I was nine years old. Our mother was out running errands, and our father was "watching us" – which really meant that he was holed up in the library and doing his best to ignore us. As was my tradition, I waited to hear the soft crack that signaled our mother had Disapparated. Then I marched into Regulus's room to bother him – a gesture that was still welcome at the time.

My eight-year-old brother was sprawled on his floor in a whirlwind of colored pencils, wood shavings, and scrap parchment. He was always hiding in his room and doodling when he was bored. (I used to tease him about being the recluse of the family, which enforced my belief that karma is a bitch.) A few discarded drawings showed a flaming pirate ship, a velociraptor, and a wizard with a top hat who was pointing his wand a flock of birds.

Regulus barely glanced at me as I plopped down next to him and leaned over his work in progress: a picture of two black-haired boys standing next to a huge furry dog. I assessed the drawing with a frown. "Why is my nose so big?"

Regulus pursed his lips. "I only draw what I see."

"I think you need glasses, then."

He shoved me, and I gave him a teasing smile. "I'm kidding. It's pretty good. Is this for Mother?"

Placated, he shrugged. "I thought it might convince her."

"Because the last twenty times worked so well?"

"I haven't tried drawing it before."

I shook my head. "At this point, we'd be better off asking for a cat. We're almost school age. We can't take a dog to Hogwarts."

He wrinkled his nose. "I hate cats."

"No, you hate Cissy's cat, because it hisses at everyone but her. I hate that demon too – but you can't blame the animal. Pets learn from their owners."

"You shouldn't talk about your cousin like that," Regulus chided me.

"You're smiling."

He turned back to his drawing to hide his guilty amusement, and I beamed. It was moments like this that proved to me that my goody-two-shoes brother still enjoyed my company, even if he wasn't so keen on playing with me anymore. That part usually took some convincing. So, I put on a wicked smile and reclined on my back, with my head right next to his sketch.

"Mother isn't home."

His pencil stopped scratching the page as he looked at me. "You're mad if you think I'll play that game again."

"That isn't a 'no'."

He sighed and put his pencil down. "We can't, Sir. Last time, you broke an end table, and Mother made us clean whole house without magic. And the time before that—"

"She only caught us last time because the portraits started shouting," I interjected. "I could've fixed the table before she noticed if Phineas hadn't snitched on us. And the time before that was a fluke! How was I supposed to know that our great-great-grandma made that blanket?"

"Mother banned us from playing it."

"Mother will be gone for at least an hour. She'll never know."

"What if we break something again?"

I waved my hand dismissively. "I told you, I can fix it. My magic is getting stronger. Remember when we broke your window? They never even found out."

Regulus seemed to be running out of arguments. "What if Father hears us?"

"He won't care. If anything, he'll just yell a bit and then act like it never happened." I pouted at his hesitant expression. "Come on, Reg, we haven't played Lava Tag in a month! I know you want to."

The eager glimmer in his eyes told me I'd won. I started to grin. After a few seconds, he smiled too.

"Fine, but I get to hide first."

Lava Tag was a convoluted (and sometimes destructive) game I'd come up with: a mix of hide-and-seek, tag, and the-floor-is-lava. It was essentially hide-and-seek-tag, but neither player was allowed to step on the floor the entire time, including while they were chasing each other.

The first few rounds went relatively smoothly. Then Regulus decided to use a pillow as an escape route. I was just about to tag him when he jumped and overshot his landing. His pillow slipped on the hardwood, and he stumbled forward and caught himself on the side of a bookcase.

That wouldn't have been an issue, if not for the black ceramic urn that teetered off the top shelf.

The following CRASH was like the loudest sound I'd ever heard. As the airborne ashes settled around us, I had the distinct feeling that this unfortunate soul wouldn't be the first member of the family to have their remains strewn across the living room floor.

Regulus gaped at the explosion of ceramic and ash like he'd just woken up at a crime scene and discovered he was the murderer. His shock morphed into terror as he met my eyes. That expression kicked me out of my stupor. "I'll fix it," I told him, trying to sound calm. Meanwhile, I was wondering how on earth I could gather up all that ash, magically or otherwise.

Regulus's eyes widened as a door creaked open upstairs. Heavy footfalls echoed toward us. "Do something!" He hissed.

There was no time for a real solution. I frantically combed the room for anything that wouldn't look conspicuous draped over a lumpy pile of debris. For lack of better options, I grabbed one of the couch cushions. "We'll cover it up with this. We can say we were using it for the game."

"Sirius. Regulus."

The two of us tensed, cushion still in hand. Our father stopped at the foot of the stairs and scanned the room with the intensity of a serial killer plotting his next victim. He was an intimidating wizard with black hair, piercing gray eyes, and a somber voice that could make a grown man cower. When his eyes found the shattered urn, rage rippled across his face. "Who did this?"

"It was an accident," Regulus replied weakly. I was surprised he had the nerve to speak at all.

Father raised his eyebrows. "Is that what I asked?"

Regulus looked like he was about to cry. Before he could say anything else, I blurted, "It was my idea."

I wasn't sure what had come over me. Maybe I was afraid that Regulus would be less likely to do anything with me if this went poorly for him. Maybe his fear triggered an inverse reaction in me. Either way, I was used to being scolded, so I thought I might as well take the brunt of Father's fury – especially if that meant that the only person I really cared about wouldn't resent me later.

Our father's glare had the same effect as a Stunning Spell. I watched stiffly as he walked over to us and took a long look at the shattered urn. When his eyes met mine again, gray on gray, I felt a bit like a pincushion.

"These are my grandfather's ashes."

I tensed. My great-grandfather had died before I was born, but I knew enough about him to understand the significance. In my family, names were often passed down from older generations. I was technically the third Sirius. The first died before he reached school age...and the second was currently painting the floor at my feet.

By the look in my father's eyes, I was starting to think I'd follow in my first namesake's footsteps.

"This was your idea, Sirius?" He echoed darkly. He seemed to be confusing the word idea with intention. I figured it wouldn't do any good to correct him. I considered going back on my word, but Regulus's helpless expression convinced me not to. I nodded slowly.

The change happened faster than I could react. One second, my father was towering over me with a haughty, solemn anger – business as usual. The next second, one hand caught my arm in a vice grip and the other held a wand to my chest. He stooped and shoved me against the wall, knocking the air out of me. His nose was nearly touching mine. A whiff of alcohol lingered on his breath.

"Do you think this is funny?"

I shook my head, unable to look anywhere but those thunderstorm eyes. My heart was pounding with panic. I'd never seen my father so angry.

"Do you realize that this house has been passed down for generations? Do you think you can run around breaking anything you like without consequences?"

"N-no..."

"I've had enough of your wild behavior," he growled viciously. "Your mother and I take excellent care of you. We've tried to teach you to be sensible and well-mannered – and you repay us by stomping around this house, pulling your nonsensical pranks, and disrespecting your namesake? Perhaps it's time to change tactics. Words don't seem to sink in."

"Father, please don't," Regulus whimpered, grabbing his wand arm.

"Go to your room, Regulus," Father snapped at him, trying to shoo him off like a pesky fly.

Regulus didn't let go of his arm. "It's not his fault!"

Father either didn't believe him or didn't care. "Go to your room," he commanded again, with a glint in his eyes that added, Last chance.

Regulus swallowed. He tightened his grip, stuck up his chin, and demanded, "What are you going to do to him?"

I was so shocked that I began to wonder if this was a dream. I knew firsthand that it took more than a spontaneous rush of defiance to stand up to our father; it took a will of steel. I'd always thought of Regulus as a timid kitten, who preferred playing by himself and often ran at the first sign of conflict. This boy in front of me was a roaring lion, charging into battle to defend his pride.

Was that sudden rush of courage a product of my influence? Or was it something else entirely – something distinctly his?

Regardless, Father didn't seem to appreciate this new side of Regulus. "Let go, you insolent child!" He growled, jerking his arm. Thrown off balance, Regulus staggered into the same wobbly end table that I'd broken a few weeks ago. His head collided with a sharp corner, and he fell to the floor.

He didn't get up.

Fear washed over me like ice water. Father stared at Regulus's limp form like he was the one who'd been struck. The sight seemed to drag him out of a dark tunnel. I couldn't help but think that it would've been different if it was me. I was the bad kid, the punching bag. It wouldn't have been the first time I'd been hit. But Regulus was the good kid, the softie. Our parents had never hurt him. This must have been unintentional.

That didn't make me feel any less sickened, though.

Regaining his composure, Father released me. He gazed with an unreadable expression at the broken urn and then at Regulus, who rolled onto his side and groaned. His eyes were still squeezed shut, but at least he was conscious. "Clean up this mess," Father told me quietly. Then he left the room like nothing had happened.

Numb with shock, I watched him go. I'd always thought my parents were overly strict and in desperate need of a sense of humor, but I'd never doubted that they loved Regulus and I, somewhere very deep down. The way my father just abandoned us made me question that for the first time. I felt torn between curling up next to Regulus or shouting something nasty at my father. I decided to take a leaf from his book and ignore him. There were more important matters to attend to.

Great-Grandpa Sirius remained forgotten on the floor as I knelt next to my brother and placed a shaky hand on his shoulder. "Reg? Are you okay?"

Pain knitted his eyebrows, and his voice was strained. "My head hurts."

More footfalls came down the stairs. I tensed, bracing for a fight, but it was only our batty house elf. "Kreacher heard a crash. Do the young masters need...?" The elf's jaw dropped when he saw Regulus. At least someone cared.

"Bring me the first-aid kit," I ordered him, and he rushed off. Kreacher definitely wasn't a Healer, and neither was I, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to try.

As I heaved my brother onto the couch, his eyes fluttered. Normally, his irises were so dark that they blended in with his pupils in low light. Now his eyes looked even blacker than usual, like two bottomless caverns. He squinted at the light streaming from the ceiling. It seemed to take him a few seconds to focus on my face.

"I think you have a concussion. You'll be alright. You just need to rest," I informed him. By nine years old, I'd already gotten into my fair share of collisions via broom, so I recognized the symptoms.

Kreacher returned with a small metal box filled with vials of liquid, plant clippings, and a few bottles of pills – all magical, of course. I searched through the labelled items for something that would help with pain.

"Sir? I think I'm..." Regulus gingerly touched the back of his head and pulled his hand away. My heart jumped when I saw the blood on his fingertips.

"Bleeding? Yeah, you are," I murmured as I located a bottle labeled Essence of Dittany. I managed to find the small cut through his dark hair – which was not easy. But when I tried to apply the Dittany, only a single drop fell from the bottle, and it landed a few hairs shy of the wound. I cursed and looked for a new bottle, but I had no luck.

If you want me to clean up your mess, at least give me a good way to do it, I thought angrily.

Kreacher was wringing his hands beside me. "What happened, Master Regulus?" For some reason, he kept side-eyeing me like I was some nasty stain on the wall...like Regulus getting hurt was my fault. Anger boiled my blood.

"I'm okay, Kreacher," Regulus told him softly. "It was an accident."

Kreacher shot me another dirty look and grumbled, "Foolish boy, always upsetting Mistress with his reckless games. What will she think when she sees poor Regulus...?"

"Get me an old shirt or a towel," I cut him off sharply. "Something I can tie around his head." Kreacher hobbled off again, and I continued to tear through the first-aid kit, trying to ignore my pulse thumping in my throat. "Why is there nothing in here for pain?"

"Doesn't Father use a pain-relief spell for his headaches?" Regulus suggested timidly. The kitten was back.

I gaped at him. "You want to ask Father for help? He hurt you!"

"He didn't mean to."

I sputtered, "He–he didn't–it doesn't matter what he meant to do! We didn't mean to break that urn, but we weren't just going to leave it there! If Father was going to help you, he wouldn't be upstairs acting like you don't exist!"

"Keep your voice down," he begged.

"I hope he can hear me," I raged, but I lowered my voice anyway, for the sake of my brother's headache. "People are supposed to fix what they break," I added bitterly, "especially if it's something important."

Regulus squirmed on the couch. I pressed a pillow behind his head to help stop the bleeding. I wished that blasted elf would hurry up. Our mother could clean blood stains with a simple spell, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to be furious when she saw it all over the couch.

"I'm sorry."

I flinched, startled. Regulus was watching me with big eyes full of guilt. "Shut up," I told him, appalled that he felt guilty about this. He flinched at my tone, and I tried to calm down. "Sorry. Just...don't apologize. This isn't your fault."

"Yes, it is. I broke our great-grandpa," he muttered miserably.

"Who cares about him?"

He stared at me in shock, which only made me more upset.

"Merlin, Reg! You matter a lot more than that crummy jar of dirt, and anyone who thinks differently has lost their mind!"

My brother went quiet. A moment later, Kreacher returned with a dark rag that looked like an old undershirt – a clean one, hopefully. As I tied the cloth over Regulus's wound like a headband, he smiled at the house elf. "Thank you, Kreacher."

Kreacher bowed so low that his hooked nose almost touched the floor. "Of course, Master Regulus. Should Kreacher tell Master Orion that—"

"Don't bother," I snapped briskly. "He doesn't care."

Kreacher wrinkled his beaklike nose at me. "What poisonous lies come from his mouth," he muttered under his breath. "Master Orion is a good man of pure blood—"

"Shut up already!" I yelled. "Go lock yourself in the basement! And don't tell anyone I told you to do it!"

Kreacher flinched. He opened his mouth to retort and clutched silently at his throat. After giving me another spiteful glare, he disappeared with a crack.

Regulus looked disappointed in me, which made him look a lot like our mother. "You shouldn't be so harsh with Kreacher," he murmured.

"I'll start being nice to him when he stops worshipping Father and treating me like a bloody animal," I responded furiously.

Regulus stared at me for a long moment, like he was wondering whether it was worth arguing with me or not. He sighed. "I know you're angry at Father, but it isn't Kreacher's fault. You should really call him back and apologize."

I glared at him. "Why do you care more about me yelling at our house elf than about Father knocking you out?"

He winced and blinked away the sudden sheen in his eyes. Then he said in a disturbing monotone, "Kreacher didn't do anything. I did."

My stomach squirmed as I stared at him in disbelief. He thought he deserved this. A fresh wave of anger washed over me, grounding me. "Do you think it was okay for Father to pin me against the wall and threaten me like that?" I demanded.

Regulus was frozen for a few seconds. At last, he shook his head, looking past my eyes.

"Then why was it okay for him to throw you into a table and leave you on the floor?"

His voice was small but determined. "Because I broke the urn, and I grabbed his arm when he told me to let go."

"Do you think Bella and Drom and Cissy get treated like that? Do you think Uncle Alphard would hurt you like that if you made him angry?"

He squeezed his eyes shut again. "I dunno. Maybe."

"No," I corrected stubbornly. "Parents are supposed to love their kids, and you shouldn't hurt someone you love. I would never hurt you that bad on purpose – and if it was an accident, I'd at least make sure you were alright."

Regulus stared curiously at me, like he was connecting the dots. I suddenly realized I'd never gotten so close to saying that I loved him. It felt strange just to think that phrase. Honest, open affection was hard to come by in our family. It just wasn't how we were raised. Emotions were vastly inferior to logic and formality. Mushy feelings like love were meant to be kept on a tight leash - infrequently implied, and never verbally expressed.

But why shouldn't you love him? A little voice in my head wondered. He's your brother. Siblings are supposed to love each other. I remembered the overwhelming fear I'd felt when he'd collapsed, and the anger and worry I was still feeling. The voice grew stronger. Of course you love him, stupid. What else could that be?

"You're weird," Regulus decided at last, pulling me out of my thoughts. I opened my mouth to argue, but he was smirking, and there was a teasing gleam in his eyes. He seemed to be catching on to my dilemma.

My nerves settled, and I traded my embarrassment for an annoyed pout. "I would hit you right now if you weren't already concussed."

"Didn't you just say you'd never hurt me?"

"Yeah, but I'm your brother. I'm allowed to hit you sometimes."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It's different," I said. Regulus raised his eyebrows at me, but I didn't feel like arguing with him anymore. Emotionally drained, I climbed onto the other end of the couch and stretched out so that my legs were next to his. "How's your head?"

"It doesn't hurt as much now," he admitted. "How long do I have to wear this rag?"

"Until the bleeding stops."

"I feel ridiculous."

"You look as ridiculous as usual," I joked, and he kicked at my legs. "Oi! Easy, Shinobi! Headbands are cool. If anything, you look better like this."

That got a chuckle out of him. Then he closed his eyes like he was meditating. For a long moment, I was quiet too. As I listened to his steady breathing, my pulse finally slowed. Everything would be fine. I would just have to be more careful around Father. This didn't have to change anything. Maybe my brother would be more reluctant to break the rules, but at least he didn't hate me.

"Why did you lie?" Regulus blurted abruptly. He sounded angry. When he craned his neck to look at me, his dark eyes were surprisingly focused – and his scowl was as stubborn as when he'd stood up to Father. The lion was back.

I blinked at him, taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"You took the blame for me. You said you broke the urn. Was it just so I would still play Lava Tag with you?"

"It wasn't about the game."

"Then what was it about?"

"I dunno. I just didn't want you getting in trouble," I admitted. He gazed at me like he was trying to see through me. I raised my eyebrows. "What?"

"You're not lying?"

"No."

"But...but that doesn't make sense," he ranted. "You would've been punished for no reason. You could've gotten hurt. Why would you do that?"

At first, his tone had scared me, but now I understood the root of his anger: he was worried about me. I felt touched. I smirked and rolled my eyes. "That's what brothers are for, isn't it? Besides, you tried to defend me too, so we're even."

Regulus didn't seem to have an argument for that. He was quiet for a solid ten seconds. Then he murmured, "Thank you." I didn't know what to say to that, so I jabbed his knee with my heel. "Ow! What was that for?"

"I just felt like it."

He pouted and retaliated. "Git."

That devolved into an aggressive game of trying to kick each other's knees from opposite ends of the couch – but we were both grinning.

In this house, teasing and mild violence might as well have been a profession of love.