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Sirius was pretty sure that he knew Hogwarts like the back of his own hand. For one, he and his dormmates had been working on a yet to be named cartography project for the last four years that required them to traverse every hall, find every hidden passage, every door that led to somewhere no student had found in the last fifty years. Additionally, Sirius, with his loopy, flowing, impeccable cursive earned from fifteen years of Black family tutors, was the one tasked with the actual writing of the map. More recently, he’d managed to find a few rooms that even the Marauders had missed, and his fingers had twitched with the urge to drag a quill through the corners and the curves of each one. The reason he’d found these rooms was the same reason he would never actually be able to add them to the map. At least not himself. Hell, he was pretty sure that they’d already scratched his name off that stack of parchment and ink like it had never been there before. He was also pretty sure they had erased his presence from every aspect of their lives the same way a scourgify could vanish the mud from James’ quidditch uniform; clean once more from far away but with a faint, discolored dusting of earth and rainwater should you try to see closer.
The irrational part of Sirius—the one that had been piloting his body for the majority of his life at Hogwarts, tucked safely into the red and gold tower so much warmer than the black, desolate halls of Grimmauld Place—wanted to moan about the unfairness of being all but kicked out of his own bloody dorm. Wanted to whine about his friends’ abandonment for no reason other than a poorly thought out prank. Barely half a prank, at that. It’s not like they didn’t know that Sirius almost never thought about the consequences of his own actions. Hadn't held his tongue since first year. It’s not like they hadn’t all been breaking every rule since the day they set foot into this castle together.
The rational part of Sirius—the one who had nothing better to do for the last month than to meander the dark and dreary halls and think about what he had done, and who he had done it to—knew that his friends casting him out was nothing but fair. Honestly—and this is probably that Black family trauma popping up again—Sirius was pretty sure that they would’ve been well within their rights to curse him, cut him, literally burn him out of their lives. If they had wanted to crucio him he would’ve handed them the wand to do it and waited for the oncoming pain with some sort of fucked up eagerness.
The day after the moon James hadn’t hesitated to punch him in the face, which Sirius, again, found fair. More painful, though, was the way James—his brother in all but blood who had promised to love him and protect him for the rest of their lives—said he must be broken; said he was better at hiding it but that he had that Black evil in his veins just the same. Sirius nearly tripped out of the Hospital Wing as he rushed off. He had managed to hold back his tears until he had turned the corner, then vomited whatever had been left in his stomach from the night before.
The nausea had actually never abated, which was fine because Sirius found that sitting alone at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall was actually more painful than the hunger pangs, so he skipped most meals. He told himself that he would just go down to the kitchens and ask the elves for some scraps he could eat on his own, but he usually didn’t. Thank Merlin his robes covered the way that his uniform no longer fit, how he’d had to add a new hole to his belt and his jumper drooped low enough to show the tops of his very prominent collarbones. His cheekbones and the shadow in the hollow beneath them were harder to hide, as was the way his usually silky black hair was often tangled and dull from lack of care. Sirius had only been going back to the dorm once or twice per week, not even to sleep, but just to change his clothes and take the world’s fastest shower. The last two weeks Sirius had actually managed to bribe Dorcas Meadowes into letting him into the Prefect’s bath instead, where he’d allowed the bubbles and the sound of the flowing taps to cover the way he cried. He didn’t want to find out if his friends worried about him in his absence. There are some answers he just didn’t need to have.
His friends—or, really, former friends—basically pretended he didn’t exist. James no longer clung to his shoulders between classes, didn’t worry if Sirius was eating enough or sleeping enough or happy enough. Peter didn’t pass him funny little notes when the professors weren’t looking, didn’t offer him his jumper if he noticed Sirius shiver in the cold dank of the Potions classroom. And Remus…well, Remus acted like Sirius was invisible. Remus, who used to stare at Sirius with poorly-concealed wonder like he was some sort of mythical creature he had never seen before, stared through Sirius like he was wearing James’ cloak and just didn’t realize it. Remus, who Sirius had only recently realized that he was in love with, wanted to spend the rest of their lives never further than an arm’s length from one another… Remus, who used to crawl into Sirius bed in the night if he heard him tossing and turning through a nightmare… Remus, who snuck kisses with Sirius behind suits of armor and dashed with him between hidden alcoves just barely masking their laughs, their sighs, their love… That Remus was gone—at least from him—and Sirius felt like he was gone with him. Just an empty body with no soul behind his eyes.
Sirius seemed to be exceptional at a great many things. He was scarily good at Transfiguration, had been the first Marauder to contort his body into a new shape, thinking only of fur and paws and canines and how much he adored Remus Lupin and would do this and anything else if only Remus would see how much he cared for him. How much he was worthy of care. Sirius did good in Charms, was a pretty decent Beater on the Gryffindor team, only disliked Potions because Slughorn was weird and always wanted Sirius to stay after classes in a way that made Sirius feel slimy for some reason.
Sirius was absolutely fantastic at never holding his temper. He was always ready with a hissed insult or an unfair jinx. He flung curses he’d learned in the family libraries or just spent an afternoon creating his own spells entirely. He was so good at Black magic—not Dark, Black—that he sometimes didn’t even have to brandish a wand at all. Walburga and her army of cruel, foul tutors had insured that the Heir was so powerful and well-groomed that he probably could’ve taken his OWLs the day he arrived at Hogwarts and gotten straight Os. He was scared of himself most days. Scared that, no matter how hard he tried to be good and Light and fair, he would never ever be anything more than a Black. Seems he was right to think himself a monster, after all. Only a monster could do what he did.
Frankly, Sirius didn’t think that what he did to Severus was all that bad, really. He’d just been trying to get to the willow before moonrise. He knew that there was a passage near the Potions classroom that could save him a few halls and a staircase, and he had promised Moony that he would be there for him. The day that they sat Remus down and showed him what they had done, all the laws and rules they had broken for nothing more than protecting their friend, Remus had cried. And Sirius had cradled a crying Moony to his chest and promised him it would be different from now on. And it was, for a while. Thirteen moons and countless scars avoided, Sirius had never broken that promise. He wasn’t about to break that streak. But then Severus—fucking Severus all snivelly and greasy and so fucking annoying—just would not fucking move.
He had to have been itching for a fight. It was probably because it was one of the few times Sirius had been so close to Slytherin without backup of some kind. While he might have been one of the most annoying people Sirius had ever met (think about how many snobby purebloods Sirius had been forced to interact with throughout his life and still Snape topped the list), Snape was not stupid. Snape could be just as cruel as Sirius. Just as mean and vicious. Had invented his own spells and curses that were only designed to hurt and hand’t thought to bother with a counterspell. He had spent his Hogwarts years perfecting the art of slipping into other people’s minds without their consent and turning whatever he learned in there into his next weapon. Maybe Snape hated Sirius because, while Snape was teaching himself to be a master Legilimens, Sirus had trained himself to be one of the best Occlumens around if only so Walburga and Orion didn’t find out he was gay.
Still, Severus tried to find a way into his mind that night. He scratched at Sirius’s walls and searched for a crack and Sirius had given him nothing other than an undisguised sneer. Sirius had taunted him with his failings, channeled the way Bella sneered and the way Narcissa looked down her nose at everyone in her path. Said Snape wasn’t worthy of the magic in his veins; not because he was a half-blood but because he was just so fucking snivelly and useless and, honestly, had he ever heard of a shower?
Sirius had only just dodged the first Sectumsempra, and the second one clipped him on the ankle. Blood seeped into his boots and Sirius looked down at the moon tattooed on his left wrist to see it nearly risen, and he just wanted to get to the willow, okay? Sirius snarled and fired his own spells. He set Snape’s cape on fire and fired off a cutting curse that left a sizable gash along his cheek. He remembered the hissed voice of Walburga as she boiled his blood in his own veins with some twisted spell of her own making and Sirius found himself flinging it with an almost scary nonchalance, eager to watch the pain bloom in Snape's gaze until it swallowed him. Luckily or unluckily, Snape dodged that one and fired a Bombarda that snapped at least two of Sirius’ ribs. It was both embarrassing and infuriating that he seemed to be quickly losing in a duel. With Snivellus. Still, if Snape thought that would be enough to fell Sirius, he had obviously never met Sirius’ mother.
“I know what he is!” Snape sneered, an unhinged glint in his eyes that matched the greasy way his hair clung to his robes, “I know what sort of monster you hide in that fucking tower and he is an abomination,”
“I’ve no idea what you’re on about, Snivellus,” Sirius tried to mask his concern and the way his heaving breaths twinged at his ribs, “Though I’m pretty sure nobody ever does,”
“I know you know, Black. You know exactly what sort of beast you’ve been fucking in broom cupboards. Tell me, does your family know that you’re a shirt lifter as well as a disgrace to your own blood? Do they know what you let defile you in the cover of night?”
“Actually, we don’t really factor the time of day into it,”
“Perhaps you no longer care about your reputation. You could fuck a werewolf or a centaur or the giant squid and they would still see you as the red and gold vermin you are,”
“Projecting, Snivellus? Or is Evans still not speaking to you?” Snape’s eyes widened in hatred, “Hate to break it to you, mate, but I don’t think she’s into you. And definitely not until you wash your hair,”
Another slash caught Sirius in the shoulder, and it was only the black of his robes that concealed just how much blood he was losing.
“Leave Lily out of it!”
“Why? You didn’t leave her out of it when you called her a Mudblood in front of the entire school. When you sat back and watched Mulciber and Avery torture that third year all the way into St. Mungo’s because of his muggle parents,” Sirius had fire in his eyes and the longer he stood in this fucking hall the higher the moon rose and honestly he should’ve just taken the long way, for fuck’s sake, “Ironic, though, as the only magic in your blood comes from the mother that you’ve not seen in years. Heard she literally died to get away from you,”
Snape hissed like he’d been punched, “You—”
“You want to play dirty, Snivellus? You want to bring up the things hiding in our closets? We can do that. We can play that game,”
Sirius was largely bluffing, the blood staining the stone beneath him and, as he had already mentioned, the fucking moon that was waiting for exactly nobody. Already, Sirius had felt the faint vibrations of the mirror in his pocket, James hissing into the glass asking him where the fuck he is. It’s not like Prongs could come find him even if he had the map and it was fully operational. There’s no way that Wormtail would be able to corral a fully-grown werewolf without Prongs’ antlers or Padfoot’s playful, barking distraction. And James couldn’t send Wormy off as he was the key to the knot in the willow…
“If the rumors are true, it’s usually you locked in those closets,” was that a gay joke, because that might actually be funny, “And it’s your own mother who put you in there rather than see your face all summer,”
Okay, you know what—
“Fine then,”
Something harsh and dark and vicious passed through Sirius. An idea that itched at Sirius’ brain and whispered in his mother’s voice that there was an easy way to take care of this nuisance once and for all. It morphed into his father's voice, then Bella's, then a sick, echoing, cacophonous hive-mind deluge of everyone he was even distantly related to, alive or dead. Like the spirit if his poisonous blood took control of his body. Or, at least, control of his mouth. Severus clearly already knew what Moony was. He would have to be a moron to take the bait.
“Come to the willow, Snivellus, and we can play like men,”
Sirius stared down at the moon tattooed onto his wrist and tried his best not to cry. It seemed like that was all Sirius ever really did anymore. Every hour of every day, he walked through life just holding his breath and trying not to cry. He was largely unsuccessful. The full moon had been three nights ago, the second Padfoot had ever missed, and likely the second of many—
Oh shit don’t travel down that path, Pads. Don’t travel down the path that leads to missing every moon for the rest of forever.
Sirius was getting by by just not thinking about much at all. He walked the halls in a daze and excelled in his classes without having to think only because the Black family tutors had literally tortured him into excellence befitting his blood. Still, like his mind was unwilling to follow even his own orders, his thoughts wandered like he did the halls in the dark.
It never wandered into anything good, real or imagined.
It wandered into the locker room by the pitch and found his broom snapped in half, uniform shredded, and a note written in James’ horrible handwriting telling him his spot had been permanently filled by someone with a soul. It wandered into the Great Hall to the sneers of his fellow Gryffindors, the angry glares and the porridge “accidentally” dropped into his lap by a cantankerous Marlene McKinnon. The cold stare of McGonagall from the head table, never moving to help him because she finally realized he was beyond help. It wandered up to the 5th floor corridor of unused classrooms to find Remus and Benjy Fenwick tangled together, Remus’ hand twisted through blonde curls instead of black.
It wandered back home, back to Grimmauld, and Kreacher whacking him across the knuckles for poor table manners. Orion drunk and heavy-fisted as he smashed his son's head against the fireplace hard enough to turn the grey stone to a dull rust. It wandered into his mother’s sitting room and the stain in the carpet from where he had thrown up choking on the green smoke she’d used like an acid fog. It accompanied the stain in the wood from where he’d lain for hours bleeding with no help, his mother stepping over his body still holding the silver dagger she’d used to slash into him when her spells proved ineffective or she’d grown bored.
Sirius didn’t know what was worse; wandering through the future he imagined of himself living the rest of his life without his friends, or wandering through the very real memories of what his life had been before someone had chosen to love him.
He supposed, with an unfunny scoff, that the memories of the tortured childhood of his past would likely be his future, too. He could think of no way around it. Perhaps...homelessness?
A few days before, Sirius had skipped dinner to sneak back into his room to get new clothes and possibly take a shower if he was very quick, and had been surprised into stillness to see their trunks all open and half full. Peter’s was overflowing with poorly folded jumpers and half-eaten candy wrappers. James’ was ordered chaos in his own special way, dirty quidditch gear and clean white shirts intermingled but folded. Remus’ was arranged perfectly, the jumpers with the jumpers and the trousers with the trousers. The neat row of potion bottles Poppy had given him in order of possible need. They were packing their trunks. They would be going home soon. They would all be going home soon. Fuck.
Back when Sirius was somebody that James loved, he had promised that Sirius would always have a place with him. Be it with him and Effie and Monty at Potter Manor, or the cottage in Godric’s Hollow, or the estate back in India, or even a flat in London all his own… James had promised that, wherever he was, was Sirius’ home, too. After years of these promises and the worried eyes watching him resolutely trudge away from the Hogwarts Express toward Walburga and Orion, prim and stiff and mean...of watching him stumble into the train car barely breathing with his back still sliced to ribbons and how it took Moony almost the whole ride back to Hogwarts to heal the scars...Sirius had done it. He plucked up his Gryffindor courage and he’d run.
Well, he crawled, actually.
Sirius managed to pull himself to his knees as the cruciatus still lingered in his shaking limbs. There was blood trickling down the side of his face and into his eyes, but he squinted and reached out a hand. The jar of floo powder was set on the floor beside the fireplace, and Sirius paused, briefly, to wonder why it was there when they usually kept every means of escape from Grimmauld hidden. But he couldn’t take the time ponder this because his parents had only stopped their assault because Regulus had politely interrupted to let them know that the post arrived, and hadn’t they been waiting for a reply from Abraxas Malfoy? The sound the jar made as it smashed against the floor startled Sirius and, even in his current state, Sirius knew that he needed to hurry. He cut his fingers on one of the sharp edges of shattered opal, but he was already so covered in wounds both internal and external that he honestly didn’t notice. Just a pinch of green powder and the floo roared to life with bright green flames. Footsteps thundered against wood and Sirius crawled as fast as he could and his parents rounded the door to the study just in time to hear Sirius’ raspy voice cry out “Potter Manor”. The last thing Sirius remembered of home was his mother snarling “Avada Kedavra!” and how well the green of the floo and the green of the curse swirled together.
The first week of living at Potter Manor Sirius did not remember at all. James did, though.
James and life at Potter Manor was no longer Sirius’ new home.
After the prank, James only looked at Sirius like he was a stranger, like Sirius wasn’t even there at all. Sometimes, when the wandering in his mind got particularly bad, Sirius would find himself in the Astronomy Tower, staring not up at the stars he knew better than anything, but down at the grass at the base all those stories down. He imagined what that grass would look like smashed beneath a body, stained red, then umber, then brown as blood dried in the light of day. He wondered if that was something for Filch to clear up or Hagrid or if they would just leave his body to rot there forever. Perhaps he’d be a ghost or, like Peeves, a poltergeist manifested from his mischief. At least, if he died at Hogwarts, he might be spared somehow haunting Grimmauld forever. Thank Merlin his parents hated looking at him so much that they hadn’t yet charmed his likeness into a portrait to hang in their horrid parlor with the rest of his horrible ancestors.
That night was particularly bad. That night he found himself in the Astronomy Tower.
The metal of the guardrail was cold where Sirius rested his head and stared at the ground. He had grown tired of standing, the crick in his neck annoying from staying perpetually bent for hours. He’d settled himself onto the stone floor, swinging his legs through the bars and leaning his body against them, allowing them to hold his ever-lightening weight. He stared at his feet as they hovered over nothing and thought about how much easier it would be on the other side of the railing, if there was nothing beneath him to catch his fall at all. It would solve a good deal of his problems.
He’d never have to see the way his friends moved on without him. He would never have to see the disappointment in McGonagall’s eyes as she glared at him over her teacup while he wrote lines. She’d ceased offering him a cup of his own weeks ago. Reg could be the Heir and their parents would finally have the son they wanted. A son they could be proud of. If he stepped off of the Astronomy Tower he wouldn’t have to figure out where he was going to live this summer.
Sirius’ spiral into existential dread was interrupted by the bang of the door slamming open. He jumped, slightly, not expecting it at what had to be well past three o’clock in the morning. He heard gasping breaths and rushed footsteps and Sirius had the brief daydream (nightdream?) that his friends had come for him. That they could sense just how close he was to the proverbial and literal edge and had raced to save him from himself. Of course, it wasn’t his friends. After all, he had none of those now. It wasn’t James and his kind eyes. It wasn’t Peter and his loyal smirk. It wasn’t Remus and the raspy whisper of love.
It was—
“Reg?”
Silver eyes the same as his own snapped in Sirius’ direction alarmingly fast. At Grimmauld one learned how to be quick. Quick to answer a summons. Quick to sneak food. Quick to shut the window to your bedroom that you managed to clear of wards and alarms if only so you and your brother could sneak out in the night to ride your brooms when the nightmares got too bad to stay inside.
“Si—” Regulus’ voice cracked, as raspy as Sirius’ was (and Sirius couldn’t fathom why). Clearing his throat, Regulus tried and failed to pull himself together, “Sirius?”
It was clear that Regulus was trying to channel their father, all stoic and silent and composed—at least when outside of the walls of their horrible house—but he was only fourteen and was startled and, Sirius’ eyes widened when he noticed, crying just a bit. He looked so small. Regulus hadn’t cried in front of others in years
“What are you doing up?”
Regulus was given a few extra moments to gather himself as Sirius pulled his legs back through the railing and hefted himself back to unsteady feet. His stare grew just a touch sharper when the wind pressed Sirius’ t-shirt against his chest and Regulus was able to see how thin his brother had become. He knew he hadn’t seen Sirius in the Hall much lately, but he hadn’t been this thin in so long. He hadn’t been this bad in years. Regulus sort of knew what had gone down between Sirius and his friends and Severus Snape. Vow of silence—even one made with Dumbledore—or no, Snape was only too eager to boast in the common room about how he’d finally beat the Marauders. Accomplished the very worst fate those Gryffindor terrors could ever be subjected to: to destroy their friendship forever. Made them turn on each other. Whether or not he had won some grand duel or done something quieter, meaner, smarter, was immaterial. Just over a month ago, Snape had had an altercation with Sirius and now Sirius was entirely alone.
For the sake of the brother still trapped at Grimmauld Place, they had both vowed to keep whatever relationship remained between them hidden from nearly everyone. Regulus made it a point to never speak to Sirius at all where someone could see and, should Regulus cave and try to offer some sort of affection, Sirius would ignore him if only to protect him. They’d send each other secret notes, using aliases and code that they had invented long before they were sorted green or red. The charm on the Map was one of Sirius’ own making, invented prior to Hogwarts to keep his and Reg’s childhood missives secret unless one knew the right passphrase. Once, on a night particularly bad for Reg and his dreams, Sirius had sent a note to meet him in the kitchens where he’d introduced Regulus to the elves just to see him smile. As much as Sirius hated his brother’s horrible elf, Sirius knew that Regulus loved Kreacher. Reg loved all house elves, really. Their large eyes and droopy ears and their desire to do nothing cruel or vindictive or angry. Their steadfast loyalty was one of the only things Regulus could count on in life.
So, while Regulus might not be able to come over to the Gryffindor table and physically force-feed his brother jammy scones and pork sausages until he could see less of his ribs, he knew that something was wrong. Now, closer and able to stare as long as he wished, Reg noted that this might possibly be one of the worst spirals Sirius and his appetite had gone down in years. Worse than when Walburga locked him in his closet for a week and Regulus had had to push pieces of bread under the crack in the door until Walburga noticed and crucioed him and made Sirius watch.
“What are you doing up?” Sirius snapped Regulus out of his stare, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder very very slowly so as not to spook him. They both knew to tread carefully, even outside of the walls of their home. Regulus was visibly hyperventilating.
“Could a-ask you the same thing,” Reg gasped and Sirius cracked the tiniest of smiles, for that was such a Sirius thing to say and Regulus was usually much more polished and polite.
“Haven’t you heard?” Sirius made a grand sweep of his hands at their surroundings and tried to smirk, “This is my new dorm room. Do you like how I’ve decorated it?”
“You hate Astronomy,”
Sirius smiled internally at the way he could almost always distract his brother out of a panic attack. It was basically the first magic Sirius had ever really learned.
“Usually. But you’re only out in April and May,”
Over his brother’s shoulder, Regulus spotted Leo and the glistening heart of the lion stared back.
His breath hitched just a touch at the way Sirius was so carelessly devoted to those that he loved, like it was as easy as breathing, and wondered not for the first time if he was somehow adopted. But Andromeda’s secret smirk and Alphard’s cheeky winks behind their mother's back and even Narcissa when she put away the polished perfection long enough to smile at her baby cousins, all flashed like a film reel in Regulus’ mind and banished the thought as soon as it flitted by. In any case, they were all so inbred that they were visibly, painfully related.
Choosing to grab onto his brother’s love instead their family’s cruelty, Regulus took a chance.
“I need help,”
Eyes widening, Sirius wracked his brain for the last time his brother had ever directly asked him—or anybody—for help. He was pretty sure Regulus had been five and accidentally wet the bed and all Sirius had been able to do was very quickly swap his bedclothes with Regulus’ and claim it had been his own mess. Sirius hoped very much that, at five, Regulus hadn’t correlated Sirius’ broken leg that he hobbled around on for the entirety of that Spring with the help he had begged his older brother for that night.
He could be five or fifty, Sirius would deny Regulus nothing.
“What’s happened?”
A tear fell from Regulus lashes and Sirius wiped it away with a practiced hand. With trembling fingers, Regulus passed a crumpled piece of parchment from his fist to his brother’s. Sirius did his best not to flinch.
The paper was expensive and familiar in color, faintly silver and charmed with the slightest hint of their mother’s perfume. Walburga had rolls and rolls of parchment made exclusively for her correspondence and almost every time that Sirius had seen its like fluttering down at him from a pitch black owl bearing the silver crest of their House, it had been bad news. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember ever getting a nice note from his mother. Not a note congratulating him for beating out Lily Evans for top of their year for the fourth consecutive year. Nothing to comment on a quidditch win snagged exclusively by Sirius’ record-breaking hundreds of goals. Nothing even lukewarm, really, if Walburga even knew how to be less than cruel to her eldest.
Sirius had spent these years hoping that Regulus, the son who was quiet and well-mannered and never spoke back, tucked away in a green and silver bed like she’d demanded, might have gotten pleasant remarks. He had to believe that.
Sirius opened the ball of paper slowly, carefully, like it had been charmed to transform into a snake and bite his fingers for the impertinence of his touch, which she had done in the past. When he managed to unfold it enough to read the familiar cursive without the bite of paper teeth, Sirius comforted himself that maybe he'd been right. Maybe Reg had gotten different sorts of mail from Walburga all these years.
His relief was a bit too hasty.
Cursive, familiar and perfect, in dark green ink smudged with the salty stains of Regulus’ tears:
Regulus,
After discussion with your father, it has been decided that you shall pledge yourself to the service of the Dark Lord and receive his mark before you return to Hogwarts in the Autumn. The wedding for Lucius and Narcissa seems the best time, as he will be in attendance. There is no need to reply to these instructions. I shall see you at the end of term.
Regards,
Your Mother
Sirius read the letter. Then he read it again. Then he hoped that he had somehow become unable to understand English and had translated it incorrectly in his head. Unfortunately, that was not the case.
“She can’t…”
Sirius looked up at Regulus like he was hoping this was a rather unfunny joke.
Regulus looked back like he thought his whole life was a joke, and what the fuck had he done in a past life to earn this lot?
“But—but she…”
Sirius paused and read the letter again. She condemned her son into the service a deranged, racist, blood-supremacist until he died there in five sentences. One of which was just 'Regards, Your Mother'.
“But you—” Sirius’ head snapped back up, again hoping that this was perhaps the universe’s version of an unfunny joke, if not Regulus’, but alas— “But you’re fourteen,”
Reg just stared back, numb. Now that his hyperventilation had subsided, he was almost unnervingly calm. Sirius knew from experience that he only ever got this way as a form of compartmentalization and Sirius couldn’t really even judge Reg for that considering that Sirius’ way to stay calm was to just stop eating until he passed out.
“I don’t think my age played a part,” Regulus offered, “If you’ve forgotten, she betrothed you to Bella when you were eleven and she twenty,”
They both visibly shuddered at the memory, and then fell silent. What does someone say to that?
“She can’t,”
Resignation, “She can,”
And. No. Just…just—
“No,” Sirius nearly stomped his foot like a toddler, “I won’t allow it,”
A pause, then Regulus…Regulus laughed. High pitched and hysterical, still slightly crying, Regulus seemingly lost all composure.
“What makes you—” gasp, wheeze, “think that she—” gasp, laugh, “gives a fuck what you s-say?”
Sirius' gaze was pure fire, “What makes you think that I give a fuck what she says?”
Reg very abruptly stopped laughing, horror dawning in his eyes only worsened by the hysteria that had yet to leave them.
“But—”
Sirius cocked an eyebrow and Regulus paled even further. Much more of this and he would just become translucent.
“Siri, don’t…”
Sirius’ own ghostly skin was flushed for the first time in a month. Flushed with anger.
“Don’t do what? Watch my brother die in a war he wants no part in? Allow some madman to brandish his hatred on your arm for the rest of forever? What would you like me to not do, because I have no plans to do anything that leads to you in some stupid silver mask across a battlefield from me, Reg,”
“I didn’t ask you to help me so you can die in some stupid, futile, Gryffindor show of bravery, Sirius!”
“Well, I didn’t get sorted into red and gold so that I could leave my brother to the vipers!”
He sort of had, actually. And Sirius was only ever able to ignore the guilt of that first step taken away from his brother when he remembered the solid six months that Sirius had sat outside of Dumbledore’s office demanding he be allowed to try the hat on again.
“Please…” Regulus whimpered, begging in a way Sirius had almost forgotten he knew how to do, “Please don’t make me watch you die for this. I scraped your body off of that floor so I didn’t have to watch you die there,”
Sirius had always known who got him out of Grimmauld. James and the Potters had been there to catch him as he fell, both figuratively and literally out of the fireplace at Potter Manor. But it had been Regulus who had freed him.
Sirius put his hand on the side of Regulus’ face and held him firmly, making sure his brother was really looking at him, twin silver stares like the stars above them.
“Do you want to be a Death Eater, Reg?”
For a breath, Regulus thought to lie. Thought to choose this as his hill to literally die on so his brother didn’t. But if there was one person Regulus had never ever been able to successfully lie to, it was his big brother.
“I don’t…” Reg took a deep breath, “I don’t want to be a Death Eater,”
Relief for one brother and terror for the other. They’d each exchanged one for the other.
“Then leave it with me,”
“What happened with your friends?” Regulus found himself asking, his own feet dangling from the edge of the Astronomy Tower like Sirius’ had. Sirius’ only comfort was that his brother was much further from the ledge than Sirius had been when Reg first found him up here, and also that Sirius still had a firm grip of his brother’s arm, should he somehow slip, “Why’re you not ensconced in your far-too-red tower with your far-too-jovial friends?”
Reg watched as something shuttered in Sirius’ eyes, like he had become so good at Occlumency that he was now able to stop himself from hearing his own thoughts.
“They’re not all that jovial at the moment,” Sirius winced, “My fault,”
“What happened with Sn—”
“And they’re not friends with me anymore. Also my fault,”
Sirius looked like the admittance physically pained him and Regulus suddenly found himself strangely eager to punch them all in the face, which, again, was a far too Sirius of an idea to be having for Regulus’ taste.
Still, it made no sense.
“Potter?” Regulus stressed, “James Potter is no longer your friend? I—I thought that was his only flavor,”
Sirius startled himself into a barklike, if humorless, laugh at his brother, “Yeah, well, you don’t know what I did. Believe me, they’re all rightly done with me,”
“‘Done with you’?” at Sirius’ dejection, Regulus was growing past shocked annoyance to violent anger, “Done with you? Like it’s that easy? Like he didn’t call himself your brother to my fucking face for the last five bloody years? Does his stupid, Gryffindor honor mean shit these days?”
Usually reserved, once Reg started to curse it was pretty hard to get him to stop.
“I gave you to him on a silver fucking platter! I practically gift-wrapped you and sent you through the post with ‘James Fucking Potter’ on a tag around your neck,” Sirius’ eyes widened in surprise at the vitriol, “The only reason I didn’t swear him to an Unbreakable Vow was because I was quite certain he was physically incapable of ungluing his arse from yours!”
Sirius laughed again into the pre-dawn morning, “Well, that’s an image...”
Regulus did not share in his humor.
“Where the fuck are you supposed to go tomorrow?” he continued, and when he witnessed is brother visibly shrink in shame and sadness he might have become otherworldly in his rage. Aglow like a burning star hot enough to spell the end of worlds, “Are you to sleep in the streets!? I suppose you could, as the dog, but what exactly are you supposed to eat, Siri—”
Wait, what the fuck?
“You know about Padfoot?!”
Regulus rolled his eyes so hard it pained him, “If you’re referring to that stupid nickname you were bestowed upon by your stupid friends or the fact that you’re an illegal Animagus at the age of sixteen, yes, I am aware,”
“I was fifteen—” Sirius shook himself from the distraction, “How do you know about that? We were careful! It’s illegal—”
“Yeah, well, so is the fact you’ve been apparating without a license since you were twelve, and fucking a werewolf since you were fifteen, but I haven’t called the dementors on you yet, have I?”
Oh. Oh, shit. He knew about. Fuck.
Sirius had the new, distinct displeasure of contemplating if he was willing to obliviate his own brother if only to protect the boy he loves.
“R-Reg…” Sirius stuttered, “He isn't. You can't. You can’t. Please. Please don’t tell,”
“Tell?” Regulus heard himself snap, angry and offended and defiant, the spark of literal electricity woven through the loose strands of his hair. Sirius flinched, and Regulus' gaze slid to the hollow in Sirius’ stare, and found his voice swinging without his permission, like a pendulum, back toward gentle and earnest, if only so Sirius would stop looking quite so panicked this far from the walls of Grimmauld Place. “I would never tell, Siri,” the notable softening of his tone pulled Sirius out of a true spiral, for it seemed that only one Black brother was allowed to truly lose it at the same time, lest the world burn, “Regardless of whatever happens beneath the full moon, I know you love him and he’s been nothing but kind to you for the majority of the time I’ve known he existed,”
“He is—” Sirius came up short when he went to promise Regulus that Remus was kind to him—at least lately—so he sidestepped it, “He’s good. He’s only good,”
“Then where’s he been, Sirius?” Regulus’ voice was still strangely gentle, considering he was swearing like a pirate a few seconds ago and was still gripping his wand like he was prepared to wield it, “Why’ve they all disappeared and left you…” he gestured around the tower, the antithesis from the joking way Sirius had earlier, “Why’ve they left you here?”
Regulus was always Sirius’ antithesis.
“I deserved it,”
“You didn’t,”
The way that Regulus was so certain, so convinced that there was nothing Sirius could ever do to deserve being left behind, hurt beneath Sirius’ heart like a bruise one couldn’t help but prod just to feel something. Most of the time, Reg was so separated from Sirius that it almost felt like one of them had died, but they would be brothers no matter what happened. Abusive, manipulative parents hadn’t managed to tear them from each other. Neither had separate houses, both at Hogwarts and at home. Maybe the war could’ve, a dark snake tattooed on a pale wrist and a battlefield between them.
But Regulus had been brave in asking for help.
So Sirius would have to be cunning in his endeavor to give it.