July 1976
He closed his eyes painfully, surreptitiously. Hidden behind his long hair, that made his mother proud.
"Surely, Orion, we could beat some sense into the boy," his mother said in her screechy, not quite all-there voice.
She had been saying this over and over again for the whole morning, and Regulus' throbbing headache firmly reminded him that yes, he had endured the whole thing.
How he wished he could say fuck-all and run to Sirius.
Bile lodged itself in his throat and he swallowed, painfully.
"It doesn't work," his annoyed father said. "It doesn't work, Walburga. No. We'll have to make do."
With the spare were the unspoken words. At least, his self-depreciation thought.
Not that he'd never been called that, in a particularly nasty fit.
Walburga Black continued to talk to the room about how her first son was a disgrace, sullen with filth, ruined by Gryffindor and Dumbledore and everyone.
"And you," she said, her vicious eyes turning on him.
His father left the room.
Regulus didn't say anything. He knew better. Still, his mother had a target, and he closed his eyes again, this time with resignation.
"Couldn't have you stopped him? Surely you knew of his manigances, the mongrel? He would have confided in his younger brother, wouldn't he?"
Her fingers yanked on his hair, tugging his head back. Their eyes met. There were unshed tears in hers.
"Mother," Regulus said, in what he had hoped would be a firm voice, but came out as a whine.
"What?" she yelled. "Mother, you call me, you filthy disappointment, while the proper heir thinks he has none!"
His fingers itched for his wand, but it was tucked away upstairs. Walburga had locked it up, because she didn't want Regulus to run away, too.
"You can't – you can't hit me, I'm seeing him in two days. Mother, please. I haven't done anything."
When Regulus mentioned him, her eyes softened somewhat. Mellowed with something akin to fear.
Her fingers became cajoling and he fought the urge to vomit once more.
"No," she said lovingly, stroking his cheek with the back of her index finger. "No, my darling, you're quite right. You're making your mother proud, are you not? My darling, beautiful, only boy."
He nodded earnestly. "I'll never leave, mother. I'll always make you proud."
That night, she visited him again.
May 1978
They were graduating soon.
He watched from afar, half-hidden. The tree he had sat under provided both solace and hiding, and he stood there, his fingers clenched on the rough bark.
There was his brother, with his swarm of friends, laughing, clad in his leather jacket, his regulation uniform in disarray.
And here was Regulus, his uniform prim and proper, prefect badge on his chest, hair carefully cared for.
They could not have been more different.
He had made it so.
"And, Prongs, think of the marvels we'll see! It's a bit of a shame we won't be able to do our Grand Tour, but oh well, I suppose we'll have more important things to worry about come this summer, won't we old chap?"
His voice had never lost its posh inflexions and to see him bumbling about reminded Regulus of their father when he had been very little. Before the fall from grace of the Blacks, when they had visited the Wizenmagot and father had lorded over the place. It had impressed both of them.
Before the eldest Black male had associated himself with filth and the well-known mental illness of their mother and the whole family's dreadful spending habits had slowly but inexorably made them fall.
Sirius probably wouldn't like that he shared some of his mannerisms with his father in social settings.
There was, Regulus thought, some irony there. Because he, himself, had no social skills beyond what had been forcefully drilled in his brain as a child.
It paralysed him.
He shouldn't have been the heir.
Desperation clung to him and he had to fight the urge to call to him. Come back. Take me with you. Anything, anything but this on his own.
Not alone. Not without his brother.
Sirius didn't look his way, and Regulus didn't call.
He watched his brother make his way back into the castle with his friends. Only a month, and then NEWTs, and then, probably nothing for a long time.
He swallowed bitterness and sat back against the trunk, watching the depths of the lake and wishing it'd swallow him whole.
July 1978
It hurt.
It hurt more than anything before and probably anything after. The brand was on his arm, slithering, ebbing with power and malevolence, and he bit back yet another scream, trashing in his linen sheets.
"My darling, darling boy," his mother crooned from his bedside. He felt her clawed fingers reach to touch his cheek, and he instinctively jerked back, the movement sending another wave of agony in his arm.
"So, so proud you've made us," she said.
"Leave," Regulus managed to croak.
There was tense silence, only broken by his father's cough.
"Please, leave," he amended. "Please. I'm feeling ill. I would hate for you to see me vomit. Please. Send Kreacher."
His eyes were screwed shut and he missed the look his parents shared.
If he had seen it, maybe he would have felt as if they, too, were desperate, and they had only given him to this monster out of this very feeling. Desperation.
He knew how it felt.
But he didn't see, and they never said, so no one shall ever know.
"Kreacher!" his mother's voice hit like a whip, and the elf was in the room a moment later. Abused, near-broken, whispering apologies and praises for his masters.
"Take care of the boy," Orion said in his broken, whisp of a voice. Make sure he has everything he needs. We shall not need you tonight or tomorrow. Focus on the boy."
I have a name, Regulus wanted to scream. As if it was relevant.
"Yes, Master," Kreacher said, and then they were gone, and the dry, parchment-like hands of his elf were on his forehead. "Oh, Master Regulus, sir," Kreacher sighed.
Regulus began to cry.
November 1978
There was rain. Of course, there was rain.
His mother complained about the weather and what the humidity did to her joints as he led her, ever the dutiful son, to her seat.
He felt nothing.
She sat down and was fussed over by Great Aunt Callidora, and he took the opportunity to flee for a while.
"I'm so very sorry for your loss," a voice said, and he glanced up to find Abraxas Malfoy haughtily watching him. "To lose a father at such a young age."
Regulus nodded before remembering his manners. "Thank you, sir," he said respectfully, shaking the man's hand. "He will be dearly missed."
And he would be. Not because of his loving disposition because truly, there wasn't too much of that, but because he could calm some of his mother's worse tempers.
"And will young Sirius be in attendance?"
Regulus stiffened. It was an obvious slight. Everybody knew Sirius wouldn't be there.
"I couldn't know, sir."
Malfoy hummed and gave him one last look, before gliding away to someone else. Someone with more interest. Someone with a better family, a better prospect.
His Mother called him back to his side, and he obliged, going on some errand to fetch a drink from the catering service.
He didn't get the chance to pay his respect to his dead father.
He didn't even notice the shaggy black dog under a tree in the distance.
Not that he would have understood what he saw.
Sirius shifted back and Apparated away.
January 1979
The plan had gone to utter shit.
"RUN!" Regulus bellowed, glaring at Barty. Barty met his glare under the mask and shook his head resolutely.
Regulus fought the urge to curse him and ducked to dodge an angry-looking spell.
It nicked the mask and sent it flying – he hadn't re-cast the Sticking Charm. It clattered on the ground.
He lifted his head in shock, trying to find his bearings, trying to calm his racing heart, and their eyes met for the first time in almost a year.
"YOU!" Sirius bellowed, lifting his wand again.
Someone next to him matched his stance and Regulus dully registered the other man as James Potter, shock obvious on his face.
"WHO'S THAT, BLACK?" Moody yelled from where he was duelling another Death Eater.
"You're one of THEM! I knew it!" Sirius roared as he advanced on Regulus.
The younger brother frantically searched for someplace to hide, just as Barty shot a spell their way. He deflected it effortlessly and Stunned Barty, fueled by his rage.
"It's his brother, boss!" James called back.
"This is not a fucking social call! Disarm and Stun him!"
Potter tried to do just that, but Regulus protected himself just in time.
"RETREAT!" Abraxas Malfoy's voice rang in the cobbled street, and Regulus broke into a cold sweat.
He Disapparated on the spot.
Sirius' furious face was the last of him he ever saw.
July 1979
One year.
One whole year with the wretched Mark on his skin.
The house felt suffocating. His mother was everywhere, less and less sane by the day – she followed him around, struggling with the stairs, one moment loving and trying to touch him and the other brutal, ruthless.
He had bruises all over his arms and legs where her cane had hit him and he wished the old hag would fucking die already.
"You know they're filth, my love?" she said that night, tucked with him in bed. He shivered, repulsed. "You know that, my darling? They're nothing. Dirt beneath our shoes. Maggots to be destroyed. The Dark Lord will bring that, and with it, the House of Black will be reborn. You'll see that, Reggie, you'll see. You'll find the dawn of our renaissance marvelous I'm sure. I hope I'll be there, but… My health… Oh, Sirius. How I wish I could see it."
She sometimes couldn't tell who he was. Sometimes, she forgot that his brother had abandoned Regulus.
He wished he could, too.
"Mother," Regulus said in a hushed voice. "You need your potions. Kreacher! Escort Mother to her room, please."
She protested but lacked lucidity and Kreacher coaxed her out of the room and into her own. Finally, finally, silence. He stared at his Slytherin furniture, then at his ceiling, and sighed.
How he wished everything could be over.
"Master Regulus, please, stay with Kreacher," the elf pleaded. "Mistress will be up soon and what should poor Kreacher tell her then?"
"That I'm away," Regulus replied curtly. "That he's called me. I need to breathe, Kreacher, I'm going mad here. Please, please tell her I've been called away and that I'll be home in a few days. Please."
Kreacher seemed conflicted but eventually nodded, bravely, and Regulus hugged the elf gratefully. "Thank you, my friend," he whispered, squeezing tight. "Thank you."
He left through the front door.
He rarely did – as it was his own home, etiquette didn't require him to Disapparate outside, and he mostly used the Floo to travel anyway.
The last time he'd seen the square where their townhouse was built was, oh, maybe ten years before.
The view, as always, astounded him.
He was dressed oddly, he knew, in his black robes, but most people didn't look at him at all. They were all going about, their metal boxes roaring as they transported humans inside. He watched in confusion, unsure where to go, before electing to follow a man that was walking leisurely through the neighbourhood.
Once he lost that man, he followed another, then a woman, then a flock of children, awed at what he saw.
When her mother said Muggles were filth, she meant it. She thought that they still lived in dirt huts, shoved urine and faeces outside for the children to play in, and were incapable of talking.
Regulus knew, of course, that it was wrong, since the few Muggle-Borns he had met had been educated and could talk properly just like he did.
It was another thing to be a witness to how deeply wrong his family was.
They were happy, and numerous – and there, he thought, was the gist of the problem. They were many. Too many. Probably tens of times the Wizarding folk. The children were dressed in bright colours, and he saw one woman with impossibly tight trousers, made of an odd blue fabric.
He drank it all in and walked until late afternoon. He found himself outside a big building, with columns and red drapes hanging near the entrance, swarmed by people. He clad himself in a Disillusionment Charm and followed a group of Muggles inside. They had to pay to get in, but Regulus didn't have any Muggle money and couldn't risk converting some in Gringott's. He made his way through and visited what, he learned, was called a Museum.
It was breathtaking.
The art – the art was unlike anything he had ever seen. He followed guides around where they explained the artists' visions, their lives, their speeches laden with words he couldn't understand. He admired for several minutes, transfixed, a statue of a mother cradling her son's body in her arms. When he felt he had walked for hours and had only covered a part of the Museum, people said that it was closing and everyone walked to the exit, talking animatedly about everything they'd seen and how amazing it all was.
They were far more educated in art than he was.
His mother would have had a fit at the revelation.
Once outside, he endured the hot air, not quite ready to find somewhere to sleep.
He walked aimlessly in busy streets, admiring the shops before his stomach grumbled loudly as he crossed paths with someone holding and eating something that smelled marvellous.
A few meters later, he found the place where he had gotten the food, and it all seemed exquisite.
He looked on mournfully as a beautiful woman bought the dish, wrapped in newspaper. Their eyes met as she turned to leave.
"Are you hungry?" the woman asked in a slight accent, cocking her head to the side.
Regulus looked back to see who she was talking to, but there was no one else paying attention.
"Yes, you, silly," she laughed. "Are you hungry? Do you want one?"
His Disillusionment Charm must have faded then. He nodded hesitantly. "I'm afraid I don't carry any money, though," he warned.
"That's fine. I can cover for ya. Another one, please, love," she called to the other woman behind the stand. The cook nodded and, moments later, he was eating what was apparently called fish 'n' chips. It was absolutely lovely, and he said so to his new companion.
"You're british, and you've never eaten fish 'n' chips?" The woman said in astonishment.
Regulus shrugged. "I had a somewhat sheltered childhood."
"I'll say," she said softly as he destroyed his food. It was the best food he'd ever tasted.
Hours later, she got up from the bench they had sat on. The sun was showing its first rays. Regulus stifled a yawn. "You got somewhere to sleep?" she asked, and he said no, and she smiled and held out her hand.
Her name was Abayomi and she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
"You're not going anywhere, are you?" he asked against her skin. "Please, tell me you'll always live here. So I can find you."
"Or you could stay," she said, laughing. "I'm not staying in this dingy flat forever, Reggie."
She was his first and he wasn't hers, and for two days they lived out the most passionate relationship he had ever had, and he was forever grateful for the short reprieve of humanity in what had become his life.
But she was a Muggle and she was black, and he vowed as he left in the smallest hours of the morning to come and find her when everything would be over, for then he could marry her.
She would never see him again and wonder all her life where the lost posh English boy had gone and whether or not he was still alive.
She searched and searched, but Abayomi never found any record of Regulus Black anywhere.
November 1979
As Kreacher left the dreadful cave, he saw her weep in his mind and accuse him of the worst things – of the things he'd done.
When he drank from the foul, cold water and dead hands clung to him, dragging him under, he thought of her, the softness of her skin, the beauty of her eyes – and then he thought no more.