Archive of Our Own

As Regulus floats down into the murky waters, light reflecting at the top an ominous shade of green, he methodically places his life into two categories: Before and After. It takes him a minute to think about which memory is the dividing line, which memory cements his life into those decisive categories. But it comes to him after a few seconds — time, precious time which he does not have to spare — and he lets himself go, eyes drifting shut.

It’s finally time for him to rest. But before he does so, one word whispers to him in the back of his mind.

Sirius.

*

Before

Regulus is three years old when he first figures out his goal in life.

It’s a very simple one, to be fair, but easy to understand: to follow Sirius.

It makes his father happy, smiling into his glass. It makes his mother proud, a sharp nod. He sees this reaction as he trots around, obediently following his older brother.

Regulus is not sure when he finally realizes that his parents were pleased with him when he quietly slipped into his brother’s shadow and disappeared there. That his parents were only content with his achievements as long as he didn’t overshadow Sirius’. It took him a while to understand that, mostly because he couldn’t seem to escape Sirius’ legacy, his role as Heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. Neither could he escape his own fate: the second son, the spare.

At three years old, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Sirius is there, loud and happy and boisterous, and somehow Regulus feels like it’s easier to breathe with him nearby. He loves Sirius.

He loves his brother.

At seven years old, Regulus is thrown down the Grand Staircase of the Black Manor. With magic, of course; his mother would never do something so Muggle as to physically kick him down.

As he lands on the floor, hearing a sickening crack, Regulus reminds himself that his mother loves him. That she is doing this to help him. After all, Kreacher can heal him within a moment’s notice, and this is unfortunate but necessary.

“Sirius activated his accidental magic at four,” his mother snarls from the top of the stairs. “We cannot afford a Squib son. Kreacher, heal him. We will try again.”

The house elf lumbers forward, gaze down. He is trembling as he heals Regulus’ broken rib. A sense of affection surges up in him, rising from the knowledge that his house elf doesn’t want to hurt him. That he feels pain in response to Regulus’ pain.

But that empathy matters not in comparison to the pain of his mother’s love.

Regulus slowly gets to his feet, trudges up the stairs once more, and finally makes eye contact with his brother, who is watching from his bedroom.

It’s the first time Regulus feels a sense of blind hatred towards his brother. And it’s that hatred that allows him to magically call the pillows from the living room to soften his fall.

“My son,” Walburga says, voice hushed. Reverent. “You are a worthy Black at last.”

And she descends from the stairs in all her glory and hugs him, just a moment. But when she sets him free from her clasp, all Regulus can feel is a growing realization: that hatred makes his magic strong.

At ten years old, Sirius goes off to Hogwarts.

Regulus doesn’t want him to go. He pleads and begs and sobs into the dark of night, where no one but Sirius can hear him.

“I can’t do this alone,” he whispers, clinging to his brother with a desperation he’s never felt before. “You can’t, Sirius.”

“It’ll be okay,” his brother promises him, holding him tight. Regulus shuts his eyes and breathes his brother in. He smells of the outdoors, of broom polish, of silver and safety. Regulus does his best to commit his brother’s scent to memory, knowing that in just twelve hours — less than, even — his brother will be gone. Taken from him.

“You will write to me,” Regulus commands, or tries to. It comes out as a fragile question instead. “Every day.”

“I will,” Sirius promises him, “I—”

They pause, hearing a slight creak from the floor upstairs. Regulus’ heart is beating painfully loud in his chest. It’s past both of their bedtimes, and even worse, Regulus shouldn’t be here at all. Not in Sirius’ room. It’s not proper.

They wait for what feels like an eternity, and then Sirius whispers to him, “you should head back. I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t seem to. But Sirius, ever the protector, nudges him again. “Come on, Reggie. You can’t be caught here.”

“Alright,” Regulus whispers back, and forces his bones to move against his will. He quietly makes his way back into his room and shuts the door. Slowly, robotically, he unmakes his bed and slips under the covers.

It’ll be fine. Sirius will write to him once he’s sorted into Slytherin. He’ll tell him of all the people he meets and regale him with stories of Hogwarts. He’ll boast about being at the top of his grade, as usual. Regulus won’t be left behind, only a step behind.

He isn’t sure what time he falls asleep, but he does know that the next morning, all his deluded rationalizations are gone. He barely remembers the breakfast meal, the sharp twist of Apparition tearing his thoughts away from his brother momentarily.

When they arrive at Platform 9 ¾, Sirius looks at the colorful train, the loudness of the crowd, and is rattled. He ducks behind Walburga until she pushes him back out. The heir mustn’t cower.

This time, however, he seems at ease with the noise and the colors and the people. Regulus watches as his brother smiles a more carefree smile than he’s seen in years.

“Do not forget your things, Sirius,” Walburga says briskly, and gestures impatiently to the cart beside Orion. Sirius reaches out a hand and grabs it, turning to the train. And then he turns around.

For one hopeful, pathetic moment, Regulus thinks Sirius has decided he won’t go. That he’ll stay there with Regulus.

But that doesn’t happen. Instead, his brother presses a silver bracelet into his arms. “For you,” he murmurs. “A gift.”

Regulus holds it up to the light. It’s an intricately-designed bracelet made of Black family silver. Unlike what Sirius normally wears, it’s a simple design, an acknowledgement towards Regulus’ more restrained taste in jewelry. But the gift doesn’t matter now, not when Sirius turns back towards the train, finally beginning to walk away.

Regulus stands in the chill of the morning sun as the mourning son, watching his one and only brother leave him.

Over the years, Regulus has been familiarized with the structure of his brother’s back towards him, but this is the first time he’s felt such despair looking at it. Like it’s some sort of loss. A sense of finality.

That feeling only grows when his parents find out that Sirius has, inexplicably, been sorted into Gryffindor.

At first his mother shouts, his father silently enraged beside her. But they calm, and march over to the Floo.

“We’ll be back, Regulus,” Orion says, eerily calm.

He knows where they’re going. He knows that they’re trying to fix his brother’s sorting, to try and get him into Slytherin where he belongs. But Regulus knows that they’re going to fail.

The sense of absoluteness from earlier finally settles into his stomach and turns into dread, a dark and pooling emotion, sinking deep into his bones. This is it. This is the beginning of the end.

When Walburga and Orion come back later that day, unsuccessful as Regulus knew they would be, they cast their eyes upon him. He stands tall under the weight of their gaze as they look at him, really look at him. Assessing him.

“Get some rest,” Walburga finally says. “It has been a rather long day.”

With those closing remarks, they disappear into Orion’s study. A silencing spell is cast, and Regulus is left in the living room. Alone.

Obediently, he walks up the stairs to his bedroom, and touches the bracelet on his right wrist with his left fingers as a reminder. His brother hasn’t forgotten him. His brother still loves him.

He believes it until night passes, and then day, and then again. Regulus believes it until a week has passed without receiving any of his brother’s letters.

He panics then.

Regulus isn’t sure what, exactly, spurs this on. But he finds himself in the corner of his bed, tears streaming down his face, and hyperventilating. For a moment, he thinks he’s going to die. He won’t make it.

“Kreacher—”

The house elf appears with a swift crack, a look of terror and confusion on his face. “Master Regulus!”

“A Draught of Peace,” he gasps with the air he has remaining, “now. Please.”

He’s not sure how long it takes for Kreacher to return, but at some point, the house elf does. A vial of potion is pressed into his hand. It’s cold, but somehow Regulus’ clammy hands pries it open and he downs the entire thing.

The potion takes its effect. Regulus can feel his heartbeat begin to slow, his breathing starting to even out. After two minutes, he’s back to normal, Kreacher anxiously waiting in the corner.

He presses the empty potion vial into the house elf’s hands.

“Dispose of this without letting my parents find it,” he says cooly. “And bring me a few more of these please, Kreacher.”

Kreacher wrings his hands nervously, but he cannot disobey a direct order. So he simply does as Regulus orders and disappears with the vial in hand.

Regulus closes his eyes and leans against the wall. He breathes in, out. And then again. And again. And again.

He doesn’t move from that spot until the sun rises the next morning.

The summer before his first year, Regulus and Sirius bond again.

Regulus doesn’t ask about why Sirius didn’t bother writing to him. Sirius doesn’t mention too much about his first year either. So the two go back to behaving like they did pre-Hogwarts, and it’s nice.

It would be a more enjoyable summer if Sirius didn’t pick fights so often now, though.

It happens often during dinnertime, and over the most idiotic of things. Sirius isn’t dressed properly for the meal, and he refuses to change. Or he doesn’t want to work on his homework when Orion asks him to, which sets Walburga off. She shouts at him, but this time Sirius shouts back.

The house trembles under the force of the Black Matriarch and the Black Heir.

At eleven, Regulus finally gets his chance at Hogwarts. But the difference between his send-off and his brother’s is stark.

As his parents walk him down to the platform, they ignore the atmosphere around them and keep their gaze pinned on the Black brothers. They send Sirius off first with a reminder to “be good,” and then look at Regulus.

His breath hitches, but he matches their gaze with steely determination.

“You will make us proud,” Walburga says, and although it’s said softly, there’s no hiding the threat underlying those words.

“Yes, mother.” For what else is there to say?

He nods once to his father and then walks away, shoes clacking against the floor purposefully. Sirius is waiting for him at the train, and he speeds up, hopeful. Perhaps Sirius will sit with him and his friends; Barty is already waiting for him.

“Come on,” Sirius says eagerly, “I want you to meet my friends.”

Regulus is suddenly uncomfortable. “I’m not sure,” he replies hesitantly. “My friends have seats reserved for us already.”

Sirius scoffs with complete disregard, and it throws Regulus off-guard. “No, come on, Reggie,” he insists, “I want you to meet them.”

And as always, Regulus follows his brother. All the way into the far left compartment, where three other boys are waiting for them.

“This is James,” Sirius introduces proudly, “and Remus, and Peter.”

“Hello,” Regulus says stiffly, unused to having so many eyes on him. He sees everyone else sitting down and does so, awkwardly, his posture stiff. Sirius is lounging back in his seat in a way he’s never seen before. His brother looks so at ease here, but Regulus is feeling the exact opposite. All he wants to do is flee from this uncomfortable compartment and find his friends. But he’s here, he followed Sirius here, so he has some obligations to be social. “How do you do?”

“Blimey,” he hears Sirius’ scar-ridden friend mutter under his breath, the only one he doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember his name. The Potters are infamous, of course, and the Pettigrews he only knows because they’re also pureblood, though not as influential as the Blacks. But this boy he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care to be judged by someone who isn’t titled or pure like he is.

Regulus stiffens further in his seat.

“I’m doing just fine,” says the Potter boy, smiling easily. He looks like he’s trying to put Regulus at ease, but all this attention — from someone his parents would hate to know Sirius associates with, no less — just makes him more uncomfortable. “Are you excited for Hogwarts?”

“Yes,” he says automatically. Regulus wants to add more, but all of a sudden he hits a blank. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do. He’s always been the spare; no one talks to him. He’s never had to endure this before. Will this be what it’s like for the next seven years?

It’s terrible to think about.

“What House do you think you’ll get sorted into?” Chimes in the Pettigrew boy, and the scarred one jostles him sharply, an unbidden order to be silent. But the question has already been asked.

“Slytherin,” he says simply, and prepares himself for the backlash from Sirius’ Gryffindor friends.

It comes. In hordes.

“That’s an interesting choice,” Potter says. It’s clear he’s trying to be neutral, but it’s coming off as condescending, judgemental. Regulus bristles.

“The Slytherin House holds a rich history,” he recites from Hogwarts: A History. He read the book cover-to-cover last year when Sirius was gone. “It’s a wonderful house, and I will be proud to be sorted into it.”

“I was thinking, Reggie, you could be sorted into Gryffindor with us, though,” Sirius says, and his sycophants nod eagerly around him. “It would be fun, and it might be a good idea not to be sorted… there.”

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, not wanting to be associated with that infantile nickname around strangers. “And I do not wish to be a Gryffindor. I want Slytherin.” Not wanting to entertain this conversation anymore, Regulus rises to his feet. “I’ll talk to you later, Sirius.”

As he gets to the door, he hears his brother say: “he’s not usually like that, I swear, guys.”

Hearing those words makes Regulus angrier than before, and he slams the door shut behind him with more force than strictly necessary.

Leaving that disastrous conversation behind him, Regulus goes off to find Barty. He checks a few more compartments until finally finding him alongside Evan and, strangely enough, the Lovegood girl.

“Reg,” Barty says enthusiastically, “come in! Took you long enough.”

“I was with my brother,” he says, taking a seat. “Hello, Evan.”

“It’s been too long, Regulus,” Evan says, grinning from ear-to-ear. “You are terrible at communication, you know. It’s not that hard to send an owl!”

“I was busy,” he replies curtly. “And it’s nice to meet you, Miss…”

“I’m Pandora,” the Lovegood girl says cheerily, “and you’re Regulus Black.”

He blinks. “I am.” What’s this odd girl about?

She just nods at that. “I saw your brother earlier,” she says, and Regulus stiffens. He doesn’t want to hear whatever she’s about to say. “He had dirt on his left elbow.”

The remark is pretty much the last thing Regulus expected to hear, and it causes him to chortle. He produces a sound he didn’t even know he could make, but it relaxes him around this girl immediately.

“That’s it,” Barty proclaims, throwing an arm around Pandora as Evan lets out a celebratory whoop! “Pandora, you’re officially one of us now. No one makes Regulus do that.”

“I’m honored,” says the girl, and it sounds genuine.

“You all are ridiculous,” Regulus says flatly, but he can’t help himself from smiling. Just a little.

Regulus gets sorted into Slytherin, as he knew he would, and he settles into the routine of things pretty well. Teachers and other students look at him like Sirius Black’s brother, and he doesn't realize the legacy Sirius has already begun to establish until everyone else looks away, disappointed, once they realize Regulus isn’t anything like his brother.

He’s determined to make the entire school think of him as a separate entity of his brother. He does not want to be like Sirius and his friends, loud and laughing and causing chaos with each step they take.

Sirius invites him to eat with his friends. Remembering the awkwardness and tension in the compartment, Regulus finds it prudent to decline. Instead, he eats with Evan and Barty and Pandora, even though the latter was sorted into Ravenclaw.

“None of the Ravenclaws like me,” says the girl with an air of nonchalance. “I think it bothers them that I’m friends with you all.”

But it’s obvious she cares what they think, and it weighs on her that her house has turned on her. Regulus feels, suddenly, fiercely protective of this girl, and what she’s willing to give up to be friends with them.

“You don’t need those know-it-alls, anyway,” Evan says, pulling Pandora closer in with them. “You’ve got us.”

Their little circle expands once more when Regulus gets into a heated argument over the best ingredient to add to Shrinking Solution potions, a third-year topic he’s surprised anyone knew. Once they concluded their argument — he should’ve won, but the girl refused to accept defeat — she stuck her hand out to him. “I’m Dorcas, by the way,” she says easily. “Dorcas Meadowes.”

Meadowes. He’s not sure if he knows that name, and it makes him a little wary. But no non-Pureblood would know upper-level potions yet, and especially not well enough to argue an ingredient for a half hour. So he shakes her hand. “Regulus Black.”

And that solidifies the small group of friends. It’s the five of them now: the four Slytherins and an honorary one.

Regulus gets invited to join Sirius and his friends again. But he looks over at the people he’d have to abandon to do so and refuses once more. He’d rather stay with his friends, who are either fellow Slytherins or not ashamed to be associated with them, than go off and be uncomfortable with Sirius and his friends.

It’s not a decision he regrets.

Sirius doesn’t offer again.

When the holiday break comes around, Regulus actually feels saddened about leaving his friends. He’s anxious, even almost worried, to be home. He doesn’t want to go back.

He’s noticed it now. The difference between Hogwarts and home. And now that he’s noticed it, Regulus isn’t sure how he can survive back there.

The only one who really seems to understand that feeling is Barty. As the holidays draw nearer, he seems to only get madder and madder. Pandora, lovely as she is, doesn’t understand. She comes from a Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw home.

Dorcas’ parents are odd. One is a Slytherin and the other a Gryffindor. But her family is normal despite that, and so she doesn’t quite understand families the way the rest of them do.

Evan’s father, for one, isn’t ever at home. That comes with its drawbacks, but it has more positives than negatives. Evan prefers it that way, as does his father, so it’s a win-win.

Barty’s father, however, is ashamed of having a Slytherin son. It’s obvious. But Barty’s dad isn’t absent nor loving. He tries to fix his son. Tries to make him different, better.

“My dad hits me,” Barty told him once, four days before the holidays, while everyone else was asleep. He can’t see his friend’s face, shrouded in the dark.

“My mother once threw me down a flight of stairs repeatedly,” Regulus said back.

On the train ride back home, it’s quiet. There’s nothing much to say. They exchanged gifts the day before, knowing the ride home would taint the gifts if they opened them then.

Regulus had gifted his friends Black silver ornaments, similar to the jewelry he wears. It’s a staple gift, one that he usually gives out on the holidays, but that doesn’t make it any less precious.

Pandora had given them herbs, which Regulus pocketed with a pleased smile. He needs some of those to brew potions. Barty got them gag gifts (Regulus told him he threw his away, but rather kept it at the bottom of his bag) which were not very funny and ultimately useless, and Evan got them books.

“What?” He had said defensively when they opened their gifts. “I’m not good at gift-giving. I never know what to get people.”

Which is fair enough.

When they finally arrive back at the station, Barty is grimacing up a storm, and Evan is scanning the crowd anxiously looking for his house elf, who is taking him home. Pandora already said goodbye, having found her parents, and so Regulus loiters, waiting for his friends.

“You go,” Evan says, noticing Regulus’ gaze off to the side where Sirius is getting off. “Your parents are probably waiting. I’ll wait with Barty, yeah?”

He nods in thanks. “I’ll see you in a few weeks,” he says, and then slowly makes his way back to his parents’.

“Father,” he greets, “mother.” He shakes Orion’s hand and kisses Walburga’s cheek. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Regulus,” Walburga says, with a smile. “How is Hogwarts?”

“Perfectly fine,” he says neutrally, and nods at Sirius, who’s walking over, looking rather upset at being there.

“Hi,” he says, sullen, and Walburga clicks her tongue.

“That is not how you address your father and mother,” she says sharply.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Hello, father and mother,” he drawls, and Walburga tenses out of anger and irritation.

“Let us return home,” she says, mindful of the people around them, and they apparate out of the platform back onto the doorstep of their house.

As soon as they arrive, Regulus feels like he can’t breathe. But there’s no escaping it now, and so he plunges back into the cold, empty, austere interior of the Black Manor.

Home sweet home.

At dinnertime, Regulus is still adjusting to the Black Manor. It feels as if something has settled into his chest, a sort of pain that’s noticeable, though not deadly. He can’t take one breath without activating a flare-up, and it bothers him.

So it’s rather inconvenient when Sirius decides to pick a fight at dinner.

It’s over his friends again, the Potter boy and that scarred boy. Pettigrew is scoffed at, but that family does not matter as much to the Blacks; they’re insignificant. But to associate with a Potter, a family of blood traitors, and a half-blood Lupin… that’s another story entirely.

“They’re good people,” Sirius says fiercely as Regulus starts to pay attention again, though still preoccupied with his pain. “I’m glad to associate with them!”

He takes a deeper breath. The flare-up increases in proportion to the intensity of his breathing.

“Regulus?”

He looks up, startled. Sirius is watching him with an expectant face, and he realizes all of a sudden that his brother had asked him a question. He chances a quick look at his parents, and realizes they are awaiting his response.

So he’s been thrown into the middle of an argument, without any knowledge of what is going on. Wonderful.

“No,” he says, wildly throwing the answer out there, and Sirius’ face crumbles while his mother beams at him with a triumphant nod.

His father says something after that, but Regulus can only focus on his plate. He moves around his food and thinks whether he answered correctly or not. He’s not sure.

After dinner, Sirius corners him. “Why didn’t you agree with me?” He asks furiously, coming close up towards Regulus’ face. It’s terrifying, his brother looming over him so threateningly, and Regulus takes a quick step back.

“Sorry,” he says, but doesn’t offer anything else up. He doesn’t want to lie to Sirius, but he also doesn’t want him to know about this pain in his chest. Regulus doesn’t want to worry him.

Sirius takes a step back, breathing heavily. His eyes are wild.

“Okay,” he says after a long pause, and then stalks down the hallway away from him without saying another word.

Regulus watches his brother go.

And then he panics.

His hands fumble around a Draught of Peace as he hyperventilates, tears clouding his normally-impeccable feeling. It doesn’t take him too long to choke down the potion, and shorter still until his breathing returns to normal.

All he can do after that is sit there in the dark hallway, twist his silver bracelet in his fingers, and breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

When Regulus returns to Hogwarts, he finally feels whole again. The pain in his chest disappears, and he just enjoys its absence without wondering what caused it. He doesn’t want to look into the root cause; it’ll simply annoy him.

The rest of the year finishes strong. Regulus comes first in their year with the exams, as he knew he would. His brother is ignoring him, which is not ideal, but he knows they can work through whatever is going on during the summer, so he isn’t too worried.

Before they leave for summer break, Pandora gives him a dragon-tooth necklace. “For pains of any kind,” she tells him, and Regulus stares at her, wondering how she could know.

Pandora always seems to know things she shouldn’t. But she doesn’t say anything else about it, simply hugs him and wanders off to find her parents.

Barty stalks off with Evan — it’s become almost a thing, now, for those two to wait together — as Dorcas races to catch up with Pandora, leaving Regulus alone to find his parents.

He does, and quickly.

“Let us return home,” Orion says coldly after Sirius joins them a few minutes later. And they do.

Sirius avoids Regulus’ gaze the entire interaction.

Over the summer, Sirius and his parents fight again. But this time, Regulus pushes aside the pain in his chest to pay attention to what they’re saying.

And when Sirius asks him if he believes in “that blood purity shit,” Regulus says yes.

That’s what his parents had taught him. Why would they be wrong? Orion and Walburga Black are powerful, intelligent, cunning leaders. They would never lead him down the wrong path; he is certain.

Sirius is delusional. That doesn’t stop his brother from reeling back in horror, blinded by what he believes to be the truth.

His brother goes quiet at the dinner table then. Regulus has a funny feeling in his stomach, but says nothing.

He doesn’t understand yet that saying nothing is one of the worst things he can do in Sirius’ eyes.

When Regulus turns twelve, Sirius stops talking to him.

It’s a gradual thing. His brother would still talk to him at home over the summer, but never about anything substantial. It was surface-level conversation, and clipped at that.

But when they return to school the next year, Sirius has cut him out of his life entirely. He refuses to acknowledge Regulus’ existence, and often pretends as if he does not have a brother.

It causes Regulus to panic more than a few times.

Barty and Evan see him panic for the first time a few months later. They’re understandably confused, but follow his instructions for a Draught of Peace with relative speed. When Regulus calms down, they don’t demand an explanation from him. Rather, they tell him the stupid gossip around Hogwarts, and fight over what the best thing to do with a dead body would be.

It’s nice. It’s normal. It makes him feel better.

At that moment, he wishes that Barty and Evan were his biological brothers, and then feels incredibly guilty afterwards.

Despite everything his brother has done to him, he still loves Sirius.

It’s at thirteen when Regulus realizes that love isn’t reciprocated, and he learns in the most mundane of ways.

It takes a while for him to really notice, but Sirius has stopped wearing silver. No longer does he wear his bracelets and necklaces made of Black metals, but instead a fake-looking version of his jewelry instead.

He touches the bracelet Sirius gave him on his wrist and feels his heart pang.

It’s a sign, clear as day. His brother does not love him anymore. He does not want to be associated with the Blacks anymore, and by extension, him.

This realization is made in the Great Hall during breakfast, and Regulus can’t breathe. He feels a panic coming on, and stands up in a flash.

It causes a disruption that he didn’t anticipate, though he should have. Eyes turn to him, and Sirius locks eyes with Regulus’ own. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

He breaks eye contact with his brother and quickly walks out of the hall. He needs to get back to his dorm.

The door just barely closes behind him before they burst open again to reveal Barty and Evan. They each grab one of Regulus’ arms and help him get to his dorm room without panicking.

He panics. Evan gets him a Draught of Peace while Barty stays by his side. It’s pathetic that they have a routine for this now, but he’s so grateful he doesn’t care.

“What brought it on this time?” Asks Barty.

Regulus takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Sirius.”

It’s an answer he’s given many times before, and Evan sucks in a breath.

“I want to kill him,” he says matter-of-factly. “And I would, if it didn’t upset you.”

Regulus says nothing. And then: “I hate that it would.”

There’s nothing really to be said after that. The three of them skip classes that day. They spend it entirely on Regulus’ bed instead.

The summer after third year is rough.

Sirius won’t talk to him, and for some reason it hits differently than before. The pain in Regulus’ chest never subsides, and neither does his panicking.

Kreacher helps him out now that Barty and Evan are gone. He delivers the potions and stays with Regulus until they’re over. He tries to thank the house elf, feeling very uncomfortable while doing so, but Kreacher refuses to hear it, instead apparating away.

His parents tell him about a man named Lord Voldemort. They speak about him like he is a king, like he is a god. They tell him about his cause, and it lines up so perfectly with the Blacks’ that Regulus is tempted to ask if he is one.

They remark upon his power. They say he is going to change the world forever, bring honor onto the Slytherin name. They say he is in hiding right now, waiting until the perfect time to strike.

“Why are you telling me about him, then?” He asks them.

Walburga smiles. “You are finally old enough to know. He is always looking for new followers, Regulus. It is never too early to make us proud.”

Lord Voldemort conducts many meetings, and Walburga disappears to each one. Regulus is curious about what happens, but doesn’t ask. Not now. Not yet.

He wants to know whether Sirius was told about this Lord Voldemort, but he refuses to approach his brother and ask about it. He doesn’t really know what he wants Sirius’ answer to be yet. Better not to ask. Besides, his brother isn’t speaking to him anyway.

“Regulus.”

His head snaps up from the book he was reading. Seeing his mother, he promptly discards the book, closing it carefully and placing it on the side.

It’s eight in the evening, two hours past dinner. What could his mother possibly want with him now?

“Mother, come in,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. He’s nervous beyond belief, but he knows not to show it. “What can I do for you?”

“Sirius is planning on leaving tonight.” His mother’s voice is flat.

He blinks, stunned. “What do you mean?”

“How else am I supposed to phrase this, Regulus?” His mother’s voice raises, but she takes a quick look at the door. She mutters a spell under her breath, and suddenly Regulus knows she’s silenced his room.

His mother’s need for secrecy scares him, but the words she’s saying are frightening him more.

“Are you saying that Sirius… is planning on running away? Tonight?” His mind is spinning; this just doesn’t make sense. Life in the Black Manor is not easy, but family is family. Why would his brother possibly leave it all behind? And where will he go?

“Yes,” his mother snaps, “that is exactly what I am saying.”

Well, what else is there to say? Obviously his mother knows about it, so it’s not a problem. Sirius will be forced to stay, and that is that. He doesn’t understand why this warrants a conversation.

“Why are you telling me this?” He asks.

Walburga’s lips thin in irritation, frustration. She’s trying to convey a point, but he can’t understand what it is. “You understand, Regulus, that your father and I have had two children for a reason, yes?”

“Yes,” he says, trying not to let the bitterness he feels infect his tone. He’s known this for a long time. He’s known for his entire life that he is the spare child, created just in case the Heir dies. “Why are you discussing this with me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Think, Regulus,” she says. “We have two for a reason. But you are both grown; we no longer need both. But we will always need one of you. And you, Regulus,” her voice suddenly turning fond, “have always been a good son.” A pause. “Sleep well.”

With that, she undoes her spell and walks out of his room.

Regulus watches as she leaves, closing the door firmly shut behind her, and can do nothing but sit there silently.

The conversation leaves him reeling, and he’s not sure what to do or what to feel. He doesn’t understand what his mother is trying to tell him, and he’s feeling oddly betrayed. Betrayed that Sirius is leaving him alone in this house. That he’s abandoning him for good.

But the epiphany comes later that night.

“Regulus. Hey, Regulus.”

Regulus pries his eyes awake. He blinks away the blurriness of his vision to see Sirius, standing besides his bed impatiently.

He stifles the urge to flinch back at his brother’s proximity. “Sirius? What are you doing here?” Then he pauses, remembering his brother’s silent treatment towards him. “Finally speaking to me, I see,” he adds bitterly.

“I need to talk to you,” Sirius says with all the arrogance of an older sibling, ready to impose their will into others.

Regulus’ lips thin. “Forget it. Go to bed,” he says grumpily. “It’s too late to deal with you.”

For once, his brother doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he says, “I’m leaving.”

All of a sudden, Walburga’s words rush back into his mind. Important words that he had almost forgotten, roused so suddenly from sleep.

“You’re leaving?” He says, and feels the verge of a panic coming on. Walburga knew about this, so why didn’t she stop it? Why didn’t she stop him? What is her strategy? There’s no way she’ll just let him go like this, so why…

Sirius nods. He seems so solemn, so grave. It gives Regulus chills. “I can’t be in this godforsaken house any longer,” he says. “I’m going to James’. Tonight.”

Potter. Of course he’d abandon his family for the Potter’s. His brother would abandon him for James Potter. A wave of bitterness washes over him, and he snarls, “then what are you still doing here, then?”

“Trying to bring you,” Sirius says impatiently. “Regulus, come on. Escape with me. We can go together.”

“Go?” His head is spinning. “You want me to go to the Potters’ with you?” The thought feels impossible.

“Of course,” Sirius says. He softens, seeing the incredulous look on his brother’s face. “You’re still my brother, Reggie,” he says, his voice impossibly soft and tender.

And all Regulus wants to do is say yes.

Because no matter how hard he tries and tries, Regulus loves his brother. He’ll follow his brother to the ends of the Earth if he has to.

But he can’t shake Walburga’s words from earlier, and suddenly, they all make sense.

You understand, Regulus, that your father and I have had two children for a reason.

And he knows what his choice must be.

“I’m not going.”

He can’t go with Sirius. If he tries, Walburga and Orion will drag his brother back to the Black Manor, and there will be no more chances of escape. They need a perfect Black Heir. If Regulus can’t do it, Sirius will be stuck, unhappy, forever.

But if Regulus can be the Heir his parents wish for, his brother will be free. And Regulus will be stuck at 12 Grimmauld Place for the rest of his life. It means being and doing everything he hates.

But Sirius will be free. And Sirius will be happy.

Regulus’ emotions don’t matter, not if they stand in the way of Sirius’. That is how he was raised, and that is what seals his decision. He loves his brother.

And he can’t tell his brother about Walburga’s deal, because then Sirius will stay for him. Sacrifice himself for him. Even though Sirius hasn’t been talking to him, Regulus knows in his heart that Sirius will still throw away everything he wants for him.

Sirius has protected Regulus for his entire life. It’s time for Regulus to finally return the favor.

This is the final gift Regulus can give his brother.

“What do you mean, you can’t go?” Sirius is furious. “You have to come with me! Regulus, you can’t be in this house. It’s dangerous.”

“I won’t leave,” he says stubbornly. “I am a Black, Sirius, and so are you. Don’t you feel any sense of duty, of responsibility? I will not throw that away.”

“Regulus,” Sirius whispers, “Walburga told me about this man today. A Lord Voldemort. He’s trying to go around and eradicate all the muggleborns, and he believes in that blood purity nonsense, and he’ll kill for his beliefs. He’s unhinged, and our parents want to follow this tyrant. You have to leave now before it’s too late.”

Regulus pauses. So this is it, the final breaking point. The reason why Walburga knew Sirius would leave. “I know,” he admits. “They told me about him a few weeks ago.”

This is it. A line drawn in the sand. There’s no taking back what Regulus has said now.

Sirius reels back. A long pause. All he can do is stare at his brother, and watch as Sirius’ expression filters through denial, rage, and ultimately betrayal.

“You knew,” he whispers slowly, “and you didn’t tell me?”

“Mother told me not to,” says Regulus with a shrug, “and I understand why she wouldn’t want you to know. You’d do something drastic. You’d do something like this.”

“So this is it then.” Sirius looks at him. He’s never been good at hiding his expression, not like Regulus. He’s never truly had to, but Regulus has mastered the art by now. He’s had to. “You’re with them.” The last word is spit out viciously.

Regulus doesn’t even blink. He needs to sell this act. “They’re our parents,” he responds blandly, and Sirius gets to his feet.

“Well,” he says bitterly, heading towards the door, “I should’ve expected nothing less from you.” 

A pause.

“Go fuck yourself.”

After

When Regulus turns fourteen years old, he finally learns how to brew his own Draught of Peace. He can’t keep asking Kreacher to snatch vials from the Blacks; his parents will get suspicious sooner or later. Besides, it’s a weakness that can be easily exploited if he can’t brew his own.

So he grabs the fifth-year potions textbook and studies it, making notes in the margin to ensure his success.

If nothing else, Regulus is good at potions. He can go head-to-head with Severus, who’s a grade above him. The fifth-year textbook and the Draught itself doesn’t look too hard. The ingredients are also widely available, and anything that’s uncommon he can pay for.

It’s finding a safe place to brew without arousing any suspicion that’s the problem. Regulus isn’t even sure if such a place exists.

So he does the only thing he can think of: he asks Kreacher.

Kreacher doesn’t know, but promises to ask around subtly and find out for him. Regulus isn’t too worried about people getting suspicious; after all, no one cares for house elves. It’s a shame, because they have such a wealth of knowledge. But it works to Regulus' advantage, so he doesn’t make a fuss over it. Maybe later.

It turns out there is a room fit perfectly for Regulus’ needs.

He finishes brewing the potion in the Come and Go room the next day. It takes no more than ninety minutes, which is a relief. When he’s done, he’s now armed with three precious vials.

But three vials won’t be enough. Regulus thinks he’ll have to brew a few more batches later. He can’t do them now; he doesn’t know when he’ll use them. They might expire by the time he needs them next, and that’ll render the whole batch a waste of his time, money, and energy.

So he’ll come back. And he'll make more.

His friends are worried about him.

It’s clear to anyone who’s looking that Regulus is not at his best. He’s not eating enough and barely drags himself to his classes. His grades are dropping academically, and he’s not spending enough time with his friends.

Regulus knows exactly what he’s doing wrong; he can identify what’s not right about this whole situation. But he’s not ready to remedy it yet. Trying to remedy this would mean trying to leave the Room of Requirement, and he can’t. Doesn’t want to.

There’s just so much to explore, so much to research, about this room. He wants to know its magic and how it works. He wants to know how it’s been kept a secret all this time. Regulus wants to analyze every nook and cranny of this room and its many variations until the knowledge is crammed into his skull.

He might be using this room as a distraction from his other problems, but that’s alright. He can deal with that at a later point.

Barty keeps trying to ask where he’s going; Evan’s trying to get him to eat. Dorcas is forcing him to go to class, and Pandora keeps reminding him to get outside once in a while.

Regulus appreciates them, he truly does, but he doesn’t want to do any of those things. He just wants to stay here in the Room of Requirement forever.

He especially does not want to see Sirius in the hallway, watch his brother look at him with such contempt and disgust in his eyes. He can’t do that again.

And if Pandora tells him one more time that Sirius seems to be worried about him, Regulus is going to lose it.

His parents leave him alone over the winter break, and for that, Regulus is grateful.

He does everything he’s supposed to do — shows up at mealtimes, attends the multiple Yule Balls hosted by what feels like every pureblood family, mingles during social hours. In return, Walburga and Orion don’t bother him. Regulus is perfectly content being in his room as long as he can.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

So when Lucius Malfoy barges into his private office, Regulus is irritated. His parents should’ve at least warned him there would be company arriving, given him some time to get ready. But that would’ve been too courteous of the Blacks.

“Lucius,” he says, tilting his head. The man was a Prefect when Regulus was a first-year, he thinks. Or something like that. Lucius was the person everyone in Slytherin wanted to be. He used to look up to this man, but now Regulus just wants him to go away. “A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Lucius says with a smirk. “Mind if I sit?”

Regulus inclines his head. “Of course. Make yourself comfortable.” As he does so, he asks, “what brings you to Grimmauld Place?”

“You,” Lucius says simply. “The Dark Lord has asked me to scout you, to see if you wish to join his noble cause.”

Cutting to the chase. Not usually Lucius’ style, but most definitely Regulus’.

But this is tricky. Regulus must navigate carefully.

“I have heard good things about him,” he says neutrally, “but I must consult with my father before making a decision. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Lucius agrees easily. “Feel free to discuss. I will express your wishes to the Dark Lord.”

The man disappears as quickly as he entered.

Sirius is finally, officially disowned the next morning. His name is cast off the Black Family Tree. He is now, officially, a traitor.

It bothers Regulus more than he’d like to admit. He keeps coming back to where Sirius’ name is seared off, keeps running his fingers over where his brother’s name and face used to be. It feels charred. No matter how often he touches it, it still feels rough.

It’s a mark that’ll never fade.

Regulus will soon learn a lot more about that.

It takes Orion about two days to make a decision. Although appreciative towards the man’s cause, he was wary as to who this man is. What he’s like. Orion must have all the facts before making a decision, as his decision would affect all of those who are of the House of Black.

Walburga, in the end, was the one who convinced him. She remembered him at Hogwarts, she said, and he was the Heir to the Gaunt bloodline. She attends the meetings, and can speak to his character.

It was not the Gaunt relation that convinced Orion to tell Regulus to join Lord Voldemort in the end. No, it was the fact that this Lord could speak in Parseltongue — a language reserved for the descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself. That, above all, was the deciding factor.

And so he owls Lucius his response, which results in the Malfoy Heir to come back to Grimmauld Place over and over again. It’s getting quite annoying.

He’s so in-tune to the sound of Lucius’ footsteps that Regulus knows it’s him, waiting outside of his door. Waiting, but not yet knocking. It’s a creepy action all of its own, and so he puts a stop to it by deliberately opening the door, acting as if he was about to leave.

“Ah, Lucius,” he greets. “My apologies, I did not hear you before.”

“None taken,” says the older man easily, quickly hiding any look of surprise. “I was just about to come discuss some matters with you.”

That doesn’t sound ominous at all.

“Please, let me lead you to my private office,” says Regulus, but Lucius shakes his head.

“No, this won’t take long. May I come in?”

Into Regulus’ bedroom? Warning sirens echo in his mind. Something is obviously wrong, but he can’t afford to do anything yet. Not until he knows which cards the man in front of him has.

“Of course,” he says tightly, dipping his head in concession.

Lucius seems to take up all the space in this godforsaken room. Regulus feels small, smaller than he has in months.

“The Dark Lord has some… questions,” he begins, looking around Regulus’ things. His eye twitches as the Malfoy Heir picks up some of his books, and begins to rifle through them. “About your allegiance.”

“There are not any,” Regulus says tersely, “and I’d thank you to leave my books where they are.”

A heavy silence. Then Lucius snaps the book shut, spins on his heel, and says calmly, “I know about the deal with Sirius Black.”

Regulus blinks twice, shocked. How could he possibly…?

Lucius laughs once, a mirthless sound. “I know more about you than you know,” he says, his voice silky-smooth. “I know you don’t want your brother to know about the deal you struck with Walburga. I can help you, if you do something for me in return.”

So the Dark Lord thing was just a pretense, then. Lucius did not come on the behalf of Lord Voldemort. He came for himself.

And Regulus can’t stop his stomach rolling, rolling, rolling, and holds back the urge to vomit. He resists the urge to scream at Lucius, to tell him to go fuck himself, because Lucius is holding triumphantly the one bribe that’ll truly work on Regulus.

He’d do anything for Sirius. Regulus has proven that to himself and to others over and over again, and now he’s paying for it.

“Name your price,” he says quietly, and Lucius smiles.

“I thought you’d say that.” With a predatory smile, the Malfoy Heir points to the space next to his perfectly-cleaned shoes. Regulus looks down, unsure of what the man wants.

And then it’s painfully obvious. Regulus kneels, reaching forward to grab the man’s tailored robes. He can’t bring himself to look up, instead focusing on the feel of the fabric.

His hands won’t stop shaking.

When Regulus returns to Hogwarts, the school feels different. Tainted. Or maybe that’s just him. Him, and his dirty, dirty hands.

Classes pass by in a blur.

He spends most of his time in the Room of Requirement. Kreacher is worried for him; he can tell. But there’s nothing much he can do. He won’t leave. Nowhere is safe.

That proves to be painfully obvious when Sirius tracks him down after he finally attends one of McGonagall’s lectures.

“Reggie.”

He doesn’t bother looking up.

“Regulus, please.”

“What do you want, Sirius.”

It’s not a question. It’s barely a statement. And Regulus would feel more embarrassed about it if he could find it within himself to care.

“I…” his brother sounds helpless, and Regulus finally lifts his gaze to meet his brother’s eyes. “You look ill.”

“I fell sick over the winter,” he lies promptly.

Sirius makes an odd noise, a kind of scathing scoff. “That’s not it, and you know it. Even before that, you seemed off. What’s going on?”

“Why should you care?” Regulus asks him, his voice weary. Dull. “It’s not as if you’re a part of the family anymore.”

It stings just as intended. Sirius doesn’t flinch — he’s always been too proud, not weak like Regulus — but he does blink rapidly, absorbing the shock into his skin.

Pure skin. Not like Regulus’, which is bruised a deeper black than his name.

“Just tell me what’s going on.” It sounds like a plea. For once, it seems like his brother is begging.

It’s uncomfortable, and Regulus turns to leave. He can’t see his brother rendered to this state, not for him. “Leave me alone,” he says instead, and runs off back to the Room of Requirement.

As always, he escapes like a coward.

The rest of the school year passes him by.

He waits for his friends to begin to get lives of their own, ones that don’t involve him. That never happens. Pandora is as steadfast in her love as ever, Dorcas as righteous, Barty and Evan as loyal. They begin to branch out and find their own interests, though, and Regulus feels in part happy and in part grieving. Selfishly, he wants his friends not to grow, expand, change. He wants them to remain as they are.

It’s an odd feeling, to see your friends begin to grow and mature without you. Regulus is stuck in a place of stasis. He is the one lagging behind, watching as all his friends take their next first steps.

Barty and Evan make out, and it doesn’t stop. They swear that it’s casual, but Regulus is not an idiot; he can see the intensity in their eyes, the love in the featherlight touches running across bare skin. It shouldn’t be intimate, but it is, and watching them begin a doomed love that could never work out causes something inside him to burn .

Dorcas goes to her first party, and she enjoys it. It’s hard to find a proper party at Hogwarts that’ll welcome a Slytherin, especially now. But she sneaks in with a Ravenclaw tie and Pandora by her side, although the other girl escapes rather soon after she’s secured Dorcas’ entry.

She thrives in that kind of atmosphere, something she’s not truly experienced before. She comes back glowing with happiness, and as Pandora curls up on Regulus’ side with Barty sitting on Evan’s lap in the other bed, she spins a tale of lights, of noise, of the freedom she felt that night.

Pandora gets a job. It’s a minor one, as all she truly does is help out Madam Pince in the library, but she finds a sense of contentment there. She says she needs the money, but more than that, she needs the peace. She needs a quiet place where she can simply exist without any pressures that weigh down on her life.

Regulus has no one to love (hands on robes, the taste of bile, a deep voice murmuring). He hates crowds, noises, and people. He doesn’t need a job, doesn’t have a place of his own besides the Room of Requirement.

He has no firsts.

Until James.

James Potter barrels into Regulus’ life during winter break at Hogwarts of Regulus’ fifth year, the first break he’s spent without his family.

It took some time to convince his parents that this was the right choice, that he was doing the right thing. That he had homework assignments to catch up on, that he was trying to make himself #1 in the class again after his class rank fell last year. That he’s forging himself into the perfect heir.

And to some extent, he is. He does need to up his game; what happened to him last year cannot happen again. He cannot afford to look so weak, so pathetic, in front of all of Hogwarts. It caused a blow to his reputation that he needs in order to present himself to the Dark Lord on the vernal equinox.

He’s not worried about that. Or at least, that’s what he tries to convince himself.

Potter first approaches him in the library.

“Hey, Regulus!”

He stills the urge to flinch back at the unexpected noise, schools his face and looks at Potter. He'd thought that the golden boy of Gryffindor would’ve gone home for break with Sirius, which is what they’ve done the entire time.

So he ignores him.

“Reggie,” Potter needles—

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps irritably, and watches as Potter’s expression grows into a smile. It only serves to fuel his annoyance. “What do you possibly want, Potter?”

“Nothing,” he says, but it obviously is a lie. Potter couldn’t keep his face blank to save his life. “I just wanted that book you’ve got there.”

Regulus looks down at the book in his hands and raises an eyebrow. “You, Potter, want a fifth-year transfiguration textbook?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me trying to review the basics!” Potter attempts bravely, but then sighs, a small, silly grin still lingering on his face. “Okay. Perhaps, maybe, that’s not all it.”

At least he’s not stupid enough to keep insisting that lie. Potter’s a transfiguration genius; he’s always two years ahead.

“So what do you want?” He asks with a sigh, hiding the book further out of the sixth-year’s sight.

Potter looks him straight in the eyes. “Come with me and Sirius for Christmas,” he says bluntly.

Regulus feels the tug, the whisper to run away, and he thinks of entertaining it. “No,” he says, and spins on his heel.

That doesn’t stop Potter. He follows him, pleading as Regulus checks out the book, wheedling as Regulus walks down the hallway, asking as Regulus makes his way to the Great Hall for dinner.

“Don’t follow me,” he orders, and strides in.

It’s a temporary deterrent, and it doesn’t last. Regulus hopes, futilely, that it won’t. Something inside him is happy to see Potter come back and keep trying.

He doesn’t know how they’ve reached this point.

He hated James, he knew that. But that’s faded away in the light of this — this beautiful, beautiful man who glows like the sun.

Mine, Regulus thinks viciously as he runs his fingers through James’ curly hair in the Room of Requirement, the man on his lap fast asleep. No one will have him like I do.

And in his heart, he knows that he loves him. He loves James Potter.

And Regulus finally knows what it is Barty and Evan feel when they’re together. As they love fiercely, proudly, but temporarily. He knows he won’t be able to keep James forever, especially not while they hide in secrecy.

But he’d do anything to try.

Their first big fight results because of Sirius.

He’s not even sure how it happened. One moment, they’re lying together so peacefully. The next, James is red in the face and Regulus is stone-still, trying to keep the tears at bay.

“He’s your brother,” James gesticulates, his voice growing louder and louder by the second. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t make the effort to reach out—”

Walburga Black, he thinks to himself, but pushes that explanation back, shoving it all the way down his throat until he chokes on the truth.

“It’s complicated,” he says flatly, looking up at the ceiling so the tears don’t fall. He refuses to be seen as vulnerable like this.

“Then tell me one thing,” James says fiercely, blue eyes dark like a tempest. “Do you love him?”

Regulus tenses at the request, and looks down at his hands. They’re balled into a fist, and he’s shaking. He’s shaking, and he didn’t even realize it. James looks down, and something in him softens as well. He takes Regulus’ hands and slowly unclasps them, running fingers over his knuckles.

Something about the softness from them both lets Regulus admit to the truth, a quiet, secretive “yes” that only James can hear. He follows it up with “but that doesn’t change anything — I wouldn’t do anything differently,” waiting for their fight to continue.

“Anything can happen,” James says, looking Regulus dead in the eyes to show he’s serious, “as long as you love him.”

And he loves you goes unsaid. It’s unnecessary. They both know Sirius, despite his accusations of hatred and picking sides and whatever else, would do anything for his brother. Regulus just won’t let him.

He manages a tight smile and suppresses the tears. “Maybe,” he says.

Regulus sees James walk with Lily, and although jealousy creeps into his mind, he mostly just feels resigned.

They just look so perfect together, laughing and smiling as James holds the door open for her as they walk out of the castle itself and onto the grounds. It’s for Care of Magical Creatures; he knows they share that class together. They’re one of the few left in their year who’re taking it.

He can’t even be mad. He watches them walk together and thinks to himself: they’re the true couple. After all, how could it make sense that James would want someone like Regulus? Someone who’s dirty, who’s evil, whose core values don’t align with him. Who’s tainted and broken and beat down.

Regulus can’t even fault Lily. She’s the perfect match for someone like James, someone with enough goodness and enough stubbornness to make him love her.

He should love her.

Regulus leaves them alone.

The vernal equinox comes.

Regulus is dressed in his finest robe and wearing the Black Heir ring, a large silver ring that weighs down on his finger. He looks every inch like a Black, and yet he feels so stifled. Unable to breathe again.

But he pushes away that familiar feeling while apparating from Grimmauld Place to the Malfoy Manor where the Dark Lord resides.

He arrives in the living room as expected, and makes his way to Lucius’ private office, where he knocks twice, crisply on the door.

“Come in,” says a welcoming voice, and Regulu steels his nerves and enters.

The Dark Lord looks nothing as what he expected. He’s a handsome man, with black hair and gray eyes, similar to his own. But there’s something otherworldly about the way he looks; something not human.

“So this must be Regulus Black,” the man muses, beckoning him forward.

Regulus makes his way closer to where the Dark Lord sits and nods. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord looks at him and smiles a smile that’s vaguely threatening. “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you,” he murmurs, and Regulus fights the urge to flee right then and there. But he cannot. He’d lose his life if he tried. “You wish to become my follower, Regulus Black?”

He tries to let some of James’ bravado seep into his voice when he says yes, and it comes out steady and sure.

The Dark Lord stares right into his eyes, and—

“Try again,” Walburga says from the top of the stairs, and Sirius smiles, pressing a silver bracelet into Regulus’ hands. He waits in his bedroom for letters that never appear, begs the Hat to put him into Slytherin with Dorcas, Pandora, Barty, Evan. The schoolwork, the panicking, the suffocation that never ends. The deal for Sirius’ life, Malfoy’s hands, and James, the boy who shines like the sun—

He rips his gaze away, breathing heavily.

Regulus is proficient at Occlumency. He’s more than proficient, certainly; he’s had to be, as the heir of Black. But the Dark Lord’s mastery over Legilimency and the way he tore through Regulus’ shields is surprising and, for him, condemning.

Fuck. He hasn’t considered what he’d do if he was rejected by the Dark Lord. He’s never assumed it as a possibility.

“Hm,” says the Dark Lord. “It appears that there’s more depth to you than I initially anticipated, Regulus Black.”

He tries to control his breathing, but things are spiraling out of his control. He can’t do it, he needs his Draught of Peace, he needs—

All of a sudden, he stills.

“Better,” says the Dark Lord, pocketing his wand.

Fuck, he put a spell on Regulus; what kind of spell was it? The thought only serves to make him panic more.

“Relax,” says the man in front of him, waving a dismissive hand. “It is simply a modification of the Cheering Charm.”

Regulus manages a “thank you, my Lord,” before falling quiet. For what is he supposed to do now?

The man examines him, previously-cold eyes shifting to something else. Something perhaps warmer. “You truly are a wonder, Heir to Black,” he says, and reaches out, one thin, spidery hand grasping a lock of Regulus’ hair. “I confess, I would like you to join my ranks. A person such as you would be greatly beneficial to the cause.”

Thank fuck. So he didn’t manage to screw it all up at least.

“However,” continues the Dark Lord, and Regulus can feel his hopes plummet to the ground, “I shall delay your induction for a while longer. A year, perhaps.”

“My Lord?” This is not good. This is not good at all. But all hope is not yet lost.

The Dark Lord fixes Regulus a stern look, and he almost feels like a child again being scolded by his father. “I have seen into your mind, Regulus Black. You do not quite understand the way the world works yet. From what I’ve seen, that will not take long to change. But I do not want you until you fully want me, is that understood?”

He swallows. He can spin this in a positive way, he hopes. He must. “I understand, my Lord,” he says with a respectful bow.

The man smiles. It’s threatening and almost reassuring at the same time. “Good. You may go.”

He begins to back away, legs shaking.

“Lucius Malfoy will not bother you any more,” calls out the Dark Lord as Regulus approaches the doorway. His eyes flash with something, a hidden meaning. “He will know not to touch what is mine.”

A pause.

“James Potter will learn that, too.”

His parents had given the school the excuse that Regulus was sick with dragon pox. So it was not too much of a surprise that upon his return to Hogwarts, his teachers had excused him of all homework for the next two days.

It gives him enough time to hide away in the Room of Requirement. Like a coward, one may say, but he feels like he deserves it.

Regulus thought he’d be killed. Instead, he is wanted. He is wanted, even though he is not a fully loyal Death Eater yet.

He feels relieved about the Lucius incident, and yet terrified for James’ safety. So with a grieving heart, he begins to plan on how to make James Potter give up on him.

It’s not an easy task. James would never abandon Regulus, especially if it’s for his sake. He’s like Sirius that way.

Regulus can see the parallels, acknowledge the irony in his decision. To save the person he loves, he must sacrifice himself once more. First for Sirius.

And now for James.

It takes him longer as expected, but in the end, it comes down to the Dark Lord.

“Do you want to follow the commands of a narcissistic, racist maniac?” James had shouted at him, red in the face, and—

“I will,” Regulus had said simply.

James shut his mouth so audibly that he could hear a click.

“Well then,” he says grimly, “I can’t do this anymore, Reg. I can’t — Lily’s my friend, Mary’s my friend. They’re the kinds of people that’ll die first in this war, and for what? They’re both powerful witches, Regulus,” he says, and he looks close to tears. Wishing, begging, pleading for Regulus to change his mind. To reconsider. “They’re fucking powerful, and you want to — what? Take away their rights? They have the same blood as you and me,” he says viciously.

No. They don’t. And they will never, ever be like you and me.

Regulus doesn’t say anything. James waits for a moment and then tears himself away.

He doesn’t come back.

Two weeks later, Orion is dead.

Regulus goes home again, deals with the pains in his chest. He is surrounded by silver gifts, silver caskets, silver silver silver. He’s so draped in the color he feels like he is dead also.

Silver no longer feels safe anymore.

It feels like suffocation.

He takes off his brother’s gift to him, once his most prized possession, and orders Kreacher to burn it.

He receives a letter from Rodolphus Lestrange inviting him for tea in Regulus’ sixth year. It’s signed with the Death Eater’s symbol.

He knows what that means. The Dark Lord is calling for him.

The meeting begins the same. He steps into the Dark Lord’s office and the man reads his mind. But what’s in there is much different than before.

When he finishes, the Dark Lord seems pleased. His lips are curled up into a resemblance of a smile, a predatory grin.

“Come, Heir of Black,” he announces, and Regulus receives the Mark.

As the war picks up in their sixth year, Dorcas and Pandora separate from their friend group.

Dorcas’ separation is painful. She screams at them for supporting a megalomaniac who wants to kill anyone, everyone, who stands in their way, mudblood or not. She says they’re blind to the truth, says that she chooses not to stay willfully ignorant anymore.

She joins James and his friends. More interestingly, she joins Marlene McKinnon and latches on to the girl immediately. Regulus tries not to hex McKinnon in the hallways after that, for stealing his friend from him.

The thought crosses his mind more than once.

Pandora’s separation is not as bad, not as painful. She says her family is going into hiding; with her talents, she does not wish to be a pawn on either side of the war. She says she wishes to remain free, even if that means a temporary confinement.

“This is just goodbye for now,” she promises them, and hugs them all tight before picking up her suitcase.

He sees her say goodbye to Dorcas in the hallway later on.

They’re both sobbing, holding each other like that’s the last time they’ll see each other again. Holding each other with a fervent, clinging desperation.

It makes Regulus wonder if those two girls know more than they let on.

Two weeks later, James begins to date Lily. It’s not as much of a shock as it could have been, but Regulus still feels like he’s burning when he sees them together.

Barty and Evan are still going strong. He can’t bear to see them anymore, the jealousy keeping him in a chokehold.

He finds himself alone more than ever before. It’s a familiar feeling, and one that he sinks into. He embraces the isolation like a friend.

Regulus wishes he could hate Lily, but he can find nothing to hate, save that she’s a mudblood. Even so, he finds he cannot hate her too much for that; it’s not like she could control having dirty blood.

She’s beautiful and kind and thoughtful and loving. She’s perfect for someone like James, perfect in a way Regulus is not and could never be.

It’s fate. He can see it in the way James holds her, holds her the way he used to hold Regulus. It’s in the way he brushes her hair out of her face, the way he kisses her forehead tenderly, the way he places his arms around her shoulders.

James has always felt like safety to him. In this time of war and chaos, he must feel like that to Lily as well.

He can’t bear the thought of someone else having James Potter like this. So he tries not to look at them when he can avoid it.

Regulus is shit at that.

Walburga dies in August.

Regulus is now, officially, Lord Black. He is the Head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. All responsibility now rests squarely on his shoulders.

That is the day he first contemplates killing himself.

When Regulus turns seventeen, his Dark Mark burns.

He apparates to the Lestrange Manor, where the Dark Lord now spends most of his time. He knows Lucius is furious at the loss of rank, of the idea that Rodolphus is now higher than him. More important.

He thinks Lucius’ fall from fame has to do, in part, with Regulus himself. It’s a happy, if petty, thought.

“My Lord,” says Regulus, bowing his head immediately to the man in front of him.

Since their last meeting, Lord Voldemort has been acting more affectionate towards him. It’s an odd feeling, but Regulus has felt so bereft after the loss of James that he doesn’t not shy away from it.

He might be insane at this point for that, but he doesn’t truly care either way. It does not matter.

“Regulus,” comes the silky-smooth voice, “I am in need of your house elf.”

“Of course,” Regulus says, slightly baffled. “Kreacher,” he calls, and the house elf appears in front of him immediately. “The Dark Lord requires you,” he says. “Follow his orders exactly as you would mine, but do try and come back before dinner.”

He looks to the Dark Lord in confirmation, and the man simply nods fondly.

“Come, elf,” the man orders, and grabs Kreacher’s hand. They disappear into thin air.

Meanwhile, Regulus returns back to Grimmauld Place.

A horcrux.

It’s an impossible thought. There is no way that the Dark Lord would be that batshit insane to do something like that.

Regulus had recognized the word; at least, it was vaguely familiar to him. A quick perusal to the Black library filled in all the gaps in his memory.

Murder in exchange for immortality. A splitting, an irreversible tearing, of the soul.

It’s something even the most insane, the most evil, of man has never attempted. Not since a millennia ago, when the repercussions of such an act were revealed. He cannot wrap his mind around that the Dark Lord has created a Horcrux.

And yet… it makes sense. The Dark Lord does not look human; he’s noted that before. He does not look nor act as human as he should. And he portrays himself as a god, someone who cannot be destroyed. If he has a horcrux, all these things would make sense.

Regulus is unsure on where he stands on the whole blood purity debate. He is unsure of all his beliefs, truly, especially after Walburga’s passing. But he does know this: anyone who creates a horcrux must be stopped.

And no one knows of this information except for him.

It’s time Regulus does some more research on the cave Kreacher was brought to.

“Destroy it,” Regulus gasps, pressing the locket urgently in Kreacher’s hands, “ leave me now and destroy it, Kreacher, that’s an order —”

Kreacher lets out a cry of pain and apparates away, unable to disobey a direct order—

Regulus staggers to his feet, wand in his hand, and surveys the inferi heading towards him from all directions. He grips his wand tight in his hand and casts Fiendfyre.

*

It’s finally time to rest.

Regulus has done his best. And yet, a tiny spark in his consciousness whispers: it was never enough.

He’s never been good enough. Always the spare, never the heir — he’s lived his entire life like this. He’s been born to give his life away for a larger purpose.

Now his purpose has come.

Regulus can only hope what he’s finally done with help Sirius and James. He hopes Pandora, Dorcas, Barty, and Evan will be okay. He hopes Kreacher will find a new owner, someone much kinder than him.

He thinks of the people he loves, but he does not mourn them. After all, Regulus will see them soon on the other side.

Maybe there, he’ll finally be happy. Maybe there, silver will finally feel safe for him again.

He won’t be the Heir to Black.

He’ll simply be Regulus.