On the stoop, Dumbledore turned back one last time. "Remus will be back soon," he said, and then he was gone. The ancient door swung shut behind him, swirling tiny cyclones of dust in its path.
For a long moment, Sirius stood there staring at the dark, carven wood, his mother's Cerberus. The old spell was lifted now, Dumbledore had seen to that, at least, before he left, but he was no less trapped for it.
Boards creaked overhead and he jumped in spite of himself and found himself staring at the world through Padfoot's eyes. He shook himself in irritation and transformed back. It was only Buckbeak moving about upstairs. He climbed the steps, padding silently past his mother's sleeping portrait, long practice in stealth serving him well. The hippogriff looked up as he put his head around the door.
"Comfortable?" he asked.
Buckbeak stretched out his neck and snorted, sending up a cloud of dust.
"Sorry," Sirius said, as the hippogriff sneezed. "Scourgify." The dust disappeared and Buckbeak settled his head back down and closed his eyes. Sirius closed the door softly behind him and continued down the dark hallway. His own room had been stripped bare long ago, only the mattress and bedframe remaining. He performed another quick scourgify and lay down to the familiar creak of springs.
Ta-ta-rum, ta-ta-rum.
Sirius's eyes snap open.
Ta-ta-rum.
He sits up and stares at the blank wall at the head of the bed. The wallpaper is cracked and yellowing, and from the other side the soft knocking comes again. Cautiously, he raps out the reply. There is a staccato burst of knocking from the other side and then silence. Sirius counts … ten … eleven … twelve. At thirteen, the door begins to swing slowly inward and a figure stands silhouetted against the dim light from the hall.
"Where have you been?" it whispers petulantly. "I wanted to play."
Sirius swallows hard, his blood running in his veins like ice. "Away," he whispers hoarsely.
Regulus comes silently into the room and looks down at him. "You're different," he says, frowning.
"You're not," Sirius retorts.
The boy laughs. "Of course not. I'm a Black. We don't get ugly. Not like you. What have you been doing?"
"Are you a ghost?" Sirius says.
Regulus laughs again, merrily. "Don't be ridiculous," he says, but he jumps away as Sirius reaches toward him.
"How do I know you're not if you won't let me touch you?" Sirius says roughly.
The boy grins. "Trust, I suppose. Isn't that what brothers are for?"
Sirius frowns. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen," Regulus says, looking puzzled.
"But you were nineteen when you …" Sirius begins.
"Quiet," Regulus says sharply. "It doesn't matter. You're home now."
"This has never been my home," Sirius snaps.
Regulus tilts his head and looks at him sadly. "Of course it is. You're a Black, even if you have got ugly. You still haven't answered me," he adds crossly, after a pause.
"I was in jail," Sirius says.
Regulus laughs. "No, really!"
"I was," Sirius insists.
His brother rolls his eyes. "Blacks don't go to jail. We don't get caught."
"Well," Sirius sighs, "When was I ever a proper Black?"
Regulus laughs. "True. That must be why you're ugly now!"
"Probably," Sirius agrees.
"So you really were in jail?" his brother asks.
"Yes."
"That must have been exciting!"
Sirius stares at him for a long moment. "Why are you fourteen?" he asks finally.
Regulus's smile disappears. "Why did you get caught? You never got caught, it was always me and then mother …"
"Why are you fourteen?" Sirius interrupts firmly.
His brother sighs heavily and looks away. "Because," he says, "I wanted to be happy."
"Were you?" Sirius says. "Were you ever?"
Regulus steps forward and reaches out a hand to touch his cheek, wincing as it passes through. "I was," he says. "I was happy with you."
Sirius sucks in a sharp breath. "No, Regulus, that wasn't…"
"I've missed you," his brother says, kneeling at his feet.
"I …" Sirius begins, scooting backwards on the bed.
Regulus reaches out a pale hand. "Don't leave me again," he whispers softly, eternity in his eyes.