(no subject)
Title: Backwards Down
Pairing: Regulus/Severus
Rating: PG
Summary: Everybody knows what happened to Regulus Black.
The boy with such sad wings should stay off tall buildings
And keep away from high wires;
There's no circus left to join
*
January 5th, 1980
Regulus tries to grip the floor, but the stone slips under his fingers. The ground is wet under him.
"Leave him," someone says. He recognizes the voice, but it's muddled in with a hundred other noises. A faint buzzing echoes through his head. "It'll be over soon."
His jaw is crushed against the stone, sending muted waves of pain down through his spine. His face feels disjointed, as if it's come apart, and Regulus imagines the little pieces dancing across the floor. An eye tipping its hat to a blushing ear. He tries to laugh, but his mouth is numb.
He can feel someone over him, hovering like a dark bird. He wants to tell the joke, but it's already slipping away, melting in with the pulsing pain. He wants to blend in with the stone, feel the cool, hard smoothness all over his skin.
The dark bird shifts above him. It is big and black, and Regulus imagines it descending on him, wings flapping against his face. He thinks of Sirius' hands, stroking his hair back from his forehead. Hair like feathers.
"Sirius," he mumbles, but his lips are broken. He is too far behind, and Sirius has already disappeared into the darkness.
The bird moves in closer, mutters something, and Regulus clenches his fists against the ground. The words are familiar, but he cannot place them. He reaches out for the meaning, and a blanket of warm, green light folds over him.
January 4th, 1980
The blows come hard and regular, one after the other. Regulus chokes with the pain, feels it grip his shoulders and elbows and knees. It spirals through him like tiny explosions, knocking him to the floor. This is nothing he has ever imagined: these knives ripping through him from the inside, slicing through blood and muscle and tissue. He screams until the slashing reaches his throat.
When the pain lets up, he is trembling on his knees. He cannot move, but he can feel tears on his face.
"Again, Lucius."
When the curse is breaking through him, he manages to be brave. It is the waiting time, the intermission between tortures, that kills him. It is then that he wishes for death.
December 28th, 1979
Severus is quiet, when Regulus tells him. He does not shout, as Regulus thought he might, but then again, Severus has never been quick to anger. Instead, he sits at his desk, sipping slowly on a calming potion and re-organizing his quills. For a long time, he says nothing.
Regulus is sure now, if not confident. He will flee quickly and quietly, in the night. Before the first attacks, he had imagined everyone celebrating the victory together, Rodolphus and Bella kissing as Severus opened a bottle of champagne. But the Killing Curse has hardened Bella, made her dark and cold and cruel. When Rodolphus reaches for her now, she is always just one step away. Regulus thought he loved the Dark Lord, but it was never enough to provoke him into violent insanity. Bella is not so shy of madness.
"You can't do this," Severus says, finally. He pauses. "I won't help you if you do."
"I don't expect you to," Regulus says. He pulls up his left sleeve, rubs a finger over the mark there. The Dark Mark has been simmering lately, glowing like the ashes of hot coals. He knows it's only a matter of time.
"You'll die, Regulus," Severus says, and his voice holds a tinge of desperation. "I know you think you're being noble and brave, but you're just being stupid. You will die for nothing."
"Not nothing," Regulus says. He doesn't want to hurt Severus - out of all of them, Severus is the one he would protect with his life. But he cannot stay.
Severus looks up, and he is suddenly angry. "Nothing," he says, and Regulus steps back. "Do you think your death will mean anything to Rodolphus, or Bella? They don’t even care about themselves anymore. You will be just another Death Eater traitor, and no one will remember you."
Regulus looks at him. Lines have spread lately over Severus' skin, catching hold like fire to paper. He looks older now, when he frowns. Regulus imagines that they all do. He closes his eyes. "Please, Severus."
Severus sighs. "You know I - " He stops himself, shakes his head and pushes the paper on his desk into a neat pile. He doesn't look up. "There are more intelligent ways to do this."
There's a minute of silence, and then Regulus nods. "For you," he says quietly, and he turns and leaves.
November 4th, 1978
Bella's nails are cold and smooth, like hard plastic. Regulus tries not to shiver as she traces them slowly down his cheek, pressing just hard enough to hurt.
"Very good, Regulus," she says. Her smile is fixed and perfect under bright red lips. "I didn't think you had it in you."
Regulus turns away, his palms itching. His wand feels warm in his pocket, and the smell of dried blood is trapped in his nose. He feels nauseous, the way he used to feel after Sirius spun him around by his ankles too many times. He wants to be sick, but Bella is watching him like a hawk. She would never let him forget it.
"Well," he says, and her hand flutters down onto his shoulder. He wants to turn and hit her, push her down and kick her until she doesn't move, but he knows Bella. He is nearly a foot taller than her, much heavier, but he knows by the way she scans his body - she has memorized his weaknesses. He tries to smile instead. "Now you do."
January 3rd, 1977
"So," Sirius say, his voice mocking. "I hear you've shacked up with Snivellus."
Regulus doesn't say anything. He's noticed the glances in the hall from his brother and his friends - the way they snicker and nudge each other, when he passes. He doesn't care, really. Sirius and James are loud and obnoxious and full of themselves, and everyone knows it.
"It makes me a little nervous about you being in the house, honestly," Sirius continues. "I mean, who knows what sort of diseases Snivellus has? It's a bit like keeping a rabid dog."
"Shut up," Regulus says quietly.
"Come to think of it, you do look a bit greasier than normal," Sirius says. "Have you been taking beauty tips from your boyfriend, because you know, I don't think cooking grease is really - "
"Shut up!" Regulus roars, and launches himself at Sirius, pushing him off the bed. He lands on Sirius' chest, red-faced and fuming, and Sirius splutters and pushes him off.
"I was just joking, you nutter!" he says. "Sorry, I forgot they don't allow laughing in Slytherin!"
Regulus puts his hand on his wand. He doesn't pull it out, but his hands are shaking. He stands up. "Don't talk about him," he says. He wants to blast Sirius' stupid head off. "And don't fuck with me anymore."
Sirius is still looking up at him, wide-eyed, when he slams the door.
September 9th, 1976
Six days and four hours into fifth year, Regulus kisses Severus. They are sitting on the edge of his bed, and Severus is trying to explain the Leventeum Draught. Regulus isn't really listening - he never does, when it comes to Severus' lessons. Instead, he watches the lines of his best friend's face, notes the way they tense and slacken when he gets excited. The shadow of Severus' nose on the wall looks like a bird.
"Are you listening?" Severus says accusingly, and Regulus jolts up. Severus sighs. "I don't even know why I do this. You don't care about Potions, and you're never going to pass your OWLs at this rate."
"Yes, I will!" Regulus says, stung. "I know plenty of things that you don't know - and besides, OWLs aren't going to matter anyway. Not really."
"You're so short-sighted," Severus mutters, and Regulus scowls. He hates when Severus treats him like a child. "You don't think there'll be a world, after the revolution? You'll still need to be able to do something."
Regulus can feel his face turning red with anger. He's tired of the little pinpricks from his friends - he's too young, he's too stupid, he doesn't understand. He thinks that he understands better than any of them. When the Dark Lord takes over, there will be no OWL to rival the power of loyalty.
He looks up at Severus. "You don't know what you're talking about," he says. "I mean, you only think that because you're - " He cuts himself off, but it's too late: Severus has heard it too much to not know what he was going to say.
"Because I'm a Mudblood?" Severus' voice is cold.
Regulus swallows. "I didn't mean that."
"You don’t need to lie," Severus scowls. "If you think I don’t know what Nott and Rosier say about me, you’re an idiot."
"It’s not like that," Regulus says, but he can’t meet Severus’ eyes. He is not the son who has been burned out of the Black family crest; he is the son who comes home to roast beef and wine, his mother’s guarded praise. He knows his status, and he balances on it carefully.
"It is," Severus says resentfully, saying what Regulus already knows. "You shop at Malkin’s, Regulus. Your mother sends you packages practically every week. I’ve seen the way you throw around Galleons, the way you buy a new broom every time your old one has a broken twig. You can’t possibly understand - "
"I know, all right?" Regulus says desperately. Severus is quiet. "I know." He starts to say something else, but then he looks up at Severus.
It happens almost in slow motion: he grasps the back of Severus' neck, pulls him forward. There is a moment of green silence, and then he pushes their lips together. For a second, it is crushing and awkward. Severus' lips are chapped, and when he tries to move his mouth, their noses bump together. After a minute, they settle into a sort of rhythm, and Severus grips his shoulders, his fingers tightening as their tongues sweep together. His teeth catch on Regulus' bottom lip as he pulls away.
Regulus clears his throat awkwardly and looks up. Severus is staring at him.
"Sorry," he whispers, and Severus shakes his head.
"No," he says. "It's alright. I didn't - hate it."
"Oh," Regulus says softly. He swallows. "Okay."
They sit on the bed for a minute in silence. Regulus can hear Severus' breathing, short and harsh and raspy under his thin robes. He exhales slowly.
"Look, I don't think I'm better than you," Regulus says quickly. His face is burning, and he can't seem to tear his eyes from the edge of the bedspread. "I mean, not like other people do."
"Okay," Severus says. "I know."
"I just don't want you to think that I'm like - well, you know. Rodolphus. Or Sirius and them," he says. Severus is still just sitting there, picking away at the ratty lining of his robes. His lips are pursed. Regulus sighs. "And I'm sorry about - " He pauses. "About saying that."
"S'fine," Severus mumbles, and he flops back on the bed. Regulus lies down next to him, cautiously, and watches his chest move up and down. He can see his ribs through his robe.
"Okay," he says quietly, and rests his forehead against Severus' shoulder.
December 18th, 1975
Sirius goes home with James Potter for the first part of the holidays, so Regulus stays at Hogwarts for an extra weekend with Rodolphus and Bella. Darlus and Evan and Severus are there for Christmas break, and they hold themselves up in the Slytherin common room and drink.
Exams are over, so everyone is cheerful - even Evan, who usually bores them to death by reciting the mistakes he probably made in History of Magic. Snow is falling quietly outside, and they all huddle under blankets across the common room armchairs. Rodolphus slides an arm around Bella's waist, pulling her onto his lap. She giggles, her cheeks flushed with wine.
"Oh, stop," she says, still laughing. "You'll set a bad example for Regulus."
Rodolphus grins and tousles Regulus' hair, his long, blunt fingers grazing his scalp. "Reggie's learning from the best," he says. He hands Regulus the bottle of Firewhiskey. "He's got to grow up sometime."
Normally, Regulus would hate that - hearing about how young he is, being marked as different. But Rodolphus and Bella are grinning good-naturedly, and he likes the feel of Rodolphus' heavy hand on his shoulder. "Better late than never," he grins, and takes a swig of the Firewhiskey. It burns, but he holds it in: to cough in front of Rodolphus' friends would be unthinkable.
Darlus laughs. "Too strong for you, Black?"
They all laugh, and Severus snorts. "Better than the piss you drink, Nott." This starts an argument about the merits of cauldron-brewed Firewhiskey, as usual, and Regulus smiles and looks away. Rodolphus and Bella are curled up together in the armchair, not minding the chatter, and he watches them. She whispers something in his ear, and he smiles and rubs his thumb over the palm of her hand. They're always like that, when they're together: reaching for each other, connected. It's a relationship that Regulus would like to wrap around his shoulders for comfort, if it wasn't so private.
After a minute, Rodolphus stirs, reaches for the bottle and takes a long, deep drink. Regulus can hear Bella sigh, but he knows she doesn't mind. Rodolphus, when he's drunk, is just louder and more friendly, more inclined to sing. He doesn't have the mean drinking streak of some of their classmates.
"All right, Reggie?" Rodolphus says, and Regulus nods. Rodolphus nudges Bella to the side and throws an arm around him, and they chuckle together as Evan starts a rousing rendition of the school song. Evan is off-key and warbling, and Darlus keeps trying to overpower him with his deep, even voice. Halfway through the song, no one can remember the rest of the words, so they all just taper off and listen to Evan make up the rest, which seems to mostly involve James Potter be trampled by a hippogriff.
Regulus grins. Rodolphus' arm is heavy around his shoulders, he's drunk and light-headed and happy, and he wants to be at Hogwarts forever.
July 19th, 1974
Sirius' door is always locked. Regulus passes it on the way downstairs every morning, hesitates just slightly. He wonders what his older brother is doing in there - listening to music, maybe, or sending Owls to James Potter.
Regulus hates the way Sirius laughs with his friends, the way he throws an arm around Remus Lupin and whispers in his ear. When they were young, he was the keeper of his brother's secrets, and his thin shoulders bore the weight of Sirius' arm. Hogwarts has taken Sirius away from him.
He knocks sometimes, nervously. "What?" Sirius will say loudly, and Regulus wants to warn him, to say, What if it had been Mother? You should be careful. It's a joke, though, he knows. Sirius doesn't care anymore.
When he opens the door, slowly, Sirius is usually lying in bed or scribbling at his desk. Sometimes he doesn't even look up. "What, Regulus?"
"I just thought - " The words catch on his lips, time after time, as if he hasn't practiced them in the mirror. "Never mind."
He always hopes that Sirius will pause, take the time to ask him how he is, but it's a fantasy. Sirius is confident and handsome and clever, but he has never been kind.
September 3rd, 1972
Regulus knows that Slytherin will make Mother proud, that Sirius' legacy is no legacy to follow - but still. As McGonagall places the Sorting Hat on his head, his eyes catch the Gryffindor table, and there is a glimmer of hope.
Not much like your brother, are you? the hat says cunningly into his ear. Still, not exactly a true Black, either. Better be careful the choices you make, my boy.
Regulus nods. He wonders how clever the hat is - whether it can understand jealousy, or potential, or expectation.
All of these and more, the hat says softly, catching him off guard. But I think I can see where you're going - better be Slytherin!
The hat roars the name to the hall, and Regulus stumbles off the stool. On the way off the stage, he glances over at Sirius. For a moment, he wants to reach out to the Gryffindor table, plead to the heads that a mistake has been made - that can't they see, he's the mirror image of his handsome, intelligent brother. But Sirius isn't looking at him when he passes, so he keeps his head down.
June 12th, 1968
Regulus chases after Sirius, down the garden. The ground is wet and muddy from the rain, and the ends of his trousers get caught, bogging him down. The back of Sirius' head - bobbing in the sun, dark and tousled - pulls away from him.
"Wait!" Regulus cries, but Sirius doesn't stop. "Sirius, wait for me!"
His brother hesitates for a moment, then continues his charge. Sirius runs with purpose, arms tucked in and head down. Regulus always feels panicked when he runs, as if his flailing limbs will detach themselves and send him spinning.
Sirius always returns grinning from the garden. Often he is covered with mud, but he always brings something back - a dead frog, sometimes, or a smooth, red stone. Regulus reaches out to grasp the prize, but Sirius always pulls back and closes his hand, smiling. It isn't a cruel smile, just a secretive one, and it spells out clearly to Regulus that he is just too young to understand.
"Regulus!" He turns, and his mother is standing on the patio, arms folded. Her white robes are dazzling in the sun, not a mark on them, and Regulus looks down at his muddy trousers. Quick, quiet shame lances through him.
"Regulus," she says again, and he goes to her. She brushes the dust off his shoulders, frowning.
He looks down the garden for Sirius, but the trees have swallowed him up.