IWSC Round 6

Beauxbatons, Year 7

Knockturn Alley, Shyverwretches Venoms and Poisons / Explore characters that use evil in pursuit of self-healing or revenge.

Main prompt: [character] Regulus Black

Additional prompts: [setting] London Underground, [quote] "It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both." Nicholos Machiavelli

Wordcount: 2273

BAKERLOO

He'd never been on the London Underground before. Mother had said it was dirty (which it was) and full of Muggles (which it also was). It was loud, too, and Regulus resisted the urge to cover his ears like a child every time a train rattled past.

He wasn't a child. If he was sure of anything, it was that. Somehow, the new weight of the Dark Mark on his left forearm had robbed him of any traces of childhood he had left. Resolutely keeping his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, he took a seat on a chair, ignoring the wad of gum clinging to the wall behind him and watching as a stray newspaper flew against the wall every time a train swept past. Only a few Muggles were drifting about at this time of night, stepping on and off of trains, their gaits off-kilter from drink. Other than those stragglers, Regent's Park platform was largely empty.

Walburga had told him this would cleanse him. She said—rightly—that he'd been different ever since Sirius had left; she reminded him that family came before anything else. Years ago, he would still have thought of Sirius as family. He was still blood, wasn't he? But he kept his mouth shut. Mother had been very clear about Sirius's standing, and Regulus was no longer so naïve as to oppose her.

He knew that this cleansing was not meant for him. This was the cleansing of the bloodline. He was cleansing the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black of its blemishes, and he had to ride along the Bakerloo line with a handful of Muggles and his hotheaded brother to do so. Mother had a lot of metaphors for this sort of thing. Her favourite was "pruning the dead branches so the healthy ones would flourish," but Regulus always remembered the one with the weeds. "A gardener," she always said, "to make his garden beautiful, will not just cut off a weed, but pull it out by the roots. This way, the weed cannot grow again and bite back."

With this in mind, he watched the entrance to the platform steadily.

He hadn't seen Sirius since their school days together, but he recognised his brother all the same. He wore a battered leather jacket, and his hair was longer than ever, tied back in a messy knot at the back of his head. Four years ago, Regulus would've felt some sort of love for the man, but it had been warped into anger, and now all he wanted was to throttle an apology out of him.

If Sirius couldn't love Regulus enough to stay, he could at least fear him enough to regret what he'd done.

The next train came then, preceded by a roar from the tunnel, and as it stopped with a hiss, Sirius climbed on. Regulus, adding a lick of speed in order to arrive in time, followed.

The train set off. It was nearly midnight, so only a few Muggles joined them in the carriage. It was eerie how no-one spoke or made eye contact. Eerie how even Sirius didn't look up to scan his surroundings; this was why he didn't see Regulus. They were metres away from each other, at opposite ends of the car but separated only by cool air and blue seats.

Looking at his brother now, he couldn't bring himself to avert his eyes. Because what was he doing? What was he willing to do for the good of his family? (His own good, he reminded himself firmly.)

The tube rattled, and the rails were lurid colours, and the air conditioning breathed up into his neck. All he could hear above the noise of the train and his pounding head was: "This train terminates at Stanmore," and that stranger is my brother. Sirius Black.

Three Muggles got off at Baker Street, and as the doors closed, Sirius finally looked up to see Regulus standing there and flinched away in shock. It was only the brothers and one last Muggle on the train now. She stared into her lap, stoned and oblivious to the tension all around her. Grey eyes met grey, and each of the wizards took defensive stances opposite each other, struggling to keep their balance as the train pulled into the next station. Regulus put his hand into his pocket, clasping his fingers around the smooth wood of his wand, feeling the familiar weight and nodding to Sirius as if to say, 'I'm ready.'

They spent minutes standing there, eyes locked, and anticipation crawled up and down Regulus's spine. There was an unspoken agreement, despite Regulus's allegiances, that they would wait until the woman was gone before they began. For this exchange, they needed to be alone.

When they stopped at Swiss Cottage, the woman finally stood, wobbling towards the doors and stumbling out.

Regulus drew first, and before the train was even moving again, he yelled the first curse, forgetting duelling etiquette all at once and submitting to the anger he'd harboured ever since his brother had left him alone in the tomb that was Grimmauld Place.

Sirius ducked, and the spell hit the back window, smashing the glass and letting in the sound of the rails: harsh shrieks and groans to rival any banshee. He returned with a hex of his own, which was neatly blocked with Regulus's shield.

"Expelliarmus!" Regulus tried.

The simple spell was thrown aside easily and countered with a wordless jinx. It sliced through his weakened shield and drew blood at his shoulder. Regulus swore at his brother in anger, but it was whisked away in the noise of the tube.

In the midst of their fight, the train stopped at the next station, but the doors opened and closed without admitting any Muggles, so they ignored it, trading hexes smoothly back and forth in a clash of harsh light and colour.

Regulus found his feet bound to the floor with a sticking charm and returned with a mild Reducto. The low ceiling collapsed to crash down onto Sirius's head. The man cried out and fell.

While he was distracted, Regulus sent another Reducto towards him, smashing the window. Thick shards of glass tumbled into the carriage, spilling over Sirius's prone body.

As Sirius started to pick himself up, Regulus flicked his wand, and each of the glass shards lifted up before lowering again to drag deep cuts across Sirius's skin. He yelled out and thrashed where he lay, trying to bat them away and only slicing his palms as he did so. Regulus pulled back before it could do any substantial damage. He wanted a real fight. Besides, he enjoyed watching Sirius struggle at his feet.

Blood dripped down his angled face in long lines of red. Regulus felt oddly satisfied that he'd finally touched his brother. He watched with pride as the blood ran. At least Sirius was looking at him now.

"Fuck you," Sirius growled once he was free of the glass.

"You can keep that for the half-breed," Regulus spat back, summoning all the poison he'd been building towards his estranged brother. At that moment, he wanted Sirius to fear him. They were long past the stage when he wanted his brother's attention and love. After years of neglect, he wanted Sirius to regret what he had done. He wanted to see him on his knees, begging forgiveness. Maybe then Regulus would feel whole again, would find his cleansing, as Mother had said.

With a dog-like snarl, Sirius leapt towards him. The force knocked Regulus's wand out of his hand, and he grappled for a moment before stiffening at the feel of a pair of sweaty hands locked around his neck.

His brother's face was nearly touching his own as he felt his neck being squeezed tighter and tighter. "You'll never win, Regulus. Just give up, why don't you?"

Regulus choked, trying to force air back into his lungs, and his hands still moved blindly, searching for the lost wand. His vision clouded for a moment as the pressure increased, before it was all gone and he gasped and gasped, sitting forwards onto his knees and staring into the floor.

A pair of shoes stood before him, and he felt a flash of humiliation at his position, kneeling in front of his brother, but the need for air was more pressing than his dignity.

"That'll teach you," Sirius's voice said from above. "Why the fuck did you do that?" It was clear he was trying to cover his upper-class accent with curses and a smoker's rasp, and Regulus nearly laughed at the vanity of it. Sirius had always cared more than most for appearances. "Orders from your superiors, I presume? I bet there's a fat skull-and-snake on your arm, isn't there?"

He didn't answer, too busy trying to look around covertly for his wand.

Sirius's tone grew bitter. "Or was it just Mother?"

Regulus couldn't see his wand, so he looked up instead, feeling the spring in his knees from where he crouched. "You left me," is all he found inside himself to say.

There was a look of regret on Sirius's face, washed away when Regulus pounced, knocking away Sirius's own wand and tackling him to the floor. They grappled blindly, fighting like Muggles, pounding their fists anywhere they could reach.

The physicality of it was oddly satisfying: the flashes of pain between each hit, his brain blocking out anything but his next move. A knee to the groin. A kick to the shin. A punch to the nose. He hit his head on the plastic seat behind, and as Sirius pounded him, a dull weight settled into his skull. He battled past it with flying fists of his own.

The train announced that the next station was Wembley Park, and all of a sudden Regulus felt himself being pushed off. A spark of pain blossomed in his shoulder as he hit the ground at the wrong angle, and he could only watch as Sirius grabbed his wand and leapt off the train.

"Please mind the gap between the train and the platform."

Scrabbling for his own wand, Regulus pressed the button to hold the doors an extra few seconds. He turned and looked towards his feet to see the wand roll off down through the gap and onto the tracks.

He swore and jumped off the train, watching as the train with the caved-in roof and the blown-out windows shot away into the inky blackness. As its sound retreated, Regulus leapt down onto the tracks.

"Reg?" Sirius's voice echoed behind him. "Regulus, what in Merlin's name…?"

"My wand," he said. "My wand's down here."

He squinted into the darkness at his feet. Putting his hand on the rails, he could feel the slick grime against his palm and distant vibrations from the train. He was dimly aware that they were outside now, but the moonlight didn't help him find the wand, and the floodlights above didn't reach down onto the tracks.

"Shit," he muttered.

A thump sounded as Sirius jumped down to join him. "Didn't know you could swear."

"Shut up." Regulus frowned. He knew he should leap onto Sirius, to hurt him, to kill him, but that would be suicide without a wand, and he was rather tired of fighting the brother he had once loved. The energy had left him the moment he stepped off the carriage. "Actually, just … go away. Go away or I'll—"

"You'll what? Curse me? Do remember, little brother, that we're currently looking for your wand. In fact, I'm helping you out here."

He scoffed. He didn't need Sirius's help. Sirius, after all, had been the one who left him. Sirius had never helped him in his life, and if he really wanted to help, he'd simply summon it towards him.

The coldness in Regulus's heart told him that the only way his older brother could help him was with Sirius's death and whatever that caused, whether it be the cleansing his mother spoke of or at least adamantine proof that Regulus was the rightful heir rather than a runaway Gryffindor.

He looked up at his brother and watched a bead of blood drip down his face. Loving Sirius didn't work, and now hating him had failed as well. Sirius was uncaring and unafraid and unreachable.

"What I'm doing … it's not for the Dark Lord."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"No." He turned away and put his back towards his brother. "It's for me." There was a beat of fragile silence before Sirius let out a harsh bark of laughter and Apparated away. Regulus turned, the crack of Apparition still ringing in his ears, and stared into the empty space where his brother had stood.

Regulus was left searching the empty tracks for his wand, holding back his tears with every ounce of control he had.

He had wanted Sirius to love him and had been left alone in Grimmauld Place. He had wanted Sirius to fear him and was left scorned and humiliated and certainly not "cleansed". For all his mother had promised, he had grasped the weed and pulled out only a handful of dirt.

At that moment, he was nothing but a brotherless boy alone on the Bakerloo tracks.