and willing hearts.
No one is surprised when you accompany your brother and his friends to their car. Your brother can't seem to figure out where that formal, cutting style of speech came from. You just shrug, not wishing to discuss it. You could remind him, if you wanted to, that you've heard every clipped, sardonic speech that your mother, your father, your aunt and your great-great-grandfather's portrait have ever made. You learned how to use that weapon years ago. You just never had much occasion to do so until now.
As the train chugs closer and closer to Hogwarts, Sirius and his friends become happier and happier. You, on the other hand, have been contemplating the probable vengeance of the Slytherins, once they get you alone after lights out. You are not afraid--but you know that they will cause you as much physical and emotional pain as they can. They always do, when they feel you are wrong.
And when have you ever been, in their eyes, right?
You can count on a month of petty torment, at least. Then they will step back and watch, and see what effect their "discipline"--that is what they call it--has had. If they seen any sign of weakness, or what they consider to be weakness, they will demand the impossible--that you hurt Sirius. Or Remus. Which, you are coming to realise, means exactly the same thing.
And you will not hurt Sirius, and you will not hurt his friends. You're no longer willing to make someone else suffer in your place. You could have once, but not now. The boy who was willing to do that died in December.
The spring and summer terms are going to be very long and painful.
You sigh, and stare unseeing out the window, and hope that Sirius will understand why you won't tell him what the other Slytherins will do to you. You won't whinge, and you won't tattle. The person you used to be did both. All too frequently.
Before you know it, the train is pulling into Hogsmeade. Your brother and his friends are chattering eagerly as they disembark, and you envy them. It would mean the world to you to return to Hogwarts and know that you were returning somewhere you truly belonged. You remain silent on the carriage ride to the castle. A few of the Slytherins decide to interpret this as fear, and resume their taunting. Strange that they can't tell the difference between fear and unhappiness.
When you trudge into the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall tells you that Professor Dumbledore wishes to see you in his office. Immediately, if not sooner.
When you enter Dumbledore's office, though, the place is empty, save for a thousand magical items and doodads, Godric Gryffindor's sword, Fawkes the Phoenix...and, sitting on Dumbledore's desk, the Sorting Hat.
You realise, even as you are trying it on, that this impulse of yours is sheer folly. But you place the Hat on your head anyway.
A voice speaks in your mind. "Hmm. Didn't I meet you before?"
In a way, you tell the Hat.
"Not a bad mind," the Hat says. "Not brilliant, but not bad. Very good at blending in, and making people think that you're someone that you're not."
Not Slytherin! you yell mentally. Not that it matters, since you're in that House already, but after this Christmas and the events on the platform, everything in you rebels at the thought.
"Oh, definitely not Slytherin," the Hat agrees. "You're a chameleon, but not a serpent. Let me see...quite a hard worker, given encouragement. Determined. Loyal. You'd make a good Hufflepuff, you know, except--"
Except? you ask worriedly.
"Tremendous courage. Not only of the physical variety, but a willingness to admit publicly when you've done something wrong, and atone for it. Very rare, that. If I were Sorting you today, I'd put you in--
"GRYFFINDOR!"
With a sigh, you remove the Hat from your head and put it back on Dumbledore's desk. It was nice to hear that. Useless, but nice.
"I see you've found out where you truly belong, Mr. Black," says a voice behind you.
You turn, and are facing Dumbledore. Did he enter when you were trying on the Hat, or was he there when you entered, invisible to your eyes?
"I've gotten quite a few owls about you," he says, stepping forward and cupping your chin in his hand. "Your parents...the Potters...and I have read the information placed before the Wizangamot--though I will have to recuse myself from hearing your case, as I know you." Sharp blue eyes give you a raptor glance. "You seem to have had a very active Christmas holiday."
You would like to bow your head in shame, but Dumbledore is gripping your chin too tightly. You're glad that you survived that murderous journey and you're more grateful than words can express for having somehow regained your brother's love, but you are bitterly shamed by what you did to him in the first place.
"It is said that no one is ever Re-Sorted," Dumbledore is saying. "That's not quite true. It is simply extraordinarily rare for a soul to undergo a transformation that requires such a thing--especially while the person is still of school age." He smiles and surveys you for a moment. "A few small changes might be needed."
He delves into his robes, retrieves his wand and waves it without speaking a word. Your tie shifts from green and silver to crimson and gold. The badge on your robes transforms from a coiled serpent to a roaring lion. And you stare at Dumbledore without speaking because, of course, this has to be a dream and if you make any noise, you'll wake yourself up.
"Your belongings have been sent to your new House," he says, putting his wand away. "Come along, Mr. Black."
You walk beside him in a daze until you reach the Great Hall. It isn't real, it can't possibly be real, but at this point, you cannot think about that. You cannot, in truth, think at all.
When you reach the Hall, Dumbledore whispers something to McGonagall (who looks enormously pleased), then walks up to the front of the room and goes to the staff table. McGonagall points you toward a table on the right before striding off to join Dumbledore and the other teachers.
You stagger to the table that McGonagall indicated, searching frantically for an empty seat. Mercifully, there is one near the end. You sit down, and rub your temples, and try to clear your whirling head. This must be a dream, or delirium. You must be freezing to death out on the fells, dreaming of paradise.
"Reg?"
Someone is gripping your hand. You look up, bewildered, into the incredulously joyful eyes of your brother, who is sitting across from you. Remus, on his right, is smiling gently. James, who is sitting on Sirius' left, winks at you and looks enormously pleased with himself. You wonder, briefly, if one of the letters Dumbledore received was from James.
Peter, beside James, favours you with a wickedly happy grin, then lifts his as-yet-empty goblet in a toast and speaks two words. Two words that mean everything.
"Welcome home."
Summary: Sirius ran away from home over Christmas 1976, and Regulus followed him. Now, on his return to school, Regulus has to confront the Slytherins...not to mention rage, hatred and slander.
Rating: PG-13 (for sex talk, mild profanity, and cruelty)
Ships: Remus/Sirius (mentioned)
Warning: Second person, present tense. (I've never used that voice and tense together, and wanted to see if I could.)
A/N: This is a sequel to my AU story, "On a Wing and a Prayer" and which spun off of Thistlerose's "This Bird Has Flown". Both stories deal with Sirius' running away from home for the last time, and from Regulus' point of view. Thistlerose follows canon more closely. I allow thirteen-year-old Regulus a shot at redemption--after putting him through utter hell.
Here are the links:
On a Wing and a Prayer:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
And here are Thistlerose's stories:
This Bird Has Flown, which inspired "On a Wing and a Prayer."
A Meeting With Strangers, sequel to "This Bird Has Flown."
This story has been cross-posted to the Regulus Black Y! Group.
Thanks to Thistlerose for the quick and accurate beta.
***
This is the moment you've been dreading--the moment that you have to step onto the platform and face the Slytherins.
You can't think of them as friends, because they aren't that and have never been. Most of them are cousins, thanks to the convoluted, almost incestuous lines of descent in all pureblood families. Some have been in study groups with you, or have helped you play pranks on Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors. Especially on your brother and his friends.
That's the extent of your bond--blood kinship (which they would disavow now, given what you have done), and sharing a house, a lesson, and a joke.
The Slytherins are facing you now. You, your brother and his friends stride across the platform in a line. Lupin is on the far left, walking just a fraction too close to Sirius. His brown eyes are quiet, alert and--the word surprises you--territorial. He's facing straight ahead, but he seems to be sheltering Sirius all the same. Next comes Sirius, lost in his new overcoat, his flushed skin taut on his cheekbones. His pale blue eyes are sunk in shadows. He looks...not ill. Beyond ill. As if he has been dragged around the dark side of the moon. James is on his right. He has placed one protective hand on Sirius' shoulder, and is glaring fiercely at Severus. As he keeps pace with James, Peter stares at the Slytherins with dispassionate loathing--the look of a Healer forced to contemplate a new and highly contagious magical plague. And you, at the tag end.
Peter keeps one hand close to your elbow to steady you, and you're grateful. After your marathon run from Carlisle to Windermere during and after a snowstorm--legs and feet slashed open by one of Bellatrix's curses, and ankles thoroughly chewed and clawed by the Crups that Lucius Malfoy, in poetic justice, sicced on you--you are lucky to have feet. You should be walking with a cane, but you swore up and down that you would be damned if you walked onto the platform with anything remotely resembling one of Lucius Malfoy's possessions. Later--you packed a collapsible cane in your trunk, and you'll use it at school--but not now. This battle, which you knew would be waiting, has to be fought with you standing on your own two feet.
The Slytherins--Narcissa, Rastaban, Terrance, Alan, Severus--are all clustered together in a way that makes you think of coils. They're staring incredulously at you.
You know why. You've broken cover. You have always been the go-along-to-get-along Black, the quintessential conventional pureblood. A follower, not a leader. You've spent most of your life mutely obeying this or that dictatorial witch or wizard--your mother, your Head of House, your elder cousins, your supposed friends. You've always been a mouse, quiet, scurrying into shadows, and hoping not to be noticed by the other, more powerful beings around you.
Only somehow, over Christmas hols, the mouse turned into a lion. And you found out that you love your brother beyond sanity. Beyond life.
You can see the anger and resentment and the bafflement--above all, the betrayal--in your housemates' eyes. It's as if you had cheated them in some way, chasing after Sirius across the length and breadth of England in midwinter. Mice are not supposed to turn into lions.
Narcissa steps between you and the train, the results of a recent Beautification Spell showing in her once-black, now blonde curls, in her once dark blue and now newly grey eyes. It's like looking at a female version of Lucius. For a moment, you picture the two of them in bed together, and it's horrible. Does Narcissa really want to change so drastically? Does Lucius really enjoy having sex with his own reflection?
But then she speaks, and her voice is as chill and inexorable as ever. "You are contemptible," she says, hatred blazing from those unfamiliar eyes. "How could you betray the family that way?"
It's on the tip of your tongue to say that you didn't betray the family, that Sirius is family and you certainly didn't betray him. But you don't say it, because she's right. You were supposed to stand with the family, close ranks and forget that you had ever had a brother. You didn't do any of that. Worse, you got yourself badly hurt in the process of trying to find Sirius. The Healer the Potters summoned on Christmas Eve to see to Sirius (and who remained to Heal you as well) was shocked at the state you both were in. So much so that after you healed a bit, you both had to be examined at St. Mungo's.
The Healers were appalled by the thousands of traces of curses in the bones, muscles, optic nerves, ears and vocal cords of both of you. They were (and are) even more sickened by the physical evidence of repeated uses of Imperio and Crucio.
That's one of the chief betrayals that Narcissa is talking about. Your body and Sirius' both gave evidence against your parents, without either of you speaking a word. Evidence strong enough to get your parents thrown into Azkaban. The Potters have agreed not to prosecute--if your parents relinquish custody of you.
Blackmail, pure and simple.
Your parents are still fighting it--you are the last male Black in this generation, for they have already written off Sirius. If they lose you, the name might well die out. (Not the line, though. There are too many purebloods with Black ancestry for the line to be extinguished by one boy.)
You think that the Potters will win, somehow. Maybe because they have been talking about shared custody with Uncle Alphard. Maybe because they told a Healer to examine you in spite of the fact that they knew nothing about you, save that you were hurt and starving and had done something appallingly evil. Maybe it's the fact that James now refers to you both as his brothers.
You can't mention this, because the custody battle could leave negotiation and go to the Wizangamot, the wizard court, any minute. You would be a witness. Witnesses can't publicly discuss cases they are involved with. It's illegal. Also, speaking could ruin the case for the Potters. You will not risk that.
So you don't contradict her words about your treachery. And she sneers at you.
"Lucius said that you screamed when the Crups were after you," she says, referring to the fork-tailed, ferocious pit bull hybrids that the Blacks use as trained guard dogs. She smiles, a smile of dark, unclean satisfaction. "He said you screamed and cried like a weak, cowardly little girl. "
You expected taunts using Lucius' name, and you prepared an insult ahead of time. You say it now in a loud carrying voice that the entire platform, as you enunciate each syllable meticulously.
"Lucius. Malfoy. Blows. Dead. Male. Underage. Transvestite. GOATS."
Narcissa's mouth falls open in utter shock. You grin in real pleasure--you can count the times you've got the better of your housemates on one hand. Your brother laughs...a harsh, barking laugh that doesn't sound much like his old one. Peter shoots you a covert thumbs-up.
You start to sidle toward the train, but the other Slytherins surge toward you. The anger and betrayal are still in their eyes, but now they look scared as well, as if the world had just started spinning counterclockwise, as if gravity had ceased to function. No one mocks Narcissa Black's Dark Wizard fiance, least of all a thirteen-year-old weak sister like Regulus Black.
It's funny. Before Christmas hols, you never would have thought of publicly mocking any of them. You would have wanted to, and been too frightened. Now you calmly look up into the furious, scared eyes of wizards and witches two or three years older than you, and you realise that you're not afraid of them any longer. You have faced worse than them, and survived. They are still kids, despite the fact that they are older, stronger and more capable than you. You, in some ways, have ceased to be a child. You are not looking forward to four years of non-stop bullying (and you're really not looking forward to sixth and seventh year, after Sirius and his friends leave school), but you will survive it.
"Please let me pass," you say in a calm, unruffled voice that seems to startle them. Most stay where they are, gaping at you and Sirius. A few skitter backwards. It doesn't give you much room to walk toward the train, but there's enough.
Then Severus steps forward.
Severus is not a friend, any more than any of the other Slytherins are your friends. But...you have wanted him to be. He does not like you, for reasons that you can't quite discern but which have something to do with your physical resemblance to Sirius, with the malleability of your personality, with your brothers' friends and with Sirius himself. You have been Severus' confidante rather than his friend (for there is no one to whom you could betray his secrets) and his pawn more often than that. You've put up with the illusion of friendship with this other hopelessly lonely boy because the bitter rage in Severus echoes--used to echo, rather--something equally bitter and hateful in you.
Severus' beetle-black eyes flick contemptuously from you to your brother to Remus Lupin and back again. For a moment you hope that Severus said nothing about your brother and Lupin to the other Slytherins, but it is a vain hope, and you know it. Exposing as homosexuals two boys who roundly dislike him and whom he virulently hates would be too much of a temptation even for a saint, and Severus is anything but saintlike.
"I thought that you had higher standards, Black," he says, twisting your surname into a profanity. "After you discovered your brother and Lupin, indulging, shall we say, in recreation in an abandoned classroom, I thought that you would be sickened by his behaviour. I never suspected that you would become a willing supporter of his...debauchery."
You want to close your eyes, partly because the eyes of the other Slytherins are gleaming avidly with the lust for scandal, and partly because Severus is right. The memory of the two of them together does make you sick. And you don't understand how your older brother could possibly want another boy. Sirius has dated girls. Sirius has HAD girls. Gorgeous ones, some of them. Remus Lupin is ordinary--a brown-haired, brown-eyed, rather bookish halfblood boy with a pleasant smile and a habit of showing up once or twice a month looking as if he had been attacked by a herd of rampaging Erumpets.
And yet your brother loves him.
Loves, not merely desires. When Remus walks into a room, Sirius' face fills with sunrise.
It's an expression you've seen in a wizarding photograph--six-year-old Sirius gazing with adoration at the off-camera elder sister that you cannot remember, and your three-year-old self smiling worshipfully at Sirius.
You don't understand it, cannot even imagine it, but you've seen it in Sirius' face. Sirius loves Lupin. You don't think even your brother comprehends how deep that love runs.
You look at Severus, and then at the tense and anxious faces of your brother and Lupin. Then you ask the question that has been bothering you since you saw them in what Severus would probably call "a compromising position."
"Why did you tell me?"
Severus steps back, startled. "Tell you what?"
"Why, " you say slowly, "did you go to all the trouble of telling me that my brother was shagging someone in an abandoned classroom? You knew who he was shagging. You could have guessed how I'd react." You glare at Severus, who winces away from that look. "You wanted to hurt me. You wanted me so angry that I'd lash out at Sirius. It took months, but I finally did it. And I nearly killed my own brother."
"And you couldn't even get that right!"
As soon as the words are spoken, Severus looks as if he wishes he could call them back. You feel as if you have just received a sledgehammer blow to the stomach.
Sentences crowd to your lips. You refuse to say them. "You set me up" sounds whiny. "You used me to hurt my brother" would be stating the incredibly obvious. "How dare you?" is just pathetic. And "My brother almost died and it's your fault!" is a lie. Whatever Severus did, or didn't do, he didn't force you to set the dogs on Sirius. The responsibility--and the guilt--is yours. Always and forever, yours.
You shift position and lean against Peter a little. This makes Severus sneer a bit, but your feet are starting to ache, and you need desperately to sit down before you fall down. Sirius starts to say something sarcastic to Severus, but he is hushed by a look and a headshake from Lupin. You're grateful to Sirius for trying, but this is your battle, not his. He can't fight this one for you.
And you know that somehow Lupin has seen this. It has been almost impossible to think of him as a friend since catching him and your brother together, but...maybe he still is.
"McGonagall got your tongue?" Severus is saying sardonically. "I shouldn't be surprised--your wit, not to mention your intelligence, was always somewhat limited."
"Yes, I suppose so," you say, sighing. "For instance, I thought for years that my brother was my enemy. And I wanted to believe that you were my friend. Looks like I got things a bit mixed up. But I'll tell you this, Severus," and you look up into his eyes, "I'm not hurting him again. Or his friends."
"Or," and Rastaban Lestrange steps out of the cluster of Slytherins to stand beside Severus, "his catamite?"
Peter inhales sharply. James looks as if he wishes that he had a rogue Bludger to throw at Rastaban this instant. Your brother is muttering swear words and imprecations under his breath. Lupin's face is shuttered and blank, reflecting nothing.
"Or," you say, mimicking Rastaban's tone, "my brother's friend...and...lover."
The last word is very hard to say. It's difficult to think of that as love. But you can tell from the pride in Sirius' eyes and from the smile on Remus' face that you made the right choice. It won't make the Slytherins like you any better, but you told the truth.
There's some muttering about perversion and degeneracy and incest (which nearly drives your brother and James to punch...well, anyone within reach--and at this point all they need is a target). Peter is shaking with fury. And if looks could kill, Remus' would have Severus and Rastaban not only dead, but dissected.
The stabbing pain shooting through your feet is making you dizzy. You must end this now, before you have to crawl onto the train.
You hold up your hand like a Muggle traffic warden. "Enough. Enough!"
The Slytherins' vile accusations peter out as they stop and stare at you. You gaze at them with what you hope is utter contempt.
"This is unworthy of you," you say in a cold and formal tone, realising, even as you speak, that the tone and the phrase both belong to your father, Rigel. "If you are thinking of trying to impress us"--you emphasise the word--"with your high standards of morality, slandering my brother and his friends with salacious gossip is not the way to do so. As for your sexual mores, I am aware--having shared a dormitory with most of you for the past three years--that as far as sexual experience goes, most of you are limited to wanking off to Playwitch in the bog, or using Polyjuice Potion to experiment on each other...which, judging by the discussions I've heard on occasion, has never worked well."
You survey them with cool loathing. "And in case you're telling yourselves that I would have no idea who had used that potion for such a purpose, please believe me when I tell you that some of you are in desperate need of remedial work in Concealment Charms. I think I might be scarred for life."
You sigh dramatically. "I don't know why you bother, any of you. You don't like each other. You don't respect each other. You aren't even allies. You're merely foes and potential foes. You spend your entire lives trying to prove that you're better than other house members, better than each other..." You shake your head sadly. "You must really doubt your superiority if you need to prove it so perpetually. I--I feel sorry for you."
"You feel sorry for us?" Rastaban is trying to hiss menacingly, but it just makes him sound like he's lisping.
"Yes, I do," you say, and your voice rings with sincerity. "You have nothing--nothing but competition. You compete with your parents, your sibs, your kin, other houses. You spit venom at each other like black mambas. There's not a single person any of you can look to if you want praise or need help. You're empty--and alone. I know. Until this Christmas, I was just like you. And now I'm not. And let me tell you--it's good. Being alive is good."
The whistle of the Hogwarts Express blows twice. The Slytherins, who are gaping as if a chair had spoken, don't even seem to hear it.
"Gentlemen, our carriage awaits," says James cheerfully. And with no more fanfare than that, the five of you turn away from the Slytherins and board the train. Peter and James have to help you aboard--the steps are too steep for your injured feet, and the rail next to the steps is not strong enough to bear your weight--but they help you with humour and willing hearts.
No one is surprised when you accompany your brother and his friends to their car. Your brother can't seem to figure out where that formal, cutting style of speech came from. You just shrug, not wishing to discuss it. You could remind him, if you wanted to, that you've heard every clipped, sardonic speech that your mother, your father, your aunt and your great-great-grandfather's portrait have ever made. You learned how to use that weapon years ago. You just never had much occasion to do so until now.
As the train chugs closer and closer to Hogwarts, Sirius and his friends become happier and happier. You, on the other hand, have been contemplating the probable vengeance of the Slytherins, once they get you alone after lights out. You are not afraid--but you know that they will cause you as much physical and emotional pain as they can. They always do, when they feel you are wrong.
And when have you ever been, in their eyes, right?
You can count on a month of petty torment, at least. Then they will step back and watch, and see what effect their "discipline"--that is what they call it--has had. If they seen any sign of weakness, or what they consider to be weakness, they will demand the impossible--that you hurt Sirius. Or Remus. Which, you are coming to realise, means exactly the same thing.
And you will not hurt Sirius, and you will not hurt his friends. You're no longer willing to make someone else suffer in your place. You could have once, but not now. The boy who was willing to do that died in December.
The spring and summer terms are going to be very long and painful.
You sigh, and stare unseeing out the window, and hope that Sirius will understand why you won't tell him what the other Slytherins will do to you. You won't whinge, and you won't tattle. The person you used to be did both. All too frequently.
Before you know it, the train is pulling into Hogsmeade. Your brother and his friends are chattering eagerly as they disembark, and you envy them. It would mean the world to you to return to Hogwarts and know that you were returning somewhere you truly belonged. You remain silent on the carriage ride to the castle. A few of the Slytherins decide to interpret this as fear, and resume their taunting. Strange that they can't tell the difference between fear and unhappiness.
When you trudge into the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall tells you that Professor Dumbledore wishes to see you in his office. Immediately, if not sooner.
When you enter Dumbledore's office, though, the place is empty, save for a thousand magical items and doodads, Godric Gryffindor's sword, Fawkes the Phoenix...and, sitting on Dumbledore's desk, the Sorting Hat.
You realise, even as you are trying it on, that this impulse of yours is sheer folly. But you place the Hat on your head anyway.
A voice speaks in your mind. "Hmm. Didn't I meet you before?"
In a way, you tell the Hat.
"Not a bad mind," the Hat says. "Not brilliant, but not bad. Very good at blending in, and making people think that you're someone that you're not."
Not Slytherin! you yell mentally. Not that it matters, since you're in that House already, but after this Christmas and the events on the platform, everything in you rebels at the thought.
"Oh, definitely not Slytherin," the Hat agrees. "You're a chameleon, but not a serpent. Let me see...quite a hard worker, given encouragement. Determined. Loyal. You'd make a good Hufflepuff, you know, except--"
Except? you ask worriedly.
"Tremendous courage. Not only of the physical variety, but a willingness to admit publicly when you've done something wrong, and atone for it. Very rare, that. If I were Sorting you today, I'd put you in--
"GRYFFINDOR!"
With a sigh, you remove the Hat from your head and put it back on Dumbledore's desk. It was nice to hear that. Useless, but nice.
"I see you've found out where you truly belong, Mr. Black," says a voice behind you.
You turn, and are facing Dumbledore. Did he enter when you were trying on the Hat, or was he there when you entered, invisible to your eyes?
"I've gotten quite a few owls about you," he says, stepping forward and cupping your chin in his hand. "Your parents...the Potters...and I have read the information placed before the Wizangamot--though I will have to recuse myself from hearing your case, as I know you." Sharp blue eyes give you a raptor glance. "You seem to have had a very active Christmas holiday."
You would like to bow your head in shame, but Dumbledore is gripping your chin too tightly. You're glad that you survived that murderous journey and you're more grateful than words can express for having somehow regained your brother's love, but you are bitterly shamed by what you did to him in the first place.
"It is said that no one is ever Re-Sorted," Dumbledore is saying. "That's not quite true. It is simply extraordinarily rare for a soul to undergo a transformation that requires such a thing--especially while the person is still of school age." He smiles and surveys you for a moment. "A few small changes might be needed."
He delves into his robes, retrieves his wand and waves it without speaking a word. Your tie shifts from green and silver to crimson and gold. The badge on your robes transforms from a coiled serpent to a roaring lion. And you stare at Dumbledore without speaking because, of course, this has to be a dream and if you make any noise, you'll wake yourself up.
"Your belongings have been sent to your new House," he says, putting his wand away. "Come along, Mr. Black."
You walk beside him in a daze until you reach the Great Hall. It isn't real, it can't possibly be real, but at this point, you cannot think about that. You cannot, in truth, think at all.
When you reach the Hall, Dumbledore whispers something to McGonagall (who looks enormously pleased), then walks up to the front of the room and goes to the staff table. McGonagall points you toward a table on the right before striding off to join Dumbledore and the other teachers.
You stagger to the table that McGonagall indicated, searching frantically for an empty seat. Mercifully, there is one near the end. You sit down, and rub your temples, and try to clear your whirling head. This must be a dream, or delirium. You must be freezing to death out on the fells, dreaming of paradise.
"Reg?"
Someone is gripping your hand. You look up, bewildered, into the incredulously joyful eyes of your brother, who is sitting across from you. Remus, on his right, is smiling gently. James, who is sitting on Sirius' left, winks at you and looks enormously pleased with himself. You wonder, briefly, if one of the letters Dumbledore received was from James.
Peter, beside James, favours you with a wickedly happy grin, then lifts his as-yet-empty goblet in a toast and speaks two words. Two words that mean everything.
"Welcome home."