(A/N) I'm just going to blithely continue this even though I have only two reviewers (thank you Wryn Flint and Thessaly) because Regulus will not get out of my head.
Regulus Black, age thirteen, stared out of his window at the stars, going through their names in his head. He was the only one in his year who had gotten full marks on every astronomy exam, and he never studied. Each star up there was a name and a face and a history. Cousin Andromeda, Cousin Bellatrix, Second Cousin Altair, First Cousin Once Removed Polaris, Great-Great Aunt Capella. Sirius. It was an odd way to mourn his brother, to sit and stare at the sky. Sirius had always hated sitting still, and had never been much of a stargazer either. Sirius had been one to get things done, and laugh while he was at it. He could talk you into things you'd never think of doing on your own, then talk you out of trouble afterwards.
He had been able to. Past tense. Sirius Nigellus Black had died that morning, so far as his family was concerned. He'd run away, abandoning a privileged life as a proper Black to live with his mudblood muggle-loving friends. When Mrs. Black had found her son's note, she'd grabbed Regulus' arm and dragged him to the upstairs parlor, shoving him into one of the black horsehair chairs with more force than she usually used on Kreacher. Huddled there, Regulus watched as she approached the Family Tree, a tree of stars held together in odd constellations that didn't match the ones he saw in the sky at night. Here and there in the odd patterns were supernovas, spiky and burnt at the edges, black as soot rather than silk thread, where a name and a star were obscured. Sometimes Regulus had sat in this room, studying the family history there on the wall, remembering the names and deeds of his ancestors, giving them what immortality and love he could, and sometimes wondering about the ones who were burnt out. What had they done to get that way? Who had they been? What had meant to do?
"Look, you!" Mrs. Black shrieked, calling Regulus' attention to the newest burnt mark, right next to his name, so close the a trail of soot split the R in half. "Do you see? Do you understand?"
Yes, Regulus understood. Sirius was dead, a supernova, gone and forgotten, a name no child would ever sit and study and wonder about, just another spot of soot on the wall. "Yes, Mama. I understand."
He accepted the implicit agreement in that statement. He would never be Sirius, never recognize him as a brother, never ever love him like he was Family. Not that Sirius had ever been a loving brother. Ever since he'd gone off to Hogwarts and been Sorted into Gryffindor, their mother had made a pet of Regulus. By the time Sirius was home again, more moody and abrasive than ever, Regulus, young enough that he still believed his mother implicitly, hated his brother. And that hate was returned tenfold when, two years later, Regulus was Sorted into Slytherin, like a good Black.
Ever since then, all Regulus' memories featured Sirius shouting, Sirius sulking, Sirius scowling. In only one did his brother smile, and that was when Regulus had, just once, caught sight of Sirius alone with his friends, laughing at some joke. Then Sirius had seen his brother and the laugh morphed in a scowl, a shout of "What'd you think you're looking at?" before Regulus could duck out of sight.
Ranging his mind back, Regulus searched for some memory, any memory, before they hated each other. Finally it came. It was fuzzy, more an impression than a memory. Just the light of bright sun in a green garden and the feeling of hands helping him up. And a high child's voice crying, "Look, Baby, you got half way across!"
It would have to do. Letting the memory float out into the night Regulus sat vigil for his brother. Tomorrow, he wouldn't have a brother, would never have had a brother, would never have known anyone named Sirius Nigellus Black. But tonight, just for tonight, he would watch the brightest star flicker in the sky and remember a name and a face and a history.