The elegant, black piano their mother is so proud of lays in the wide living room, where they're not allowed to enter unless one of their parents goes with them.
When they are little, that sacred hall—that lucid instrument, their mother's grace and elegance as she plays—inspires reverence. As they're growing, Regulus is still full of adoration; Sirius forces himself to forget it.
And it's easier than he thinks, with that dim light and that black, majestic piano that seems to represent anything and everything the Blacks are: powerful, elegant, beautiful, but dark and intimidating. One wouldn't dare to approach any of them while off guard, unprepared. It takes years, but Sirius holds onto that now. And he forgets that magic doesn't necessarily need a wand. That communication doesn't necessarily need words.
He easily lets himself skip off into oblivion.
He easily believes it when he tells himself the only reason is still sitting on the piano stool is because that's what his mother wants.
.
"You're incomplete if you can't play the piano," Mrs. Black often repeats as she beautifully plays, unbothered by her firstborn's and husband's grim looks, her fingers caressing and dancing across the piano keys, her own body swinging.
"It's a waste of time," Mr. Black says. "A wand, a sword, a sharp word. That's what a true man needs."
He doesn't say it, but Walburga feels he fears their son will be too… effeminate.
"You're wrong, my dear husband," she replies, her eyes still unfocused as the music keeps flowing gently. "Music can save. Music will make them honorable and proud of being Blacks." Her long fingers linger on the black key for a brief moment as she smiles.
Orion shakes his head and stops questioning her.
.
Sirius hears all of that and he's torn.
The piano attracts him like moths to a flame. Except he is the light—or so he deems—and the piano is the darkness trying to swallow him.
The piano is his mother.
The piano is his life—a life that he doesn't feel his any longer.
But the piano is also freedom.
The piano is—
"Sirius," Regulus interrupts his thoughts, a clear plea in his huge eyes, in his soft voice.
"I don't feel like playing today." The words just fall off Sirius' mouth of their own accord, and he feels puzzled. He feels like he's losing.
"Are you okay?" Regulus asks.
"Yeah," Sirius he's quickly to answer. "Why?" His eyes find the heavy door that keeps the precious piano safe.
"You seem… nervous."
Sirius looks at his brother, his gaze intense and burning, but Regulus doesn't even blink. "I-I hate playing. I do it just for mother." The last line sounds so wrong, so false, he never does anything just because his mother wants him to.
He knows it.
Regulus knows it.
And—this is actually the worst part—he knows Regulus knows it.
"I hate it," Sirius repeats to convince himself. "I do."
Regulus' silence is heavy and suffocates him.
.
A few weeks later, Regulus is alone and playing the piano, the music filling the house with longing and melancholy.
He hopes some of that reaches Sirius wherever he is—probably with that Potter, he reckones.
His eyes are closed. Firmly.
(A pair of forgotten—on purpose, he suspects—white gloves and a picture lay on the black lid of the piano, and he doesn't want to move them, but he doesn't want to see them either.)
Word count: 569
Written for the Golden Snitch forum - Prompt of the Day challenge. Today's prompt: (object) piano