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7 Loves/ 7 Lives (i called you brother seven times)
Title: 7 Loves/7 Lives (i called you brother 7 times)
Pairing: Regulus/Sirius
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest. At one point, the boys are underage. Also, mind the dead body in the first section. Not that it does much, but you know. Dead body.
Summary: This is a thing that never should have started.
A/N: Written for![[personal profile]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif?v=88)
7spells, for which I chose Regulus/Sirius, and Prompt Set Two. This was meant to be seven different ficlets, but that didn't work out so well. Instead, I bring you one fic with a section for each prompt. Many thanks to ![[personal profile]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88)
happiestwhen.
7 Loves/7 Lives
(i called you brother 7 times)
::
vi. cold hands cold feet
People often link Sirius' family to the Dark Arts, but despite the rumours, despite the things whispered in the bogs and corners of Knocturn Alley, the familiarity only goes so far. Sirius has never cast the Killing Curse, had never seen it cast until the war started. A year ago, he wouldn't have known a murdered man and from the unfortunate victim of a heart attack. Now, he can recognise the signs of Avada Kedavra at fifty feet.
Regulus is cold.
The street lamps burn with a strained, weak light that washes his body in a jaundiced, amber glow. Snow falls quietly, frosting the pavement like sugar. It crunches softly under Sirius' heels as he kneels at his brother's feet.
He reaches out, his hand hovering over the toe of Regulus' boot, his thumb poised just above the scuffed, black leather. Voices skitter down the alley, climbing the back wall of the pub like vines, and Sirius' fingers curl in the material of Regulus' trousers.
"Breathe," he tells his brother. He chokes, his shaky voice trapped in the back of his throat because he's forgot how to breathe himself.
Regulus' stillness is infinite, stubborn. Snow mingles with his hair, greying it, forming it into heavy strands that cling damply to his forehead. Sirius leans forward over this thing that was once his brother and uses an unsteady hand to brush it away.
"I hate you," Sirius begins, but it freezes on his tongue before it's said, hangs frozen in the sharp, February air. Sirius swallows it, because the lies don't matter any more. Regulus is no longer alive to hear them.
Sirius hears his heart beat, imagines the emptiness in Regulus' chest, and in that moment, the war stops being about right and wrong or winners and losers. It becomes a matter of survival. Revenge.
In that moment, Sirius imagines Regulus the last time he saw him -- flushed, half-naked, wrists pinned above his head against a Knockturn Alley wall. He remembers the way Regulus' knee crept between his legs, the way Regulus' teeth scored the soft skin of his neck, the way Regulus whispered don't and stop around his name.
He buries his face in Regulus' neck, his cock hard and heavy against the cold stillness of Regulus' thigh. Shadows stretch across the alley as the wind picks up, dancing over Regulus' body, rustling his hair, his shirt. Sirius hears his heart beat again, and he almost expects Regulus to move, almost expects Regulus to arch up against him the way he did before the colour left his cheeks and Avada Kedavra stole the light from his eyes.
Sirius feels fevered, filled with a sick, prickly heat that mocks the lifeless shell underneath him. His hips jerk forward before he can stop them, searching for friction he knows he shouldn't want, his body begging him to finish this thing that never should have been allowed to start.
In the line of Regulus' jaw Sirius sees the attic of Grimmauld Place. They are young, full of childish urges and stolen wine, a sweaty twist of clumsy mouths and nervous, unsure hands. Regulus' cock is hard against his hip, and Sirius' face burns with shame because he likes the way it feels.
Regulus' fingers are small and wet with snow, and they bend stiffly as Sirius tries to twist them around his own.
The pub's back door flies open, splintering against the faded bricks as the final leg of the battle spills into the alley. The midnight sky explodes in a jumble of light and hexes and noise, and Sirius flattens himself against his brother's body.
"Sirius."
Remus' voice is thin, laced with fear, and his tired face is wreathed in spells and moonlight. Sirius teeters on the edge, his cock aching, but he almost welcomes the intrusion.
"Is that..."
"Yeah."
Remus studies Regulus silently, his lips pressed into a thin line. Sirius watches him, his hammering heart trapped in his throat, but Remus' gaze slides to Regulus' arm, and with an anxious breath Sirius allows his to follow.
Regulus is in the open, without a hood or cloak, and his sleeve is rolled up, baring his Dark Mark to the night sky. Red slashes mar the skull and snake, jagged knife wounds that have recently stopped bleeding, and Sirius finds himself wondering where Regulus' loyalties had lied.
"I'll get Dumbledore," Remus says quietly.
"James?"
"He's fine," Remus replies. "He took a nasty curse, but Moody says it's nothing to worry about."
"I shouldn't have left him," Sirius says.
"Lily needed you," Remus reasons. "She's too pregnant to Apparate on her own."
"How is she?" Sirius asks. They'd barely reached James and Lily's flat before Sirius Apparated back, but he looks at the snow melting between Regulus' fingers and thinks of the tears staining her face.
"Molly just went to check on her," Remus replies. He sighs, a soft, sad noise. "I'll get Dumbledore."
"I shouldn't have left him," Sirius says again. He doesn't know if he's talking about Regulus or James.
He shudders against Regulus' body as soon as Remus turns away. His release leaves him empty and cold, as void as the thing underneath him, and at the edge of his vision the world flashes green.
--
To the Dark Lord
I know I will be dead long before you read this
but I want you to know it was I who discovered your secret.
I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.
I face death in the hope that when you meet your match
you will be human once more.
--
v. the puppet master
The Order talks.
It's ranks are full of off-duty Aurors and kids who left Hogwarts this last June, two groups of people who spend entirely too much time in pubs. After a couple of rounds they forget they aren't supposed to know each other, and after a couple more they forget they shouldn't discuss certain things in public.
No one wants to be the one who says it to Sirius' face, but Sirius knows. Sirius has heard.
The Boar's Knuckle looms at the edge of Knocturn Alley, so far from The Leaky Cauldron in both location and atmosphere it might as well be across the arch in Muggle London. It's a crumbling, misshappen lump of wood held together by rusty nails and mumbled spells, and wedged between a brothel and an abandoned warehouse, it festers in the middle of a dark passage like a boil.
Sirius waits across from the front door, hiding in the shadows of a dilapidated building that's large, broken windows suggest it might have once been a shop. He pulls a cigarette from the pocket of his cloak, lights it with the engraved, silver lighter Peter gave him last Christmas. The grey smoke lingers in front of his face, burns his throat in a way that warms him against the brisk, early evening air.
An hour crawls by, marked only by the sun's slow progress toward the horizon, and The Boar's Knuckle's patrons come and go. Sirius decides in the first fifteen minutes that if this lot is the usual custom, he doesn't want to know what the gutted shop behind him used to sell.
The door of The Boar's Knuckle opens, creaking with both age and disrepair. Two people slither outside, hooded and cloaked in a way that's a bit much for the weather -- which is cool, but not cold -- and Sirius lights another cigarette, watches them from behind lowered lashes and the bright flare of his lighter's flame.
One is tall and slim, and underneath his clothes Sirius catches a glimpse of pale hair curtaining paler features and a familiar, gilt and ebony cane. Malfoy's companion is shorter and female, and Sirius thinks if he looks under her hood he'll find his cousin's face. They pause in the middle of the alley, standing squarely between Sirius and the door, and Sirius braces himself for a fight, his stomach knotting in a twist of excitement and fear.
A third exits the pub, and Sirius is suddenly cold. He can't see the straggler's face, but Sirius knows his brother's body too well to be fooled by a hood and a few yards of black wool. His cigarette slips from his fingers, smoulders quietly on the uneven cobblestones. Regulus speaks to Malfoy, his hand resting lightly on Malfoy's sleeve, and the Order's rumours echo in Sirius' ears.
He pulls a ring from his pocket -- a silver and onyx signet he inherited from his uncle. It's heavy in his hand, a cold weight in the centre of his palm, and he throws it sooner than he should simply to be rid of it. Regulus pauses as it arcs through the air, glittering like copper in the poor light, and it hits him in the shoulder, lands next to his foot with a muted, metallic whisper.
"I'll catch up with you," he murmurs to Malfoy. "I think I left my wand back at the pub."
Malfoy replies sharply; Sirius misses the words, but the caustic edge to his voice cuts the space between them like a knife. Bellatrix laughs, a sound like shattering glass, following Malfoy as he disappears into the shadows. Regulus doesn't watch them go.
"I didn't want to believe it," Sirius says quietly.
"Sirius, I..." Regulus' voice falters, fails, and he seems to fold in on himself as he studies the filthy pavement stretching under his feet.
"Stupid," Sirius spits. He steps away from the abandoned shop, lingering at the edge of the shadows it affords, and Regulus looks up at him. His face is pale and drawn, almost ghostly, and the rest of Sirius' lecture catches in the back of his throat, unspent vitriol burning his tongue.
"Sirius." Regulus starts strong, forcing each clipped syllable through clenched teeth, but his next breath ends in a sigh.
A pained shriek from rusty hinges rips through the sudden silence, and a squat man with greying hair shuffles out of the Boar's Knuckle. Regulus ignores him, straightening his cloak and fiddling with his wand like he means to Apparate. Sirius slouches back into the shadows, and once the man passes, Regulus joins him.
It starts to rain.
"You don't understand," Regulus begins.
"What's there to understand?" Sirius demands. He's not sure he wants an answer. He thinks of the rubbish about bloodlines and pureblood superiority their mother has been spewing since Sirius was old enough to listen, and a cold weight settles in his pit of his stomach.
"Do you think I asked for this?" Regulus hisses. His body twists strangely, as if he's torn between approaching Sirius and recoiling. "Do you think I wanted it?"
"I swear to God, Regulus, if you tell me this was her idea, I'll--"
"What, then?" Regulus asks sharply. "What will you do? Hit me? It's not like you haven't done it before." He laughs, a harsh, humourless sound. "Or will you run away, again? Will you bugger off with Potter so you can forget you have a family and pretend you're not alone?"
Sirius can't breathe. Words suddenly feel pointless, endless. He lunges. He's hard before his fingers brush Regulus' cloak, and Regulus hits the shop's crumbling wall with an oddly soft sound.
--
Sirius,
I don't expect you to understand why.
You've never understood anything I've ever said or done.
Just remember that I'm not you. I never have been. Just remember
that things have been different since you left. Believe
me when I say I didn't have much choice.
--
iv. a broken circle
Mrs Potter doesn't bat an eyelash. She yells for James to come downstairs and help Sirius with his things, and she makes a linen cupboard into a bedroom with a few flicks of her wand. It's blue and pink and floral, and James is horrified by the lace things on the tables, but Sirius loves it more than he's loved anything in his life.
Regulus writes him every day the first week, and every other day the next. Sirius curses at the owl each time it pecks his window, and he sends it back with empty claws. He opens the letters only to drop them on the floor after Dear Sirius, and when she tidies up, Mrs Potter lays them neatly on his desk.
By 31 August, Regulus hasn't written him in a week. Half of Sirius is hurt and the other half isn't, and he wonders if Regulus stopped caring or if he just grew tired of talking to himself. He doesn't wonder about their mother, or that house. He can't.
The letter in his hand is dated 11 June, and he makes it as far as Dear Sirius, I hope... before he's interrupted by a knock at the door.
"James?" Sirius asks.
"Not quite," Mrs Potter replies. "Are you decent?"
"Mostly," Sirius admits. The prickly summer heat has beaten him down to an undershirt and y-fronts.
"I'll chance it."
She opens the door before he can find his trousers. Her greying hair is arranged in a hasty knot on the top of her head, and she laughs like a schoolgirl at the way Sirius blushes.
"I've told you before, Sirius," she says. "I'm a married woman with a grown son. You haven't anything I didn't see when I was changing James' nappies."
"I know, Mrs Potter."
"And for Merlin's sake, stop calling me 'Mrs Potter'," she continues. "My name is Evelyn. I know you're only trying to be polite, and that, but you've been here near on three months, and you're my son's best friend." She pauses to wag a chiding finger at him. "All your 'Mrs Potter this' and 'Mrs Potter that' is making me feel older than I am."
Her hands settle on her hips, elbows sharply angled, and Sirius feels compelled to obey. He nods.
"All right, what did I come in here for?" she asks. Sirius doesn't reply; he's learned that when she asks these kinds of questions she doesn't want an answer. "Oh. Of course!" She sighs and pats at her hair. "James and I are off for Diagon Alley. I figure it's time to get his books and things, what with school starting tomorrow."
"Right," Sirius mutters. His Hogwarts letter is buried at the bottom of Regulus' missives. "Tomorrow."
"Care to join us, then?" she asks.
"Oh," Sirius says. "No, thank you."
"What about your books?" she demands.
He mumbles.
Mrs Potter sniffs. "I'm not sure I caught that, Sirius." Her hands settle on her hips again.
"I haven't any money," he admits, and he swears there's Imperio in that gesture. "I've already spent the little I brought with me, and my parents aren't like to give me any more."
"How will you study, then?"
"They've copies in the Library," Sirius says. "Or I can borrow from Remus. He always does his lessons early."
"Nonsense," she says. "I assume you're in the same classes as James?" she asks, and at Sirius' stubborn silence, she pulls her wand. "Accio Hogwarts Letter!"
His desk erupts into a cloud of parchment, and Regulus' letters rain down like hail. His Hogwarts letter flies into her hand, and she rearranges the others as she read with a lazy flick of her wrist.
"I'm taking Divs instead of Arithmancy," Sirius says quietly.
"Divs is rubbish," she comments, shaking her head. "You should drop it for something useful. Ancient Runes, maybe. Or Muggle Studies."
"Muggle Studies?"
"You never know," she warns. "What if you have a Floo accident and end up in Muggle London? How would you get home, not knowing how to hail a maxicab or find their Lube?"
"I'd Apparate, I suppose," Sirius says.
"Teenagers," she mutters. "Have an answer for everything, don't they?" Sirius thinks this is another one of those questions, and he presses his lips together. "Never mind all that. We'll get your books today."
"You can't," Sirius says. "That's too much money!"
"Too much, indeed," she replies, waving him off. "In case you haven't noticed, my husband and I have more money than we know what to do with."
"But it's yours," Sirius argues.
"It is," she agrees, "and it's mine to spend on whatever pleases me. Including your books. And I might as well spend it before I die. It'll go to James, otherwise, and he'd only piss it away on women and Firewhisky."
Sirius laughs, because it's true.
"Be ready in fifteen minutes," she says, with an air of finality.
"No," Sirius starts. "I'd--"
"We already went 'round about this," she says. "I'm buying your books, and I'll hear no more about it."
"It's not that," Sirius says. "Well, it's that, too, but mostly, I just don't want to go."
He glances at the tower of parchment on his desk, and Mrs Potter sighs.
"Get some rest, Sirius," she says. "You've an important day, tomorrow. James and I will be back in a few hours."
Sirius turns back to Regulus' letter. 11 June, the morning after he left.
Dear Sirius,
Dear Sirius, I...
Dear Sirius, I hope...
Dear Sirius, I hope this...
An owl pecks at his window, and he frowns at the familiar tawny feathers. He favours it with a rude gesture, but it persists.
"I don't want it," Sirius snaps, as he flings the window open. "Return to sender."
The owl clicks its beak, ruffles its feathers. The letter it drops on the windowsill is thick, as if the dam on Regulus' sudden silence burst and flooded three yards of parchment.
Sirius throws the letter out the window, and the owl squawks at him in shock. He doesn't hear it hit the ground. He leans out the window, and finds Regulus perched on a branch of the ancient oak that taps on his window in the wind.
"What do you want?"
"I want to talk." Regulus looks tired. The skin under his eyes is nearly purple, and his face is thinner than Sirius remembers.
"There's nothing to say," Sirius says shortly.
He turns, but he doesn't shut the window. Regulus follows. He clamours over the windowsill with the owl fluttering around his head like a mad pixie. Sirius ignores them both and Banishes Regulus' letters to the bottom of his wardrobe.
"How did you get here?" Sirius asks. Regulus is fully dressed, robes and all, and Sirius feels strangely exposed.
"I walked some," Regulus says. "I flew some."
"Flew what?" Sirius asks. Regulus' hair is neat, clipped short. Sirius' fringe falls in his eyes when he turns to look at Regulus, and he bats at it with an impatient hand. "You left your broom at school."
"I did," Regulus says. "I borrowed Mother's flying carpet."
"Stole, you mean."
Regulus shrugs. He has twigs stuck in the collar of his robes. He stares at Sirius, and Sirius flops down on the bed to avoid the scrutiny.
"Why are you here?" Sirius asks, mostly to his blankets.
"I want to talk," Regulus says.
"You're not."
"I know."
Silence spreads through the room, waiting for one of them to speak. Neither does. The bed dips, springs creaking. Sirius rolls onto his back, and Regulus curls up in the curve of his arm, pillowing his head on Sirius' shoulder.
"Regulus."
"Let me," Regulus says. He burrows deeper, reaches blindly for the blankets. "I haven't slept since you left."
Sirius shivers. His chest tightens. "You're leaving when James gets back."
"I know," Regulus mumbles. "I know."
--
Dear Mother
I hope this letter finds you well. School is fine.
I dropped Divinations like you wanted, and I plan to ask
Dumbledore if I can use that time for independent study in Defence.
I saw him today, but he wouldn't talk to me.
I don't think he's ever coming home.
--
iii. five shades of white
Dumbledore sits, which rings in seven o'clock as clearly as a bell tower. The first course appears when he clears his throat, and the charmed ceiling shows a slowly darkening sky.
It's twenty-eight days later.
James sits in-between Sirius and Remus, and he eats like it's his last meal. Sirius ignores his food, and in the corner of his eye Remus is pale and silent. Next to Remus, Peter fiddles restlessly with a pot of salad cream. This sudden change in their usual seating arrangements -- James in-between Sirius and Peter; Remus on Sirius' other side -- seems to upset him.
It seems to upset the rest of Gryffindor, as well. They watch the four of them from behind their rolls and over their glasses of pumpkin juice. They manage to keep their whispers a hair below audible; Sirius' ears burn as he strains to hear.
Their greens suddenly transform into Sheppard's pies. James attacks his immediately, tucking in with a bit of lettuce still hanging from the end of his fork. The pies are perfectly round and full, and Remus pushes away his plate.
"Eat," James chides.
"I'm not hungry," Remus replies. He retrieves his napkin from his lap and lays it over his pie like a funeral shroud.
"Eat, anyway," James says, undaunted.
"I'll only be sick," Remus argues. He pitches his voice so low Sirius can barely make out the words, but their half of the table is staring like their having a row at the top of their lungs.
James sighs around a mouthful of roll. "You'll be sick either way. You might as well have something in your stomach."
"Leave off," Remus snaps. It's almost a growl; this close to moonrise Remus' temper is short. "You're not my mum."
James sighs again and favours Sirius with a sideways glance. This is when James usually says talk to him, Sirius, he'll listen to you, but he doesn't. He can't.
Remus is barely speaking to Sirius, and Sirius considers himself lucky for every word he gets.
The Sheppard's pies shift into treacle. The sky over Dumbledore's head is practically black and pitted with stars, and Peter fumbles with his bowl until half his treacle slops into his lap.
"Evanesco," James barks.
The treacle flees, and after a strange, shimmering moment of indecision, so do Peter's trousers. His open robes frame diagonally striped pants that match his tie. The handful of students near Peter titter with nervous laughter, and Remus excuses himself from the table with shaking hands.
Sirius looks at Snape.
Snape is hunched over, stabbing at his treacle so violently Sirius fancies he can hear his wrist bones snapping. Sirius retreats behind his pumpkin juice when James kicks him under the table. Snape doesn't watch Remus go, but as Sirius sets his glass aside he notices Regulus does.
Dumbledore had sworn them all to secrecy. He'd forbidden them from talking about the incident after leaving his office, but Sirius, James, and Peter spoke of it almost daily. Regulus' eyes are curious and intent, narrowing as Remus slips through the door, and Sirius wonders if Snape forgot what he promised Dumbledore as easily as he and his friends did.
They could be friends. They could be. Sirius has never seen them together, has never heard Regulus mention him, but Regulus glances at Snape once Remus disappears, and Sirius decides they could be. They are both outcasts in their house -- Snape because of his sourness and ugliness and the rumours of his dubious bloodlines; Regulus because he's shy and bookish and related to Sirius.
James stops coaching Peter on how to Transfigure his napkin into a pair of trousers long enough to kick Sirius under the table again. Sirius cuffs James in the head, and when he turns back to the Slytherin table Snape has left and Regulus is leaving.
"What's this, then?" Marlene McKinnon asks, leaning across Peter to poke James in the shoulder with her spoon. She gestures toward the door Remus used -- the same door Snape used and the same door Regulus is opening. "Were we not invited to a party?"
"I'll just find out." Quickly, Sirius rises. James grabs his sleeve, and Sirius tries to shrug him off.
"Don't," James says. "You'll only fight."
"Remus," Sirius blurts. He rarely lies to James, and bitterness coats his tongue. "I'm worried about Remus."
James arches an eyebrow. "Just today, like?"
"Sod you," Sirius snaps. "Geroff," he adds, and pulls his sleeve free from James' fingers.
"Sirius."
"He's my brother!"
"I am not my brother's keeper," James quotes.
"Oh, Potter!" McKinnon, whose Muggle father raised her Catholic, smiles from ear to ear. "You were listening the other night!"
"Of course I was," James says. "Interesting stuff, your Muggle religion."
"Don't be fooled, McKinnon," Sirius cuts in. "You were discussing it with Evans. That's about the only thing he found interesting."
"That's not true!" James argues. "Evans had nothing to do with it!"
"Talking about me again, Potter?" Evans, who is four seats up from McKinnon, doesn't bother to look over.
"Sod you, Black," James grumbles. "Bugger off after your brother, then. And if he breaks your nose again, I won't be fixing it."
"If Evans stuffs your next love letter in your ear, I won't help you charm it out," Sirius counters, and McKinnon laughs.
"Don't mind Sirius, McKinnon," James says. "He's completely mad."
"Oh, I already knew that," McKinnon replies, winking.
"Runs in the family," Peter observes, and Sirius yanks on his ear as he passes.
He finds his brother outside the blank wall that serves as the door to Slytherin. Regulus paces, taking a short circuit with nervous, uneven steps, and he frowns as Sirius approaches.
"What are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?" Sirius returns.
"I'm allowed to be down here," Regulus replies. "I'm a Slytherin," he adds, and Sirius dislikes his lofty tone.
"Not so loud," Sirius snaps. "It's not something you should brag about."
"Yes, because Gryffindors are such a decent and trustworthy lot."
The line of Regulus' jaw is sharp under Sirius' fist. His head whips back, barely missing the wall behind him. He straightens slowly, carefully. He purses his lips, and blood wells in the corner of his mouth.
"As I was saying," Regulus murmurs. "Decent and trustworthy." He pauses to poke at his lip with a fingertip. "Kind and loving, as well," he adds. "Stop me when I lie."
Growling, Sirius swings again, but Regulus is quicker this time. He ducks out of the way just as Sirius' blow should have connected, and Sirius' knuckles barely graze his cheek. He catches Sirius by the wrist, pulling him close. His tongue tastes of copper, and it curls around Sirius' like a snake.
"Just once." Sirius closes his eyes, mumbles the words against his brother's mouth.
"It's always been just once," Regulus says, and Sirius thinks that's a lie.
Once became twice became thrice became too much. This should stop, but it never should have started, and Sirius' breath catches when Regulus presses him back against the wall.
Regulus' hands are still as small as they were the first time. His palms are sweaty, damp, one creeping under Sirius' shirt and the other stealing inside his flies, and Sirius' hips hitch up, seeking the familiar heat he shouldn't want.
They kiss the way they always have -- fast and hard, with frantic lips and desperate tongues. Regulus moans, grinding his cock against Sirius' hip. They have to be quick, they have to hurry. Sirius bites at Regulus' lower lip and twists his hands in Regulus' hair. They shouldn't have started but since they have they need to finish before someone finds out, before someone sees. Regulus' fingers slip over Sirius' cock, and his eyes are almost black as he sinks to his knees.
Regulus' mouth is hot and wet and perfect, and Sirius hisses at the way Regulus' tongue curls around his length. Regulus fists his own cock as he sucks, his hips thrusting and his hand lost in the mire of his robes. Sirius hears a sound that could be footsteps, but he knows it's probably just his heart.
Sirius thinks just once as he comes, but Regulus' eyes are closed.
When he goes outside, the moon is high and full. She's silvery-white and awful, and Padfoot breaks into a run.
--
Severus
I would prefer to say this in person,
but you've been avoiding me of late, which makes
that difficult. I wish to apologise for my brother's
behaviour. I don't know what's come over him.
He has not been himself, recently.
--
ii. dishevelled
She's screaming again.
Her tirade fills the house, whistling through the rooms like the wind. Sirius can't hear the words any more, only hears the frantic, piercing rise and fall of her shrieks. He wonders who her target is -- if she's yelling at their father, at Kreacher, at Uncle Sargas' portrait in the hallway.
He wonders if she's yelling at them, and just doesn't realise they are no longer there.
The attic is cold and draughty, and an ancient oil-lamp hangs precariously from the centre beam. Dust lingers on the antique furniture and forgotten heirlooms, tarnishing the family honour. Sirius and Regulus wait for the inevitable between a sheet-draped harpsichord and stack of trunks marked 'Perseus Black', hidden under a pile of musty blankets and the sudden plunge of the roof.
Their mother's voice seeps through the floorboards, upsetting the dust and cobwebs as it curls around the room. The rain interrupts her, chattering against the tiny window over their heads, and Regulus passes Sirius the wine.
It's sour and practically black, a temperamental vintage that was bottled almost a century before either of them were born. It clings to Sirius' tongue, bitter and horrid, but it warms him, a slow burn from the inside out, and he forces it down.
"Do you think she'll find us?" Regulus asks slowly. He slurs slightly, but not enough to dull the nervous edge to his voice.
"No," Sirius replies, after another swallow of wine. He doubts anyone has been up to the attic in years, doubts his mother remembers this house has an attic, at all.
"I hope not," Regulus mumbles. He slouches down the wall he's leaning against until he's hopelessly lost in the blankets.
"You're drunk," Sirius observes. They're halfway through their second bottle; Sirius is heated and lethargic, feels a bit muzzy. He thinks of all the Firewhisky he and James have stashed all over Gryffindor, and he wonders if Regulus drinks at school.
"Not much," Regulus says.
Silence creeps through the attic, and Sirius allows it. His brother's breathing is even, shallow, and Sirius wishes they could sleep up here. He knows they have to go back downstairs eventually, but he wants to put it off as long as possible, wants to enjoy this fleeting moment of peace.
Regulus stretches against him, murmuring softly. He's a confused twist of blankets and too-long limbs and sharp elbows that catch Sirius in all the wrong places, but Sirius allows this, as well. Regulus is warm, and -- despite his boyish angles -- soft, and like everything in Grimmauld Place, the attic is not.
The wine bottle is now tucked behind Sirius' head, and Sirius clucks his tongue when Regulus reaches for it, catching Regulus by the wrist. Regulus ignores him; he shifts until he's straddling Sirius' leg and pulls the bottle free with Sirius' fingers digging into his skin.
"You've had enough," Sirius says.
"Have not," Regulus replies. He tries to twist free of Sirius' grasp, but the bottle in his hand makes him clumsily, as does the wine in his belly. Sighing, he leans over Sirius, bringing his mouth closer to the bottle.
Sirius watches Regulus' throat work as he swallows, and he can feel Regulus' pulse under his thumb.
Downstairs, their mother rages as efficiently as the storm outside.
Regulus pulls a face as he lowers the bottle, and offers it to Sirius with a shudder. Sirius shakes his head, but when the cool glass presses against his lips they part around it, and he swallows because he'll choke if he doesn't. Regulus slumps against him, resting his head on Sirius' shoulder, and the wine's sourness makes Sirius think of poison and Potions class.
"It's Christmas, tomorrow," Regulus says. "What did you ask for?"
"I want a new broom," Sirius replies. "But I didn't ask for it."
"I asked for a new cauldron. Mine has a dent from when you threw it at Kreacher last summer, and I can't get the spell right to fix it." Regulus says. "Why didn't you ask? You made Quidditch."
"For the wrong House," Sirius grumbles. He suddenly wants Regulus off him; Regulus is heavy and the weight is making his arm numb. "They're not like to buy me a new broom when I'm not playing for Slytherin."
Lightning flashes through the tiny window, and their father's low, rumbling voice creeps into the attic in a way that rivals the thunder. It washes over their mother's tirade just as she reaches a fever pitch, and when she suddenly ceases, Sirius wonders if he silenced her with his wand or his hands.
"I want to go back to school," Regulus mumbles.
"Me too," Sirius admits. He doesn't much care for all the studying and books, but he craves the solid warmth of Hogwarts and he misses his friends, who he'd think of as family if he didn't consider the word an insult.
Regulus' hair brushes across Sirius' face, tickling his nose. He manages to pull his arm free, but the wind picks up, rattling against the window, and he wraps it around Regulus' waist.
"We should go," Sirius says. Their mother hasn't made another sound, which means she's retired to her room, hiding while she unhexes herself or charms away her black eye.
"I don't want to," Regulus argues. "Can't we sleep here tonight?"
"No," Sirius says. "She'll find us if we stay up here too long, and then we won't be able to hide here ever again."
"I don't care," Regulus replies, and Sirius' skin prickles as Regulus' lips move against his neck.
"You will, when you have to hide from her next fit under your bed and alone," Sirius counters.
Sirius tries to sit up, but Regulus clings to him. He curls his arms around Sirius' neck and catches his fingers in Sirius' hair, and something hard presses against Sirius' thigh.
"Regulus?"
"Shut up!"
Sirius closes his eyes.
"Shut up, Sirius!" Regulus begs, even though Sirius didn't say anything, and his voice is high and thin. "I can't help it. You're warm and you feel nice and I've had too much to drink and won't you kiss me, Sirius, please?"
"Oh, God." Sirius can't move, can't breathe, feels as breathless and boneless as he did when the Whomping Willow caught him in the gut and threw him a hundred feet.
"Just once, Sirius." Regulus is speaking into Sirius' neck again, soft lips fluttering over his skin, and Sirius twists the tails of Regulus' shirt around his fingers. "Just once. I won't tell anyone, I promise."
Sirius' mouth falls open, his lips curling around an argument he can't quite find, and Regulus' chases it away with his tongue. It's sloppy and horribly wet and Regulus doesn't seem to know what to do with his nose because it jabs sharply into Sirius' cheek.
You're my brother, Sirius thinks wildly, but the ghost of his mother's screams echo in his ears, and he wonders if that really means anything.
Sirius pulls Regulus closer, lets his tongue slip inside his brother's mouth. Regulus twists in his arms, rubbing his cock against Sirius' thigh with sharp jerks of his hips, and a strange heat flares over Sirius' skin.
"Just once," Sirius mumbles. "Just once, and you can't tell anyone. Ever."
"I won't," Regulus gasps. "I won't. Not ever. I promise."
--
Dear Mother
I shouldn't be writing this. He'd hate me
if he knew I was. He says you're mad. He says
you hate us. I don't want to believe him, but I can't
help it. He wouldn't lie to me. I can't tell you
why I think that. I promised I wouldn't.
--
i. instrumental
Grimmauld Place is wrapped in silence. Sirius sits in the drawing room, tucked into the corner of an ancient, brocade couch. A brand new copy of Standard Book of Spells, Grade One rests in his lap, and Sirius thumbs through it anxiously, his stomach aching each time he turns the page.
He hears the soft shuffle of feet in the hallway, looks up just as the door creaks open. Regulus hesitates in the doorway, peering at Sirius like he's afraid to come in. The light from the dying fire casts funny shadows across Regulus' face. He has horns, then he doesn't; he has a moustache, then it's gone.
"Do not bother your brother, Regulus," their mother calls. "He has an important day, tomorrow."
"I won't, Mother," Regulus promises. He steps inside the drawing room, but hesitates again, his hands folded neatly in front of him.
"Sirius?" Her voice is harsh, expectant.
"Yes, Mother?"
"Your things need to be ready before bed," she says.
"They are--"
"I want your books packed in your trunk, and I want your clothes laid out," she continues. "You will wear your black trousers and your green sweater."
"My books are packed," Sirius says. He closes Standard Book of Spells, Grade One, and tucks it behind his back. "Kreacher already put out my clothes."
"He laid out your red sweater," his mother argues. "You will wear the green."
"Yes, Mother."
Sirius looks up at Regulus; the shadows have given him a beard now, a long, pointed thing that practically reaches his knees. Regulus approaches slowly, glancing over his shoulder for their mother. When she doesn't shout, doesn't appear in the doorway, Regulus crawls onto the couch and curls up at Sirius' side like a cat.
"Do you have to go, tomorrow?" he asks.
"Yes," Sirius replies.
"Why?"
"Because I have to," Sirius says simply.
"No, you don't," Regulus argues. "Brad Parkinson isn't going," he adds. "Mother was talking to Parkinson's mum at Flourish and Blotts when we went to get your books."
"Brad Parkinson is a Squib," Sirius replies. "I'm not."
"How do you know?" Regulus asks. "You haven't done any magic."
"Have so."
"Have not."
"Have so!" Sirius insists, shifting away from his brother. "Go away."
He gives Regulus a shove, but Regulus only moves closer, burrowing further into Sirius' side. Sighing, Sirius retrieves his Standard Book of Spells, Grade One and opens it across his lap. Chapter One talks about wands and the proper way to hold them. Sirius thinks of his own -- ebony and dragons heart-string, ten inches, purchased just yesterday and packed in his trunk -- and he wishes he'd smuggled it downstairs with his book.
"I don't want you to go," Regulus mumbles, his mouth pressed against Sirius' shoulder. He sounds small. "I'll be so bored."
"I'll be back for Christmas," Sirius replies. Deep down, Sirius isn't sure he wants to go, either. Hogwarts is new and big and he's never slept away from home. "That's only a couple of months."
"Who will I play with?" Regulus asks.
"Kreacher, I guess."
"Kreacher's no fun," Regulus complains. "He never wants to play what I want to play, and he cheats at Hide and Find."
"No one cheats at Hide and Find," Sirius says.
"He does," Regulus insists. "If I get too close to where he's hiding he Apparates somewhere else and that's not fair because I can't Apparate and if you hide somewhere you're supposed to stay there."
"That's a silly game, anyway," Sirius says. "You're too old for it."
"You'll write me, won't you?" Regulus asks. He sits up, frowning, and his fingers twist in Sirius' sleeve.
"I'll write," Sirius promises. Regulus settles against him again, his head pillowed on Sirius' shoulder, and Sirius ghosts a hand through his hair. "I'll write."
Grimmauld Place creaks, a stretched, pained sound that echoes through the drawing room. Regulus jumps, and Sirius' book falls from his lap.
"Sirius? Regulus? It's time you were in bed!"
"Yes, Mother," Sirius replies. He slides off the couch and collects his book, hiding it inside his robes.
"Can I sleep in your room, tonight?" Regulus asks.
"Yeah," Sirius says. "Put your pillow under your covers like I showed you, and wait until she goes to bed."
--
Dear Sirius,
Mother says it's silly for me to write you already
since your probably still on the train, but I don't care. I'm
terribly bored without you, and we just got home from the station.
You'll have to tell me all about school, and about Slytherin.
Mother's sure you'll be in Slytherin. I miss you.
--
vii. to the last syllable of recorded time
Everything is cold and dark and dead and the sky that peeks through the tiny window is the same grey as the walls and he can hear the ocean but he can't feel it and the sun rises and sets and he never sees it but the moon is always there.
Things come and go as they please crawling through the window and slipping under the door and they float and hover and wait and his mind screams and his memories slip through his fingers like water dripping down his arms and legs to puddle uselessly on the floor next to feet he doesn't recognise.
Rats scuttle across through the dirt with bristly fur and stringy tails and gnashing chattering teeth and it's dark enough that he never really sees them but he hears them and he knows they're there and they make him hate but he doesn't quite know why.
He pulls his hair to remember James and bites his lip to remember Harry and scratches his skin to remember Remus and when his fingers wander the curves of his own face he thinks he still has a brother but the shadows twist away from the corners and he sees snow in a dark alley and a bleeding snake and someone who's dead.
Things creep into his mind slithering in through his eyes and mouth and nose and they dig for things he doesn't have and they ask for the truth because they want to know and they want to eat it and drink it and live it and he screams that they can't live because they're dead and he promises that there's no more truth and they ask for his secrets instead but he has nothing left to give.
He thinks there was a time when stone walls made him feel safe and secure and warm but they scare him now and make him cold and he shivers when he thinks of the colour red but he hasn't seen red in a long time and he's forgot what gold looks like and everything is grey and white except for when it's black.
He's black he thinks and the brother he never quite had is black unless the snow in the alley and the snake mean the brother is dead then the brother was black not is but he doesn't know what black means and the idea leaves him colder than the walls.
The moon cuts a careful arc through the sky and the ocean tries its best to wear away the stone.
Things whisper outside the door and Padfoot whines.
--
I know I will be dead long before you read this
but I want you to know it was I who discovered your secret.
--
FIN
Pairing: Regulus/Sirius
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest. At one point, the boys are underage. Also, mind the dead body in the first section. Not that it does much, but you know. Dead body.
Summary: This is a thing that never should have started.
A/N: Written for
7spells, for which I chose Regulus/Sirius, and Prompt Set Two. This was meant to be seven different ficlets, but that didn't work out so well. Instead, I bring you one fic with a section for each prompt. Many thanks to happiestwhen.(i called you brother 7 times)
::
vi. cold hands cold feet
People often link Sirius' family to the Dark Arts, but despite the rumours, despite the things whispered in the bogs and corners of Knocturn Alley, the familiarity only goes so far. Sirius has never cast the Killing Curse, had never seen it cast until the war started. A year ago, he wouldn't have known a murdered man and from the unfortunate victim of a heart attack. Now, he can recognise the signs of Avada Kedavra at fifty feet.
Regulus is cold.
The street lamps burn with a strained, weak light that washes his body in a jaundiced, amber glow. Snow falls quietly, frosting the pavement like sugar. It crunches softly under Sirius' heels as he kneels at his brother's feet.
He reaches out, his hand hovering over the toe of Regulus' boot, his thumb poised just above the scuffed, black leather. Voices skitter down the alley, climbing the back wall of the pub like vines, and Sirius' fingers curl in the material of Regulus' trousers.
"Breathe," he tells his brother. He chokes, his shaky voice trapped in the back of his throat because he's forgot how to breathe himself.
Regulus' stillness is infinite, stubborn. Snow mingles with his hair, greying it, forming it into heavy strands that cling damply to his forehead. Sirius leans forward over this thing that was once his brother and uses an unsteady hand to brush it away.
"I hate you," Sirius begins, but it freezes on his tongue before it's said, hangs frozen in the sharp, February air. Sirius swallows it, because the lies don't matter any more. Regulus is no longer alive to hear them.
Sirius hears his heart beat, imagines the emptiness in Regulus' chest, and in that moment, the war stops being about right and wrong or winners and losers. It becomes a matter of survival. Revenge.
In that moment, Sirius imagines Regulus the last time he saw him -- flushed, half-naked, wrists pinned above his head against a Knockturn Alley wall. He remembers the way Regulus' knee crept between his legs, the way Regulus' teeth scored the soft skin of his neck, the way Regulus whispered don't and stop around his name.
He buries his face in Regulus' neck, his cock hard and heavy against the cold stillness of Regulus' thigh. Shadows stretch across the alley as the wind picks up, dancing over Regulus' body, rustling his hair, his shirt. Sirius hears his heart beat again, and he almost expects Regulus to move, almost expects Regulus to arch up against him the way he did before the colour left his cheeks and Avada Kedavra stole the light from his eyes.
Sirius feels fevered, filled with a sick, prickly heat that mocks the lifeless shell underneath him. His hips jerk forward before he can stop them, searching for friction he knows he shouldn't want, his body begging him to finish this thing that never should have been allowed to start.
In the line of Regulus' jaw Sirius sees the attic of Grimmauld Place. They are young, full of childish urges and stolen wine, a sweaty twist of clumsy mouths and nervous, unsure hands. Regulus' cock is hard against his hip, and Sirius' face burns with shame because he likes the way it feels.
Regulus' fingers are small and wet with snow, and they bend stiffly as Sirius tries to twist them around his own.
The pub's back door flies open, splintering against the faded bricks as the final leg of the battle spills into the alley. The midnight sky explodes in a jumble of light and hexes and noise, and Sirius flattens himself against his brother's body.
"Sirius."
Remus' voice is thin, laced with fear, and his tired face is wreathed in spells and moonlight. Sirius teeters on the edge, his cock aching, but he almost welcomes the intrusion.
"Is that..."
"Yeah."
Remus studies Regulus silently, his lips pressed into a thin line. Sirius watches him, his hammering heart trapped in his throat, but Remus' gaze slides to Regulus' arm, and with an anxious breath Sirius allows his to follow.
Regulus is in the open, without a hood or cloak, and his sleeve is rolled up, baring his Dark Mark to the night sky. Red slashes mar the skull and snake, jagged knife wounds that have recently stopped bleeding, and Sirius finds himself wondering where Regulus' loyalties had lied.
"I'll get Dumbledore," Remus says quietly.
"James?"
"He's fine," Remus replies. "He took a nasty curse, but Moody says it's nothing to worry about."
"I shouldn't have left him," Sirius says.
"Lily needed you," Remus reasons. "She's too pregnant to Apparate on her own."
"How is she?" Sirius asks. They'd barely reached James and Lily's flat before Sirius Apparated back, but he looks at the snow melting between Regulus' fingers and thinks of the tears staining her face.
"Molly just went to check on her," Remus replies. He sighs, a soft, sad noise. "I'll get Dumbledore."
"I shouldn't have left him," Sirius says again. He doesn't know if he's talking about Regulus or James.
He shudders against Regulus' body as soon as Remus turns away. His release leaves him empty and cold, as void as the thing underneath him, and at the edge of his vision the world flashes green.
To the Dark Lord
I know I will be dead long before you read this
but I want you to know it was I who discovered your secret.
I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.
I face death in the hope that when you meet your match
you will be human once more.
--
v. the puppet master
The Order talks.
It's ranks are full of off-duty Aurors and kids who left Hogwarts this last June, two groups of people who spend entirely too much time in pubs. After a couple of rounds they forget they aren't supposed to know each other, and after a couple more they forget they shouldn't discuss certain things in public.
No one wants to be the one who says it to Sirius' face, but Sirius knows. Sirius has heard.
The Boar's Knuckle looms at the edge of Knocturn Alley, so far from The Leaky Cauldron in both location and atmosphere it might as well be across the arch in Muggle London. It's a crumbling, misshappen lump of wood held together by rusty nails and mumbled spells, and wedged between a brothel and an abandoned warehouse, it festers in the middle of a dark passage like a boil.
Sirius waits across from the front door, hiding in the shadows of a dilapidated building that's large, broken windows suggest it might have once been a shop. He pulls a cigarette from the pocket of his cloak, lights it with the engraved, silver lighter Peter gave him last Christmas. The grey smoke lingers in front of his face, burns his throat in a way that warms him against the brisk, early evening air.
An hour crawls by, marked only by the sun's slow progress toward the horizon, and The Boar's Knuckle's patrons come and go. Sirius decides in the first fifteen minutes that if this lot is the usual custom, he doesn't want to know what the gutted shop behind him used to sell.
The door of The Boar's Knuckle opens, creaking with both age and disrepair. Two people slither outside, hooded and cloaked in a way that's a bit much for the weather -- which is cool, but not cold -- and Sirius lights another cigarette, watches them from behind lowered lashes and the bright flare of his lighter's flame.
One is tall and slim, and underneath his clothes Sirius catches a glimpse of pale hair curtaining paler features and a familiar, gilt and ebony cane. Malfoy's companion is shorter and female, and Sirius thinks if he looks under her hood he'll find his cousin's face. They pause in the middle of the alley, standing squarely between Sirius and the door, and Sirius braces himself for a fight, his stomach knotting in a twist of excitement and fear.
A third exits the pub, and Sirius is suddenly cold. He can't see the straggler's face, but Sirius knows his brother's body too well to be fooled by a hood and a few yards of black wool. His cigarette slips from his fingers, smoulders quietly on the uneven cobblestones. Regulus speaks to Malfoy, his hand resting lightly on Malfoy's sleeve, and the Order's rumours echo in Sirius' ears.
He pulls a ring from his pocket -- a silver and onyx signet he inherited from his uncle. It's heavy in his hand, a cold weight in the centre of his palm, and he throws it sooner than he should simply to be rid of it. Regulus pauses as it arcs through the air, glittering like copper in the poor light, and it hits him in the shoulder, lands next to his foot with a muted, metallic whisper.
"I'll catch up with you," he murmurs to Malfoy. "I think I left my wand back at the pub."
Malfoy replies sharply; Sirius misses the words, but the caustic edge to his voice cuts the space between them like a knife. Bellatrix laughs, a sound like shattering glass, following Malfoy as he disappears into the shadows. Regulus doesn't watch them go.
"I didn't want to believe it," Sirius says quietly.
"Sirius, I..." Regulus' voice falters, fails, and he seems to fold in on himself as he studies the filthy pavement stretching under his feet.
"Stupid," Sirius spits. He steps away from the abandoned shop, lingering at the edge of the shadows it affords, and Regulus looks up at him. His face is pale and drawn, almost ghostly, and the rest of Sirius' lecture catches in the back of his throat, unspent vitriol burning his tongue.
"Sirius." Regulus starts strong, forcing each clipped syllable through clenched teeth, but his next breath ends in a sigh.
A pained shriek from rusty hinges rips through the sudden silence, and a squat man with greying hair shuffles out of the Boar's Knuckle. Regulus ignores him, straightening his cloak and fiddling with his wand like he means to Apparate. Sirius slouches back into the shadows, and once the man passes, Regulus joins him.
It starts to rain.
"You don't understand," Regulus begins.
"What's there to understand?" Sirius demands. He's not sure he wants an answer. He thinks of the rubbish about bloodlines and pureblood superiority their mother has been spewing since Sirius was old enough to listen, and a cold weight settles in his pit of his stomach.
"Do you think I asked for this?" Regulus hisses. His body twists strangely, as if he's torn between approaching Sirius and recoiling. "Do you think I wanted it?"
"I swear to God, Regulus, if you tell me this was her idea, I'll--"
"What, then?" Regulus asks sharply. "What will you do? Hit me? It's not like you haven't done it before." He laughs, a harsh, humourless sound. "Or will you run away, again? Will you bugger off with Potter so you can forget you have a family and pretend you're not alone?"
Sirius can't breathe. Words suddenly feel pointless, endless. He lunges. He's hard before his fingers brush Regulus' cloak, and Regulus hits the shop's crumbling wall with an oddly soft sound.
Sirius,
I don't expect you to understand why.
You've never understood anything I've ever said or done.
Just remember that I'm not you. I never have been. Just remember
that things have been different since you left. Believe
me when I say I didn't have much choice.
--
iv. a broken circle
Mrs Potter doesn't bat an eyelash. She yells for James to come downstairs and help Sirius with his things, and she makes a linen cupboard into a bedroom with a few flicks of her wand. It's blue and pink and floral, and James is horrified by the lace things on the tables, but Sirius loves it more than he's loved anything in his life.
Regulus writes him every day the first week, and every other day the next. Sirius curses at the owl each time it pecks his window, and he sends it back with empty claws. He opens the letters only to drop them on the floor after Dear Sirius, and when she tidies up, Mrs Potter lays them neatly on his desk.
By 31 August, Regulus hasn't written him in a week. Half of Sirius is hurt and the other half isn't, and he wonders if Regulus stopped caring or if he just grew tired of talking to himself. He doesn't wonder about their mother, or that house. He can't.
The letter in his hand is dated 11 June, and he makes it as far as Dear Sirius, I hope... before he's interrupted by a knock at the door.
"James?" Sirius asks.
"Not quite," Mrs Potter replies. "Are you decent?"
"Mostly," Sirius admits. The prickly summer heat has beaten him down to an undershirt and y-fronts.
"I'll chance it."
She opens the door before he can find his trousers. Her greying hair is arranged in a hasty knot on the top of her head, and she laughs like a schoolgirl at the way Sirius blushes.
"I've told you before, Sirius," she says. "I'm a married woman with a grown son. You haven't anything I didn't see when I was changing James' nappies."
"I know, Mrs Potter."
"And for Merlin's sake, stop calling me 'Mrs Potter'," she continues. "My name is Evelyn. I know you're only trying to be polite, and that, but you've been here near on three months, and you're my son's best friend." She pauses to wag a chiding finger at him. "All your 'Mrs Potter this' and 'Mrs Potter that' is making me feel older than I am."
Her hands settle on her hips, elbows sharply angled, and Sirius feels compelled to obey. He nods.
"All right, what did I come in here for?" she asks. Sirius doesn't reply; he's learned that when she asks these kinds of questions she doesn't want an answer. "Oh. Of course!" She sighs and pats at her hair. "James and I are off for Diagon Alley. I figure it's time to get his books and things, what with school starting tomorrow."
"Right," Sirius mutters. His Hogwarts letter is buried at the bottom of Regulus' missives. "Tomorrow."
"Care to join us, then?" she asks.
"Oh," Sirius says. "No, thank you."
"What about your books?" she demands.
He mumbles.
Mrs Potter sniffs. "I'm not sure I caught that, Sirius." Her hands settle on her hips again.
"I haven't any money," he admits, and he swears there's Imperio in that gesture. "I've already spent the little I brought with me, and my parents aren't like to give me any more."
"How will you study, then?"
"They've copies in the Library," Sirius says. "Or I can borrow from Remus. He always does his lessons early."
"Nonsense," she says. "I assume you're in the same classes as James?" she asks, and at Sirius' stubborn silence, she pulls her wand. "Accio Hogwarts Letter!"
His desk erupts into a cloud of parchment, and Regulus' letters rain down like hail. His Hogwarts letter flies into her hand, and she rearranges the others as she read with a lazy flick of her wrist.
"I'm taking Divs instead of Arithmancy," Sirius says quietly.
"Divs is rubbish," she comments, shaking her head. "You should drop it for something useful. Ancient Runes, maybe. Or Muggle Studies."
"Muggle Studies?"
"You never know," she warns. "What if you have a Floo accident and end up in Muggle London? How would you get home, not knowing how to hail a maxicab or find their Lube?"
"I'd Apparate, I suppose," Sirius says.
"Teenagers," she mutters. "Have an answer for everything, don't they?" Sirius thinks this is another one of those questions, and he presses his lips together. "Never mind all that. We'll get your books today."
"You can't," Sirius says. "That's too much money!"
"Too much, indeed," she replies, waving him off. "In case you haven't noticed, my husband and I have more money than we know what to do with."
"But it's yours," Sirius argues.
"It is," she agrees, "and it's mine to spend on whatever pleases me. Including your books. And I might as well spend it before I die. It'll go to James, otherwise, and he'd only piss it away on women and Firewhisky."
Sirius laughs, because it's true.
"Be ready in fifteen minutes," she says, with an air of finality.
"No," Sirius starts. "I'd--"
"We already went 'round about this," she says. "I'm buying your books, and I'll hear no more about it."
"It's not that," Sirius says. "Well, it's that, too, but mostly, I just don't want to go."
He glances at the tower of parchment on his desk, and Mrs Potter sighs.
"Get some rest, Sirius," she says. "You've an important day, tomorrow. James and I will be back in a few hours."
Sirius turns back to Regulus' letter. 11 June, the morning after he left.
Dear Sirius,
Dear Sirius, I...
Dear Sirius, I hope...
Dear Sirius, I hope this...
An owl pecks at his window, and he frowns at the familiar tawny feathers. He favours it with a rude gesture, but it persists.
"I don't want it," Sirius snaps, as he flings the window open. "Return to sender."
The owl clicks its beak, ruffles its feathers. The letter it drops on the windowsill is thick, as if the dam on Regulus' sudden silence burst and flooded three yards of parchment.
Sirius throws the letter out the window, and the owl squawks at him in shock. He doesn't hear it hit the ground. He leans out the window, and finds Regulus perched on a branch of the ancient oak that taps on his window in the wind.
"What do you want?"
"I want to talk." Regulus looks tired. The skin under his eyes is nearly purple, and his face is thinner than Sirius remembers.
"There's nothing to say," Sirius says shortly.
He turns, but he doesn't shut the window. Regulus follows. He clamours over the windowsill with the owl fluttering around his head like a mad pixie. Sirius ignores them both and Banishes Regulus' letters to the bottom of his wardrobe.
"How did you get here?" Sirius asks. Regulus is fully dressed, robes and all, and Sirius feels strangely exposed.
"I walked some," Regulus says. "I flew some."
"Flew what?" Sirius asks. Regulus' hair is neat, clipped short. Sirius' fringe falls in his eyes when he turns to look at Regulus, and he bats at it with an impatient hand. "You left your broom at school."
"I did," Regulus says. "I borrowed Mother's flying carpet."
"Stole, you mean."
Regulus shrugs. He has twigs stuck in the collar of his robes. He stares at Sirius, and Sirius flops down on the bed to avoid the scrutiny.
"Why are you here?" Sirius asks, mostly to his blankets.
"I want to talk," Regulus says.
"You're not."
"I know."
Silence spreads through the room, waiting for one of them to speak. Neither does. The bed dips, springs creaking. Sirius rolls onto his back, and Regulus curls up in the curve of his arm, pillowing his head on Sirius' shoulder.
"Regulus."
"Let me," Regulus says. He burrows deeper, reaches blindly for the blankets. "I haven't slept since you left."
Sirius shivers. His chest tightens. "You're leaving when James gets back."
"I know," Regulus mumbles. "I know."
Dear Mother
I hope this letter finds you well. School is fine.
I dropped Divinations like you wanted, and I plan to ask
Dumbledore if I can use that time for independent study in Defence.
I saw him today, but he wouldn't talk to me.
I don't think he's ever coming home.
--
iii. five shades of white
Dumbledore sits, which rings in seven o'clock as clearly as a bell tower. The first course appears when he clears his throat, and the charmed ceiling shows a slowly darkening sky.
It's twenty-eight days later.
James sits in-between Sirius and Remus, and he eats like it's his last meal. Sirius ignores his food, and in the corner of his eye Remus is pale and silent. Next to Remus, Peter fiddles restlessly with a pot of salad cream. This sudden change in their usual seating arrangements -- James in-between Sirius and Peter; Remus on Sirius' other side -- seems to upset him.
It seems to upset the rest of Gryffindor, as well. They watch the four of them from behind their rolls and over their glasses of pumpkin juice. They manage to keep their whispers a hair below audible; Sirius' ears burn as he strains to hear.
Their greens suddenly transform into Sheppard's pies. James attacks his immediately, tucking in with a bit of lettuce still hanging from the end of his fork. The pies are perfectly round and full, and Remus pushes away his plate.
"Eat," James chides.
"I'm not hungry," Remus replies. He retrieves his napkin from his lap and lays it over his pie like a funeral shroud.
"Eat, anyway," James says, undaunted.
"I'll only be sick," Remus argues. He pitches his voice so low Sirius can barely make out the words, but their half of the table is staring like their having a row at the top of their lungs.
James sighs around a mouthful of roll. "You'll be sick either way. You might as well have something in your stomach."
"Leave off," Remus snaps. It's almost a growl; this close to moonrise Remus' temper is short. "You're not my mum."
James sighs again and favours Sirius with a sideways glance. This is when James usually says talk to him, Sirius, he'll listen to you, but he doesn't. He can't.
Remus is barely speaking to Sirius, and Sirius considers himself lucky for every word he gets.
The Sheppard's pies shift into treacle. The sky over Dumbledore's head is practically black and pitted with stars, and Peter fumbles with his bowl until half his treacle slops into his lap.
"Evanesco," James barks.
The treacle flees, and after a strange, shimmering moment of indecision, so do Peter's trousers. His open robes frame diagonally striped pants that match his tie. The handful of students near Peter titter with nervous laughter, and Remus excuses himself from the table with shaking hands.
Sirius looks at Snape.
Snape is hunched over, stabbing at his treacle so violently Sirius fancies he can hear his wrist bones snapping. Sirius retreats behind his pumpkin juice when James kicks him under the table. Snape doesn't watch Remus go, but as Sirius sets his glass aside he notices Regulus does.
Dumbledore had sworn them all to secrecy. He'd forbidden them from talking about the incident after leaving his office, but Sirius, James, and Peter spoke of it almost daily. Regulus' eyes are curious and intent, narrowing as Remus slips through the door, and Sirius wonders if Snape forgot what he promised Dumbledore as easily as he and his friends did.
They could be friends. They could be. Sirius has never seen them together, has never heard Regulus mention him, but Regulus glances at Snape once Remus disappears, and Sirius decides they could be. They are both outcasts in their house -- Snape because of his sourness and ugliness and the rumours of his dubious bloodlines; Regulus because he's shy and bookish and related to Sirius.
James stops coaching Peter on how to Transfigure his napkin into a pair of trousers long enough to kick Sirius under the table again. Sirius cuffs James in the head, and when he turns back to the Slytherin table Snape has left and Regulus is leaving.
"What's this, then?" Marlene McKinnon asks, leaning across Peter to poke James in the shoulder with her spoon. She gestures toward the door Remus used -- the same door Snape used and the same door Regulus is opening. "Were we not invited to a party?"
"I'll just find out." Quickly, Sirius rises. James grabs his sleeve, and Sirius tries to shrug him off.
"Don't," James says. "You'll only fight."
"Remus," Sirius blurts. He rarely lies to James, and bitterness coats his tongue. "I'm worried about Remus."
James arches an eyebrow. "Just today, like?"
"Sod you," Sirius snaps. "Geroff," he adds, and pulls his sleeve free from James' fingers.
"Sirius."
"He's my brother!"
"I am not my brother's keeper," James quotes.
"Oh, Potter!" McKinnon, whose Muggle father raised her Catholic, smiles from ear to ear. "You were listening the other night!"
"Of course I was," James says. "Interesting stuff, your Muggle religion."
"Don't be fooled, McKinnon," Sirius cuts in. "You were discussing it with Evans. That's about the only thing he found interesting."
"That's not true!" James argues. "Evans had nothing to do with it!"
"Talking about me again, Potter?" Evans, who is four seats up from McKinnon, doesn't bother to look over.
"Sod you, Black," James grumbles. "Bugger off after your brother, then. And if he breaks your nose again, I won't be fixing it."
"If Evans stuffs your next love letter in your ear, I won't help you charm it out," Sirius counters, and McKinnon laughs.
"Don't mind Sirius, McKinnon," James says. "He's completely mad."
"Oh, I already knew that," McKinnon replies, winking.
"Runs in the family," Peter observes, and Sirius yanks on his ear as he passes.
He finds his brother outside the blank wall that serves as the door to Slytherin. Regulus paces, taking a short circuit with nervous, uneven steps, and he frowns as Sirius approaches.
"What are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?" Sirius returns.
"I'm allowed to be down here," Regulus replies. "I'm a Slytherin," he adds, and Sirius dislikes his lofty tone.
"Not so loud," Sirius snaps. "It's not something you should brag about."
"Yes, because Gryffindors are such a decent and trustworthy lot."
The line of Regulus' jaw is sharp under Sirius' fist. His head whips back, barely missing the wall behind him. He straightens slowly, carefully. He purses his lips, and blood wells in the corner of his mouth.
"As I was saying," Regulus murmurs. "Decent and trustworthy." He pauses to poke at his lip with a fingertip. "Kind and loving, as well," he adds. "Stop me when I lie."
Growling, Sirius swings again, but Regulus is quicker this time. He ducks out of the way just as Sirius' blow should have connected, and Sirius' knuckles barely graze his cheek. He catches Sirius by the wrist, pulling him close. His tongue tastes of copper, and it curls around Sirius' like a snake.
"Just once." Sirius closes his eyes, mumbles the words against his brother's mouth.
"It's always been just once," Regulus says, and Sirius thinks that's a lie.
Once became twice became thrice became too much. This should stop, but it never should have started, and Sirius' breath catches when Regulus presses him back against the wall.
Regulus' hands are still as small as they were the first time. His palms are sweaty, damp, one creeping under Sirius' shirt and the other stealing inside his flies, and Sirius' hips hitch up, seeking the familiar heat he shouldn't want.
They kiss the way they always have -- fast and hard, with frantic lips and desperate tongues. Regulus moans, grinding his cock against Sirius' hip. They have to be quick, they have to hurry. Sirius bites at Regulus' lower lip and twists his hands in Regulus' hair. They shouldn't have started but since they have they need to finish before someone finds out, before someone sees. Regulus' fingers slip over Sirius' cock, and his eyes are almost black as he sinks to his knees.
Regulus' mouth is hot and wet and perfect, and Sirius hisses at the way Regulus' tongue curls around his length. Regulus fists his own cock as he sucks, his hips thrusting and his hand lost in the mire of his robes. Sirius hears a sound that could be footsteps, but he knows it's probably just his heart.
Sirius thinks just once as he comes, but Regulus' eyes are closed.
When he goes outside, the moon is high and full. She's silvery-white and awful, and Padfoot breaks into a run.
Severus
I would prefer to say this in person,
but you've been avoiding me of late, which makes
that difficult. I wish to apologise for my brother's
behaviour. I don't know what's come over him.
He has not been himself, recently.
--
ii. dishevelled
She's screaming again.
Her tirade fills the house, whistling through the rooms like the wind. Sirius can't hear the words any more, only hears the frantic, piercing rise and fall of her shrieks. He wonders who her target is -- if she's yelling at their father, at Kreacher, at Uncle Sargas' portrait in the hallway.
He wonders if she's yelling at them, and just doesn't realise they are no longer there.
The attic is cold and draughty, and an ancient oil-lamp hangs precariously from the centre beam. Dust lingers on the antique furniture and forgotten heirlooms, tarnishing the family honour. Sirius and Regulus wait for the inevitable between a sheet-draped harpsichord and stack of trunks marked 'Perseus Black', hidden under a pile of musty blankets and the sudden plunge of the roof.
Their mother's voice seeps through the floorboards, upsetting the dust and cobwebs as it curls around the room. The rain interrupts her, chattering against the tiny window over their heads, and Regulus passes Sirius the wine.
It's sour and practically black, a temperamental vintage that was bottled almost a century before either of them were born. It clings to Sirius' tongue, bitter and horrid, but it warms him, a slow burn from the inside out, and he forces it down.
"Do you think she'll find us?" Regulus asks slowly. He slurs slightly, but not enough to dull the nervous edge to his voice.
"No," Sirius replies, after another swallow of wine. He doubts anyone has been up to the attic in years, doubts his mother remembers this house has an attic, at all.
"I hope not," Regulus mumbles. He slouches down the wall he's leaning against until he's hopelessly lost in the blankets.
"You're drunk," Sirius observes. They're halfway through their second bottle; Sirius is heated and lethargic, feels a bit muzzy. He thinks of all the Firewhisky he and James have stashed all over Gryffindor, and he wonders if Regulus drinks at school.
"Not much," Regulus says.
Silence creeps through the attic, and Sirius allows it. His brother's breathing is even, shallow, and Sirius wishes they could sleep up here. He knows they have to go back downstairs eventually, but he wants to put it off as long as possible, wants to enjoy this fleeting moment of peace.
Regulus stretches against him, murmuring softly. He's a confused twist of blankets and too-long limbs and sharp elbows that catch Sirius in all the wrong places, but Sirius allows this, as well. Regulus is warm, and -- despite his boyish angles -- soft, and like everything in Grimmauld Place, the attic is not.
The wine bottle is now tucked behind Sirius' head, and Sirius clucks his tongue when Regulus reaches for it, catching Regulus by the wrist. Regulus ignores him; he shifts until he's straddling Sirius' leg and pulls the bottle free with Sirius' fingers digging into his skin.
"You've had enough," Sirius says.
"Have not," Regulus replies. He tries to twist free of Sirius' grasp, but the bottle in his hand makes him clumsily, as does the wine in his belly. Sighing, he leans over Sirius, bringing his mouth closer to the bottle.
Sirius watches Regulus' throat work as he swallows, and he can feel Regulus' pulse under his thumb.
Downstairs, their mother rages as efficiently as the storm outside.
Regulus pulls a face as he lowers the bottle, and offers it to Sirius with a shudder. Sirius shakes his head, but when the cool glass presses against his lips they part around it, and he swallows because he'll choke if he doesn't. Regulus slumps against him, resting his head on Sirius' shoulder, and the wine's sourness makes Sirius think of poison and Potions class.
"It's Christmas, tomorrow," Regulus says. "What did you ask for?"
"I want a new broom," Sirius replies. "But I didn't ask for it."
"I asked for a new cauldron. Mine has a dent from when you threw it at Kreacher last summer, and I can't get the spell right to fix it." Regulus says. "Why didn't you ask? You made Quidditch."
"For the wrong House," Sirius grumbles. He suddenly wants Regulus off him; Regulus is heavy and the weight is making his arm numb. "They're not like to buy me a new broom when I'm not playing for Slytherin."
Lightning flashes through the tiny window, and their father's low, rumbling voice creeps into the attic in a way that rivals the thunder. It washes over their mother's tirade just as she reaches a fever pitch, and when she suddenly ceases, Sirius wonders if he silenced her with his wand or his hands.
"I want to go back to school," Regulus mumbles.
"Me too," Sirius admits. He doesn't much care for all the studying and books, but he craves the solid warmth of Hogwarts and he misses his friends, who he'd think of as family if he didn't consider the word an insult.
Regulus' hair brushes across Sirius' face, tickling his nose. He manages to pull his arm free, but the wind picks up, rattling against the window, and he wraps it around Regulus' waist.
"We should go," Sirius says. Their mother hasn't made another sound, which means she's retired to her room, hiding while she unhexes herself or charms away her black eye.
"I don't want to," Regulus argues. "Can't we sleep here tonight?"
"No," Sirius says. "She'll find us if we stay up here too long, and then we won't be able to hide here ever again."
"I don't care," Regulus replies, and Sirius' skin prickles as Regulus' lips move against his neck.
"You will, when you have to hide from her next fit under your bed and alone," Sirius counters.
Sirius tries to sit up, but Regulus clings to him. He curls his arms around Sirius' neck and catches his fingers in Sirius' hair, and something hard presses against Sirius' thigh.
"Regulus?"
"Shut up!"
Sirius closes his eyes.
"Shut up, Sirius!" Regulus begs, even though Sirius didn't say anything, and his voice is high and thin. "I can't help it. You're warm and you feel nice and I've had too much to drink and won't you kiss me, Sirius, please?"
"Oh, God." Sirius can't move, can't breathe, feels as breathless and boneless as he did when the Whomping Willow caught him in the gut and threw him a hundred feet.
"Just once, Sirius." Regulus is speaking into Sirius' neck again, soft lips fluttering over his skin, and Sirius twists the tails of Regulus' shirt around his fingers. "Just once. I won't tell anyone, I promise."
Sirius' mouth falls open, his lips curling around an argument he can't quite find, and Regulus' chases it away with his tongue. It's sloppy and horribly wet and Regulus doesn't seem to know what to do with his nose because it jabs sharply into Sirius' cheek.
You're my brother, Sirius thinks wildly, but the ghost of his mother's screams echo in his ears, and he wonders if that really means anything.
Sirius pulls Regulus closer, lets his tongue slip inside his brother's mouth. Regulus twists in his arms, rubbing his cock against Sirius' thigh with sharp jerks of his hips, and a strange heat flares over Sirius' skin.
"Just once," Sirius mumbles. "Just once, and you can't tell anyone. Ever."
"I won't," Regulus gasps. "I won't. Not ever. I promise."
Dear Mother
I shouldn't be writing this. He'd hate me
if he knew I was. He says you're mad. He says
you hate us. I don't want to believe him, but I can't
help it. He wouldn't lie to me. I can't tell you
why I think that. I promised I wouldn't.
--
i. instrumental
Grimmauld Place is wrapped in silence. Sirius sits in the drawing room, tucked into the corner of an ancient, brocade couch. A brand new copy of Standard Book of Spells, Grade One rests in his lap, and Sirius thumbs through it anxiously, his stomach aching each time he turns the page.
He hears the soft shuffle of feet in the hallway, looks up just as the door creaks open. Regulus hesitates in the doorway, peering at Sirius like he's afraid to come in. The light from the dying fire casts funny shadows across Regulus' face. He has horns, then he doesn't; he has a moustache, then it's gone.
"Do not bother your brother, Regulus," their mother calls. "He has an important day, tomorrow."
"I won't, Mother," Regulus promises. He steps inside the drawing room, but hesitates again, his hands folded neatly in front of him.
"Sirius?" Her voice is harsh, expectant.
"Yes, Mother?"
"Your things need to be ready before bed," she says.
"They are--"
"I want your books packed in your trunk, and I want your clothes laid out," she continues. "You will wear your black trousers and your green sweater."
"My books are packed," Sirius says. He closes Standard Book of Spells, Grade One, and tucks it behind his back. "Kreacher already put out my clothes."
"He laid out your red sweater," his mother argues. "You will wear the green."
"Yes, Mother."
Sirius looks up at Regulus; the shadows have given him a beard now, a long, pointed thing that practically reaches his knees. Regulus approaches slowly, glancing over his shoulder for their mother. When she doesn't shout, doesn't appear in the doorway, Regulus crawls onto the couch and curls up at Sirius' side like a cat.
"Do you have to go, tomorrow?" he asks.
"Yes," Sirius replies.
"Why?"
"Because I have to," Sirius says simply.
"No, you don't," Regulus argues. "Brad Parkinson isn't going," he adds. "Mother was talking to Parkinson's mum at Flourish and Blotts when we went to get your books."
"Brad Parkinson is a Squib," Sirius replies. "I'm not."
"How do you know?" Regulus asks. "You haven't done any magic."
"Have so."
"Have not."
"Have so!" Sirius insists, shifting away from his brother. "Go away."
He gives Regulus a shove, but Regulus only moves closer, burrowing further into Sirius' side. Sighing, Sirius retrieves his Standard Book of Spells, Grade One and opens it across his lap. Chapter One talks about wands and the proper way to hold them. Sirius thinks of his own -- ebony and dragons heart-string, ten inches, purchased just yesterday and packed in his trunk -- and he wishes he'd smuggled it downstairs with his book.
"I don't want you to go," Regulus mumbles, his mouth pressed against Sirius' shoulder. He sounds small. "I'll be so bored."
"I'll be back for Christmas," Sirius replies. Deep down, Sirius isn't sure he wants to go, either. Hogwarts is new and big and he's never slept away from home. "That's only a couple of months."
"Who will I play with?" Regulus asks.
"Kreacher, I guess."
"Kreacher's no fun," Regulus complains. "He never wants to play what I want to play, and he cheats at Hide and Find."
"No one cheats at Hide and Find," Sirius says.
"He does," Regulus insists. "If I get too close to where he's hiding he Apparates somewhere else and that's not fair because I can't Apparate and if you hide somewhere you're supposed to stay there."
"That's a silly game, anyway," Sirius says. "You're too old for it."
"You'll write me, won't you?" Regulus asks. He sits up, frowning, and his fingers twist in Sirius' sleeve.
"I'll write," Sirius promises. Regulus settles against him again, his head pillowed on Sirius' shoulder, and Sirius ghosts a hand through his hair. "I'll write."
Grimmauld Place creaks, a stretched, pained sound that echoes through the drawing room. Regulus jumps, and Sirius' book falls from his lap.
"Sirius? Regulus? It's time you were in bed!"
"Yes, Mother," Sirius replies. He slides off the couch and collects his book, hiding it inside his robes.
"Can I sleep in your room, tonight?" Regulus asks.
"Yeah," Sirius says. "Put your pillow under your covers like I showed you, and wait until she goes to bed."
Dear Sirius,
Mother says it's silly for me to write you already
since your probably still on the train, but I don't care. I'm
terribly bored without you, and we just got home from the station.
You'll have to tell me all about school, and about Slytherin.
Mother's sure you'll be in Slytherin. I miss you.
--
vii. to the last syllable of recorded time
Everything is cold and dark and dead and the sky that peeks through the tiny window is the same grey as the walls and he can hear the ocean but he can't feel it and the sun rises and sets and he never sees it but the moon is always there.
Things come and go as they please crawling through the window and slipping under the door and they float and hover and wait and his mind screams and his memories slip through his fingers like water dripping down his arms and legs to puddle uselessly on the floor next to feet he doesn't recognise.
Rats scuttle across through the dirt with bristly fur and stringy tails and gnashing chattering teeth and it's dark enough that he never really sees them but he hears them and he knows they're there and they make him hate but he doesn't quite know why.
He pulls his hair to remember James and bites his lip to remember Harry and scratches his skin to remember Remus and when his fingers wander the curves of his own face he thinks he still has a brother but the shadows twist away from the corners and he sees snow in a dark alley and a bleeding snake and someone who's dead.
Things creep into his mind slithering in through his eyes and mouth and nose and they dig for things he doesn't have and they ask for the truth because they want to know and they want to eat it and drink it and live it and he screams that they can't live because they're dead and he promises that there's no more truth and they ask for his secrets instead but he has nothing left to give.
He thinks there was a time when stone walls made him feel safe and secure and warm but they scare him now and make him cold and he shivers when he thinks of the colour red but he hasn't seen red in a long time and he's forgot what gold looks like and everything is grey and white except for when it's black.
He's black he thinks and the brother he never quite had is black unless the snow in the alley and the snake mean the brother is dead then the brother was black not is but he doesn't know what black means and the idea leaves him colder than the walls.
The moon cuts a careful arc through the sky and the ocean tries its best to wear away the stone.
Things whisper outside the door and Padfoot whines.
I know I will be dead long before you read this
but I want you to know it was I who discovered your secret.
--
FIN