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There was something almost soothing in watching the dancers whirl through the patterns down below. The music was tasteful, the elf-wine pleasant, and it appeared the worst injury of the evening would be a toss up between Crabbe’s partner’s toes, and the Beauxbaton’s Headmistress’s hair which had seemingly fascinated one of the will-o-wisps that Lord Flint had set floating around the room for ‘atmosphere’.
Regulus would have warded them better, but he had not been asked, and at any rate it gave Miss Potter a chance to prove herself a generally adequate healer in training once again. Why it was so important that Miss Potter prove herself apt in the art escaped him—if anything the farce concocted by his nephew, Miss Potter, and the as-yet-unknown third had proven it was that Miss Potter had little interest in anything beyond potions—but his nephew had stepped back and Regulus hadn’t seen fit to interfere.
He supposed his nephew’s reticence was magnanimous in a way that Sirius had likely drilled into the boy. Duty to all except family.
A clink of glass against stone alerted him to his brother’s presence on the balcony. Sirius just set a wine glass down in front of Regulus, however, before stepping back a few feet and leaning over the railing, his own glass cupped loosely in his hands and his dress robes rakishly unclasped at the collar and cuffs.
Regulus picked up the glass, swirled it a few times to aerate properly, then brought it up to his nose. He was almost disappointed when the aroma matched the dry, full bodied varietals he currently favored instead of the lighter, sweeter ones he had preferred in youth. Narcissa had probably told Sirius his preferences, which meant she too was hoping for a reconciliation between brothers. As much as he wished to, he couldn’t simply dismiss Sirius out of hand.
The wine was good and Regulus savored it, taking small sips while watching his brother out of the corner of his eye. Sirius was patient and still. He had learned something then from the last few years he had followed his ‘son’ back into society. He had remembered at least some of what it meant to be a Lord instead of a paid Ministry wizard lackey, sniffing out suspects and digging through trash only to end up chasing some hapless sod through the streets and dragging him back to headquarters, tail wagging all the way.
It was disconcerting, however, to have his brother just leaning next to him, waiting. And when there were just two sips of wine left—enough still that no one could say Sirius had outlasted him-Regulus could stand it no longer. “Why are you here, brother?”
Sirius only moved his eyes as he answered him, his voice floating out over the dancers, letting him keep his space. “I fancied a bit of fresh air.”
Regulus scoffed. His brother had become more practiced at painting on a veneer of sophistication over the years, but Regulus knew the boy who had sworn at their mother and peeled off in a cloud of motor exhaust with nothing more than his wand and the clothes on his back.
Sirius set his glass down with a clink, wine splashing over the side to anoint the masses with a mixture of something unbearably fruity and the Lord Black’s spit. “Fine, Reggie, I tried doing things your way, but if you’re not going to appreciate it, I’m not going to bother. I’m tired of being forever at odds with you. I still think you made the wrong decision all those years ago, but that ‘great split’ hasn’t made a lick of difference and I’m tired of sacrificing our relationship to others’ political causes. I’m tired of pretending the person who schemed up all the ways we could run away to Spain with nothing but a broom and a cauldron full of sweets doesn’t exist. I want you in my life.”
The music changed and as the dancers switched over, Regulus could pick out his nephew trying to tug a bushy-haired witch onto the floor. It was no great mystery why his brother was suddenly interested in forgiveness and reconciliation. And Regulus did have his own secrets now. He swirled the last couple of sips in his glass. He and his brother were both more complex than they had been decades ago.
But that was not necessarily detrimental to whatever scheme of reconciliation Sirius had concocted. Life and the not entirely victimless crimes of the younger generation had indubitably worn cracks into Sirius’s Gryffindor facade, and Regulus could admit to some curiosity about what the right application of leverage would turn up. “I do not currently have plans for Thursday evening.”
Sirius turned and grinned at him and Regulus drew back his own emotions before they could show on his face. He admired Riddle. His lord was talented, tactical, visionary, and an accomplished statesman besides, but there was something alive about his brother and his nephew and their madcap schemes that resonated with something inside him. The same something that drew him down back alley streets and into a different plausibly-deniable morass of illegality than the one Lucius Malfoy frequented. The SOW party were excellent pruners, but they did not grow—in either the figurative or reproductive sense—and Regulus was tired of all the perfectly groomed heirs cut to template, convinced parental alienation was the height of rebellion.
Not to mention that Sirius’s cooking was worth a couple of hours of even the most insipid conversation. Dotty had taught him her secret for beef Wellington, and no one else in the wizarding world could make it as well as Dotty had. No, in retrospect, he did not mind practically inviting his brother to make an invitation.
“Seven o'clock, then, at Grimmauld. I’ll do the food, there’s still half a bottle of something red that would probably go well with the Wellington you like so much—” Sirius broke off to laugh at Regulus’s expression. “Fine, you will bring the wine. Lily and James have a night out and Remus is minding Addy, so Harry will probably be there as well as Archie. Don’t worry though—she’s trying to convince James to sign off on something related to the potions lab or her new school or something and is on her best behavior.”
Regulus was just about to retort that Miss Potter did not engender any worries at all when Sirius turned back from his survey over the balcony, eyes dancing. “Or rather she was. Cheers Reggie. Seven o'clock, now, don’t be late, and pray excuse me for the moment, I have a best friend to placate.” He frowned. “Or incapacitate—the jury’s still out.”
With a final wave, the Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black dropped himself over the balcony and began pushing his way through the crowd. Between the lack of decorum and hideous nickname, Regulus was tempted to write the whole dinner off, but he had committed himself and a Black did not go back on his word.
And as he watched Miss Potter sweep by in the arms of the Rogue of the Lower Alleys, Auror Potter fuming on the sidelines, he could not help noting that here was the riotous tangle of life he had been missing, frozen at his lord’s side. It was just a dinner, but Regulus was already imagining trading barbs and hints of blackmail with Miss Potter under his brother’s nose. Then there would be after dinner drinks in Sirius’s study where he could sip aged scotch and be frank with someone for the first time in decades. He regarded his rising excitement with a jaundiced eye, but still began charting a new path forward for himself.
A new path that meant when he passed one of the Rogue’s minions on the way out, the boy’s pants sagging from too many candlesticks or sweets or who-knows-what stuffed in his pockets, Regulus cast a featherweight charm and the proper sizing spell instead of raising the alarm. The boy jumped and looked around in shock, and Regulus watched in amusement as he (and hopefully many of Flint’s prized treasures) beelined toward the floo. Flint was a pox on all who knew him and completely unnecessary to someone moving beyond the SOW party's carefully delineated lines.