James Potter watched his best friend with a considerable amount of distress.
Not that he was a naturally worrying sort, mind you. He was in fact known for being one of the most laid-back people in Remus's vicinity; Remus, who was constantly on edge from his condition and general expectation about the world—expectation that the world would let him down—would know. In fact, James often prided himself on his ability to remain calm in times of distress despite his outward appearance of cheerful spontaneity. So he wasn't being overly emotional when he watched his friend with a certain amount of dreadful expectation; his instincts were simply proving themselves to be correct.
"Sirius, you're scaring away the cat," Lily pointed out, putting down her teacup on the coffee table. Harry was on her lap, watching his godfather curiously, but his attention was soon diverted by a shiny object on a cushion that he would later learn to call a button.
"Damn the cat," Sirius swore, and James raised his eyebrows.
"Language, Padfoot," he reminded him, but Sirius merely waved his hand dismissively.
"That idiot," he said for the thousandth time. "That bloody idiot."
"Who is he talking about again?" asked Lily, who had arrived not too long ago to find Sirius pacing in the livingroom and James quietly making tea.
"No idea," James said tiredly, leaning back into the sofa. In fact he did have an idea, but the idea was so far-fetched, so incredibly impossible, that he dismissed it before he even thought about it.
"James, I need to tell you something," Sirius had said to him one day, his face grave.
James had been going over the paperwork that was due the day after, and his eyes showed the fatigue that his voice tried to hide. Since Voldemort's fall things had been as twice as busy as it used to be during the war—if that was even possible. But James supposed that it was probably a good thing that he was busy; it meant that Aurors were doing everything they could to bring peace and order back into the wizarding society.
"This is an unexpected surprise," James had said, trying to ignore the graveness in Sirius's eyes and the fact that he had called him "James." They never called each other by their given names. That was for paperwork and gravestones. "You usually never come to the Auror office."
"Can't stand the formality," Sirius muttered, fidgeting already. His eyes were on a million different places in a second. "I just needed to tell you something."
James deliberated. "Alright, then," he said. "What is it?"
Sirius still wouldn't meet his eyes. "It's a bit useless, really."
James tried to remain patient. "What is it, Padfoot?"
Sirius cleared his throat and mumbled something.
"Sorry, didn't catch that," James said. Sirius tried again. James paused.
"I don't know if that's a good idea, mate," he said eventually.
Sirius cleared his throat. "I know," he said.
"You don't even know where he was when he disappeared," James said against his better judgement. Could he understand Sirius's feelings? Definitely. Did he want him to go? That was a more complicated matter; in many ways Sirius was his brother and he never questioned that relationship. Nothing good ever came to Sirius in his relationship with the other brother, the "real" brother. What if—what if Sirius never got over not being able to accomplish what he was trying to do?
"I still have to try, James," Sirius said. "I've got to."
James sighed, a resignation. "Why?" he said at last.
Sirius looked at a faraway place that James couldn't reach. "Because I think that he would have done the same for me."
This was almost two months ago, about a week after Voldemort's defeat at the Battle of Lestrange Manor. Sirius quit his job—temporary leave of absence, he'd assured James, but James wasn't convinced—and left without another word. James didn't hear from Sirius for almost two months—a feat by itself. It used to be such that they couldn't go for two hours without talking to each other about some inane subject; in fact, Lily had propositioned a "no talking to Sirius" during honeymoon, a proposal which was promptly rejected by both men involved. Little Prongsie would never know if he was doing something right or wrong unless there was the incorrigible Sirius Black to guide him, Sirius had argued, and James, the idiot that he was (from Lily's affectionate point of view), had readily agreed. But now here was Sirius, whom he had not seen for two months after that meeting, having missed not only the Christmas party but the New Year's Eve party as well, pacing angrily in his livingroom. James couldn't process it.
"Did you—did you manage to do it? What you said you were going to do?" he asked hesitantly. Next to him Lily gave him a curious look, but James made a gesture that said, I'll explain later.
Sirius let out a bark of laugh. "Manage to do—oh, Prongs." Sirius gave him a strange smile. "You won't believe it."
James felt his spine tense. "Wait, are you saying—are you saying that you found his body? You actually found his body?"
"If only I were so lucky," Sirius muttered darkly. "There was the body, Prongs. There was the body—and there was the mind as well. Body and mind."
Lily frowned. "What are you two talking about?" she asked. Sirius seemed to shake out of his current state.
"You haven't told her?" he asked James, who was now currently avoiding his wife's eyes.
"I thought you wouldn't want me to," he muttered, uncomfortable, aware of Lily's lovely green eyes that were focused on him in steely slits.
"What wouldn't Sirius want me to know, James?" she asked sharply, but it was neither Sirius nor James that answered her but something else entirely: a knock from the door.
Everyone froze for a second, old habits kicking in.
James's hand automatically reached for his wand on the side table. Lily's arms wound themselves protectively around Harry. Even Sirius stopped pacing and stood still, his nose in the air like a dog that was sniffing out danger from the air. They stayed in their positions for a second, aware of the wave of stress and attention kicking in before their brains told them to relax; the war was over; there was no danger whatsoever.
Sirius was the first to react.
"Expecting someone?" he asked casually, far too casually.
"No," James frowned. "I mean, unless you are going to the event at the hospital you told me about—"
"No, I thought it would be better to stay home tonight," Lily said, also frowning.
"I'll get the door, then," James said, slowly rising from the sofa.
His hand settled on the doorknob. Behind him Sirius was crooning over Harry and making funny noises, apparently having calmed down enough to pay attention to his godson. Lily was laughing—James had to admit that when it came to entertainment Sirius was better than him—and even Harry was making delighted noises that babies made when they were happy. Merlin. This was what they had fought for, lost friends and families for, endured pain and fear for: peace at last. Life could resume its natural course and there would be nothing in front of them but the quietude of everyday existence and James couldn't be gladder.
Turn the doorknob, his brain said. Greet the guest. Who knows—maybe it's Moony coming for a quick visit.
But his instincts told him that whoever behind the door would not bring happy news.
He swallowed and opened the door.
The eyes—they were the most noticeable. Wide and frantic in panic. Huffs of breath clouded the air between of them and the flush in her cheeks contrasted oddly with the paleness of her skin. James tried to remember. Had she always been this pale? He didn't think so. The dark eyes flashed almost maniacally and even James had to step backward from the force despite it coming from a familiar face.
"I'll skip the pleasantries," she said. "Where is he?"
One of these days I'll stop waking up like this.
The sense of déjà vu was the first thing that hit him like a sledgehammer. Regulus felt his eyeball move in their sockets, even though he couldn't even keep one eye open. He began to automatically assess the parts of his body. Feelings of the toes—check. Head—currently thinking, so check. Any restraints? None that he could gather.
There was a voice, unfamiliar. Male. Deep, low. He spoke in a language that he couldn't understand. He frowned. The last time he checked, he was in Little Hangleton, wasn't he? Had he been transported to a foreign country? Maybe he did die—maybe in afterlife people spoke a different language. That was going to be a hassle. But Regulus supposed that he did have eternity to learn the language—an intellectual exercise, if nothing else. He was fond of those things, wasn't he? Eternity of intellectual exercise and contemplation, free from the bounds of Voldemort or Horcruxes—
A woman responded in a similar tone. The same language. For some reason her voice sounded familiar. But Regulus couldn't place his finger on the identity…
A third voice interrupted them, obviously impatient. He spoke English—that much Regulus could gather from the oscillations in tone—but he couldn't tell exactly what was being said. Something scratched the floor. Chair, maybe. Footsteps ensued.
Regulus tried to move his head to indicate that he could hear them, but nothing came out of the effort. He heard someone approach near him—the heavy footfall, the faint scent of cologne, huff of normal breathing. Slowly he cracked open one eye.
"You idiot," Sirius said.
Despite everything that made Regulus grin—faintly. He didn't really have the energy.
"I'm alive," he croaked.
"Clearly," Sirius snapped, apparently still annoyed, but Regulus could tell that the tension in his shoulders had left the body since he opened his eyes. "What the bloody hell were you thinking?"
"Where am I?" Regulus asked instead of answering, trying to look around. He slowly supported his weight on his forearms, drawing them back and pushing against the mattress. His vision spun for a second before coming into focus again. Regulus flexed his facial muscles tentatively. Still working.
"My flat, obviously," Sirius retorted. "Where else?"
"How did I get here? Who—" Regulus paused, looking around. "Who were those people?"
Sirius's left eyebrow twitched. A telltale sign. Regulus would have almost rolled his eyes had it not been for the fact that he was exhausted and certainly in no state mock others. "What people?"
"The people who were just in the room."
"Oh, them." Sirius's left eyebrow twitched again. "Lily and James. I called Lily. No offense, but you look horrible right now."
"They were speaking in a foreign language."
"So? They're a couple. Each couple speak their own language. Absolutely disgusting, I know."
"They weren't Lily and James Potter."
"Why the bloody hell do you have to be—" Sirius paused and took a deep breath. And then another one. And then still another one. "So bloody annoying?"
"Double positive," Regulus remarked tiredly, leaning against the bedframe. In his half-delirious, medicated state—for he saw from the remnants on his bedside table that he was medicated—he thought he'd heard the voice. Her voice. He was probably wrong.
Meanwhile Sirius frowned at his comment. "A what?" he asked.
"A double positive," Regulus said. "You used 'bloody' twice in a same sentence. I was wondering if the two bloodies canceled out each other or if they multiplied. You know, two times two equals for, and all that."
Sirius gave him an odd look. "Remind me to ask her what she gave you," he said. "I'll have to buy a cauldronfull."
"Her being Lily Potter, you mean?"
"Obviously," Sirius snapped, his previous mood returning.
Regulus raised both his hands in mock surrender. "Just confirming," he said. Unfortunately, the motion required him to move the muscles around his shoulders and chest and the irritation caused him to begin coughing violently.
"Damn it," Sirius swore, and began to stumble through the vials on the bedside table one by one. "Which one is it?"
"Will be—fine—soon." Regulus managed to say between his coughs. When he uncovered his mouth he discovered blood on his palm. "Or not," he conceded.
"Here," Sirius said, handing him a towel and a glass of water. "I'll have to ask again. He said a bunch of things, but with the accent and all—" Sirius paused, a deer-in-front-of-the-headlight look on his face. Regulus debated; he could ask Sirius who the people were, but he was obviously unwilling to talk. And to be most frank—he was safe. They were both safe, safe and together at Sirius's home, and Regulus couldn't think of anything better in the world. So he would let this go. Regulus wiped his hand extra carefully with the towel, pretending to be absorbed in the act. Sirius turned toward the table again, where now a dozen of vials were scattered haphazardly on the surface.
"Damn it," Sirius swore again, looking at the mess. Regulus sighed.
"The one on the far left edge—the light blue one—is a pain reliever. The one in the round bottle by its right is a tonic—for what, I'll have to smell it," he said, not fully succeeding in his attempt to suppress the didactic tone. "Others I'll have to look more closely—the light's a bit dim in this room."
Sirius was staring at him, his mouth half-open. Regulus resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"It's not as if you didn't know," he instead said in an even tone. "Slughorn was fond of me for a reason, after all."
"I thought all the m'boy's and 'excellent work' was for a show," Sirius said.
Regulus cocked his head to one side. "I'm sure they were."
Sirius still looked surprised. Regulus now began to feel more alert despite the sleep inducer flowing through his veins.
"Year one, chapter twelve, color and material," Regulus recited matter-of-factly. "The color of the potion is directly linked to the various interplays and interactions between ingredients within a—"
"Yeah, yeah, Bull's law, I know," Sirius muttered, the former expression wiped clean from his face. "I do work at Zonko's, you know."
Regulus raised his eyebrow. "With your N.E.W.T.s?"
Sirius now looked genuinely irritated. "Remind me never to save you again."
"Will do," Regulus answered cheerily. "I probably won't be alive to remind you, though."
Sirius scowled, but managed to refrain from saying anything harsher than a bloody git that he muttered under his breath. "You clearly need more sleeping potion," he said aloud instead, reaching out for one of the bigger vials. "Apparently he gave you a bunch of counterpotions, and you need to sleep it off."
Regulus frowned. "Counterpotions?"
Sirius's mouth thinned into a straight line and Regulus was reminded again of their mother. As much as Sirius would have liked to deny it—and he did deny it, vociferously, repeatedly, in vain—Sirius was a male copy of Walburga Black. Their expressions. Their language. Their temperament. Sirius tried everything to not be his mother, and Regulus knew that even his personality in part was constructed by Sirius himself; when he was younger, for instance, Sirius wasn't so outgoing as he was now. The eldest son had adopted the personality to spite his mother. But Sirius was his mother, whether he liked it or not. They were easily angered, quick to react. And the expression that Regulus now saw on his brother's face was the one he'd seen countless times on his mother's face: it was an expression of barely suppressed anger. Regulus wondered if he should reach for his wand on the bedside table or not.
"You know, we did Merkel's test on you," Sirius said lightly. Regulus didn't believe his tone.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," Sirius said, his tone still light. "You know what the results were?"
"Please do tell."
"Five hundred oungots," Sirius said, his voice dangerously teetering toward a growl. "Five. Bloody. Hundred. Do you know what that means?"
Regulus tried not to let his surprise show. Merkel's test was designed to calculate the amount of toxicity in one's body caused by Dark Magic. He knew he was in a bad shape, and if Voldemort had created them, the Inferi must have been more powerful than normal. But five hundred? "Two hundred is considered fatal," Regulus said faintly, quoting from a textbook that he'd read so far ago. "I should be dead by now."
"'I should be dead by now,' he says!" Sirius began to shout. "'I don't need to see a Healer,' he said. 'I'm perfectly fine'—you're obviously not fine, Reg!" The vein on his forehead began to thicken and his ears began to turn red. Regulus swallowed.
"You know why I said that I couldn't see a Healer," he said quietly, but knew from experience that logic wouldn't convince Sirius now.
"So you should just die? Is that it?"
"I thought I was supposed to be a patient," Regulus attempted to joke. "Sleep and rest and all."
Sirius was fuming. "Oh, you'll rest, all right," he said. "I'll personally see to it that you don't get out of this house for at least a week."
Regulus raised his eyebrows. "Are you confining me, Sirius? You're starting to sound dangerously like our mother."
"Yes, well, bloody gits like you need confinement," Sirius snapped. "Now drink your potion and go to sleep."
Regulus felt a wave of uncomfortable emotion creep up slowly from his heart to his eyes and repressed it for the hundredth time that evening. Gratitude? Perhaps—yes, gratitude that Sirius hadn't abandoned him in the old shack to die alone. Gratitude that he came back. Gratitude that, despite everything, he was by his bedside, making his little brother take potions just like he used to when they were young. Regulus had always insisted stubbornly that he didn't have a cold and that he didn't have a fever and even ordered Kreacher not to bring him any potions, wishing instead to fight it off himself. And Sirius would always tell him not to be stupid, so stubborn, his coughs woke up the rest of the house, so take the stupid potion already…
He reached out with his left hand to take the cup that Sirius held out for him and grabbed it weakly. A small clank rang inside the glass cup as something hit against its delicate surface.
Regulus looked down on his hand, frowning. What he found made his grip on the glass instantly tighten.
"Sirius," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving the glass.
"What now?" Sirius asked exasperatedly.
"She was here, wasn't she?"
"Who was here?"
"You know who I'm talking about," Regulus said evenly, but he was feeling anything but. "Did you call her?"
Sirius didn't say anything. Regulus didn't look up at him, just fixed his eyes on the glass, at the ripples on the surface of the liquid as his hands trembled imperceptibly.
"Yeah, I called her," Sirius finally said. "At Diagon Alley. She found me at James's after I… after we split up. We tracked you down to Little Hangleton." He paused. "I'm not going to apologize for that, Regulus."
"I wasn't going to ask you to."
"If today proved anything, it's that you need some help with this quest. We need help with this quest."
"I know."
"Reg—"
"How is she?" his throat felt drier than Sahara Desert. His head screamed at him to stop this instant and drink the damned potion and go to sleep. Bad idea, Regulus. Bad idea.
"Reg—"
"You were the one who saw her, not me," Regulus said drily. "I was unconscious, remember?" Unconscious and helpless wasn't the way he'd imagined that they'd meet, if they ever met again. But unfortunately that was how life had wanted things to happen between them. The damned life.
"I—she's doing fine." Sirius sighed, obviously displeased at his question. "She's doing fine, really."
"Happy?"
"I don't know. It's not like we write letters to each other every day."
"There was a man with her—who was he?"
Sirius didn't answer. The silence was enough of an answer.
"Goodnight, Sirius."
"Reg—" Sirius began to say something, but Regulus cut him off by downing the concoction in one large gulp. It burned and froze on its way down. He leaned against the pillows at the head of the bed, closing his eyes. He suddenly felt very tired.
"Goodnight," Sirius murmured after watching him for a while. Regulus heard rather than saw his brother turn off the lamplight
"Sirius?"
The footsteps stopped.
"What?"
"Thanks," Regulus said, his eyes still closed. "For everything. I don't think I've thanked you yet."
A small paused was ensued.
"Don't be a git and go to sleep," Sirius muttered, a faint tone of embarrassment in his voice. "Bloody hell," he muttered as he went out. The door shut softly behind him. Regulus opened his eyes slowly.
His decrepit right hand lay over his left hand, and with his right thumb he stroked the Black signet on his ring. The ring that he hadn't seen over in a year.
It's a lovely summer evening. I do hope you enjoy it.
It had been a mistake to send her that ring. He'd regretted it a thousand times and more. It had been a mistake. A foolish mistake.
Love,
Regulus.
He'd never imagined that she would be able to give the ring back to him. He'd never imagined that he would survive the cave at all. But here he was, more than a year later, and she'd given it back to him, given it back, given it back…
The last image before his mind drifted off to the subconscious recess of his brain was that autumn evening, when he'd decided never to open his eyes again.
Sirius was faithful to his words and managed to keep his reluctant younger brother tied to the bed—sometimes quite literally—for the following few weeks. Oh, little Reggie had protested—vociferously, violently, stubbornly, sometimes snidely, making comments on Sirius's choice of color in pajamas, his cooking skills, his organizational system, his job, his intelligence, his knowledge in real estate, of all things—and Sirius couldn't fathom how he could have ever forgotten how bloody annoying Reg could be. So as a return for his troubles Sirius had taken away his wand and gave him a few pounds to go grocery shopping instead. The look on Regulus's look had been priceless.
"Nice to have you in again," Bertie from the accessory division said to him as they made their way out of the Zonko headquarter.
Sirius grinned. "It's nice to be back," he said, unconsciously skipping on the snow-lain pavement.
"You've been in a good mood lately," Bertie said, giving him a knowing look. "Anyone special I should know about?"
Sirius was about to respond in a vague affirmative when he caught the drift. "What? What? No, no, definitely not." Even the association of that little annoying bugger with "anyone special" made his skin crawl. "Ugh," he shivered, shaking his head like a wet dog. Next to him Bertie laughed.
"No need to be so defensive," he said. "I get it. Young people these days like to keep it secret. But when a young man takes a leave of absence for a few months, you got to wonder, you know?"
"Bertie, mate—it's nothing like that. Believe me." Sirius stopped walking and even looked into Bertie's eyes for emphasis.
Bertie shrugged with the nonchalance of a sixty year old man. "All right then. If you insist. But Sabrina told me that Lucy told her that Nicole told her that one of her co-workers was awfully disappointed."
Sirius gave him a strange look. "You are an odd old man," he said.
"Well, when that co-worker's your daughter..." Bertie trailed off succinctly. Sirius shook his head.
"Merlin, sorry, Bertie," he said, trying to go for his rueful grin. "Jennifer. I remember. It's just—I'm trying to get back in touch with people I haven't seen in a while, you know, with the war and all that. I've been a bit preoccupied."
Bertie nodded sympathetically. "I understand. But you can't go on forever living in the past, you know? Sometimes you need to think about the future." Bertie patted Sirius on the shoulder. "I'll tell Jennifer you're available this Friday evening, okay?" Without waiting for a further answer Bertie walked down a few blocks before Disapparating.
"You're an odd old man!" Sirius shouted after him, but he was already gone.
"Bloody hell," he swore for no particular reason. Wait until Reg hears about this.
He stopped in his tracks.
Until Reg hears about this?
Sirius's hand automatically reached for his head, as if he wanted to check it physically for concussion. Since when did he tell Reg anything? Regulus had never been the talking sort, and he was just downright boring when it came to birds. Especially bonny birds. Sirius frowned. He didn't think they'd actually ever talked about girls. Oh, he'd made comments in passing, more or less lewd ones, and Regulus had given him stony looks every time that happened, apparently refusing to sink to his level. And then Sirius left home and never talked to him again.
But tell Reg about this? It had always been James. Whenever he got a detention, or a small praise from McGonagall, or Merlin forbid found an interesting passage in a textbook, it had always been James. Even after he got married, Sirius would—
No, things had changed when James finally succeeded in approaching Lily Evan's vicinity without getting his hair burned off.
Suddenly it was "Tell Lily about this" for James. Every detail of the Quidditch practice to the newest ranking of the British Quidditch league to everything. Sirius had told himself that it was only natural. He couldn't understand why James would feel compelled to even talk to a girl about Chudley Cannon's dismal record for the past hundred years, but Lily had been surprisingly interested in the subject matter and Sirius told himself that that side of romance was something that he would never come to understand. Didn't care to understand it, in fact. It had been amusing (and rather pitiful) to watch James pursue Lily with all his heart and he supposed that it was time that James got what he wanted and Sirius continued the way he was. A freethinking rebel.
"Oi, Reg, guess what I heard at work today," Sirius found himself saying as he closed the apartment door behind him.
"I don't particularly care to," the little git drawled. Sirius rolled his eyes. Definitely James over Reg. Definitely.
"Guess, or I'll never give you your wand back."
"You mean the wand you hid in the bathroom closet?" When Sirius looked at him in surprise, Regulus snorted in a manner that would have had Mrs. Black scandalized. "It's not as if we don't live together, Sirius."
"If you knew where it was, why didn't you get it, then?" Sirius asked challengingly.
Regulus threw him a dirty look. "You put Stinging Hex on it, you prat."
Sirius smiled, self-satisfied. "Yes, I did do that, didn't I?" he gloated. "So take a guess or I'll never take off the hex."
Regulus sighed, and it was only then that Sirius realized that Regulus was again in the kitchen, cooking. It had thrown him off at first, seeing Regulus cook, of all things, but it was as if his mind had almost become accustomed to this. This image of Regulus in the kitchen. The image of coming home and finding someone in there. Merlin, what a bloody annoying vision. Sirius shook his head to put his thoughts back in their proper places.
"Did you discover the formula for that rash ointment?"
"Er, no, not yet."
"Got yelled at by that Tubman?"
"Good one, but not today."
"Got yelled at by Davenport, then."
"No."
"Spilled Bubbling Pus all over yourself?"
"No."
"It's not a shameful thing to have really bad coordination, Sirius—"
"Shut up, it was just that one time at Aunt Lucretia's dinner party. I was seven, for Merin's sake."
"Well, then, I'm out of guesses," Regulus drawled. "And I seem to recall that you were nine, not seven."
"Never mind," Sirius snapped, but there was no malice in his voice. "What are you even doing?"
Regulus looked back at him like he had asked the stupidest question. That bugger. "Making Shepherd's pie," he said.
"Huh," Sirius said. Shepherd's pie was Sirius's favorite dish, not Reg's. Perhaps his taste has changed since Hogwarts. Just look at James—he actually ate his vegetables now.
"I can't do this forever, you know," Regulus said, going back to his pan. "I've got to—"
"Hunt Horcruxes, yeah, yeah, you've said it about a million times, Reg. Tell me that when your right hand can actually hold a glass."
"It's gotten better, really," Regulus insisted, holding out his right hand. Sirius had given him several potions and a tin of ointment to him the morning after their return from Little Hangleton, remaining silent on where he'd got it from—Regulus could probably tell without him saying everything—and Reg had wordlessly accepted it. Sirius didn't know the exact nature of the potions, but he assumed it was some sort of a regenerative potion; the palm of Regulus's right hand almost looked smooth and pink and healthy. Magic that Sirius hadn't seen before, but perhaps Lily might know…
"Almost healed," Regulus said, flexing his fingers. "They even move properly."
"The Merkel test—"
"I took another measurement this afternoon, it's below one-fifty," Regulus huffed impatiently.
"That's still above a hundred," Sirius said, flinging his body onto the couch and flicking his wand at the radio. "Told you: not going out until it's below the normal level."
"I can't wait that long."
"It's just another few days."
"For Merlin's sake—" Regulus closed his mouth tightly and just stood there, glaring into the floorboards. If Sirius hadn't been so intent on saying no to every word Regulus was saying, he might have found the expression comical. It was the exact same look Reg had whenever he wanted another chocolate frog and couldn't get one as a child.
"You don't tell me where the ring is, you won't let me have my wand—"
"Technically, it's my wand. And I can't tell you where the ring is because she took it."
Regulus looked up at him sharply. "What?" he said quietly.
"She took it. For safekeeping. And to take off the charms." Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Is there something wrong?"
"You knew what it was and you let her take it with her?"
"Reg, she's a trained professional! Compared to either of us, yeah, I let her take it. Blimey, it was you who almost died."
"That doesn't mean—" Regulus again looked down, his mouth drawn tight into a straight line, looking again determinedly at the floorboards. Sirius slowly sat up and lowered the volume of the radio.
"Reg, I thought we agreed that we needed outside help."
Regulus let out a sharp breath. "We did."
"She's someone we can rely on."
Regulus didn't answer.
"Reg—"
"Maybe you can rely on her," Regulus said quietly. "You haven't done anything wrong. But she won't have anything to do with me."
"You don't know that—"
"Believe me, I do." His little brother looked up and looked squarely into Sirius' face. "She won't."
Sirius stared back at him, surprised. He knew they had a falling out—it was sometime during sixth year, he recalled—but he never knew why. To be honest he made a point of ignoring Regulus at Hogwarts—the entire school was already asking enough questions about the estranged brothers for both of them—but he remembered at one point seeing them sitting separately in the Great Hall.
When he was inducted into the Order it made a little bit more sense; her mother had been a member of the Order. It certainly could not have bode well to have a family member in the Order of Phoenix and a Death Eater boyfriend. He'd thought about asking her several times, but there had never been a good timing. They were too busy trying to stay alive.
"You're not worried about putting her in danger," Sirius said slowly. "You're worried that she won't talk to you."
Regulus looked away but didn't say anything.
"Reg—"
"I know it's selfish," the words came out so unexpectedly that Sirius felt his eyebrows raise themselves even without his command. Fortunately, Regulus didn't seem to have noticed—a rare happening—and he kept on talking as though someone had opened a floodgate inside his heart and he couldn't stop the deluge that had been bottled up for so many years.
"I know it's selfish, and cowardly, and really just despicable, but—no, I'm not worried about putting her in danger. She can take care of herself. I know she can take care of herself. I just—" he stopped abruptly, his brows knit together in a horribly lost way.
"You want to see her," Sirius said quietly. Regulus didn't answer.
"Why didn't you tell me? I could have contacted her before—"
"Look at me," Regulus waved his useless right hand in front of him impatiently.
"I am looking at you."
"How could I ever convince her when I'm like this? Sirius, you said it yourself, I look horrible. And even if I wasn't being vain, I have absolutely nothing to offer her—nothing, Sirius. I can't offer her security or comfort or even stability. I don't have any money. If a word gets out that I'm still alive, I would be become one of the most wanted fugitives in the wizarding community. And everything I've done—oh, Merlin..." Regulus slowly sank onto the floor, and Sirius stood up in alarm. Regulus had curled up into a ball, his face buried in his hands, as though he couldn't bear to face the world in front of him. Sirius crouched awkwardly next to him.
"Sorry," Regulus said, his voice muffled through his hands. "This isn't your problem."
"It's fine," Sirius said quickly.
"I blame the cyan potion. You know, some potioneers think boomslang tends to make people more prone to outbursts of—"
"Reg," Sirius said firmly. "You don't have to cover things up by talking about… potions and stuff."
Regulus didn't say anything. Sirius debated. He could drop the matter; he'd seen more emotion on Regulus's face in the past five minutes than he had in the past twenty-two years. And Merlin knew whatever was going inside that little git's head. When they were younger and always fighting Sirius used to accuse him of being an automaton—unfeeling, unthinking, simply devoted to one cause, this insane, useless family. Regulus had always retorted that Sirius didn't know anything, and Sirius had always said that he knew enough, he'd seen enough. Sirius thought that he was in the right. And quite frankly, the opinion didn't change much even after he'd found Reg in Peter's cottage by seaside. How anyone could survive an Inferi attack but still fail to understand a funny knock-knock joke, Sirius couldn't fathom.
Perhaps he'd been inattentive all along. Perhaps the tiniest slips of seconds during their many arguments when he thought he saw hurt in his little brother's eyes hadn't been just his imagination…
"You never told me what happened between you and Alex," Sirius said tentatively.
"'Course not, you would have made fun of it in front of the entire castle."
Sirius had to admit that he couldn't deny this accusation. "I meant the part where you two broke up."
"Nothing to talk about."
"Reg, I spent the summer with her at the Potters. She didn't mention your name once all summer and I could tell that she was thinking about you every second." Not that he'd found it particularly tasteful at the age of sixteen. When James had told him at the end of the fifth year that his parents had agreed to help out a member of the Order whose child needed a place to stay (the said member was off on a mission across Europe), Sirius had been excited; he'd heard of the Order, naturally, and even at the age of sixteen both James and Sirius were convinced that they would join the organization as soon as they came of age. Surely, knowing a child of an actual Order member could only increase their chances of joining. And then it turned out that the person was actually the girlfriend of his git of a little brother.
He didn't know much about her personally, nor did he need to. She had a bad sense to be Sorted into Slytherin and then even worse sense to befriend his little brother. And then go on to date him. What anyone could see in that unfeeling git had been beyond Sirius's comprehension. So whenever she got a melancholic look in her eyes as she stared off into distance—the same look that James sometimes wore when he thought Lily wasn't looking—he scoffed.
"Right," Regulus said drily. "The summer when I pledged to join the ranks. Can you imagine? Even then I had every intention of betraying her."
Sirius's brows knit together. "Wait, that summer?"
Regulus looked dully back at him. "Yes, that summer."
"You were what, sixteen?"
"Well, it was August, so yes."
Sirius's eyes widened. "You took the pledge when you were sixteen?" the question came out like a loud screech. Sirius didn't care. Regulus merely raised his eyebrows tiredly.
"Ancient history, Sirius."
"How come I never heard about this?" Sirius seethed. Yes, he realized eventually as he worked for the Order that Regulus was a Death Eater—one of the enemies. He hadn't been surprised at the happening, although he would have been lying if he said that the event didn't shake him at all. He told himself over and over again that it had been coming all along; Regulus, the little git he was, was going to dutifully listen to their parents and become a Death Eater. But at sixteen? He himself had run away at sixteen, but he had a sense to go to the Potters instead of wandering the streets. Sirius tried to recall what he had been like when he was sixteen. Rash, bold. Energetic. Frustrated, constantly angry with the world and desperately trying to find something that would bring him happiness. Perhaps it was the best and the worst time to make a life-changing decision. But it was far too early. A mere child…
"You ran away from house, Sirius," Regulus said tonelessly. "It was no longer your business."
"How was this none of my business?" Sirius yelled. "You became a Death Eater. Didn't you ever think about how dangerous it wa—"
"If I recall correctly, and I seem to, you told me 'never to speak to you again.'" Regulus's voice was so uncharacteristically weak that even Sirius couldn't argue back. "I didn't think that you would take kindly to me approaching you to talk about this." He leaned against the counter table, his eyes closing again. Sirius couldn't tell if he was just exhausted—he'd learned to pick up the signs the past few weeks on whenever Regulus stopped in middle of his tracks just to catch his breath—or drained. Neither option quelled his conscience. How could he never even noticed that there was something wrong with Regulus during Hogwarts? How could he never have paid attention? How could he—
"I think the pie's burning," Regulus said casually, his eyes still closed. "I don't suppose you're up for takeaway food?"
"I don't mind," Sirius said automatically. "Pizza?" Regulus shrugged.
"Reg, about Alex—"
"Call her, contact her, I don't care."
"She's the best option we've got."
"So call her."
"I'm not sure if you'll be okay with that—"
"It was your idea to begin with."
"Right, but I still don't know what happened—"
"I'm tired, Sirius," Regulus interrupted him. "Do we have to talk about this now?" Apparently, any flood of emotion that had managed to seep through the cracks was all that Regulus was going to allow for the day. He opened his eyes, and Sirius could see that any signs of weakness that he had shown previously were gone.
"No," Sirius said. "We don't have to talk about this now." He stood up awkwardly and looked at no particular spot on the floor, unable to look at his little brother. "I think I'll go out to buy something—won't take long." Without waiting for an answer Sirius quickly walked out of the kitchen, grabbing the first coat he saw hanging on the wall on his way out.
He had a bit to think about.
Regulus wondered if he should try to move. The pie was burning, and smoke was beginning to fill the kitchen; if he left it alone any further it would alarm the neighbors. Sighing, he dragged his body upward before turning off the stove. There.
He trudged slowly toward to the nearest windows and opened them. The chill winter air were like icicles against his face. He breathed in deeply and felt his lungs shrink against the coldness. He blew out his breath and watched it fog his vision momentarily before scattering into the outside air. The streets were empty; it was already dark. Sirius was walking briskly to the northwest corner, his shoulders huddled against the coldness. The cold air shrunk his insides again.
He'd said it. One of many things that he promised to never say out loud. Regulus wasn't sure if he trusted Sirius's reaction. His brother was known for being unpredictable. He went over what Sirius said. So he hadn't known that Regulus became a Death Eater at sixteen. Regulus supposed that this wasn't surprising; even he didn't know when other Death Eaters had joined the ranks exactly. They rarely met outside the regular meetings and during occasions when the Dark Lord summoned them—Regulus had been fastidious about not furthering the relationship beyond "the Cause"—and it was difficult to tell exactly when someone became a member. They were just there.
So she'd thought about him during that summer. It was also nothing new. They'd corresponded during that summer although, of course, he left out the key information about his new rank within the league. She had always been ambivalent about expressing her views on Voldemort and his actions, but Regulus knew her well enough to know that she would disapprove of him joining the ranks. Especially in the light of what happened with her mother.
Sophia Wilson—Alex's mother—had never liked him. Regulus knew that. But that did not mean that it gave him pleasure when he found out, just as he became a Death Eater, that she was in fact an Order member and, more importantly, a recently captured Order member held captive beneath his own house. He knew why Death Eaters sometimes went down the cellar and didn't come out for a while, sometimes hours, and that it had nothing to do with interrogation or anything regarding "the Cause." They were just taking sick pleasure at taking advantage of the disarmed. Regulus excused himself by saying that he didn't know what was going on exactly down there—he didn't see it—but he knew that he didn't need to see it to know. And the fact that he could compromise so much in so little time—it had not been a fortnight since he'd joined—sickened him. Had he been always so unresolved, without will or determination—just like Sirius always said? Was it true? Alex, meanwhile, was convinced all the while that her mother was simply on a faraway mission—he assumed that no other member of the Order bothered to tell her that her mother was in fact missing. She mentioned in passing, every once in a while, in their correspondence that her letters to her mother came back unopened, and that it had been months since she'd last heard from her, and Regulus offered her words of false comfort, all the while knowing that she was probably never going to see her mother again.
And then hell broke loose on Valentine's day.
Regulus shook his head. He had been right not to tell Sirius, who, if he knew, would only confirm what Regulus didn't want to admit to himself: he didn't deserve her. Not then, and certainly not now after five years, five years filled with nothing but mistakes after mistakes after mistakes. Sirius had implied that she was seeing someone—that was good. That was good…
"Oi, it's freezing in here," Sirius's voice caught him by surprise. When had he come back?
"The smoke was beginning to fill the flat," Regulus said.
"Well, coldness has filled the room. Close the windows." Regulus now felt tingling numbness at the tip of his noes and did what Sirius asked without further comment. He hadn't noticed that his fingers had gone red with cold. Sirius, meanwhile, had managed to set up dinner by placing the pizza box on the table and spreading out a handful of napkins. Regulus for once didn't talk about getting a plate.
"So," Sirius said, taking a large bite out of his second slice, "Do you remember when I asked you 'guess what?'?"
That had not been what Regulus was expecting.
"Yes," Regulus said. "You still haven't given me my wand back."
Sirius waved his hand carelessly, as though it was some minute detail. "A co-worker set me up on a date with his daughter. And it's been a while since you've been in… well, society. I was thinking maybe you wanted to join us. I think I could ask her to bring a friend…"
Regulus was convinced that he misheard something.
"Are you asking me," he said slowly, "if I want to go out on a date?"
"It's what people do, Reg. Admittedly, I don't date much, but for my little brother I might—"
"Thank you for your consideration," Regulus said drily. "But I'll pass."
"But—"
"Who will you even introduce me as? Your long-lost cousin Reginald?" Regulus would have rolled his eyes but knew that Sirius was extending a gesture in his own misinformed way. "No thanks, Sirius. Enjoy the date though."
"It's Friday night, Reginald! You have to do something."
Regulus chewed the pizza thoughtfully, wondering what the best way was to say what he was about to say.
"I'm going to talk to Kreacher, Sirius."
Sirius frowned in confusion. "Who?"
"Kreacher. Our house elf. Surely you haven't forgotten everything about Grimmauld Place."
"Why would you even want to talk to that old—" Sirius faltered briefly under Regulus's raise eyebrow. "… creature?" he asked.
"I gave him the locket, as you know. I have to check with him if he managed to destroy it—I doubt it, but I wondered if house elf magic worked differently than ours in this respect as well. It also wouldn't be bad to have some access to the resources within that house."
Sirius sighed. "Can't you ever talk about something other than Horcruxes?"
No, Regulus replied in side his head. It's the only reason why I'm still living right now. But he decided not put things in a more pacifying way. "I've rested enough. The rate of my recovery suggests that I should be able to go about in less than a week. I can't stay here and be babysat, Sirius."
Sirius sighed. "What then? So we talk to that miserable bat. What are you going to do then—go off on another hunt?"
"I'm not sure," Regulus admitted. "I feel like I'm missing something. Something Bella once mentioned. I've been trying to remember it—I think it was around Christmas a few years ago, when Bella said something about a gift—I can't think," he sighed. "The best thing I can think of is to gather what we have together and to find out more about them. I have a vague guess what others may look like, but it'll take some time for me to actually go about and enquire about them. You've got to give me the wand back, Sirius."
Sirius muttered something under his breath.
"What?"
"I said, can't you just—take it easy for once in your lifetime? You learned to write when you were four, Reg. Believe me, I was there. I saw it. Can't you—just go at your own pace for once and—I don't know. Be happy?" Sirius looked at him earnestly and Regulus got a feeling that he had been thinking about this a while—or perhaps he'd thought of it during his little trip to the pizza place. He cleared his throat and looked away.
"When this is all over," Regulus lied, "I'll think about it. Until then, we have to put an end to this, Sirius. Once and for all."
