To Be A Black, a harry potter fanfic

Title: To Be A Black

Warnings: Character Death, Angst.

Summary: Life is full of moments that make you, that set the course of who you're going to be. Regulus-centric.

Word Count: 4,642

Disclaimer: The quotes at the beginning and end are from Buffy "Becoming". Everything else belongs to JKR, I'm just doing some non-profit puppeteering.

Authors Notes: This started out completely different, as one of those fact things and eventually turning into this. In the end, it's jumbled but I think that's how I like it, showing how jumbled the boy himself is.

"There are moments in your life that make you, that set the course of who you're going to be. Sometimes they're little, subtle moments. Sometimes... they're not. I'll show you what I mean."

Regulus was a very quiet child when he was born. For a few moments, he had been held close for fear he wasn't breathing but he soon blinked and attempted to grab the blanket blindly. That intense feeling that they were going to be robbed of a child before it had the chance to live stuck with him all his life, including being forced to wear enough clothes in the winter that he looked like a marshmallow with limbs.

He never did live that down. He had almost murdered Sirius when he had let one of those pictures loose at school. He'd settled for having his breakfast attack him the following morning. He had idly thought, in the following week when seeing a rainbow coloured Severus traipse into the common room, to go and own up or at the very least, apologise to Severus. But then again, Black's do not apologise.

It was a rare thing to venture out by himself in London but there had been such an incident when he was approximately four years old. Regulus disliked approximates, they left room for mistakes and miscalculations, but even his memory of his young experiences was fallible (not that he would admit it) and he couldn't pinpoint the exact date that Sirius had decided running around in soaking wet clothes among the walls of Grimmauld Place was an excellent idea nor could he remember when exactly he'd been struck with a nasty cold which had caused his mothers nose to wrinkle and his father to shake his head and make a comment about "boys" in general.

He could, however, distinctly remember Andromeda taking him to the park that day so Sirius could be dealt with. The air smelt strange, of foods he couldn't quite pinpoint and the screaming noises of muggle children. He wasn't supposed to go near them so he hadn't. However, he did get a look at what he could only describe as a Quaffle decorated for mathematical value. They were kicking it. He would never have admitted it, but it had looked like fun. It had looked like being free. But it wasn't very befitting of a Black, was it?

At the age of six, he had been given what was deemed "allowable" muggle literature. Machiavelli, Descartes, Shakespeare, the great minds. He had received a set of books from Andromeda, whose presents were always a little on the odd side, by several muggle authors he had never heard of. She had read to him from Dickens, Lewis, Tolkien, relatively new worlds he had become enthralled with. Andromeda read it to him before she had become an unmentionable blip in the Black history.

His mother had wanted to throw out the books but he had lobbied fiercely to keep them and in the end, Sirius had taken them and hidden them. He would read them to him sometimes, if he asked. He found he actually preferred Sirius' readings to Andromeda's. He did the character voices and spoke with emotion, even though he didn't understand some of the words. Regulus would write down those words with the quill that remained forever by his bed and asked his father about the meanings the next day, often then rushing to tell his brother, who often said "I told you it meant that!" Blacks don't like to admit defeat when they don't have to.

There had been a nasty side effect to filling his mind with wonders from imaginary lands. He had several times asked why he had gotten elves so wrong and why they seemed so rich in magic but there had never been answers, not really. He had been plagued with nightmares from the imagery as often as not.

Dreams of fire and water, of bodies and screams, of great battles and rotting bodies and candles in the dark. He had ran into his brothers room in silent tears more than once, these incidents usually starting with a "bugger off" but ending with him being allowed to share the bed for the night, so he would not drown in his sleep, no matter how irrational that seemed. A Black does not get frightened over whispers in the dark.

He had his first real secret at the age of ten, though of course he had many little secrets that meant nothing at all but he kept them because they made him feel strong, older somehow. Sirius had teased him about having the mental age of forty at Christmas, when the wine and screaming was over, in that way of his that made it seem like everything was perfectly normal.

It was in the library, his father's library but his father wasn't there and his mother had retreated to her spot in the garden. It was all Sirius' fault really, he'd been playing it, gotten it from someone at school he'd said, but the validity of the statement could be called into question by the fact that it seemed almost unnatural to lend something of such a muggle nature to him. He'd said they were a group, The Beatles, they weren't half bad if he was honest with himself. Wasn't it a good thing he was rarely honest with himself? A Black would not be caught dead singing "Hey Jude" at the top of his lungs. He just wished someone would tell Sirius that.

The summer before his first year crackled with excitement. There were sparks in the air, often literally speaking as Sirius was practicing every spell he'd learned as often as he could, much to his Mother's chagrin.

There had been one incident, a game if you will, in Diagon Alley, which had resulted in them both being chased by a rather irritable wizard after turning his coffee into a less than likable alternative. "Good one, James." He'd pretended not to hear it, but it had struck a little too close for comfort. Sometimes a Black should simply smile and nod, even when it physically hurt to do so.

Sirius had wanted to sit with his friends and his mother hadn't wanted their "brutish and infantile" behaviour "ruining" her youngest child. She had requested they both sit apart from the others but Sirius always did what he wanted when he could (and just recently, even when he shouldn't) and Regulus had sat by himself.

Oddly enough, he'd ended up sharing a compartment with a straw haired boy with a quiet intelligence he related to. When they had both been sorted into Slytherin, he was glad of a friend when he had caught Sirius' eye from across the table, disappointment flashing in them for the barest moment. Regulus had repeated it like a mantra; a Black does what it required of them for the greater good of the line.

He had studied quickly, absorbing knowledge as quickly as he could because he wanted to be academically brilliant. He already was in his own eyes, of course, but he expected the world to see it. Knowledge and power would forever go hand in hand and it was best to be well informed in life.

It had been in the library he had come across one Severus Snape. He had heard about this one from his brother but there was nothing hugely wrong with him that he could see. He had spoken politely to Regulus, asking him his opinion on a simple topic and Regulus had recited the words that had been drummed into him his whole life. "Really," He had asked in that usual droll tone. "No," Regulus had replied. "I'm lying. I do that." He had smiled sweetly and left the room. A Black should keep its inferiors guessing.

They had spent the summer after his first year holed up in the summer house because of the rain. The girls were all adults now and Andromeda no longer attended such gatherings. Nor was she allowed to mentioned or even alluded too. The level of exclusion was terrifying to him.

There were photographs of the rest of them where once there had been photos of her. Although how exactly that picture of him wearing make up and a dress had ended up on the wall he had no idea. He thought it best not to draw attention to it, he didn't want the entire school knowing that he'd been dressed up like he was bent or something. He couldn't really blame it on anyone accurately either because both Sirius and Bella took credit for doing it and he can only remember dark hair and laughter. It had all been in good fun and they had only been children but a Black always upheld its dignity.

There had been a constant love in his life, something so simple but very beautiful and that was music. Unlike many, he did love to play it by hand, to hear the nuances and the flow, to hear the notes streaming out like words that he had difficulty saying. It didn't matter what instrument, be it piano, guitar, violin or even clarinet, he loved them with passion for the freedom of expression they represented. There wasn't an overabundance of that growing up; unless you counted the free spirit who'd stumbled in drunk after sneaking out. He'd played music then to drown out the noise of the screaming. Sometimes a Black had to turn the other cheek.

Regulus had always viewed favouritism as his right, something he had been born into and very rarely did it make him uncomfortable. There was a certain level of respectability and it opened certain doors, even as early as his first few years at Hogwarts, despite his Mother's assertions that it had gone to the dogs since Dumbledore. It did have it's advantages, though. One such evening he had been practicing in an empty class room, only to be frightened beyond belief when he encountered a boggart. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen one before but somehow it's worse when they catch you unaware with dead eyes and dirty fingernails.

Thankfully, it had been his head of house that had come in at that precise moment and despite his usual level of resilience, Regulus had been thankful for it. He had taken him back and given him tea, spoke of many things he supposed should have been comforting but he felt as if he had once again succumbed to a childhood nightmare. He had also been asked why he was so deathly afraid of an inferi and he had no idea what to say. He didn't feel as if he could explain the books, the lands of fantasy that he had lost himself in as a child, the muggle relations, it wouldn't look very good for a Black, would it? He'd simply said he had never seen one before, had no idea why it chose to take that shape and that personally, he'd always been deathly afraid puffskeins. It was half true anyway, Sirius had stuffed one into his pyjama top at Christmas the preceding year and it had scared him out of his skin at the time. Not that he would admit it of course, showing your fear so openly was weak and a Black should never be weak.

It was pink. This was the first words of a few stolen moments on his second visit to Hogsmeade in this third year. She was three years old and he hadn't set eyes on her before, not in person anyway, though Sirius had spoke of her. At first, he thought perhaps he'd been joking about a baby with ever changing hair and a name like that. It was at times like that, he had to agree with his mother completely, perhaps Andromeda had lost her mind.

He had held her though, stringy arms not quite sure what to do with a baby but knowing he would have one someday so he had better brush up on his skills. He had liked the cheerful laughter though the exclusion he knew he ought to be honouring weighed heavily on his mind. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear his mothers' voice and he got the sudden urge to bathe, though the spilled butter beer probably added to that. The feeling passed and he felt a terrible sadness to leaving the confines of what had felt a piece of the family. As the post came in the following morning with his mother's usual kind sentiments, he felt a cold grip in his chest that reminded him that being a Black was not his right, but his privilege, which could be taken away.

Wanton destruction had never made sense to him. Some may have said he was controlling and a tidy mind did not understand the unusual cruelty in gutting a creature, whatever creature it was, for the sheer hell of it. To him, this was a sign of right and wrong, pure and impure, wasn't it all the same thing? Something was either clean and pure and right or it was dirty and wrong. He had been told more than once by the Gryffindor of 12 Grimmauld Place that sometimes what was wrong was what was right and nothing could be taken at first glance.

It was why he'd refused to go to play chess that night. The smithereens that would sully his robes would mean people would make judgements on him and they didn't all have a Gryffindor saying how stupid making unknown accusations could be and how they left you open for attack. You had to ask questions to understand, you had to listen, you had to remember for a Black should always be intelligent or there would be more of them in Azkaban.

The night had led to a more interesting end, with wet kiss exchanged in the corridor with Annie Travers. At least, he thinks that was her name. She didn't really come up and introduce herself and he wasn't one for socialising with girls. She'd just sort of come up, done it and promptly blushed running back to the common room. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it, to be honest. He wasn't quite sure what to make of girls in general, beyond the fact they should be respected and that if Narcissa was to be believed, appearance was everything.

The one a few months later had led to a similar circumstance, a late night encounter under the table in the library with Barty that had seemed to have what he would have donned the appropriate action of heart palpitations, shortness of breath, sticky fingers and a certain lower uncomfortable feeling. It was unfortunate, he'd thought later in the evening when alone with the curtains drawn, because it would have been so much easier to ignore his own biological urges and agree how fantastic tits were had he not done that. It didn't matter. He would get married and have the children and one day, he would forget. It was the Black thing to do.

The world had come crashing down and he had with it. He had failed. This was unacceptable and yet the tears had begun to spill uncontrollably, choking sobs from a high pitched voice that he realised was his own. The world didn't pick him back up again but hands that were barely stronger than his own did. "It's alright, you'll learn." His brother told handing him back the broom he'd fallen from. This was his first memory of his brother, all smiles with a slight hint of gentle mockery. That hadn't stopped him getting back on the broom, again and again and again, until he succeeded. Success was very important in life but he hated needing help. He didn't hate his brother for helping him.

He's not sure how he feels that he didn't see the final blow out. He'd been upstairs, drowning out the usual sounds of screams and broken glasses, though he was never quite sure who would throw them because (although he would never tell him this because he valued his life) Sirius was more like their mother than he cared to admit and he simply turned the music louder.

It was over an hour later he'd gone to his brothers' room to see him looking out the window, unearthly quiet like graveyard. Something was dying in this room. Someone, perhaps. "Me, if I don't go." He knew without looking, or perhaps the window pane showed his fears, dark eyes frightened by the lack of bluster and anger that normally came after these fights. "If I asked," He started, the words sounding wrong, lisped perhaps, though from physical pain or emotional upheaval he never did find out, "Would you leave?" He wanted to say yes. He wanted to look and see if he was hurt and to promise things would be alright. He wanted to be his brother, but somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a voice reminding him that Sirius had a brother and that it was not him. "No." He was a Black and this was what made him ignore the defeat in his brothers' shoulders, the hard swallow and his accepting silence. His brother had always seemed strong. A Black was strong but he wasn't strong enough. Regulus vowed he would be. A Black is strong.

Regulus had a few scars, he was a boy after all and all that came with it. He had a mark on his back, just above the waistline from getting bitten by a snake in a duel when he was seven. He'd taken his fathers' wand because he'd wanted to know what it felt like, to be an adult (and because his brother had done it though this would never be admitted) and to have power and control. He thought those two things would be synonymous with freedom, with strength and that he would be a better person to have such abilities.

Power and control, he had learned, are two different things and some marks don't fade, but burn at the most inconvenient times. He was not free, but bound, control lost, as if he had never any. Perhaps he hadn't but he wanted them to be proud, sparkling eyes and smiles and it seemed they had been, to see such dedication to the cause. Bella had shown him off like a trophy. It felt hollow, as if that was all he was. A means to an end and not a member of a family that loved each other dearly. They did love each other, of course, but it wasn't very Black to be overly affectionate. They had a reputation to uphold; therefore he had a reputation to uphold now he was the heir.

There was only one answer to the question that had passed through her lips, only one answer that was acceptable. "Yes, I believe in the cause." What would one more lie to himself hurt? It got easier to tell her every time. It got harder to tell himself.

A Black would believe...

(why couldn't he?)

Regulus saw him alone for the first time since he'd left school on a cold October night on the grounds. It was perhaps two in the morning and he was alone, simply sitting there, thinking on the latest way to anger the teachers. He'd sat down beside his brother wordlessly. There was nothing he could say. He'd watched him burnt from the family tree, though every other word compared him to his brother, jealousy and hurt gripping his insides that he would never be the real heir and cursing Sirius for not being the true heir in the same breath. He was a mass of contradictions; he made no sense, even to himself. Perhaps he was going mad, this was not unheard of in the House of Black.

"We're going to murder you in Quidditch this year." He'd seen the twitch of a smile on his brothers' mouth. "We have James as captain, you're doomed." He'd returned the smirk, although they were not looking one another in the eyes. That would have hurt. This was easy. "Yes, but we have the world's best seeker." A chuckle came through the air, but it wasn't happy. It was bitter. "You do at that." He wanted to say something in return, to end the suffocating silence. Sirius did it for him, getting up and walking back up to the castle within ten minutes of silence. It wouldn't have been very Black to chase after him, to hit him, to hug him, to perform his prefect duties and turn the bastard in, anything, but it didn't stop him wanting to.

It was the smell that had done it, the copper tang in the air, the body lying at his feet while Rabastan had slapped him on the back. His eyes were like saucers, huge, with what Barty had labelled excitement. It was not excitement but disgust and it crawled into him, seeping through the skin. The killing curse, his initiation, this was simple. Clean. Not bloody and begging like tonight. The second was not easier as had been promised. It was worse. He would never forget the smell of murder now.

When he'd gotten home, he had tried to ignore it. He felt lost in the woods, out of control and he was desperate to feel human again. He'd walked head held high, a proud smile from his mother as he walked past the drawing room and returned a compliant nod then spent most of the night vomiting in the bathroom, tears strolling and chastising his red eyes in the mirror because he was failing, he had to be strong, he had to be all that was expected. He was a Black.

It had been such a simple gesture. A job from the Dark Lord himself, a chance for him to feel in control again. It was that simple. Seeing Kreacher afterwards, the mess of him, the horror, that was not simple. It instilled doubt that this man, this thing masquerading as a man, would be any better than the Ministry. He had doubt and doubt was one few luxuries a Black could not afford.

The night he figured it out, the night he knew what needed to be done, was a Saturday. He had thrown his books down on the bed (Sirius', he did not dare do this betrayal in his own room) and smiled. He felt accomplished, in control, he wanted to smile and laugh and sing. That came with the whiskey, half a bottle still amongst his brothers' possessions and he'd sang "Hey Jude", noting with pride he thought he was much better at this singing lark than his brother was.

It wasn't until he caught sight of himself in the mirror, something he had been careful not to do in some time; he stopped dead, dead, dead before slamming his fist through the reflective surface. "Who are you?" it was screaming at him, because obviously he'd gone mad because this mirror was not enchanted and had not been in years. It had hurt, his hand was in pain but that was something to think about, he'd have to heal it and it would take his mind of the fact the heir of the House of Black could no longer stand the sight of himself.

That Monday, there had been a battle. Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix, hell bent on destroying the other. It was his first real battle and he'd caught himself fighting in the pitch black against an opponent he didn't know. The second floor of the house rocked and he and the opponent were the only two left up there, the rest had moved on through the house, protect it, protect it, but it gave him an advantage. He'd had his wand at his throat, hand shaking before the moonlight had betrayed them both, taking away the darkness so grey eyes met grey eyes. He did not lower the wand, because he could see the blood seeping out on to the floor from the earlier tournaments. Too much of it. His stomach lurched and his wand clattered to the floor.

He pulled a piece of his own robes away, holding it against his brothers' side, who was regarding him with suspicion before Regulus spoke, "keep it there, there's a lot of blood and you're hopeless with healing spells," he reached up, pulling the mask away. The look of fear was not lost on him, but there was more disappointment there than anything else. He grabbed his wrist. Intense gaze as the smell was coming back and so was the nausea that went with it. "It's just a flesh wound." The voice was whispered, intense, scrutinising, trying to understand. Regulus was trying to understand too but it didn't seem to be working on either part.

"If I asked," Sirius said, an echo. "Would you leave?" He should be doing a thousand other things right now, he should be keeping up appearances, he shouldn't be sitting here contemplating spilling everything he had spent so long working towards to someone he barely knew any more. He reminded himself, a Black would say no.

"Yes."

There was something that had echoed in his mind from the late night readings for many years to come. He had, through secretive measures, allowed the straw haired boy to read those little books. They had talked of the grand adventures had by the two boys in the stories and it had been remarked upon the magnificence of the hero. "He's not the hero." He found himself saying. "Sam is the hero. He keeps going even though he doesn't have to. He keeps them strong and he gives up his life. That's heroic." Barty had nodded solemnly and added, "Not to mention stupid."

The words would come back again, at the age of eighteen, a cold comfort for a frightened mind. He didn't feel very heroic. It felt necessary. Most of all and perhaps worst of all (or best, depending on your point of view), it felt terribly Gryffindor. That was Sirius, not him. To him, it was more frightening to not be a Black than to die.

He would have tried to stop him, if he had told. He had arranged to meet his brother on Wednesday night in the Hogs Head. They would figure something out, he'd promised. He knew he would not meet him. He knew he had to be brave, he knew what he had to do.

Death, as it turned out, was not so bad. It was freeing. I'm going to die, he thought, but he was in control of that. He would die, but he would be free of everything, of his mothers' insistence he not turn out like his brother, of his brothers' insistence he not turn out like his mother, of his own insistence that he be what was expected of him. In those few moments before death overtook, he did think to himself, this is what freedom feels like. He would leave a smiling corpse because for those few moments, he had been alive.

"Bottom line is, even if you see them coming, you're not ready for the big moments. No one asks for their life to change, not really. But it does. So, what are we, helpless? Puppets? Nah. The big moments are going to come, you can't help that. It's what you do afterwards that counts. That's when you find out who you are."