Mischief Managed ♦ Fic: The Way the Young Decay
Title: The Way the Young Decay
Author: dusty_gun
Pairing: Sirius, Regulus
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5, 800ish
Prompt: 192. Brothers on a Hotel Bed, Death Cab for Cutie
Warnings: character death-canon compliant
Summary: The brotherhood of the Blacks
A young Regulus Black sits in his older brother’s bedroom.
They’re playing chess. Regulus is winning.
“Damn Reg!” Sirius cries, “How do you do it?”
Regulus gives him a sly smirk, “Skill, my brother, skill.”
“Sure, sure,” Sirius mutters, as he positions his white king carefully.
Within seconds it’s lying broken on the board.
“Merlin!” The elder sighs. “Never again.. never again.”
Regulus simply laughs.
---
Sirius’ trunk is packed for Hogwarts the next day. He lies in bed, sleepless, excitement causing his every bone to tingle. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, his door creaks open.
Regulus sneaks in sheepishly (he’s been unable to sleep too, but for the complete opposite reasons).
“Reg?” Sirius whispers in the dark.
“Yeah,” the younger boy whispers back as he makes his way toward the bedside.
“What are you doing here, buddy?”
Regulus sits on the floor next to Sirius’ dangling arm. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Fire away.”
“Are you excited?” he asks.
“For Hogwarts?” Regulus nods in response. “Yeah, I’m excited. No mum, no dad, and lots of
magic.”
Just the thought makes him grin exceptionally wide.
“I hope you have fun,” Regulus says softly.
Sirius ruffles the younger boy’s hair, “Thanks Reg. I can’t wait for you to join me.”
Regulus can’t wait either.
Soon enough, they’ve both fallen asleep, Sirius in his bed, Regulus on the floor, both dreaming of
the days they’ll spend together at Hogwarts.
Neither one is yet aware that these dreams are the closest they’ll come to such fantasies.
---
Regulus watches, in admiration.
He watches from a higher landing, head peaking out from the staircase, as Sirius and Walburga
have it out in the foyer. There’s something in the way that Sirius is quick to respond to her every jibe and make her cheeks flush in fury. The stubborn attitude of both, yet only pulled off successfully by the younger one.
“Hey, Sirius!” an eleven year old Regulus chases his brother up the stairs, “you alright?”
The elder of the two turns around to face the other, eyes darker than usual.
“What does it look like, Reg?” he grunts, shaking his head at his brother, “does everything look damn okay to you?”
Regulus doesn’t know how to respond. He’s never noticed Sirius so genuinely upset by his mother before. Until now, he’s been under the impression that she doesn’t faze Sirius, that he’s able to just shake it off.
But the way his brother is trembling now, wringing his own hands, he sees that he’s been wrong; Sirius is only good at hiding his hurt.
Regulus’ silence seems only to further aggravate Sirius.
“What, don’t you have anything to say? No more family mantra to recite?” he whispers, leaning down slightly to Regulus’ height, and his tone is fiercer than Regulus has heard directed at him before.
Regulus trips over the next few words, caught off guard by his brother’s hostility, “Si-rius, I didn’t say anything I-“
“Save it,” he snaps in response.
When Sirius looks back into the weary eyes of his younger brother, he sighs. He let that damn woman get him hot headed again. Apologetically, he sort of pats the younger boys shoulder with a rough chuckle.
“Forget all that,” he says, calmer now, “just forget everything. G’night Reg.”
He continues up the stairs to his own bedroom, leaving Regulus standing dumbfounded.
Regulus’ eyes only give away half of his bafflement. Sure, Sirius has been in foul moods before, more often then he’s been in good ones, probably. But something he said this time resinates.
“Family Mantra.”
Regulus pays a visit to the family tapestry. He’s only ever visited it before to memorise his
relatives' names (owing to the large number that caused him much confusion). But he’s never really studied the words.
Toujours Pur
He’s heard it before: toasted to at family dinner parties, in conversations between his parents after Sirius has stormed off; he’s heard it while eavesdropping in on his cousins’ conversations.
But has he ever considered what they were actually referring to? Not really.
It’s an interesting concept, he ponders, without yet fully grasping it. He understands more the impact it has upon the relationships around him, rather than the full implications of its execution.
But he’s no idiot, he understands enough: enough to know that he is considered the ‘higher calibre of wizard’. He knows enough about politics to see that some people disagree. He’s heard enough of Sirius’ conversations with his friends to know that his brother is one of them. He’s attended enough family functions to know that the rest of them aren’t.
It is that night that Regulus is introduced to the depth of the situation facing the wizarding world. He realises that the issues being fought over between Sirius and his parents, even between Andromeda and hers, are more than just teenage rebellion. He contemplates, (lightly), the gravity of the situation, the choices that his brother has made; the choices he’ll have to make.
He’s always admired Sirius: the bravery, rashness, and outspokenness that seems to work everyone into a huff. But has he ever actually desired to parallel that? And, even if he did, could he?
He spends the night cross legged in front of the tapestry, staring at the two words that accompany his surname. And when he’s thought of them enough, he takes to staring at the burnt names. He wonders: wonders whether Sirius will ever be one of them, and whether he will be, too. He falls asleep this way.
---
Sirius watches, intently.
He sees Regulus make his way up to the stool, sees the hat placed on his head. Anticipation is thick for them both. The hat takes longer than usual to make his decision (this excites Sirius: the hat spent a longer than normal time on his head, too).
Just as Sirius begins to hope (could there be another Black in Gryffindor? Wouldn’t that make his parents go round the bend..) the hat barks: “Slytherin!”
The word takes a while to register because the hat in Sirius’ mind has said otherwise.
Only as realisation hits does he become aware of the way his heart has been beating, the clamminess of his hands, the way his lips are quirking: uncontrollably, rapidly. The back of his throat burns. He drinks some pumpkin juice to cool it and diverts his eyes to the enchanted ceiling. Never until now has it failed to enchant him.
He watches as Regulus makes his way to the Slytherin table, sees Narcissa’s boyfriend watching him carefully. He sits down amongst Rosier, Snape and their foul little crowd, and Sirius feels betrayed, more than anything.
He’d never admit to his desperation, his devastation, then and there. How much he was hanging onto, relying on, the thought of having his brother with him. The opportunity to have a relation in his own house, a person who he wouldn’t be ashamed of, someone who’d grow to share not only his own values and ideals, (his belief in justice), but also his blood. It was his one chance, his only chance, at feeling like he had actual family.
And the fucking Sorting Hat has taken that away from him.
He’s been betrayed-betrayed by Regulus, betrayed by his family. Betrayed by the god damned world.
He feels bloody cheated and he’s sick of it.
He’s alone. So he blames Regulus.
He blames Regulus for not having a bit more bloody courage, for being a people pleaser, a soft touch, for pitying his parents rather than confronting them.
All his isolation, his anger, his fury with the fucking ‘Toujours pur’ becomes Regulus’ fault, as much as anyone else’s.
He doesn’t see the younger boy’s frequent glances toward the Gryffindor table, seeking out the eyes of his older brother.
---
Regulus watches, with mild disgust.
He watches Avery and Mulciber hexing a second year Hufflepuff boy. The way the young boy, Regulus’ age, has tears streaming down his cheeks- a boy that he caught the boat into Hogwarts with last year. He seemed nice enough.
He watches as Snape dangles him in the air, robes hanging around his face. They knock him to and fro, and within minutes he’s on the floor doubled up, the wind knocked out of him, coughing and wheezing, his nose oozing out blood.
Regulus feels the boy’s eyes pleading with him. Yet he’s paralysed, unable to do anything to stop the others or help. He just watches on as the helpless boy coughs up a storm. The thought that he’s so powerless scares him.
When the others leave the boy on the floor, unable to breathe, Regulus leaves with them.
The incident doesn’t leave his mind for the rest of the day.
He approaches Avery in the common room later that night.
“What was all that about?”
Avery stares at him condescendingly.
“It’s just a bit of harmless fun, Reg. Harden up.”
---
Sirius listens as his heart thumps a little harder and irregularly.
He hears Lily Evans’ account of how she found a poor Hufflepuff second year half passed out in the Transfiguration corridor. She mentions the names of the ones who had apparently been behind the deed. She’s positively shaking with fury. He wishes he hadn’t heard.
She doesn’t make the connection between the final name dropped and his own.
He’s ashamed.
Neither of them realise that they’re both in the same boat.
---
Regulus listens as he completes his homework.
He listens to the way Malfoy and Rosier rant about Muggle-borns (or mudbloods, as they so eloquently put it) and “what a waste of space they are,” and how they’re a “disgrace to the whole fucking school.” He’s becoming less surprised as to how passionately they feel, how furious they are.
His mind jumps to Harriet Meadowes, a pretty Muggle-born girl he’s been sitting next to in Charms for the past few months. When he tries to get a word in, he gets interrupted with a mocking glare, edging on menacing.
“Mudbloods, Regulus. They’re called mudbloods. And they don’t belong here.”
The next time he tries to defend her, he cops a punch in the face. That shuts him up.
This time, it’s him with the nose that bleeds for days.
Within a few weeks, he’s found a new Charms partner.
And, soon enough, the mudblood rant has become so familiar, he’s reciting it himself.
---
Sirius stirs his soup.
It’s Christmas Eve in the Noble House of Black, and he wishes he was anywhere but here. The family of four sit in the kitchen, the majority of whom are discussing Regulus’ last few months at Hogwarts.
Sirius’ ears prick up when Reg mentions the ‘friends’ he’s been hanging around with. The way he talks about them and the way his mother’s face lights up in delight make Sirius’ knuckles turn white as he grips his spoon.
“It’s about time this family start associating with the right sort again.”
Sirius looks up into the cold grey eyes of his father. Without another word he’s on his feet, marching toward his room.
He emerges the next day, when the extended Black family grace Grimmauld Place with their presence. But as soon as the first “mudblood” is uttered (it only takes fifteen minutes) he’s back in his room.
The next few Christmases pass in the same fashion.
---
Regulus raises his wand.
He points it at the young Gryffindor, the young Gryffindor who’d made a snide remark about the latest Quidditch match and Regulus’ failure to catch the Snitch.
That particular Gryffindor is found stunned in a broom closet the next morning.
Mulciber and Avery are pleased.
As is Regulus.
From this point on, he no longer thinks (nor cares) before hexing.
---
Sirius watches his brother bent over a book in the library.
He sees the way his countenance is so much like his own, from the hair, to the eyes, to the way he’s sitting on his seat, to, when he gets up, the way they both apparently walk (according to Prongs). Not only that, but the constant expression they both bear. It’s the hardened expression-only understood by those who have lived in the Noble House of Black.
As he’s leaning on the library doors, observing, he feels a sudden pang of genuine pity, regret, (and is it guilt?) at the sight of his brother.
Displaying the courage the younger once admired him for, he approaches the desk where the latter sits.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks.
Regulus doesn’t even attempt to hide his shock at seeing his brother there.
“Erm, yeah. Sure.. I guess.” He mumbles, fumbling with his things to hide his sudden nervousness.
Sirius takes the seat opposite him when he realises he doesn’t exactly know what to say.
“So.. How’ve you been?”
Regulus raises an eyebrow (the kid’s always been quick) and a hint of a smirk appears.
“Alright I guess,” he drawls, knowingly.
“That’s good,” Sirius says,awkwardly.
He’s surprised when Regulus emits a genuine laugh at this. And though it’s shortly lived, it’s something that makes something inside Sirius warm, and a smile unwillingly creeps into his features, too.
“This is funny,” the younger states, plainly.
“What is?” Sirius asks, half embarrassed, half in good humour.
“The way out of nowhere you just.. Why are you talking to me?” His expression turns sombre, and his intense stare makes Sirius feel guiltier.
Sirius shrugs, hoping to seem nonchalant. “I saw you and thought I should just.. see how you’re doing.”
“I see.. well, I’m doing good. Exams approaching.. kind of soon, so just preparing and such.”
“I’ve got a couple of sets of notes handy if you need some?” Sirius offers casually.
“Snape has already..” Regulus stops himself. “That’d be good. Thanks.”
“No worries,” Sirius chirps, then, remembering the appointment he has with a young lady, excuses himself gently. “I best be going, Reg, but.. good catching up.”
Regulus half smiles, “Yeah.. yeah. See you later.”
They’re both telling the truth.
That night, they both lie awake, reflecting on their exchange earlier that day. Neither of them denies how much they’ve missed each other’s company.
---
Regulus watches the Gryffindor table one morning.
He sees the way Sirius and Potter are talking together, joking. He sees the way the Pettigrew kid is hanging on to their every word, how the Lupin boy seems completely complacent in their company. He sees that each of them seems genuinely happy.
He compares them to the people he is surrounded by: Snape, Avery, Mulciber, Nott. Each of them wears a dark expression. Regulus knows that they’ve all been contacted by the Dark Lord over the last few months. He sees their pride reflected in their actions; they’ve become ruthless.
He wonders when (and whether) the Dark Lord will reach out to him too. He’s anxious.
He looks back and forth from the table on the other side of the hall to his own, comparing. He wonders if they could possibly be more different.
---
Sirius catches Regulus muttering ‘mudblood’ to some acquaintance of his as they pass each
other in the corridor.
They share a moment of eye contact.
Sirius is radiating disappointment.
What furthers that is that Regulus is displaying only a fraction of that in remorse.
And even so, only because Sirius heard.
---
Regulus sits in the common room on a Thursday evening, listening as the others brag and gloat about their soon-to-be induction into the Death Eaters.
The excitement on all of their faces is contagious.
Regulus can’t wait to join them.
---
Sirius hears the rumours.
The rumours going around about the Death Eater movement and the involvement of many young Slytherins.
He tries to deny it, tries to block it out, but the name of his brother crops up too many times in association with that rumour to ignore it.
The next time he passes the library, he looks out for Regulus’ head.
He sees it, accompanied by Snape’s greasy hair.
This time, he doesn’t go in. And doubts he will for a long while yet.
He knows there must be an element of truth in the rumours.
He also knows that they’re both too far set in their own ways for an attempt at major reconciliation any time soon.
Sirius leaves the library at a much slower, much sadder pace then he approached it with.
---
Regulus finds his brother in the Astronomy tower, smoking a cigarette.
When Sirius turns around and sees him there, Regulus doesn’t fail to notice a certain coldness in the grey eyes, and the way they seem almost entirely apathetic.
Not a word passes between them. Sirius hands him a cigarette. He takes it.
Then the former is gone.
Regulus sits on the ledge for the next hour.
He watches the smoke rise and whirl before withering out through the balcony.
The unspoken words between the two make the room eerily quiet.
He ponders the meaning the silence conveyed. Things are changing, in the castle and out. He
wonders whether things between him and his brother will ever return to what they once were, what they should be.
He’s always been the realistic sort.
He doubts it.
---
Sirius blocks his ears. Tries to, at least.
“Bloody mudbloods. Making a mess of everything. How they’re still all surviving, with the Dark Lord doing his job, I don’t know,” Orion continues on his usual rant as he reads the paper.
Sirius just rolls his eyes, attempting to ignore him.
“Try telling your son that,” Walburga snaps. Sirius looks up at her.
“He’s the one who spends all his time with the blood traitors and mudbloods. Scum, is what they are. Filthy, dirty scum.”
The nerve of that woman has never yet failed to astound him.
“Regulus, on the other hand, knows his place and knows that it is above theirs. Right, Reg?”
Regulus looks up from his school work on the opposite end of the table.
“Right. “
Sirius looks at the kid. “You’re an idiot.”
“Excuse me?”
“How are you listening to all that crap?!”
“It’s not crap, Sirius, it’s the truth.”
“Bull shi-“
“ENOUGH.” Walburga screams. “Stop with your nonsense! Stop with the damned nonsense! Merlin, what did I do to deserve you?!”
Sirius stares at his mother, throat burning and eyes itching. The fucking bitch.
“Fine.” He declares, coldly.
He summons his stuff from upstairs, underage magic be damned, and with that word, he’s gone.
---
Regulus watches, void of emotion.
He watches from his bedroom window, as the motorbike roars down Grimmauld Place. There’s something graceful in the anger that’s powering the vehicle to scream through the street, in the robe being carried by the wind as its wearer leaves forever.
He tries not to care. He shouldn’t, really. Sirius has the wrong ideology, and that’ll land him in trouble one day. There’s nothing Regulus can do for him, nor his obsession with the wrong sort.
(That doesn’t stop his sorely missing his brother’s presence in the next few days.)
He looks around his room, the newspaper clippings, “Toujours pur” and Slytherin banners. They’re all a testimony to the great things that the Dark Lord has and will have done.
He knows he’s made the right choice. He just hopes that Sirius’ doesn’t land him up dead.
He doesn’t acknowledge that the ruthlessness and bitterness that will soon overcome him are a result of the abandonment he feels from his brother’s departure.
---
Sirius spends the first few days at James’ house moping around silently. James doesn’t ask any questions, for which Sirius is grateful.
He’s caught up in his decision, unsure, yet he can’t imagine going back.
He’s received a few notes from his mother, each communicating disappointment, one even asking him to return home, but none containing a an apology, no hint of approval, nor of understanding, either.
Amidst the notes from his mother, he hasn’t failed to notice that there are none from Regulus. He guesses that he shouldn’t be surprised, their correspondence has been limited of late and tense as well, to say the least.
Nonetheless, he decides to pen Regulus a letter:
“Regulus. I’m sorry for leaving like that.. I hope you understand why. I hope you’re okay. Let me know if you need anything. You’re welcome to come stay with me too, if you’re having any trouble. Write back.. hope to see you soon. Sirius.”
Every word is sincere, yet fabricated.
He knows that Regulus isn’t going to ask for his help nor follow in his footsteps. He has the footsteps of others to follow.
But that doesn’t stop him trying, hoping, that his departure may have an effect on his younger brother (and he wants to reach out to him in case it did.)
Regulus’ lack of reply indicates that it didn’t.
Sirius is sitting on the back porch that night when James sits next to him.
“So..” James begins, feigning awkwardness.
Despite himself, Sirius finds himself chuckling darkly.
This chuckle turns into a laugh, and within seconds he’s barking like a madman.
He starts to laugh - loudly, manically - and he can’t control himself.
The hysteria is blinding: he can’t breathe, his ears are ringing, and his voice is going hoarse.
He can’t think and he can’t stop. He continues to laugh, to bark, to wail, even when tears surprise him by making an appearance. He’s shaking, trembling.
He’s scared of himself.
James doesn’t say anything; he just pats his best mate on the back until he regains his composure.
It takes the rest of the night.
---
Regulus stares, afraid (ashamed?).
He watches his older brother approach him in the grounds, flanked by his pet Potter and
the fat one. He envies way that they strut around the castle, advertising their mateship to the world. And that jealousy also makes him incredibly bitter.
“Oi, Reg.”
“Sirius.”
“Mary Macdonald.”
Regulus groans inwardly. He should have known the reason for his brother’s rare initiation of conversation would be about that. He knew the stupid prank Mulciber played on the Muggle Gryffindor girl ‘to teach her a lesson’ last week had stepped over the line and wasn’t going to go down well with anyone.
“What about her?”
“What the fuck happened?!” Sirius’ outrage is evident.
“What’s it to you?” He asks coolly, knowing it will spark a reaction.
“She’s our bloody friend!” Potter interrupts loudly, as he usually does in heated interactions between the brothers.
Regulus wishes he had someone to jump in on his behalf.
Regulus turns to him. “I didn’t ask you to speak.”
“He can speak whenever the fuck he wants, Regulus. What. Happened.” Sirius has moved closer now and the two are almost eye to eye.
Regulus hesitates before mumbling, “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Well then who did?! She’d done nothing Reg, nothing!”
Regulus eyes Mulciber appearing just behind where Pettigrew stands. He knows he’s heard the conversation. Deciding it was between the disapproval of his brother or nights of torture in the common room, he goes for the more painless option. He says what Mulciber has come to hear.
“The mudblood got what was coming to her,” he says, plainly.
He sees Mulciber’s smirk before a giant fist gets in its way.
---
Sirius punches with bloody knuckles.
He slams his fist into his younger brother’s face. Then his gut. Then his jaw again.
Within seconds they’re both covered in blood - blood they share - Sirius doing the punching, Regulus jerking in reaction to every blow he takes.
He feels James pull his arms behind his back with a gentle, but loud, “that’ll do it.”
As James steers him away from the scene, patting him on the back and trying to magic away the blood stains, Sirius notices that Mulciber is there, and though he is, Regulus is still coughing and spluttering and covered in blood on his own.
Amongst all the shit he’s feeling, Sirius is grateful.
And later that night, he lets Prongs know it.
They’re in the kitchens, snacking on a few treats, mouths full.
“You right, Padfoot?” The question isn’t awkward, merely genuine.
Sirius nods, swallows his bite, grunts.
“Yeah. Thanks, by the way. For everything.”
“Anytime.”
Silence follows, but completely comfortable. There’s more eating. The fire has joined their group of three, providing its own warmth.
“You’re more of a brother than he is, you know?” Sirius mumbles after a while, almost inaudibly.
“I know” James says plainly.
And Sirius knows that he does know. He appreciates that fact.
---
Regulus receives an owl.
“Regulus A Black,
I understand from a source that you consider yourself sympathetic with the Dark Lord’s aims.
I have been in communication with the Dark Lord and He has expressed interest in meeting with you.
I’m sure you understand the honour you have been presented with and that you will not disappoint.
I shall disclose a time and place to you at a later date.
L. Malfoy”
He is a jumble of nerves, excitement and anticipation.
He knows (thinks) that this is it.
---
Sirius marches down the dungeon corridor.
He hexes Snape, and Harriet Meadowes (of the year below) falls to the floor in a heap of sobs and tears after being under the Cruciatus. He knew there was something suspicious about their dots so close together on the map.
The slime ball is petrified before he realises what’s going on.
Sirius goes to help the girl, slumped on the floor, shoulders shaking, when someone else rounds the corner.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Sirius registers the shock and betrayal on the girl’s face as she looks up at Regulus.
Sirius glares daggers at him. He’s seeing red.
“You’re a sick, sick bastard, you know that.” The words come out slowly, and he’s forcing himself to keep his shaking fists at his sides.
Regulus almost smiles, “I’d watch your tongue if I were you.”
“You motherfucking -" but his roar and lunge toward the boy is interrupted as all his muscles
tense up and freeze. He falls to the floor.
Snape smirks down at Sirius. “Good job Regulus” he drawls “the Dark Lord will be impressed.”
After a swift kick in the groin, Snape and Regulus are gone.
That night, Snape makes his way down to the Whomping Willow.
James doesn’t speak a word to Sirius for two weeks. Remus hates him (temporarily). His favourite uncle dies, and within a few months Sirius winds up living on his own, parentless and family-less, at the age of seventeen.
He wonders how things could have gotten so fucked up.
---
Regulus looks on in admiration.
He watches the way the Dark Lord has the room’s full attention. The way he speaks so persuasively, raw, and honestly. He sees how passionate he is towards his cause, how he will actually succeed.
It’s dark, very dimly lit, so that one cannot make out another’s face. Only the Dark Lord’s is entirely visible, and he radiates such power, such excitement, that the whole room is filled with a tremendous tension.
Regulus is full of anxious energy. He knows that wizards, even Death Eaters, aren’t just able to come here. Whoever is in the room is there for a reason, Regulus included. The pride inside of him is nags him that that reason is that he’s to become one of them.
---
He’s pretty sure that Snape is in here somewhere, as are Rosier and Malfoy. His insides swell at the atmosphere and audience that surround him- at the fact that he’s being included amongst such people. He knows his parents areproud of him too.
Regulus knows what he’s doing. He knows what he believes in, what’s right, and is nothing but impressed and in awe of the Dark Lord and the courage that he demonstrates- fighting for the pure blood supremacy that they all deserve.
He’s felt no honour comparable to that of meeting the Dark Lord. When all that He asks of him is one small deed, Regulus is ecstatic to be of assistance and obliges thoughtlessly. He summons Kreacher and leaves him in the Dark Lord’s care.
Later that night, he’s tracing the mark on his arm, which is still burning.
---
Sirius sits in his first meeting of the Order of the Phoenix.
He, James and Lily are the first to be inducted. They meet the other Order members, each with heroically inspiring tales to tell, and he’s filled with a buzzing excitement. He’s finally doing what he’s longed to for years.
He’s pleased to see that his background, his family, is of little or no importance to the people there; it is his attitude and what he believes in that is valued, not his surname.
Dumbledore addresses them, followed by a solid man Sirius hasn’t yet met named Moody. They speak passionately, determinedly, and Sirius feels, for once, surrounded by entirely like minded people. They too see what justice is and hate Voldemort for the foul bastard he is.
He sees the elation in Lily’s eyes, he knows how much all this means to her, too, and he smiles.
“What did you think, Padfoot?” James asks at the end of the meeting as they walk away, his arm slung around Lily.
“I think,” Sirius begins, “that this is going to be a lot of fun.”
The two smile wickedly at each other, Sirius winks, and Lily laughs at their enthusiasm.
Despite of the impending doom that they all know is inevitable, Sirius, for the moment, is optimistic.
---
Regulus watches with vacant eyes.
He watches the smoke spiral and twirl as it comes out the end of his cigarette. There’s something captivating in the way that the ribbons of grey seem to dance with each other, their different shades and shapes enchanting the black that surrounds him.
Then he sees a pair of blue eyes. Dead blue eyes.
No matter how hard he tries to focus on other things, all he can see are Harriet Meadowes’ eyes.
The way they switched off as the curse hit her-the way they had turned dull, empty, lifeless- plays over and over in his mind.
The desperation on her face, the way she had pleaded with him, tears streaking her cheeks, mania in her every feature haunts him. All he can hear is her scream.
And the eyes came into his mind again. Void of life. Dead. Dead.
He had taken the life out of someone’s eyes, taken their life altogether.
He’s deeply disturbed.
And doubtful. His resolve has wavered over the last weeks, the reality of his existence making him doubt himself altogether.
A sounding crack echoes and the tortured image that greets him is enough to drive the eyes out of his mind for the time being.
Kreacher falls, sobbing, weeping, onto the floor of the cold and gloomy Grimmauld Place kitchen.
Regulus rushes to his aid, helping him up and bewitching his clothes dry. The elf is shaking, and the fear that is causing the creature such trauma causes Regulus to shake as well.
Slowly and torturedly, Kreacher recounts his experience, every horrific detail, from the potion he was forced to drink to the dead bodies surrounding him. The thought makes Regulus sick.
His heart is thumping throughout the elf’s tale, his own eyes burning as he sees the elf suffer so.
Regulus does not sleep that night, rather draws hypotheses and conclusions in his head. In the early hours of the morning, he ventures into Grimmauld Place’s library and seeks out the books at the bottom of the shelf, coated in layers of dust (and they are for a reason). He reads page after page, absorbing the most gruesome information he’s ever come across. Some of the things he reads make him gag, others jolt his memory, and he’s scrawling away on spare parchment for hours.
He doesn’t leave his room for days, doesn’t eat, just thinks, reads, writes, and thinks some more. His mind is swirling with memories and emotions, facts and knowledge, decisions gone wrong and decisions to be made. He tries to remember every detail: everything he has ever heard the Dark Lord say, every newspaper clipping, and every brief allusion to immortality he’s come across.
And when his mind can’t remember anymore, he’s left to dwell on what’s become of him, the ghost that the last year has turned him into. The last few days have been a whirlwind-a splash of cold water enabling him to wake up to himself, forcing him to look in the mirror. But the pale and bleak young man with empty grey eyes scares him.
He finds the answer to his questions in an ancient leather bound book. The answer is horrifying; yet it fits the puzzle. All the pieces come together and Regulus is forced to make a decision.
He thinks of Kreacher. He thinks of the dead girl. He thinks of Sirius. He thinks of the Dark Lord.
He thinks of the waste that has become of him.
There’s nothing that the young man, now aged beyond his years though barely a man at all, regrets more than his wasted life, wasted relationships, wasted opportunity.
He’s made his decision (he realises he could have never avoided it) firm and sure.
But nothing is enough to stop the body wracking sobs that engulf him as he sleeps for the first time in days - the last time that he sleeps.
---
Sirius duels in battle for the first time.
He fights bravely, wholeheartedly.
There are flashes of lights and screams; people appear, people disappear, bodies fall, people cry. But his eyes don’t leave the person in front of him, the one trying to take his life.
He fights fiercely, determinedly, until his curse hits its target.
As his opponent falls to the ground with a thump, Sirius watches the black cloaks of the opposition twist and twirls in the night sky, makes a conscious note of the eerie masks being worn by the Death Eaters.
He wonders whether his brother is amongst them, shielded by a mask, too.
---
Regulus drinks the potion.
He is overwhelmed by pain and trauma, his last thoughts and visions being some of the worst of his life.
He’s crying out, screaming,( the pain needs to fucking stop) but he keeps drinking (he must.)
He twists and jerks, twitches and cries, but makes sure that he finishes the god damn potion.
He’s blinded; unable to put the locket in the basin himself, he’s last coherent thought is to trust Kreacher to do it for him.
He can no longer think, he’s no longer aware of himself or his surroundings.
All he knows is that he needs water. He’s writhing on the ground, reaching out for water.
His hand finds a pool of water and he crawls immediately, absentmindedly, toward it, face in the water, gulping as much as he can.
He’s so involved in the sensation that he doesn’t realise it when the first slimy hand grasps his wrist. Nor does he notice the bony limbs dragging his ankles into a mass of slime and skeletons.
His lungs slowly fill with water; his neck is slowly strangled by Inferi.
Regulus drowns, fated to become one of the bodies that killed him.
---
Sirius reads without processing.
His mother’s tight scrawl informs him curtly of Regulus’ death.
He stares at the piece of parchment, eyes blank and mind empty.
He is stunned, unable to process.
“Regulus’ death. Death. Death. Death.”
The words don’t seem right, aren’t right, (they can’t be right.)
They just echo, ricocheting off the walls of his mind. His cold, empty, mind.
Author: dusty_gun
Pairing: Sirius, Regulus
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5, 800ish
Prompt: 192. Brothers on a Hotel Bed, Death Cab for Cutie
Warnings: character death-canon compliant
Summary: The brotherhood of the Blacks
A young Regulus Black sits in his older brother’s bedroom.
They’re playing chess. Regulus is winning.
“Damn Reg!” Sirius cries, “How do you do it?”
Regulus gives him a sly smirk, “Skill, my brother, skill.”
“Sure, sure,” Sirius mutters, as he positions his white king carefully.
Within seconds it’s lying broken on the board.
“Merlin!” The elder sighs. “Never again.. never again.”
Regulus simply laughs.
---
Sirius’ trunk is packed for Hogwarts the next day. He lies in bed, sleepless, excitement causing his every bone to tingle. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, his door creaks open.
Regulus sneaks in sheepishly (he’s been unable to sleep too, but for the complete opposite reasons).
“Reg?” Sirius whispers in the dark.
“Yeah,” the younger boy whispers back as he makes his way toward the bedside.
“What are you doing here, buddy?”
Regulus sits on the floor next to Sirius’ dangling arm. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Fire away.”
“Are you excited?” he asks.
“For Hogwarts?” Regulus nods in response. “Yeah, I’m excited. No mum, no dad, and lots of
magic.”
Just the thought makes him grin exceptionally wide.
“I hope you have fun,” Regulus says softly.
Sirius ruffles the younger boy’s hair, “Thanks Reg. I can’t wait for you to join me.”
Regulus can’t wait either.
Soon enough, they’ve both fallen asleep, Sirius in his bed, Regulus on the floor, both dreaming of
the days they’ll spend together at Hogwarts.
Neither one is yet aware that these dreams are the closest they’ll come to such fantasies.
---
Regulus watches, in admiration.
He watches from a higher landing, head peaking out from the staircase, as Sirius and Walburga
have it out in the foyer. There’s something in the way that Sirius is quick to respond to her every jibe and make her cheeks flush in fury. The stubborn attitude of both, yet only pulled off successfully by the younger one.
“Hey, Sirius!” an eleven year old Regulus chases his brother up the stairs, “you alright?”
The elder of the two turns around to face the other, eyes darker than usual.
“What does it look like, Reg?” he grunts, shaking his head at his brother, “does everything look damn okay to you?”
Regulus doesn’t know how to respond. He’s never noticed Sirius so genuinely upset by his mother before. Until now, he’s been under the impression that she doesn’t faze Sirius, that he’s able to just shake it off.
But the way his brother is trembling now, wringing his own hands, he sees that he’s been wrong; Sirius is only good at hiding his hurt.
Regulus’ silence seems only to further aggravate Sirius.
“What, don’t you have anything to say? No more family mantra to recite?” he whispers, leaning down slightly to Regulus’ height, and his tone is fiercer than Regulus has heard directed at him before.
Regulus trips over the next few words, caught off guard by his brother’s hostility, “Si-rius, I didn’t say anything I-“
“Save it,” he snaps in response.
When Sirius looks back into the weary eyes of his younger brother, he sighs. He let that damn woman get him hot headed again. Apologetically, he sort of pats the younger boys shoulder with a rough chuckle.
“Forget all that,” he says, calmer now, “just forget everything. G’night Reg.”
He continues up the stairs to his own bedroom, leaving Regulus standing dumbfounded.
Regulus’ eyes only give away half of his bafflement. Sure, Sirius has been in foul moods before, more often then he’s been in good ones, probably. But something he said this time resinates.
“Family Mantra.”
Regulus pays a visit to the family tapestry. He’s only ever visited it before to memorise his
relatives' names (owing to the large number that caused him much confusion). But he’s never really studied the words.
Toujours Pur
He’s heard it before: toasted to at family dinner parties, in conversations between his parents after Sirius has stormed off; he’s heard it while eavesdropping in on his cousins’ conversations.
But has he ever considered what they were actually referring to? Not really.
It’s an interesting concept, he ponders, without yet fully grasping it. He understands more the impact it has upon the relationships around him, rather than the full implications of its execution.
But he’s no idiot, he understands enough: enough to know that he is considered the ‘higher calibre of wizard’. He knows enough about politics to see that some people disagree. He’s heard enough of Sirius’ conversations with his friends to know that his brother is one of them. He’s attended enough family functions to know that the rest of them aren’t.
It is that night that Regulus is introduced to the depth of the situation facing the wizarding world. He realises that the issues being fought over between Sirius and his parents, even between Andromeda and hers, are more than just teenage rebellion. He contemplates, (lightly), the gravity of the situation, the choices that his brother has made; the choices he’ll have to make.
He’s always admired Sirius: the bravery, rashness, and outspokenness that seems to work everyone into a huff. But has he ever actually desired to parallel that? And, even if he did, could he?
He spends the night cross legged in front of the tapestry, staring at the two words that accompany his surname. And when he’s thought of them enough, he takes to staring at the burnt names. He wonders: wonders whether Sirius will ever be one of them, and whether he will be, too. He falls asleep this way.
---
Sirius watches, intently.
He sees Regulus make his way up to the stool, sees the hat placed on his head. Anticipation is thick for them both. The hat takes longer than usual to make his decision (this excites Sirius: the hat spent a longer than normal time on his head, too).
Just as Sirius begins to hope (could there be another Black in Gryffindor? Wouldn’t that make his parents go round the bend..) the hat barks: “Slytherin!”
The word takes a while to register because the hat in Sirius’ mind has said otherwise.
Only as realisation hits does he become aware of the way his heart has been beating, the clamminess of his hands, the way his lips are quirking: uncontrollably, rapidly. The back of his throat burns. He drinks some pumpkin juice to cool it and diverts his eyes to the enchanted ceiling. Never until now has it failed to enchant him.
He watches as Regulus makes his way to the Slytherin table, sees Narcissa’s boyfriend watching him carefully. He sits down amongst Rosier, Snape and their foul little crowd, and Sirius feels betrayed, more than anything.
He’d never admit to his desperation, his devastation, then and there. How much he was hanging onto, relying on, the thought of having his brother with him. The opportunity to have a relation in his own house, a person who he wouldn’t be ashamed of, someone who’d grow to share not only his own values and ideals, (his belief in justice), but also his blood. It was his one chance, his only chance, at feeling like he had actual family.
And the fucking Sorting Hat has taken that away from him.
He’s been betrayed-betrayed by Regulus, betrayed by his family. Betrayed by the god damned world.
He feels bloody cheated and he’s sick of it.
He’s alone. So he blames Regulus.
He blames Regulus for not having a bit more bloody courage, for being a people pleaser, a soft touch, for pitying his parents rather than confronting them.
All his isolation, his anger, his fury with the fucking ‘Toujours pur’ becomes Regulus’ fault, as much as anyone else’s.
He doesn’t see the younger boy’s frequent glances toward the Gryffindor table, seeking out the eyes of his older brother.
---
Regulus watches, with mild disgust.
He watches Avery and Mulciber hexing a second year Hufflepuff boy. The way the young boy, Regulus’ age, has tears streaming down his cheeks- a boy that he caught the boat into Hogwarts with last year. He seemed nice enough.
He watches as Snape dangles him in the air, robes hanging around his face. They knock him to and fro, and within minutes he’s on the floor doubled up, the wind knocked out of him, coughing and wheezing, his nose oozing out blood.
Regulus feels the boy’s eyes pleading with him. Yet he’s paralysed, unable to do anything to stop the others or help. He just watches on as the helpless boy coughs up a storm. The thought that he’s so powerless scares him.
When the others leave the boy on the floor, unable to breathe, Regulus leaves with them.
The incident doesn’t leave his mind for the rest of the day.
He approaches Avery in the common room later that night.
“What was all that about?”
Avery stares at him condescendingly.
“It’s just a bit of harmless fun, Reg. Harden up.”
---
Sirius listens as his heart thumps a little harder and irregularly.
He hears Lily Evans’ account of how she found a poor Hufflepuff second year half passed out in the Transfiguration corridor. She mentions the names of the ones who had apparently been behind the deed. She’s positively shaking with fury. He wishes he hadn’t heard.
She doesn’t make the connection between the final name dropped and his own.
He’s ashamed.
Neither of them realise that they’re both in the same boat.
---
Regulus listens as he completes his homework.
He listens to the way Malfoy and Rosier rant about Muggle-borns (or mudbloods, as they so eloquently put it) and “what a waste of space they are,” and how they’re a “disgrace to the whole fucking school.” He’s becoming less surprised as to how passionately they feel, how furious they are.
His mind jumps to Harriet Meadowes, a pretty Muggle-born girl he’s been sitting next to in Charms for the past few months. When he tries to get a word in, he gets interrupted with a mocking glare, edging on menacing.
“Mudbloods, Regulus. They’re called mudbloods. And they don’t belong here.”
The next time he tries to defend her, he cops a punch in the face. That shuts him up.
This time, it’s him with the nose that bleeds for days.
Within a few weeks, he’s found a new Charms partner.
And, soon enough, the mudblood rant has become so familiar, he’s reciting it himself.
---
Sirius stirs his soup.
It’s Christmas Eve in the Noble House of Black, and he wishes he was anywhere but here. The family of four sit in the kitchen, the majority of whom are discussing Regulus’ last few months at Hogwarts.
Sirius’ ears prick up when Reg mentions the ‘friends’ he’s been hanging around with. The way he talks about them and the way his mother’s face lights up in delight make Sirius’ knuckles turn white as he grips his spoon.
“It’s about time this family start associating with the right sort again.”
Sirius looks up into the cold grey eyes of his father. Without another word he’s on his feet, marching toward his room.
He emerges the next day, when the extended Black family grace Grimmauld Place with their presence. But as soon as the first “mudblood” is uttered (it only takes fifteen minutes) he’s back in his room.
The next few Christmases pass in the same fashion.
---
Regulus raises his wand.
He points it at the young Gryffindor, the young Gryffindor who’d made a snide remark about the latest Quidditch match and Regulus’ failure to catch the Snitch.
That particular Gryffindor is found stunned in a broom closet the next morning.
Mulciber and Avery are pleased.
As is Regulus.
From this point on, he no longer thinks (nor cares) before hexing.
---
Sirius watches his brother bent over a book in the library.
He sees the way his countenance is so much like his own, from the hair, to the eyes, to the way he’s sitting on his seat, to, when he gets up, the way they both apparently walk (according to Prongs). Not only that, but the constant expression they both bear. It’s the hardened expression-only understood by those who have lived in the Noble House of Black.
As he’s leaning on the library doors, observing, he feels a sudden pang of genuine pity, regret, (and is it guilt?) at the sight of his brother.
Displaying the courage the younger once admired him for, he approaches the desk where the latter sits.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks.
Regulus doesn’t even attempt to hide his shock at seeing his brother there.
“Erm, yeah. Sure.. I guess.” He mumbles, fumbling with his things to hide his sudden nervousness.
Sirius takes the seat opposite him when he realises he doesn’t exactly know what to say.
“So.. How’ve you been?”
Regulus raises an eyebrow (the kid’s always been quick) and a hint of a smirk appears.
“Alright I guess,” he drawls, knowingly.
“That’s good,” Sirius says,awkwardly.
He’s surprised when Regulus emits a genuine laugh at this. And though it’s shortly lived, it’s something that makes something inside Sirius warm, and a smile unwillingly creeps into his features, too.
“This is funny,” the younger states, plainly.
“What is?” Sirius asks, half embarrassed, half in good humour.
“The way out of nowhere you just.. Why are you talking to me?” His expression turns sombre, and his intense stare makes Sirius feel guiltier.
Sirius shrugs, hoping to seem nonchalant. “I saw you and thought I should just.. see how you’re doing.”
“I see.. well, I’m doing good. Exams approaching.. kind of soon, so just preparing and such.”
“I’ve got a couple of sets of notes handy if you need some?” Sirius offers casually.
“Snape has already..” Regulus stops himself. “That’d be good. Thanks.”
“No worries,” Sirius chirps, then, remembering the appointment he has with a young lady, excuses himself gently. “I best be going, Reg, but.. good catching up.”
Regulus half smiles, “Yeah.. yeah. See you later.”
They’re both telling the truth.
That night, they both lie awake, reflecting on their exchange earlier that day. Neither of them denies how much they’ve missed each other’s company.
---
Regulus watches the Gryffindor table one morning.
He sees the way Sirius and Potter are talking together, joking. He sees the way the Pettigrew kid is hanging on to their every word, how the Lupin boy seems completely complacent in their company. He sees that each of them seems genuinely happy.
He compares them to the people he is surrounded by: Snape, Avery, Mulciber, Nott. Each of them wears a dark expression. Regulus knows that they’ve all been contacted by the Dark Lord over the last few months. He sees their pride reflected in their actions; they’ve become ruthless.
He wonders when (and whether) the Dark Lord will reach out to him too. He’s anxious.
He looks back and forth from the table on the other side of the hall to his own, comparing. He wonders if they could possibly be more different.
---
Sirius catches Regulus muttering ‘mudblood’ to some acquaintance of his as they pass each
other in the corridor.
They share a moment of eye contact.
Sirius is radiating disappointment.
What furthers that is that Regulus is displaying only a fraction of that in remorse.
And even so, only because Sirius heard.
---
Regulus sits in the common room on a Thursday evening, listening as the others brag and gloat about their soon-to-be induction into the Death Eaters.
The excitement on all of their faces is contagious.
Regulus can’t wait to join them.
---
Sirius hears the rumours.
The rumours going around about the Death Eater movement and the involvement of many young Slytherins.
He tries to deny it, tries to block it out, but the name of his brother crops up too many times in association with that rumour to ignore it.
The next time he passes the library, he looks out for Regulus’ head.
He sees it, accompanied by Snape’s greasy hair.
This time, he doesn’t go in. And doubts he will for a long while yet.
He knows there must be an element of truth in the rumours.
He also knows that they’re both too far set in their own ways for an attempt at major reconciliation any time soon.
Sirius leaves the library at a much slower, much sadder pace then he approached it with.
---
Regulus finds his brother in the Astronomy tower, smoking a cigarette.
When Sirius turns around and sees him there, Regulus doesn’t fail to notice a certain coldness in the grey eyes, and the way they seem almost entirely apathetic.
Not a word passes between them. Sirius hands him a cigarette. He takes it.
Then the former is gone.
Regulus sits on the ledge for the next hour.
He watches the smoke rise and whirl before withering out through the balcony.
The unspoken words between the two make the room eerily quiet.
He ponders the meaning the silence conveyed. Things are changing, in the castle and out. He
wonders whether things between him and his brother will ever return to what they once were, what they should be.
He’s always been the realistic sort.
He doubts it.
---
Sirius blocks his ears. Tries to, at least.
“Bloody mudbloods. Making a mess of everything. How they’re still all surviving, with the Dark Lord doing his job, I don’t know,” Orion continues on his usual rant as he reads the paper.
Sirius just rolls his eyes, attempting to ignore him.
“Try telling your son that,” Walburga snaps. Sirius looks up at her.
“He’s the one who spends all his time with the blood traitors and mudbloods. Scum, is what they are. Filthy, dirty scum.”
The nerve of that woman has never yet failed to astound him.
“Regulus, on the other hand, knows his place and knows that it is above theirs. Right, Reg?”
Regulus looks up from his school work on the opposite end of the table.
“Right. “
Sirius looks at the kid. “You’re an idiot.”
“Excuse me?”
“How are you listening to all that crap?!”
“It’s not crap, Sirius, it’s the truth.”
“Bull shi-“
“ENOUGH.” Walburga screams. “Stop with your nonsense! Stop with the damned nonsense! Merlin, what did I do to deserve you?!”
Sirius stares at his mother, throat burning and eyes itching. The fucking bitch.
“Fine.” He declares, coldly.
He summons his stuff from upstairs, underage magic be damned, and with that word, he’s gone.
---
Regulus watches, void of emotion.
He watches from his bedroom window, as the motorbike roars down Grimmauld Place. There’s something graceful in the anger that’s powering the vehicle to scream through the street, in the robe being carried by the wind as its wearer leaves forever.
He tries not to care. He shouldn’t, really. Sirius has the wrong ideology, and that’ll land him in trouble one day. There’s nothing Regulus can do for him, nor his obsession with the wrong sort.
(That doesn’t stop his sorely missing his brother’s presence in the next few days.)
He looks around his room, the newspaper clippings, “Toujours pur” and Slytherin banners. They’re all a testimony to the great things that the Dark Lord has and will have done.
He knows he’s made the right choice. He just hopes that Sirius’ doesn’t land him up dead.
He doesn’t acknowledge that the ruthlessness and bitterness that will soon overcome him are a result of the abandonment he feels from his brother’s departure.
---
Sirius spends the first few days at James’ house moping around silently. James doesn’t ask any questions, for which Sirius is grateful.
He’s caught up in his decision, unsure, yet he can’t imagine going back.
He’s received a few notes from his mother, each communicating disappointment, one even asking him to return home, but none containing a an apology, no hint of approval, nor of understanding, either.
Amidst the notes from his mother, he hasn’t failed to notice that there are none from Regulus. He guesses that he shouldn’t be surprised, their correspondence has been limited of late and tense as well, to say the least.
Nonetheless, he decides to pen Regulus a letter:
“Regulus. I’m sorry for leaving like that.. I hope you understand why. I hope you’re okay. Let me know if you need anything. You’re welcome to come stay with me too, if you’re having any trouble. Write back.. hope to see you soon. Sirius.”
Every word is sincere, yet fabricated.
He knows that Regulus isn’t going to ask for his help nor follow in his footsteps. He has the footsteps of others to follow.
But that doesn’t stop him trying, hoping, that his departure may have an effect on his younger brother (and he wants to reach out to him in case it did.)
Regulus’ lack of reply indicates that it didn’t.
Sirius is sitting on the back porch that night when James sits next to him.
“So..” James begins, feigning awkwardness.
Despite himself, Sirius finds himself chuckling darkly.
This chuckle turns into a laugh, and within seconds he’s barking like a madman.
He starts to laugh - loudly, manically - and he can’t control himself.
The hysteria is blinding: he can’t breathe, his ears are ringing, and his voice is going hoarse.
He can’t think and he can’t stop. He continues to laugh, to bark, to wail, even when tears surprise him by making an appearance. He’s shaking, trembling.
He’s scared of himself.
James doesn’t say anything; he just pats his best mate on the back until he regains his composure.
It takes the rest of the night.
---
Regulus stares, afraid (ashamed?).
He watches his older brother approach him in the grounds, flanked by his pet Potter and
the fat one. He envies way that they strut around the castle, advertising their mateship to the world. And that jealousy also makes him incredibly bitter.
“Oi, Reg.”
“Sirius.”
“Mary Macdonald.”
Regulus groans inwardly. He should have known the reason for his brother’s rare initiation of conversation would be about that. He knew the stupid prank Mulciber played on the Muggle Gryffindor girl ‘to teach her a lesson’ last week had stepped over the line and wasn’t going to go down well with anyone.
“What about her?”
“What the fuck happened?!” Sirius’ outrage is evident.
“What’s it to you?” He asks coolly, knowing it will spark a reaction.
“She’s our bloody friend!” Potter interrupts loudly, as he usually does in heated interactions between the brothers.
Regulus wishes he had someone to jump in on his behalf.
Regulus turns to him. “I didn’t ask you to speak.”
“He can speak whenever the fuck he wants, Regulus. What. Happened.” Sirius has moved closer now and the two are almost eye to eye.
Regulus hesitates before mumbling, “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Well then who did?! She’d done nothing Reg, nothing!”
Regulus eyes Mulciber appearing just behind where Pettigrew stands. He knows he’s heard the conversation. Deciding it was between the disapproval of his brother or nights of torture in the common room, he goes for the more painless option. He says what Mulciber has come to hear.
“The mudblood got what was coming to her,” he says, plainly.
He sees Mulciber’s smirk before a giant fist gets in its way.
---
Sirius punches with bloody knuckles.
He slams his fist into his younger brother’s face. Then his gut. Then his jaw again.
Within seconds they’re both covered in blood - blood they share - Sirius doing the punching, Regulus jerking in reaction to every blow he takes.
He feels James pull his arms behind his back with a gentle, but loud, “that’ll do it.”
As James steers him away from the scene, patting him on the back and trying to magic away the blood stains, Sirius notices that Mulciber is there, and though he is, Regulus is still coughing and spluttering and covered in blood on his own.
Amongst all the shit he’s feeling, Sirius is grateful.
And later that night, he lets Prongs know it.
They’re in the kitchens, snacking on a few treats, mouths full.
“You right, Padfoot?” The question isn’t awkward, merely genuine.
Sirius nods, swallows his bite, grunts.
“Yeah. Thanks, by the way. For everything.”
“Anytime.”
Silence follows, but completely comfortable. There’s more eating. The fire has joined their group of three, providing its own warmth.
“You’re more of a brother than he is, you know?” Sirius mumbles after a while, almost inaudibly.
“I know” James says plainly.
And Sirius knows that he does know. He appreciates that fact.
---
Regulus receives an owl.
“Regulus A Black,
I understand from a source that you consider yourself sympathetic with the Dark Lord’s aims.
I have been in communication with the Dark Lord and He has expressed interest in meeting with you.
I’m sure you understand the honour you have been presented with and that you will not disappoint.
I shall disclose a time and place to you at a later date.
L. Malfoy”
He is a jumble of nerves, excitement and anticipation.
He knows (thinks) that this is it.
---
Sirius marches down the dungeon corridor.
He hexes Snape, and Harriet Meadowes (of the year below) falls to the floor in a heap of sobs and tears after being under the Cruciatus. He knew there was something suspicious about their dots so close together on the map.
The slime ball is petrified before he realises what’s going on.
Sirius goes to help the girl, slumped on the floor, shoulders shaking, when someone else rounds the corner.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Sirius registers the shock and betrayal on the girl’s face as she looks up at Regulus.
Sirius glares daggers at him. He’s seeing red.
“You’re a sick, sick bastard, you know that.” The words come out slowly, and he’s forcing himself to keep his shaking fists at his sides.
Regulus almost smiles, “I’d watch your tongue if I were you.”
“You motherfucking -" but his roar and lunge toward the boy is interrupted as all his muscles
tense up and freeze. He falls to the floor.
Snape smirks down at Sirius. “Good job Regulus” he drawls “the Dark Lord will be impressed.”
After a swift kick in the groin, Snape and Regulus are gone.
That night, Snape makes his way down to the Whomping Willow.
James doesn’t speak a word to Sirius for two weeks. Remus hates him (temporarily). His favourite uncle dies, and within a few months Sirius winds up living on his own, parentless and family-less, at the age of seventeen.
He wonders how things could have gotten so fucked up.
---
Regulus looks on in admiration.
He watches the way the Dark Lord has the room’s full attention. The way he speaks so persuasively, raw, and honestly. He sees how passionate he is towards his cause, how he will actually succeed.
It’s dark, very dimly lit, so that one cannot make out another’s face. Only the Dark Lord’s is entirely visible, and he radiates such power, such excitement, that the whole room is filled with a tremendous tension.
Regulus is full of anxious energy. He knows that wizards, even Death Eaters, aren’t just able to come here. Whoever is in the room is there for a reason, Regulus included. The pride inside of him is nags him that that reason is that he’s to become one of them.
---
He’s pretty sure that Snape is in here somewhere, as are Rosier and Malfoy. His insides swell at the atmosphere and audience that surround him- at the fact that he’s being included amongst such people. He knows his parents areproud of him too.
Regulus knows what he’s doing. He knows what he believes in, what’s right, and is nothing but impressed and in awe of the Dark Lord and the courage that he demonstrates- fighting for the pure blood supremacy that they all deserve.
He’s felt no honour comparable to that of meeting the Dark Lord. When all that He asks of him is one small deed, Regulus is ecstatic to be of assistance and obliges thoughtlessly. He summons Kreacher and leaves him in the Dark Lord’s care.
Later that night, he’s tracing the mark on his arm, which is still burning.
---
Sirius sits in his first meeting of the Order of the Phoenix.
He, James and Lily are the first to be inducted. They meet the other Order members, each with heroically inspiring tales to tell, and he’s filled with a buzzing excitement. He’s finally doing what he’s longed to for years.
He’s pleased to see that his background, his family, is of little or no importance to the people there; it is his attitude and what he believes in that is valued, not his surname.
Dumbledore addresses them, followed by a solid man Sirius hasn’t yet met named Moody. They speak passionately, determinedly, and Sirius feels, for once, surrounded by entirely like minded people. They too see what justice is and hate Voldemort for the foul bastard he is.
He sees the elation in Lily’s eyes, he knows how much all this means to her, too, and he smiles.
“What did you think, Padfoot?” James asks at the end of the meeting as they walk away, his arm slung around Lily.
“I think,” Sirius begins, “that this is going to be a lot of fun.”
The two smile wickedly at each other, Sirius winks, and Lily laughs at their enthusiasm.
Despite of the impending doom that they all know is inevitable, Sirius, for the moment, is optimistic.
---
Regulus watches with vacant eyes.
He watches the smoke spiral and twirl as it comes out the end of his cigarette. There’s something captivating in the way that the ribbons of grey seem to dance with each other, their different shades and shapes enchanting the black that surrounds him.
Then he sees a pair of blue eyes. Dead blue eyes.
No matter how hard he tries to focus on other things, all he can see are Harriet Meadowes’ eyes.
The way they switched off as the curse hit her-the way they had turned dull, empty, lifeless- plays over and over in his mind.
The desperation on her face, the way she had pleaded with him, tears streaking her cheeks, mania in her every feature haunts him. All he can hear is her scream.
And the eyes came into his mind again. Void of life. Dead. Dead.
He had taken the life out of someone’s eyes, taken their life altogether.
He’s deeply disturbed.
And doubtful. His resolve has wavered over the last weeks, the reality of his existence making him doubt himself altogether.
A sounding crack echoes and the tortured image that greets him is enough to drive the eyes out of his mind for the time being.
Kreacher falls, sobbing, weeping, onto the floor of the cold and gloomy Grimmauld Place kitchen.
Regulus rushes to his aid, helping him up and bewitching his clothes dry. The elf is shaking, and the fear that is causing the creature such trauma causes Regulus to shake as well.
Slowly and torturedly, Kreacher recounts his experience, every horrific detail, from the potion he was forced to drink to the dead bodies surrounding him. The thought makes Regulus sick.
His heart is thumping throughout the elf’s tale, his own eyes burning as he sees the elf suffer so.
Regulus does not sleep that night, rather draws hypotheses and conclusions in his head. In the early hours of the morning, he ventures into Grimmauld Place’s library and seeks out the books at the bottom of the shelf, coated in layers of dust (and they are for a reason). He reads page after page, absorbing the most gruesome information he’s ever come across. Some of the things he reads make him gag, others jolt his memory, and he’s scrawling away on spare parchment for hours.
He doesn’t leave his room for days, doesn’t eat, just thinks, reads, writes, and thinks some more. His mind is swirling with memories and emotions, facts and knowledge, decisions gone wrong and decisions to be made. He tries to remember every detail: everything he has ever heard the Dark Lord say, every newspaper clipping, and every brief allusion to immortality he’s come across.
And when his mind can’t remember anymore, he’s left to dwell on what’s become of him, the ghost that the last year has turned him into. The last few days have been a whirlwind-a splash of cold water enabling him to wake up to himself, forcing him to look in the mirror. But the pale and bleak young man with empty grey eyes scares him.
He finds the answer to his questions in an ancient leather bound book. The answer is horrifying; yet it fits the puzzle. All the pieces come together and Regulus is forced to make a decision.
He thinks of Kreacher. He thinks of the dead girl. He thinks of Sirius. He thinks of the Dark Lord.
He thinks of the waste that has become of him.
There’s nothing that the young man, now aged beyond his years though barely a man at all, regrets more than his wasted life, wasted relationships, wasted opportunity.
He’s made his decision (he realises he could have never avoided it) firm and sure.
But nothing is enough to stop the body wracking sobs that engulf him as he sleeps for the first time in days - the last time that he sleeps.
---
Sirius duels in battle for the first time.
He fights bravely, wholeheartedly.
There are flashes of lights and screams; people appear, people disappear, bodies fall, people cry. But his eyes don’t leave the person in front of him, the one trying to take his life.
He fights fiercely, determinedly, until his curse hits its target.
As his opponent falls to the ground with a thump, Sirius watches the black cloaks of the opposition twist and twirls in the night sky, makes a conscious note of the eerie masks being worn by the Death Eaters.
He wonders whether his brother is amongst them, shielded by a mask, too.
---
Regulus drinks the potion.
He is overwhelmed by pain and trauma, his last thoughts and visions being some of the worst of his life.
He’s crying out, screaming,( the pain needs to fucking stop) but he keeps drinking (he must.)
He twists and jerks, twitches and cries, but makes sure that he finishes the god damn potion.
He’s blinded; unable to put the locket in the basin himself, he’s last coherent thought is to trust Kreacher to do it for him.
He can no longer think, he’s no longer aware of himself or his surroundings.
All he knows is that he needs water. He’s writhing on the ground, reaching out for water.
His hand finds a pool of water and he crawls immediately, absentmindedly, toward it, face in the water, gulping as much as he can.
He’s so involved in the sensation that he doesn’t realise it when the first slimy hand grasps his wrist. Nor does he notice the bony limbs dragging his ankles into a mass of slime and skeletons.
His lungs slowly fill with water; his neck is slowly strangled by Inferi.
Regulus drowns, fated to become one of the bodies that killed him.
---
Sirius reads without processing.
His mother’s tight scrawl informs him curtly of Regulus’ death.
He stares at the piece of parchment, eyes blank and mind empty.
He is stunned, unable to process.
“Regulus’ death. Death. Death. Death.”
The words don’t seem right, aren’t right, (they can’t be right.)
They just echo, ricocheting off the walls of his mind. His cold, empty, mind.