Chapter 6 – Not Enough

29th December 1978

It was only 11am and Lily had been thrown up on twice already. She'd changed her uniform, but the second time it had happened, she'd had to borrow someone else's spare scrubs. They were a little too tight around her shoulders, and worn around the collar, but Lily refused to let it get her down. She and James had just returned from their brief romantic getaway after the wedding, and Lily was still glancing at the ring on her finger every now and then, reminding herself that it was all real. She was ludicrously happy, and even the string of awkward patients wasn't going to stop her from smiling at the memory of the last few days.

She ate lunch with a few of the colleagues she'd gotten to know a little better over the past couple of months, and was on her way back to the second floor when the beeper she'd been given to wear around her neck started screeching loudly at her. "Emergency at reception," it said at her incessantly, until she pushed the button on the top of it and the Welcome Witch's voice quietened.

Wiping her hair out of her face, Lily turned around, took a deep breath, and set off towards the reception at a run. She was one of the first to get there - and was handed a chart by another trainee healer who Lily thought had only started in the last week or so.

She pushed open the door to the private room the patient had been immediately directed to, and was met with the sight of a short, dark haired man in long, formal robes stretched out on the single bed.

She glanced down at the file in her hand, and felt her heart leap as she read the man's name. 'Orion Black.'

Scanning the rest of the page, Lily glanced back up nervously. This was Sirius' father, someone she'd heard about only in the angry rants or solemn mumblings of his son, someone she knew was a supporter of Voldemort. Someone lying before her, grievously ill, expecting her to help him.

Lily took a deep breath - still in the doorway and staring at the man in shock. It took a few seconds before her instincts kicked in, and she started moving towards him, rehearsing the spells that she might need in her mind. She didn't see Walburga Black until the woman stepped directly into her path, almost causing Lily to walk right into her.

She was a tall woman, made even taller by the sharp heels that scratched at the smooth tiles on the floor of the hospital room, and her eyes were severe when she looked down at Lily. "I know you," she said harshly.

This declaration, Lily thought, was uncalled for. It wasn't surprising that Sirius' mother might know who she was, but Lily didn't see the relevance when her husband was lying on the bed behind her, his breathing coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Lily Potter," Walburga continued, taking a step closer to Lily so that they were barely inches apart. "The mudblood who married into a rich pureblood family."

"Excuse me?" Lily stuttered. She had heard plenty of stories about Sirius' family and their bigotry, but she didn't expect to be met with it head on when she was simply trying to do her job.

"I don't want you in here." Walburga said, turning her back on Lily, and standing with folded arms by her husband's bed. "We don't need help from people like you."

"What's going on in here?"

The words came from Sister Carter, who had just arrived with another healer. She rushed over to the bed where Orion was lying as she spoke, and immediately started working on him.

"Here," Lily said, handing his file to the other healer. "It doesn't look good."

"Leave!" Walburga demanded, still not looking at her, then to Carter she said, "get that filthy mudblood out of here."

"Your husband is incredibly ill, Mrs. Black," Carter told her, clearly trying to remain calm despite Walburga's comment. "We need all the help we can get."

"Not from her."

Lily glanced from Sirius' mother to Sister Carter, who had paused with a half-made potion in one hand. She was obviously conflicted, but eventually she nodded once, and said quietly, "Lily, go."

Having barely set foot in the room at all, Lily turned around, feeling the sting of tears that she desperately tried to hold back. She wouldn't cry. Not for them.

It only struck her when she was almost back to her ward that Sirius' father was dying. She may not have examined him herself, but Lily had seen how bad he looked, had seen the chart she'd been handed when she got downstairs.

He wasn't going to make it. And she doubted that Sirius' mother would even think to let her estranged son know.

It would be down to her.

Lily couldn't even begin to imagine how he'd take the news. Although she's heard of his parents from James, and from Sirius himself plenty of times, seeing and hearing what Sirius had grown up with face to face was something that she couldn't have prepared for. How Sirius could regulate that - their obvious hatred - with the fact that they were his parents, and must have loved him, she didn't know.

She almost wished she hadn't seen Orion at all - that she hadn't had time to get down to reception, or hadn't been working that day. But it was the lesser of two evils, she told herself repeatedly as she started drafting a letter to James. It was better for him to find out from a friend - that James be the one to tell him - than to hear it from a stranger.

It was terrible, but it had to better this way.

Regulus was waiting. His mother hadn't let him come to St Mungo's when his father had collapsed in the middle of lunch, grasping for the tablecloth and pulling plates and glasses to the floor. Shards of glass and lumps of potato had been trodden into the carpet, and Kreacher had been hurrying in and out of the room, wanting everything to be perfect for when his master and mistress returned home. Kreacher had fussed over Regulus all afternoon, bringing him cups of tea and trying to convince him to eat something. It made the waiting a little more bearable, having Kreacher there with him.

The sun was sinking towards the horizon when its rays splashed across the room and caught on the crystal goblet that Regulus' father always drank from. It had rolled halfway across the room, just beneath a mahogany bookcase, and when Regulus picked it up he discovered a large chip in its rim. He tried to fix it, thinking how angry his father would be if his favourite goblet was broken - it was a family heirloom, like so many other things in 12 Grimmauld Place - but he was too numb for his magic to work. He had said reparo over and over again, each time as ineffective as the last, until the words turned into sobs. Kreacher had tried to take the goblet from him but he had clung onto it. He needed to hold onto something.

He was still sitting at the dining table, staring blankly at the chipped goblet in his hand as the room grew dark around him, when he heard the front door open. Jolting out of his stunned silence, he hurried out into the hallway, almost tripping over the troll-leg umbrella stand in his haste.

"Mother?" he said, as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She always looked so well put together, with her long dark hair pulled back into a neat bun and her robes pressed to perfection. But now, strands of hair hung down around her face and the front of her robes were wrinkled. Instead of her usual straight back and cold smile, her shoulders seemed to slump forward and the skin around her mouth sagged. The lines of iron-grey running through her hair seemed more prominent than ever.

"Regulus," she said, the word falling heavily from her lips.

"Is father...?" He couldn't bring himself to finish the question.

Walburga didn't reply for a moment, undoing the silver clasp of her cloak with hands that trembled ever so slightly. She didn't even look at Kreacher as she handed him the cloak; she had eyes only for her son.

"Mother," he said again. "Where's father?"

Walburga Black had never been one to soften her words, and even this was no exception.

"He isn't coming home, Regulus," she said. "He's dead."

When he would look back on this moment, Regulus wouldn't be able to say how long they had stood in that hallway - Regulus, his mother and Kreacher, the last members of their family - in a silence as piercing as a scream.

It was his mother who finally spoke.

"You are the head of this family now," she said, stepping towards him and pushing his shoulders back to straighten his posture. "You are the last in the family line to bear the name of Black. Our reputation rests upon your shoulders." She was squeezing his shoulders tight enough to bruise. "I know you will make me proud."

5th January 1979

"Do you want some more tea?"

"No."

"Some bacon or anything?"

"I'm fine."

"We could do something or-

"Remus." Sirius snapped, immediately silencing his boyfriend.

"Sorry, I know, I'm rambling."

"It's okay," Sirius said.

They were sitting on the sofa in their living room - just sitting there with the radio humming away quietly from the kitchen. Sirius couldn't really make out what was playing, and he didn't really care. He felt like he needed to stand up, walk around, do something - but he remained seated. Remus' hand was on his leg, and his words were soft and comforting but it didn't make him feel any better. He wanted it to - wished that he could let himself listen to Remus' bad jokes and kiss him, and that everything would be better, but there was an ache in his chest that he just couldn't ignore.

Today was the day of his father's funeral. It would be starting any time now, and Sirius wasn't there.

He'd considered it. Both James and Remus had offered to go with him, but the thought of seeing the faces of his brother and his mother, of seeing their grief, was unbearable.

Sirius didn't know if what he was feeling was grief. He didn't know if it was possible to feel grief for a man who he had grown to despise. Maybe what he was feeling was just that - hatred. Anger. A sense of injustice that his father could be gone - after all he'd done - just like that. It was as though everything he'd ever said to Sirius was meaningless. All of the terrible things, and all of the good. At the end of the day, he was just an old man.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Moony, seriously."

"I just don't know what I can to do to help."

"Neither do I."

He took Remus' hand as he said it, squeezing it gently, before standing up.

He could feel Remus' eyes on him as he pulled on his jacket and tugged on his boots, but he didn't say anything, even as he headed towards the front door.

"I just need some air," Sirius said eventually, smiling at him weakly.

"Okay," Remus nodded, a sadness in his eyes, "I'll be here if you need me."

He didn't intend to go anywhere in particular, but once the thought popped into his head, he couldn't seem to shake it. As much as he loved Remus, his need to help was suffocating when Sirius didn't want affection at all. He wanted to settle in himself some of unease he had been feeling since he'd heard about his father's death, but he didn't know how. He had no desire to be with his real family on the day of the funeral, but he did know somewhere he might go, that might make him feel a little bit better.

He ended up at the Potters.

Fleamont was busy with a doctor's appointment, but a few minutes after he knocked on the front door Euphemia answered, standing in front of him with her straggly grey hair and warm smile, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

"Sirius," she beamed when she saw him, immediately ushering him inside and into a hug. "I'm so happy to see you sweetheart, how are you doing? Do you want anything to eat or drink?"

"I'm good thanks," Sirius smiled, feeling some of the tension drain from him as she led him into the living room. "Remus has been overfeeding me all morning. He's trying to help."

"Nothing wrong with a man who cooks," she told him firmly, sitting down and patting the seat next to her.

"I wouldn't quite call toast and spaghetti cooking."

"Better than Fleamont can do after all these years, I'll tell you that much."

Sirius laughed, the sound escaping from him in a short, sharp bark that sounded alien given the way he'd been feeling over the past few days.

He leant his head on Euphemia's shoulder, and she pulled down the blanket to spread across their laps.

James' house – Sirius' house, in all the ways that mattered, was exactly the same as they'd left it - with its threadbare rug in front of the fire place and tea stains on one arm of the chair that Fleamont always occupied when he was home. It made him forget for a little while, why he was even upset at all.

He was brought out of his nostalgia by the shake of Euphemia's shoulders against his head as she coughed loudly into her hands, each cough sounding like it was being dragged painfully from the back of her throat.

"Are you sick?" Sirius asked, sitting up. He glanced down at the blanket, and was suddenly aware of the numerous cups on the coffee table, and the discarded handkerchiefs on the arm of the sofa.

"Don't you worry about me," she said, brushing off his concerns, "nothing a chat with one of my boys and a good night's sleep won't fix. Now, why don't you tell me what's bothering you. I know it must have been hard, since your father passed. And I bet you're bottling it all up inside."

"It's the funeral today," Sirius told her, glancing down at the watch she and Fleamont had given him for his 17th birthday. "It's probably over now though."

Euphemia considered him carefully, then said, "I see. And you feel as though you should have been there, even though you know that you couldn't have gone, not after everything they put you through?"

"I know," Sirius said. "I don't know how to explain it."

"You don't have to," she said gently, putting an arm around him. "Not if you don't want, it's okay to just feel something."

"I don't like it."

"Of course you don't," she laughed. "But that's okay too."

"It's like," Sirius said, grasping for the words. He wanted to talk to someone, to get it all off his chest, but he couldn't quite articulate the torrent of emotions that were fighting in his brain. "Okay. It's like objectively, I know I should be sad, because he's my dad. And I am, sort of. I know that people think he was a good man, who achieved a lot, and that it's a shame he's dead. But at the same time, I'm almost glad. And that's a horrible thing to be, isn't it? I shouldn't be glad that someone's dead, even if they were a shitty person. But it's like, he can't get to me anymore. Or he shouldn't be able to, but here we are, with it getting to me. And I wonder about my mum - does she even care? They never seemed that much in love. Not like you are. I don't know what she'll think. And Reg - I wish I could have - I don't know. I just don't know how I'm supposed to feel, so I feel everything and it's too much. I don't know how to deal with it."

"Sirius," Euphemia said after a long moment of silence. "You might think you're all of these things - that you were a bad son to your father, a bad brother, a bad person for being relieved that he's dead. But do you know what I see when I look at you?"

"No," Sirius said shaking his head. "What?"

"I see a boy who is brave, and strong and fiercely loyal. You're a wonderful brother and son, and it isn't your fault that you were born into a family who could never see that. You don't owe them anything. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah," Sirius said, looking at her in amazement. "I - How is it that you always know exactly what to say?"

"Mother's intuition," she told him with a wink. "You know you can come to me with anything."

10th February 1979

Regulus returned to Hogwarts when the Christmas holidays ended, three days after his father's funeral. Any interest he'd had in his NEWT classes was now absent, and he had lost all motivation to complete his homework on time. He began to skip lessons more and more often, and as his professors' sympathy with his situation waned, he was given detention after detention - and he skipped those too. There seemed no point in any of it now.

When he did go to classes he argued with his professors, and he took to roaming the corridors at night in the hopes of being told off. He fought with his friends and his classmates, earning him even more detentions. He was just so angry, so desperate for someone to blame, a reason to fight - he needed a sense of purpose.

January faded into February, each week feeling as pointless as the last, and finally Professor Slughorn was forced to ask Regulus to come to his office for "a talk".

"Mr Black," he said when Regulus sat down on the other side of the desk, his arms crossed. "Regulus. I'm sure you know why you're here."

"Enlighten me."

"You've been missing classes, not turning in homework, getting into fights..."

"So?"

Slughorn sighed. "I know you're going through a difficult time at the moment, and we have all made allowances for that. But it has to stop now, my boy. You're normally such an excellent student - an asset to Slytherin and a credit to your family."

"My family?" Regulus repeated. "How am I helping my family? I'm meant to be bringing honour to my family name and - and making something of myself. How are NEWTs going to do that? How is this" - he gestured vaguely around him - "going to fix anything?"

"I understand that you're upset, but -"

"Upset? I'm not - you don't know anything about me. I'm not just the perfect prefect who gets O's in every class, okay? I can be so much more than that."

"Regulus -"

"No, it's not enough." Regulus stood up, his chair falling backwards to the floor. He was breathing heavily. "I'm done. There's nothing for me here anymore."

He left Slughorn in shocked silence, slamming the door behind him.

It was evening and most people were at dinner, so he was able to make it to his dorm and pack his trunk without anyone trying to talk to him. But when he walked back through the Slytherin common room with his trunk and broomstick in tow, Evan Rosier stopped him.

"Hey, Reg, where are you going?"

"I'm leaving school."

"What? Why?"

He was aware that everyone in the common room was turning to stare at him.

"It's all just pointless - the world is changing, Evan. Do you think NEWTs are really going to matter to anyone?"

"But what are you going to do?"

"What I'm supposed to. My father was so proud of my cousins when they joined the Dark Lord - it's what he would have wanted."

Rosier looked impressed. "What, just like that?"

"Will he give you the dark mark?" a fourth year boy asked eagerly.

Regulus realised he hadn't thought it through that far.

"I'm going to my cousin Narcissa's manor. She and Lucius Malfoy - they'll know what to do."

Rosier began to batter him with more questions, but Regulus stopped him. "The details don't matter, okay?"

"But -"

"All that matters is I'm going to join him." Regulus looked his friend in the eye, trying to sound more sure of himself than he felt. "That's just - it's just how it's got to be."

"Are you sure about this?"

"Yes," Regulus said, though he wasn't sure at all. He took a deep breath. "I have to do this."