III. Brother
April 1996
He could feel the wind blowing outside, whistling as it chased white clouds and bumped against the walls. A few puddles lingered on the sidewalks, reflecting the pale sun.
Sirius Black was literally fuming. As much as he hated the house, it wasn't so bad to be stuck there when outside it rained cats and dogs, but, unfortunately for him, even rain in England didn't stay forever. He could have sworn the weather itself was calling out to him.
It was torture, a downright torture.
Not even re-reading Harry's letter could distract him.
"Who would have thought someday this house would become way too silent…" he mused out loud.
Unfortunately, no member of the order was scheduled to drop by, not for a couple of weeks. That was, unless he lost his mind before that.
Still grumbling to himself, Sirius stood up and headed upstairs, to Buckbeak's stable.
The hippogriff was restless as well, probably feeling the call of the wind. Sirius patted the hippogriff's shoulder, an acid grin curving his mouth as he took in the ruined room: the bed was beyond repair, Walburga's vanity had been smashed by a couple of well-placed kicks and the bedside table was only fit for a fireplace.
"Kreacher's going to have a fit when he comes to tidy up…" Sirius remarked, still grinning at the wreck.
The bedside table was going to be particularly hard to clean up, with all the spilled potions and ink. Something caught his eye and made him look back again: there was an open folder in a corner, its contents scattered on the floor and half-hidden among Buckbeak's hay. He would have missed it he hadn't been admiring the hippogriff's decorating skills so closely.
Sirius gently moved his four-legged friend out of the way as he went to retrieve them.
"Sorry, buddy," he said as Buckbeack neighed. "It's probably just a bunch of useless letters anyway…"
He picked them up and glanced down at the first sheet, almost dropping the whole folder in shock: it was no letter, but an old drawing, now smothered beneath a layer of ink. The ghost of a figure was barely visible around the blot, but he realized what it was supposed to be only thanks to the thick letters scribbled on top – "Me."
A memory floated, unbidden, to the surface: a little boy laying on his belly in the middle of a bright room while drawing and coloring away, black eyes dancing with mirth, thin lips pressed in concentration – he had never lost that habit, not even growing up…
Sirius had to grab the wall for support: his knees were shacking too much.
Regulus' drawings.
He remembered, now, how he used to spend hours and hours drawing, filling sheet upon sheet with colorful pictures and crooked letters. He remembered his own impatience, his inability to understand why his brother like such a boring past-time when there were much more exciting games.
Sirius sat down on the less-collapsed part of the bed, laying the folder on his knees.
Carefully, he started studying each and every one of them.
Their house painted in purple and green.
A lawn with threes – perhaps it was meant to be a wood, but the only writing on that one was a "R. A. B." in a corner.
A Christmas tree with presents.
Their parents' faces with "mommy" and "daddy" written above, respectively in pink and dark blue.
Lines and spirals of different colors crisscrossing all over the paper.
A fox.
Two people – knights? – fighting with not-exactly-straight swords.
A light haired girl in a long white dress, picking flowers, with colorful letters proudly announcing her name was Cissi.
A bright orange dragon with outspread wings.
A beach of yellow sand, with a cyan and blue sea that covered the rest of the paper – where had they been again? Cornwall? Dorset?
Last, a smiling black-haired boy with a broom in one hand and a wand in the other. His name had been scribbled in blue: Sirius.
He would have liked to say they looked as good as new, but it would have been too big a lie.
Even Teener & Spools products suffered the passage of time: those drawings were about 30 years old and certainly their parents wouldn't have allowed little Reggie to put his hands and crayons on the first-quality paper they used to write on.
The ink and, above all, the potions and salves spilled by the smashing of the bedside table had soaked them thoroughly and subsequently dried, leaving all sort of stains. If caught immediately, a Vanishing Spell or a scouring Charm could have undone the damage – but now it was too late.
All the drawings were irreversibly ruined.
Sirius covered his eyes with a hand, stubbornly pushing back the tears for his own flesh and blood. His very soul was writhing with pain – for the child he had been, for the boy he had become.
For his brother Regulus, who now was lost forever.
Our story ends here.
I hope Sirius fans won't kill me, but he didn't seem to be very close to his brother. From his words when he first mentioned him, he seemed more disdainful of his choice than pained for his loss.
Perhaps I'm reading too much in that, but hey - isn't that what ff is for? Though I have to admit my characterization owes a lot to the character essay at Red Hen's Publications (go read them.)
Whether you liked it or hated it, leave me a review and let me know.