✯ ✯ ✯
Christmas in the confines of Grimmauld Place was much quieter than the festive and rambunctious night that the party at Malfoy Manor turned into.
Antares would still be in bed, doing his best to recover from still being drunk the day after (and the hangover that would present itself on this morning). On his way out, as he and Adrian stumbled and used each other as support, he found an Invigoration Draught tucked away in his coat pocket.
He decided that Narcissa was an angel.
Getting out of bed, Antares made his way to the ground floor, the creaking floorboards beneath him echoing through the weathered corridors. In his hands were two pristinely wrapped silver boxes, one for Sirius and one for Harry. The rest of his gifts were already in the homes of his friends, many of them delivered by Peri, who was happily pecking at a bat she caught on the way home.
For Sirius, he picked out a custom leather spell-bound journal. It was enchanted to resist damage and weathering, making it durable for any adventure. It was a half-gift meant for something that Antares was still planning. But he had a feeling that when he explained it all, that wouldn't matter.
For Harry, Antares' gift was a tad more personal. In the gift box was Antares' very first wand-holster. The material was dragon-hide, which was resistant to a multitude of spells. The chances of it getting blown off in a fight were minimal. More than that, Antares couldn't risk the chance of Harry losing his wand.
The living room was eerily quiet, the dim light casting long shadows across the worn-out furniture. The Christmas tree, adorned with live fairies, stood in a corner, its flickering lights dispelling the overall gloom of the house. Antares strode over and placed the gifts under the tree before going to the kitchen. As he enjoyed his morning tea ritual, he sat silently, waiting for the moment to be disrupted. It didn't take long, though it wasn't by someone he was expecting.
"Master's little friend lurking in the dark corners," Kreacher's voice, as unpleasant as ever, sneered from the kitchen entrance.
"A pleasant morning to you as well, Kreacher," Antares sighed, sipping his cup.
"Pleasant?" Kreacher hummed. "Nothing pleasant about a house filled with filthy blood-traitors and Mudbloods."
Antares found himself appreciating Fizkey's cheerful demeanour. Unfortunately, Kreacher was not his house-elf. The older house-elf was deeply rooted in the Black family's purist beliefs and general disrespect. Spending many years alone in this house with no true master to serve had taken its toll on Kreacher. While Fizkey thrived on praise and encouragement, Kreacher now only recognized authority. Antares was sure Kreacher's more recent foul behaviour had something to do with being under the command of Sirius, who only ever insulted or yelled at him.
Antares narrowed his eyes over the rim of his teacup, meeting Kreacher's disdainful gaze. "Go spread your holiday cheer somewhere else, Kreacher."
Kreacher, however, snarled. "Kreacher doesn't serve you. Kreacher serves the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."
If only you knew, Antares laughed in his head.
"This I know," Antares said evenly, suppressing the annoyance in his voice, "but I also know that I am a guest of this household and a guest of your Master. You owe me respect."
"Respect?" Kreacher mocked. "Where is respect when you upset my poor mistress? Are you the one to soothe her when she wails for Master Regulus? Kreacher thinks not."
A sullen look crossed Antares' face. He had almost forgotten about his little one-off with Walburga.
"And why should I be the one to console her about a person I have never met?"
Kreacher didn't seem to appreciate his logic. "Master's little friend knows nothing of the House Kreacher serves. Mistress weeps for the loss of Master Regulus, and you, blood-traitor, dare to sleep in his bed."
"I understand your loyalty to your late Master," Antares began, his tone measured, "and I am well aware of the pain his loss caused his family."
My family.
My mother, who loved him unconditionally, and myself, who still tries to do right by his memory, Antares thought.
"I am not here to displace him. He was your Master, and you have a right to protect him. But understand this— I am not here to usurp his place or erase his legacy," he finished.
"Master's little friend speaks like a Slytherin," Kreacher muttered, a grudging admission. "Like Master Regulus. But the Master's little friend is not Master Regulus."
Antares hummed. "You're correct, Kreacher. I'm not. But I am still a Slytherin, one who will not tolerate disrespect."
Kreacher grunted, understanding that, as a house elf, he could not dispute Antares' response. He gave one last scathing glare to Antares before he skulked away, muttering about incomprehensible things.
But something Kreacher said stuck with him. Walburga cries, no, wails, for Regulus. Did she think her son had returned home? Antares remained in his seat, contemplating if he was actually going to do what he was about to do. He clicked his teeth, then sighed.
He rose from his seat and strode into the hallway, stopping directly in front of the pair of moth-eaten curtains that shrouded the portrait of Walburga Black. In all honesty, Antares didn't know how this would go, but he could imagine the disgust Walburga would show upon realizing he was not her son.
Drawing open the curtains in a swift maneuver, Antares greeted the face of his grandmother, who was about to start screaming but halted at the sight of him. Walburga's eyes flickered with confusion and even hope before she finally screeched, "You!"
"Good morning, Walburga," Antares greeted casually. She had surely awoken Hermione and Ginny on the first floor.
"Foul pretender! How dare you stand in the house of my father's, wearing the face of my son?" the portrait accused.
Ah, so she knew he wasn't Regulus, at least to a degree.
Antares huffed. "I wear no one's face but my own." My name is Antares Kelly, a Slytherin and a pure-blood. I believe that's worthy of your acknowledgement."
Walburga's portrait scrutinized him with a gaze that could curdle milk. "A Slytherin who associates with Mudbloods and half-breeds? Shame!"
"I associate with those who have proven their worth, regardless of blood status. It's a concept you might find challenging to grasp," the boy retorted.
The portrait's painted eyes narrowed, an expression of pure disdain. "You dare to speak back to me? Insolent child!"
"I dare because, for some reason, everyone seems to afraid to," Antares said. "Or maybe it's because I am the only one who can."
To him, Walburga was nothing, and her disapproval meant less than nothing. She couldn't touch him, nor could she follow him around. Walburga couldn't hurt him. The others tiptoed around her portrait because she was a nuisance with the lungs of a banshee. The only other person who was unafraid to talk to her was Sirius.
Now, Walburga hated Sirius, but she didn't hate Regulus. Perhaps that's why she was engaging in their little conversation instead of shrieking like normal. Either way, Antares was going to take the chance.
"Filth! How dare you? I am—"
"A portrait," Antares interrupted her, "on a wall, who can do nothing."
Walburga's scowl deepened, and for a moment, Antares could see the rage building behind her painted facade. "What do you want, then?" she spat out.
Antares paused then. What did he want? Frankly, he derived nothing from this conversation. "How about a deal, Walburga? You refrain from screaming at those who walk by, and in turn, I will tell you a secret about Regulus."
The portrait's eyes widened in disbelief. "Scum! You're trying to tarnish my son's memory with your deceitful words."
"Is that so?" Antares challenged. "Look me in the eyes. Tell me that I am lying."
Walburga's painted eyes, filled with suspicion and contempt, locked onto Antares'. The silence stretched, and, for a moment, it seemed as if the very air in the hallway had frozen. Antares held her gaze, unwavering, letting the truth resonate in the depths of his eyes— Regulus' eyes.
Walburga's expression shifted from defiance to uncertainty, but Antares could see the recognition dawning in her eyes, a realization that left her momentarily speechless. The deep, grey eyes that stared back at her were unmistakably her son's.
"I cannot... How...?" she stammered. The shock painted on her features was a stark departure from the rigid, venom-spitting demeanour she usually projected.
"He kept it from you for a good reason," Antares said, straightening his shoulders, "and so will I. Merry Christmas, Grandmother."
And with that, he snapped the curtains shut. No occupants in the house heard even a whisper from it for the rest of the day.
✯ ✯ ✯
Antares was beside himself.
He stood in the living room of Grimmauld Place, arms crossed and a palm over his mouth, staring at the tapestry illustrated on the walls. Christmas had passed, and Molly had already taken it upon herself to clean up most of the decorations, namely, that lively tree adorned with fairies that had blocked Sirius and Regulus' place on the tapestry.
That would explain why he hadn't noticed it before. It had to be. There was no way he was that negligent when it came to keeping one of his biggest secrets.
Except it wasn't a secret, a voice in his head whispered.
Remus knew. Vita knew. And now Walburga knew.
Antares supposed he wasn't as worried about it being a secret as he thought. But, in all those instances, it was his choice to tell it. No one had forced him. None of the people he trusted with it would dare tell others. Except Walburga, but it's not like she could go anywhere.
Antares heaved a sigh. He couldn't tell if this was her doing or if he did this to himself. He'd have to ask Sirius about it. Under the embroidered name of Regulus was a new branch, one with his face and his name. Unlike the other faces on the tapestry, his resemblance looked uncanny, so there was no mistaking it.
"Nasty brat, standing there as bold as brass," a familiar decrepit voice broke his thoughts.
Whirling around, Antares subconsciously covered his spot on the tapestry, his back nearly touching the wall. Kreacher was not the first person Antares saw, but Harry, who looked just as caught off guard. Antares narrowed his eyes. Had Harry been there the whole time? He'd be impressed if he wasn't in such distress.
"Harry Potter, the boy who stopped the Dark Lord. Friend of Mudbloods and blood-traitors alike. Trying to impose on respectable blood. If my poor mistress only knew..." Kreacher lamented.
"Kreacher!" Sirius shouted as he walked into the doorway. "That's enough of your bile. Away with you!"
"Of course, Master. Kreacher lives to serve the Noble House of Black," the house-elf relented.
Antares watched Kreacher wander into the hallway.
"Sorry about that." Sirius apologized. "He never was very pleasant, even when I was a boy. Not to me, anyway."
"I don't know, I find him charming," Antares jested.
Sirius rolled his eyes.
"What, you grew up here?" Harry asked, taking in the room.
Sirius nodded, though he didn't look thrilled to admit it. "This is my parents' house. I offered it to Dumbledore as headquarters for the Order. About the only useful thing I've been able to do."
Antares wanted to argue with him, but the point seemed moot. They both knew Sirius had no choice but to be confined to the house he hated.
Sirius approached the wall where Antares stood, urging Harry closer. "This is the Black family tree."
He caught Harry staring at Bellatrix. "My deranged cousin; I hated the lot of them. My parents with their pure-blood mania." He pointed to a charred spot in front of them. "My mother did that after I ran away. Charming woman. I was 16."
Harry looked thoroughly appalled. "Where did you go?"
Sirius smiled. "Round your dad's. I was always welcome at the Potters'."
But Harry was still eyeing the charred spot. His brow furrowed like he was trying to solve a mystery. "Why aren't you on here?" he wondered, looking at Antares.
Antares didn't say a word, instead giving a furtive glance to Sirius, who looked taken aback by the question. It had been posed so naively, but he found it hard to return that sentiment. When he opened his mouth to play it off or, more accurately, misdirect the conversation, Harry interrupted,
"And don't lie."
Antares took that personally. "I have never." Not to you, at least. "I won't bother asking why you think I should be on the tapestry; you seem to have figured that out on your own."
He dropped his shoulders and moved away from the wall. The last two living Black's by name stood opposite one another, eyeing Harry to gauge his reaction.
En Stirps Nobilis et Gens Antiquissima Black
Behold the Lineage of the Noble and Most Ancient Clan Black, indeed.
He didn't feel he needed to elaborate further; anyone with eyes could see that it was self-explanatory. Antares watched as Harry's eyes travelled from Sirius' name to Regulus' and finally to his own. He watched as his ward connected the dots.
"I always thought you two were related," Harry finally spoke. "It's the one thing I'm happy to be right about."
"He was younger than me," said Sirius, "and a much better son, as I was constantly reminded."
"But he died," Harry stated.
"Yeah," Sirius said, sighing. "Stupid idiot... he joined the Death Eaters."
"You're kidding!"
Antares felt indignation at Harry's blatant reaction. The mention of his father being a Death Eater wasn't a revelation. He knew his father's actions would shadow him forever, but he still didn't appreciate the reminder. His jaw tensed.
"I am well aware of what he was," he said defensively.
"Come on, Harry, haven't you seen enough of this house to tell what kind of wizards my family were?" said Sirius, equally testy.
Harry's expression lightened upon sensing their tones. "I didn't mean to say it like that," he quickly amended. "It's just— er, well, I guess, because of the both of you, I couldn't really imagine it."
"It's not a simple story," Sirius told him, a note of harshness in his voice. "Family histories rarely are. Regulus was misguided by my parents' ideals."
"Was he killed by an Auror?" Harry asked tentatively.
"Oh no," said Sirius. "No, he was murdered by Voldemort. Or, on Voldemort's orders, more likely, I doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person. From what I found out after he died, he got in so far, then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out. Well, you don't just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It's a lifetime of service or death."
Sirius' bitterness was palpable, and Antares could feel it seeping into his bones. Even his mother had never once spoken of his father like that, nor did she ever tell him that he died at the hands of Voldemort. It was possible that she didn't know. It was also possible that she didn't want to hurt him.
The night Antares told Remus who he was, Sirius said his father left to serve Voldemort. His mother told him his father had left in a hurry, stating there was a task only he could do. Antares' face fell, eyes staring blankly at the floor.
If the shoe fits, he thought ruefully.
"Misguided or not, he still became a victim of war," Antares said, voice low. "The same way James and Lily Potter did."
Harry gave him a look of sombre understanding, and he nodded in acknowledgment. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.
"No need," Sirius shook his head. "Besides, the world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters. We've all got both light and dark inside of us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really are."
"Harry, time to go!" A voice sounded down the hallway.
"When all this is over," Sirius said, his eyes meeting both Harry's and Antares', "we'll be a proper family. You'll see."
✯ ✯ ✯
Antares only every does anything out of spite and now it came back to bite him in the ass in the form of the tapestry.
Also, Walburga was fun to write.
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~Hircines