Chapter Text
REGULUS
The unfortunate thing about brothers was that they remained yours, whether you wanted them or not. And Regulus Arcturus Black II had never been very good at loving people halfway.
Sirius came back from the summer of 1975...wrong. Washed out like the blurry edges of an unfinished watercolor.
Regulus, though he was loath to admit it, lest his brother’s already overinflated ego swell to a size even the Great Hall’s vast domed ceiling couldn’t contain, paid particular attention to Sirius.
Just...in case.
He told himself it was anger that made him watch so closely. Anger that Sirius had abandoned him the year before in a house made of blade-thin smiles and even sharper words. But five years of Sirius being at Hogwarts (four for Regulus) couldn’t break the eleven years before that. Eleven years of looking out for one another in a moldering, murderously sentient home which held more secrets and ghosts in its walls than the entire Department of Mysteries combined.
All of which was to say: Regulus noticed the moment Sirius finally reappeared, a full week after the full moon on August 21, when he’d stopped coming to the Great Hall for meals.
At first Regulus had assumed it was because of some elaborate prank Sirius and his friends were brewing.
Only....
One look at the uncharacteristically grim faces of three of the four Marauders (an idiotic name for a group of friends, Regulus maintained, that was childish and self-important—a perfectly correct opinion for someone of the distinguished age of fourteen, thank you very much), and he knew that wasn’t the case. Especially since the quartet seemed to have stopped causing mischief altogether. Which, frankly, was far more suspicious. And a little terrifying.
The thing was, most people saw Sirius and…stopped thinking much further than his surface.
He was larger than life. Sirius Orion Black III. A personality that sucked the air from a room and forced rapt attention, even from the unwilling.
What people saw afterwards, however, they usually dismissed: a lazy delinquent more interested in his social calendar than his studies or any sensible future.
Regulus knew better.
He finally got his first proper look at his brother a month into the autumn term.
Sirius was sprawled across the back of a sofa in the Ravenclaw common room like the subject of a Rococo painting. Long limbs splayed open, dark hair half tied back with his wand shoved haphazardly through it. A Muggle cigarette burned lazily between his fingers. His cool grey eyes (more blue than grey, usually the colour of a bright sky) were dull tonight, clouded like fog over a rain-logged forest. An empty bottle of Firewhisky lay discarded on its side near his boot.
Several people laughed at something he’d said as Regulus entered.
He and his friends were dressed, as Dorcas liked to say, in their “slag-chasing outfits.” Regulus had not been consulted about that development.
Barty and Evan had simply shoved a transparent, black silk shirt into his arms, along with a pair of dark-washed Muggle “jeans,” and informed him that he would, at the very least, appear with the group before disappearing into a corner to revise (or whatever crude insinuation Barty had actually said, which Regulus didn’t care to repeat, even in his own thoughts) like the joyless little goblin Dorcas had so kindly accused him of being.
Seeing Sirius there, at what was meant to be the first proper party of the term, hadn’t been expected.
For one traitorous second, Regulus felt the sharp, nauseating jolt of relief roll through his gut that always came when Sirius walked into a room alive and unhurt. Of course, he crushed the feeling almost immediately. It didn’t bode well for a Slytherin who let their emotions show. (And besides, Sirius had forfeited the right to be worried over openly, the moment he’d left Regulus alone in that house.)
Like a king entertaining his court, Sirius looked exactly like the sort of person their parents had always warned them about. Muggle-loving. Unpure. Degenerate.
Most versions of Sirius (especially the loud, reckless one who flirted with anything that moved) were performances. Masks he wore to divide himself neatly into whatever role the situation required. Protector. Clown. Wise-cracker. Charmer.
But tonight the performance wasn’t even convincing, (in Regulus’s always correct opinion). Not with the exhaustion in the slight hunch of his shoulders. The flicker of something dangerously close to Black family madness in his eyes whenever his facade slipped. Not with the grin stretched just a little too wide, pointed enough to cut anyone foolish enough to step too close.
Regulus knew that the Sirius beneath all of those disguises was something altogether quieter. Stubborn to the point of stupidity, painfully sincere, and far too emotional and sensitive for someone who'd grown up in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. (He could sling insults to rival their father, yet crumble, shaken to his foundations, when those same words were returned by someone he loved and trusted.)
Sirius was a strange mix of light and dark, always struggling between the morals he wanted to believe in and the anger bred into his “pure” blood (that’ll be the inbreeding, but Regulus wasn't patient enough to split hairs tonight).
However, the teen on the sofa was not even that Sirius.
No. This Sirius looked far too much like the one who’d lived at Grimmauld Place up until last year, for Regulus’s liking. Sharp. Restless. A little bit cruel.
Barty reacted first.
He slipped through the crowd ahead of Regulus (having been the one to answer the Ravenclaw riddle), with the easy confidence of someone who had never once listened when an authority figure told him non.
“Well, well, well,” Barty said cheerfully as he loomed over Sirius. Regulus scowled and followed his best friend closer. “The ex-heir of the noble and most boring house. I heard you got burned off the tapestry last winter. Shame, that.”
Sirius lifted his head and shot Barty a glassy, uninterested look. Regulus promptly drove his elbow into Barty’s ribs and shoved him aside.
“Sirius.” He let all of the single extra inch he had over his brother help make him more authoritative.
Sirius’s head tilted back as he took a drag on the cigarette. For a moment something flickered across his face—pain, guilt, maybe something dangerously close to sadness. But it vanished beneath a crooked smile.
“Well,” Sirius drawled, the word stretched in a way their mother would have hexed out of him, even while drunk. Regulus had never made that particular mistake, not even at the formal parties held at Black Manor (the country estate that was decidedly not Grimmauld Place, because the townhouse was “only for family, Regulus, surely you understand that,” his mother’s shrill voice echoed in memory) where the elf-made wine flowed freely. “If it isn’t ma petite déception.”
Regulus crossed his arms and ground his back molars together.
The thing was, he’d learned about what his brother’s imbecile friends were calling The Prank (apparently the capital letters were mandatory) a full week after it happened.
He’d finally, for a brief moment, spotted Sirius in the Great Hall at the tail end of breakfast that morning, looking half-alive and decidedly worse for wear, stuffing sausages into his rucksack before bolting again. So, the information hadn't come from Sirius. Especially since he'd always been terrible at lying (at least to Regulus).
Sirius had once taught him all his tricks when they were five and four, respectively. Regulus, naturally, had improved upon them. Years later he’d become rather good at Occlumency (a skill that had proven increasingly useful once Walburga Black decided that Veritaserum at the dinner table was an entirely reasonable parenting strategy).
Which meant that lately Sirius had simply stopped speaking to him at all.
Instead, Regulus had learned the truth the way he learned most things at Hogwarts. Interrogation.
Snape had been resting in a curtained-off bed in the Hospital Wing when Regulus slipped in. Pomfrey had stepped out, leaving the ward momentarily unattended, so luck had been on Regulus’s side. A single drop of Veritaserum (brewed the previous year when a unit in Potions had temporarily bored him) into a glass of water had been all it took.
Technically the potion was restricted in the Wixen world, much like Felix Felicis, Amortentia, Polyjuice Potion, or Sleeping Draught and Dreamless Sleep, which were really only legally allowed on Hogwarts grounds for teaching and learning purposes. Regulus had never been especially troubled by those technicalities, though. No one in Slytherin really cared, as long as it got desired results.
Still, by the time he'd returned to the Slytherin common room, the entire house seemed to know something had happened.
Dorcas had stormed in, then, smelling like rain and cigarette smoke just as Regulus had settled into his favourite window seat overlooking the underwater creatures of the Black Lake.
“Your brother,” she announced, collapsing into the armchair beside Evan, “is an absolute lunatic.”
Regulus did not look up from the Arithmancy notes he was pretending to read.
“My brother is several kinds of lunatic,” he said coolly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
Dorcas grinned like someone who’d just set something on fire and called it a party.
“Supposedly, he tried to feed Snape to a dark creature in the Forbidden Forest.”
Pandora stopped turning the page of her book and Evan blinked. Together they looked even more alike than usual. Barty leaned forward with interest, like someone who'd just been promised an excellent ghost story.
Regulus, for his part, remained perfectly still. He’d become very good at that. It was easier to control a room when people believed you were bored.
“Explain,” he said at last, finally lifting his eyes from the page.
Apparently no one had the full story. Only fragments. He allowed a slow breath to leave him when it became clear that no one seemed to know what the creature actually was. Or who.
Snape had been seen being dragged from the edge of the Forbidden Forest, near the Whomping Willow, by Potter, bloody and pale and nearly on death’s door. Pettigrew had been seen hauling a hysterically laughing Sirius up to Dumbledore’s office before anything worse could happen. Lupin had apparently arrived at the Hospital Wing the next morning just as battered and bloody and injured, with a convenient explanation involving having stayed behind to fight the unnamed creature, giving his fellow students time to escape. Regulus privately commended the excellent lie (and Lupin’s Defence marks which made it believable).
When Dorcas had finished speaking, the common room had fallen quiet.
Pandora tilted her head and glanced at Regulus. “That seems…poorly thought out.”
“That’s Black for you,” Dorcas replied.
Regulus closed his book with a sharp snap. He loved his friends (as much as someone like him was capable of loving anyone, he assumed). But no one insulted his brother.
“Snape isn’t dead,” Regulus said calmly. “So I assume the story's exaggerated.”
Dorcas snorted. “You purebloods really do treat attempted murder like a scheduling conflict. Huh, Baby Black?”
Regulus smoothed the front of his robes automatically and adjusted his tie: a habitual, trained motion. He’d learned early-on that composure was a form of armor.
“Where is he?” Regulus asked as he stood.
“Snape?” Barty asked mildly, pierced brow raised, cold blue eyes calculating.
Regulus turned away to shove his book into his shoulder bag before Barty could see the flicker of worry on his face.
“Non,” he snapped. “Obviously.”
Barty’s grin sharpened.
“There’s a party in Ravenclaw tonight. Word is, your dearest big brother'll be making an appearance.”
Which was how Regulus found himself standing across from Sirius in Ravenclaw Tower.
“You nearly killed someone,” Regulus hissed. Unlike Sirius, Regulus hid himself behind derision and iciness and carefully crafted anger. “There are witnesses.”
Sirius shrugged. “Nearly’s doing lots of work in that sentence.” The smile he turned on Regulus was too dangerous for Hogwarts.
The first time Regulus has seen it, had been years ago, when Bellatrix had decided that the most efficient way to teach Regulus the waltz, was by flicking cutting curses at his feet while he tried to keep the steps. Sirius (only eight and wandless) had lifted his hand and somehow managed to blast her backwards across the drawing room with a wordless spell.
Regulus had seen the same smile again, once their mother finished cursing an unfortunate solicitor into the walls of a distant cousin’s house. Grimmauld Place was unplottable, but that one hadn’t been, much to the solicitor’s misfortune.
“Your friends aren’t speaking to you,” Regulus said, mostly to wipe that careless look off Sirius’s face. It was a look Regulus could tolerate seeing in the mirror, or on his mother. But not on his brother.
Sirius took a long drag from his cigarette.
“Observant as always, Reggie.”
The nickname landed like a particularly nasty hex to the gut. Sirius had been the only person allowed to use it once. Regulus hadn’t realized how much he’d missed hearing it until that moment, and the knowledge irked him enough that he immediately buried it beneath a fresh wave of annoyance. He was only glad his brother hadn’t said something as mortifying as p’tit étoile or p’tit chaton.
Regulus studied him for a moment, controlling his incandescent irritation, before sighing and uncrossing his arms.
“Sit with us.”
Sirius blinked. “With...who?”
Regulus gestured across the room.
Pandora had claimed a windowsill and was reading a book on poisons as if she were in a library instead of a Ravenclaw party. Evan leaned against the wall beside her, nursing a goblet of something suspiciously bright. Dorcas sprawled in an armchair near the twins, arguing with a Hufflepuff about Quidditch fouls.
And Barty—Barty was watching them. Well. He was watching Sirius. Like he’d just discovered a particularly interesting puzzle.
Regulus blinked and decided that hexing Barty in the middle of a crowded room would be unwise. There would be time enough for that, later. Preferably when it could be made to look like an accident.
“My friends,” Regulus said simply.
“Your terrifying little band of Slytherin misfits?” Sirius barked a laugh.
Barty snorted and said, “we prefer the term misunderstood intellectuals.”
Something wary flickered across Sirius’s expression as he looked at them. Sirius was the best Occlumens Regulus knew. Even better than himself. So the momentary lapse vanished almost as quickly as it'd begun.
Still, he slid off the sofa.
“Fine,” he said. Too lightly.
Objectively, Regulus knew his friends confused people.
Pandora looked like a portrait of perfect pure-blood propriety. Evan dressed like he belonged in a Ministry family photograph. Which made sense, considering the Rosiers were nearly as ancient and noble as the Blacks themselves. Dorcas, meanwhile, was technically Muggleborn. Though apparently her family appeared often enough in the Muggle peerage (and her father was a Duke sitting comfortably in the House of Lords) that the more particular pure-blood families deemed her begrudgingly tolerable. Barty’s father was the head of the DMLE, which ought to have made him the most respectable of them all. Instead, he and Dorcas both looked like they’d personally invented poor decisions. Taken together, the group was…unpredictable.
Regulus suspected Sirius might like them if he ever stopped being a Gryffindor (their bloody pride be damned) long enough to admit it.
Pandora spoke first when Sirius sauntered toward them at Regulus’s side.
“You look tired,” she said to Sirius, closing her book.
“Charmant,” Sirius replied drily.
“I mean emotionally.”
“Oh good,” Sirius snarked, grinding his cigarette out against the sole of his boot. “Because that’s much better, p'tite princesse.”
“Sirius—” Regulus started, because Pandora was his oldest, closest friend. And just because Sirius was pissy (and knew she was a forgiving person), didn’t mean he could be a shit to her (even if he did tack on an old nickname).
“Have you tried writing things down?” Pandora asked, cutting Regulus off and flicking her too-knowing, warm brown eyes between Regulus and Sirius.
“You a Mind Healer now, Rosier-ette?” Sirius scoffed as he accepted the goblet Barty handed him and swallowed half of it in one go.
Pandora rolled her eyes. “It’s a Muggle technique.”
Barty groaned, “oh Merlin, not this again.”
“It helps organize thoughts,” Pandora continued calmly. “You trap them somewhere outside your head.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You want me to...keep a diary.”
“A journal,” Pandora corrected.
“Absolutely not.”
“It might help.” Pandora looked at Regulus pointedly, and really, Regulus wasn’t one to argue with the formidable, if often underestimated due to her sweet countenance, woman. (Truly, the only thing that kept her from being in Slytherin was her curiosity.) “You should try it too.”
Regulus stiffened. “I've nothing to say.”
Pandora smiled faintly. “That’s never once been true, Reg.”
Barty clapped his hands together suddenly, not one to linger in things that veered too serious.
“Speaking of solutions,” he said with a smirk, eyes sparked with a mischief Regulus noticed Sirius noticing. Barty leaned back in his chair, grinning like a fox. “I’ve an idea about your problem, elder Black.”
Regulus felt something unpleasant stir in his chest. Barty's ideas were often brilliant...but impulsive.
“And what,” he asked carefully, not letting Sirius speak for himself, “would that be?”
Barty’s eyes flicked toward Sirius. “Oh,” he said lightly. “I just think we should help him forget all about his little Gryffindor pals.”
Sirius laughed.
“Good luck with that.”
Barty’s grin widened. “Challenge accepted.”
For some reason Regulus couldn’t quite name, the words made the back of his neck prickle.
Later that night, Regulus watched Sirius from across the Ravenclaw common room, a past-time so familiar it was almost instinct now.
He’d spent most of his life watching Sirius. Across rooms and gardens, dinner tables and dueling circles. Quidditch pitches. It’d started as hero worship. Then, it was looking at Sirius to know when, and how, to act. Looking for the soft hands that pressed plasters over scraped knees. Looking for the only semblance of warmth that had ever survived their home.
Somewhere along the way it'd become something else entirely. Assessing. Calculating. Making sure whatever wrath Sirius inevitably incurred would never quite reach him. Plotting to circumvent the fallout from Sirius’s refusal to play the game, without giving away to anyone that his allegiance had always, and would always be, to his brother.
He nursed something sickly sweet and pretended to read a book on Muggle horticulture Pandora had loaned him (though he fully intended to read it properly later, when he was less distracted).
Sirius laughed. But it was too loud.
He was already on his third (or possibly fourth) concoction from a goblet Barty had pressed into his hand. No one questioned him downing them like they were pumpkin juice, least of all Regulus. Every Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw knew that Barty Crouch Jr. made the best drinks in the castle. That was just a fact.
To anyone else, it probably seemed like Sirius was finally relaxing. He certainly looked the part.
At one point he even climbed onto a table when a Muggle rock song crackled through the wireless the Hufflepuffs had spelled. Someone cheered. Sirius bowed theatrically before swaying to the beat with a careless confidence that seemed to charm everyone in the room. The life of the party, that was Sirius Black.
For a moment it was almost the usual Hogwarts Sirius. Then he hauled Barty up onto the table with him. Barty laughed easily and let himself be dragged into the spectacle, grinding into Sirius from behind, to the beat of the next song.
Across the room, Evan’s expression darkened, and a second later he slipped quietly out of the common room altogether.
Regulus felt something cold settle beneath his ribs. Because the look in Sirius’s eyes was wrong. It was unpredictable. The kind that only appeared when he refused to deal with what he was feeling.
Regulus knew this Sirius, too.
The one that emerged after their mother finished screaming. After the hexes flayed their flesh from bone and trapped them in the floorboards for days on end, without food or water. After the long silences that followed a silencing curse or Imperio. Reckless. Pushing past his limits. Grinning like breaking something, anything, might quiet whatever rabid, feral beast snarled and raged inside him. Regulus had learned long ago that Sirius only smiled like that when something inside had already broken.
A slow chill crept across Regulus’s arms.
He’d spent years convincing himself that Hogwarts (that those fucking Marauders) had saved Sirius from becoming the worst version of himself. But tonight he wasn’t so certain. Because his brother had never brought that version of himself to Hogwarts before. And Regulus had the terrible feeling that once it arrived, it might not want to leave.
Translations:
non: no
ma petite déception: my little disappointment
p’tit étoile: little star
p’tit chaton: little kitten
Charmant: Charming
p'tite princesse: little princess