Regulus was having breakfast at Malfoy Manor, sitting along the table with Bellatrix, Lucius, and Narcissa. He calmly spread butter on his bread while flipping through the Daily Prophet with one hand. Taking a bite of his bread, he then set it down, and taking up the Prophet, he froze at the picture, eyes bugging, spit out his bite.
"Regulus?" Lucius asked, unconcerned. "Is everything satisfactory?"
"Sirius!" he hissed, shocked, scanning the paper.
"What about our blood-traitor cousin?" Bellatrix asked, frowning.
Regulus thrust the paper at Bellatrix. As she read, her mouth slowly fell open and eyes popped. Now Narcissa was looked worried.
"Bella?"
She gave to Narcissa, who had the same reaction, but Regulus wasn't paying attention anymore. His brother…the Gryffindor fanatic…known member of the Order of the Phoenix…a Death Eater?
"He killed," Regulus said hoarsely, "Twelve Muggles and Peter Pettigrew? Betrayed the Potters?"
"This doesn't make any sense," Bellatrix breathed. "We should—"
"I don't care, Bella!" Regulus snapped. "We're going to Azkaban!"
"No—Reg—" Narcissa started, but Regulus stood abruptly and flinched. Only Sirius could give him nicknames. Not anyone else. Wincing, he remembered in Sirius' fifth year when he told Narcissa and Bellatrix the same. That only Reggie could give him nicknames.
"No, he's mad!" Narcissa said. "When he was carted off to Azkaban, he just started laughing! Look!"
She pointed to the picture, where Sirius was indeed cackling madly over the scene of twelve bodies.
"I don't care," Regulus said, snapping on his cloak and snatching the Daily Prophet out of Narcissa's hands. "I need to figure this out once and for all."
Before they could say anything, with a slight pop! Regulus was standing on Azkaban shore. After tests, and questions, he was led up the stairs and through the halls, feeling the chill of the dementors. Fear and uncertainty was tearing at him. Was Sirius going to survive? Was he really mad? A Death Eater?
Suddenly, he found himself standing in front of a cell. But in the cell wasn't his brother; it was man, with a gaunt face and a blank expression. His eyes were like shutters, closed and haunted, blank and staring. Regulus bit his lip. How long had Sirius been in here?
A voice jarred Regulus back to reality.
"Hullo, Reggie."
Regulus stared. Sirius didn't even seem mad, or upset, or insane. He just sounded bored. It was unhinging, how pleasant he was, like the dementors weren't even affecting him. He simply sounded bored.
"Sirius," he whispered hoarsely, "What happened? Did you really betray the Potters? Did you really kill all those people? Peter Pettigrew?"
Sirius growled. "Don't even mention the name of that rat to me."
"He was the—?"
"We switched," he said dully. "Night before last. Never suspected him—he was weak! Talentless! Useless! I thought it was Remus, maybe, because werewolves were joining Voldemort, but…" he shuddered. "I went there, last night. I had arranged to check on Peter. When I got there, saw the damage, I knew what Peter had done—I had done. I cornered him, in a street. I was going to kill him. Started yelling about I'd betrayed them, it was my fault they were dead, that I was the spy. Well, he blew up the street behind him, transformed into a rat—he's an animagus—cut off his finger and disappeared into the sewer."
Regulus stared. Finally, his knees hit the ground and he knelt in front of Sirius' cell.
"Why are you telling me this? You know what I am."
"I do. But I always said you had the heart of a lion, Reggie. I'm going to hold you to that. You know what is right and wrong. Besides, you're the only family I have left."
"You—really?"
Sirius smiled up at Regulus. "I always loved you, little brother. I was never mad or angry with you. I was disappointed. Sad, but never mad."
"I thought you hated me."
"I could never hate you, Reg."
"I'm glad, because I never hated you. I always loved you."
When Regulus turned to go, he heard Sirius' voice. "Heart of a lion, Reggie. Heart of a lion."
Smirking, he pulled his hood over his head. He disapparted, with one thought in mind: Every man had to die.
And the Dar—Voldemort, was about to find out he was a man, too.