The Story of Regulus Black - Years 5-7

I. A Place Called Home

Number 12 Grimmauld Place was a decrepit old home hidden away by the use of powerful magic in Islington, London. The house was dark and the wallpaper was peeling from the walls in a few places that its occupants had chosen to ignore. The floorboards creaked and groaned as you walked on them, threatening to give out if the pressure put on them was just a bit too much.

It was a place that no one would think ideal to call home.

But, Regulus and Sirius Black had no other choice. If Number 12 wasn't their home, then what was?

Walburga and Orion Black had not shown up to King's Cross station to pick up their sons. So, Regulus and Sirius Black had been forced to make the trek back home by themselves. It wasn't a long walk, really; not more than thirty minutes. But, it was a walk full of a silent dread that seemed to be weighing down on both of their shoulders.

Sirius and Regulus didn't know what would become of them at home. But, this seemed to have become part of their summer routine, hadn't it? The moments where dread would fill them up right before they went home to discover that their worries had not done the horrors that awaited them justice. However, now it was almost torturous.

They were wading through crowds of people that covered the sidewalks of London, watching vehicles pass them on their right. Sirius was much more interested in the transportation than Regulus who was simply staring at the cracked sidewalk and trying not to think about what his parents were bound to do.

"I want to get a motorbike one day," Sirius said, having to raise his voice quite a bit to be heard over the loud noises that came with the busy streets of London.

Regulus looked at his older brother, no longer having to look up anymore. Over the past four years, the boys had grown to the same height, and Regulus knew that he was likely still to grow. The thought of one day being taller than his older brother was an odd one, but he pushed it back as a loud car horn sounded on the other side of the road.

He wrinkled his nose a bit as a group of men on motorbikes went speeding past them, Sirius looking after them in awe and jealousy. "Why wouldn't you just stick to apparation like a normal person?" Regulus asked, dodging out of the way of a woman who sent a rude glare his way.

"We aren't normal people, Regulus. Normal people use this sort of stuff," he gestured to the road.

Regulus rolled his eyes. "Why a motorbike?"

"They're so cool! Can you imagine it? Me with my leather jacket on a motorbike?" He paused, looking forward with a dopey grin on his face as ideas passed behind his eyes. "I'd like to make it fly."

"Yeah, because a flying motorbike will go over great with the Ministry. Isn't that illegal?"

Sirius waved a dismissive hand. "Whatever. Not like they'll send me to Azkaban for a stupid motorbike."

Regulus felt a quick and shallow pain in his chest at the mention of his brother and Azkaban. Though, all he needed to do to be rid of it was to look at his brother and remember that what he had done had worked; Sirius was not in Azkaban, and as long as Regulus was alive, he would make sure that he never was again.

When they reached the small Borough of Islington, the boys went silent. They were dragging along their trunks (which Mr. and Mrs. Potter had used a quick Shrinking Charm on at Sirius's request), staring at the gap between Numbers 11 and 13 Grimmauld Place with fear taking over every single nerve in their bodies. They didn't talk as they approached the house that - to any other pair of eyes - would have been invisible.

Regulus could feel his heart rate picking up at the mere thought of seeing his parents and receiving the blunt end of their anger. Admittedly, punching Evan Rosier in the face at the Potter's New Year's Eve party had proven to be quite a problematic mistake. However, he knew that it had been deserved, and that was the only thing keeping him from regretting his mistake.