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I.
Regulus is five and his brother is chasing him around the room with a kitchen knife.
Well, no, that's not entirely true.
They're playing a game of pretend, where Regulus is the brave-hearted prince of a struggling kingdom and Sirius is the big bad sorcerer trying to steal his throne.
Usually, when their cousins are visiting and they all gather round to play the game together, Sirius will do just about anything to avoid portraying the villain; he'll go as far as throwing a full-blown fit over it without expressing even a speck of guilt. But now that it's just the two of them, he accepts the part without breathing a single word of complaint. Regulus wonders whether it has anything to do with the fact that Sirius knows he himself takes great joy in getting to play the victorious hero, or if Sirius simply feels comfortable enough in his presence to drop the overconfident charade.
In any case, they are now a good half an hour into their game and Regulus is having the best time of his life.
Sirius chases after him like a light-footed panther, knocking over books and clothes and pillows in his stead. Mother and Father are out doing important business in the Ministry; otherwise, Sirius would've never allowed them to cause such a ruckus. For reasons unbeknownst to Regulus, his brother gets overly anxious whenever their parents are mad.
Regulus shrieks in both fear and delight as Sirius jumps over a misplaced chair like a professional Quidditch player, lunging at Regulus with his knife held high like a wand.
"Surrender, Prince— Prince Regulus," he commands, slightly out of breath from all the running around. His voice lacks the deepness of their father, still boyish and high-pitched.
"Never," Regulus defies, raising his own weapon. It's a medium-sized wooden sword, which Sirius claims is way cooler than a knife.
"Your throne shall be mine!" Sirius boasts, and he tugs on the dark curtain Mother deeply adores and hangs it around his neck so that it looks like a cloak. Regulus giggles and then quickly hides it behind the back of his hand. "By the ghost of my dearest mother, I swear it!"
Regulus cocks his head to the side, suddenly confused. "But, Sirius, Mother is still alive."
"It's a part of the game, Reggie."
"Oh."
Sirius grins, then. It lights up his whole face. "What is the matter, Princeling? Have you lost your nerve?"
Regulus swings his sword and stabs at the air, then laughs when Sirius pretends to wear a petrified expression. "Oh, no," he gasps, hand flying up to where his heart should be. He clutches at it desperately, letting his knife slip from his grip and hit the ground with a dull thud. "You've— you've stabbed me!"
"Aye," Regulus confirms, and as Sirius drops to his knees with a dying moan, he places his sword gently on top of his brother's head. "You have now been defeated by the almighty Prince Regulus of Grimmauld Place. Rest in peace, miscreant."
Sirius stutters out a last promise of eternal suffering and revenge, then closes his eyes and sticks his tongue out like a corpse. No matter what character he's inhabiting, Sirius' deaths always turn out to be the most dramatic and breathtaking of them all.
Regulus giggles and kicks lightly at Sirius' shin, who in turn lets out an indignant yelp.
"What was that for?" he grumbles, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. He must've hit it while falling theatrically to the floor.
"I've defeated you," Regulus tells him, overjoyed. He's only ever won at this game once, and has been told by Bella that it was merely because Cissy took pity on him.
"No, Prince Regulus did," Sirius corrects. His grin is back in place; there's a wide gap in it since he's missing a tooth at the front. "But now the game's over, and you're back to being just Reggie, my pestering baby brother."
Regulus crunches his nose up in disdain; he does not appreciate being teased after such a spectacular win. "Am not," he protests.
"Are too."
"I am Prince Regulus of Grimmauld Place, and I have beaten you—"
"Nah, I think I'll stick with Reggie."
"Don't call me that!"
Sirius barks out a laugh, and it's so contagious that Regulus feels a smile tugging at the corners of his lips despite himself.
In between giggles, Sirius sing-songs, "Reggie, Reggie, Reggie—"
Regulus leaps at his brother and clings to his neck and clasps a tiny hand over his mouth, but the muffled sounds still manage to somehow make it through and then before long, they're both rolling around on the floor, clutching their stomachs and howling with laughter.
Afterwards, it does not occur to Regulus to concern himself with the magical way his room reverts back to its original impeccable state or the many hours Sirius spends locked away with Father in his study or the way his grin never looks quite the same again.
***
II.
Regulus is nine and attending a Black Family gala for the first time.
Andy often calls it an "overall sumptuous and haughty event, filled with arrogant suck-ups" while Cissy chooses the more eloquent description of "tediously long, gratuitous fundraiser".
Either way, Regulus is over the moon. Aside from a few collectively uncomfortable introductions he's been forced to endure by his parents, his night is going terrifically.
He listens with held breath and wide eyes as Cissy avidly relieves all her Hogwarts adventures; meets up with Barty and Evan, his most recent (and only, aside from his brother and cousins) friends; and even manages to hold an entire conversation with Rabastan Lestrange, an unfortunate distant relative.
At some point, Sirius sneaks him a glass of blood-red wine with tiny bubbles in it under the table. It makes Regulus feel giddy and floaty and most of all, grown-up. He likes it and tells Sirius as much, who winks mischievously at him before Mother shows up and drags him off by the arm. Regulus does not know where to.
He wanders around idly to pass the time, poking curiously at random objects whenever he stumbles upon them. He stops short besides a large wooden cabinet, tracing his fingers over the inscriptions; they're rather beautiful, he reckons. Cissy would love them.
Someone approaches him from behind, then, unannounced.
"Enjoying ourselves, are we?"
Regulus instantly places the voice — drawled but with a husky touch to it, a tad bit like Sirius' — as Bellatrix's. She sounds amused, which for some reason puts him on edge.
Dubiously, he turns to face her. "Hello, Bella," he says, because he's civilised and proper and Mother and Father made sure to teach him manners before they did reading.
"Little Black," she greets back, a smirk flittering across her fair face.
Regulus blushes a deep maroon. He does not need to be reminded of his age — he's already well aware of the fact that he's the youngest Black cousin and therefore continuously underestimated. It's irritating and he despises it with a passion.
He tells Bella as much, raising his chin the way he sees Father doing in business meetings. "I'm not so little anymore, you know."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. I drank a full glass of wine earlier tonight."
Bella laughs, delighted. "Really? Oh, how endearing."
Involuntarily, his hands clench into fists at his sides. Regulus has yet to master the infamous Emotionless Black Family Expression — Sirius is still better at it than he is — but he's gotten close enough. It's the rest of him that's the problem, though — frustrating, silly things such as the twitch of his right thumb when he lies or the buckling of his knees when he's scared — constantly betray his true feelings.
"I'm almost of age," he tells his cousin, and it's true enough. Sirius will be receiving his Hogwarts letter in a year, now, and then Regulus will soon follow. He cannot wait to be a Slytherin alongside his big brother, both of them proud kings of the castle.
"I don't reckon you are, though," Bella says. "At least, not yet."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"What, you mean to tell me you don't know?" Bella raises her brows like she's unimpressed; unsurprised. Regulus feels himself shrinking back under her criticising gaze, bashful. "There's a trial, a rite of passage. Every one of us Blacks had to pass it in order to gain the respect of the pureblood community."
Regulus frowns. He hasn't heard of any trial, before. Seems odd that his brother never mentioned anything of the sort; after all, they tell each other everything.
He asks Bellatrix, "Did everyone else do it, already?"
"Yes."
"You? Cissy and Andy?"
"Yes."
Regulus hesitates. "Even Sirius?"
"Especially Sirius. Got the best score and all."
If his brother did it, then it's not even a question. Regulus trusts Sirius with his life.
"Alright," he says, trying to force some of Walburga's signature confidence into his words. "What do I have to do?"
Bella grins. She raises a large, green bottle in her left hand — did she somehow summon it while they were conversing? Regulus hadn't noticed its presence, before. "Drink this," she tells him. Regulus' throat constricts. "All of it, without stopping."
"What's in it?"
Her eyes glint in the dimmed light of the overhead chandelier. Regulus thinks it is the farthest thing from comforting he's ever seen.
Treacly, she tells him, "I imagine you'll find out."
Regulus' stomach is in knots and his nails are digging into his palms and he's pretty sure he's tasting bile — he's scared, so fucking scared and hates himself for it. He should be strong. Resilient. A proper Black.
Bella is elated and not trying to hide it. "What's wrong, Little Black? Having second thoughts?"
Regulus knows she's taunting him, testing to see if he's truly serious about this. He is. He doesn't think he's ever been more serious about anything in his life.
"No," he says. "I'll do it."
(He chooses to believe it's sympathy, not pity, that prevents Bella from commenting on the tremor in his voice.)
She hands him the bottle.
Startled, he questions, "What, here?" He thought they'd at least bother putting some distance between themselves and the teeming main event, first.
Bella huffs impatiently like she wants to roll her eyes, saying, "Look, if you're not up for it, then I'll just leave you be—"
"No!" he snatches the bottle from her intentionally loose hands and, before he can think better of it and lose his nerve, Regulus takes a big gulp.
At first, all he tastes is something bitter and distinctly smokey; not necessarily unpleasant, just... unfamiliar.
Then comes the burning.
Regulus splutters, choking on the strange liquid, his lungs and throat and eyes on fire. Bella howls with laughter and encourages him to keep going.
Regulus is scared and revolted and humiliated, but he's got a point to prove and that means he cannot stop. He keeps on downing the drink, even while his tongue screams and he feels like he's going to combust.
There are shouts all around him, not reaching his ears like they probably should and he wonders how much of the bottle is left, whether or not you could even see a change or if it's all just a trick of his mind.
Just as Regulus starts to lose sight of himself in the unbearable heat, he feels familiar hands seizing his shoulders and sees fiery eyes staring intensely into his. The cursed bottle is wrenched from his vice-like grip and Regulus is simultaneously relieved and outraged at the action.
Sirius' voice is the first to cut through Regulus' wards. It always is.
"—ith me, Reggie, alright? Hey, yeah, there you are... doing great, kiddo, just keep breathing for me, nice and slow— that's it, yeah, good job—"
His vision is still a tad bit blurry round the edges but he manages to make out his brother's features all the same, soft and caring and also possibly wearing something akin to fury.
(Not directed at him; never directed at him.)
Regulus' insides are aflame, but it's nothing compared to the utter shame he's feeling.
"The bottle," he mumbles, voice raspy like Uncle Alphard's after a smoke break. "Where's— did I do it? Is it done?"
Sirius looks confused, for some reason. He uses one hand to wipe the remnants of the drink from Regulus' chin while the other supports the back of his head, touch never steering from tender.
"What're you talking about, Reggie?" he prompts, gently.
(Regulus Black is narrow-sighted, and therefore he does not pay his brother any mind.)
He shoves Sirius' arm away, ignoring the surprised and slightly hurt look that takes over his brother's face. Regulus searches for a familiar she-devil, and—
There she is, standing a few feet away from the circle of concerned people surrounding him — Cissy and Andy and Barty and Evan and a few others, too, surprisingly enough — with a conceited smirk and perfect posture and an amused look in her dark eyes.
Slowly, Bella raises the bottle at him. Regulus does not know, and will never for the following years know, how she's managed to regain a hold of it after his brother forcibly tore it away and put an end to his suffering.
She shakes the bottle. Even all the way across the room, Regulus can hear the obvious sloshing of liquid inside of it. His heart hurts.
You failed, she mouths at him, vindictive. Little Black.
"Reggie?"
His brother's voice brings him back to reality once more. He sounds worried, which is not unusual so much as it is misplaced. Regulus should not need his worry; he should be grown-up and capable and unweak enough to deal with this on his own.
All at once, the shame and humiliation coursing through his veins morph into red-hot anger and before he knows it, he's pushing Sirius away. Fully, this time.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Sirius questions, earnestly, because he's never been one to give up. Not for the first time, Regulus resents him for it.
When Regulus keeps quiet, Sirius presses on, "It's just me, yeah? Come on, Reggie."
Regulus' cheeks burn. That damned nickname represents everything he's been fighting to undo, every claim to his nativity and childishness and inadequacy; how can Sirius not see it? Or perhaps he does see it, and simply does not care. Perhaps he is doing it in spite.
"Don't call me that," Regulus snarls, and is surprisingly pleased when his voice comes out with just the right amount of venom in it. Just like Mother's.
Sirius flinches. His voice is small when he says, "What?"
Sorry, Regulus thinks. "Pathetic," is what he says. "It's pathetic. The name. It befits a child, and I am not one anymore."
There are snickers around him, he vaguely registers. Snorts of appreciation, of silent respect. He feels his chest swell with pride at having taken the first step away from what can only be described as weakness.
Regulus gets up and walks away, chin held high. He does not look back, and his brother does not call out after him.
***
III.
Regulus is eleven and it's his first meal as an official member of House Slytherin.
He sits there, surrounded by fellow purebloods that he vaguely recalls seeing at galas and dinner parties, and he aches for his big brother.
Sirius, who is sitting what feels like miles away at the Gryffindor table, did not glance his way once ever since the Sorting. Regulus doesn't doubt that it has something — everything — to do with the new green addition to his uniform, but. Still. He cannot help but miss his brother, despite the filth Mother and Father have been spewing about him all throughout last year.
Glancing back down to his half-eaten plate of food, Regulus pushes some beans around using his fork and leans his chin on his palm. He should feel happy, he knows, about being sorted into Slytherin; Mother and Father will surely be ecstatic, relieved to learn that the good Black family name has once again been restored.
Instead, though, all he feels is bone-rattling disappointment.
"Oi, Black," someone calls out, and Regulus instinctively looks up.
It's a Malfoy — which one, he's not certain, but the long silver-white hair says it all — and he seems to be a few years older than Regulus, possibly starting his Third or Fourth year. He's sitting across and to the left of him, so Regulus — what with his unimpressive First year height — has to crane his neck in order to meet his eye.
"It's Regulus, right?" the guy asks, in such a way that requires no real answer. Regulus nods anyway, just to play along.
"Welcome to Slytherin," Malfoy continues, grinning. "The best House in all of Hogwarts!"
This earns him a round of applause, students cheering and whistling and clapping loudly all around. Regulus stifles a wince at the onrush of noise.
When it's relatively quiet again, Malfoy says, "I trust you know who I am."
Regulus does not.
"Of course," he says.
Malfoy nods, satisfied. "Well, there's a few things you need to understand before starting your time here as a Slytherin. See, we—"
He's cut off by a sudden figure approaching the table behind Regulus' back. By the look of disgust that crosses Malfoy's face, Regulus has a pretty good idea of who exactly is standing behind him even before he reluctantly turns around.
"Heya, Reggie," his brother says, quietly. Since Regulus is sitting down, he has to look up in order to maintain a civilised conversation; his cheeks redden at the thought of such openly-displayed inferiority.
"Sirius," he acknowledges with a dip of his head, when what he truly wants to say is brother. His tone matches the lowness of Sirius', except his is also stiff and curt and icy because that's what being a true Black means.
"Can we, uh," Sirius hesitates, eyes shifting to the many Slytherins surrounding them and then back to Regulus. Or, well, actually — Regulus supposes he's one of them, now, too.
Sirius straightens his back and smooths down his features, easing his face into a carefully blank mask. Regulus has done the same since the moment he looked up. They're both experts, by now.
"Can we talk?"
Regulus sucks in a sharp breath.
It feels like everyone's watching, and maybe they are. Blacks often are the center of attention.
"I doubt Reggie here wants to associate himself with a blood traitor such as yourself," Malfoy snarks, baring his teeth, and the Slytherin crowd laughs. While it may sound like an obvious insult directed at Sirius, Regulus recognises it for what it truly is; a taunt, a bait laid especially for him. The blatant use of Reggie instead of Regulus is a painfully specific stab at his ego, an attempt to test where Regulus' loyalty truly lies.
"Shut your ugly fucking face, Malfoy," Sirius snaps back. The mask is now shattered, replaced by his brother's infamous insolence and stridency and dauntlessness.
"Sirius, I think you should go," Regulus says, and it's quiet but Sirius hears him anyway. He always does.
"What?" he blinks, taken aback, clearly having expected Regulus to have his back. That's what he would've done any other time, he supposes, in the past.
It's different now, though.
Now he's got a crowd of Slytherins to impress and a fragile reputation to uphold, and Sirius has his precious lions. They should not interfere with each other's goals.
It'll be better this way.
(It will be.)
"C'mon, Reggie," Sirius beseeches, and Regulus can hear that familiar lilt of his voice that indicates he's trying to persuade someone. Normally, it works like a charm; except Regulus knows his brother, and Regulus is a stubborn man. "It's just a conversation. Alright? No ulterior motive, I swear."
He can feel Malfoy's eyes burning holes into his back.
Regulus slowly lifts his gaze, and Sirius must recognise something in his eyes because the fight seems to abandon him all at once, leaving behind nothing but disillusionment.
(And exhaustion, too.)
Sirius opens his mouth like he wants to add something else, but Regulus knows he won't stoop so low as to beg in front of a bunch of purebloods. Instead, his eyes — so alike Regulus' — speak volumes.
Please, Reggie, they say. My brother.
It is not a choice, in the end. Not really.
"I said leave," he sneers, and it's just the perfect combination of condescension and arrogance and contempt that he feels sick to his stomach. "And it's Regulus. Not Reggie."
Afterwards, he is applauded and welcomed and commended; the newest, shining addition to House Slytherin. Halfway through the meal and strictly against his better judgement, Regulus sneaks a peak at the Gryffindor table.
Sirius is nowhere to be seen.
***
IV.
Regulus is thirteen and there's a wand pressed to the hollow of his throat.
"You're gonna fuckin' pay, Black," his captor snarls, spit flying out of his mouth and landing straight in Regulus' eyes. Gross.
They're all in the men's bathroom, having cornered Regulus as he was washing his hands. There are two additional guys holding Regulus in place — the left one is Yaxley and the right one is Carrow, he's pretty sure — their arms bulky and their grip harsh, unrelenting. No match for Regulus' scrawny, if admittedly lean, build.
Without his wand, which was expelliarmus-ed away from him at the first instant — he should've seen it coming, damnit, how unbelievably stupid of him — Regulus Black is powerless.
He tries to speak; his voice comes out hoarse and it's becoming increasingly difficult to swallow, but he manages. A serpent's tongue, and all that. "Listen, just let me explain—"
The spitter — Mulciber is his name — growls, "What don't you get, arsehole? We're way past explainin'."
"I didn't do what you think I did—"
"You callin' my sister a liar, then?"
"I think that's been established, yes—"
Mulciber punches him in the face.
Regulus stifles a groan, clutching his bleeding nose like he could somehow magically cure it. He reckons it's broken; he's seen it enough on Barty to recognise the injury.
He sags against the two men who push him roughly away, so hard that he sways and tips forward before managing to righten himself at the last second. His nose is throbbing.
"I wasn't shagging her, for fuck's sake," he bites out, immensely relieved that he can still keep his voice steady. "I told her I wasn't interested, and she took it badly. That's all."
"Since when is a Black's word worth any shit?" the guy to his left — Yaxley? — hisses in his ear, nastily.
Regulus stiffens as an idea strikes him. Time to switch tactics.
"That's right," he confirms, keeping his voice low and frigid and lethel. Just like Cissy taught him. "I'm a Black. And I suppose educated gentlemen such as yourselves are familiar with the preferred methods of... action my family advocates?"
For the first time since being — embarrassingly — ambushed, Regulus detects a glimpse of fear flickering across his captor's face.
Sick, twisted satisfaction pools in his gut.
"I advise you to let me go," Regulus continues, calmly. He lets his upper lip curl upwards in a ferocious sort of smirk, exposing his blood-stained teeth. Mulciber's throat bobbles as he swallows.
"You think you scare us, boy?" he sneers, taking an aggressive step closer so that their faces are now inches away from one another. Regulus is a Black, and therefore he does not blink. "I'm gonna make you taste your own fuckin' insides, you tosser, and then—"
"Then, what?"
Regulus' eyes snap up, wild. It can't be. It fucking can't—
Sirius Black is leaning idly against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, looking serene and unbothered like he just happened to take a stroll through the men's bathroom.
There's an easy smirk playing on his lips, but his eyes scream murder.
He pointedly does not glance at Regulus.
"Go on, Mulciber," he urges, voice honey-sweet. Mulciber turns white as a sheet; the hands holding Regulus back loosen their grip significantly, and Sirius' grin widens. Just the effect he was looking for, it seems. "You were saying?"
Mulciber's fear is so palpable, Regulus can practically taste it.
Still — and Regulus, unfortunately, has to give the wretched man some credit for that — he raises his chin and growls, defensively, "Fuck off, Black. This ain't your bloody fight."
Sirius shakes his head, tsking like a disappointed parent. He pushes himself effortlessly off the doorframe and takes a menacing step forward; Mulciber takes one backwards, in return. Regulus almost wants to snort at the utter ridicule.
"See, that's where you're wrong, though."
Sirius is now only a foot or two away, and he and Mulciber begin encircling each other like wild animals. Mulciber's wand is clutched in a white-knuckled grip; Sirius' is nowhere to be seen.
(Regulus feels a mixture of horror, outrage and adrenaline-fueled anticipation building inside him at the sight. Not even Sirius is dumb enough to enter this duel wandless, so what the fuck is he up to?)
"You've hurt my brother," Sirius is saying, dangerously quiet. Traitorously, Regulus' heart leaps. "That makes it my fucking fight."
And he goes for the kill.
(It's a losing game, really.)
Mulciber shouts, "Stupefy—" and a burst of light erupts from the tip of his wand, but Sirius is already sidestepping the spell and waving his hand and then all of the sudden Mulciber is laying flat on the ground, groaning in pain.
Regulus is fucking speechless.
"You absolute fucker—" the guy to Regulus' right — Carrow — shouts, and then he's charging forward as well with a "Serpensortia!" already on the tip of his tongue.
Sirius dodges that one, as well, and then he narrows his eyes and cocks his head to one side. Regulus wants to scream at him to fucking move, do something, act before the guy gets to him—
He's convulsing in agony on the ground before Regulus manages to form a single vowel.
Now comes the third. Yaxley, seemingly posing as the undisclosed brains of the operation, chooses a different tactic. He grabs a fistful of Regulus' hair and yanks, making a pitiful, unwarranted sound emerge from the depths of Regulus' throat.
He thinks he hears Sirius scream.
Regulus feels so fucking helpless and powerless and weak and it's killing him, damnit, because now there's an actual blade pressed against his throat and is this what Sirius feels like every time Mother and Father execute their esoteric punishments on him?
"Get your fucking hands off him," a voice growls, and it's vicious and feral and undeniably inhuman. "I swear to Merlin, if you don't let him the fuck go right now—"
"There's no way in hell I'm lettin' him go, you'll just kill me on the spot—"
Regulus knees him in the groin.
The two-hundred-pounds of human scum drop to the ground like a useless sack of potatoes, weeping like a damn baby.
Regulus looks up, panting hard. Sirius wears an unreadable expression; if they were as close as they once were, then perhaps Regulus would've been able to decipher the mix of pride and astonishment and satisfaction on his brother's face.
But they're not, and he doesn't.
"You didn't have to do all of that," Regulus says. Murmurs, more like it.
(Father hates it when he does that, but Sirius never minded.)
Sirius shrugs, like it's no big deal. "Kinda did, though."
Regulus feels his cheeks redden and averts his eyes. Suddenly he's all too aware of what just happened, how utterly pathetic he's been, allowing himself to be disarmed and overthrown so easily.
Needing someone else to swoop in and save him. Needing Sirius, of all people, to do it.
"I had it handled," he says anyway, sharply, because maybe he's lost his pride but at least he can still try and salvage some shred of dignity.
Sirius snorts. "Sure you did."
"Shut up."
Sirius looks at him. There's an amused glint in his eyes and a soft smile on his lips. "That was pretty badass, by the way," he says.
"What?"
"Just... that kick. Dick sure deserved it."
"Thought his name was Yaxley."
"Wasn't referring to his name."
Regulus fights the urge to roll his eyes. With comments like these, it's no surprise his brother is so shamelessly living up to his Casanova reputation.
(A small part of Regulus thinks, wistfully, I've missed this — the easy banter and the light-hearted tones and the fucking closeness of it all — and for a fleeting, traitorous second he considers telling Sirius as much, but then he's so incredibly horrified by the notion that it feels like his face is being smashed in all over again.)
"Hey, uh, your nose doing okay?"
"Pardon?"
"Your nose," Sirius repeats, making a half-hearted gesture at his own face. "It doesn't look too good."
"Oh, really? I wasn't aware."
Sirius gives him a look. "Episkey should fix the fracture, but put some ice on it just in case. There should be some down in the kitchens. Also a Calming Draught, if it gets really bad; I, uh, have some hidden in my dorm if you'd like."
Regulus stares.
And keeps staring.
He wants to ask Sirius where he learned all of this. When.
(Wants to reassure himself that it was Quidditch — surely, it was Quidditch — and not some other dark, obscure, unthinkable thing that is just too vast for Regulus to wrap his head around.)
Instead, all he says is, "Okay."
"Go to Pomfrey if it keeps hurting."
His eyes narrow. "I can take care of myself just fine, Sirius."
"I know that—"
"You're not my keeper. I don't need your help, or your advice, or your concern."
(I don't deserve it, he thinks.)
Sirius flinches. Between the two of them, he's always been the most sensitive.
Regulus tastes bile. He says, "Don't tell anyone about this."
It is meant to come out crisp and commanding and not up for discussion, but the devastated look on his brother's face sends Regulus' resolution into a whirlwind; instead, his words are nothing more than an imploration.
(Pathetic, like he always seems to become around Sirius.)
"I won't," Sirius says, and it sounds so flat and unrelated to the still-hurt expression on his face that Regulus almost feels envious for the unwavering control he possesses.
Almost.
(He knows that it did not come without a cost.)
"That stuff you did back there," he finds himself saying, because he may be a Slytherin through and through but that doesn't prevent his curiosity from rearing up its ugly head every now and then. "It was wandless magic, wasn't it?"
Sirius looks him over, gaze calculating. He's closed himself off again, Regulus notes, with some amount of disappointment; Sirius' whole body is now tense, guarded. Distant.
(Like when he's around their parents.)
"Yeah," Sirius admits, eventually. It's not done with smugness or arrogance or cockiness as Regulus expects; it's just a statement, like saying Yeah, I poured that glass of pumpkin juice.
"That's... pretty advanced magic," Regulus says, and he knows the jealousy in his voice is unfiltered but the momentary awkwardness it puts Sirius in is kind of worth it.
"Uh, yeah, I guess."
"Where'd you learn it from?"
Now he looks truly uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot and scratching distractedly at the back of his head. "Does it really matter that much?"
"I'd like to know, yes."
He sighs. "Reg—"
"Don't waste my time, Sirius."
"Fine," he snaps. "I guess I've always just... had that ability in me? I dunno. It's been like that ever since I can remember."
Regulus blinks, processing. Wandless magic is inherited, he knows — which means that it exists in his own genes, as well, what with him and Sirius sharing the same batch and all. But if it's activated at birth, then that means—
"Guess it skipped past me, then," Regulus says, unflinchingly. His voice is even.
Sirius looks conflicted, and also kind of guilty. "Reggie, look—"
"It doesn't matter, anyway. I still need to handle this shitshow of a crime scene. You've done your part; I can take it from here."
Sirius' pleading expression falls, melting away. Hardening.
Regulus feels an unexplainable squeeze in his chest.
"Alright. I'll leave if you want me to," he says, softly, because he's Regulus' older brother and he respects his wishes even when they're dumb and excruciatingly untrue. "But, Reggie, there's something I've been meaning to—"
Before he can get another word in, Mulciber rises from the bathroom floor with a savage roar like a goddamn Inferi. He throws himself at the closest thing he can latch onto — it being Sirius' legs.
Regulus half-expects Sirius to just carelessly toss him away like he did earlier, but Sirius' mind seems to be someplace else because he's caught off guard.
Letting out a startled yelp, he stumbles thanks to the deathly grip around his ankles and comes crashing forward, face-first. Regulus manages to catch him just before his nose hits the ground — now they won't have matching injuries, he thinks, strangely disappointed — and then he kicks Mulciber straight in the face. The crack that his foot makes when it meets Mulciber's jaw is gratifying, and pride blooms in his chest.
Sirius rolls the giant man off of him with grunting effort, then stands up and dusts off his jeans. They're ripped at the knees; Mother had thrown a fit when she found a similar pair in his trunk last summer. Regulus is not familiar with the exact details of the punishment — he never is — but he knows that Sirius didn't show up for dinner the following three days.
"Thanks," Sirius says, genuinely, because he's a better man than Regulus ever will be.
"Don't mention it," he retorts, because he's a Black and manners are his go-to. Awkwardly, he gestures at the distasteful scene, "I guess that makes us even."
"Right."
"You can, um. You can leave now."
Once again, Sirius' face crumbles.
Regulus feels the baffling and immature urge to cry and so he looks away, forcing his eyes to focus on Sirius' shoulder instead. It's better this way, he reminds himself. It's better.
"Alright, then," Sirius hangs his head low, kind of like a kicked puppy. "I guess I'll, uh. See you around, then."
"Yeah. See you."
"Bye, Reggie."
When his brother's heel is already halfway out the door, Regulus finds himself whispering, "It's Regulus," and he hopes to Merlin that Sirius doesn't catch it.
(By the falter in his brother's steps, he knows he does.)
***
V.
Regulus is fifteen and he is passing out in class.
Truthfully, he's not surprised. The non-eating and the non-sleeping and the non-socialising was bound to catch up with him at some point.
In his defense, though, the OWLs are three days away and he's a Black which means he cannot fail. If it means having to skip a meal or two or declining bedtime and a hang-out with his friends, then Regulus will just have to suck it up and deal with it. Should he fail (he will not fail), the repercussions loom over his head like a dark cloud on a sunny day.
A shame to the House of Black, his mother would shriek.
A stain upon my legacy, his father would growl.
A true rebel at heart, his brother would praise.
As a result, Regulus is attending Potions class — it's his favourite, and he feels a pang of guilt at having been lacking the time to engage in potion-making outside of class, recently — when he abruptly faints.
It only lasts a few seconds, though, and then he's blinking blearily up at a peering pack of Slytherins and — to his great chagrin — Gryffindors.
Evidently, Regulus is no-good at picking classrooms to pass out in, because Professor Slughorn turns out to be the worst kind of mother-hen.
He frets over Regulus and says "Oh, dear," three times in a row and then proceeds to aggressively fan himself. He asks a student to check Regulus' temperature — said student uprightly refuses to do so upon meeting Regulus' deathly glare — and then sends another one to fetch Regulus' brother. For some puzzling reason.
"Professor," Regulus says, for what feels like the hundredth time. Frankly, he's tired and would like to go find an actual bed to crash in except the obnoxious man won't let him off the fucking floor. "I told you, I am completely and utterly fine."
"I'll be the judge of that," Slughorn says, ominously. Then his eyes light up. "Ah, look who's here! Mr. Black, come, join us. He's right over here."
Okay, no, that's it. Regulus will not have his brother see him sprawled out on the floor like some helpless chicken; it's bad enough that an entire classroom already has.
He holds onto the nearest desk, using it to push himself up and then to his feet. Unfortunately, the abrupt change of position makes black spots dance across his vision and he wobbles, stumbling and then catching himself—
Wait, no. Somebody else does.
"Hey, take it easy," Sirius says, and the softness of his voice is so achingly familiar and simultaneously foreign that Regulus kind of wants to sob.
"Hey, no, none of that," Sirius coos, and oh, turns out he actually is crying. "Shh, it's alright, Reggie. Everything's gonna be alright. I'm right here, kiddo. I've got you."
And maybe it's the malnourishment or the sleep deprivation that's messing up his head but, at the moment, Regulus finds he does not care for his parents' approval or the Slytherins' begrudging respect or the need to maintain the noble Black front. All Regulus can think of is safe, I want to feel safe and so he buries his face in his big brother's neck and hides himself away from the rest of the world.
Regulus is not sure whether or not he's dreaming, afterwards, when he wakes to the glaring lights of the Hospital Wing. His brother is sitting at his bedside and, really, isn't that a sign all on its own?
He thinks he tells Sirius as much. Hazily, he remembers Sirius laughing — quietly, though, like he doesn't want to disturb Regulus' peace.
That's alright, Regulus tells him. I like having you around.
The creases in Sirius' forehead smooth down, and his eyes look strangely foggy. He squeezes Regulus' hand, and then he says he loves Reggie which confuses him.
My name's Regulus, he tells him. He doesn't think he's been Reggie for a while, now.
The next time he opens his eyes, Sirius is gone.
***
+VI.
Regulus is sixteen and watching his brother about to commit suicide.
Regulus' heart is in his throat and his eyes are wide, stunned. He whispers, "Sirius?" and even though any other person would've allowed the word to be swept up by the harsh winds of the Astronomy Tower, his brother hears him.
He always does.
"You shouldn't be here," is all he says in return, and there's so much exhaustion tied to that simple sentence that it makes Regulus' head spin. Sirius is sitting on top of the railing, his back to Regulus, legs dangling freely in the air like he's taunting the wind to come and take a swing at him.
"What are you doing up there, Sirius?" he asks, tentatively, and takes a cautious step forward. He hopes against all hope that he's wrong. Please, Merlin, let him be wrong.
"Just. Leave, please."
"That's not going to happen and you know it."
"Come off it," Sirius says, but the words lack their usual bite. The unearthly fire that burns underneath every syllable that's ever left Sirius Black's mouth is noticeably lacking, leaving in its trace nothing but the empty shell of a person. "We both know you couldn't give less of a fuck about me, anyway."
Regulus feels like he's been slapped.
He actually, physically recoils at that, repulsed and mortified and altogether angry at his brother for thinking such atrocious things.
(And even more so at himself, for making them appear reasonable.)
"That's not—" he starts, and fuck, he's already choking up. "That's not true. Sirius, you have to— please, believe me when I tell you that that is not true."
Sirius says nothing.
Regulus is a Black, and therefore he is above crying.
But this is Sirius. This is his brother.
"I'm sorry if I ever made it seem like I didn't care, alright?" he says — shouts, begs — and his eyes are stinging like hell but he still takes a step closer, an unconscious thing. The primal, unadulterated need to be closer to his big brother is so overwhelming that he shudders. "I do care, Sirius, I've always—"
"You wouldn't say that unless you knew what I'm about to do," Sirius cuts him off, and it's still cold but not as detached. Probably has to do with hearing Regulus crying, that stupid, altruistic, protective older brother that he is.
"You're right," he confesses, because he might as well be honest with himself. With them both. "You're right, but that's only because I'm a coward and a weakling and too scared to stand up to our parents. I— I let them get to me, Sirius, but I swear I—"
Sirius simply says, "Don't."
Regulus stops. So does time, it feels like.
Then Sirius turns around — there's a terrifying, bloodcurdling moment where one of his hands slip and he loses his footing, and Regulus is screaming before he knows it but then Sirius' got it back under control like he always does — and he faces Regulus.
It's a harrowing thing, truly. A man that's made up his mind.
First, there's the physical aspect to take in: Sirius has profound dark bags under his eyes, meaning he hasn't been sleeping well. Or at all, for that matter. His bones seem sharper, jutting sickly through his clothes in a way that indicates starvation. His movements are more sluggish, as well, like it takes an extra second for his body to process every command sent from his brain.
The worst part, though, is the look in his eyes.
It is thoroughly and irredeemably lifeless. Unfeeling.
Regulus shivers.
(Under the glowing moonlight, Sirius resembles a ghost more than he does a living person.)
The unfiltered sight of his big brother makes bile rise in the back of Regulus' throat and he feels himself pressing a quivering hand over his mouth, unable to help himself. He missed this. All these signs, these painfully obvious signs—
He's missed them all. Ignored them, more like it. Ignored Sirius, for—
Years, now.
Merlin, he is an awful brother.
"I look disgusting, I know," Sirius says, his voice bittersweet. A humourless grin stretches across his pale face, so distinctly forced and unlike his usual one that it sends chills down Regulus' spine.
"No, that's not—" Regulus shakes his head to clear it, then takes another careful step forward. Shows Sirius that he's not alarmed by him, not even close. "I— I don't mind."
Sirius snorts. "You're not denying it," he comments, gruffly.
"I don't see the point in lying."
Sirius shivers, wrapping his arms around his middle and squeezing tight. It's freezing cold out, and yet Sirius is not wearing anything but simple Muggle clothes. Regulus wonders how many times his brother has had to sit like this, all alone, with no one but himself to offer comfort or warmth or support.
(Merlin, the guilt is fucking eating him alive.)
Sirius whispers, "You've always been a liar."
Regulus is not sure whether or not it's meant for his ears. Either way, he does his best to ignore the sting of hurt and says, sincerely, "I'm sorry."
"I know."
"Will you please get down, then, Sirius?" he pleads, and that's beneath a Black, too. "Please. If not for you, then— then for me."
Sirius sighs. It's a despondent sound.
"Brother, please."
"No, fuck, you don't get to— fuck," Sirius wipes at his eyes furiously, and suddenly there are all these different kinds of emotions swimming in his eyes and Regulus is at a loss for words. It doesn't matter, though, because Sirius keeps going, "You don't get to do this, this— this whole guilt-trip thing, like I'm committing this great sin by killing myself or something. That's nobody else's problem but mine, got it?"
For a moment, Regulus is too stunned to speak. Then rage builds behind his eyes and he sees red but tastes salt, and he hisses, "Oh, go fuck yourself, Sirius."
"Excuse me?"
"Nobody else's problem but mine — are you fucking kidding me right now? Merlin, Sirius, this has got to be one of the dumbest things you've ever said. Do you even have the slightest idea as to how many people — in this castle alone — would grieve you if you were gone?"
He's breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides, desperate for Sirius to just understand.
"That's just it, though," Sirius tells him, and there's this feral look in his eyes that scares the living shit outta Regulus. "They only care once you're gone."
Regulus swallows, thickly. He feels sick to his stomach.
"I care," he tells his brother, and for once, it's the fucking truth. "Does that not count?"
"I'm tired."
"That doesn't mean you should—"
"Regulus. Listen to me. I'm tired."
And, honestly, in the grand scheme of things—
It's not the way Sirius' voice cracks or the unshed tears clinging to his lashes or how his grip on the railing becomes more and more slack by the second.
It's the fucking name.
"That's not—" Regulus is choking, then, because this is his brother and he misses him and hates his fucking guts all at the same time. "That's not right. It's not fucking right, Sirius. Take it—" his voice quavers, "take it back. Please."
"What?"
"You called me Regulus," he whispers, hopelessly. "You never call me Regulus."
Sirius inhales, sharply. He is wide-eyed.
A beat passes.
"I can't—" his voice breaks, a single tear sliding down his pale cheek. The walls he so meticulously built are now crumbling down, and Regulus is left to pick up the pieces.
(This time, he will not turn his back and walk away.)
Even though the rational part of him knows that it is far too early to be making any type of plans, Regulus allows just a glimpse of hope to pierce through the Blackness of his heart. Maybe, impossibly, he actually has a shot at convincing Sirius of his own worth. Maybe his brother will finally see what Regulus has been quietly observing from afar for years.
Maybe, when Sirius gets down from that damned railing and the world returns to its rightful state, they'll be able to make up. Be brothers again.
Real brothers.
He sniffs, "Sirius?"
His brother smiles at him, sad and longing.
Then he lets go.
Regulus is screaming and he's diving forward and he's screaming and he's grabbing onto Sirius' wrists and he's screaming and he pulls his big brother off the edge and close to his heart and he's screaming and he's holding him and burying his face in his hair.
Sirius is sobbing, and—
Oh, they both are.
They're crying and they're holding onto each other for dear life and Regulus is spewing out curses, repeating over and over again I hate you how could you do this to me how could you leave me like that I'm so fucking sorry I love you please don't go stay with me I'm so sorry for everything forgive me—
And Sirius hugs him back and shushes him and strokes his hair, and it's wonderful and horrible all at once because how could they be this stupid as to allow years to go by without having each other's backs.
His brother sobs, and it's raw and deep and awful but also kind of entrancing, because Regulus cannot remember a single time before this that he's ever seen Sirius openly cry. It's... humanising, in a way. The sort of voluntary vulnerability that brings people closer together.
Delirious and likely coming down from the terrifyingly-thrilling high of nearly dying, Sirius confesses to unintelligible, nonsensical things — I've ruined everything I told the secret they all hate me but I deserve it I'm fucking rotten on the inside Mother and Father were right all along I shouldn't even fucking exist — and Regulus feels another piece of his heart shatter with every passing word.
(He can do nothing but promise, over and over and over again, that they're going to fix it. Whatever the fuck it is that's got his big brother climbing to the top of the Astronomy Tower and jumping off of it— fuck, he nearly fucking did it, if Regulus wouldn't have been there to catch him then—)
The thing is, he knows that Sirius is broken.
Still is; always has been; will never stop being. And there's a lot more to that brokenness than Regulus dares know.
He wants to, though.
(Merlin, he fucking needs to.)
After a while, Sirius starts to calm down, and Regulus—
Regulus hurts.
He hurts for his brother, for the unfathomable suffering he's been put under all this time. Suffering that's been caused by Orion and Walburga and possibly other members of their fucked-up family, yes, but also by Regulus' own hand. He pushes past the rage and disgust and self-loathing in an attempt to reach that distant, innocent, locked-away version of himself that is just Regulus Black, brother of Sirius Black.
(He finds that he missed him, almost as much as he missed Sirius.)
He decides right there and then that he's going to spend the rest of his good-for-nothing life trying to fill up that void he so ruthlessly carved in his big brother's heart.
He owes him that much.
(And more. So, so much more.)
Tentatively, he takes Sirius' hand in his — waits for the protest or the rejection but, of course, it never comes because Sirius has always been the best out of the two of them, always — and then he intertwines their fingers.
"I love you," he tells his brother, steadily, and wonders whether he imagines his heart becoming lighter.
It is the most truthful he's been in a while.
For a moment, Sirius is silent. Then his voice — hoarse and slightly rough around the edges but still so, so soft — emerges. "Love you too, Reggie."