A deafening crack rippled down the street as I staggered onto my doorstep. I nearly crushed a black lump of fur – a cat, judging by the way it hissed and bolted down the sidewalk. A moment later, a confused Muggle who lived a few houses down opened a window to peer in my direction.

Ordinarily, I would've been appalled by all this. It was the middle of the night, I was wearing all black, and I'd just caused a disturbance that might have been mistaken for a gunshot. But tonight, I wasn't feeling much like my ordinary self, and I couldn't have cared less about being reported to the Muggle police. I had much bigger problems to worry about.

As soon as my feet touched the ground, I had the jarring, icy-hot sensation of someone running a sword along my left arm. I grimaced when I pulled up my sleeve and saw blood shining in the moonlight. A sliver of skin had been sliced off the side of my left hand, from the tip of my pinky to a few inches below my wrist. Should've known, I scolded myself, more annoyed than alarmed. Apparation was dangerous to perform in an unstable state, emotional or otherwise. Luckily, despite the grisly trail of blood, the cut wasn't deep.

The broom in my other hand seemed to buzz with indignation. Flying was familiar territory. Logically, that would've been the safer option for travel. That was how I'd left, after all. But ever since I'd fled from the Death Eaters, logical solutions weren't coming to me as readily as usual. All I'd known a few seconds ago was that I wanted to put that deserted road behind me as quickly as possible. I'd Apparated without even thinking.

Merlin, I'm a wreck.

I fumbled hurriedly with the doorknob. I'd suspected that I'd have difficulty passing through the austere front entry of Number 12 Grimmauld Place knowing it would probably be my last time doing so, but the mess of emotions swirling in my mind left no room for nostalgia. The embrace of home was like a vice grip tonight, pulling me urgently, imploringly inside, and I had no desire to deny myself its promise of comfort. I headed straight for the bathroom to tend to my wound with a Tergeo and a few careful drops of Dittany.

I tried to focus as I worked, but traumatic images plagued my mind: blood red light gleaming in my cousin's frenzied eyes; a flash of homicidal rage tightening pale snake-like features; the lifeless, frightened gaze of Adrian Lee, my classmate who had failed the Dark Lord one too many times; Kreacher shaking on my bedroom floor, sobbing, soaking wet, and covered in tiny red lines where claw-like fingernails had broken his wrinkled skin.

My breaths started to come in shallow gasps. Longing to clear my mind, I took a deep breath and fixed my eyes on the bathroom mirror. My face – so like the faces of my father, my grandfather, and my brother – had seemed thinner and paler lately, and my cheekbones more pronounced. My disheveled black hair reminded me unpleasantly of the Potter boy that Sirius was always with. Gray eyes seemed to swim into the mirror where my dark ones should've been. A new image appeared in my mind: an unyielding, steely-eyed glare reminiscent of Father. His voice seemed to pierce me:

"Why should I care? You're not my brother."

I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing instead on my trembling fingers as I resealed the bottle of Dittany. Stop thinking about him. He's not your brother.

It certainly wasn't the first time I'd thought those words. I'd probably been saying them aloud at least once a month since I'd gone to Hogwarts. How many times had I said that when the other Slytherins tormented me about him, or when the Death Eaters questioned my loyalties? By seventeen, I'd even convinced myself that I meant it – until one night in November destroyed the walls that I'd been diligently building between us. "Kill him," Bellatrix had ordered me, as if he was nothing more than a piece of rubbish that needed taken out. As if I could look at that face and see anything but the arrogant, bold, stubborn, protective, and utterly infuriating person I'd grown up with. As if I could kill anyone so easily, let alone my own brother.

Instead, I'd done the opposite: I'd helped him escape.

Afterward, I'd felt immensely grateful that I'd once overheard Severus Snape, my senior by one year, giving his friends a crash course on Occlumency and Leglimency over dinner. I could still picture those chilling red eyes scouring my mind for a split second before I'd had the good sense to look away. I'd bowed my head under the guise of shame and given the Dark Lord a semi-false report: that the prisoners had gotten the best of us. Seeing as Bellatrix and Rodolphus had also been incapacitated, I'd gotten off easy. Still, my punishment hadn't been pretty – but I'd been allowed to live, and thanks to Sirius's Memory Charm, no one had been the wiser about my treachery.

That night was the beginning of the end of my career as a Death Eater. It was like an old wound had been ripped open, exposing a weakness that I hadn't even been fully aware of. I was usually quite good at keeping my composure – which was why I was a favorite choice for undercover missions. But after that night, I felt like I couldn't trust myself anymore. I was a liar and a traitor. How long could I feign unwavering loyalty to the Dark Lord when I'd failed so miserably at burying my feelings toward my wayward brother?

That incident was only one of many that led me to believe that I no longer belonged with the Death Eaters – and maybe I never did. Over the next few months, it became much more difficult to ignore a nagging, churning feeling in my gut, which I can only assume was my conscience. I felt like a ghost, a spectator to my own life, watching unsettling events unfold but never arguing for fear of retribution. The mark on my arm became like a manacle, a reminder of my grave decision, growing heavier and heavier with every suppressed emotion and unvoiced concern. After roughly two-and-a-half years of hiding in the background while my comrades carried out violent attacks, kidnappings, and targeted killings on Muggles, purebloods, and everyone in between, I'd had enough.

I decided to desert.

The move was dangerous, but not unplanned. I knew I wasn't likely to survive for long once the other Death Eaters learned of my treason, but the thought of taking my life back into my own hands made me feel more alive than I'd felt in years. I'd seen a lot of death during my time with them, and the idea of dying was no longer as frightening to me as the idea of withering to old age in uncomfortable silence. It also sounded more promising than the idea of a world ruled by a wizard as callous and cunning as Lord Voldemort.

Still, I didn't just want to throw my life away…but I didn't have many options. I couldn't trust the Ministry to help me; half of its members were under the Imperius Curse by now, and I wasn't about to risk being sent to Azkaban by the half who weren't. I'd considered going to Dumbledore and asking for protection in exchange for information, but I wasn't sure if I had much useful information to give; I often felt convinced that Dumbledore already had a spy among the Death Eaters. Plus, begging for help from the leader of the resistance didn't sit right with me, given that I'd been so deeply invested in thwarting his cause until recently.

I didn't detest the idea of living as a fugitive – I was quite good at blending in, and I thought I might take a chance at leaving the country and avoiding the war all together – but that seemed like a truly shameful alternative to staying in London and fighting back in my own way. Until a few minutes ago, I still hadn't decided between those two options. If I chose the latter, I knew I would likely die trying. But I now realized that the former presented a different problem. I suspected that wandering around in a new country and being constantly on edge would feel no more dignified or righteous than lingering in the presence of coldblooded murderers.

Either way, I knew I couldn't stay in my childhood home after tonight. I would rather live on the streets than endanger the residents of Grimmauld Place with my decision – a decision which I knew they must never know about. The thought filled me with a dull, throbbing loneliness. I had no desire to tell Father – we were never very close – but I would've liked for Mother to see me for what I was, or at least what I was striving to be. I was no longer a Death Eater, nor a meek follower, nor a proud supporter of the ways of Lord Voldemort. I was a truth-seeker, a fighter, and a traitor. I refused to live in silence any longer. And the people who I cared about the most would never know – could never know.

It was for the best. I didn't expect my family or friends to understand, anyway, and I had no desire to influence them. Judging by the way the war was going, they were safer sticking to their old beliefs. I couldn't expect them to fight with the passion that had overtaken me – the sense of responsibility that weighed on my soul like a great, unpayable debt.

There was only one person who I felt I could confide in: someone who had already pitted himself against Lord Voldemort, and the very same person I'd tried stubbornly to detach myself from for years. Clearly, I'd failed.

The idea of talking with Sirius seemed to light a fire in me. Once it had entered my mind, I could think of nothing else. I craved the justification and the release that the simple act of telling someone my decision would bring. I'd waited outside his flat (or rather, I patrolled the area of London where I thought his flat was located) for almost twelve hours.

As soon as I'd cornered him, I'd realized that in my yearning to be understood, I'd overlooked one simple fact. The reason why I trusted my brother with this information was the very same reason why he couldn't trust me. Ever since I'd joined the Death Eaters – and for a long time before that, I'd realized – Sirius and I had lived more or less as enemies, inextricably linked by blood and yet firmly divided by our beliefs. I may have come to see his side in recent months, but that confession couldn't erase years of animosity and discord. There was still a war going on. We were still enemies, in the sense that I still had the Dark Mark on my arm. I couldn't expect my brother to change on a dime and trust me, just like I couldn't expect my mother or father to change their beliefs and fight with me.

I supposed some childish part of me was hoping to earn my brother's approval, to glimpse that hopeful glimmer in his eyes, or to see that faint worry line appear between his brows – any signal that he hadn't completely detached himself from me either. Instead, he'd berated me and rejected me, and the weight on my soul had doubled over. The stabbing pain in my chest returned as I remembered his cold glare and his low, even voice: "You're not my brother."

I would've rather been Splinched ten more times than hear him say that again. I remembered the first time I'd said it, when I'd gotten into an argument with my friends in first year. I'd called Sirius a lot of awful things that day: a blood-traitor, a misfit, a disgrace. I'd been so desperate to separate myself from him – unlike the year before, when he'd been at Hogwarts while I'd been stuck at home, secretly missing his company and worrying that he'd forgotten all about me.

I supposed it would've been different if I'd had to say it to his face.

Stop thinking about him.

Measuring my breathing, I returned the first-aid kit to its cabinet and headed into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea: a necessary distraction. I focused on the process and the mundaneness of it all: finding my favorite cup, heating the water, picking the leaves. I had always been good at keeping myself busy and keeping my emotions in check…unlike Sirius.

What should've been a Steeping spell shot crimson light from my wand and shattered the teacup. I winced and cursed softly at the noise. Every shard seemed to pierce at my chest, an explosion of mistakes. Great. I'll bet I've just woken up Mother. I imagined her coming down the stairs in her nightgown, with tired eyes and an annoyed frown, and I had a disturbing desire to smirk. Somehow, I'd managed to enrage everyone I knew in one night. It must have been some kind of record.

I would've been concerned for my sanity if I wasn't busy wondering how I was supposed to face Mother's disapproval when I couldn't even collect myself enough to make a cup of tea. I didn't think I was stable enough to talk to her now without breaking down and telling her everything. I decided that I couldn't let her see me like this; I couldn't let her know the truth.

I hastily cleaned the mess, reassembled the broken teacup, and left it abandoned in the sink. Then I crept up the stairs, hoping to slip into my room unnoticed. When I reached the top landing, I flinched so badly that I almost stumbled backward. My mother was standing in the hallway in her white dressing gown, with her wand lit and her thin eyebrows furrowed. Her pale skin shone ghostly gray in the wandlight, and her eyes were solid black as they zeroed in on my face. I quickly looked at my feet and whispered, "I'm sorry I woke you. It won't happen again."

Mother continued to stare at me for a moment, and I wondered if she could see my hands shaking. Then she suggested, "Shall I make you a cup of tea?"

Her gentle tone caught me off guard. It must have been nearly one in the morning. I had expected a scolding, or a disappointed scowl at the very least. But the irritation in her eyes didn't seem to be directed at me.

I hesitated long enough for her to decide for me. Her frown deepened, and she put a firm hand on my shoulder. "Come now. You look wretched."

Sheepishly, I allowed her to guide me back to the kitchen. I should've felt grateful, but all I could think about was how badly I wanted to linger here and let her fuss over me day after day. Her kindness made me feel like I was eight instead of eighteen. The mark on my arm prickled, reminding me that I couldn't afford to be weak right now.

I watched uneasily as my mother prepared some tea in a cup twice as large as the one I'd used. She glanced over her shoulder and raised her eyebrows at me. "For Merlin's sake, boy, sit down." Cowed, I sunk into a chair and fixed my eyes on a knot in the kitchen table, steadying my breathing as much as possible. "You've been working too hard lately," Mother went on in a huff as she returned her focus to the tea. "You're away for days at a time, and you hardly leave your room whenever you do come home. What's more, you look like you've been starved half to death! What sort of missions are they giving you?"

"You know I can't tell you that, Mother," I answered quietly without looking up.

She sighed in annoyance. A few seconds later, she was placing a huge cup of tea in front of me and sitting down in the chair next to me. I thanked her, wrapped my hands around the warm cup, and took a long sip, doing my best not to pull a face. I didn't have much of an appetite at the moment, but the hot liquid in my throat was a welcome distraction from the uncomfortable churning in my stomach.

My mother reached out and smoothed my hair, tracing her fingers along my scalp in slow, smooth strokes. The tender gesture surprised me, but I didn't question it. I closed my tired eyes and melted into the soothing feeling. For that blissful moment, breathing was a little easier.

When I opened my eyes again, Mother was wearing a troubled frown. Her expression reminded me that Sirius was still wrong about a few things. Our mother could be strict and uncompromising, and she had a vicious temper that often outmatched our father's, but she wasn't heartless. The thought lit another fire in my chest, and a childish question spilled out before I could stop it:

"Do you love me?"

My mother blinked at me, stunned. Apart from anger and pride, emotions were not common topics in our house. However much it was implied, love was not typically a part of our vocabulary. I never would've voiced that question when I was younger, no matter how infrequently I heard the answer. But now that the urge to speak out had consumed me, I couldn't help but ask – and since I didn't have much else to lose, I didn't care much about the consequences. I wondered if this was how Sirius had felt all those years. I was beginning to see how rebellion could become addicting.

After a moment, Mother straightened in her chair and said in a somewhat exasperated tone, "Don't be absurd. Of course, I love you. You're my son."

Once again, I felt disconcerted when I should've felt relieved. I thought I'd anticipated her answer, but the last part made my stomach twist. She'd never given me a reason before. "Do you love Sirius, then?" I pressed.

I'd expected her to be angry with me. Ever since he'd run away, speaking my brother's name in this house was the equivalent of tracking mud all over the carpet. My parents had done their best to enforce the belief that I had tried and failed to cultivate in myself: that Sirius was no longer a part of this family.

But when I asked that question, it wasn't rage that filled my mother's dark eyes. For a few seconds, she gazed at me like I'd just nailed her feet to the floor. Then she sighed and removed her hand from my hair to squeeze my shoulder. Her voice was firm as she chided me, "You're fretting over foolish things, Regulus. You must be exhausted. You should be in bed."

Her blatant avoidance of the topic told me that I wasn't going to get a straight answer out of her, but I didn't need one. The pain and frustration stirring in her eyes was enough. Clearly, she hadn't been able to detach herself from Sirius either – at least not completely. Guilt clawed at my stomach. I grimaced and looked at the table, wondering how poorly she'd react if she knew that she was likely about to lose her other son too. "I'm sorry," I mumbled.

Her expression hardened, and she gave my shoulder another squeeze as she stood from her chair. "Will you be coming upstairs soon?"

I nodded and lied, "I'll finish my tea first."

She frowned at me again, and her tone softened. "You shouldn't overwork yourself so much, Regulus. I know how dedicated you are to this cause, but you mustn't lose yourself along the way. You'll be no use to anyone if you're ignoring your own needs. Do you understand?"

I forced a small smile. "I understand."

"I want you to get some rest tonight. Use the Dreamless Sleep Potion in the bathroom if you need to."

"Yes, Mother."

She started to leave the kitchen, but she hesitated in the doorway. With a strange look on her face, she marched back over to me, planted a kiss on my forehead, and said, "Your father and I are very proud of you." She turned and left before I could do anything more than stare.

As the door closed behind her, I realized that I now felt even worse than before I'd spoken with her. Drained, I rubbed my face with my hands. You shouldn't be proud of me, I thought wretchedly. I restrained an urge to jump up from my seat and run after her. I wanted to tell her how I'd changed. I wanted to beg her to understand, to forgive me. More pathetically, I wanted her to pull me close and refuse to let me leave home. I wanted to be protected from the horrors that I'd seen – and the ones that were soon coming.

Instead, I closed my eyes and waited until I heard her bedroom door creak shut. Then I stood and wandered numbly up the stairs, leaving the cup of tea to turn ice cold.