Written for Quidditch League as a reserve for Chaser 3. Prompt: Write about an important familial relationship in your mascot (Regulus)'s life.
Thanks to my friend Zoey for reading this over and helping me fix up some parts. :)
I veered away from canon a bit in the way I wrote Regulus as a child- less interested in the Dark Arts, and I wrote Barty as a year older than him, while he's canonically two years younger. Other than that, it should follow canon for the most part.
Word count: 1333
His footsteps echoed loudly through the hallway as he stomped down again and again, making his way toward his bedroom. The door slammed with a sense of finality, and Regulus took this as a cue to slip out of his own room, down the hall to his brother's. He stumbled in without knocking, and was met with a glare.
"What happened, Sirius?" he asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes. "It's so late!"
"It's not that late," Sirius replied shortly. "Mum screamed at me because I told her I wouldn't mind being in Gryffindor next year." As angry as he was, Sirius was unable to keep the gleam of pride out of his eyes. "See how my arm's all red? That's where she hit me." Sirius, in all his ten-year-old glory, didn't notice the fear that had taken over his brother's face, and continued going on until Regulus let out a whimper.
"Okay!" he squeaked. "I don't want Mummy to hit me..."
"Oh, don't worry, she won't," Sirius laughed bitterly. "Hit you, Reg? You're the good kid, you'd never do anything to make them angry."
Looking back on it, Regulus realised that this was the sentence that turned his life around. This was the day he decided he would make a name for himself.
He peeked out from behind the couch, listening to the exchange between his brother and his parents.
"They're blood traitors! I absolutely forbid you from getting anywhere close to that boy!"
"His parents are worthless, good-for-nothing idiots. Don't listen to a word he says; even you shouldn't be interacting with scum like that."
"The whole family is vile!"
"I HATE YOU! Both of you! I'll be friends with him if I want to be!"
"Why won't you listen to a WORD we say?"
"'Cause I'm a Gryffindor, that's why!"
That was when the room fell silent, as his parents heard the news for the first time. Of course, that was also when Regulus chose to slink out from behind the couch and whisper, "I got the highest marks in the class on my spelling test." And at nine years old, he didn't understand why no one blinked an eye.
"It's always Sirius, isn't it?" he cried angrily, storming out of the room. And the looks he received may have been ones of utter confusion, but he had to admit: It felt kind of good to have the attention on him for once.
His hands were shaking uncontrollably as the Sorting Hat drooped over his eyes. He squeezed them shut, unsure of what to hope for. On the one hand, Gryffindor was a lose-lose; he didn't want to face his parents' anger, and Sirius had already taken the satisfaction out of shocking them with the exact opposite of what they expected.
Hufflepuff was told to be just lousy (though looking at their yellow robes and sparkling eyes, he wondered if he might fit right in... and if it would be so bad, after all), and he wasn't nearly clever enough to land himself in Ravenclaw, so when the hat called out "Slytherin!" he wasn't surprised as much as mildly disappointed. At least, until he saw the disgust on his brother's face. Then, he started to wonder if Gryffindor would have really been so bad.
"What's your name?" a tall, dark haired boy asked with a slight sneer.
"Regulus." The boy looked at him expectantly, raising one eyebrow. "Uh, Black. Regulus Black." The boy gave an approving nod and thumped Regulus on the back.
"'Course you're in Slytherin. What's up with your brother? Why'd he get stuck in Gryffindor? Is he one of them?"
"One of who?" Regulus asked nervously, shifting in his seat.
"You know, them. One of those guys who thinks that Mudbloods are just as good as Purebloods, and cuts himself off from the family, and..." The look on Regulus' face was enough to tell him he guessed correctly. "It's okay, my cousin's like that, too. We just go about ignoring him, and he doesn't seem to mind. It's too bad you got stuck with a lousy brother; you seem okay. Just bad luck, I guess."
"My brother isn't lousy!" Regulus tried to say, but what came out was more of a jumbled sigh, and he quickly masked it with a cough. Just then, the food appeared on the table, and Regulus quickly got busy piling roast potatoes onto his plate. He had just taken his first bite when he felt a tight grip on his arm start dragging him away from the table.
"Mmph!"
"Really, Reg?" Sirius' eyes were filled with not only anger, but disappointment, and Regulus turned away, tears burning his eyes.
"I... I didn't want to be put in Slytherin," he protested, which was only half true.
"Even better," Sirius grumbled. "You really just fit into our family that well, huh? Well you know what? At least people will remember me. I'll be 'that Black that was sorted into Gryffindor.' And what will you be, Reg? No one's gonna remember you if you keep this up."
"Who cares if people remember me?" Regulus blurted, now full-out lying. "I don't care, anyway. If I'm happy, then why does it matter?" Sirius frowned at him.
"If you're happy," he said slowly, "then it doesn't matter. But be honest, Reg. Are you really happy?"
At the age of fourteen, he met a fifth year named Barty with dark eyes and an angular nose and a soul painted black that Regulus knew he should look away from, but couldn't. And Barty had connections. Over the next few years, Barty tricked and persuaded him, and Regulus found himself hanging onto him wherever he went. The hallways after curfew, the forbidden classrooms on the third floor, even a broom closet once or twice, and Regulus pretended this never happened. Because if Sirius found out about any of this - especially the broom closet - he would take it as proof that his brother wasn't happy. But he was, or so he tried to tell himself.
When he was in his sixth year and Barty was in his fourth, Barty placed an offer.
"The Dark Lord is looking for new followers," he breathed, the words sending a shiver down Regulus' spine. "I'm joining, and you should, too."
He almost said no, almost turned and started running, but something in Barty's eyes kept him glued to the spot. At least, that's what he told himself. But when he whispered, "Okay," it tasted a lot like his brother's name.
"...To be remembered," he mumbled, glancing at the dead bodies. He the hair out of the little boy's eyes. He had a mop of hair the colour of hay, and couldn't have been more than six years old.
Regulus thought he had learned to numb the guilt.
Apparently, not yet.
He imagined talking to Sirius now.
"What the hell, Regulus?" he would probably say. "There are more ways to making a name for yourself than becoming a murderer. What were you thinking?"
"It's your fault!" Regulus shouted aloud, clenching his fists. But he knew it wasn't true. He knew that there was no way out of it now: He was a murderer, and he had chosen to do this. "The locket," he suddenly whispered. "I got myself into this mess, I'll be the one to get myself out of it."
And he did. He got the locket and replaced it with a fake, all the while attempting to destroy the real one. Sirius didn't know; he hadn't spoken to him in years. Still, though, Regulus felt as if he had almost redeemed himself. Because if Sirius ever did find out, he would see that Regulus had tried to make a name for himself. Twice, actually. The first time, he became a murderer. The second time, he learned that no matter how hard you try, the guilt doesn't fade.
Hopefully it would teach Sirius that there are more important things than making a name for yourself.