Disclaimer: I don't own the characters/places mentioned. I don't own most of the plot and some of the lines either, because this is based on a play I was involved in for a school activity.
This is an AU where Regulus is older than Sirius, because we really need more of those! Also, it fits better with the play. I hope you like it!
Dedicated to my fic buddy, G, for her continued support and for being a great friend. I love you, buddy. 3
The first time you hear about him, it is the house elf Lacey with her bright smile and enormous eyes that announces it to you as she sits on the ground and holds your hands in hers.
Master Regulus is going to have a baby brother!
Lacey's large eyes and grinning lips swim before you as she puts her face up close.
Lacey hears that Master and Mistress are going to name him Sirius, after the brightest star in the sky. Just imagine, Master Regulus - a baby brother!
Lacey's high-pitched voice is soft and lilac, like dewy flower petals in the nearby lake on a spring morning.
Lacey wonders what Master Sirius will turn out to be like. Will he be smart? Handsome? Will he be tall or will he be short? Whatever he turns out to be, though, he'll be Master Regulus's brother. Master Regulus will have a friend. He won't have to be alone anymore.
Sirius is born, months later, on a bright spring day, when the last of the winter frost has just given way to the first fresh sprouts. You burst into the birthing room, crying and reaching for your father's leg, and see him for the first time.
A raw, screaming red face. A crimson, wet body that emerges from the pile of blankets. A mouth so scarlet it is blinding, open and screaming ear-splitting shrieks. A newborn, wriggling body, wrinkled and red and obscenely slick.
For a moment, you simply stare at it. It, because of the newfound absurdity of the statements that babies are beautiful, that they are precious gifts, because you look upon your brother and see that he is ugly. Ugly. You don't know what's happening. You don't know what is going on. But your chest is clenching, sudden and grabbing and hot. Your breath catches in your throat, and. You look at your (ugly) brother for the first time in your life, and it is as though your centre of gravity is leaving you, shifting, unbidden, right onto this newborn, bawling creature.
(You won't be alone again.)
The day dawns hot and windless with air like soup, when you are nine and Sirius is seven.
I don't want to play with your stupid broomstick anymore. I'm tired. Let's sit down!
The black family tapestry looms before the two of you as you take a seat on the drawing room couch. Druella Adkin Black. Charles Piccus Black II. Arcturus Pollux Black III. Gold thread weaves through the dark fabric into the names of royalty, spangled out like the stars they were. Arcturus Pollux Black IV. Sirius Dubhe Black I. The tapestry is a shrine, an altar. Bellatrix. Andromeda. Narcissa.
Let's revise the part of the family tree Mother taught us yesterday!
Sirius flops down beside you, pink lips pouting. Fine.
You reach out, covering his eyes and hold on as he squirms in your arms, small and wriggling. No looking. Come on. Who was great-aunt Cassiopeia's husband?
Perseus Ignatius II.
You release Sirius and grin. That's right, okay, your turn now.
Sirius doesn't look at you, though, instead fidgets in his seat, hair falling over wide eyes, small fists clenching and unclenching over fitted silken robes.
What's the matter?
Sirius stares dubiously at the tapestry, cocks his head to the right and asks, Why do we have to memorize all this?
You cuff him lightly on the head. Because we're Purebloods, stupid, you say. And we have to know our fine lineage - blessed with freedom from the corruption of Muggle filth.
Memorized from Mother's tongue, word for aristocratic-cheekboned word.
But why are Muggles filth?
Because they're Muggles.
Andromeda says they're fine! It's not their fault they can't do magic. The ones next door are really nice, too!
Mouth open, petulant and insisting. You stare at him, surprised.
Mother says you're not to play with Muggles! She and Father both say that Muggles are filth, and that's that!
They aren't filth!
They are!
Aren't!
You grab his shoulders. Listen to me. Sirius just shakes his head, mouth screwed shut into a thin line. Listen to me! You shake him hard so that his head rocks backward and forward on his shoulders. Why won't you listen to me? I'm telling Mother!
You hurry over to your mother the moment her polished black boot steps onto the doormat.
What is it, Regulus?
It's Sirius. He won't listen to me! He doesn't believe that Muggles are filth, and he doesn't want to memorize the family tree!
Your mother's features harden, her mouth compressing into a thin line.
(Sirius is playing with Muggles. Andromeda doesn't think Muggles are filth either.) The words fizzle out at your throat and you stand there, swallowing, limbs empty and useless at your sides.
Thank you for telling me this. It might be that Sirius is still too young to understand the significance of our teachings - he is only seven, after all. We had your breakthrough with you when you were about eight. Your father and I will make sure increase the intensity of our lessons with him, though. I will go to speak to him now.
Your mother's face is inscrutable. For all you know, she can be porcelain mannequin, and when you peal away her skin, there will be nothing but layers and layers of the same haughty blankness, the disapproval that curls the wintry look in her eyes.
You speak to your brother in the dark later, after your mother has snapped your bedroom door shut behind her and there is nothing left but the lightly humming quiet of night.
Tentative, uncertain, because you don't know how else to say it, what did Mother say?
No reply. You can hear him breathing, though, much too loudly for genuine sleep.
Sirius, I'm sorry. I guess I just wasn't used to it. We used to agree about almost everything.
The sheets rustle. You imagine your brother rolling over. You imagine him stretching himself out beneath the blankets. You imagine him trying to stifle tears. You've seen what your mother is capable of when anger and determination mixes into something terrible. When Sirius speaks, though, his voice is level.
'S okay, Reg.
You are glad for the darkness, glad for how it shields you so your brother will not have to see the pathetic, golden smile that pulls at your cheeks, threatening to burst out of you like a bubble. Good, you say.
A pause.
But... But maybe Muggles really aren't trash, though. I think.
The shining moment dissolves around you, until there is just you and your bed and the dark ceiling and Sirius at the other side of the room. The room itself seems to breathe for a moment, the dark walls saturating with inky concentration, before resolving back to the general darkness of night.
Okay, you finally answer, but Sirius is always asleep.
A recurring dream comes back to you. The dream of the sunset.
You are standing at the edge of a field, watching as the daylight slowly dims away. A serpent slithers across your feet, curling almost possessively around your ankle. A cool hand is placed on your shoulder as the silhouette of your mother looms above you.
In the distance, the sun sinks to the ground, casting the world in shadow. Drifting, setting off to a foreign place, never to return.
Why are sunsets always considered beautiful? Here, there are no arcing rays of silver and red and violet, no wash of gold across the sky. Instead, there is only grey. Cement grey sky and sick yellow sun fading away.
Why is your mother still standing so serenely here? Does she not understand that with the sun gone, there will be no more light, no more strength, no more food and magic and life left here?You try to run toward the sun, trying to pull it back - once, twice, thrice - but you are unable to escape your mother's hold.
You can only let it go.
Two years - a surprisingly short time - later, you are sorted into Slytherin, and you write home to Sirius and tell him about the beautiful Slytherin common room, the friends you've made in your House, and your friendly Head of House and his hilarious name.
Two more years later, Sirius boards the train with you, thoughtful, quieter than usual. Within ten hours, the Hat is shouting Gryffindor, and he walks over to the Gryffindor table, stumbling slightly, hair delicately rumpled by the Hat, but grinning nonetheless.
He glances back toward you, though, but you look away.
The next morning, a howler with your Mother's voice erupts at the Gryffindor table and shrieks so loudly and obscenely that the dishes rattle and candles quiver in their brackets, and your housemates cast you knowing, piteous gazes dripping with sugary condescension.
Sirius finds you before you can track him down, out in the Arithmancy corridor your class is exiting as the break bell rings, the icy wind whipping at your exposed neck, hands frozen stiff.
Mum should try out for opera, shouldn't she.
Loud, brazen, carrying in the wintry air.
A flush of anger creeps up your neck. You halt in your tracks before him as your classmates stare at him like wolves circling their prey, expressions turning from curious to a dawning understanding, and finally to a cruel, curled-lipped amusement. Sirius's tie bleeds bright, shining red from around his neck.
Reg, I need to talk to -
Go away, Sirius, you mutter just when you are close enough, your teeth gritted, muscles in your face clenched tight, just loud enough for him to hear.
Reg, please.
Go back to your own house. I don't know what you want anymore.
Sirius' eyes harden.
You don't? His voice turns sour, like curdling milk. I had the feeling that snakes are supposed to be clever, at least.
Obnoxiously loud. Addressing the whole paused group. Red tie dripping in mock heroism in the liquid sun.
Apparently not. What a pity. I would have thought you knew that the worst type of coward to be is the dumb one.
Go away, Sirius, you hiss, fists clenched, because does the stupid fool actually think he can get away with this, midway through a corridor with half of Slytherin House watching? I'll talk to you -
A flash and a bang and a yelp of pain. The next thing you know, Sirius is doubling over from the spell that has just hit him. You whip around and see Mulciber with his wand drawn, laughing so hard that his smiling teeth bleed into the jarring ray of sunlight striping across his face.
It is happening before you can stop it. Laughter is erupting from all around you. Wands are drawn in every direction, and there is another flash, another bang and another yelp of pain. Bodies shunt forward, curses flying -
You are yelling too. Chaos breaks out in the corridor as jinxes fly in every direction, jets of chemical light striking the walls. Laughter and taunts swell into one, great, ugly mass of sound that rattles your bones. Above it all, though, you can still hear it. A terrible, small, human shriek, heard through all the ruckus -
You seize Mulciber's wand and forcefully tug it out of his hand, raising your own wand and Stunning Dolohov from behind as you push yourself forward with all the strength you can muster. Then, a girl from somewhere out of sight screams, earsplitting and terrified - and footsteps thudding down the corridor and McGonagall's spell freezes everyone on the spot.
Sirius is bleeding heavily from multiple Cutting Curses. Blood oozes, sickly and startling scarlet down his face, his arms and torso. Even as you watch, pustules are erupting on his neck from an unidentified jinx as more blood oozes from a truly nasty gash at the side of his head, trickling down his ear, bleeding into the colour of his new tie.
Sirius is not alone when you enter the hospital wing, later that afternoon. A boy with unruly hair and round glasses - a Potter, that must be - as well as a scrawny brown-haired boy and a fat blonde sit at his bedside. They are eating chocolate frogs and chuckling at an unknown joke, because dammit, Sirius is just one of the few infuriating people who share snacks and jokes with friends after being cursed to a bloody pulp mere hours ago.
As you enter, the three boys gathered around freeze and stare at you warily, forming a defensive circle around Sirius's bed.
What do you want with him? Potter begins nervously. I don't trust you Slytherins.
It is hard, then, even for you, to contain your surprise at the tight-knit closeness already existing within this group.
I'm his brother, the one who brought him here. If you don't mind, I'd like a private word with him.
The Gryffindors shift uneasily, looking uncertainly at each other. The sight may have been amusing, but it isn't. Finally, Sirius speaks.
'S alright, James.
Once the Gryffindors have left, you take a seat on Potter's vacated chair and stare down on your brother. A bandage winds itself around the side of his head, and slippery ointment covers a large part of his pale face and neck. The shape of his body is curved, like a foetus, beneath the white covers. Even with the defiant look in his eyes, you have never seen him look so small, face so tiny, stark white against the large pillow.
What were you thinking? Hoarse, demanding, furious, because you feel sick.
I just wanted to talk to you, didn't I?
His words grate at your chest. You try to ignore it.
Why did you have to say those things to try to provoke them? You did it on purpose - I know you did.
You can hardly blame me for simply telling the truth about you lot.
You grit your teeth hard and glare at him, because even white as a sheet with a bandage over his head Sirius still manages to look cockily indifferent, even though he could have bloody died hours ago if McGonagall had not turned up on time.
Didn't I tell you to stop doing things like this? The words spill out without need of conscious thought. Why can't you just listen to me and settle down for once? You could have avoided the whole thing. You could have avoided that Howler, too, if you'd just stop looking for trouble! And this isn't all of it. Do you know about the things they'd be saying now - not just about you, but about our whole family? Your voice is getting louder, and you stop yourself short from shouting. Stop thinking you can get away from trouble just because you think you're all noble and righteous and -
You can hear it, reverberating within your ears. Isn't he a Pureblood? From the Black family? What a disgrace. Mulciber's voice. Then Rosier, derisive and cut-throat. Personally, I'd take him to St. Mungo's, Black. Pity you for having to deal with a brother like that. Lestrange's voice, cutting and mocking. Didn't his parents teach him proper pride? Pig-headed Gryffindor. Lestrange, whom you thought you could trust. More laughter. Laughter. Laughter. Laughter.
Then Sirius laughs too, and as he does he chokes - a terrible, tearing sound - and all of a sudden he is tiny again, nothing more than a mere baby cradled against the blankets.
You don't understand. He is breathless, his eyes looking softer as he opens his arms like a small child. The dimming light of the lamp beside him turns his eyes into a delicate, jewel-bright shine. I'm not doing it just to spite Mum, if it makes you feel better, he says, voice liquid and fluttering around the edges. Really, Regulus. She has enough spite already.
The anger fades out of you as quickly as it came. You sigh and smooth his hair back from where it touches the ointment spread on his cheek. You've had too many potions, Sirius. I'll go tell Madam Pomfrey...
The laughter dies down a little, and there is just Sirius' head, pressing gently against your arm. I'm doing it because it's something I believe in, Sirius says. I asked the Hat to put me in Gryffindor, you know?
Surprised. I didn't think we had a choice in it.
We do. And, well, I'm doing it because it's something I believe in. It's something I personally want, Reg, you know?
Silence stretches between you, watery and strange.
But what about what I want? you finally ask.
Sirius exhales, and for a moment there is nothing except for the rustle of his hair as he shifts slightly on the bed. The sunset filters through the translucent curtains and washes the ground in deep gold light. Shadows from the spiral window grills coil through it, forming strange, serpentine shapes against the fading light.
Why can't they be the same, Regulus? He finally says. We used to play the same pranks together, all the time, remember? Remember when we spiked big old Uncle Cygnus's tea with the Shrinking Solution? He still thinks that Andromeda was the one who did it.
He does?
Yes! A giggle bubbles from Sirius' chest, growing louder and louder, until Sirius is full out laughing again. Last Christmas when he came to visit, someone mentioned that Andromeda was making tea and he almost jumped right out of his skin. And when Andy told him to drink it when it's still warm, Reg - his face! He pauses for breath, gasping with mirth. Oh, his face! 'S most hilarious thing I've ever seen. Looked like a disturbed old dragon.
You cannot help it. The next thing you know, you are laughing too, and the back of Sirius' head against your arm as he rolls over, shaking with mirth. You stay like that for a while, laughing and laughing and laughing, Sirius' hot damp cheek pressing against you, and even though you are missing the whole point of the situation, it is remarkably cathartic all the same.
The letter arrives in autumn, when the golden-red leaves have just started to curl on the sleeping ground, and the temperature is too warm for the new fur cloaks in season in France but too cold for the silken ones from Asia that girls stand fluttering in on their Hogsmead weekends.
The letter is dry and it takes a few tries to slide the prickling, frictionless parchment open. The curling dark ink snakes through your vision in leaping, serpentine cursive. You snap it shut before you reach the end, a fluttering sensation flickering to life in your chest.
Six days.
Six more days, excluding today - we hope your decision will be favorable, Regulus Arcturus.
Six narrow days where you begin to see things everywhere.
On the first day, another letter arrives. The same hissing parchment, the same deep cutting cursive, the same family crest on the top right-hand corner.
Regulus Arcturus,
Your eldest cousin, Bellatrix, has joined the cause yesterday, as well as the Malfoy heir Lucius. As our heir, it might be said that it is your responsibility to participate in such a noble cause, to pledge yourself to the purity of wizardkind. Can you bear to cast doubt, and even disgrace, to our family name, especially in comparison with the Malfoys?
We await your favourable reply by next Friday, five days from now.
Mother
The second day arrives and you curse fate and all its deliberation and cruel amusement, because it is a Hogsmead day, and you walk right into Sirius as he emerges from a Muggle artifacts shop with an armful of posters.
Hey. Fancy seeing you around here. Look at the new decoration I got for my room! Mum'll love it. He holds out the posters for you to see.
Muggle girls, that's what he got. Virtually naked Muggle girls in various degrees of seduction, frozen in the plastic Muggle lifelessness. You look up, disgusted.
No, Sirius. I don't think Mum will appreciate those. Somehow, I don't think I will either.
Come on, Regulus. They're hot.
They're Muggle.
Sirius laughs. What a surprise. Muggles also breathe, don't they? They also eat and drink and sleep and live. They bleed, too, don't they? They're innocents, exploring their own world.
Careful, a little hesitantly, Some people want to destroy them all so that wizards can come out of hiding.
Sirius laughs again, cold as winter. You know what I think of them.
On the third day, you tell your housemates about it. Not all, but enough for Crouch's eyes to light up and Lestrange to crack his knuckles, a slightly mad grin splitting his face. Of course, here it is Lestrange and Crouch, no Jameses and Peters and Remuses.
Father told me about it. I'd join right now if I can, but Mother wants me to complete my education first.
Muggles are just pathetic, you know? Why must we hide beneath their rule when we are the ones that have the rightful power?
How can they even be happy with their lives? Imagine seeing the world without magic! Agreed, Black?
Yeah, you're right.
I hear that the Dark Lord is willing to explore all forms of magic - even things like wandless magic and ritualistic magic that isn't socially accepted. Amazing. You're joining, right, Black? Avery, Snape, Lestrange and I are too.
On the fourth day, you find the photograph, buried deep in your trunk from who knows when, where and why.
There it is. Sirius and you, at the pond beside Grimmauld Place. Identical dark heads and slick hair, and pale expanses of skin and waving thin arms. You cannot have been older than seven and five. As you stare at it, transfixed, almost, the photograph seems to saturate before your gaze, so that the darkness of Sirius' hair suck at your vision, the crystalline splashes blinding. Flailing figures in the scum-filled pond, summer sun and the rarity of your parents' absence. There is a softness in your arm at the place it touches your brother's, whose hand flaps toward yours as you tug him back to the shore, eyes jewel-bright and trusting, mouth agape with laughter in the sunlight.
A lump presses at your throat, and you honestly have no idea what to feel anymore.
On the fifth day, you tell Sirius the first opportunity you get, catching him in the courtyard during break. You pull him into a deserted Transfiguration classroom and tell him everything: the letter, the stiff inked crest, the six days, everything.
Why six days?
Because Sirius is more shocked than he himself realizes, because he is too disoriented to even know what to do. His eyes are wide and blank.
I don't know, do I? You blink at a diagram of a cat turning into an eagle without really seeing it. Sirius, I think I'm going to do it, I think... Maybe... I'm still considering, though.
But why?
Well. First off, there's Father and Mother. You can almost say that it's my duty.
Some of the colour returns to Sirius' cheeks. His mouth falls open and he blinks a few times, swaying slightly on the spot.
It's your duty to become a killer?
The words soar the space between you and fall like stones at your feet.
(Killer.)
No. It's my duty to do what our parents expect of me. They have raised us, Sirius. Housed us, provided for us.
A flush floods into Sirius' cheeks. His whole body seems to expand with the force of his newfound anger. In the late morning sun, his eyes are full of lightning.
Regulus. His voice is trembling. Is that it? You're going to join the cause of an evil madman just to please that frigid hag who has no soul to speak of?
Don't speak of Mother like that. An automatic reaction, almost comical in the present situation.
Sirius is yelling now. His hands are shaking, face flushed, and the narrow grief in his eyes makes it hard to look away.
You could have said no! He chockes slightly on his own words. You could have said a flat out no! Instead you lie there and be they're faithful little lapdog. Why, Regulus? Do you - his voice cracks. Do you honestly - want to?
Yes, Sirius, yes. I think I do.
Calm, because you have to remain so, no matter if your insides are twisting together like snakes.
Why are you doing this, Regulus? Eyes wide, glowing, he sounds almost pleading.
I admire the dark lord, Sirius. I admire his strength and his will, and willingness to test the boundaries of magic as we know it. All kinds of magic, Sirius, not just the Dark. It's just...
Sirius' gaze bores into yours, brighter and harder than ever, making the works spin. You feel faintly nauseous. You see his chest heaving with shallow breaths, see the fists balled so tightly the tendons are stretched white. He can hurt you, so, so easily, but your wand is in your pocket and your hand tightens around it, because you can hurt him too, with just a split second's notice.
He's a killer, Regulus. A killer! He will kill for power. He will make you kill for his power? Do you want that? Do you want to be a murderer?
Sirius -
You reach out a hand but it is knocked aside, and Sirius glares at you, face twisted wth cold fury and Gryffindor disgust.
You're just a coward, Regulus! He spits. You have the right to choose. You always have the right to choose! There are people out there who fight against all odds for humanity - true humanity - and wizardkind!
There is that Sirius again, that noble and self-righteous, and a white noise starts in your ears and gets louder and louder. Because choice - it isn't so simple, isn't so easy like it is for him, like what he thinks it is for you - as if you haven't been thinking, day and sleepless night, considering, choosing yet not choosing - It is never a choice. We await your favourable reply, Regulus Arcturus -
It has never been a choice. Never.
But Sirius is on a roll. He kicks a chair at you, missing you by inches.
You're no brother of mine, Regulus, cold fury etched in every syllable. I hate your stupid house and your bloody so-called family. I hate you!
Go live with James then, you say stiffly, because it is only eleven in the morning but you're already feeling tired. Go on.
Sirius wheels round and storms over to the classroom door.
I will. Voice hard and compressed and burning with silent hatred. Someday, I will.
The door slams.
The sixth and final day dawns with ropy rain and the beginnings of a cold wind. You pick up quill and parchment, and your hand moves on its own accord, robotic and quick. It is all muscle even as you roll it up and attach it to the waiting leg of your owl. All muscle movements and science, thoughts muffled out, until the owl soars away into the grey sky. You turn away before you can see it disappear.
Sirius apologizes to you, the day after the letter is sent, standing in the wet courtyard beneath dilute grey sky. Tells you he's sorry, that he had not been thinking when he said what he said, asks if you'd replied Mother yet, if you'd already made your decision. It is easier to lie - no, not yet, Sirius, I haven't fully decided. And Sirius does not speak, just stands stiffly beside you, the silence jerky and unnatural, still with residual coldness that has not quite dissipated. He leaves later to join his friends for lunch, and you watch as he comes alive with them - all hands and flowing talk. Even seated halfway across the noisy hall, you fancy that you can hear them - natural and babbling and flowing in lines that fill the empty spaces in between.
You think back to Sirius' words and realise that nothing changes, because him not thinking when he said what he said doesn't make things better. It just shows that it really is the naked, honest truth, carelessly unveiled when the idea of Regulus joining the Dark Lord was enough to eradicate any care to hide it anymore. A slow, jerky, false hope was what brought him to apologise. It is hope that will come to nothing. Regulus is no more brother of his. It's just a matter of time before Sirius realises it for real. Sirius is all James and Remus and Peter and Gryffindor now, already. Family doesn't matter, neither does Regulus and all the bloody heroic Gryffindor time wasted upon him.
(Come on, Reggie, let's go pour piss in Bella makeup bag. Hey! Don't call me Siri! Anyway, let's go now. If we hurry we might just be able to do it right before she uses her lipstick! Come on, Reggie. We look after each other, right? Mum'll never find out.)
Reggie doesn't matter either. Reggie is dead.
Drowned in a sea of red and gold, drowned in the shadows cast in the wake of that setting sun. Leaving Regulus alone with the fading idea of a brother called Siri.
Perhaps everyone is destined for something - different things, across different people. Perhaps they all find what they are supposed to do in the end, one way or another. Perhaps Regulus can, too.
That is not to say that the Mark does not hurt as it smoulders across your skin, burns inward and takes root within.
Christmas that year is a subdued affair compared to the usual festivities, because a large part of the extended family is spending it in Druella Black's new French resort. Lunch is quiet, yellow chandelier burnishing the immaculate china plates and silver cutlery to faded gold. Halfway through the second course, your father speaks. He gestures to you, the new tattoo on the arm facing him, raises his glass for a toast, and Sirius drops his glass with a reverberating clang. For a moment, everyone just seems to watch, motionless, as Sirius stands and walks, dream-like, straight out of the room. Chin tilted up, like a statue of a defiant Saint with the slanting light glancing off his features. When you catch his eye, though, you see no fury. You see no expression at all. Sirius just looks haughtily blank.
Sirius' room may exist within the dimensions of 12 Grimmauld Place, but it may as well be in a whole different world. Red and gold leap out at you in all their loud Gryffindor glory, after the cool silver and black of the rest of the house, along with the books and quills that litter the floor in an underscored statement of difference from the mathematical orderliness of the rest of the house.
It is too natural even to be deliberate anymore.
Sirius?
He is siting at his desk, writing something on a piece parchment, the Potters' family owl - even you recognize it now - perched sentinel on his shoulder.
He does not turn around, does not make any acknowledgement of your presence as you step into the room. A Gryffindor banner hangs over his head, blindingly scarlet.
Look at me, Sirius.
He does not speak, does not make any sign that he has even heard you as he writes on, mockingly casual, the only sound the scratching of his quill, forced and stiffening slightly in the still, fading light of his lamp.
Listen to me! I'm your - I'm your brother! Because you are, you are and he cannot turn away from it. He may have James and Remus and the rest of the world, but you are the one that shares his blood, the one whose bed he crawled into when you are both young, babbling and shivering because storm giants, Reggie, they're coming to get me, and evil lightning faeries, help, Reggie, help, mum won't help me so you have to.
Almost robotically, his writing hand hand comes to stop. He raises his head, slightly, to stare at the spot right in front of him.
James, he deadpans, is my brother.
Anger licks at your insides, frothing and hot. The next thing you know, your feet are moving of their own accord, forceful, desperate.
You are moving. You are crossing the room in three strides. You are grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. A coil of wound-up rage seizes you, blurring your vision and tightening your grasp as it threatens to burst forth. Sirius's quill falls onto the parchment, a great black blob spreading outward.
Stop writing and look at me! We're your family! Sirius, please!
Because the anger does not make sense to you; it is coming from nowhere. You have prepared for this, have you not? You have seen it from afar, days and weeks ago, and here you are, begging for you don't even know what -
Sirius pushes you. You hit the wall and stumble as he rises to his feet, every nerve poised. The rage flashes back into his eyes again, distorting his features into something ugly. He is as tall as you are now, even though he is sixteen and you are eighteen, and his righteous anger makes him seem even larger than life.
He has always been so, hasn't he? The hero with all the righteous anger, the poor martyr born in wrong circumstance who will show the world his heroic courage of defying evil, even if said evil is his very family. Always. Always Sirius and rage - justified, glorified - as though you have never suffered, as though you have no right to suffer, as though the blood-splattered shouting, the pain of his recklessness, his immovable stubbornness - always, always, even though it would not kill Sirius to just shut his bloody mouth for once and put this nonsense to an end - did not matter. Did not count next to Sirius and his rightful shouting and heroic chaos.
You can even say you've been expecting it when he throws himself forward and sinks his fist into your stomach. You push him off and wrench his arms into a headlock, holding on as he thrashes and twists, kicking at your legs. One arm tugs free, and you grab his wrist and hold it in place to stop his fist from slamming into the side of your face. He pushes you back so that you fall against a table, and you jerk your elbow forward until it connects with the side of his jaw. For the next minute it is all fists - fists and bodies and sweat and the occasional pain, and for a split second you revel in it, revel in how something so base, so Muggle, can feel so exhilarating.
It is over as quickly as it started. Within a few minutes, the both of you are lying, panting, on the polished parquet ground.
For a while, neither of you speak. A clock ticks on from downstairs, along with the dim sounds of carols from the distant Muggle church. Your still-heavy breaths fill the spaces between you, cold and hot and hard and flickering around the edges, shooting through the air and falling at your feet.
At last, Sirius sits up and gets to his feet. As he pushes himself up, his wrist brushes your sleeve, hiking it up to reveal the skull-shaped tattoo with the serpent's tongue, branded on your upper arm. There is a moment of silence, in which both of you stare at it, and it is like the focus of the whole world is shifted onto it. Watchful, shallowed breathing. The metronomical sound of a clock ticks on and on in the background.
You get to your feet to stand facing him, flicking your robe over the Mark. You gesture at the large bruise on your brother's cheekbone. Your voice is heavy and clouded, not quite natural.
I can fix that for you if you like.
It's alright.
Silence. Then -
I'm going for a walk. You can come with me if you like.
A pause.
Father and Mother invited the Parkinsons to dinner. Mother told me that I'll have to be there. I'm sorry.
A humorless laugh. The air waves with its sickly yellow vibrations.
It's okay. That Parkinson girl isn't the ugliest of the lot, I must say.
Sirius goes for his walk that evening, with his trunk and his broomstick and his pride.
Sirius goes for his walk that evening and never comes back.
Two days later, Kreacher returns home, screaming about a black lake and green potion.
Muggle London dawns bright and cold.
Shops stir themselves awake along with the city. Shutters roll up, cafes stretching out their outdoor wooden chairs and sugary aromas, accompanied by silver electronic tinkles as early-morning Muggles enter shops. The winter air is cool and joyously simple, tinged with Christmas and faint cigarette smoke.
You enter a confectionary and order a Muggle pastry - donuts, they're called - and don't flinch as the Muggle cashier's hand brush accidentally against yours as he hands back the change - intriguing how Muggle money is like. Bits of paper. Bless them. You savor the sweetness of the pastry, letting the last trace of sugar melt deliciously on your tongue. You hail a cab to bring you to the Thames and strike up a conversation with the driver, watching, intrigued as his careless, buoyant laugh expands through the air, corners of his mouth disappearing into his cheeks as he threw starched formality into the winds - what useless, pretentious garb.
You take your first proper trip down Muggle London and imagine your brother laughing at you, laughing so hard his hard gaze melt into tiny crescents. I was here ages ago, Reg. I know that young postman. He's a great chap. That woman at the bakery is quite something, isn't she?
(I still don't think Muggles are trash, though. And I hope you won't too.)
Okay, you say.
You're right.
(Lacey wonders what Master Sirius will turn out to be like. Will he be smart? Will he be handsome? Will he be tall or will he be short? Whatever he turns out to be, though, he'll be Master Regulus's brother. Master Regulus will have a friend.
He won't have to be alone anymore.)
Sirius said that you always have the right to choose, in the end.
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