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An observation: Sirius had gained weight.
Regulus might not have noticed at all had it not been for their mother. He tried not to look at Sirius much these days, even though they were forced to spend upwards of an hour together every morning, sitting in painful silence at the table while their mother picked at her food and their father hid behind the latest issue of the Daily Prophet.
Their mother, however, missed nothing.
“Oh, darling,” she said, her voice sickly-sweet as she moved around the long table to get a better look at Sirius. “Not those dreadful Muggle sweets again?” She pressed her hand to Sirius’ lower stomach like she was covering up something shameful. As Regulus’ eyes followed her movement, he noted that the fabric was indeed stretched a little tight over Sirius’ belly, where there was a gentle curve that Regulus had never noticed before.
There was a scraping sound as Sirius pushed his chair back from the table, recoiling from her touch, but their mother was undeterred.
“I thought Kreacher had found the last of them when you came back from Hogwarts,” she sighed, snapping her fingers for the elf, who appeared with a loud crack.
“Yes, Mistress?”
“Kreacher,” she said, not even looking at the house-elf, “search Sirius’ bedroom again — and do be thorough. If I find out that my son has been sneaking bites of that Mudblood rubbish again, he won’t be the only one being punished.”
The house-elf bowed low. “Of course, Mistress.”
As Kreacher trotted upstairs, their mother addressed Sirius. “Darling,” she said again — her sons were darling only when they were in trouble — “you understand that this behaviour simply cannot continue. A Black heir, stuffing himself with Mudblood sweets? It’s indecent. It’s just not done.”
Sirius’ face was flushed. He muttered something about “gifts from friends,” speaking more to his empty plate than to anyone at the breakfast table.
“Your friends should know better than to load down your trunk with litter,” she said irritably. “Even if they are of an inferior sort.”
Regulus watched Sirius closely, waiting for an explosion that didn’t come. Typically, there was no faster way to incense Sirius than to impugn his friends, but while there was a vein pulsing angrily in Sirius’ jaw, he didn’t take the bait. Presently their mother took her own seat again, her lips pursed as though disappointed in losing an additional opportunity to scold Sirius, and reapplied herself to her own meagre breakfast.
An odd expression passed over Sirius’ features as the family sat in silence for the rest of the meal: a sort of furious pride. Regulus wanted to ask him about it, the way he wanted to ask Sirius about so many things. But they were not the kind of brothers who did that sort of thing, so Regulus drank his tea and shot covert glances at Sirius’ belly, and wished to be somewhere and someone different.
A fact: Sirius had gained weight.
That Sirius was still gaining weight, though — that he might not stop, that he might gain more — that was one of those troublesome thoughts that had to be culled. It had to go somewhere, because if it continued to live inside Regulus it would only grow, a fast-spreading weed, until it took Regulus over, until he had nothing left. There was only so much room inside Regulus’ mind these days.
Each morning, when Regulus took his seat at the breakfast table, he chanced a look at Sirius’ midsection. Sometimes he fancied that he saw a change, as if Sirius had grown bigger overnight. Realistically, of course, Regulus knew that these changes took time, that bodies rarely varied much from one day to another, but that didn’t stop Regulus from staring, desperate to catalogue each part of Sirius.
As the hot summer drew on, it became more and more obvious. Sirius’ body really was changing. His upper arms had become broader and fleshier, straining the fabric of his robes; his shoulders had a sloping roundness to them that hadn’t been there before. Something had shifted in Sirius’ face, too, though it was difficult for Regulus to identify the cause. Where once there had been sharp lines, made more prominent by Sirius’ constant disdainful expressions, there were now soft, gentle curves.
And then there was Sirius’ stomach. Something grew twisted and hot in Regulus’ chest whenever he thought about Sirius’ stomach. Sirius’ belly, like the rest of his body, was growing rounder and softer — but there was also more of it than ever before. More of Sirius than had ever existed in living memory.
That idea — more of Sirius — got stuck in Regulus’ head and stubbornly refused to leave. It was an unsettling idea. He couldn’t separate the concept from its inverse, as if more of Sirius necessitated less of Regulus. Sirius increasing, Regulus decreasing.
Their family might be rich in Galleons, but other resources — time, attention, love, space — were markedly finite. Their ancestral home already seemed too cramped for the two brothers to live comfortably inside, without Sirius taking up more space than he deserved. The walls of Grimmauld Place were growing nearer, pressing in on them from all sides.
“There’s nothing else for it,” their mother said miserably, as the summer drew to an end. “We’ll just have to take a trip to Diagon Alley.”
“Diagon Alley?” Regulus repeated, unable to stop himself. “You want to go to Diagon Alley?” He could scarcely remember the last time his mother set foot in a shop. She never left Grimmauld Place at all nowadays if she could help it, insisting that the outside air made her ill.
“You two need Hogwarts supplies,” she said simply. “What kind of mother would I be if I failed to provide my own sons with necessities?”
Regulus and Sirius exchanged incredulous glances, then looked back at their plates. It was the first time Regulus had let himself make eye contact with his brother in months.
Even their father had lowered the Prophet to stare at their mother. “That’s what house-elves are for, dear,” he said, as if she’d lost her mind.
“Twilfitt and Tattings has a lovely new line of figure-minimising robes,” their mother said, her eyes on the curve of Sirius’ stomach, which jutted out more noticeably when he was sitting down.
With a swift rustling of paper, their father disappeared behind the Prophet again.
“Of course,” said Sirius, though he didn’t sound displeased. “That’s what this is about. You’re not interested in spending time with your sons. You just want me to cover up.”
“Well, if you had taken my advice,” she snapped, “and tossed that Muggle rubbish at the start of the holidays — where you’ve been hiding it, I’ve no idea — then you wouldn’t have to cover up.”
“Funny that you only care about my body when I’m embarrassing you,” Sirius hissed, standing up so quickly that he sent his chair flying with a clatter. “When I spent two weeks in the Hospital Wing in my third year, coughing up blood, where were you?”
“The Hogwarts Matron assured me that you were in no immediate danger.”
“Or last year, when I had to go to St. Mungo’s after getting hit by that nasty jinx?” Sirius demanded. “And that was darling Regulus’ fault, by the way.”
“I didn’t tell you to take on three Slytherins on your own!” Regulus said, stung by this.
“No, but you started the fight,” Sirius shot back.
“You didn’t have to jump in to finish it!”
“Boys,” said their mother, with a dismissive gesture, “do be quiet. Some of us are still trying to eat.” Regulus observed that her plate had a grand total of twelve blueberries on it; all she had done was move them from one side of the plate to the other. “We’ll make the trip to Twilfitt and Tattings later today. It’s all arranged. They’ll have a private fitting room for us.”
“So no one else has to see me, obviously,” said Sirius, digging his fingers into the fleshy curve of his belly, hard enough that Regulus was sure he would leave marks, little crescent moons where his fingernails had been.
Regulus was reminded forcibly of Muggle sculptures he had once seen on a trip to Italy, the way the artists had turned cold stone into something living. He was half-sure, even now, that the artists must really have been wizards, for they had managed to imbue the soulless material with muscle and sinew and sloping, gorgeous curves, until the statues had seemed to breathe. Human bodies were meant to bend, shift, change; flesh was meant to be grabbed, caressed, and dented.
More of Sirius, Regulus thought again, staring at the swell of Sirius’ stomach that had never been there before this summer. But Regulus was being irrational. People got new robes all the time, of course. People lost weight and gained weight and the world continued to roll on without care. Why, then, did Regulus feel so utterly unmoored by the sight of Sirius like this?
And still Sirius was standing; he hadn’t bothered to pick the chair back up. He cut an impressive figure, looming over the breakfast table like this. Making himself bigger in his attempt to shrink their mother’s influence, perhaps. It was an act of rebellion Regulus had never considered.
At last, after what seemed an eternity, their mother looked up from her preoccupation with the blueberries. Her eyes lit first on Sirius’ face; then, unmistakably, they dropped to the fleshy part of his stomach. There was a moment when it seemed as if she might say something about it.
“You may be excused from the table, Sirius,” she said instead. “I think you’ve had enough.”
Sirius stalked out of the room, his fists clenched at his sides.
A problem: Sirius had gained weight, kept gaining weight, and it was driving Regulus steadily insane.
The “figure-minimising robes” had done nothing to hide the fact that Sirius’ body was softer and rounder than before. Regulus couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop staring as he tried to memorise every change. Sirius’ jaw, rounder and less severe. Sirius’ shoulders, sloping forward gently. And Sirius’ stomach… Merlin, but he dreamt constantly of touching Sirius’ soft stomach — for it must feel soft, to look so velvet-smooth and pliable, even under robes — and kneading the pillowy flesh there.
He would run his fingers along his own firm stomach in the evenings, trying to convince himself that he was working Sirius’ supple skin under his fingers, but his mind was utterly incapable of substituting Sirius’ belly for his own. Regulus’ body was all sharp, jutting angles and harsh corners. There was nothing warm or comforting there, no softness.
What Regulus needed to finally purge himself of this infuriating obsession was simple. He had to touch Sirius, to massage his round belly and finally learn what it felt like beneath his fingertips. Then all of his questions would be answered, the preoccupation would fade, and Regulus’ mind would be his own again. Actually touching Sirius was out of the question, at least for now, so Regulus made other plans.
In some dim, distant corner of his brain, Regulus knew that what he was doing was wrong. But that was the problem with being so easily taken in by beautiful things. There was rarely any space in Regulus’ mind left for morality.
A simple spell made quick work of Sirius’ locked door. Regulus slipped inside the empty room and crept over to Sirius’ bed, which was still rumpled from a restless night’s sleep. Kreacher hadn’t tidied up yet, which was all the better for Regulus’ purposes.
Regulus found what he was looking for at once: a single dark hair on the pillowcase. He picked it up gingerly and stowed it in the phial he had procured for just such an occasion. He would have to bide his time until he was back at Hogwarts to start the potion, or else pay some unscrupulous N.E.W.T. student to brew it, but Regulus could already tell it would be worth the wait.
In exchange, Regulus placed the gift he had brought — a variety tin of sweets, purchased with difficulty from a Muggle confectionery — at the foot of the bed, taking care to arrange the note prettily on top of the creased sheets.
Don’t listen to Mother. You look fine. Reg x