With the war over, there was no need for the Order of the Phoenix. By extension, there was no need for a headquarters.
Sirius had tried giving Grimmauld Place away, but no one wanted it. (For good reason, he thought.) No matter how much scrubbing and painting and redecorating and horrible-portrait-removal he did, the very energy of the place was just wrong. It wasn't a proper place for Remus and Tonks to raise young Teddy; it didn't make a good bachelor pad for Harry. He was getting so desperate, he was ready to gift the deed to the Weasleys without asking, just to see what would happen.
Well, probably not. Sirius wasn't sure he'd even be able to sell the house, but he certainly didn't want to live in it anymore. If he had his way - and he definitely would - he'd be living in a luxury flat in Diagon Alley for the rest of his life and never have to look at Grimmauld again.
Let it rot.
The first stage to even trying to sell it, though, was cleaning it out. Which meant going through every room and choosing what to sell, to give away, to burn, and very slightly possibly to keep.
He flew through every other room in the place, with most hidden-away things getting burned: books of dark spells, love letters between cousins, all the things you might expect to find in Orion Black's home. The problem was Regulus's bedroom.
Sirius had always had a complicated relationship with Regulus, and it had only gotten more confusing when Harry had gently told him that Regulus had been a Death Eater, yes, but that he had betrayed Voldemort. He'd died for the same cause that Sirius had fought for, and he never told a soul. Sirius had been… a mess, for quite some time.
And so he'd avoided Regulus's room. Until now.
Parts had been easy; Slytherin garb and old textbooks could be passed off to shops for used things, pillows and blankets and linens could be cleaned and given to Muggle women's shelters or whatever other place Hermione Granger decided they should go to. (She was the main manager of donations; Sirius would honestly have otherwise just thrown everything away. Or burned it. It was terribly poetic, though, for all these linens to be given to Muggles in need.)
Some parts he knew would be difficult. There were knick-knacks that Sirius just didn't know what to do with. They were inoffensive, just not to his own taste, and he felt strange giving them away. There was Regulus's Hogwarts diploma, framed in gold. Handwritten notes that made Sirius swallow thickly even if they were completely asinine. And then there was the box of photos.
A wave of vertigo had overcome Sirius when he first saw it. The box was shoved to the back of Regulus's closet to be dealt with later. He didn't really have to go through it, but for some reason, he just had to.
And now later had come. With a glass of Firewhiskey in hand, he settled down at Regulus's desk (now devoid of books, supplies, notes, decor) and creaked open the little box. There were books upon books of photos in other rooms of the house that had been summarily burnt, but this box had to be pictures of Regulus, and he couldn't just destroy these without looking.
He sighed heavily and pulled out the stack.
The pictures all had his brother in them, of course, but all of the photos with a younger Regulus also had a younger Sirius. He began to get the strangest feeling about this box.
There were many of an older Regulus - not an old Regulus, there had never been an old Regulus. Him with his Prefect badge, in his Quidditch robes, standing next to Andromeda at her graduation (before her disowning, of course). But the photos from their childhood were what Sirius was really drawn to.
He paused when he came across a picture of the two of them in front of a cauldron, both soaking wet and sporting sheepish smiles. The photo was in sepia, making their clothes look stained a dusty peach, but he remembered the day vividly, and that potion had definitely been bright, cobalt blue. Sirius had, unfortunately, always had a very good memory of his childhood.
It was 1968; Sirius was only eight years old, Regulus only seven. They were thick as thieves, then, and always getting into some kind of mischief together. It was the sort of mischief that his family could excuse still, of course - things like combining things from a children's potions kit without reading the instructions.
"Are you sure that can go in there?" Regulus had been skeptical, but Sirius was cocky even then, completely sure that he knew what he was doing with fluxweed of all things.
"Use your brain, Regulus," he'd said confidently, stirring haphazardly, switching directions and almost splashing potion over the edge of the cauldron. "It's a stupid flower. There's no-"
"Do you hear something?" his brother asked in a hushed tone.
Sirius paused his stirring, the momentum of the potion keeping it swirling for a moment. As soon as it stopped…
Boom!
Like he would later learn, fluxweed was mutable, changing colors and properties easily based on the rest of the ingredients; the potion had been impacted by something else he'd thrown in, though he had no idea what.
More importantly, it had erupted. By the time their parents had come running, the brothers had collapsed onto each other on the floor, laughing hysterically. When they realized their parents were there, the laughter had died down and they finally realized the extent of the eruption: the fine rug below them was splattered with the thick, blue, paint-like substance, and there were even little splatters across the ceiling.
Walburga had taken a deep breath, but Orion had simply gone to one of the shelves, grabbed a camera, and snapped the picture Sirius was currently holding.
It was a good memory, and Sirius's skin crawled. He didn't like to remember that his parents had once been… normal parents. Loving.
It hadn't lasted, obviously.
He flicked through other childhood memories, not wanting to linger, but a few photos later his eyes caught on another. They were at Platform 9 ¾, the first of September in 1972, and Regulus was headed to his first year at Hogwarts. Sirius had already been sorted into Gryffindor, putting pressure on Regulus to go straight to Slytherin. Even Ravenclaw would've caused trouble at that point, even the two brothers knew that, and that was typically a safe choice for the discerning Black son. Not for Regulus, however; the Blacks had a reputation to uphold, and Sirius wasn't looking promising. They needed back on track.
Sirius wasn't disowned yet here, and he remembered being forced into this picture. He looked uncomfortable and was glancing from side to side, searching for his friends in the crowd. Regulus, though, was smiling brilliantly… up at Sirius.
He watched the photo loop through, ignoring his own discomfort and focusing on his little brother's expression. He hadn't seen the worship in his brother's eyes then, but there Regulus was, practically starry-eyed. If Sirius had noticed, would -
No. It wasn't worth considering.
Sirius had spent a solid week avoiding the first Slytherin to be sorted that year, but finally Regulus had found him alone.
"I'm sorry we aren't in the same House," he'd said, shifting his weight nervously. "The Hat just… well, you know." Sirius hadn't said anything, hadn't even made eye contact with him. At the time, he'd thought Regulus was stupid, but he could recognize the hopefulness in his voice now as he remembered the way Regulus asked, "We can still be friends, yeah?"
"No, no we can't," he'd said harshly. His brother was a stupid Slytherin, and his stupid parents were just so proud, and now Sirius was the Black black sheep and just the biggest disappointment and - "And you know that."
And then he'd stormed away. Avoided Regulus as much as possible for six years. Graduated.
And then his brother died.
Sirius forced what-if and if-only and any other useless fucking thoughts to the back of his head and flung the photo across the room. It spun into the door. He'd get it later.
The next photo was just Regulus, older now, standing in front of his portrait on the family tree. He would've been freshly seventeen if the portrait was new. He still looked like a child.
Every other picture in the box had been of the two of them, Regulus's private stash of some kind of emotion towards his brother, and for a second Sirius thought this must've been mistakenly categorized. The little looping Regulus, though, kept glancing to his side, eyes flitting to a blast mark on the wall next to his portrait.
It was Sirius's blast mark, and Regulus kept looking at it. Your portrait day was traditionally a happy day, but putting the pieces together, it was no wonder Regulus looked pensive. If he was seventeen, then he only had a year or so left to live. He was certainly involved with Voldemort by this point, Marked by this point, whether he had decided yet to betray the cause. His brother was probably learning Occlumency based on the emotionless mask of an expression he bore, but something in his eyes betrayed his wistfulness with every glance.
It was a melancholy photograph. He supposed if Regulus had kept it, he was probably already decided against his Dark Lord. He wondered what his motivation had been, if it had truly only been the way Voldemort had treated Kreacher or if somewhere deep down Regulus had found room in his heart for Muggleborns.
Maybe he just didn't want to fight. He wasn't like Sirius, he never thrived off aggression and action and potion eruptions and loud, boisterous laughter.
Maybe he just didn't want to fight Sirius.
He suddenly found it hard to breathe, hard to swallow. The room was too stuffy and he was too warm and he needed to leave, but he couldn't.
His brother had betrayed Voldemort and had probably died for it. If Sirius had just…
No. It wasn't worth considering.
He hadn't, and he couldn't now.