Insomnia
Two in the morning is okay. After three, the clock is the enemy. It's almost as if the more often he looks at it, the faster it progresses.
Three fifteen.
Three twenty-two.
He knows that at around four or four-thirty, he'll roll out of bed and get to work. It's no use battling the demons for a half hour.
Three twenty-eight.
Regulus has wanted many things in his life. He's wanted brooms in various styles and brand-names, he's wanted cloaks of assorted colours, he's wanted his dark mark, and he's wanted to be just like his big brother. The rest seem frivolous when he considers this last desire. It's been with him since he could speak–since he could, with sloppily pursed lips, form the word "brother"–deeply ingrained into his mind like the tattoo on his arm. And it hurts like the tattoo, gnawing, squirming, refusing to sit still until it's mollified.
Three thirty-six. Damn it.
He remembers Sirius's sorting. In time, he'd learned the best way to hear what his parents had to say was to listen when they weren't talking to him. The day they received the owl, he pressed his ear up against the floorboards, listening for the sound of approval–his father's grunt and his mother's sigh.
But it never came. Instead, shouts were exchanged with vitriol–so much so that he thought his eardrums might explode if he didn't pull away from the floor. Despite the size and grandeur of the house, he could hear it just fine from his room.
I should have seen this coming! He was always your son!
Pardon me? Lest you forget, Orion, it takes two to raise a child!
That boy is no child of mine!
He hid under the blankets of his four-poster because he didn't want to hear anymore. Perhaps, he thought, if he loved Sirius enough, under those blankets–if he just concentrated enough–it would change. Sirius wouldn't be in that lion house, and his parents wouldn't say those horrid words. Sirius would be in Slytherin and everything would be fine, if he could just love his brother enough.
Three forty-seven.
He remembers his own sorting. The hat dwarfed his head; nobody in the hall could see the features that would soon become defined and rugged–handsome, even. The Black complexion, that Black jaw, those Black eyes that often reflected the notorious Black temper. Oh, Regulus was all Black, all right. And mummy said that Slytherin was the only suitable house for a Black.
Well, then, if it isn't little Regulus Black! I must say, your brother was something of a surprise. Mmm, yes, a surprise indeed.
It was an accident. There was a mistake. Sirius wouldn't do that. Sirius wouldn't be that.
You've ambition, no? Always looking to advance, to achieve your means... ah, yes. It's a Slytherin quality, no doubt.
Sirius wants to advance, too.
But then, I do see that spark of loyalty, recklessness. Oh, Gryffindor would do you well, my child, but I fear there is still a house greater–
Slytherin!
There was an outburst of raucous applause, but he didn't need to see who it was. Instead, he scanned the august hall for signs of Sirius; finally, he spotted his brother, whose lips had settled into a slight frown and whose eyes had lost the sparkle Regulus had seen earlier in the evening, like he'd surrendered something very dear to him. Sirius was constantly angry or elated, but so rarely was he genuinely disappointed that Regulus knew, this time, he had failed his brother. His stomach lurched into his throat as he walked toward the table where he would dine for the next seven years.
Three forty-nine.
Now, Avada and Kedavra are words that roll off his tongue with a sombre ease, but it hadn't always been that way.
It took Regulus nine times to get it right. Nine times, and all he did was watch that little mudblood scream and scream and scream, muffled only by the howls of Cousin Bella.
Come on, Reggie. You can do it! Just think about how lovely it'll feel when–oh, yes, go on! That's right, now! You're almost there!
He shut his eyes so tightly he wasn't sure he would be able to open them again. Avada Kedavra, Avada Kedavra, Avada Kedavra. He drew blood from his lip; he'd been biting it at the start of his session, but had since forgotten.
Avada Kedavra!
Three fifty-two.
Bella said Crucio would be easier.
It still isn't.
Three fifty-two.
When Sirius ran away from home, his parents didn't bother finding another room in which to row. They did it right in front of him.
They directed it toward him, because it was his fault.
He'd asked Sirius if he could come. Sirius said no.
He'd asked Sirius if it was something he did. He even admitted to stealing Sirius's old quidditch robes, and promised to return them, freshly pressed and everything. Sirius looked puzzled for a moment, and then he approached his brother and tucked a lock of dark hair behind his ear. They stood staring at each other for a moment, before Sirius embraced him tightly.
None of this is your fault. None of it. I need you to remember that.
And he'd watched Sirius leave, and he hadn't even told his parents right away.
Give 'em hell for me, Reg.
Three fifty-seven.
He still remembers the look on Sirius's face when he proudly showed his brother his new mark. It was first one of rage, then disgust, then sadness, and finally, when Sirius cried, he knew he could never, never make his brother love him again. It's branded in his mind like the snake on his arm, lounging next to the desire to be like Sirius. Only it hurts more than both of them combined. He still dreams about the twitch in Sirius's lips, the fury in his black, Black eyes.
He still sees the pain, the anguish, he still hears the desperation in his brother's sobs.
Four oh-three.
The Dark Lord forbids him from contacting Sirius. Not that Sirius would have him anyway, if he were to try. Nevertheless, every few days he writes a letter.
Dear Sirius,
--I'm sorry-- Today, I found a picture of you, and the way you smiled at me led me to believe that you weren't angry with me. --Please forgive me, brother-- I wanted to know how you were. I miss being a part of your life.
--Love-- --Sincerely-- Love,
Regulus
There's a stack of these letters next to his bed. Some are longer than others, some concise, some angsty, and others just plain. He never says he's sorry, and he never says what he means. Because one day, he hopes, Sirius will read these letters. And if there's one thing Sirius always hated, it was showing weakness.
Four seventeen.
He's given up fighting the clock. It never stops for him, especially not when he needs it. It's the only constant in his life, trudging mercilessly on, reminding him of the transience of it all. With every tick, it tortures him, with every ring and tock and sound of the bell, it convolutes whatever bits of sanity are left in his mind.
He's grown accustomed to staying awake. He can barely remember the sweetness of sleep, the comfort he used to derive from it when it kissed his eyelids early in the evening.
Four twenty-eight.
It's useless. He sits up abruptly and knocks his clock over. He doubts he'll need it anymore.
There's a pair of socks strewn lackadaisically across the floor. He picks them up, turns them right-side-out, and puts them on. There's nothing like cold feet in the mornings.
He would get straight to work, but his work is finished, finally. Today, he's got a job to do. He planned everything so carefully–paying close attention to the minute details–that he knows there's no way he'll fail. That doesn't help the sinking feeling in his stomach when he considers his task. He swallows hard. This won't be easy.
He can't help but think that maybe, this time, Sirius would approve. That maybe, if he knew, Sirius would be proud of him, finally. That Sirius would love him again.
That perhaps, in doing so, he could become just like Sirius.
The corners of his lips curve upward into a slight smile. It's been a while since he's smiled. Maybe three, four years. Five, max. It feels good. It feels familiar.
Eleven forty-six.
Regulus does not return to his room. There are remnants of him there, yes–on his bed remains his scent, on the floor, his scuff marks.
On his night table rest several stacks of paper, each addressed to a certain Sirius Black.
Like everything else in Regulus's room, the letters remain unopened, untouched.