A/N: Thank you to all those who'd read/reviewed/followed... oh, you know the drill.
The cold air was like icicles piercing through his face and Regulus instinctively buried his face into the collar of his jacket, trying to preserve some feeling left in his skin. Next to him Sirius was looking out at the dawn sea, his eyes wide. Sirius had insisted, with his typical bouncy enthusiasm, that he be allowed to accompany them on the fishing boat, and Peter had been in a good enough mood to agree. Regulus, on the other hand, was still unsure about letting Sirius see in all the mundane and gory details of his past year.
"So this is how they fish," Sirius said once they were in the safety of not being overheard. Peter had dropped them off unceremoniously by his house, telling them to have some breakfast. Sirius protested, but Regulus simply dragged his brother inside.
"Did you know," Sirius continued as they dragged their frozen bodies into the kitchen, "that wizards actually buy food from Muggles? Surprising, I know, but it's true. We can't conjure food magically, and there are very few farms devoted to growing vegetables and whatnot. So the stuff sold in our market actually comes mostly from Muggle farms and fisheries—"
"Sirius," Regulus said tiredly, "I'd been in charge of the family accounting since I turned seventeen. It would be hard for me not to know. Stop with your babble already."
Sirius's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, you were in charge of accounting?" he asked. Regulus cursed silently into the teapot.
"I asked Father if I could begin to get more involved in family matters," he lied smoothly. "So the transition would be easier. Father wasn't getting any younger and Mother was often tired." Sirius snorted, shaking his head at him half-amused, half-exasperated, and Regulus swallowed a small sigh of relief. Sirius bought the reasoning easily, as Regulus thought he would.
"Stuck-up git," Sirius muttered, but there wasn't as much malice in his voice as there had been yesterday. Regulus ignored his remark and went on making tea and a small breakfast.
"So what's the plan?" Sirius asked, munching on his third muffin. Regulus slowly put down his teacup, considering. The thought had been with him all morning, but he didn't want to show it in front of Peter.
"Well, we first get Peter something to eat," Regulus said matter-of-factly. Sirius gave him a look.
"That's not what I was asking, you git."
"We leave today," Regulus said. "As soon as we can. I can't afford to waste any more time." Sirius didn't say anything, but raised his eyebrow.
"What?" Regulus asked impatiently.
"Nothing," Sirius said. "The old man seemed quite keen on spending the holiday with you, that's all."
Regulus felt another stab of guilt straight to his heart. He knew this, knew that Peter had wanted to celebrate a holiday with anyone since the day his children left. And Regulus owed the old man some common decency, if not genuine affection and gratitude. But the task that was left to him—he could not put it off on the grounds of common decency. Could he?
"Sirius," Regulus said, his voice tight. "Every day, more and more people believe that the world will never see of Lord Voldemort again. Every day, people become more and more convinced that they're safe. And every day is just another day that Voldemort might have a chance to come back. It might be easier for you to forget since the imminent danger is gone, but I can't treat this like some chore that I can put off indefinitely. We have to act and we have to act now."
Sirius rolled his eyes at him. "You're obsessed," he said. "I've seen people who were obsessed, Reg. It's not healthy."
Regulus felt a flame of irritation alight again in his stomach. Merlin, could they never have a conversation that didn't involve irritation or shouting? "So what if I'm a little focused?" Regulus shot back. "This is a matter of life or death, Sirius. Do you want to see another wizarding war?"
"No," Sirius said, his voice impossibly reasonable. "But I don't want to see yet another person swallowed up by a goal that would destroy them."
Regulus decided to ignore the last sentence. If only Sirius knew… "Don't you agree that Voldemort must be stopped?" he asked instead. Sirius grabbed his fifth muffin.
"Of course I do," Sirius said. "But on our own time."
Regulus put down his fork agitatedly. "I—" he began.
"'Sides," Sirius interrupted calmly, taking a large bit. "I want to stay and see what they do for celebration around here. And you can't really do anything unless I'm with you, can you?" Regulus stared at him in disbelief, but Sirius ignored his outraged glare.
"After all," he merely said, "you're without a wand."
The final sentence drove the point home and that was how Regulus Arcturus Black, age twenty-one, the ninety-something-th heir of the Black family, ended up in the local church, the only building in the village large enough to hold more than fifty people at a time. Christmas lights were still hanging from the ceilings despite the fact that it was already New Year's Eve and people where chatting avidly, animatedly, most of all his own brother, who seemed right at home in the middle of a crowd of people whom he'd never met. Regulus wondered again if he didn't have any plans with his friends—after all, Potter would hold an end-of-the-year party, wouldn't he? Especially if everyone thought that Voldemort was gone…
Peter came up to him, so silently that even Regulus jumped in surprise when the older man laid a hand on his shoulder. "Quite a ladies' man, your brother," he said, chuckling. Regulus scowled.
"I'll not be responsible for any broken hearts," he said. "Honestly, I have no idea what people see in that prat."
"Don't you?" Peter's eyes shined playfully, making him look years younger. Regulus didn't answer. Yes, he knew what people saw in Sirius: his vivacity, his energy, his humor, his openness, his willingness to put others before him for entertainment. All the qualities that the younger brother lacked and the qualities whose absence he was sorely aware of within himself. The qualities that had made him envious of his brother at a younger age. How he used to wish that he could be like Sirius, carefree, unthinkingly clever, indifferent to other people's reactions and emotions. Instead Regulus had to force himself to extend his greetings to others, force himself to block out unnecessary observations about other people, force himself to not feel at certain points so that he could endure every day the necessity of social interaction. Why had it always been so difficult?
"Thank you again for your present," he said instead, looking down. The suit fitted him a bit loosely on the shoulders, but both Sirius and Peter agreed that such would be for the best; Regulus was far too thin in their opinions and needed a bit of fattening up. The dark gray fabric stretched across his chest and back like an elegant note from a piece of music. The dark tie chafed slightly against his neck, but Regulus remembered that ties were rarely comfortable. Peter had dragged the unsuspecting Regulus (aided by his newfound ally, the older brother) to the nearest tailor shop and more or less extorted his measurements from the young man. Regulus didn't know how to react; he knew that Peter wasn't poor, but he wasn't exactly the model of affluence, either. So he did what Alex would have done: smile and receive gratefully.
Peter shrugged. "You needed a decent set of clothing, anyhow," he said. Regulus didn't answer. The guilt gnawed at his chest, the monster tiny but powerful, a different kind of guilt from what he had been feeling previously. He'd always known that he would, one day, have to leave. But he hadn't known when. He hadn't counted on Sirius to appear out of the blue and provide a way to set his plans in motion so suddenly. He'd imagined that the departure would be gradual, natural. He hadn't expected to have to bring up the subject.
"Peter—" Regulus began, but Peter made a motion. Regulus shut his mouth.
"I know what you're going to say," Peter said. Regulus looked at him strangely. Peter chuckled humorlessly.
"I've seen that face before, you know," he said. "The one you've been wearing since your brother arrived. Jacob and Elizabeth had the same look before they told me that they had to go." Regulus felt something rise in his throat but swallowed it down forcefully. It seemed that they were going to have this conversation. Now. But he wasn't ready. He would never be ready.
"Peter," he said slowly. "I—I'm not what you think I am."
Peter looked at him. "And what do I think you are?" he asked.
Regulus looked around helplessly. Sirius was still chatting with one of the local girls who had found out that the older brother was much more amiable than the younger brother and just as handsome. The noise around them grew and grew until it grew so quiet that their conversation appeared to be the only one taking place. He breathed in deeply. It didn't help.
"You said that sometimes the air around the village grew cold for no reason at all. That for days people would walk around with a depressed gloom. That sometimes the sea would be violent, so violent, that you had to cancel your plans for the day. What if—what if I told you that I was responsible for those things? Responsible for parts of it?" Regulus could not keep the dread out of his voice and he looked at Peter desperately, failing, for the first time, to hide his unquenchable need for reassurance, reassurance that everything was going to be all right, that everything was put behind them, all of it…
Peter was strangely silent.
"Peter?" Regulus asked, feeling the alarm creep into his voice. Peter looked back at him, his eyes unreadable.
"There are two types of people who wash up on the shore," he said. Regulus felt his brows knit together.
"One," Peter went on, disregarding Regulus' confusion, "are those who didn't expect it to happen. Reckless swimmers, most of them. Got a bit overconfident, thought they could make it."
Regulus didn't respond.
"The other type," Peter went on softly, "are those who never expected to come back alive in the first place." Regulus felt his expectant gaze on his face but still didn't respond. He felt like stone statue, stillness etched into eternity. He couldn't move and wished he could stay that way forever. So Peter had known, all the while…
"I didn't want to say anything," Peter kept on going, and a part of Regulus wanted to shout, tell him to stop, stop with the truthful nonsense, but he couldn't. "You didn't look ready to talk about it."
"There's nothing to talk about." His voice was hoarse.
Peter regarded him silently. "You can't blame yourself for everything that happened, Alex," he said. He still called him Alex, despite knowing that it was a lie. One of many lies that were and were not revealed.
Regulus shook his head. "You don't understand—you don't know everything."
"Maybe I don't," Peter conceded. "But I had also seen wars—perhaps different wars from what you've experienced. I've seen faces of men who'd given up, who couldn't bear the fact that they'd done what they'd done. It's a hellish way to live. And there's so much time left in you. You're so young. You can't keep going this way."
Regulus looked at his boots. Worn, scuffed boots that Peter had gotten him the first month he arrived.
"I'll come back to visit," Regulus said. "I can't promise when. I have—" he cleared his throat. "Unsettled business to settle. But when everything is over—I'll come to visit. I promise."
Regulus couldn't tell if Peter believed him or not. He just looked at him sadly, his face marred by time, grief, experience. Regulus resisted the urge to come up with some sort of excuse—a plausible reason for why he was behaving the way he was acting. Reason for his rudeness, apparent ingratitude. What could he do? Nothing that would solve the situation.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. "But I have to go."
"I am not getting on that contraption. Ever again."
Sirius shrugged. "Suit yourself. It's the only way I travel these days, anyhow."
Regulus gritted his teeth. "I understand your morbid fascination with all things loud and pungent, but this—" he made a wild gesture at the said contraption— "is awful. Beyond awful. It's—"
"Terrifying? You seemed to grasp my coat pretty tightly back there." Sirius fished around in the fifth jacket pocket, apparently still in search for his keys. "Don't tell me that the precious Slytherin Seeker is afraid of heights."
"I won't dignify that with an answer," Regulus said icily.
"I think you just did."
Regulus resisted the urge to growl and stomp his feet on the entryway to his brother's apartment. Sirius was still looking for his keys, the messy git. The said awful contraption called a motorbike was sitting meekly on the curbside where the residents were allowed to park their cars or other vehicles of their choosing—no one, Regulus noted with faint satisfaction, had a bad sense to ride a motorbike other than his older brother. He'd better make sure to apologize to the neighbors for the noise sometime.
He shook his head. What was he thinking? Extending politeness? He was supposed to be dead.
"I don't know why you live on this side of the town, anyway," Regulus said, kicking a small pebble with his boot. "Bad investment, as far as real estate goes."
Sirius raised his eyebrow challengingly. "Have problem with Muggles?"
Regulus gave him a glare. "Yes. I have a problem with Muggles. That's why I've been living as one for the past year. Just get your keys out of your jean pocket already."
Sirius shoved his fingers into the said pocket and looked up at Regulus with amazement. "How did you know they were going to be in there?" he asked. Regulus rolled his eyes. As if he could forget the fact that Sirius always but things in his pants pocket for safekeeping. He'd found an unfortunately large number of trinkets in the said location—including, but not limited to, an owl pellet from the family owl. That had not been the most pleasant of experiences.
"Why can't you just drive, like everybody else?" Regulus couldn't help grumbling as they climbed up the stairs. There was no lift in the building. Of course there wasn't. Sirius didn't know the first thing about good residence buildings, let alone real estate.
Sirius's eyes shone in a strange way. "Flying cars," he said, stroking his chin. "Hmm. Not a half-bad idea, actually."
Regulus let out an exaggerated sigh. "Forget it," he said.
"I mean, the mechanics can't be that different, all you have to do is temper with the engine a little bit—"
"I said forget it." The finally arrived on their floor. Regulus tried to hold back the huffs of breath that escaped from his lungs without volition. He didn't want Sirius to see that he was still, as far as his body was concerned, still weak. Sirius, on the other hand, didn't even break a sweat.
"Here we are," he said. "Room 303. It's just three stories, Reg. You must be really out of shape." Regulus would have retorted in kind, but he was far too out of breath to answer. Sirius, who'd cast him an odd look when he didn't hear any scathing reply back, furrowed his brows in a manner that resembled concern. Regulus dismissed the possibility.
"Oi," Sirius said. "Are you alright?"
"Of course I am." But the answer came out as a pant instead of a snap and Regulus leaned against the wall, feeing the cool scratchiness against his cheek.
"Peter said you'd been swimming," Sirius said, and his voice contained none of its former dare. "I thought that you'd sort of… bounced back."
"It's not my body that's the problem, you prat," Regulus said, exasperated. "It's the magic that's the problem."
Sirius's eyes narrowed. "What magic?" he asked. Regulus waved his hand dismissively.
"Just open the door already," he said. "Your neighbors might be tolerant enough to endure your bike, but I doubt they would be tolerant enough to accept talk of magic."
Sirius grumbled something about his smart mouth and talking far too much but he creaked open the door nonetheless. Regulus followed.
He supposed that he'd been expecting it, in some ways. Sirius had never been the tidiest person in the room. But the flat itself was a disaster.
Wrappers of all kinds were strewn across the floor, covering the entire surface like clouds that enveloped the sky on a rainy day. There was not a square inch of surface safe to stand on. Shelves were crammed with objects and jars of gooey liquid that Regulus was afraid to even observe. Objects floated near the ceiling, tiny little broomsticks and quidditch equipments engaged in a silent battle that only they themselves seemed to understand. Walls were plastered with posters of wizard and muggle bands, quidditch teams, and Gryffindor banners. Regulus could discern a sofa and a table in the middle of the living room, but all furniture was unfortunately concealed from the view by various articles of clothing. The entire space smelled faintly of rotting coffee.
"Give me your wand," Regulus said immediately, holding out his hand. Sirius, who had been gingerly hanging his coat on the hanger—Regulus was surprised that Sirius even had a sense to get a coat hanger—looked at him.
"What? Why?"
"Your flat," Regulus said. "I've got to clean it. I've got to. This is wrong. Just wrong."
Sirius rolled his eyes. "You sound like Evans," he muttered. "Even James has joined in, if you'd believe it."
"Well, as much as I regret to say this, Potter's right on this one. It looks like a hoard of hippogriffs trampled across this place."
"It's occupational hazard!" Sirius protested. "You try working at Zonko's, see how tidy you are in a month."
"Pray tell, what does—" Regulus picked up the first crumpled bit of paper he could find on the floor. "Holly at 14 Abingdon Road have to do with your work at Zonko's?" Then Regulus read the rest of the paper. He crumpled the paper the same way it had been before and slowly placed it back on the floor. Sirius laughed at his expression.
"You look like you've just seen two house elves going at it," he said gleefully. Regulus swallowed distastefully.
"Trust me, I would rather witness that than this—" he made a gesture at the paper on the floor, lost for words. The bag slung on his shoulders containing the few possessions that he'd received from Peter suddenly felt a lot heavier.
"Come on, it's not as if you'd never done it before." Now Sirius was watching him with eyes a bit too bright. Regulus cautiously stepped into the threshold, careful not to step on anything fishy. Based on the note he'd just read, however, Regulus doubted that anything in the apartment was trustworthy.
"I haven't the foggiest notion what you mean," Regulus said curtly. Sirius scoffed.
"Have it your way, then," he said. He plopped himself down on the sofa, sitting on the heap of articles of clothing already piled on it, and Regulus imagined that all the buttons on them were silently wincing. He chose to stand on the doorway even though it felt like he was awkwardly stalling for time.
"What are you doing hovering around there?" Sirius asked, raising his eyebrow again. Regulus crossed his arms in front of him.
"Would rather not," he said. Sirius rolled his eyes and reluctantly took out his wand.
"Scourgify," he muttered, with a series of other spells that managed to vanish the trash littered around the flat and folded the clothes back into their proper places. There was still a silent game of quidditch going on in the ceiling, but Regulus liked it that way.
"Satisfied?" Sirius asked sourly. Regulus drew out a stool from beneath the kitchen table and sat on it cautiously. The legs didn't give in to his weight.
"Now," Sirius said. "What magic were you talking about?"
"What magic were you talking about?"
Sirius stared at his brother. He was allowed to do that every once in a while, wasn't he? To be entirely honest he still couldn't believe it: his brother Regulus, alive. It was sheer impossibility.
If he was being logical—and he rarely was, a fact in which he took most pride in—no one had ever discovered Regulus's body. But during those days bodies of people who'd disappeared rarely turned up, if not never. It was considered pitiful, downright foolish to even expect a body. It was a war. People were being incinerated left and right. So no, Sirius had gathered the news of his brother's disappearance and took it as his death. And there were rumors, rumors amongst Death Eaters and Order members alike, that a young Death Eater had defected from the organization after seeing for the first time the very reality of what was happening.
In the back of his mind he knew the impossibility of this idea. Regulus—his stubborn, obstinate, hardy little brother Regulus—was not the type to simply desert a cause. All the more reason better to believe that he was dead than, well, doing harm to the wizarding society as a Death Eater. Or so Sirius had convinced himself, over and over, during the countless nights when he couldn't sleep. The cruelty and coldness of this excuse never failed to stab at his conscience, but he put aside his feelings in the name of the greater good. They were fighting a Dark Wizard, the most dangerous Dark Wizard of all times. Fraternal affections couldn't get in the way.
But Sirius had never been an idealist. That was to say, he wasn't a philosopher who could systematically map out a series of thoughts that would argue why some things were right or some things were wrong. He could never open Levi's Book of Morals and point out to Voldemort all the ways in which he was wrong. Regulus, on the other hand, was the very person who could and would do those things. The difference in their temperaments had always made their arguments both heated and hypocritical; Sirius spoke from what he wanted, needed—that was, to oppose his parents and be different from the rest of the family—and all his talk of Muggle rights and idiocy of pureblood supremacy was—well, not entirely out of spite, but not entirely out of selfless altruism, either. If he'd been born to an unhappy bloodtraitor family, Regulus had once accused him during one of their spats, Sirius would have been a pureblood maniac. He'd hexed his little brother for saying that.
All this eluded Sirius most of the times. He wasn't the reflective kind and wars tended to make people quicker to react than to reflect. Even Remus, who was the most considerate and thinking sort of person Sirius knew, had become hardened due to the war, choosing to attack the opponent first before asking questions. The only logic that ensured survival. And the types like Sirius were better fit for the war than most; energetic, endlessly optimistic, and in love with danger, the thrill of chasing after the unknown. Regulus was none of those things…
No, Sirius decided. He'd never worried about Regulus. Regulus could do well on his own.
But, looking at the figure sitting on a stool in front of him, thinner than Sirius had ever seen him, paler than snow, with a haunted look in his eyes that Sirius was afraid to see, he suppressed a pulse of guilt that coursed through him.
"What magic?" Regulus repeated, and it took Sirius a moment to realize that Regulus was, in fact, using his own question back at him. The bastard.
"That magic you talked about," Sirius said. "You said there wasn't a problem with your body."
"Did I?" Regulus asked. "When?"
Sirius's eyes narrowed. "Don't play innocent with me, Reg," he said warningly. Regulus smiled a thin smile that was too ironic for a simple morning conversation. His bloody younger brother and his bloody cryptic responses. Sirius could never stand them for a long period of time.
"That was not my intent," Regulus said. "It's a bit too late to plead innocent, don't you think?" He made a gesture at his left wrist where Sirius had seen the Dark Mark during the excursion out to the sea on the fishing boat. Sirius scowled. That was another problem with Regulus—he talked far too little when it came to important things and far too much when it came to the most trivial, provoking things.
"Magic," Sirius said stubbornly. "You said magic was making you weak." Regulus looked at something far away—pretending not to hear him, probably. Well, Sirius was going to have none of it. He'd waited enough.
"Regulus," he said. "Whether you like it or not, you need my help to hunt these—Horcruxes, you called them. Fine. I said I'll help you. But I think that merits a bit of explanation."
"Does it?" Regulus murmured, looking down at his right hand. His disfigured right hand. Sirius had noticed it, of course he had—his hands were probably the only thing about Regulus that were at least bearable. They couldn't talk, couldn't shout. Wrote the most elegant script that Sirius had ever witnessed. Caught Snitches. Brewed the best tea. Took care of plants the way no one in the family could. Sirius even bet that Regulus would be good at knitting, if he ever gave it a shot. Not that the proud ninety-something-th heir of the Black family ever would.
"Let's start with something small, then," Sirius said. "What happened to your hand?" Regulus looked up.
"What about my hand?"
"What about my hand?"
The question rang hollow in his ears. Regulus cursed inwardly.
"You haven't used it at all. Even to just open a door you used your left hand." Damn Sirius for being sharper than he pretended to be. Regulus looked at his right hand, turning it slowly on his lap. It didn't shake when he tried to use it now, which was definitely an improvement, and a few days ago he wrote a couple of sentences quite nicely with it before growing too tired. But he would never be aiming with his right hand again. He knew that, and decided not to mourn its loss too greatly. He just never had his own brother ask that question to his face, that's all.
"It's fine," Regulus muttered.
"You'll never catch another Snitch with a hand like that," Sirius said. Regulus looked away, but Sirius being Sirius couldn't tell when to stop.
"You need to go to St. Mungo's," Sirius continued. "Never mind Mummy's old lessons on neat handwriting and table manners—are you really okay with not being able to play Quidditch like you used to?" Why did Sirius have to ask questions like that? Why? Why was he always able to say the exact things on his mind at the wrongest moments like this, throwing him off? First he cleaned the flat—admittedly, Regulus could find some flaws with his method, but he had acquiesced and took the trouble to get rid of the litter across the floor—and now he was asking him about his hand.
"I said it's fine."
"What happened to you, Reg?"
"I said it's fine," Regulus hissed. "Drop the subject already."
"Fine," Sirius said, crossing his arms in front of him as well. "Do what you want, but let me tell you this: when you faint while on a hunt, I'll have no idea what I can do for you. And if you die, I'll have no idea what to do next. Because you never told me anything."
Regulus mulled this over. He didn't always like it, but Sirius had his finer moments when it came to logical argument. And Sirius was right—hunting Horcruxes and putting an end to Voldemort once and for all came before personal feelings or familial feuds. He sighed. This wasn't going to be pretty.
"So what happened to you?" Sirius asked again.
"I got dragged into a lake."
"You got dragged into a lake."
"Yes, the lake I told you about. Kreacher went with me, seeing as he was the only one who knew its location. Other than the Dark Lord, naturally."
"Naturally."
"And, seeing as it's the Dark Lord, he of course infested the water with Inferi—"
"You got dragged into an Inferi-infested lake."
"Well, I had to drink this potion beforehand, so my wand skills weren't up to par, per se—"
"You had to drink this potion."
"Terrible potion, Drink of Despair, you might have heard of it—"
"Drink of Despair."
"Invented by Gramble the Grumbler, you know, during the twelfth century, we had to read about him once and his discovery of the three uses of basilia cerca—"
"Don't try to change the subject, Reg."
"So I got dragged into the lake," Regulus repeated, combing through his finer memories. He tried not to remember the lake but the image was still vivid in his mind, imprinted again and again on his consciousness by his dreams, where he revisited, over and over again, the darker places of the world. "I don't remember what happened after that, exactly. The Inferi were pulling me apart—they like to do that—and hence my hand." He held up his right hand. "But something happened. I'm not sure. Light came from somewhere and—and when I next came to, I was in Peter's cottage." He leaned against the back of the stool. "That's it, really."
Sirius was quiet, which was about the worst sign Regulus could think of. Sirius on a rant—Sirius shouting—Sirius running—even Sirius crying—they were all reassuring signs, because it meant that Sirius would do the first thing that came to his mind, making him predictable and, therefore, harmless. Sirius being quiet, on the other hand, was an unsettling sight.
"So let me get this straight," Sirius said quietly. "You found out that Voldemort was creating these Horcruxes and hiding them for safekeeping. You found out one of its locations. So naturally—naturally—you just decided to go to some cave, where you found a lake full of Inferi, and you drank a potion that you knew would impair your judgement, got dragged into a lake, and—presumably, you would have died, but you didn't."
"Sirius, I realize the value of repetition in the learning process, but really, this seems a tad redundant—"
"Do you realize how incredibly stupid you were?"
The question caught him off guard. Stupid? That was a word that applied to Sirius, not him. And the look in his brother's eyes—Regulus didn't want to find out what it was. The answer, he knew, just knew, by instinct, years of fighting—the answer would hurt much more than any feud between them could.
"Stupid?" Regulus said lightly. "You must be going off your rockers. You're the stupid one, remember? I'm the selfish prat who can't think for himself."
"Would you stop joking around?"
"Again, that's your specialty, not mine—"
"Regulus."
Regulus looked away at the window. The flat had a nice view, if nothing else. Perhaps Sirius's taste in real estate wasn't bad after all.
"Anyway, that's what happened to my hand," Regulus muttered. "So stop bothering me about it."
Sirius was quiet for a while. Regulus wondered if there was a secret stash of dungbombs somewhere in the flat that he could steal; the silence was deafening.
"I could ask Lily." Sirius said at last.
Regulus furrowed his brows. "What?"
"Ask Lily," Sirius repeated. "About your hand. She's a Healer—certified and all. She works at St. Mungo's and she specializes in countercurses against Dark Arts. Might know a thing or two."
"Maybe," Regulus said, trying to suppress a sudden surge of hope. Could his hand be back to what it used to be?
"You could try to come and see her, you know," Sirius said casually.
Regulus tensed. "Absolutely not," he said.
Now Sirius looked annoyed. "Look, if you're squeamish about Muggleborn Healers—"
"I don't give Merlin's rat's ass whether a Healer is a Muggleborn or not," Regulus snapped. "Don't be stupid. I just can't be seen by anyone, that's all."
Sirius looked at him strangely. "What do you mean, you can't be seen by anyone?" he asked.
Regulus looked back at him incredulously. "What, you thought I could just waltz into the Ministry and proclaim my existence?"
Sirius's brows furrowed. "Why not?"
"Because I'm a Death Eater, Sirius!" Regulus yelled, exasperation almost overcoming the tension. "In case you haven't noticed, me being dead is the only thing that's keeping the authorities off my tail."
Sirius considered for a while. "Oh," he said.
"Yeah, oh," Regulus replied sarcastically. "I can't go to Mungo's, and I can't see any of your friends. I can't even go to Ollivander's for a new wand." Frustration crept into his voice. "I'm stuck here, if you must hear me say it. I'm stuck here."
Sirius stared at the coffee table, thinking. "You know, I might have a spare wand," he said eventually. "Used to keep several for—you know, emergencies. When you're disarmed, and stuff. And I would know exactly where they are if someone hadn't forced me to clean." He threw Regulus a dirty look as he got up from the sofa. Regulus rubbed his eyes tiredly. His emotions where careening dangerously, rocking between despair and angry determination that both seemed intent on leading him to self-destruction. Would there be salvation? All this clever tete-a-tete with Sirius—it was distracting, and strangely calming, if he could disregard the annoyance Sirius always engendered in him, but it didn't solve the essential problem. And it was starting to look like nothing could.
"There you go," Sirius said, coming from one of the kitchen cabinet. In his hand were several wands. Regulus stared at them for a while.
"If they're some of your fake wand selection," Regulus said slowly, "I'm going to stuff each and every one of them in your Holyhead Harpies action figure collection. I know you have them somewhere in the flat."
Sirius gave him another dirty look. "Fine, fine," he said, turning around to look for the real wands. "Just leave Hestia and Genevieve alone, alright?"
"Not bad for Muggle bread, eh?"
Regulus ignored for the umpteenth time Sirius's yet another jibe. Sirius had thrown several spare wands at his direction before jogging out of the flat, muttering something about breakfast. Half an hour later they were sitting on the dining table, Sirius precariously balanced on a stool, Regulus stoically sipping his tea and chewing his bread. His mind whirled a thousand miles a second.
He'd found a wand that was most pliant to his touch; it felt, for a lack of a better word, rather sensitive and moody, but it responded to his wishes most readily. During Sirius's absence, he had tried to perform several simple spells using his left hand. It felt odd, having a wand in his hand, and in his left hand, no less. He'd managed the basic levitating charm—the very first spell he'd learned—with rather mixed success, the cushion oscillating midair as though it had some mind to go back down on the ground on its own before floating again. He'd let go after several minutes. Time and practice would make it better; the maxim he'd followed religiously in quidditch served as the only guide.
"It's fine," Regulus muttered, chewing moodily. Thousand things to do, so little time. But why was he feeling so rushed?
"So," Sirius said cheerily—a rather contrived cheeriness, and Regulus knew that Sirius was, in his own way, trying to lift the atmosphere, but he didn't have it in him to nod to his beat.
"What are we doing today?" Sirius asked.
"First of all, I need to know your schedule," Regulus said without preamble. "I know you have work."
Sirius scratched his head. "Oh, yeah. I do. I guess I should tell them that I'm going back to work."
Regulus cocked his head to one side. "I thought you were working."
"I am," Sirius said. "Just took a temporary leave of absence."
"Why?"
Sirius suddenly looked uncomfortable. He shrugged nonchalantly, but Regulus saw the crease between his brows. "Needed a bit of fresh air," he said. Regulus decided not to push things further. If he was going to keep things from his brother, he couldn't expect his brother to be upfront with him about everything.
"Anyway," Sirius said. "If I start working again, it will be from next Monday—from nine to five. Lunch is from twelve to one, if you'd care to join me."
"Thanks for the offer," Regulus said drily, "but I think I'll pass."
Sirius shrugged. "Your loss," he said. Regulus shook his head.
"First of all," Regulus said, "I need the following books from the list. Hogwarts: A History; Magick Moste Evile; Pureblood Directory—" Regulus considered. "That's probably all for now. I figured that, if I go to the library in the Diagon Alley, they could be easily procured."
Sirius considered. "Maybe," he said. "I doubt that you'll find Magick Moste Evile or Pureblood Directory at the library, though."
Regulus frowned in confusion. "Why not? It's one of the largest magical library in the world—"
Sirius nodded. "I know it is, but—well—the Ministry's been more stringent with what kind of books are made available to the public. You can sort of understand why—I mean, there was just one of the biggest wars in the wizarding history, and they're worried about people getting wrong ideas."
Regulus's brows had been climbing higher and higher during this short explanation. "So they resorted to censorship?" he said quietly. "How's that any different from what Voldemort did?"
Sirius turned defensive. "Hey, at least we don't kill people about having different ideas—"
Regulus shook his head. "That's not the problem right now. So where might I find these books?"
Sirius sighed. "The first place that comes to mind is Hogwarts."
Regulus cursed. Sirius didn't argue.
"I mean, I can ask Dumbledore if I can go in and take a look," Sirius said. "Tell him that it's research for my job, or something. I doubt that there's anything against previous students visiting the library. Really, I'm more worried about—"
"Madam Pince," Regulus finished the sentence. "I can only imagine how livid she would be to have anyone in her library, let alone you."
Sirius nodded with considerable satisfaction before frowning at his implication. Regulus bit back a small smile.
"Why do you need those books, anyway?" Sirius asked warily. "I thought you were done with Death Eater related activities?"
Regulus smiled bitterly. "Sirius, if you thought fighting Horcruxes would keep you away from Dark Magic, I might have to call the commissioners of N.E.W.T. and tell them that you don't even have the basic understanding of the nature of magic."
Sirius rolled his eyes but didn't say anything.
"There's something that keeps nagging in my mind," Regulus continued. "It's just a hunch, but it might be something definite. The Dark Lord—he was a parseltongue. Did you know that?"
Sirius frowned distastefully. "I'd heard the rumors," he said succinctly. Regulus nodded.
"It's true," Regulus said. "The ability to speak to snakes—only the heirs of Slytherin possess the ability. The Dark Lord used his ability as an evidence that he was, in fact, related to the founder of his house. I think that he was telling the truth at the time."
Sirius sighed. "So the old nutcase was a descendent of an even older nutcase. Small surprise there."
Regulus bit the inside of his cheek. "Sirius, the Dark Lord was born with the name Lord Voldemort. No parent would name their child Lord Voldemort."
"Do you wanna bet?" Sirius asked. "I bet our parents are dying to let your firstborn son be named Lord Voldy. Even go against the family tradition and all."
Regulus sighed exasperatedly. There was probably little use in arguing further. "My point is that if we want to figure out what the Horcruxes look like we need to at least understand who he was—who he is. Before he became Lord Voldemort. So we would know what kind of items he would choose."
"Well," Sirius said in all earnestness that was too genuine to be, well, genuine. "He was an egotistical megalomaniac. That's a start."
"You're not on the wrong track," Regulus answered. "The Horcrux that he made most recently—the one I found—it was contained in the Slytherin locket."
Sirius stilled for a moment. All fake earnestness left his face. "The Slytherin locket?" he asked quietly. "How on earth did he get hold of that?"
"Precisely," Regulus said. "And do you remember when I said that he was a parseltongue? I think there's a strong possibility that he was actually related to Slytherin. I mean direct lineage." He gave Sirius a fixed look.
"Bloody hell," Sirius said, and for once Regulus did not have any desire to scold him for his language.
"Exactly." His brows set in a grim, straight line. "I think it's about time we looked into the Gaunts."
"You got to thank the old loonies," Sirius said on the mid-afternoon. By that time Regulus had attempted, several times, to wash the dishes using magic and dropped the plates accidentally in the sink the equal number of times. It ended up taking even longer than it would have had he done the dishes in a Muggle way. Sirius had shown him his room ("it's a small guest room, Moony comes here to sleep over sometimes"), lent him some of his clothes ("the scarf's not hot pink, it's salmon pink, I haven't the foggiest what your problem is, Reg"), even showed him how to use the bathroom ("there: tap for sink, tap for bath. Even you should be fine," by which point Regulus was on the verge of strangling his older brother just for the sake of it), and disguised Regulus's appearance—somewhat unsuccessfully ("Oi, do you think it's easier to mar your own face?" followed by an annoyed "It's not your face, it's my face." which was invariably met with "Well, you look enough like me to fool even Prongs," which came to its inevitable end with a rough shove and Regulus's exasperated huff. Regulus ended up transfiguring his own face, which was a rather awkward business but, as Regulus decided, much more comfortable than having Sirius point his wand at his face). They were walking down the streets of London, and Regulus tried not to look around too conspicuously. The streets of London which he thought he knew so well were gone, replaced with lower buildings, darker walls and thicker layers of snow on the ground. Very few people were on the street, and Regulus remembered that it was New Year's Day. What a strange way to start another year. He closed his eyes and breathed in the cold air that made his throat shrink pleasantly. 1982. He hoped that the year would end better than it had started.
"How do you mean?"
"You remember what Mother used to say about illegitimate children? That pureblood families didn't have any bastards because the head of the family would "take care of" both the errant parent and the child. That would work in our favor—we don't have to worry about unrecorded children."
"That rarely translated into reality, though," Regulus buried his nose into the 'salmon pink' scarf. He shuddered to even imagine where Sirius might have acquired it. Probably with someone named Holly or some other sort. "We're not completely heartless."
"Maybe," Sirius said. "But just imagine what kind of stuff the Gaunts might have done."
Regulus fixed his scarf self-consciously. "The last time I heard Mother speak of them, she said they were all a little bit off."
"Completely mad, you mean," Sirius scoffed. "Generations of inbreeding."
Regulus sighed. "I hope the Pureblood Directory's regularly updated. Otherwise I'll have to start investigating personally—and I'd rather keep myself hidden as much as I can."
"Oh, don't worry," Sirius said airily. "You know how the purebloods are. It's probably updated every month or so."
Regulus scowled.
"Typical Reggie," Sirius said, his tone still airy. "You have a quest, and where do you start? In a library, of course."
"Do you think the library's open today?" Regulus said, ignoring his brother's jibe. "It's New Year's Day."
Sirius gave him an odd look. "Wizards don't celebrate New Year's, remember? We use the other astronomical calendar. And apparently a position of some planet at what-degree-angle means that we can't have New Year as New Year even though we call it New Year." Regulus again didn't answer and they walked in silence for a long while, the only sound between them the tiny crunches the pressure of the boot soles against the snowy pavement made. It was oddly peaceful, the sun clear and high in the pale blue sky, birds frolicking in the gardens. But of course it was—the war was over. If only Regulus could believe it.
"You know, I've been thinking," Sirius began casually.
"A dangerous pastime—especially for you."
Sirius rolled his eyes. "I've been thinking, what happens when we know what the Horcruxes are?"
Regulus tried not to seem too intrigued, even though it was the very question that had plagued him since he'd decided to—what was the word Sirius used again?—go on this quest.
"We get them," he answered, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He felt the grip of his wand in his left hand and felt a little more assured. "The Dark Lord didn't put any defenses that no human can't overcome."
"That's reassuring," Sirius said, "but think about it: wouldn't it be easier to—I don't know, break into Gringotts, if we had someone that was sort of… professional at breaking in?"
Regulus considered. "If you're thinking of Potter and his incessant proclivity for breaking in and entering the Slytherin common room, the answer is no."
"Not him, you git," Sirius said. "A curse-breaker."
"Do you know one?"
"Oh, just in passing," Sirius answered casually. "We're not entirely close, but, you know, we keep in touch, and stuff."
Regulus knew this innocent tone far too well. "Spill before I force it out of you."
"You don't have to be so violent," Sirius said, sounding affronted. Regulus knew that he wasn't.
"Well, who is it?"
Sirius didn't answer.
Irritated, Regulus turned to look at his brother and found him looking back at him meaningfully. They were no longer different in height; if Sirius had always been a little taller than him in the past, their eyes were level now. A pair of gray eyes met a pair of temporarily brown eyes and the pair of brown eyes widened.
"No," Regulus said instantly. "No. Absolutely not."
"Why not—"
"Leave her out of this. Do you hear me? Leave. Her. Out of this."
"But don't you see?" Regulus had begun to walk faster, as if getting away from Sirius could somehow get the idea out of their heads as well. Sirius quickly caught on to him, however, and kept talking. "It's perfect. She won't give either of us away—"
"Either of us?" Regulus repeated incredulously. "Either of us?"
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm sort of hiding a criminal." Several onlookers cast them a curious gaze and Sirius waved them off good-naturedly before turning a serious expression to Regulus. "She won't tell on us. She's more than qualified. And she has the motive to see to the end of Voldemort—maybe even more than both of us combined. She'll get the job done."
"No," Regulus said resolutely. "I won't get her involved in this."
"Reg, I realize that meeting your ex might be awkward for you, but you can't really make decision based on personal comfort right now."
"Personal comfort?" Regulus repeated, and his voice sounded hysterical—even to his own ears. "Do you think this is about personal comfort? I've caused her enough pain. Let her be, Sirius." He strode on without looking back to see if his brother was following him.
"We'll discuss this another time," Sirius's voice came from behind him and Regulus grit his teeth.
"We won't discuss this. Ever."
Sirius sighed and shook his head. "Little Reggie. Stubborn as ever."
Regulus let out a long breath, shoving the impossible possibilities away from his mind for the millionth time. Only one thing could matter in his life and it wasn't him, it wasn't Sirius, and it certainly shouldn't be anything other than bringing down Voldemort for once and for all. He would complete the quest of die trying, and if there was any time left for him after the completion of his goal—but there was only one end for those like him and it wasn't what time had in store for Sirius, or Potter, or even her. So he forged on, bracing himself against the winter chill, repressing the warmth that threatened to impassion him.
