James kicked at the unruly pile of brooms, trying to nudge them inside the cupboard under the stairs, but merely causing them to cascade further out into the hall. His brother raised his eyebrows at him as he passed on his way up, in a manner which was accusing, disdainful- but also somewhat anxious, almost fearful. James kicked the brooms harder, and Albus scuttled upstairs. All he had done was levicorpus on Albus; it wasn't even like he had never done it before. It wasn't his fault that his brother had got himself into a state, just because he was going to Hogwarts in a few months and had his nonsensical fear of jinxes. James had done his brother a favour, really; they say that the quickest way to conquer a fear is through repeated exposure, after all…

'Properly, James,' called his mother from the basement kitchen. 'If you just leave it in a mess, I swear, the only thing you'll be using those brooms for in future is sweeping the house from top to bottom.'

James sighed, searching for the dial on the wall lamp so that he could see why the brooms were refusing to just fall into an orderly assemblage. Apparently his trusty kick method had resulted in some chronic twig entanglement.

He pulled the door shut behind him so as to hide the sorry looking brooms from any prying parents if they should wander by, and settled in for a long shift with the tail-twig clippers.

'Albus,' he heard his mother shout after a while, 'what on Earth have you done to this kitchen?'

'I organised it!' came Albus's voice from directly above him. 'It's much better now; all the goblets are ordered by size and colour!'

James glared at the underside of the stairs. He was about to brush the twig clippings off of his cloak when he noticed that there was something odd happening to the ceiling.

His brother's footprints were slowly appearing and disappearing there, as though the ceiling were as sensitive to pressure as a thin layer of snow. James reached up, ignoring his brother's continued yells about the merits of separating pewter and silver goblets. He was still clutching in his hand the assortment of tail-twigs that he had deemed misshapen enough to sacrifice as he brushed one of the raised wooden shapes with his fingertip. It slowly disappeared back into the ceiling, and another one appeared on the underside of the next lowest step, the penultimate step before the wall of the cupboard. James dropped his collection of clippings. He inspected the wooden footprint for any clues as to its reason for existence, as Albus and his appeals faded with his descent into the basement kitchen. But before James could reach any conclusions, other than that they seemed to have a time delay from his brother's actual steps, it too had faded. He gripped the next footprint which emerged out of the lowest step in the ceiling of the cupboard, his fingers scrabbling to get a grip in an attempt to make it stay, so that he could have more time to investigate. He yanked it with all his strength, and the footprint detached itself, like a puzzle piece in an old-fashioned wooden jigsaw.

James turned the footprint over in his hands; it was thick and smooth, and a pleasing weight- he had the odd desire to hit something with it. He peered up into the footprint shaped hole left in the ceiling, but through it he could only see a solid black. Running his finger around the edge, he poked the tip of his brother's footprint inside to see if he could feel anything in there. But it hit against nothing, despite James vigorously jiggling it about. So he withdrew it, took a moment to reflect, and then stuck his arm in as far as it would go.

He could feel a flat surface, but nothing else. Bemused, he thought he would see if slotting the footprint back in would have any effect. It re-joined the ceiling instantly, its outline completely disappearing. Well, that was stupid, thought James, staring at the place where it had been. Then he rushed outside, tripping over the brooms which clattered out after him, and raced up the stairs and down again at top speed. He flew back inside the cupboard, just managing to wrench off a lingering footprint from the lowest step before it faded again.

The same dark hole appeared, but this time, upon inspecting his footprint, James noticed a tiny engraving which he knew had not been etched into his brother's:

Declare yourself

James glanced furtively at the door to the cupboard, shut it, then brought the footprint to his lips, whispering, 'James Sirius Potter'.

Before he had even finished speaking, there was a sound like creaking ice above him, and a soft blue light issued from the hole. Unable to make out anything through it apart from the blue light, he felt the edges again. Their texture had changed slightly, and, with a satisfying crack, he snapped of a bit of the ceiling as easily as if it were the hollow chocolate egg his Uncle Dudley had given him that Easter.

He wondered vaguely whether his completely dismantling the cupboard under the stairs was what his mum had in mind when she had warned him against leaving it in a mess. Then, he set about snapping off the edges of the hole, enlarging it until it was big enough for him to climb up inside.

It was a small, attic like room, its sloping ceiling tinged blue by the light, which came from a chalice of blue flames atop a desk in the centre. James picked up the only other thing on the desk: a stiff black envelope, with its wax seal still intact, which was addressed simply, 'Sirius'. His middle name, after father's late godfather: giver of brooms and stealer of hippogriffs. The only other words on the envelope were those pressed into the seal.

'Toujours Pur,' he murmured softly, hesitating on the unfamiliar phrase, before breaking it and sitting down in front of the desk to read the letter which the secret room had revealed for him. The dense black writing across the parchment was perfectly measured, cramped and gothic, without an ink blot in sight.

Dear Sirius,

Since joining the Dark Lord I have reached the reluctant understanding that, as much as it pains me to admit it, you were right in your rebellion from certain aspects of our parents' ideology. Whilst I still object to your methods of expressing your disagreement (i.e. your complete abandonment of our family), I wanted to write so you may know that I forgive you for it, in light of what I have discovered since joining the organisation who call themselves the 'Death Eaters'.

I hope you can forgive both my joining said organisation and my deception regarding these thoughts which I only feel able to write, rather than say to you in person. You were never one for subtlety brother, and I fear above all else that either the Dark Lord himself will learn of what I am about to do and why, or our parents will, making themselves targets of the Dark Lord's wrath. Hence why I bewitched this room to only reveal itself for you; it requires the password of your name in response to the command engraved on your own footprint, whose wood is imbued with veritaserum, along with the walls of the room. I know that when I die this house will pass to you, when mother's wishes for my inheritance at your expense can no longer be fulfilled. And I want you to know that I am glad. I have full faith that our parents will not discover this place; they never so much as look at the house-elf's cleaning cupboards. But I hope that you will come, perhaps to remember me, given all the times I spent in here as a child playing with Kreacher. I know that, once it is yours, you will realise the importance of this house and the Black family name, and treat both with the respect that comes from maturity and the sense of ownership.

I know that you resented me as a boy for my tendency towards propriety and my adherence to our family's values and traditions, and I want to make it clear that it is not for that which I now apologize. I hope that you can accept my apology as I intend it and that despite our differences we can have a form of reconciliation as brothers on Earth, as well as in whatever may come next.

My intent upon joining the Death Eaters was to preserve our family, the wider traditions and culture of all pure bloods, as well as the wizarding community at large from the muggle threat. But the Dark Lord's methods utilize destruction unnecessary for, and in fact at the expense of, this preservation. He sought by brutal Arts to sacrifice our family house-elf- an elf whose ancestors as you know have been serving the Black family for countless generations, forming part of the traditions and distinctions that make the Blacks what we are. And of one other Art in his employ I can hardly write except to say that it is an insult to the decency and sanctity at the heart of wizarding tradition; I intend to die in my pursuit of its destruction.

I sacrifice myself so that our family, both now and all those after who will bear our name, may always reside in this house where the Blacks have resided for generations. This is where the soul of our family is preserved, untarnished and free from desecration. I hope it can remain preserved against the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters. Far from seeking to preserve our ways to such an extent as to end death itself, I am convinced now that they seek merely the pleasure of conquering, of destruction for its own sake, of defeating everything, at whatever cost. Forgive me brother for not seeing this sooner by the name alone, for I never was as apt at puns as you.

Your brother,

Regulus Arcturus Black

P.S. A gift from beyond the veil lies in the top drawer.

And then there was a final signature, 'R.A.B'.

James pulled out the top drawer of the desk, inside of which a bottle of firewhiskey rolled forwards to greet him. It was engraved with the same crest that had been on the wax seal of the envelope, as was the silver chalice which held the flames.

He felt angry. Sirius had never read this letter. 'I hope that you will come, perhaps to remember me.' What a stupid thing to have thought, to have written, to have done. It was exactly the sort of thing his own stupid little brother would do instead of just talking to him.

He had half a mind to burn the letter in the blue flames, but since it was all the little secret room seemed to contain, he pocketed it in his cloak. Then he sat watching the light make his skin glow with a gentle blue tinge, until the brooms he could glimpse through the hole in the floor, along with the claustrophobia of the windowless room, gave him a feeling of idleness and restlessness which became unbearable.

Climbing back down into the cupboard under the stairs, he thought to go and show it to his Dad, who after all had known Sirius and so would probably understand a lot more of its contents than he himself did. The most interesting knowledge to be gleaned from the letter seemed to him to be that which he already believed, which was the virtue of rebellion. That and the importance of his name; he imagined himself telling the story to his Uncle Ron: 'James Sirius Potter' literally opened doors for him, he would say, and his Uncle would laugh his snorty, half impressed laugh which James loved. But he felt himself propelled past his father's study and on up the stairs to the top floor, where his brother's closed bedroom door stood opposite his own. He hesitated on the landing, and then heard a rustling sound. Before he had even knocked, his brother opened the door, looking harassed.

'Yeah?'

'Hi,' James said, fiddling with the letter in his pocket. 'Er- do you- I don't know, want to come out flying or something?'

'What?'

'Do you want-'

'No.' Albus looked at him warily. 'Why are you being weird? I hate flying.'

'Right.'

'I thought you were cleaning the broom cupboard?'

'Hmm? Oh, yeah, I am. Well, if you want to talk about anything-' he punched his brother on the arm to restore normality.

'Er- ow?'

'Good,' nodded James. This has been a productive discussion, he thought. 'Oh, and, Al,' he said over his shoulder just as he was about to head down the stairs. 'Promise me you won't ever write me any letters, will you?'

Albus was spared the necessity of answering by their mother's earth shattering cry from below.

'James! What have you done to this broom cupboard?!'

'Oh, blast ended skrewts,' James muttered.