"I'm ready," he insists. "We're ready."
He's had enough of this sitting around and twiddling his thumbs, watching other people take all the glory. He's had enough of combing through newspapers for information that's never there, of waiting for potions to brew and fetching supplies like a fucking house-elf.
He wants to be out there. Duelling or fighting or sneaking about, he doesn't care, he just wants to do something.
Isn't that what they were training themselves to do, all their years at school? Isn't that why Dumbledore picked them - hand-picked them - for this weird fucking group of vigilantes? For their duels against those slimeballs, for the inventiveness of their hexes, the creativity of their spellwork, their sheer brilliance?
He sees McKinnon's glare and shoots one right back at her, glowering at her beneath his thick brows. She doesn't get it. None of them get it - they're too old, too jaded, too stale. All they want to do is talk about communication and tactics and biding their time. All they want to do is choose the right moment and choose the right people but they just don't. Fucking. Get it.
"I'm not sure that you're—"
He's had enough. He slams his fists down on the tabletop, rattling the assortment of mismatched crockery Diggle has dredged up from fuck-knows-where.
"I'm nineteen!" he says, for what feels like the seven thousandth time. It's exasperating.
He kicks back his chair, ignores Peter's wince as its wooden legs scrape harshly against the stone floor, and runs his hands through his hair.
"I'm ready," he insists, not caring if he sounds petulant because he is fucking petulant. He's Sirius fucking Black and he's ready.
None of these twats - these Phoenixes - get it. They think he's still a child. They think he's treating this war like it's a schoolkids' game.
But he's been fighting these battles for longer than any of them. For him, the war is personal.
He sees the way Vance and Jones cast suspicious looks at him any time the names Lestrange or Rosier, Malfoy or Crabbe are mentioned. He knows what they think when his darling cousin cackles at them from the wanted posters plastered all over Diagon Alley. He knows they're muttering how the apple doesn't fall far from the tree whenever dear old Grandpa Pollux is quoted in the Prophet.
He knows he's got more to prove than anyone else here - knows he doesn't have James's trustworthy, honest, good parents, or Peter's muggle dad. He knows - and he hates himself for thinking this - he knows he's got more to prove than even Remus and his bloody wolfsblood.
Everyone around this table knows that those dicks out there - those cowards in their stupid cloaks and stupid masks - are his relations. His blood. But none of them care to remember that he left them, turned his back on them, renounced everything they ever stood for and chose his own family. Made his own home.
How many of them could do that?
All these fuckers see are his mother's eyes and his father's chin and his grandfather's nose and don't they get that that's what he sees, too? Every fucking time he looks in the mirror?
Don't they get that he wants nothing more than to punch that mirror and use its shards to carve the skin right off his Noble and Most Ancient fucking face?
Don't they get that the only thing stopping him from doing just that is this war? This chance to redress the balance, to set things straight, to rip out the pureblood mania that has infected his family, his brother, his world, for years?
His hands are shaking. He takes a deep breath, just like Mrs P taught him, and unfurls his clenched fists. He flexes his fingers and rests his palms on the tabletop, his pulse pounding in his head. He stares at the faces gathered around. They've been talking, he realises. He forgot to listen, too caught up in his own head. Idiot. Fucking idiot.
"We don't have time for this," he says, cutting across whatever noble and virtuous fucking thing the noble and virtuous fucking Alice Longbottom was wittering on about. "This is fresh - we need to do something. Before we lose our chance."
"I understand that you are a man of action, Sirius," says Diggle, the foppish twat. "But planning is very important, and—"
It takes all of Sirius's mental fortitude to resist upturning the table or, at the very least, smashing one of these hideous floral plates on the floor. He settles for rolling his eyes.
"It's called an ambush," he says. "We've—" He gestures to himself, and Prongs, and Wormtail. "—done these a million times. We don't need to plan."
"I think what Sirius means," says James, tugging Sirius's sleeve. Sirius submits and sits back down, crossing his arms across his chest as he glares sulkily around the table. "Is that the rest of you have jobs, and families, and responsibilities - and injuries - and, well, we don't, do we? We're fresh meat. And we're good at this stuff."
James leans forwards and stabs his finger at the map of Norfolk unfurled on the table in front of them.
"Sneaking around, I mean," he continues. "Ambushes. No offence, Ded, but you didn't know us at school. And besides, we know the area - purebloods, right? They won't be expecting us. We've got the advantage, so why not use it? We'll be in and out in no time - we'll take the Cloak! They won't even know we've been there."
Prongs has this way of speaking that makes people shut up and listen. Moony always says it's because he's a posh twat, but Sirius is a posh twat too and he's never been able to persuade people to his way of thinking. He inevitably just blurts out whatever stupid thought happens to be thrashing about in his head.
He wonders if it's down to some defect in his family. Everything else he hates about himself is.
The boys land in a heap of twisted limbs and tangled fabric, damp earth beneath them and a prickly hedgerow at their backs.
Sirius is on his feet at once, alert, ears pricked, eyes searching through the darkness. Hunting. James helps Peter off the ground, pockets the port-key, and arranges the Cloak around them. They have to crouch to fit these days - well, Sirius and James do, Peter is yet to have that final growth spurt although he insists it's coming - and this really isn't what Sirius had in mind for his first Order operation. This sneaking, this creeping - it feels too much like waiting. His skin itches with the need to run, run, run and just fucking do something.
The house is up ahead. Its many windows glow with warm candlelight, disguising the horrors that are no doubt due to happen within later tonight. Wormtail won't be able to see it - purebloods only. It's one of the very few advantages of Sirius's blood.
A noise. Twigs snapping. Sirius jerks his head to the left.
He goes dog: better hearing, better sight, better sense of smell. Better all round. Fewer thoughts. Better.
Peter whimpers. "I don't like it," he moans, his voice muffled by the heavy weight of the cloak. "It's so dark, I—"
Sirius growls, quietly. A warning.
"Mate—" James starts. Sirius nips at his leg. "Fuck's sake," James mutters.
"Should I go rat now?" asks Peter, wringing his hands. "I could, but it's dark, and I don't want to get left behind, but—"
"If you want, mate," says James. "Go in my pocket, if you want. Actually, yeah - good idea - the Cloak's not really big enough for all of us any more."
"You're not going stag?"
"Can't very well have a stag wandering across the front lawn when there's a bloody hunt meet on, can we?"
"Oh," says Peter. "I s'pose not."
Sirius doesn't hear their conversation. He doesn't see Peter's transformation. His eyes and ears are trained on the house. Watching. Waiting.
And then he hears it again.
He moves slowly, creeping silently along the hedgerow, low to the ground. Not a nogtail. Nogtails are faster. Louder. Nogtails wouldn't be so close to the house, not during the hunting season. Not when the thundering of hooves and barking of dogs and bellowing of horns could signal their doom at any time.
No. Nogtails will be in their dens.
Sirius sniffs the air. Not a nogtail. Human.
Enemy.
He tears towards the source of the noise, a blur of black fur barely distinguishable from the shadows cast by the hedgerows and tall trees stretching towards the night sky on either side of the lane.
"Pads, wait!"
It's very dark. The waxing crescent moon - Moony's safe - and twinkling stars are hidden behind thick, unseasonal clouds, but Sirius's dog-eyes adjust quickly to the gloom. He vaults a gate and lands lightly on his feet. A field. He pushes forwards, the crops parting and rustling against his fur. Rapeseed - thick, musky, oily scent. Moony's lucky he's not here. Terrible sinuses.
"Padfoot!"
The lads are scrambling after him but Sirius presses on. Through the field he creeps, always watching. Always listening.
And then he sees them: three silhouettes on the horizon. He doesn't stop to think. He doesn't wonder why they're not out on the night-hunt or in the house with the rest of them. He just rears up onto his hind legs, transforming back into man mid-run, his wand raised and pointing directly at the figures on the crest of the sloping field.
They spot him immediately, carving a path through the rapeseed as he sprints towards them. The air crackles with spellfire. Sirius casts hex after curse after hex, quicker than he can say their incantations, quicker than he can even think them.
He's frenetic, feral, filled with adrenaline. This is natural. This is good. This is living. His wand is a part of him, melded to his skin and his blood and his bones, and he can feel the power thrumming down it, thrumming through him, pouring out of him to cast down any one of those masked twats who dares to cross paths with Sirius fucking Black.
Maybe the big twat's here, Sirius thinks wildly. Maybe he'll be able to take the big twat down and end it all, right here. On his first attempt - Diggle'll eat his many hats when he finds out.
He jumps and twists in the air to avoid the barrage of curses thrown at him. He imagines each of those masked bastards is the big one - or, he thinks wickedly, fucking Snape, the great greasy git. He lets out a sharp, bark of a laugh as he flicks his wand and levicorpuses one of them up into the air. It's a particularly stupid bastard. Its mask slips from its face as it turns upside-down, too stupid to magically fix it to its face.
Almost like it wants to be caught.
Sirius doesn't bother to stop and see who it is. It's probably someone he knows and he'd rather not get all caught up in that bullshit when there's more, more. He'll leave them to be chained up and cleaned up and carted away by someone else. He presses forwards, casting stupefy here, expelliarmus there, throwing in a creative tarantallegra or titillando to keep them on their toes.
He doesn't stop to think that this might have been a terrible idea. The thought that the bright lights and sparks of his spellfire might have attracted the other masked bastards doesn't cross his mind.
He doesn't stop to wonder, either, why none of the curses aimed his way seem to stick. He assumes, in his usual bullish way, that it's down to his agility. But he's forgotten that he never made Seeker for the Gryffindor team. He's forgotten that it's his brother who used to get mockingly called Twinkle-Toes.
Sirius doesn't like to think about his brother much, these days. It hurts. Too much hurt. Even when he's dog. But Sirius suspects - and he blames himself, of course. How could he not? He knew Reg was soft. Naive. Gullible. Susceptible to manipulation. Hadn't he used those very traits against his brother, so many times, when they were children? Ask Kreacher for a cake, Reg, Mum said we're allowed. Don't open my wardrobe, Reg, there's an erkling inside and it'll eat you. It'll only be a year, Reg. Of course I'll write, Reg. Of course I won't forget you, Reg.
No matter what, Reg.
I'll always be your brother, Reg.
He's laughing. A wild, inhuman noise. He's covered in dirt and his hair looks worse than Prongs' and he's bleeding, but he's laughing. He's bent over, his hands on his knees, and he's laughing from the thrill of it - the adrenaline, the knowledge that he's done it, that he's done something good, that he's rid the world of a few more masked bastards.
"That was brilliant," he says, eyes bright and flashing beneath the starlit sky. Athena - wise warrior goddess - had flashing grey eyes, too. He reckons that's where he gets it from, his prodigal talent for this sort of thing.
It certainly wasn't from his fucking mother.
Prongs and Wormtail look dazed. Their expressions don't dampen Sirius's thrill. His hands are trembling. That does, a bit.
"Can we go now?" asks Peter in a quiet voice. He's holding a clutch of papers close to his chest, as though they might fly away. He must've managed to get in the house, then. Sirius had almost forgotten about the house. "Can we— can we call the others?"
Sirius rolls his eyes and turns his back on him. Wormy little Wormtail. Hates getting his paws dirty. Always wants to sit in the comms room with Fenwick and make nice neat piles of parchment instead of doing something useful. Something necessary.
"Yeah," says James. "Yeah, c'mon, let's go back to the path and we'll send a patronus. Pads?"
"In a sec," says Sirius. It's beginning to rain. Fat, warm raindrops spilling from the clouds. He lifts his face up to the stars, grinning madly.
Fuck you, he thinks. Fuck the whole lot of you, you manky pureblood bastards.
Prongs gives him a Look, but doesn't protest. He pulls Peter's arm, pulls him away from Sirius and back through the field, back towards the path. Sirius spreads his arm wide and cackles.
A twig snaps.
Fuck.
Pete said they'd all gone - fuck Peter, good-for-nothing little twerp - he said he'd checked, he said the house was empty! Sirius whirls around, wand in hand. He can just about make out the lads, lit by the soft glow of James's patronus, way back down on the path.
Sirius wheels towards the woods. He pushes through thorny vines and ducks low-hanging branches, not bothering to be quiet. They won't catch him first. He's invincible. He's got the grey-eyed goddess of war on his side. He's Odysseus, he's Ajax, he's fucking Achilles, the best of them all. Not even Hector himself could get in his way.
But it's not Hector he finds.
It's a sad little lump with a pale face and his mother's eyes.
Sirius's eyes.
The lump's arm is shaking somewhat alarmingly. The lump's arm is extended towards Sirius, the wand it's holding pointing vaguely near his chest.
Sirius knows that wand well. Cypress. Flexible. A core of thestral hair, plucked from one of old Aunt Cass's herd. He'd been there, the day it was chosen.
Or rather, the day that the wand chose Regulus.
The brothers Black stare at each other, their wands - also brothers - pointing at each others' chests. Regulus is trembling like he's got a bad case of Black Cat Flu, supporting himself against a tree trunk with his left arm.
Sirius doesn't want to look at that arm - he doesn't want the proof - but he can't help himself, has never been able to help himself, stupid fucking nosy twat. Regulus's sleeve is ragged and torn and Sirius can see the— can see it, so out of place on his innocent baby brother. It snakes towards his wrist, a perfect copy of the green serpent that has laughed at him from the front pages of the Prophet every fucking day this week.
He should do it. He knows he should. Just because he's shared a nursery with this— this Death Eater, just because he's shared sweets and robes and secrets with him, doesn't mean he can let him get away.
He should hex him. Knock him out. Tie him up. Incapacitate him.
But he doesn't. He just stands there like a lemon, staring at his baby brother.
Regulus whirls around. The sound comes rushing back to Sirius's ears before he realises it had gone - crashing, twigs snapping. And there are James and Peter stumbling through the forest.
"What the—"
"Shit! Shit— stupefy!"
Sirius leaps in front of his brother and blocks Peter's spell with a whip of his wand.
Wait— Peter's spell? Unexpected.
"What the fuck," says Regulus, the swear sounding like the most ridiculous thing Sirius has ever heard in that stupid plummy voice. The voice Sirius still has when he gets drunk, when he forgets to bury it deep deep down inside himself.
"Yeah, Peter, what the fuck?" says James, wrenching Peter's wand out of his hand.
Peter looks utterly bewildered, like the entire world is shifting beneath his feet.
"It's a Death Eater!" he says in a hushed voice, as though Regulus might not hear. As though he isn't aware that Regulus is half fucking bat and could hear a wand drop a mile away.
"Use your fucking eyes!" says James, exasperated. "You can't just stupefy someone's brother!"
"What?!"
James sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose. "We came to tell you," he says, looking pointedly at Sirius, "that Ded has called in the Aurors to tidy up after… whatever this was. I'd say you've got about ten minutes, mate. Tops."
Sirius gives him a jerky nod. He watches James drag Peter away, again. He listens to Peter's confused protests until he can't hear them any more.
And then he turns back to Regulus.
Sirius's jaw twitches. The knuckles of his right hand, still clutching his wand, are bone-white in the gloom of the woods. His sweat has cooled, now. The adrenaline has evaporated from his veins, leaving him feeling small and lost and scared.
That's his brother. His baby brother. The kid he used to tease and torment and kick under the table at dinner - the kid he used to share forbidden treats with and comfort during thunderstorms and tell all his secrets to, beneath a heavy blanket on their shared rooftop.
That brother, his brother, is a fucking Death Eater.
He knew it. He knew it back in school, when Reg started hanging around with those ugly gits and getting defensive (more defensive) whenever Sirius tried to talk to him.
But… this is different. This is undeniable proof. This is his little brother, barely able to stand, injured (by… by Sirius?), wearing Death eater robes with a fucking Death Eater mask at his feet.
Sirius wants to fucking cry. He wants to scream at the stars. He wants to scream at everyone in their fucking family who let this happen. Is this how banshees are made?
He wants to apparate right into their hideous mother's hideous parlour and hex her hideous fucking face right off her skull for daring to let this stupid fucking child get into this mess.
"You're being unusually quiet," says Regulus, in that wretched plummy voice. "What are you waiting for? I won't fight back."
Sirius stares at him.
He splutters, a bit.
"What the fuck, Reg?"
"Here," Regulus says. He struggles to stand up straight but lifts his chin, as though inviting Sirius's wand. "Go on. There's nothing you can do to me that I haven't already considered doing to myself."
Sirius doesn't want to think about the implications of that statement. He doesn't want to think about anything.
Fucking hell.
"Fuck's sake," he says, shoving his wand back into his pocket. "I'm not going to— I'm not going to curse my brother!"
"Oh," says Regulus. His voice is calm, steady, but as he plucks a twig off the sleeve of his robes Sirius can see how much his hands are still shaking. "I'm your brother now, am I?"
Sirius frowns. He hates these stupid mind games, always has. Fucking Slytherins.
"What are you on about?" he says. "Of course you're my fucking brother. Came from the same repulsive womb, didn't we?"
"Right… only - and forgive me if I'm wrong here, Sirius - but I thought you decided to stop being my brother years ago."
"I told you, Reg. I told you that night—"
"What you told me was that I wasn't a good enough reason for you to stay."
Sirius stares at him. He didn't say that, did he? He didn't mean that. He does have a habit of saying things he doesn't mean when he's all riled up, though. Mrs P's been trying to get him to stop that, but… Merlin, is that why Reg has been so— so narky all this time?
"I didn't—"
"You chose your side, Sirius. Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like a judgemental arsehole. You chose your side - you chose Potter - and you left me with this." Regulus spreads his good arm out, as if to signify the fucking soil or something.
"That's not fair—"
"No," says Regulus. "It isn't."
Sirius clamps his mouth shut and glares at Regulus. There was a time, once, when Regulus wouldn't dare to cut him off or talk back to him. Sirius misses those times.
He can't look at him any longer - it's like staring into a mirror, despite Reg's prissiness. He turns his glare to a moss-covered rock, lying peacefully on the ground as if it's never had to deal with an errant brother before. Sirius kicks it. The action is wholly unsatisfying.
Regulus makes a pained, hissing noise and Sirius looks back up, alarmed. Reg is clutching his left arm - where that fucking snake is branded onto his skin - and wincing something terrible. Sirius notices how much his brother is bleeding and tries to punch the rising pity deep back down.
"You're hurt," he says, matter-of-factly.
"I'm fine," says Regulus, through gritted teeth. Stubborn little shit.
Sirius sniffs. He realises he's still clutching his wand and quickly shoves it back up his sleeve. He glances about, hoping to catch on some topic of conversation, but the trees are as useless as always. He's got minutes left. Minutes.
He doesn't want to let Regulus go.
"So," he says, "your mates just left you here, did they? All injured, like?"
Regulus throws him an unnecessarily contemptuous look. "They're not my mates." His lip curls around the word, as though it pains him to say it.
"What are they, then?" Sirius shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets in an attempt to feign nonchalance.
"We call ourselves brothers."
The word hits him like a curse to the chest. He staggers back a step. Regulus avoids his gaze and stares at his arm instead, still clutching it tightly, and Sirius realises that they are not so much alike any more, after all. Regulus is thin. Thinner than usual. Sharp and spiky and angular. His skin isn't just pale, but grey. His fingers - always so long and elegant, their mother's pride and joy - are barely more than bone.
And his hair, that glorious sleek Black hair, hangs dull and lifeless.
Regulus looks up, his cheeks sunken, dark circles ringing his eyes, and Sirius, as always, speaks before he thinks.
"I can help you," he blurts out. "We've got people - we've got safe-houses. I'm in the Order, Dumbledore's group - come back with me? I can help you. You're just a kid, we've got—"
"No."
Sirius lurches forwards, hand extended, intending to— to shake some sense into Regulus, or hug him, maybe, he isn't sure. Regulus shrinks back against the tree trunk, his eyes wide and fearful.
"Don't touch me," he hisses.
"Stop being a prick!" says Sirius. "Let me help you!"
"You can't!"
"I can, I told you," says Sirius. Time is running out. He can see wand-light through the trees, can hear the tell-tale crack of apparation. "Fuck the family, Reg. I told you: they don't care about us. Look what they've done to you!"
"This wasn't them, Sirius. I made my own choices. Nobody forced me into anything, they— they wanted this about as much as you do. And now…" He shrugs, a pathetic sight. "I have to live with the consequences of what I've done."
"They've fucking brainwashed you! Let me help you, Reg - please. Look at you!"
"It's too late." Regulus winces again, his face screwed up in pain. When he opens his eyes Sirius is close enough to see the unshed tears hanging from his brother's eyelashes.
"No, Reg," he says, practically begging. "I'll keep them away, the Aurors - Bones is one of our lot. And Mad-Eye, they'll help—"
"I don't mean the Aurors, Sirius," Regulus says sadly. He raises his left arm. "I'm being summoned. He'll know where I am. He always knows."
"What? Who?"
Regulus closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "My Lord would see his faithful subject and pronounce the penalty for this unwarranted delay."
"Your…" The truth dawns on him and he reaches for Regulus's shoulder, grasping at thin air as his brother twists away. "No. Reg, no."
"There's nothing you can do, Sirius."
"Don't tell me what I can't do!"
"Alright?" asks James, in a low voice.
Sirius gives a jerky nod. He raises his head, sticks his chin high in the air, and glares defiantly at a tree in the middle-distance. He can't look at Prongs. He knows he'll see pity there. He knows it'll break him.
They've regrouped on the pathway, at the spot where they port-keyed in. Peter is wringing his hands and looking like he's about to piss himself. Sirius can't look at him, either. He hates the way his stomach boils with contempt at him, his fellow Marauder, his friend.
"Do you have it?"
Sirius glances to the side. Edgar Bones sounds exhausted, looks even more so. Sirius supposes three assassination attempts will do that to a man. He wonders if Regulus knew about any of them - if he was involved.
It's impossible to imagine his soft-hearted brother, champion of house-elves, hurting even a flobberworm. He'd once kept a family of doxies hidden in his curtains, preferring to risk being poisoned than have the hairy little beasts destroyed. But Sirius supposes he must have done something terrible, after all, if he's received the mark of a fucking Death Eater. You-Know-Who was hardly likely to hand them out for Sitting Quietly and Not Bothering Anybody.
"Pete," James hisses, nudging Peter.
"Er," Peter says, so eloquently, and hands Bones the papers he's been clutching. He looks terrified. Sirius sniffs the air. He's not pissed himself yet, but there's still time.
"Good," says Bones. "I suppose tonight wasn't a total fucking disaster."
Sirius can feel the Auror's glare but refuses to meet it. Fuck him. Fuck the consequences. He got the job done, didn't he?
"Any stragglers?" asks Bones.
Sirius glances at James. James raises an eyebrow.
"No," says Sirius.
Peter choose this moment - of all the fucking moments - to find his voice. "But what about—"
Sirius shoots him a glare that could have withered the Whomping Willow.
"What Pete means to say," says James, intervening, "is that there were some, mostly in the house, who managed to get away. The floo, y'know? But we secured those who didn't."
"Right," Bones sighs, clearly too exhausted to scrutinise them further. "You lot get back to base for debriefing. I've got a mountain of parchment-work to get through, tell him I'll make contact as soon as I can."
"Right you are," says James, saluting.
Bones sighs again and turns, apparating on the spot. The sound reverberates in the still night air.
Peter pipes up again. "Shouldn't we have told him about—"
"You'll hold your tongue if you want to keep it," Sirius snaps viciously.
"But—"
"We saw nothing, mate," says James, patting Peter on the shoulder. "We saw no one. Definitely not a Baby Black. Yeah?"
Peter glances warily between them, his shoulders slumped. "Right…"
Sirius swears he'll wring the little rat's neck if he dares so much as breathe a word about seeing Regulus anywhere near this shitshow.