Regulus was eleven the first time he fell in love with James Potter. It was really rather inconvenient, since he had already decided to hate him. Not for any of the obvious reasons—the tension between their families, the impending war—but because, until Sirius went to Hogwarts, Regulus had been his best friend. They would make forts, and read stories, and go for adventures in the back garden. When Regulus had a nightmare Sirius was there. When their mother was angry Sirius was there. When their father got sick Sirius was there.
But the summer after his first year at Hogwarts all Sirius could talk about was James Potter. James Potter this and James Potter that and oh wasn't he so fantastic. Regulus quickly grew to despise him. A feeling his mother seemed to share. It wasn't that her and Sirius had ever gotten along particularly well, Sirius had never been very good at being quiet or sitting still or keeping his clothes clean. But they didn't start hating each other until Sirius went to Hogwarts. Until James Potter came along.
So when he boarded the train the following September, with his mother whispering viscously in his ear about all the things she would do to him if he was to find himself sorted into Gryffindor like his brother, Regulus already hated James Potter. More than he had ever hated anyone else in his little eleven year old life.
Sirius had dragged him into the compartment with his friends, and Lupin had been kind and Pettigrew a little jumpy and Potter—Potter barely looked at him. A nod of the head, that was all, before him and Sirius were talking to one another a mile a minute, making jokes that Regulus didn't understand and telling stories he wasn't a part of. And the whole time James Potter didn't look at him once! Which was infuriating, because how was he supposed to communicate his intense dislike of the boy if he wouldn't even give him the time of day?
Of course, this all became less of an issue after the sorting. Slytherins and Gryffindors are natural enemies. They rarely interact except when forced and besides, Regulus was a first year, a little kid. It had never mattered to Sirius before that he was younger but—now he had Potter. So Regulus didn't see his brother much. Or his brother's friends. And mostly, he felt lost. He drifted through his classes, quiet and reserved, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself. Not wanting to be noticed. That was how he had always survived at Grimmauld Place. He assumed it would work at Hogwarts too.
He was wrong.
A few weeks into school Severus Snape found him kissing a boy. Or—perhaps more accurately—found a boy kissing Regulus. At eleven, Regulus didn't much fancy kissing anyone, he found the whole thing rather unbecoming if he was being honest. But Roger Flint was older, and bigger, and didn't seem to care one way or the other what Regulus wanted. He tried to explain this to Snape, after Flint ran off, but Snape was kind enough to inform Regulus that it didn't matter. People would think he was a freak either way. So it was in his best interest to do what Snape said, and that way no one would find out.
It had not occurred to eleven year old Regulus that Severus Snape, who barely had the strength in his lanky limbs to lift his own wand, was not going to out Roger Flint to the entire school. All he knew was that he didn't want Sirius to know.
Oh how little things change.
So he did as Snape asked: "My homework Black" "My Laundry Black" "Push that Hufflepuff down the stairs Black." Regulus did all of it. Unlike Sirius, he had always been good at doing what he was told.
A few months later, he watched James Potter punch Severus Snape in the face outside of the great hall. And, well, it was hard not to fall in love with him after that.
Regulus takes these memories and puts them in a box. And then he buries it. He digs deep inside himself, for the darkest, lowest corner, and he puts it there. He puts all of James there. You do not walk into Grimmauld Place with your walls down.
"Mistress Black is out for the afternoon but she tells Kreacher to inform his Young Master Regulus that she will be returning for supper at six o'clock sharp."
Regulus nods, standing awkwardly in the middle of his bedroom, feeling like a ghost. A stranger.
"Kreacher is making Master Regulus's favourite, roast pheasant."
Regulus looks down at the elf and forces himself to smile. "Thank you Kreacher, I really appreciate it."
The elf preens. "Of course Master, Kreacher wants always to be a good help to the noble house of Black."
Regulus swallows. "You are. Always."
He needs to get himself more under control, he knows that, he's letting it all get to him. The grey walls, the heavy smell of the air, the missing photos on the walls. He can't be full of cracks the first time he sees her.
"Is—is my father up?" he asks finally.
Kreacher nods. "Yes sir, he is very, very excited to be seeing Master Regulus Sir," the elf does his best attempt at a smile, the sight oddly endearing despite all the teeth. "He will be taking his tea now Sir, in his bed."
Regulus nods. "Excellent, thank Kreacher, that's all for now."
Kreacher gives him a bow apparating out of the room before his head is raised.
Regulus closes his eyes, feeling the walls as much as he sees them. The weight of them, the pressure. There's never any air in this fucking house. He breathes in deep, trying to calm the anxious tremors running up and down his bones. He exhales. All of these feelings are useless and he needs to be done with them. There's no point in being afraid here. Better to wrap himself in a layer of apathy, of disinterest.
Nothing matters. If nothing matters than nothing hurts.
He opens his eyes, blinking the dim room back into focus and feeling the beginning of a familiar numbness spread through him. Good, he thinks, flexing his fingers, releasing some of the tension from his muscles.
There is no privacy in Grimmauld Place. The walls are covered in the shadowy silhouettes of the Blacks of yore. They whisper and scowl and scurry about. And all of them belong to his mother. Bend to her will. He feels their eyes on him now as he walks stiffly down to the floor below, their gazes making his skin itch.
Inhale. Exhale.
Nothing matters.
He pauses at his father's open door, his parents don't share a bedroom of course, they haven't since Regulus was young. Since before his father got sick. In his memories, his father is a towering figure, with big warm hands and a domineering presence. He never spoke much, even back then, always quiet. Regulus knows that he takes after his father, just as he knows that Sirius takes after their mother. He's sure they've both ached over that truth.
Now his father is sitting in a chair by the window, flannel housecoat wrapped around him, dark hair shot through with white, the curls, once so like Regulus's, gone limp.
Inhale. Exhale.
Nothing matters.
"Papa?"
The older man's head snaps to the doorway, on edge, suspicious, before he finds Regulus's face and then he smiles. For a moment, it almost doesn't look like he's dying.
"Reggie!" he makes to stand but falters, his strength gone. Regulus has no doubt that Kreacher is the one who helped him into that chair in the first place. He crosses the room quickly so that his father won't try again, bending down so that he can wrap his arms around him.
"Look at you," his father gushes as keeps his hands on Regulus's shoulders even as he straightens up. "You've grown."
Regulus rolls his eyes. "It's been three months."
But his father only grins. "Ah, not up but in, mon chou, your eyes are far wiser than they were this summer."
Regulus feels the twinge of something in his chest but quickly smothers it. It will not serve him to remember everything that has changed since the summer. Not here. Not now.
"Viens," his father gestures to the chair across from him, "asseyez-vous, asseyez-vous. Parle à ton père pendant un moment, parle-moi de ta vie, je deviens fou coincé dans cette pièce." His french is rapid, one word blending into the next. Orion spent most of his childhood growing up in the french countryside, so when he's tired, or drunk, or sick, it's the language that spills out of him. Regulus has always loved the way his father speaks French, the deep way his voice wraps around the vowels and hugs the end of each word. Slow and smooth, in a way English never can be.
His mother hates it, but it's only because she's not very good at it. Expensive tutors are no substitute for the real thing, and Walburga cannot stand to be outdone in anything.
"Okay, okay," Regulus takes a seat. "There's really not that much to say—I study, I play quidditch, that's it," he shrugs.
His father makes a scoffing noise, leaning slightly forward in his chair. "More than play, you think you could pull of a Wronski Feint and Horace wouldn't tell me, huh?"
Regulus feels himself blush. "It wasn't that impressive."
"Please, I hear the scouts are already talking about you. You never know, you might be the youngest player to sign with a major team in quidditch history huh? On ne sait jamais."
Don't we? Regulus almost says. Because they both know that even if he was approached by a team—next year, two years from now—Walburga would never allow it. He is needed for the cause. Everything else is dust.
"Maybe," he answers instead, looking out the window, the sky is nearly as grey as the wallpaper. "They really keep you coup'd up in here all the time?"
His father makes irritated grumble. "Bloody healers. Won't let me do anything."
"They're only trying to help."
"That's certainly what they say."
Regulus rolls his eyes, turning back to his father who instantly holds his hands up in surrender. "Merde Reggie, don't look at me like that. I'm following orders, doing what they say, I swear mon petit."
"You better be."
"I am, I am, why do you think I'm so miserable huh?" he shoots Regulus a playful grin that the younger boy does his best to return.
"Okay then."
"Okay then," his father mockingly repeats.
"I don't sound like that."
"You absolutely do mon chou."
Instead of responding Regulus reaches for one of the biscuits on the untouched plate in front of him, eyeing his father's thin frame as he takes his first bite.
"You're not eating," he says after he swallows. It's not a question. His father is a shell of what he once was, shoulders slumped, skin hanging off his bones in unnatural ways.
"I eat," his father says dismissively, but Regulus only scowls, shoving the rest of his cookie in his mouth.
"Not enough."
Orion laughs. "Jeez, who is the parent here?"
I don't know, Regulus thinks, you tell me. But for the second time he holds his tongue.
His father pauses then, eyes flicking nervously towards the door.
"She's not here," Regulus says, answering the question that wasn't asked.
Orion nods. "Have you spoken to your brother?"
Regulus's heart drops. Sirius is a dangerous topic in this household and he's not sure he's up for the task of walking through that minefield right now.
"Yes," he says slowly, not sure what else he can say, not when his father is looking at him like that. "He's...well."
His father smiles softly. "That's good."
Regulus only nods, looking back out the window.
There was a wedge, between him and Sirius, the moment his brother could escape. The moment he didn't have to rely on Regulus's company alone anymore. But it wasn't until last summer that Regulus thinks his brother really lost faith in him. It wasn't the night he left—nothing so explosive and obvious. It was a quiet moment, Regulus leaning against the doorway of Sirius's bedroom, Sirius ignoring him.
"I don't know what you want me to do Sirius," he'd asked, feeling equal parts annoyed and apologetic.
Sirius had sighed, rubbing his eyes like talking with Regulus was exhausting. Maybe it was.
"I want you to fight back," Sirius had said finally, the first words he'd spoken to Regulus all day. "Fight back."
Regulus answered before he could think better of it, before he could remember who he was speaking to;
"What's the point?"
Sirius had looked at him then, looked at him like he had never seen him before. Like he had no idea who he was. And maybe he didn't.
"Regulus?"
He's on his feet instantly, arms stiff at his sides as his mother opens the door to his room. She is a slight woman, dark hair pulled back tightly, dark robes pooling at her feet when she stands. She has Sirius's eyes.
"Maman," he says stiffly, unsure which of her faces intends to show itself today.
Her eyes run him over before stepping forward, taking his chin sharply between her index finger and thumb. "You look thin."
He doesn't know what to say to that so he says nothing, remaining compliant and silent as she looks him over.
"And your hair too long."
He sometimes envies muggles, who have to put so much energy and intent behind all their actions, who have to walk everywhere, and pick everything up, and wait for things to finish. It all means so much less to wizards. It's all too easy. Too quick. The words are barely out of his mother's mouth before he feels the icy fingers of her magic. Curls falling lifeless at his feet. He looks down for a moment, mournful.
"Better," his mother steps back, admiring her handiwork. "Your grades are good?" she asks sharply, the change in topic sudden but not surprising. Walburga is rarely wasteful with her words when it comes to her children.
"Yes."
She nods. "Come down, supper is ready. Tomorrow your cousins will be here."
Regulus feels his stomach clench as she walks towards the door.
"When are they coming?" he hopes she doesn't hear the tension in his voice.
"Noon," Walburga tosses over her shoulder, already in the hall.
Regulus lets out a shaky breath, then lifts his hand to his newly cut hair. Well, cut is a bit generous. The hair is short and prickly and close to the scalp. Not completely gone, but about as short as it is possible to go. It shouldn't ache. He's not sure why it does.
He vanishes the hair on the floor on his way out the door.
He wants to fly but there's no room. Not here in the city. Hidden behind layers and layers of secrecy charms. So he goes for a run instead.
The air is crisp, the pavement freshly cleared of snow. Regulus can see his breath freeze outside his lips as he forces it out of his lungs again and again. He's not sure how long he's been gone for, a while, if the aching in his muscles is anything to go by. Still, it's not enough, still he can't get himself to still, to quiet down. So he keeps going. Block after block. The sun is now fully in the sky, a bright day for December, though it has no warmth.
He doesn't allow himself to think about anything except taking the next step, except fighting the weakness in his legs. He blocks out the world beyond London. Beyond Grimmauld. He doesn't think about Hogwarts. Or about anything that transpired within it. And whenever those thoughts or feelings try to drag themselves to the surface he gets a new box. He digs a new hole. He buries himself deeper and deeper.
He can barely stand when he gets home.
"Master Regulus has missed his breakfast," Kreacher says unhappily as Regulus drags himself into the kitchen, showered and clothed and light headed.
"Sorry Kreacher," he says as he sits down at the work table, watching the elf rush about, preparing for lunch.
"Kreacher is told by Mistress that he cannot feed Regulus now, that he will have to wait for his cousins."
Regulus nods slowly, resting his chin on his folded arms, and taking in a deep breath. It smells of caramelized onions and roast beef. His stomach responds accordingly.
Kreacher shoots him a look over his shoulder, but Regulus doesn't move.
"I'll wait," he says, reassuring the elf.
But Kreacher only shakes his head. "I cannot be feeding Master Regulus, you understand? I have been told so, so I will not," Regulus is opening his mouth to once again affirm that he understands when a plate of bread and cheeses appears in front of him.
"He would like to help Master Regulus very much but he simply cannot go against his Mistresses wishes."
Regulus blinks, lifting his head up off his arms, a small smile pulling at his mouth.
"Thanks Kreacher," he reaches for the food, that much hungrier now that it was in front of him.
"Do not be thanking me, I am doing nothing," but he swears he sees the elf wink.
Regulus has always liked the kitchen the best, maybe because it's the the warmest place in the house, or because Kreacher always gives him some of what he's cooking. Probably, he imagines, it's because the rest of his family never really come in here. Not even Sirius, when he was still around. It's a nice escape. A place where he can breathe a little easier.
It's partially underground, the window above the sink level with the grass in the garden, the walls made of an untreated stone, the fireplace enormous and deep—allowing for all manner of cooking and brewing. The floor and table are unvarnished wood—everything in this space is soft and natural and lacking the artifice that is strewn throughout the rest of the house. There are no portraits, no gaudy embellishments, nothing is covered in gold or ivory. Regulus imagines that this is what a real home is meant to feel like.
He forces himself to relax as he eats, forces his shoulders down from his neck, forces his muscles to let go.
Inhale. Exhale.
Nothing matters.
He's okay. This is okay. He's done it a dozen times before, there's no reason for it to be any different now.
The feeling, when it comes, is like falling into to a frozen lake but slowly. It starts at his head and trickles through his body, his hands freezing on their way to his mouth and then suddenly dropping back to the table.
Stand up.
And he does. Before he can think about the fact that the voice isn't his own or that an unnatural calm has suddenly settled around his bones.
Turn around.
Bellatrix is grinning at him, wild brown curls cascading down her back as Rodolphus throws himself into the chair beside Regulus, looking entirely bored by the situation.
"Oh wittle Wegulus,"she presses the tip of her wand to his forehead and he wants to move, he does, wants to knock it away, but he can't. He can't move. He can barely think.
"You never learn do you?" She draws the wand down his nose, his lips, flicking it off the edge of his chin.
On your knees, says the voice in his head.
His body drops with a painful crack onto the hard stone floor. He can feel himself tremble, hear the laboured breath in his ears. She's in his head. In his skin.
"What trick should he do next?" she stalks around him, hand running over his shaved head. Rodolphus leans forward, elbows on his knees, face coming into view. Regulus can't turn his head, can't follow his cousin's path, can't look away from her husband's empty eyes.
"Bark," he says, an ugly smile stretching his face.
Bellatrix laughs.
Bark, commands the voice.
Bark, bark, bark.
And he does. On his knees, he barks.
"Enough enough," Bellatrix stops in front of him, still laughing.
Stop.
He goes quiet, throat raw, struggling to push back against her presence inside his head and failing. He fails every time.
Bellatrix sticks out her foot, sleek black leather pushing into the centre of his chest. He barely notices. His ribs already feel too tight. His lungs barely able to breathe.
"Kiss it," she says, amusement clear in her voice, Rodolphus snorting in the background.
Kiss it.
He tries. Really. Tries to pull his will power out from behind the veil of the spell. But it's nothing but a distant yell. A muffled voice. So he does as he's told. Doesn't he always?
"Oh here you are," it's his mother, he can't see her because Bellatrix hasn't ordered him to look, hasn't allowed him to take his mouth off her shoe. But he doesn't need to. He would know her voice anywhere.
There's a brief pause, he isn't sure what her face is doing, what she thinks about the scene in front of her.
"Come, lunch is ready, Narcissa and Lucius are in the dinning room," and then, almost as an after thought; "honestly Regulus, you must learn to strengthen your mind. We practiced this."
They did.
Over and over again.
By the end of the summer Regulus had felt raw with it, like his body had been turned inside out.
He hears the sounds of his mother's shoes as she walks away.
"Pity," Bellatrix throws him off her foot, "looks like play time's over."
He gasps as the spell lets go, as he comes crashing back down into his body, catching himself on his hands as they tremble along with the rest of him.
"Come now little cousin, we don't want to keep your maman waiting."
He can't lift his head, it's too heavy, the room spinning. He watches their feet—Rodolphus getting out of his chair, the pair of them sauntering into the hallway.
Inhale. Exhale.
His skin is clammy, drenched in a cold sweat.
Inhale. Exhale.
He barely has time to turn his head before he's retching all over the kitchen floor. He doesn't know how their can be so much when he's barely eaten. You'd think after all this time he'd be used to this feeling, but it never gets easier. Being invaded. It never gets easier and he never gets stronger.
Regulus collapses onto his back, chest heaving as he tries to focus on the soothing feeling of the cold floor on his skin. It's only a few moments before Kreacher's worried face appears above him.
"Master Regulus must be getting up now," he says, placing a small hand on Regulus's back and helping him peel himself off the ground. With the snap of his fingers there's a glass of water being pressed to Regulus's lips. He drinks, gratefully.
"Thank you," he croaks. "Sorry about the—" he gestures to the puddle of sick beside them but Kreacher only shakes his head, snapping his fingers again, leaving behind a clean floor.
"What is mess to a house elf?"
Regulus almost smiles.
"Regulus!" his mother's voice rings out. She doesn't scream, she commands. There is a difference.
He winces as he hands the water back to Kreacher and gets unsteadily to his feet. For a second the room sways.
Inhale. Exhale.
"Master Regulus?"
Reg tries to force a smile. "It's fine Kreacher. Just have to make it to the table right?"
He doesn't have to see his face to know how pale he must look. How weak.
"Kreacher will send in soup—"
But Regulus shakes his head. "No, best not to change anything. You know how they are."
Kreacher only stares back at him helplessly.
Regulus keeps his hand pressed to the wall all the way down the hallway to steady himself, only taking it off the minute he comes into view.
The dinning room is largely taken up by a long black table. His mother is at the head, of course, his father nowhere to be seen—in bed Regulus supposes—Bellatrix and Rodolphus on one side, Narcissa and Lucious on the other.
"There he is," Narcissa smiles at him, hair charmed blond to match her fiancé's. She gets out of her chair and pulls him into a hug that Regulus does his best not to flinch away from. He does not want to be touched. Not right now.
"Merlin you're so big, I can't believe it most of the time."
He smiles stiffly as she pulls him into the seat next to her. Lucius nods his head in acknowledgement and Regulus does the same, even though it makes his stomach roil.
There are appetizers on the table, but Regulus isn't sure he can trust himself not to throw them back up just yet so he chooses to focus on his plate. Eyes following the pattern, hands clenched in his lap.
Inhale. Exhale.
Nothing matters.
"You were saying Rodolphus," his mother gives him a detached once over before returning her attention to her nieces's husband.
"Minchum has agreed to put more Dementors around Azkaban, he'll announce it next week, new security measures. Put all the troublesome Death Eaters in their place."
Regulus's eyes rise at that, at the bubbling laugh that comes out of Bellatrix's mouth.
"He doesn't know then?" Walburga asks mildly.
"Minchum? Not a clue. He's quite happy with Lucius and I for suggesting it, isn't he Lu?" Rodolphus rips into one of the buns on the table, gesturing to the man across from him.
"Appreciates our no nonsense approach," Lucius says dryly, eliciting more laughter from Bellatrix.
"And the dementors, we can rely on them?" his mother goes on.
Rodolphus shrugs. "Sure, for what we need," he speaks with his mouth still half-full, chewing lazily. "The Ministry's never done anything for them, and our Lord can be so very convincing. Whether or not they'll fight with us I can't say, but I can promise they won't fight against us."
"They'll let the prisoners go then?" Narcissa asks, leaning forward slightly.
Rodolphus nods, swallowing. "We go get 'em, the Dementors will let them walk. No question."
"Good," his mother says, as Regulus feels something start to scratch at the inside of his skin. "It'll make it harder for them to slow us down."
"Not that they were able to do much of that anyway," Lucius says dryly, smug looks and low chuckles exchanged around the table.
There's a 'woosh' of air, and suddenly steaming pots and dishes appear before them.
"Ah, excellent," his mother sits up straighter, "everyone, lunch is served."
Several hours later they're still talking. Meals never last a reasonable time with them, drifting into the late afternoon and early evening. Once a sufficient number of brandies and wine glasses have been had Regulus slips away.
It's a relief, the quiet darkness of his room. For a moment he leans his forehead against the wall and exhales.
Nothing matters.
Nothing matters.
Nothing matters.
He thinks about visiting his father but he's worried he'll wake him up—or that they'd hear him downstairs. That they'd realize he'd left. No, better to stay here. Quiet.
It wasn't until last summer that he realized what a shield Sirius had been for him. It was easy to disappear when his brother was around. Pathetic, he knew, but Sirius always handled it so well. Got up from every hit like he couldn't even feel it. Nothing seemed to touch him. Meanwhile to Regulus everything feels like water in his lungs.
The door opens and Regulus whips around, Lucius knocking the wand out of his hand with the flick of his own.
Fuck.
"Hiding are you?" the older man smiles, crowding him against the wall. His breath smells of alcohol.
"Go away Lucius." He doesn't look at his face, but somewhere off his left shoulder, safer that way.
"Tisk, tisk, not very nice of you," he grabs hold of Regulus's jaw, pulling it forward with a grip that will no doubt bruise. "We've talked about that mouth of yours."
For the second time that day Regulus feels like he's going to be sick. Lucius is too close—too fucking close and he can't—he can't breathe. He can't stand all these hands on him. It makes something deep inside him ache.
He would speak, but Lucius's grip is too tight.
His mouth too suffocating, pressing into him.
Inhale. Exhale.
Nothing matters. If nothing matters than nothing hurts.
Regulus brings his knee to meet Lucius's stomach, taking the older man by surprise, which is enough to let Regulus throw him off, making a dive for his wand which sits on the floor by the door. His fingers have only just wrapped around the handle when he feels a sharp pain shoot through him, Lucius's pointed dress shoe ramming itself into his side. He isn't fast enough, he never is. Suddenly he finds himself on his back, Lucius's foot pressing down on his chest.
"What the hell was that you little brat," he spits, wand aimed at Regulus's face. His chest struggles against Lucius's weight.
"I'm not doing this Lucius—I'm not doing this anymore."
Lucius arches his eyebrow, "You're not doing this anymore?" he repeats icily, pushing down on Regulus for emphasis, forcing a gasp out of him as the air rips from his body.
"They'll notice you've gone," he's feeling desperate now, hand groping around on the floor for his wand, not sure where it went after he got kicked.
A sickening leer carves itself into Lucius's mouth. "You think they'll care?"
Regulus swallows with great difficulty. "Narcissa will care," he manages to force out. "So if you want her to pump out your pureblood pups you'll get the fuck out of my room before I start screaming."
Regulus never knows what Sirius would do in these situations. Though he imagines he probably doesn't find himself in them very often. Nobody looks at Sirius and thinks "weak."
Lucius's eyes are intense as he bends forward, bringing their faces closer together and tilting his to the side. Like Regulus is an exhibit he's trying to puzzle out. And then he smiles.
"Oh Regulus, have you found yourself a boy?"
Regulus grits his teeth, feeling the box rattle down inside him. But he keeps it closed. He keeps it buried, keeps his thoughts empty of faces and voices and hands that never ask for more than he can give.
"Does he know that this is what you're really like?" Lucius lets out a cruel laugh. "A worm? Pathetic and grovelling and used?"
It shouldn't hurt. He doesn't know why it does.
A few moments of tense silence pass before Lucius straightens up, taking his foot off of Regulus and smoothing out his robes.
"Have it your way," he says loftily, Regulus gasping on the floor below him, "but you know," he goes on as he pauses by the door, the light from the hallway cutting brutally through the dark room, "he'll figure it out eventually. What a sad little thing you are. And I can't imagine he'll want you after that."
Regulus doesn't move until he's alone again. Sitting up against the wall and pulling his knees in, resting his head on top of them.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
He wonders, absentmindedly, if other people have to remind themselves to breathe, or if that's just him?
You see, Roger Flint was the first boy who didn't care what Regulus wanted. But he wasn't the last.
I want you to fight back. That's what Sirius had said. The truth is, Regulus doesn't stay because he feels very strongly about his family's cause. About the supremacy of purebloods. He supposes maybe they have a point sometimes, he isn't sure. But really, Regulus stays because he doesn't think Sirius's side can win. That they stand any chance at all. His parents, their friends, they have so much power. So much money and influence. I want you to fight back, Sirius had said. But what's the point? What's the point of fighting for a lost cause?
Regulus spends Christmas morning with his father. Kreacher helps him bring him down to the living room, where the fire is lit and the tree is sparkling and his father makes him open all his gifts like he's still a little kid. They drink hot chocolate and eat pancakes.
His father starts singing a terribly off-key version of jingle bells and when Regulus can't get him to stop he joins in.
His mother is out. She has meetings. According to his father she has a lot of those these days, though he's rather vague about who they're with or what they're about. Regulus doesn't push the matter. He doesn't really want to know.
"Do you remember when you were six—"
"I already don't like where this is going," Regulus laughs from the floor, he's resting on his hand, legs stretched out in front of him as he looks up at his father. He's still in his pyjama's even though it's nearly one, his father too, though these days he's rarely in anything else. In the background Celestina Warbeck's Christmas record is on.
"No, no, this is a good one," his father grins.
"Uh-huh, I'm not sure our definitions of good are the same but go on."
"Oh il pense qu'il est si drôle—a little respect wouldn't kill you huh?" he winks at Regulus who rolls his eyes. "You were barely up to here," he holds his hand out at waist height. "And you followed Sirius everywhere he went, you two were absolutely inseparable."
I followed him everywhere until the day he got on that train, Regulus thinks but doesn't say. His father is rarely in so good a mood, and he doesn't want to ruin it.
"And it had snowed all night, the hills were practically up to my neck—"
"You're exaggerating papa."
"Pfft, I am not, there'll be pictures somewhere I'm sure. Anyway, we turned our backs on you for two seconds, I swear, we were—I don't know—cleaning up the kitchen or something. And then you were gone, poof!"
"We were six and seven, I find it hard to believe we were quite that stealthy."
"Oh but you were, we searched the whole house, calling out your names, your mother was absolutely beside herself, and then, I looked out the window and I saw a little red shirt tied to a stick on top of snowbank."
Regulus actually does remember this. Remembers how badly his hands stung from digging in the snow, remembers how pleased he was when Sirius told him he was doing a good job.
"So we go outside only to see that you two have turned the entire back garden into a snow fort and Sirius comes wandering out and informs us, quite formally, that we are on his property."
Regulus remembers that too, remembers staying behind, inside their little snow tunnels, watching Sirius face their parents, alone. Always alone.
"Said he was going to be living in his fort and that since he was no longer under our roof, he no longer had to follow our rules." His father starts to laugh, no longer the big boisterous sound it once was but quiet, rough. Ending in a cough.
"Are you okay papa?" Regulus moves forward, placing his hand on his father's back.
"Oui, oui, I'm fine Reggie, I'm fine," he exhales, leaning back in his chair. "You two were such a pair," smiles to himself. "You still speak yes, at school?"
"Yes papa," he lies again. "Yes, all the time."
"Good, that's good," his eyes drift closed, breath still hitching in his chest. It doesn't take much these days, to wear him out. "La famille est importante ma chère, ton frère par-dessus tout, il s'en remettra...He'll come back," his English and French blend together.
No, Regulus doesn't have the heart to tell him, no I don't think he will.
"Perhaps it be time to be returning Master Black to his bed?"
Regulus starts at Kreacher's sudden appearance, hand tightening protectively over his father before he forces himself to relax.
"Yeah, yeah, that's a good idea," he looks back down. "Come on dad, lets get you upstairs okay?"
His father grumbles, but doesn't put up nearly the fight Regulus expects him to.
"Joyeux Noël mon fils," he mumbles as Regulus helps him into bed, pulling the blankets all the way up to his shoulders. He's asleep almost as soon as he puts his head on his pillow.
"Joyeux Noël Papa."
He pauses for a moment, remembering that day in the snow. Sirius had been so excited. This is ours, he'd told Regulus, it'll be just us here, they can't come in.
Walburga took his voice for that. One flick of her wand and Sirius couldn't speak for three days. That, of course, was not part of their father's story. It never was.
Regulus makes it all the way to the hall outside his bedroom before he stops, looking across the way to the other door. He hasn't seen it open since last summer. Since he left. It's foolish really, stupid, but he finds himself moving towards it anyway, finds his hand turning the doorknob.
It even still smells like Sirius—hair products and leather boots. The walls are covered in red and gold, lions roaring overhead. For days last summer their mother had sat in this room trying to peel them off, but whatever spell Sirius used was strong because not a single poster came down.
He hadn't had time to take anything, the night he left, so his room remains unchanged. Like any minute he might walk back in. Regulus takes a tentative step forward, towards the familiar bed, hands trailing along the walls and dressers, like he's trying to make sure they're really there. He used to spend a lot of time in this room. Reading, playing, hiding from monsters.
It feels different from the rest of the house. Even when he's gone Sirius still has so much presence. He bleeds out of every corner. Undeniable. A force. Regulus sits down on the side of the bed, eyes roaming over the room, catching on a picture on the bedside table. Shaking, his hand reaches out for it, framed in a clunky plastic thing. It's of Sirius and his friends, somewhere in Hogwarts, maybe third year. James is caught in a laugh, smile spread big across his face as he throws his head back. Regulus knows that laugh, he knows what it sounds like and feels like and tastes like.
The box strains inside him, begging him to open it up, to think all the things he can't afford to right now. Not while he's in this house that is so hungry to tear things apart. Still, he slips off the back of the frame and slides the photo into his pocket. Stupid.
He lets out a breath, eyes sweeping over the room one last time before he gets up and heads back into the corridor.
"What are you doing?"
He freezes with his hand on the doorknob.
"Regulus?" his mother says stiffly from the top of the stairs. "What were you doing in there?"
He almost laughs. Because of course. Of course she comes home now.
"I wanted to see if his quidditch gear fit," he says flatly, a voice he's perfected over the years. It works on most people.
"Are you lying to me?" she asks, stepping nearer, and Regulus tries to get his pulse under control, the hair raising on the back of his neck as her dark eyes zero in on him.
"No."
But, of course, it's too late. He knows what's going to happen even before she raises her wand. Before she whispers the spell.
It burns when she forces her way into his thoughts, flipping through them like the pages of a book. They whip before his mind's eye at breakneck speed, making him feel dizzy. But he was careful. He was ready. He's put all the things that could hurt him away, he's buried them deep. She won't find them, she won't—
Except for the picture. She grabs hold of it, focusing in on the moving faces of the young boys. No, Regulus thinks pathetically, hoping she doesn't hear, trying to quite his own thoughts, but they persist. No, leave them alone. Leave him alone.
He gasps as she pulls back.
"Give it to me," she says coldly.
He stares at her, unsure of why this feels like such a betrayal.
"Regulus. Now."
Slowly he reaches for the photograph, barely getting it out of his pocket before she's ripping it away from him, eyes never leaving his face even when she sets it on fire, letting it drop to the floor and curl in on itself. Turning to ash.
"He is not your brother," and Regulus almost sighs with relief that she couldn't tell who he was focusing on. "Do you understand?"
"Oui maman."
Her shrewd eyes run him up and down, sending shivers along his spine. "This summer. You will take the mark."
He blinks. "What?"
"It's past time. Things are happening Regulus, you need to take your place."
Sirius's place you mean—but he doesn't say it out loud.
"I'm not finished school," knowing, of course, that it won't matter.
"And you needn't be, as if they teach you anything of quality anyway. I only allowed you to return this year because your father insisted."
He says nothing. He has nothing to say. Nothing that won't end with him in pain anyway.
"Things are changing Regulus," she walks away, the picture a cold pile of ash on the floor, "and nothing will be the same once we're done."
He wonders if she means for it to sound like a threat. He imagines she probably does.
It was Sirius who taught him the trick with the box. Taught him how to hide things in his own head. He wonders if his brother still does it sometimes. Still hides parts of himself away. Or if now that he's free of this place he doesn't need to. If he gets to remember without fear. He'd like to ask him. He's sure he never will.
He has Kreacher drop him off in London. He's two hours early for the train but he can't stand being in that house any more. He doesn't go to Diagon Alley like he said he would, or to platform 9 3/4. Instead he finds a bench in the muggle train station and sits, leaning back and closing his eyes, listening to the crowds rushing around him, trains arriving and departing, the voice over the loudspeaker buzzing in his ears every five seconds. He feels...delicate. A nervous shaking inside his skin that promises it won't take much to pull him apart.
"Regulus?"
He starts, eyes flying open, heart jolting against his ribs. His wand is in a holster on the inside of his arm but he doesn't dare pull it out here.
A middle-aged woman stands over him, she has dark brown hair with a single white streak at the front that has been braided down her back. Her face is kind.
She smiles softly at him. "I'm Euphemia Potter," she holds out her hand.
Regulus feels something shoot through his chest, something pull at his gut. He blinks up at her and then down at her hand.
"I—" he shakes himself. "Sorry, Mrs. Potter, it's nice to meet you," he reaches out and takes her hand, her grip warm and strong. Now that she's said it he can't not see it—the similarities between her and her son. The box rattles again, with all the feelings and thoughts he still doesn't feel strong enough to face. Not now. Not yet. It'll be too much.
"Can I sit with you?" she nods to the empty spot beside him.
"Oh—yes, of course."
He doesn't know what to do with his hands, eventually finding them fidgeting in his lap, his eyes unable to meet her gaze.
"I see you're an early bird too huh?" she says kindly. "The boys have gone to Diagon, but I've always liked this station, excellent place for people watching."
The boys.
He's not sure he can manage this conversation right now, he already feels on the verge of coming apart.
"Are you excited for the new term? I hear you have a quidditch game soon?"
That gets him to look up, meeting her stare head on, he has experience in holding stares but her's is different. A different kind of intense.
"Have you?" is all he manages to get out, and her smile becomes a bit more mischievous.
"Oh yes, I've heard about the feint you pulled so many times I feel like I was there myself."
He swallows with difficulty, unsure of what to do with the knowledge that he's been a topic of conversation in the Potter household.
"You know, my son is a bit of an open book," she goes on. Regulus does know. He's obsessed with it. He's afraid of it. "I'm never sure if that means I've done something right as a mother or something wrong but it's too late now either way I suppose." Her eyes drift out calmly over the rushing people in front of them. "But gosh, did he ever light up when he talked about you."
She looks back at him and suddenly his chest feels too tight. Please stop, he wants to tell her, but he's not sure he means it. Part of him is greedy. Is hungry. Is desperate for more.
"Regulus, I want you to know," she goes on softly. "That our door is always open okay? If you ever need it."
It's all a bit too much if he's being honest. He's had too many people in his head recently, too many hands on his skin. There is nothing stable about him—he is all weak foundations and cracking beams. His body ready to cave in on itself.
"I—" he coughs, trying to clear the weakness out of his throat. "I should go, the train." Even though they both know he has plenty of time. Still, she nods her head, smiling all the same.
"Of course, don't let me keep you."
He gets up shakily, hoping he can make it through the barrier in this state.
"It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Potter."
"Effie, please."
He nods though he knows he will never call her that. He wonders if Sirius does. Or if he just calls her mum. It's a title that suits her, far more than it ever has his own mother.
His body feels awkward and out of place as he walks away from her, through the crowd. None of his limbs moving the right way.
Inhale. Exhale.
Nothing matters.
He sleeps for most of the train ride, Evan and Barty bickering with one another in the seats across from him. He makes a point of not looking at anyone on the platform when they arrive, or in the great hall at dinner.
Hours later he finds himself sitting alone in the Slytherin common room. Unable to concentrate on his readings, or do any of the coursework he neglected over the break. He stares into the fire and wonders if he shouldn't just go to bed. If he shouldn't just let this whole thing die. Of course, he's thought that before. Thought it nearly every time. It's not really a question, when the answer is so obvious. He should. Of course he should. Especially in the state he's in.
His foot taps nervously on the floor, eyes flicking up from the fire to the clock on the mantle. He should just go to bed. It would be better for the both of them. He should. He should. He should. He doesn't. Of course. But he should.
He wonders how James will know to come now that he won't be able to see Regulus on the map. He wonders if he'll remember how to get in. He wonders if the room would keep him out if Regulus asked it to. He doesn't—ask it to, that is—but he thinks about it.
He makes a concerted effort not to look at the bed, not to remember the last time he was in this room, the box still closed, though cracks have started to splinter it. Have started to let things leak through. He isn't at all sure he can handle this. Isn't at all sure how to. It's never been this bad. He's never felt this broken apart. It was too quiet in that house, too cold, and now all of the sudden there are so many people and voices and so much heat that he feels like he's burning up.
"You cut your hair."
Regulus's head snaps up, he doesn't know how he missed the sound of the door opening.
And oh.
Oh.
Oh shit.
Something yanks at his chest. Yanks hard. This was a bad idea. He knew this was a bad idea.
"Yes," he says, because it feels like James is waiting for some kind of response and that's all he has. Truthfully, he'd forgotten about his hair. He's been avoiding mirrors lately, avoiding being confronted with his own face. It's easier that way.
"I like it," James smiles, he's being nice, Regulus knows what he looks like—severe, cold, bare. James steps forward, Regulus having positioned himself at the back wall, across from the door.
"Can I—"
"No." The word is out of Regulus so fast he can barely believe he's said it, and instantly James stops. Hands dropping to his sides. He looks like he always does—perfect. Hair a mess, glasses smudged. Perfect.
Inhale. Exhale.
Nothing matters.
"Okay," James says, clearly trying to recover. This is no doubt not the reunion he thought he was going to be getting. Regulus knows that he's hurting him. Knows he shouldn't have come.
James leans against the back of the sofa. "You have a good Christmas?" he asks tentatively.
Regulus wants to laugh. He doesn't. "Sure, it was fine. Yours?"
It's hard to concentrate, its been hard to concentrate all day. Maybe longer than that. It's always a bit of a culture shock returning to school after being at Grimmauld Place, but this, this is next level.
You had to hide too much of yourself this time, says the voice in his head. He thinks it's probably right.
"Reg?"
The last time I saw you I was happy.
"Regulus?"
The last time I saw you my mother was trying to rip you out of my head.
"Regulus?" James repeats his name for a third time, louder now, and afraid. It's clear that he's been speaking and Regulus hasn't heard a word of it.
"Sorry," the shaking has started and it's work to keep it out of his voice. "I'm not feeling well."
He can see how desperately James wants to close the space between them but he doesn't. Doesn't take a single step.
"Do you want me to take you to the infirmary?"
"You can't take me to the infirmary," because someone might see us, he lets remain unsaid, his voice verging on cruel. He hates it. But he doesn't stop it.
"No one's going to see us at this hour."
Regulus shakes his head. "You don't know that, besides, I don't want to go to the infirmary anyway. I just want to go back to my room. I just want to sleep."
Pain, imperfectly suppressed by James Potter's beautiful face.
I've been in love with you since I was eleven years old, he thinks.
"Okay," James says eventually. "If that's what you want."
Regulus nods, letting them stay in tense silence only a minute longer before he somehow manages to force his legs to move. He doesn't look at James.
"Reg?"
Part of him doesn't want to stop. He's so close, so close to being out of here. So close to being free of the growing ache in his chest. Of the cracking in his bones.
But he does stop, looking behind him to find James unmoved, face broken open.
"I missed you," he gives him a weak smile and Regulus feels his hand tighten around the doorknob in front of him in an attempt to stay standing.
"I'll see you tomorrow," is all he says, not waiting to see what effect those words have on James before he throws himself into the hallway.
He just needs to get back to his room. He just needs to close his eyes. He just needs to not be awake for a little bit.
Regulus shoves his hands in his pockets as he moves through the hallways, steps determined, focused.
Inhale. Exhale.
Nothing matters. If nothing matter than nothing hurts.
"Black, fancy seeing you here."
Regulus's steps stutter but don't stop. He knows that voice, knows it without even looking for it.
"Well that's not very polite," Severus Snape falls into step beside him.
"Following me now are you?" Regulus demands through clenched teeth, eyes very determinedly forward as he makes a conscious effort to keep his breath at a reasonable pace.
"Actually, I had other business to attend to, but, two birds one stone. This seemed like an excellent opportunity to remind you of that favour you still owe me."
"I don't owe you shit," Regulus growls, too tired for this, too broken for this.
"Ah-ah-ah, I think you'll find that that's not true. Unless you want a certain rumour going around..."
Regulus sighs. "Please, enough with the empty threats. You're not going to tell anyone anything."
"I wouldn't be so sure."
Regulus stops so abruptly that Snape nearly trips over himself trying to do the same. "You want in Snape, huh? You want in on the cause? You want to run around with Mulciber and Avery and call yourself a Death Eater? Then I would watch your fucking mouth around me."
Snape looks back at him, clearly taken off guard, and Regulus sneers in a way he knows makes him look like his mother.
"You are no one," Regulus pushes, feeling the anger and the fear and the pain of the last two weeks straining against his skin. "Your mother is no one. Your muggle father is no one. You think that they'll let you join without the help of people like me?" he laughs and doesn't recognize the sound of his own voice. "When you have blood thicker than that mudblood you can't get to fuck you?"
It happens fast.
One minute they're facing each other and the next Snape has him pressed up against the wall. Whatever was holding Regulus together snaps then. Like a dam it all comes crashing forth, everything he'd been trying to keep controlled, keep buried. And he can't breathe. He can't breathe. He tries, he tries but nothing is working.
Inhale.
Inhale.
Come on, inhale.
But he's eleven years old and Roger Flint is crushing him.
Inhale.
Inhale.
Inhale.
He's trapped in his bedroom, Lucius Malfoy's foot on his chest.
Inhale.
Inhale.
Inhale.
He knows that Snape is talking, spitting venom in his face, but Regulus can't hear him. He wonders if anyone has ever died like this before? Because their heart just gave up.
"Oi! Get the fuck off him."
The second that Snape's grip is pried from his shoulders he collapses, legs unable to support him. But nothing changes. The horrible feelings clawing at his skin, the pain—the pain that hurts so much more now—it doesn't go away.
Inhale.
Inhale.
Inhale.
Bellatrix is in his head. He can't move. He can't blink. His mother is flipping through his memories. His brother is walking out the door.
Inhale.
Inhale.
Inhale.
"What's going on here?"
He is vaguely aware of the third voice. Vaguely aware that something has been going on around him—bodies, spells, feet shuffling on the stone floor.
He's rocking back and forth, nails digging into his knees.
Does he know that this is what you're really like? Lucius asks. A worm? Pathetic and grovelling and used?
Inhale.
Inhale.
Inhale.
He'll figure it out eventually. What a sad little thing you are. And I can't imagine he'll want you after that.
Inhale.
Inhale.
Inhale.
There's talking, voices, he knows there is. Doesn't know what they're saying though. Doesn't think it matters. What can they do to him? What else can they do?
"Regulus?"
James comes into view, kneeling in front of him, hands held out but not touching. He can feel his magic, he can always feel his magic. Sweet and warm, it curls around him but doesn't squeeze. Regulus tries to hold on to that, tries to use it as a rope to pull himself out of whatever hole he's fallen into, but it doesn't work.
"Regulus, I need you to breathe okay?" his eyes are pleading, and it's not until that moment that Regulus realizes that he's been hearing James Potter's voice in his head the whole time.
Inhale. Exhale.
He opens his mouth to speak but he can't, so he just shakes his head. Squeezing his eyes shut.
"Okay, it's okay, you're okay."
And Regulus wonders how he manages to say it without choking.
"So, it turns out my mum knows about Patroclus and Achilles," James goes on, his voice low, calm. Just talking, "don't ask me how, she's a bit mad like that, I'm pretty sure she knows everything honestly. Anyway, I started reading the Iliad, which I thought was going to me a bit more, you know, soppy, but it's mostly a bunch of guys killing each other. Not that I'm complaining."
Something comes out of Regulus that's almost a laugh. He doesn't know if he's crying. He hopes that he's not.
"And like, obviously I'm all for the Greeks, but, I've got to be honest, I kinda like Hector."
Now Regulus actually does laugh, wet and rough as it is. His eyes open and the world is blurry. So he is crying then.
"Of course you like Hector."
And oh how James smiles at that. Slow and soft. "There you are," he almost whispers.
Regulus realizes that it's true. He's shaking and crying and not at all confident that he can stand up but he's breathing again. Thank Merlin he's breathing again.
"Mr. Potter?"
The voice makes Regulus look up, a wave of nausea washing over him as he sees Filch and Snape standing there. Snape's nose bleeding, his shirt collar torn.
"Take Mr. Black to the infirmary and then get back to your dorm," Filch continues. "I'll be telling Mcgonagall and Slughorn all about this, no doubt I'll see you in detention tomorrow evening."
"Yes Sir,"James says without hesitating, still crouched on the floor.
"Come on you," Filch nudges Snape down the hall, Snape whose eyes have not stopped bouncing between James and Regulus. "Go on get!" Filch gives him another push and Snape reluctantly tears his eyes away from them, allowing himself to be nearly dragged in the direction of the Slytherin dorms.
They're silent at first, listening as the footsteps grow distant down the hall.
"Regulus—"
But he cuts himself off when Regulus reaches forward, tugging on his shirt, pulling him close.
"Woah—hey," there's some shuffling, James moving so that his back is against the wall, pulling Regulus into his lap, like a little kid, but he doesn't care, pressing his face into James's chest.
"I'm sorry," he mutters, voice still rough. "I'm sorry."
"Shh, hey, no, it's okay Reg, you're okay."
And none of that is true but he doesn't bother trying to correct him. James runs his hand soothingly up and down Regulus's back, kissing the top of his head. "This okay?" he asks.
And Regulus nods. "We're in the hallway," he says stupidly, but James seems to understand. Regulus feels him shuffling underneath him—pulling out his wand he thinks. A few seconds later something is draped over their heads. Regulus blinks, looking up.
"Did you just cover us with a cloak?"
James nods. "Invisibility cloak."
Regulus stares at him. "You have an invisibility cloak?"
"Surprise?"
Regulus shakes his head, pressing his face back into James's shirt. "Magic map, invisibility cloak—you're ridiculous."
James laughs softly. "So I've been told."
It's warm in James's arms, so they stay like that, Regulus unwilling to move, James probably afraid to.
Eventually, Regulus hears himself whisper; "she cut my hair," he thinks he might be crying again. He doesn't know why.
James nods. "It'll grow back," he presses another kiss to the top of Regulus's head. "Besides, I told you, I like it. Very badass."
Regulus half-sniffles half-laughs. "Ridiculous."