Disclaimer: Not mine, etc.

Author's Note: This is my second attempt at writing Regulus, who is really turning out to be a fascinating creature to explore—at least as far as I know of the Regulus-muse that has invade my mind. I like that he is dark and yet simple; loyal and yet treacherous at the end. Canon gives so little as to this character's true nature, leaving most up to the reader's imagination, yet the quick glimpses it does give of Regulus and the grave residence of Number 12 Grimmauld Place before and during the first war is intriguing, mysterious, and dark. So enticing.
As such, I want it to be known that though I would not classify this as a dark fic, it does deal with the disturbing themes of incest and parental verbal abuse. I have not given this a very high rating, as its sexual and language connotation are relatively light, but I must warn you: This piece contains INCEST, if that is not your cup of tea, Do Not Read. It may also be known that this is a early companion piece to In The Rose Garden.

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In The Darkness

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Mother is screaming again.

This time it is coming from the parlor. A ravenous, half-mad sort of rant, I can imagine her dark eyes wide in fury, spittle flying from her mouth. Again, it is he who angers her so, who draws out her temper in a cacophonous wind. Her voice makes the tapestries on the wall vibrate and the deep olive curtains of the drawing room shake; her voice could make a rose wilt and blacken Yet still it does not seem to tame her first-born son, hair as ebon as the night, and eyes a fiery gray. He shouts back at her, though it does not reach her pitch in volume, it matches her threatening tone with his anger. His righteousness.

I wonder idly if they shall end it all now, kill each other and let it be done. This thought is disturbing, and yet oddly comforting. I look up at Father to see if he also suffers this damnable tumult.

Father is sitting still in his black throne, eyes pinched at the book in his lap. Yet he does not take in the words; instead he sits morbidly silent like Death Himself and listens as I do to Mother spin dark webs of terror with her vile words. He makes no sounds, and though I know he can feel my pleading stare at his temples, he makes no utterance to comfort me. Black men do not need comfort; they have power and riches enough to suffice.

I turn my attention back to the door where Mother's shrieks issue; so loud and forceful I think my ears will bleed. Suddenly she is quieted and the silence that ensues terrifies me more than their fights ever have. My breath catches in my lungs and I can feel my heart beat upon the imprisoned air. So this is it; the end. He has finally done it.

Just as my fear threatens to escalate into panic, before I am tempted to leave my prone position by the heat of the fire and rush to Father in a trembling, child-like mess, seeking solace from a parent whose nature defies the term, Mother screeches his name. It is a terrible sound; one of resentment and violence, coming out as more of a hiss than an actual name, belying its further implication of… Is it fear?

I quick make the calculations in my head of the things I have known Mother to fear. Sirius and his actions were never one of them, apart from the disrepute he brings to the family name and the unsavory characters I have seen him with at school. Yet his true nature has never been one to cause Mother any anxiety, for as much as he likes to condemn it he is truly a Black and pride and blood command him. There should be nothing that allows Mother to call for him this way, and yet underneath I still hear it. The quiet desperation of her voice, begging with all maternal skill she possesses not to abandon her to her dreams and nightmares alone.

His only response in the heavy pounding of footsteps of the stairs to his room.

I am too caught up in my own world of implications, questions, and silent understanding to hear Mother's frantic footsteps to the drawing room. It is only that I notice when she bursts through the door, neat, black velvet robes hugging close to her lithe frame and yet swirling around her, dark hair streaming loose from the upward style of pins and elegance and dark eyes wild. I jump a bit at the sight of her, never having seen her so disheveled and out of her element of superior black angel. She rushes to Father and throws the book he still stares at lifelessly onto the ground. Its red leather binding gleams in soft glow of the fire. There, clutching the arm of his robe frantically, does she finally inform him in a low, subtle hiss of past actions:

"Your son is abandoning his position in the family," she whispers scornfully. Father looks at her, brown eyes large and unseeing, and then turns to me, still lying prostrate on the hardwood in front of the flames. Her eyes turn to me and narrow. They both stare at me without speaking, willing me away by sheer icy contempt. I take my cue to leave and exit the room in a scurry, careful not to trip on the deep moss rug by the door.

The warmth of the fire has left me as I traverse the halls to a second staircase; it leads to the attic, to the room he made his long ago. All I can feel is the ice of her stare chilling the blood in my veins and I wonder if he has felt this strange icy grip as well. I wonder when it will turn his heart and mine to stone.

I find the dark wood of his door somberly closed, though not locked. It cannot be locked to anyone with proper Black blood running hot in their veins. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if the coldness of my being thanks to my mother's rebukes has created an impossibility of speaking to my brother, but I quickly shake off the thought—more unsettling tonight than on others—and grasp the simple knob with a quick turn. The door swings open with a hindering creak to reveal my brother pacing about angrily as if an animal trapped in a cage. His school trunk is open, though it is still two weeks before the term starts, and several items of his personal favor have found their way into its domain.

Stepping into the room as silent as a ghost, I close the door behind me with a soft clip of wood against wood. It is this almost unbearable sound that draws his attention to my presence. He rounds on me as if prepare to strike, only to straighten and stare dumbly when he realizes that it is only I. His gray eyes are round and steely in determination and rage, though they glisten with unshed tears. Sighing, he drops gracelessly onto his bed, weight sinking lines into the dark, rich fabric, and hides his face in his hands.

Quickly I go to him, setting myself precariously by his side, and wrapping my arms around his heaving shoulders. He immediately shrugs me off but I am persistent and eventually coax his head to cradle on my chest, like a lover comforts the other, like a mother consoles a child.

"Regulus…" he whispers petulantly, a hiss so much like hers, before allowing me to continue my administrations.

I stroke his hair, blacker then the blackest night, tangling its silkiness around my fingers and brushing through its unconfined snarls. His hair has always been lengthier than mine, and now is no exception. It hangs, when freed of any tie or constraint, past his shoulders, brushing softly at his clavicle. A raven veil of satin to protect him and mourn him as he whimpers his woes into my shirt collar. His arms tighten around my waist and I shush him gently as he fights back the overwhelming tears.

Tears still come; they dampen the skin at my throat and the corner of my collar. Tears of hate, tears of fear, tears of desolation, tears of love. I lift his face and brush the offending drops away from his pale cheeks. I want him to know that I do not share our parents' regard of him, that I will always love him for he is my brother, my companion through childhood, my protector. I love him with a power that threatens to engulf me in flames with its fierceness. To see him in pain is like death in the shape of a frozen dagger at my heart.

He looks at me, eyes red from crying and face devoid of color from his trials. I run my thumb over the softness of his cheek, wiping away the tears that no longer mare his perfect flesh and turn my eyes to his. The gray I find there is stormy and turbulent, blue emerging like waves of a sea and gold flashing like lightening. There is some unspoken passion resting silently threatening in the depths and I gasp slightly as his gaze drops to my half-parted lips. His are red and full in contrast and I can feel the air being sucked from my lungs as he lurches forwards and captures my mouth with his.

The kiss is not soft, nor sweet. It is the antithesis of this, a raging storm of anger and hurt and desire unbound by propriety and vengeance that I saw mirrored in his eyes just a moment before. I open my mouth to gasp again at his forcefulness and he uses the intake to slip his tongue, cool and wet, into the depths of my mouth. My head swims at this contact and I can only think of how wrong this is and of how I want more… His unbridled desire is crashing through me, resonating in my every nerve. He crushes his mouth against mine, deepening the kiss even more, and my hands falter at his face, reaching out to entwine in the smooth black locks that hang around his shoulders and tickle my neck with our close proximity.

Just as suddenly as he initiated the kiss, he deceases and retreats, standing above me like an avenging dark angel. It takes a moment before I dare look up at him.

His posture is rigid and stiff, reminding so closely of Father's when he is going to reprimand me for some slight injustice on his patience. His dark hair frames his face in soft waves, glistering dark and sleek in the faint shadows of candlelight. His face is passive, black almost, and I fear if I meet his eyes I will find loathing and disgust at our transgression in those pearly gray depths. I muster my courage and look, but all that awaits me is a smoky reminder of the pain that once was and a sad, almost resigned look of acceptance.

This emotion I had not been expecting and its revelation causes my lips to quiver in unspoken sympathy, his name escaping them in a quiet murmur. "Sirius…"

The sound of his name seems to strike a cord within him, bring him back to his dismal reality and he casts a quick look about his room and his packing. In a flowing, graceful movement, he turns on his heel and walks to the door, as if to exit. For a second, I fear he will, but instead he merely opens the door, letting it swing wide and display the gloomy hallway in the background. He stands simply by its frame and does not make any move as to what my next action should be. I take it from the open door that it is my cue to leave.

I stumble up from the bed, still dazed from the kiss and the secret that its passing now locked in my heart, first unleashing a power I did not know existed and then grasping for each tendril of this emotion before it flew through my entire body and destroyed my resolve completely. Quietly, keeping my eyes downcast as to not force an unwanted conflict between us, I prepare to pass him into the hall. Just as I step through the passage he has allotted me, he grabs my arms and draws me towards him.

At first I think he means to kiss me again, and though it should be a thought revolting, I feel myself perk at the prospect and meet his eyes readily. Yet they are still quiet and sad, like they were a moment ago, completely devoid of the intensity they held yet not five minutes past, clouded over with some inner thought process. He places his lips near my ear and whispers, his voice wrapping warm, moist wisps of curiosity around me heart and sending goose bumps down my spine.

"I am leaving, Regulus," he murmurs tenderly.

My eyes spring open with this sudden sense of lost and I begin to pull away so that I can look at him in truth, yet having three years on me he is taller and stronger and uses the brute to his advantage by holding me subjective.

"Tonight. I am going. I am not sure where yet, but I will find a place. I assure you. I cannot stay in this death house anymore." His words grow cold and twisted as he says this and they send shivers down my back.

It is then that he releases me and I stare back at him in shock, unsure of what to say. I can feel the waves of impending doom crash down upon me when I think of what Mother will do when she finds him missing and they seem to pulsate through me, leaking water from my eyes like tears. Sirius stares back at me with mixed emotion, some pity, some assurance.

"I do not know why I told you. I just… I wanted you to know, Regulus."

With that, he escorts me from his room with a forceful, yet gentle shove, and I find myself back in the hallway, staring impenetrably into his room as he moved about once more collecting his things he wished to take. As if just noticing my presence, he raises from dropping two books into his trunk and flashes me one of his most charming smiles that rumor has it cause the girls to go weak in the knees. I must admit, I feel as if my legs are giving out under my weight.

"I'll see you in two weeks, at school," he tells me softly, smile still lingering mutely in his eyes as he rises to close the door in my face.

Just before the door closes, in the one final moment I feel I am going to share with my brother—not just in the house where we grew and bonded, but in the life where I am the worshipping younger brother and he the doting elder—he leans down, closing the distance between our four-inch height difference, and places a chaste kiss on me lips. Then he closes the door with a slight chik and I once again am emblazoned in darkness.

Shuffling down the stairs to the level that contained my bedroom, I touch my lips reverently, still feeling the blazed fury of the earlier kiss and the tender promise of the second. He would not abandon me as he has abandoned them; he would not leave me for the light and the warmth of his righteousness while I stayed here and froze in the chilled darkness of decorum. I smile to myself at this gift—for really that is what I viewed it, a way out of a dragon's den—and closed to door to my own room, safe in its shadowed clutches.

If only I had known then that he would not keep his promise, whether he ever intended to or not, and I would be left to find succor with another love, another master, to ease the pain of his betrayal.

— Finis —

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