Fic: The Generous Gift of Protection
Regulus Black does not need protected. Thus, it pisses him off when his brother-disowned, previously known as brother, if he’s honest with himself-tries.
Regulus is a hard headed, quick witted sixth year, and the best damn Seeker Slytherin has seen in the last quarter of two centuries. He’s a decent dueler, too, not inept; he doesn’t need protected.
He is walking with Alec Rookwood, a cotton-brained human-Niffler, if ever one lived, listening to him ramble on about trying to marry Jeannoya Roiser, who is well above his station and who is entitled to all of her Daddy’s estate when he keels over. They round a corner to the unmistakable flashes of red and green reflecting on the stone corridor. Regulus’s muscles are humming in response to the magic being thrown around.
It’s no secret that Dark Magic is directly in his blood, he’s a Black and Dark Magic is a part of his heritage. There is also the other awareness that has recently been added to him. He won’t lie to himself and claim to be ignorant to the calm, seductive burn itching at his left forearm as he hears “expulso!” and the sound of rock blasting into rubble. The intent was Dark; the Mark on his arm and the blood in his veins are simply responding.
Dueling is like a dance, really. In its purest form, a duel is all gentlemanly and grandiose. There are bows and flourishes, contended with the same grace that comes with asking for a space on a dance card. In that way, the Dark incantations are like the reel that his foot taps to unintentionally. Rookwood, the idiot, is running into the foray with madness gleaming in his eyes. Silently, Regulus wonders where on the family tree the Rookwood line forked off from, he has the sickness that hangs in the Black’s house’s branches.
As Regulus summons his wealth of hexes and curses, he too sprints into the battle; there his housemates contend with… his brother. Alone. Six, now Rookwood is seven, and he is eight on one. He finds his steps slowing.
In appearances, the Black brothers are nearly twins; the only apparent difference being that Sirius is clad in red and gold, while Regulus is in green and silver. In attitude, there are less colorful differences, just as obtrude; Sirius is all wildfire and production, living for the moment of a plan’s execution. Regulus stands more like an iceberg, unseen for his depth, a mammoth force to be moved. These differences have splintered their brotherhood (along with that unnecessary desire of Sirius’s to be a Mudblood lover, he thinks) and festered them into the strangers they now are.
Even still, they have history. Sirius is the master of dueling, self-proclaimed, of course. He taught Regulus all he knew during summer hols in the shadows of the attic. Regulus knows his brother’s steps and his intentions. In that moment, however, dusty memories of hexing practice are of little concern.
Sirius moving with the well-honed grace of his forefathers, box stepping his way through parries and answered hexes. He is flicking his wand at his left and whispering his desired spells. His eyes are sharp as he ducks a blast of purple light; he sights his younger brother and in one solid, smooth move he has totally engulfed his brother in a body-bind curse. Regulus’s brain is screaming curses about pausing too long and underestimating your enemy. The tattoo on his arm is brandishing venom for his lack of action. But a streak of yellow light charging past his head brings him out of thought. He wants to yell at Benedict Couch for nearly hitting him. But in the same moment that he realizes he is unable to speak, he realizes that the blast, while badly aimed, was intended for him. Sirius is moving in from of him, putting Gryffindor school robes between Slytherin house and their Seeker.
Regulus can feel his cheeks flushing from the shame of it all. Hexed beyond movement by his bloodtraitor brother. Attacked by his housemates. Defended by his disowned brother. Damn.
He tries to fight the unseen binds of the spell, but he is held fast. He watches in a bored sort of agony as the curses and hexes fly; Rookwood goes down with some spell Regulus doesn’t know. It seems effective, Rookwood is retching gray vomit to the point of being incapacitated. Then, there is the sound of shouting and running footfalls coming down a conjoining hallway. A pair of Ravenclaw prefects spy the foray and Sirius turns to his younger sibling and smiles softly.
Then he knocks Regulus out cold.
Regulus wakes up in the Hospital Wing to learn that he has only lost his house fifteen points (for the intent to duel), however, due to his unconscious state he did not lose the additional thirty points the other boys did. Regulus glares at Rookwood while he hears this retelling.
“I was in a body-bind, you flaccid moron,” Regulus snarls.
“I damn well know that,” Alec whispers tersely, “but we want some chance at the House Cup, so shut up.” No use arguing with that logic. However, the anger boils low in Regulus’s ears. His brother saved him from losing additional house points and from spending eight nights in detention. Sirius was protecting him. Again.
Regulus is planning to let loose on his brother just as soon as the opportunity presents itself. He dreams of giving Sirius whiskers or visible gas, while forcing him to dance naked on top the professors’ dinner plates. Then late one evening, while sitting in a drafty corner of the Slytherin common room, Severus Snape approaches him with an assignment from their master. Snape picks up an Advanced Transfiguration text and leafs through it absentmindedly while speaking.
“The Dark Lord is recruiting dark creatures for his use.” Snape’s eyes never meet Regulus’s; so he too pretends to be entrenched in homework while listening to his colleague speak. “Remus Lupin is a werewolf.” Regulus wills his eyes not to jump from his parchment in surprise.
He remembers meeting Lupin the first summer Sirius was home. Sirius had let himself into Regulus’s room without knocking and asked if he fancied a ramble. Sirius and he had meandered down street after street until Sirius had guided them into a graffiti-covered playground. There a shabby boy with too-long arms and legs had sat on a swing. Lupin and Sirius were witty equals, flashing fast banter between them, and Regulus had quickly liked his brother’s gangly friend. Later, he would learn of Lupin’s blood heritage (half-Mudblood) and disliked him a little more.
Two summers ago, he would hear his mother screaming about Sirius’s choice in companions. Bloodtraitors! Half-breeds! He had assumed she had meant the Mudblood status, but now that this shred of evidence had presented itself, the comment made more sense. Regulus nods, even though his mouth is dry.
“Has he been recruited?" he asks, but chokes on his dry mouth.
“The werewolf has been propositioned. He refused,” Snape growls.
Regulus wants to comment on the way the terminology sounds more like searching for a prostitute than joining the Dark Lord. But he knows, it has been drilled into him blood deep, that Mudbloods and their offspring deserve little else. They are filthy, at best. He snorts in disgust.
“What is to be done?” Regulus asks, scratching an answer onto his parchment.
“We are looking for a way to convince him.” Snape flips a page; his face turns to the side in an attempt to peruse the page furthest from Regulus’s chair. “We’ve decided to test a rumor that he has a lover.” Snape's tone is disinterested, so Regulus continues his work.
Regulus dips his quill in his ink once more and sets the tip to parchment. When Snape speaks, his voice is full of beligerent mirth.
“Was your brother’s relationship with a werewolf the main cause for his disownment?” Regulus’s quill streaks with an upward jerk of surprise, and he cannot help but follow its trail with his wide eyes. Snape is smirking behind his text, now looking directly at Black.
“Surely you knew. You’re not ashamed now are you? But, of course, these sort of ‘relations’ are some sort of normalcy for you aristocratic types, isn’t it? It’s the werewolf streak that makes it so filthy.” Snape’s voice is low and filled with disgust and loathing.
Regulus feels the ink drip from his lifted quill onto the knee of his trousers. He knows his mouth is agape and he is unable to control the myriad of emotions playing behind his eyes: anger, disgust, and denial.
Snape leans forward, pushing the book into his knees with his chest while he speaks.
“I heard a collection of Hufflepuff girls discussing walking in on the two of them in the Charms classroom. A werewolf had your brother bent over a desk, taking it up the ass,” Snape says, sweetly.
Regulus makes a choking sound in his throat. Oh, Circe’s magical tits, did this explain a lot. Suddenly, he’s flush with righteous fury.
“You asshole. He’s not even my brother-“ Regulus snarls.
“But he still is marked by your blood, is he not? Shall we avenge the Black family’s good name? Or would you like some parchment to write your father about his heir’s most recent activities?” Snape asks, his eyes alight with purpose.
Revenge is set for the following Thursday. Regulus is not clear on the details, except that Theodore Yaxley has called in a few favors from his father and convinced the professor in charge of the Dueling Club to set up Snape and Sirius as “the volunteer pair.” Snape will blast the tar out of Sirius and Regulus will watch for any reaction on Lupin’s part. The plan from there gets even fuzzier for Regulus; something to do with Lupin getting the option to join the Dark Lord or the former brother becoming scorched Giant Squid food. Regulus isn’t too concerned, no one is stupid enough to attempt murder under Dumbledore’s nose.
He’s standing next to a handful of whispering third year Slytherin girls, all of which keep glancing at him and giggling. He can’t help but roll his eyes. To his left stands Head Boy Potter, the little minion Pettigrew, Lupin, and Sirius. Potter is telling a story, using large hand gestures to accentuate his explanation. Sirius is grinning, offering a piece of clarifying detail or rude comment to the tale. They quiet when a long-necked professor, for whom Regulus has never seen, calls the group to order and the conversations die down. She reminds them of the rules and set premises while explaining that today will be practical exercise.
Regulus tunes out her lecture and ghosts his eyes over the crowd. Snape is looking positively gleeful at the option before him. He folds his arms across his chest, and then seems to twitch and return them to his sides. Behind him stand people Regulus assumes he has met, not only in Quidditch practice, but also behind Death Eater masks. Yaxley, the seventh year Prefect, rubs his thumb on his goatee before leaning forward to mutter into Snape’s ear. Snape’s mouth upturns at a corner and he looks pleased with the comment.
The professor is calling for volunteers. She barely pretends to look for potential participants before calling Snape and Sirius to her side. Sirius lifts an eyebrow at Potter and shrugs at Lupin; he had not volunteered. Regardless, he moves at an easy lope up to face Snape in the middle of the hall. Regulus reads the hatred on each face. Snape smiles callously, while Sirius simply glares. The professor steps out of their direct hexing path, ordering them each to bow and show the Club how to judge timing of an enemy’s attack.
Snape inclines his head barely an inch. Sirius, who has been beaten with daily lessons on “polite breeding,” bends slightly at the waist, although his eyes do not break from Snape’s. Their wands raise for battle and they wait for the professor’s signal to begin. Her words have not finished on her lips when their spells leave their wands.
Sirius dodges right as something orange and hissing flies over his shoulder. Snape blocks Sirius’s attack and flicks twice before resending the hex.
“Gentlemen! You must not use non-verbal spells! The younger students must hear what is being used!” the professor shouts.
Sirius inclines an eyebrow as if to say “by your leave.” Snape sneers.
“Declino!” Snape yells. He seems pleased when it hits Sirius square in the chest. Sirius’s lungs deflate by their own accord and he must squeak out the anti-hex with the small amount of air he has remaining.
Sirius's eyes are flashing dangerously now, neither boy are no longer hexing for entertainment, but to maim. Regulus is watching both the duel and Lupin’s expression. Lupin’s jaw is set in a solid manner and his expression is not betraying him. Beyond Lupin’s shoulder, Potter is standing with his arms crossed at his chest, squinting at the duel. Pettigrew’s brow is knit and he keeps absentmindedly running his tongue across his teeth.
“Rumpus!” Sirius shouts as he takes aim at Snape’s pelvic region. Regulus hears Snape’s bones shatter.
Several Hufflepuff girls turn a sickly green and squeal. As Severus Snape’s lower torso collapses onto broken bones, his wand raises and Regulus sees the intent of the spell before it is cast. The Mark on Regulus's arm throbs. As the curse leaves Snape's lips, the Hall erupts in screams and gasps.
“Crucio.” There is no emotion in Snape's voice when he speaks the curse.
Somewhere inside Regulus, however, there are volleys of emotions spilling forth.
Unforgivable. He used an Unforgivable. On Sirius, he thinks.
Across the sea of faces, Yaxley, Couch, and Rookwood are not surprised. Their eyes blaze with some kind of jealousy that they did not cast this spell. At this realization a mantra repeats in Regulus's brain: They planned this. This is entirely planned.
Somewhere in Regulus’s memory, a night nearly three years ago is shaking loose. Sirius laying, wounded and howling silently in pain, on the red Persian carpet while Orion Black used the Cruciatus on his eldest son. The curse being let up only long enough for Sirius to wheeze in pain and then bite down on his lip as the curse began anew. Regulus being held fast by his mother’s finger-nailed grip; unable to interfere, unable to look away.
Another memory, older, of Sirius and Regulus standing in the tiny shafts of light in the attic speaking of what to do when the Cruciatus Curse was used. “Just remember our family has a sick sense of humor and sing the rhyme we learned as kids… it’ll keep somebody alive,” his brother had said.
Finally, dancing, hand-in-hand, with his brother and older cousin Narcissa singing the song their parents forced them to memorize.
Crucio! Crucio!
Victum the fallen Black!
Victum! Guard the breath!
Victum! Guard the heart!
Toujours pur!
Never let the caster live!
He raises his wand to cast “victum” but hears the words falling off of Lupin’s lips. Regulus sees Remus Lupin exaggerating his breaths and forcing his heartbeats to translate into the spell and into Sirius’s body.
In the center of the room, Sirius is struggling for control over the curse. His heartbeat and breaths are perfectly in time with Remus’s, where, without the spell, these vital functions would cease. His wand is slack in his hand and his eyes are alight with pain.
Regulus’s world slows. He glances at the three who arranged this duel; all grinning in pride at Snape and the power it takes to hold such a curse for this extent of time. He looks back to the three Marauders, Potter and Pettigrew already in motion, preparing to fight while Lupin continues to force Sirius’s heart to beat. His eyes travel to his brother again.
His decision is made.
There are going to be Howlers, oh, yes, there will be Howlers. Hell, there are going to be all kinds of repercussions for this, but Regulus is already running. He shoves his way through Slytherin and Ravenclaw, raising his wand while he moves. He stops directly behind his brother and grasps him about the waist.
“Easy, Sirius,” Regulus whispers as he raises Sirius’s wand arm with his own. There held in Sirius’s lax fingers is rowan wood filled with dragon heartstring; in Regulus’s own, the same tree has given up a younger brother to be the casing for a hair from a unicorn tail. The two wands sit next to each other and Regulus can feel the hum of Black blood at their fingers.
He ignores the confused expression on Snape's face, and leans into his brother and queries, “The Family Gift?”
Sirius attempts to nod, but he is fully focused on transfiguring all the curse and all his strength into raw magic. Together they speak.
“Percoctum.”
The magic danced under Regulus’s fingernails. He watches, in mild amazement as the duel beams, looking more like a black snake on a desperate hunt, blast out of their cores and wind themselves around Snape’s torso before squeezing and leaving him screaming. The air is filled with the smell of burning flesh. At that moment, every Black alive is feeling the pulse of the family curse as it attacks its prey. Regulus can feel Sirius’s magic slacken and flicker. His body relaxes and he passes out in his brother’s arms.
There is pandemonium all around him. Students are screaming and running, while professors (whom have just arrived) are attempting to restore order. Potter and Yaxley are dueling. Snape is lying in the floor, unconscious, all of his exposed skin burnt like an overdone pancake. The Cruciatus has ended its hold on Sirius, allowing his own vitals to return to his command.
Regulus drags his deadweight out of the center of the room, lest they get trampled. Lupin has made his way toward the Black brothers, looking pale and exhausted from the spell’s drain. He slumps to his knees and touches Sirius’s face with one hand. The werewolf’s gaze travels up to Regulus.
“Thank you,” his voice is hoarse by steady. Regulus nods, and then lowers the combined body weight of two brothers to the floor.
“Merlin, that was a powerful spell,” Regulus gasps. Lupin merely nods.
There are hours of intense interrogation. Two Invigoration Drafts drank to the sound of seven Howlers (“you cast the most ancient and noble Black family curse with the audience of nearly eighty students and with the bloodtraitor for whom you have sworn not to speak to” being the basic gist of all of them). A near nap in a very uncomfortable chair outside the Headmaster’s office and, finally, Regulus is allowed into the Hospital Wing to lie down.
His head rests on the pillow and his eyes shut heavily when he hears two quiet voices drifting through the empty room.
“---been that scared.”
“Scared? You were scared?”
“Yes, you ass-brained marmot. You had just undergone an Unforgivable, I feel that I may reserve the right to be as openly scared as I wish, now that the event is over.”
“You shouldn’t have been. I’ve had practice, you know, with my good friend Crucio.” There is a low snort.
“That isn’t funny, Sirius.”
“Hmm… perhaps not. But why should you have been scared? You victumed me. You’re damn good at healing charms, first reason not to worry. Then there is that whole…” Sirius’s voice, which has been so strong and cock-sure, falters.
“…whole what, exactly, Padfoot?” asks the second voice. The stillness in the room remains, but something in the air has changed. It is tangible, even four beds away.
“Remus,” Sirius says, and Regulus knows the serious expression that must grace his brother's face.
“A gangly fellow with a large nose and a ghastly amount of scars. Gryffindor. Prefect. Named for his mother’s favorite great-“
“Remus.”
“-uncle, I believe, whose own mother loved Roman mythology a bit too much. His neighbor’s cat glowed neon orange for several weeks at his first signs of -“
“Moony,” Sirius growls, exasperated.
“-magic. Marauder. Bookworm. Moonlight hunter and assorted other euphuisms for the-thing-for-which-we-do-not-speak. I am immensely fond of peaches--”
“Since you refuse to shut up, Moony," Sirius says, in mock annoyance, "I will simply be forced to speak over you.”
Remus took a breath and Sirius ploughed on with a gentle tone. “You already have my heart, Remus, I’ve trusted you to keep it safe and beating this long, I didn’t doubt that you would take care of me under victum either. You’re the only reason worth breathing for anyway, so little concern there either.
“The whole time I was fighting the Cruciatus, I was feeling your magic around me. I kept thinking, that’s Moony making me breath and that my heart was beating in tandem with yours. You are the reason I came through that and fired off a curse so quickly.” The charge through method to his speech falters again and Remus’s voice, now buried in serene emotion, is heard.
“I love you too, Padfoot, you ruddy fool.”
And there is the sound of fabric rubbing, followed a long, soft sigh. The warm voices of two lovers continue to roll on like water over pebbles. Regulus blinks twice and then rolls away from the voices, stuffing a head under his pillow.
The next morning, he wakes to find Lupin wrapped in a blanket, lying on Sirius’s bed with him. Sirius is awake, watching the dull gray and pink light spill across the werewolf’s face. His fingers brush in a slow, rhythmic motions across Lupin’s hair. Regulus blinks forcefully and growls at his brother.
“It’s true,” he snaps angrily. Sirius turns his attention toward his younger brother.
“You’re a fucking poof,” Regulus continues, hatred dripping from his words.
Sirius twitches his lips, but doesn’t say anything.
“I protected you, even when I wasn’t supposed to! And you’re letting a werewolf fuck you,” Regulus yells, his face feeling hot with his anger.
At this, however, Sirius is in motion. He has somehow disentangled himself from his lover and his bedding and thrown himself across the space that separates them. He lands heavily on top of Regulus, pinning him down with his knees in his brother’s gut and his palms forcing his shoulders into the mattress.
“You little asswipe,” he growls dangerously, “if you even so much as look at him wrong, I swear, I will hurt you so bad…”
“You’ll sick your little sex slave Half-Breed on me?” Regulus's taunt does not come out with a sneer; Sirius’s weight has kept his diaphragm from contracting correctly, so it’s more of a squeak.
“Enough.” Lupin’s voice comes from over Sirius’s shoulder and Regulus feels Sirius get tugged off of his body. Sirius stands and stumbles, the curse’s after effects still felt hours later. Lupin shoves Sirius onto the bed next to his brother’s. He then turns to Regulus.
There is a book in the family library at 12 Grimmauld Place that Sirius was fascinated with the summer between his second and third years at Hogwarts. He read it cover to cover, took notes in its margins, and consulted other texts on its claims. He sent owls to his schoolmates to fact check. Once that summer, Regulus picked up this text, and found its entire contents about werewolves.
There were two things in that book that Regulus remembers clearly. The first was an underlined phrase that stated, “Werewolves in their human state have been responsible for some of the most heinous crimes in history. They commit gruesome murders, often leaving their victims alive while ripping open the torso to eat the human’s innards.” In the margin, Sirius’s slanty scrawl had read “LIES.” However, the book felt that since the graphic language did not seem to be enough to convince Sirius of werewolves’ inhumanity, it had included an illustration.
In it, an alabaster skinned woman lay across a stone table, one leg bent at the knee, her blue velvet dress pooling at her hip, exposing a white thigh. Her face was bent back, eyes alight with fear, face twisted in sobs and pleas for the reader to save her. Over her corset stood a lanky man, hands drenched in crimson blood, his face twisted in monstrous hunger. His eyes, Regulus remembered, were glowing, like the late embers of a fire, rolling with heat and inhumanity.
At this moment, Regulus is staring into those eyes made human. Lupin stands over him, body rigid and muscles taunt, eyes glowing with rage and malice. Regulus has the desire to cover his midsection with his arms, but he refuses to move; to cower is to show fear and Blacks are not afraid. Lupin’s voice is a cold whisper.
“We each have a choice, Regulus, on which side we fight and for whom we love. I have made my choices on both fronts. You can tell your master,” this term is a said with distaste in a voice that sounds like wind under a drafty door, “that I will not serve him. In the meantime, you and your marked cohorts,” there is a gesture toward Regulus’s arm, “may note that using the people I love as target practice for your Unforgivables will not change my allegiance nor will it encourage us live in fear. Your master is a fool and you are a fool for believing that his power is worth achieving.”
At these words, Regulus is rising onto his elbows in his bed.
“My Master should be feared. You of all people should know that accepting his offer will promise you a place in the new society; he is cleansing the bloodlines,” Regulus sneers. Sirius gives an angry horse snort.
“If the bloodlines get ‘cleansed’ then what’s left will be generations of incestuous maggots. You don’t think that Mother’s temperament is a direct result of something in her breeding?”
“Mother’s illness comes from disobedient werewolf-fucking bloodtraitors.”
Regulus’s hateful tone brings Sirius back to his feet ready to fight. Lupin simply pushes Sirius in the chest, forcing him back to his seat. With the threat futher away, Regulus can't help but taunt his brother.
“Father will be so pleased to see that you’re the bitch.”
Regulus is mildly surprised when the ember glowing eyes turn back to him, filled with a clearly articulated need to protect and desire to cause pain. Regulus thinks that these two emotions are both interconnected in some ways, like a dog cornered in an alleyway knowing its mate will be killed if he does not defend it.
These thoughts are ended with Lupin’s fist collides with Regulus’s nose. Sirius rises back to his feet unsteadily and throws his arms around his lover’s shoulders. Lupin shirks left, trying to dislodge Sirius’s grip. Sirius’s face is paling; the combined movements from the last few minutes have left his countenance a concrete gray. His weight drops backward and he pulls Lupin down when he falls.
Regulus has a tight grip on his nose, after the spirals of pain disburse, he felt only the calm ooze of blood. He kicks at his sheets, planning to pommel the Half-Breed in the ribs, but he gets tangled and half-slips, half-falls off the side of the mattress onto the tile. His hips and legs are still wrapped in the blankets on the bed. Two pair of boy legs pillow his shoulder and forehead. Lupin has elbowed Sirius in the stomach and turned over. Sirius, still matching the gray tile below his head, whispers a series of curses about gravity and concussions before reaching up and grabbing Lupin by the fringe of hair hanging in his eyes.
“Padfoot,” Lupin is still growling like that cornered dog, but Sirius seems to find this a turn on. He yanks the hair down toward him; Lupin elicits a yell and a growl, which are cut short because Sirius’s mouth has closed over both. Lupin reaches out an open palm, which he braces on the tile beside Sirius’s head and he pushes up and away. Sirius holds firm to his hair and follows Lupin’s mouth up as his rises. Lupin manages to break the kiss. His voice, seems devoid of anger now, is simply breathy.
“Stop.” Sirius releases the fringe only to grab Lupin’s neck and pull his body back down. Their lips collide; Regulus thinks he hears teeth cracking against each other. Lupin struggles again, but the leverage of one hand is not enough to pull himself away again and Regulus’s body weight keeps him from rolling away. Sirius’s laugh can be heard, muffled under Lupin’s lips, which, have apparently given up on rejecting the kisses and have started in on their own accord. Regulus flails his arms, trying to grab something on which he can push himself back onto the bed with. He finally settles for Lupin’s ass, which upon pressing, Lupin yelps and the two turn back to the Death Eater. Regulus, back upright, glowers down at the two Gryffindors with pure hatred.
“Go away,” Regulus yells.
Lupin obliges and pulls himself upright, then yanks Sirius up to his feet.
“Do take that message, please,” the werewolf replies courteously. Regulus bites back a retort about snogging on the floor like the filth they are. Instead he centers his attention on his brother. Sirius’s eyes are rain clouds during a funeral, sad gray as he looks at Regulus.
“You don’t have to serve Voldemort. Dumbledore could protect you. I could protect you,” Sirius says, his previous anger abated.
Regulus wipes back the cascade of blood from his top lip.
“I don’t want your protection. Your werewolf is going to need it,” Regulus snaps.
These words make Sirius tense again, but Lupin’s arm slides around his waist and pulls him away.
Three days later, Regulus is summoned before his Master. He reports the confirmation of rumors and Lupin’s statement. After this, his uncle Cygnus’s hallow voice from behind a mask taunts his father.
“Won’t my dear sister Walburga be proud when she hears how her heir has grown up? Am I to assume that Sirius’s betrothal is to be annulled as you’re going to have a half-breed for a son-in-law?” There are jeers from all present at these statements. Orion’s eyes blister with indignation.
“I only have one son,” Orion replies and Regulus feels a queasy illness in his gut.
Later, Regulus will learn of the attack of the Lupin’s family home, the murder of his father and torture of his mother. He will see Lupin walking stiffly down toward the Potions classroom, guarded in his grief by the Marauders. He will feel Sirius’s hatred boiling into his bones, his very skin pierced by the glare he hurls at Regulus.
He will hear Sirius speaking, low and loving to a sobbing Lupin, near the library one evening.
“Just breathe, mon coeur, just like your kept me breathing. Just breathe.” And Regulus will try to make Rookwood turn in the opposite direction, but Alec will run headlong into the alcove, launching off a burning nettles jinx and a fluctuating seizure curse. Lupin will simply stand there, too grief-stricken to care if his legs tingle with burns or spasms. But Sirius will move, shielding both of them and pulling Lupin down the hall. Rookwood will see the younger Black standing, wand still pocketed, eyes following Sirius and his lover and Rookwood will fire a jaw locking jinx. Regulus is within Sirius’s arm’s length, if he will just lift his arm, his brother will be safe. But he simply hugs Lupin closer and hexes Rookwood before they flee.
Regulus feels the spell tighten the muscles in his chin. He knows then that Sirius, his disowned brother, has taken his words to heart. He is no longer willing to protect his younger sibling; he is protecting his werewolf, his coeur, his heart.
***
Quick Translations (mind you, all completely stolen from internet translations devices. All mistakes, my own fault.):
Declino - Latin, to deflate
Rumpus - Latin, to shatter
Percoctum - Latin, to blacken, scorch
Victum - Latin, to live
mon coeur - French, my heart
Regulus is a hard headed, quick witted sixth year, and the best damn Seeker Slytherin has seen in the last quarter of two centuries. He’s a decent dueler, too, not inept; he doesn’t need protected.
He is walking with Alec Rookwood, a cotton-brained human-Niffler, if ever one lived, listening to him ramble on about trying to marry Jeannoya Roiser, who is well above his station and who is entitled to all of her Daddy’s estate when he keels over. They round a corner to the unmistakable flashes of red and green reflecting on the stone corridor. Regulus’s muscles are humming in response to the magic being thrown around.
It’s no secret that Dark Magic is directly in his blood, he’s a Black and Dark Magic is a part of his heritage. There is also the other awareness that has recently been added to him. He won’t lie to himself and claim to be ignorant to the calm, seductive burn itching at his left forearm as he hears “expulso!” and the sound of rock blasting into rubble. The intent was Dark; the Mark on his arm and the blood in his veins are simply responding.
Dueling is like a dance, really. In its purest form, a duel is all gentlemanly and grandiose. There are bows and flourishes, contended with the same grace that comes with asking for a space on a dance card. In that way, the Dark incantations are like the reel that his foot taps to unintentionally. Rookwood, the idiot, is running into the foray with madness gleaming in his eyes. Silently, Regulus wonders where on the family tree the Rookwood line forked off from, he has the sickness that hangs in the Black’s house’s branches.
As Regulus summons his wealth of hexes and curses, he too sprints into the battle; there his housemates contend with… his brother. Alone. Six, now Rookwood is seven, and he is eight on one. He finds his steps slowing.
In appearances, the Black brothers are nearly twins; the only apparent difference being that Sirius is clad in red and gold, while Regulus is in green and silver. In attitude, there are less colorful differences, just as obtrude; Sirius is all wildfire and production, living for the moment of a plan’s execution. Regulus stands more like an iceberg, unseen for his depth, a mammoth force to be moved. These differences have splintered their brotherhood (along with that unnecessary desire of Sirius’s to be a Mudblood lover, he thinks) and festered them into the strangers they now are.
Even still, they have history. Sirius is the master of dueling, self-proclaimed, of course. He taught Regulus all he knew during summer hols in the shadows of the attic. Regulus knows his brother’s steps and his intentions. In that moment, however, dusty memories of hexing practice are of little concern.
Sirius moving with the well-honed grace of his forefathers, box stepping his way through parries and answered hexes. He is flicking his wand at his left and whispering his desired spells. His eyes are sharp as he ducks a blast of purple light; he sights his younger brother and in one solid, smooth move he has totally engulfed his brother in a body-bind curse. Regulus’s brain is screaming curses about pausing too long and underestimating your enemy. The tattoo on his arm is brandishing venom for his lack of action. But a streak of yellow light charging past his head brings him out of thought. He wants to yell at Benedict Couch for nearly hitting him. But in the same moment that he realizes he is unable to speak, he realizes that the blast, while badly aimed, was intended for him. Sirius is moving in from of him, putting Gryffindor school robes between Slytherin house and their Seeker.
Regulus can feel his cheeks flushing from the shame of it all. Hexed beyond movement by his bloodtraitor brother. Attacked by his housemates. Defended by his disowned brother. Damn.
He tries to fight the unseen binds of the spell, but he is held fast. He watches in a bored sort of agony as the curses and hexes fly; Rookwood goes down with some spell Regulus doesn’t know. It seems effective, Rookwood is retching gray vomit to the point of being incapacitated. Then, there is the sound of shouting and running footfalls coming down a conjoining hallway. A pair of Ravenclaw prefects spy the foray and Sirius turns to his younger sibling and smiles softly.
Then he knocks Regulus out cold.
Regulus wakes up in the Hospital Wing to learn that he has only lost his house fifteen points (for the intent to duel), however, due to his unconscious state he did not lose the additional thirty points the other boys did. Regulus glares at Rookwood while he hears this retelling.
“I was in a body-bind, you flaccid moron,” Regulus snarls.
“I damn well know that,” Alec whispers tersely, “but we want some chance at the House Cup, so shut up.” No use arguing with that logic. However, the anger boils low in Regulus’s ears. His brother saved him from losing additional house points and from spending eight nights in detention. Sirius was protecting him. Again.
Regulus is planning to let loose on his brother just as soon as the opportunity presents itself. He dreams of giving Sirius whiskers or visible gas, while forcing him to dance naked on top the professors’ dinner plates. Then late one evening, while sitting in a drafty corner of the Slytherin common room, Severus Snape approaches him with an assignment from their master. Snape picks up an Advanced Transfiguration text and leafs through it absentmindedly while speaking.
“The Dark Lord is recruiting dark creatures for his use.” Snape’s eyes never meet Regulus’s; so he too pretends to be entrenched in homework while listening to his colleague speak. “Remus Lupin is a werewolf.” Regulus wills his eyes not to jump from his parchment in surprise.
He remembers meeting Lupin the first summer Sirius was home. Sirius had let himself into Regulus’s room without knocking and asked if he fancied a ramble. Sirius and he had meandered down street after street until Sirius had guided them into a graffiti-covered playground. There a shabby boy with too-long arms and legs had sat on a swing. Lupin and Sirius were witty equals, flashing fast banter between them, and Regulus had quickly liked his brother’s gangly friend. Later, he would learn of Lupin’s blood heritage (half-Mudblood) and disliked him a little more.
Two summers ago, he would hear his mother screaming about Sirius’s choice in companions. Bloodtraitors! Half-breeds! He had assumed she had meant the Mudblood status, but now that this shred of evidence had presented itself, the comment made more sense. Regulus nods, even though his mouth is dry.
“Has he been recruited?" he asks, but chokes on his dry mouth.
“The werewolf has been propositioned. He refused,” Snape growls.
Regulus wants to comment on the way the terminology sounds more like searching for a prostitute than joining the Dark Lord. But he knows, it has been drilled into him blood deep, that Mudbloods and their offspring deserve little else. They are filthy, at best. He snorts in disgust.
“What is to be done?” Regulus asks, scratching an answer onto his parchment.
“We are looking for a way to convince him.” Snape flips a page; his face turns to the side in an attempt to peruse the page furthest from Regulus’s chair. “We’ve decided to test a rumor that he has a lover.” Snape's tone is disinterested, so Regulus continues his work.
Regulus dips his quill in his ink once more and sets the tip to parchment. When Snape speaks, his voice is full of beligerent mirth.
“Was your brother’s relationship with a werewolf the main cause for his disownment?” Regulus’s quill streaks with an upward jerk of surprise, and he cannot help but follow its trail with his wide eyes. Snape is smirking behind his text, now looking directly at Black.
“Surely you knew. You’re not ashamed now are you? But, of course, these sort of ‘relations’ are some sort of normalcy for you aristocratic types, isn’t it? It’s the werewolf streak that makes it so filthy.” Snape’s voice is low and filled with disgust and loathing.
Regulus feels the ink drip from his lifted quill onto the knee of his trousers. He knows his mouth is agape and he is unable to control the myriad of emotions playing behind his eyes: anger, disgust, and denial.
Snape leans forward, pushing the book into his knees with his chest while he speaks.
“I heard a collection of Hufflepuff girls discussing walking in on the two of them in the Charms classroom. A werewolf had your brother bent over a desk, taking it up the ass,” Snape says, sweetly.
Regulus makes a choking sound in his throat. Oh, Circe’s magical tits, did this explain a lot. Suddenly, he’s flush with righteous fury.
“You asshole. He’s not even my brother-“ Regulus snarls.
“But he still is marked by your blood, is he not? Shall we avenge the Black family’s good name? Or would you like some parchment to write your father about his heir’s most recent activities?” Snape asks, his eyes alight with purpose.
Revenge is set for the following Thursday. Regulus is not clear on the details, except that Theodore Yaxley has called in a few favors from his father and convinced the professor in charge of the Dueling Club to set up Snape and Sirius as “the volunteer pair.” Snape will blast the tar out of Sirius and Regulus will watch for any reaction on Lupin’s part. The plan from there gets even fuzzier for Regulus; something to do with Lupin getting the option to join the Dark Lord or the former brother becoming scorched Giant Squid food. Regulus isn’t too concerned, no one is stupid enough to attempt murder under Dumbledore’s nose.
He’s standing next to a handful of whispering third year Slytherin girls, all of which keep glancing at him and giggling. He can’t help but roll his eyes. To his left stands Head Boy Potter, the little minion Pettigrew, Lupin, and Sirius. Potter is telling a story, using large hand gestures to accentuate his explanation. Sirius is grinning, offering a piece of clarifying detail or rude comment to the tale. They quiet when a long-necked professor, for whom Regulus has never seen, calls the group to order and the conversations die down. She reminds them of the rules and set premises while explaining that today will be practical exercise.
Regulus tunes out her lecture and ghosts his eyes over the crowd. Snape is looking positively gleeful at the option before him. He folds his arms across his chest, and then seems to twitch and return them to his sides. Behind him stand people Regulus assumes he has met, not only in Quidditch practice, but also behind Death Eater masks. Yaxley, the seventh year Prefect, rubs his thumb on his goatee before leaning forward to mutter into Snape’s ear. Snape’s mouth upturns at a corner and he looks pleased with the comment.
The professor is calling for volunteers. She barely pretends to look for potential participants before calling Snape and Sirius to her side. Sirius lifts an eyebrow at Potter and shrugs at Lupin; he had not volunteered. Regardless, he moves at an easy lope up to face Snape in the middle of the hall. Regulus reads the hatred on each face. Snape smiles callously, while Sirius simply glares. The professor steps out of their direct hexing path, ordering them each to bow and show the Club how to judge timing of an enemy’s attack.
Snape inclines his head barely an inch. Sirius, who has been beaten with daily lessons on “polite breeding,” bends slightly at the waist, although his eyes do not break from Snape’s. Their wands raise for battle and they wait for the professor’s signal to begin. Her words have not finished on her lips when their spells leave their wands.
Sirius dodges right as something orange and hissing flies over his shoulder. Snape blocks Sirius’s attack and flicks twice before resending the hex.
“Gentlemen! You must not use non-verbal spells! The younger students must hear what is being used!” the professor shouts.
Sirius inclines an eyebrow as if to say “by your leave.” Snape sneers.
“Declino!” Snape yells. He seems pleased when it hits Sirius square in the chest. Sirius’s lungs deflate by their own accord and he must squeak out the anti-hex with the small amount of air he has remaining.
Sirius's eyes are flashing dangerously now, neither boy are no longer hexing for entertainment, but to maim. Regulus is watching both the duel and Lupin’s expression. Lupin’s jaw is set in a solid manner and his expression is not betraying him. Beyond Lupin’s shoulder, Potter is standing with his arms crossed at his chest, squinting at the duel. Pettigrew’s brow is knit and he keeps absentmindedly running his tongue across his teeth.
“Rumpus!” Sirius shouts as he takes aim at Snape’s pelvic region. Regulus hears Snape’s bones shatter.
Several Hufflepuff girls turn a sickly green and squeal. As Severus Snape’s lower torso collapses onto broken bones, his wand raises and Regulus sees the intent of the spell before it is cast. The Mark on Regulus's arm throbs. As the curse leaves Snape's lips, the Hall erupts in screams and gasps.
“Crucio.” There is no emotion in Snape's voice when he speaks the curse.
Somewhere inside Regulus, however, there are volleys of emotions spilling forth.
Unforgivable. He used an Unforgivable. On Sirius, he thinks.
Across the sea of faces, Yaxley, Couch, and Rookwood are not surprised. Their eyes blaze with some kind of jealousy that they did not cast this spell. At this realization a mantra repeats in Regulus's brain: They planned this. This is entirely planned.
Somewhere in Regulus’s memory, a night nearly three years ago is shaking loose. Sirius laying, wounded and howling silently in pain, on the red Persian carpet while Orion Black used the Cruciatus on his eldest son. The curse being let up only long enough for Sirius to wheeze in pain and then bite down on his lip as the curse began anew. Regulus being held fast by his mother’s finger-nailed grip; unable to interfere, unable to look away.
Another memory, older, of Sirius and Regulus standing in the tiny shafts of light in the attic speaking of what to do when the Cruciatus Curse was used. “Just remember our family has a sick sense of humor and sing the rhyme we learned as kids… it’ll keep somebody alive,” his brother had said.
Finally, dancing, hand-in-hand, with his brother and older cousin Narcissa singing the song their parents forced them to memorize.
Crucio! Crucio!
Victum the fallen Black!
Victum! Guard the breath!
Victum! Guard the heart!
Toujours pur!
Never let the caster live!
He raises his wand to cast “victum” but hears the words falling off of Lupin’s lips. Regulus sees Remus Lupin exaggerating his breaths and forcing his heartbeats to translate into the spell and into Sirius’s body.
In the center of the room, Sirius is struggling for control over the curse. His heartbeat and breaths are perfectly in time with Remus’s, where, without the spell, these vital functions would cease. His wand is slack in his hand and his eyes are alight with pain.
Regulus’s world slows. He glances at the three who arranged this duel; all grinning in pride at Snape and the power it takes to hold such a curse for this extent of time. He looks back to the three Marauders, Potter and Pettigrew already in motion, preparing to fight while Lupin continues to force Sirius’s heart to beat. His eyes travel to his brother again.
His decision is made.
There are going to be Howlers, oh, yes, there will be Howlers. Hell, there are going to be all kinds of repercussions for this, but Regulus is already running. He shoves his way through Slytherin and Ravenclaw, raising his wand while he moves. He stops directly behind his brother and grasps him about the waist.
“Easy, Sirius,” Regulus whispers as he raises Sirius’s wand arm with his own. There held in Sirius’s lax fingers is rowan wood filled with dragon heartstring; in Regulus’s own, the same tree has given up a younger brother to be the casing for a hair from a unicorn tail. The two wands sit next to each other and Regulus can feel the hum of Black blood at their fingers.
He ignores the confused expression on Snape's face, and leans into his brother and queries, “The Family Gift?”
Sirius attempts to nod, but he is fully focused on transfiguring all the curse and all his strength into raw magic. Together they speak.
“Percoctum.”
The magic danced under Regulus’s fingernails. He watches, in mild amazement as the duel beams, looking more like a black snake on a desperate hunt, blast out of their cores and wind themselves around Snape’s torso before squeezing and leaving him screaming. The air is filled with the smell of burning flesh. At that moment, every Black alive is feeling the pulse of the family curse as it attacks its prey. Regulus can feel Sirius’s magic slacken and flicker. His body relaxes and he passes out in his brother’s arms.
There is pandemonium all around him. Students are screaming and running, while professors (whom have just arrived) are attempting to restore order. Potter and Yaxley are dueling. Snape is lying in the floor, unconscious, all of his exposed skin burnt like an overdone pancake. The Cruciatus has ended its hold on Sirius, allowing his own vitals to return to his command.
Regulus drags his deadweight out of the center of the room, lest they get trampled. Lupin has made his way toward the Black brothers, looking pale and exhausted from the spell’s drain. He slumps to his knees and touches Sirius’s face with one hand. The werewolf’s gaze travels up to Regulus.
“Thank you,” his voice is hoarse by steady. Regulus nods, and then lowers the combined body weight of two brothers to the floor.
“Merlin, that was a powerful spell,” Regulus gasps. Lupin merely nods.
There are hours of intense interrogation. Two Invigoration Drafts drank to the sound of seven Howlers (“you cast the most ancient and noble Black family curse with the audience of nearly eighty students and with the bloodtraitor for whom you have sworn not to speak to” being the basic gist of all of them). A near nap in a very uncomfortable chair outside the Headmaster’s office and, finally, Regulus is allowed into the Hospital Wing to lie down.
His head rests on the pillow and his eyes shut heavily when he hears two quiet voices drifting through the empty room.
“---been that scared.”
“Scared? You were scared?”
“Yes, you ass-brained marmot. You had just undergone an Unforgivable, I feel that I may reserve the right to be as openly scared as I wish, now that the event is over.”
“You shouldn’t have been. I’ve had practice, you know, with my good friend Crucio.” There is a low snort.
“That isn’t funny, Sirius.”
“Hmm… perhaps not. But why should you have been scared? You victumed me. You’re damn good at healing charms, first reason not to worry. Then there is that whole…” Sirius’s voice, which has been so strong and cock-sure, falters.
“…whole what, exactly, Padfoot?” asks the second voice. The stillness in the room remains, but something in the air has changed. It is tangible, even four beds away.
“Remus,” Sirius says, and Regulus knows the serious expression that must grace his brother's face.
“A gangly fellow with a large nose and a ghastly amount of scars. Gryffindor. Prefect. Named for his mother’s favorite great-“
“Remus.”
“-uncle, I believe, whose own mother loved Roman mythology a bit too much. His neighbor’s cat glowed neon orange for several weeks at his first signs of -“
“Moony,” Sirius growls, exasperated.
“-magic. Marauder. Bookworm. Moonlight hunter and assorted other euphuisms for the-thing-for-which-we-do-not-speak. I am immensely fond of peaches--”
“Since you refuse to shut up, Moony," Sirius says, in mock annoyance, "I will simply be forced to speak over you.”
Remus took a breath and Sirius ploughed on with a gentle tone. “You already have my heart, Remus, I’ve trusted you to keep it safe and beating this long, I didn’t doubt that you would take care of me under victum either. You’re the only reason worth breathing for anyway, so little concern there either.
“The whole time I was fighting the Cruciatus, I was feeling your magic around me. I kept thinking, that’s Moony making me breath and that my heart was beating in tandem with yours. You are the reason I came through that and fired off a curse so quickly.” The charge through method to his speech falters again and Remus’s voice, now buried in serene emotion, is heard.
“I love you too, Padfoot, you ruddy fool.”
And there is the sound of fabric rubbing, followed a long, soft sigh. The warm voices of two lovers continue to roll on like water over pebbles. Regulus blinks twice and then rolls away from the voices, stuffing a head under his pillow.
The next morning, he wakes to find Lupin wrapped in a blanket, lying on Sirius’s bed with him. Sirius is awake, watching the dull gray and pink light spill across the werewolf’s face. His fingers brush in a slow, rhythmic motions across Lupin’s hair. Regulus blinks forcefully and growls at his brother.
“It’s true,” he snaps angrily. Sirius turns his attention toward his younger brother.
“You’re a fucking poof,” Regulus continues, hatred dripping from his words.
Sirius twitches his lips, but doesn’t say anything.
“I protected you, even when I wasn’t supposed to! And you’re letting a werewolf fuck you,” Regulus yells, his face feeling hot with his anger.
At this, however, Sirius is in motion. He has somehow disentangled himself from his lover and his bedding and thrown himself across the space that separates them. He lands heavily on top of Regulus, pinning him down with his knees in his brother’s gut and his palms forcing his shoulders into the mattress.
“You little asswipe,” he growls dangerously, “if you even so much as look at him wrong, I swear, I will hurt you so bad…”
“You’ll sick your little sex slave Half-Breed on me?” Regulus's taunt does not come out with a sneer; Sirius’s weight has kept his diaphragm from contracting correctly, so it’s more of a squeak.
“Enough.” Lupin’s voice comes from over Sirius’s shoulder and Regulus feels Sirius get tugged off of his body. Sirius stands and stumbles, the curse’s after effects still felt hours later. Lupin shoves Sirius onto the bed next to his brother’s. He then turns to Regulus.
There is a book in the family library at 12 Grimmauld Place that Sirius was fascinated with the summer between his second and third years at Hogwarts. He read it cover to cover, took notes in its margins, and consulted other texts on its claims. He sent owls to his schoolmates to fact check. Once that summer, Regulus picked up this text, and found its entire contents about werewolves.
There were two things in that book that Regulus remembers clearly. The first was an underlined phrase that stated, “Werewolves in their human state have been responsible for some of the most heinous crimes in history. They commit gruesome murders, often leaving their victims alive while ripping open the torso to eat the human’s innards.” In the margin, Sirius’s slanty scrawl had read “LIES.” However, the book felt that since the graphic language did not seem to be enough to convince Sirius of werewolves’ inhumanity, it had included an illustration.
In it, an alabaster skinned woman lay across a stone table, one leg bent at the knee, her blue velvet dress pooling at her hip, exposing a white thigh. Her face was bent back, eyes alight with fear, face twisted in sobs and pleas for the reader to save her. Over her corset stood a lanky man, hands drenched in crimson blood, his face twisted in monstrous hunger. His eyes, Regulus remembered, were glowing, like the late embers of a fire, rolling with heat and inhumanity.
At this moment, Regulus is staring into those eyes made human. Lupin stands over him, body rigid and muscles taunt, eyes glowing with rage and malice. Regulus has the desire to cover his midsection with his arms, but he refuses to move; to cower is to show fear and Blacks are not afraid. Lupin’s voice is a cold whisper.
“We each have a choice, Regulus, on which side we fight and for whom we love. I have made my choices on both fronts. You can tell your master,” this term is a said with distaste in a voice that sounds like wind under a drafty door, “that I will not serve him. In the meantime, you and your marked cohorts,” there is a gesture toward Regulus’s arm, “may note that using the people I love as target practice for your Unforgivables will not change my allegiance nor will it encourage us live in fear. Your master is a fool and you are a fool for believing that his power is worth achieving.”
At these words, Regulus is rising onto his elbows in his bed.
“My Master should be feared. You of all people should know that accepting his offer will promise you a place in the new society; he is cleansing the bloodlines,” Regulus sneers. Sirius gives an angry horse snort.
“If the bloodlines get ‘cleansed’ then what’s left will be generations of incestuous maggots. You don’t think that Mother’s temperament is a direct result of something in her breeding?”
“Mother’s illness comes from disobedient werewolf-fucking bloodtraitors.”
Regulus’s hateful tone brings Sirius back to his feet ready to fight. Lupin simply pushes Sirius in the chest, forcing him back to his seat. With the threat futher away, Regulus can't help but taunt his brother.
“Father will be so pleased to see that you’re the bitch.”
Regulus is mildly surprised when the ember glowing eyes turn back to him, filled with a clearly articulated need to protect and desire to cause pain. Regulus thinks that these two emotions are both interconnected in some ways, like a dog cornered in an alleyway knowing its mate will be killed if he does not defend it.
These thoughts are ended with Lupin’s fist collides with Regulus’s nose. Sirius rises back to his feet unsteadily and throws his arms around his lover’s shoulders. Lupin shirks left, trying to dislodge Sirius’s grip. Sirius’s face is paling; the combined movements from the last few minutes have left his countenance a concrete gray. His weight drops backward and he pulls Lupin down when he falls.
Regulus has a tight grip on his nose, after the spirals of pain disburse, he felt only the calm ooze of blood. He kicks at his sheets, planning to pommel the Half-Breed in the ribs, but he gets tangled and half-slips, half-falls off the side of the mattress onto the tile. His hips and legs are still wrapped in the blankets on the bed. Two pair of boy legs pillow his shoulder and forehead. Lupin has elbowed Sirius in the stomach and turned over. Sirius, still matching the gray tile below his head, whispers a series of curses about gravity and concussions before reaching up and grabbing Lupin by the fringe of hair hanging in his eyes.
“Padfoot,” Lupin is still growling like that cornered dog, but Sirius seems to find this a turn on. He yanks the hair down toward him; Lupin elicits a yell and a growl, which are cut short because Sirius’s mouth has closed over both. Lupin reaches out an open palm, which he braces on the tile beside Sirius’s head and he pushes up and away. Sirius holds firm to his hair and follows Lupin’s mouth up as his rises. Lupin manages to break the kiss. His voice, seems devoid of anger now, is simply breathy.
“Stop.” Sirius releases the fringe only to grab Lupin’s neck and pull his body back down. Their lips collide; Regulus thinks he hears teeth cracking against each other. Lupin struggles again, but the leverage of one hand is not enough to pull himself away again and Regulus’s body weight keeps him from rolling away. Sirius’s laugh can be heard, muffled under Lupin’s lips, which, have apparently given up on rejecting the kisses and have started in on their own accord. Regulus flails his arms, trying to grab something on which he can push himself back onto the bed with. He finally settles for Lupin’s ass, which upon pressing, Lupin yelps and the two turn back to the Death Eater. Regulus, back upright, glowers down at the two Gryffindors with pure hatred.
“Go away,” Regulus yells.
Lupin obliges and pulls himself upright, then yanks Sirius up to his feet.
“Do take that message, please,” the werewolf replies courteously. Regulus bites back a retort about snogging on the floor like the filth they are. Instead he centers his attention on his brother. Sirius’s eyes are rain clouds during a funeral, sad gray as he looks at Regulus.
“You don’t have to serve Voldemort. Dumbledore could protect you. I could protect you,” Sirius says, his previous anger abated.
Regulus wipes back the cascade of blood from his top lip.
“I don’t want your protection. Your werewolf is going to need it,” Regulus snaps.
These words make Sirius tense again, but Lupin’s arm slides around his waist and pulls him away.
Three days later, Regulus is summoned before his Master. He reports the confirmation of rumors and Lupin’s statement. After this, his uncle Cygnus’s hallow voice from behind a mask taunts his father.
“Won’t my dear sister Walburga be proud when she hears how her heir has grown up? Am I to assume that Sirius’s betrothal is to be annulled as you’re going to have a half-breed for a son-in-law?” There are jeers from all present at these statements. Orion’s eyes blister with indignation.
“I only have one son,” Orion replies and Regulus feels a queasy illness in his gut.
Later, Regulus will learn of the attack of the Lupin’s family home, the murder of his father and torture of his mother. He will see Lupin walking stiffly down toward the Potions classroom, guarded in his grief by the Marauders. He will feel Sirius’s hatred boiling into his bones, his very skin pierced by the glare he hurls at Regulus.
He will hear Sirius speaking, low and loving to a sobbing Lupin, near the library one evening.
“Just breathe, mon coeur, just like your kept me breathing. Just breathe.” And Regulus will try to make Rookwood turn in the opposite direction, but Alec will run headlong into the alcove, launching off a burning nettles jinx and a fluctuating seizure curse. Lupin will simply stand there, too grief-stricken to care if his legs tingle with burns or spasms. But Sirius will move, shielding both of them and pulling Lupin down the hall. Rookwood will see the younger Black standing, wand still pocketed, eyes following Sirius and his lover and Rookwood will fire a jaw locking jinx. Regulus is within Sirius’s arm’s length, if he will just lift his arm, his brother will be safe. But he simply hugs Lupin closer and hexes Rookwood before they flee.
Regulus feels the spell tighten the muscles in his chin. He knows then that Sirius, his disowned brother, has taken his words to heart. He is no longer willing to protect his younger sibling; he is protecting his werewolf, his coeur, his heart.
***
Quick Translations (mind you, all completely stolen from internet translations devices. All mistakes, my own fault.):
Declino - Latin, to deflate
Rumpus - Latin, to shatter
Percoctum - Latin, to blacken, scorch
Victum - Latin, to live
mon coeur - French, my heart