Blue Eyes Grey

Blue Eyes Grey-

In the cold grey dawn, when the ocean beats upon the sands of the beach with raging fists, two small boys stand at the edge of the water. They are fascinated by the power of the furious surf that swirls around their ankles, tugging at their legs. It beckons to them, and one looks up into the steadily brightening sky, his slate eyes twinkling with life and the vigour of childhood.

This time is theirs; the boys- noble brothers, they are- stand, entranced. The wind caresses their naked skins, running her fingers through their wavy black hair. The one with his eyes on the sky, the elder of the two, breathes in the salt air, all smiles and dreams. The other wriggles his toes in the sand and feels the silt sliding over his skin, wincing when he stubs his toe on a hostile, hidden rock.

A mournful bird calls overhead, a still cry that pierces the calm like a shot. It is a signal of sorts; it marks a beginning. The older boy flashes a mischievous grin at his brother.

'Come on!' he cries. His feet splash through the water as he runs, tearing after a receding wave. After a moment's hesitation, his brother follows, clumsy in his enthusiasm as he leaps headlong into the spray, his tiny body immediately submerged.

They both cut gracefully through the sea, raven heads bobbing, feet kicking off and leaving a trail of bubbles in their wake. The older boy glances to the side as he breaks the surface for air, a lazy, confident smile spreading over his face as he watches his brother strike out.

'Bet you can't beat me!' he shouts, distracting the other for a second before he plunges back into the water, taking up the stroke, his arms slicing through the water powerfully. He glides just below the rippling surface, nothing but a pale, dancing blur. The smaller boy comes up for air at the cry and pauses, staring, shaking his head so droplets of water fly off his hair and into the surf, forming ripples lost in the foaming sea.

Even if he is shivering violently, not quite over the shock of the icy water, he is not one to refuse a challenge. He is no more than a tiny speck in the fierce waters but he thrashes his way through, determined that today, he will win. He trails after his brother, trying to catch a glimpse of the boy's flailing heels to keep him on course, but the water pulls him back. It weighs heavily on him; he finds it getting harder and harder to propel himself through the waves; he finds it getting difficult to kick because his legs are tired. When he comes up to breathe, his lungs hurt, and with dismay he notes that his brother has pulled himself far, far ahead.

He knows he will never catch up to the older one now. He is too small, too weak; if he goes any further, he will not have enough strength to make it back to shore. Still, he tries. His small arms cut through the cold, cold water and he gasps for air through his clenched teeth. He sees the spot that is his brother moving farther and farther away; no matter how hard he kicks out after him, no matter how much he pushes himself, it is not long before there is nothing left to be seen except a tiny black dot against the burning horizon.

He has lost. Again.

***

As far as I can remember, I was always a step behind Sirius. In everything, he was better than I ever could be; sometimes much better, sometimes just slightly. But he was always the better one, the better boy. The better Black. The better son.

Sirius was born with a silver wand in his hand. As the first-born son to an old and noble pureblood family, he was groomed to be a prince, a role that he seemed to carry off with ease. He never put a toe out of line when Mother was around- what he did behind her back was a completely different issue. But of course, no one could believe that it was Sirius, perfect Sirius who broke the window, who drew moustaches on the portraits, who stole Father's wand and set the attic on fire. In front of everyone, he was a saint, a fine example of what the heir of a pureblooded family should be. Okay, he might have been a little loud for everyone's liking, a little... impulsive, perhaps... but these were minor things that could be ignored, that would die out 'with the proper training,' Mother would say, her lips settling in a thin line, the only indication that she was angry at him.

And how I didn't try to do everything, to copy his every move, in the hope that I would be praised. But unfortunately, I think I tried too hard, always pushing myself further than I could go. I thought that if I obeyed Mother, it would somehow make me better, elevate me, almost... and I always ended up falling flat on my face, ashamed.

There was a time when, after watching Sirius gracefully take my aunt's hand and kiss it, I decided that I, too, wanted to play the gentleman. Unfortunately, in doing so, I overbalanced and slid to the floor in the clumsiest manner possible.

I think it wouldn't have been so embarrassing if I had not clutched at the said aunt's dress as I fell, succeeding in tearing the skirt clean away.

See how bad I was?

The next morning, I was punished. I stood for an entire day outside in the sun because Mother insisted that I had misbehaved on purpose, that I had planned to pull such a stunt in order to upset the party. Even then, I didn't say a word in my defence; I had been taught never to question my elders' decisions... and I was determined to prove to her that I could take her punishments. So I stood there, stubbornly ignoring Sirius's pleas with me to come inside for a few seconds, trying not to listen to him coaxing me to at least stand in the shade.

Just before he gave up and went inside, he told me something.

'Regulus,' he said, cocking his head to one side as if he was trying to figure something out, his voice slow and even, 'Regulus, you have got to be the stupidest, most gullible prat in the world, if you're going to listen to everything Mother says. Next thing you know, she'll tell you to go throw yourself off a cliff... would you do that?' and without waiting for me to answer, he walked off, shaking his head. I pretended not to hear him then, but I couldn't help wondering over his words later, when I had plenty of time to think- in bed, having fainted from being out in the heat for too long. I overheard the house elves saying that Sirius was the one who actually carried me in when he noticed, but he refused to answer me when I asked him, instead saying that he hoped that I 'wouldn't be such an idiot again' before stalking off.

Well. That was Sirius, a little gruff, a little grumpy. I guess no one wanted to notice that maybe he was always a little irritated, even if he did most of what was asked of him. No one wanted to believe that he could be anything except the perfect little heir to the name of Black that they were trying to mould him into.

It didn't help at all that he looked the part too. We both had dark hair and pale skin, but that was where the resemblance ended. He seemed to have gotten all the fair traits of the family, the fine features of generations combining in one fantastical, perfect being- him. He resembled Father when he was young, but as he grew, I could pick out each distinctive characteristic in his face from the family portraits that hung around the house.

I could pick out my own features from the same portraits, but in everything, I apparently drew the short end of the stick.

He had Grandfather Orion's dimpled chin; from the same Grandfather, I got a high forehead and receding hairline which made me look as if I was going bald by the time I was ten. He was gifted with the prominent brows that could be traced back to Mars Black; that particular feature had not been seen in any boy of the family for the past five generations... but when I looked at the picture that stood in the entrance hall, all I could pick out for my own was the weak jaw and chin. He had Mother's fine skin, her straight nose... I had her abnormally long neck. On a girl, I suppose it might have looked graceful, but for a boy who was always too small for his age, for someone as scrawny as I was... it served no greater purpose than making me look like a giraffe. Even my own eyes were against me. They weren't the pale, clear grey that Sirius had inherited from our father, but a smoky, clouded blue. I remember someone commenting on their odd colour, saying that they were pretty, even on a boy... but even then, it wasn't satisfying. Rather, it was a little discomfiting as no one had seen a Black with eyes of blue since the great traitor, Aschere- and look what happened to him, killed by his own cousin for betraying his blood.

If there was anything to be had, Mother would give it to Sirius. I remember looking on, being eaten up by envy as she would present him with the best toys, sweets and other things, kissing his forehead tenderly even if he did wipe at the spot immediately she was out of sight, disgusted. She never kissed me- or anyone else, come to think of it- not even Father.

I suppose I was just a little jealous of him then. Okay, more than a little... I craved everything Sirius was and I couldn't possibly be... not as long he was around, anyway. It was hard to hate him though, so all my negative feelings remained confined to jealousy, and maybe the tiniest bit of resentment that no one saw his flaws, only mine.

Not to say that I was completely ignored; I had my fair share of attention, but no matter what I did, I was nothing more than a mere shadow of my elder brother, just tottering around after him. It was only when he wasn't around that I was ever noticed. Mother would take me on her lap, smoothing my hair back; it was at those times that I think she realized that I, too, was her son. She called me her petit enfant, for I was a tiny boy (another negative trait- I'm not sure who I inherited that from) and while Father said that I was too weak, too pale, too... delicate, he had to grudgingly appreciate that I was determined and that I had a sharp mind. Still, it was all until Sirius came home from wherever he would go, out on the grounds or from our cousins' home, and then I was forgotten, once again. Eclipsed.

He was always the heir.

And I?

I was always just the spare.

***

The beach is empty in the evenings, when the sun turns the water a blazing red and the tide is going out. Traces of the blistering heat of the day still hang in the air, but a cool breeze has begun to blow. Two figures stride towards the sea, silhouetted harshly against the dying sun. As they walk, the wind grows stronger; it pushes against them as if it is trying to force them back, but they will not turn.

The princes of yesteryear are older now; they do not laugh in innocence or walk hand in hand as they did once. Instead, the elder of the two drags his feet in the sand, his shoulders hunched as if he drags a heavy burden behind him. His brother walks straight, eyes on the water, grim determination in every movement.

They pause as they reach the edge of the beach, standing for a few moments in silence. The younger prince chances a glance back, at their footprints in the sand, parallel tracks that are almost identical. But where he has stepped, the wind is already sweeping the sand away; before his eyes, two sets are merging into one.

He hardens his expression as he sees this, turning back to the sea.

His brother has already disrobed and he follows suit; he lays his cloak on the sand and neatly folds his clothes atop it, ignoring the chill that bites at him, or the feeling of eyes boring into the back of his skull, willing him to hurry up.

The waves lap against him gently as he wades in; beside him, his brother is expressionless as he stares into the harsh light of the setting sun. When he tries the same, he only finds his eyes hurting with its glare, the intensity overwhelming.

They need no signals now. He waits to hear his brother's splash before he dives in, holding his breath as he launches himself away from safety. He tunes out the world, concentrating only on what his around him, aligning his body so that he floats with the current, using it to push himself forward. His strokes are still weak, his kicks still feeble, but he has decided that he will win today, that he will go on, that he will prove that he is worthy of victory.

With every gasping breath, he imagines the sun, beckoning to him. Water glints off his lashes, turning the world crystalline. And still, he wants to go further. He hears his brother cry out to him, telling him to stop, but he will not fall for that this time. No, nothing will distract him now.

'Come back! You're going too far!'

The sun is sinking fast; only a sliver of flame remains. He closes his eyes, feels the fire dancing in his lungs and imagines himself bobbing in the sea. He will swim to the sun, he has decided; he will go and capture it, hold its warmth in his bare hands, clutch it to his chest. He lashes out, gritting his teeth against the searing pain that ripples across his back, that threatens to make his legs go numb behind him. He lunges for the bright light, arms outstretched; he imagines that he feels his fingers passing through the flame as it slips below the horizon.

Today he has won. Today, he has touched the sun.

Shaking, he raises his tired arms in triumph as he looks back at the boy who is nothing but a pale spot in the new darkness. He is far, far away; when the young prince blinks he sees his brother's back, turned against him, far up on the beach. He opens his mouth to shout, but he cannot speak; he is not sure if it is the salt spray stinging his eyes, or the tears that are brewing in his chest.

He may have won, but his victory has come at a price. Dejected, he can only watch as his brother walks away, leaving him utterly alone in the dark, dangerous night sea... for he has swum too far to be able to call him back for help.

***

When Sirius went to Hogwarts, there was a huge celebration. To everyone in the family, there was no doubt that he would be sorted into Slytherin- after all, all Blacks were in Slytherin. The concept that any member of such a family, let alone the heir to one, be sorted into any other house?

Preposterous!

So far, my cousin Andromeda had been the only one they had ever worried about- probably because she showed an unhealthy fascination with the Muggle world that was forbidden to us- and even she had made it into Slytherin. So to the family, there was no doubt, none at all, that Sirius would continue the tradition.

But if anyone had been paying close attention, maybe they would have seen what I saw; maybe they could have anticipated what was to become the biggest scandal to plague the Blacks since a child had been born a Squib, two centuries before. Following around after him, I think I knew Sirius even better than he knew himself; I could tell what he was thinking by his mere expression.

And somehow, I could tell that something was about to go wrong. Call it gut instinct, or maybe even some sort of jealous wish on my part, but I wasn't all that sure that Sirius was comfortable with what was being expected of him. Sharing a room with him, I sometimes overheard him muttering to himself when he thought I was asleep, or nervously laughing when yet another relative came to talk to him about the honour of the family, now resting on his shoulders.

For days after his acceptance letter came, I tried to reconcile Sirius's character with that of my cousin Bellatrix- Mother had once mentioned that she was the perfect Slytherin- and I couldn't. She was somewhat like him; she had an aura around her, drawing people to her, but Bella was intimidating, ambitious and cold. If she wanted something, by Merlin, she would get it, through any means possible. Sirius was more eager than ambitious. There was a fire in his eyes... a fire that burnt a different colour from Bella's freezing flames, a fire that spoke of a warmth that only those who were close to him could know, and a ferocity wherever something- or someone- he was passionate about was concerned. They shared the same traits, but their thoughts, their actions... they were as different as could be. She was sneaky and sly; he was simply curious. She preferred to weasel her way out of trouble by lying through her teeth and laying the blame at someone else's feet; he would find a way out of situations with the same slippery grace, but without trying to heap it on someone else's head (it was another matter that I, inevitably, ended up being drawn out as the one who might be guilty). Where she was ruthless, he was simply reckless- she never gave a thought to others; Sirius never gave a thought to himself. Not that he was an angel, but...

He just wasn't like Bellatrix, and he just wasn't Slytherinistic, despite his upbringing and the Slytherin values that had been drilled into all of us.

And I'm afraid I was the only one who noticed.

The first night after he left was when the foundations of the world as I knew it then began to crumble. Mother and Father were waiting for the owl he had promised to send once he had been Sorted into Slytherin, telling them about the other children who had made it into that particular House. When the first flutter of wings was heard, both of them looked up anxiously, heads snapping up to stare, the rest of the family assembled in the room trying not to look too curious. I can still remember the owl itself, an unfamiliar tawny one that had flown into the room with its feathers ruffled wildly, its movements unwilling, almost as if it knew that it was the bearer of bad news. It circled us a few times, and then, to everyone's surprise, it dropped the letter on my head and screeched loudly before darting out the window, fleeing from the house without even waiting for an answer.

When I unfolded the single piece of parchment that had my name written on it, I understood. Regulus, he had written, his handwriting shaky and smudged. Regulus, something's happened. They've put me in Gryffindor.

I could almost sense his shock and disbelief, seeping from the ink that blotted the page. But it was the next bit that actually made me realize that there was something very wrong with a Black being in Gryffindor, something shameful about it, something that I couldn't quite understand.

Help me, Regulus, I don't know how this happened, I don't know what to do! I don't want to be in Gryffindor... but everyone's refused to talk to me or tell me anything. There's got to be a mistake... don't tell them... don't let Mother or Father know, or-

The next moment, the letter had been snatched out of my hand by my Father, a grin on his face. He obviously had no clue what was written there, and he ignored my attempts to grab the letter from him as he insisted on reading it out loud to the family assembled at the table. His smile had slipped, disappeared from his face completely by the time he had read the first sentence; his voice was nothing more than an angry snarl when he got to the end of it.

I was unable to comprehend the full impact of his message, though, until I saw the wineglass in my father's hand smash, until I heard my mother scream and run from the room, until I heard the sinister murmur that rose from the rest of the family as they discussed this outrage in hushed tones. A Black in Gryffindor, of all places? Surely, that wasn't even possible... was it?

'No son of mine is going to be in some bloody Muggle-lovers' House!' my father shouted as he grabbed a quill, using the back of the piece of parchment Sirius had sent to scribble out a letter. Contacts, money, influence... he muttered names of people he knew on the school's board of governors, determined to either get Sirius into Slytherin or get him out of Hogwarts.

Sometimes I wish I had spoken up then... but, then again, even if I had, I doubt anyone would have heard me over the roar that was filling the house that night. And even if they had stopped to listen, they wouldn't have liked me saying that maybe Sirius wasn't meant to be in Slytherin... it was their dream, and they clung to it for months until there wasn't anything left for them to hope for from him.

It didn't help that Sirius suddenly changed. His initial letters were as they expected, full of complaints about his House, but each successive one seemed to be less bitter than the last, the inches of parchment used growing shorter and shorter. Mother was the one who usually answered them, sending him lists of what to do and how to behave, but I couldn't help but notice that she was rather short-tempered with him... odd, considering that he was- had been- her favourite. Still, it was okay, until he sent a letter a few months down the line that was little more than a one-line admonition for the family to stop trying to force him to live a life they wanted him to live, and that he needed to find out things for himself. Of course, he didn't say that... but I suppose that my parents took his plea of Leave me alone! too much to heart.

The reports began trickling back; letters from Bellatrix, from Narcissa, from the Malfoy family and the Lestranges, all complaining about Sirius. They complained about how he was letting the entire pureblooded race down by being in Gryffindor, by consorting with the Muggle-loving Potter boy in his year, and Mother went into hysterics the day old Mrs. Snape came by and spit in her face because Sirius had been seen talking freely with a Mudblood girl. Associating with 'the wrong sort' was something that was almost unforgivable... and all this, despite his perfect upbringing...

His first summer home was terrible. And I say terrible, not just for us, but in a way, for him as well. He was different, yes, he had changed, but everyday, I saw him shrinking away from us, from me, his eyes hardening at the insults that our relatives threw about carelessly. He began to see us as his enemies, but being forced to sleep in the house-elves' den would probably do that to anyone. I was actually glad when September came around and he left, in a whirl of black cloaks and the Muggle clothes he had stubbornly insisted on wearing underneath; I was glad because it meant less tension for us.

How wrong I was. That year was even worse then the last. What I knew of Sirius was dissolving, disappearing, only to be replaced by this odd stranger who wrote once in a while, whose name started becoming synonymous with how not to bring up a child. Sirius became someone whom I was forbidden to talk about. He became little more than a dream to me... little more than a horrible nightmare that insisted on rearing its ugly head whenever I tried to forget him.

And just before he was supposed to return home for the summer, after another year of putting up with the disgrace that Sirius had cast us into, Mother snapped. He had sent her a particularly harsh letter, one which would in time come to be remembered as the last letter he ever sent us. In it, he had denounced everything he had ever been. He said that he was disgusted by our family, that we were blind and stupid and that he hated Mother for deceiving him his whole life. Mother was aghast, and actually cried as she repeated the names he called her to Father. She was so upset that she went and locked herself in the large family room for two days. Two days... two days in which my father bit his nails down to the quick, in which I can only remember her soft, pitiful moans coming from beyond the door and the sound of glass crashing... two days of fear and anxious tension that I could never, ever forget. Then Father opened the door, unlocking it with his wand, but he hung back, afraid of what he would see.

I only wanted my mother, so I braved a glance into the room. My mouth went uncomfortably dry as I took in the scene before me.

I stood there, transfixed. Mother was muttering to herself, alternately fingering her wand and then putting it against the family tapestry. Her hair was uncombed and I could smell something strong floating through the air around her. I noticed a few bottles of firewhiskey lying empty on the carpet, and long shards of glass littering the place where she had smashed some of them. Her eyes were unfocused as she passed her hand over Sirius's name on the family tree, laughing softly.

'Oh my,' she said, her voice hard and cold, 'What have you done now, Sirius?'

She coughed slightly, stumbling in front of the old tapestry. Suddenly, she dropped her wand, and it clattered to the floor so loudly that I jumped. She must have heard me then, heard my muffled squeak, because she turned around to face me, a lopsided smile on her face.

'Sirius?' she asked. 'Sirius, my boy, why? Why must you pain me so?'

'Mother,' I breathed, scared, my voice barely rising above a whisper.

'What did I do wrong, Sirius?' she continued, her eyes fixed on me, blinking fast.

'Mother,' I said again, this time forcing myself to be louder. 'Mother, it's Regulus.'

Something in her clicked at the sound of my name. She stood up that little bit straighter, a hint of a smile crossing her face.

'Regulus. Of course,' she whispered, her expression slack but her voice carrying a tone of realization, almost as if she was suddenly seeing me for the first time. As if she had suddenly found out a way to salvage whatever was left of our family... as if I was some sort of saviour. 'Come here,' she said in an ethereal tone. 'Come here, mon petit,' she commanded, and reluctantly, I walked towards her, my feet protesting as I pushed forward. I stopped when I was a foot away; the smell of alcohol was so strong it was making me giddy.

I didn't like the way she looked at me, her eyes clouded and her smile turning into a sinister sneer. It was frightening, really. What was more frightening was when she grabbed me by the shoulders roughly, shaking me hard, her voice turning from airy and lilting to one that was stern and hard and tinged with desperation, almost as if she were possessed.

'Don't you dare be like him!' she shouted, spit flying from between her teeth and splashing onto my face. 'Don't you dare, Regulus,' she screamed, and when my Father came running into the room, he found her sobbing on my shoulder, her arms wound tightly around me, telling me that I was her only salvation, the only thing she had left to live for now.

She didn't need to tell me that, though, because I had already seen the pain my family had suffered, all because of Sirius. I kept on telling myself that things would work out, but that day, I realized that they would never go back to how they had originally been... I realised that Sirius was not worth looking up to anymore. I had always wanted to be better than him, and now I thirsted for the small comments, the few praises that I got for being 'so much better, so much more the heir'. I had already decided that I would prove that the Blacks were still a family to be feared and respected, and that I, Regulus Black, would be the finest of them all... that day, with my mother no more than a babbling, weeping mess and my father wringing his hands helplessly because he was almost at the end of his own tether, I promised myself that I would never let them down, that I would never disobey.

I would become so fine a son that they would forget that other one. I drew on my envy of Sirius... but even after everything he did, I still couldn't bring myself to hate him as he said he hated us. There was dislike, maybe, but not hate. Maybe it was because he was my brother, after all, and I was not one to neglect blood ties... that would put me at his level and I didn't want that. Maybe it was because I recognized that he was a part of me, as much as I didn't want to confront that fact. Maybe it was because I was a little frightened of what I was getting into but I had grown distant from him, too distant and too proud to ask for help but still hoping that he might give it to me if I needed it. Maybe because I actually did love him. Maybe it was because I envied him for being able to be his own person. Maybe because I pitied him for being put in that house where he lost his identity, despite his upbringing.

Truth be told, he simply lacked in one area; he simply missed being in Slytherin because of his upbringing.

Because he never had to want, because he had lived a life where almost everything was as perfect as it could get, Sirius had been denied the ambition that was so important to Slytherin. The qualities that thrust him into Gryffindor were the same ones that could have gotten him into Slytherin. The desire for putting oneself above and beyond everyone else was sadly lacking from his character, and it was that deficiency that tipped the scales in my favour, that gave him the opportunity to break away, that made me even more settled as a son of the House of Black.

I'd been hiding in his shadow my entire life, and I knew what it was to want to be better than someone; I knew what it was to simply be cast aside and have to watch and feel the burning jealousy and anger as someone else got what I deserved. There was only one thing in my life at that crucial point when I turned eleven and went off to Hogwarts, and that was ambition, ceaseless ambition; I wanted to prove myself to everyone, to prove that I was worthy.

So was it really a surprise that I got sorted into Slytherin?

*

The night sea pounds upon the shore, beating the sand in a tremendous fury, waves curling in and out. A lone shadow stands in the water and waits, cocking his head to the side, listening to the songs of the darkness as the salt stings his skin. As the moon moves out, shedding its veil of clouds, he stares at the jagged rocks that line the channel.

The younger prince has never been so alone, so afraid, but he takes a deep breath to calm himself as he clenches his fists. He is aware of every small sound that floats through the night air: the roar of the waves, the sound of the sea dashing itself against the rocks in rage, even the soft, barely-there footsteps that stop behind him and the breathing that synchronizes itself unknowingly with his own.

'Let's do this.'

He nods, not even bothering to turn back. Again, his gaze wanders towards the side of his path out to sea, towards the rocks that he knows so well, glittering like deadly black diamonds; he feels the sharp edges almost as if they are lodging themselves under his skin, prying into his mind and unearthing his innate guilt. Shrugging it off, he swiftly dives into the surf, feeling the whistling of the wind against his skin right before the icy blades of water slice through him.

He is used to this now, this night-swimming, and he knows every bit of the sea by heart; he is intimate with every last drop of the ocean. He swims with his eyes closed and his ears open, hearing the struggles and splashing behind him as his brother tries to remember this game that they used to play. But the pattering against the water is so feeble, so unlike what he remembers; it surprises him. He wonders if his brother is not merely putting up a front, if he could really have lost the skills both of them had honed years ago on this very beach.

A wave washes over them and the younger prince, sensing it, makes for the safety of the water, feeling nothing but a gentle pulsing as the watery canopy shakes. He curls up into a ball, then unfurls, kicking out violently as he propels himself further, reaching for the surface. He breaks it silently, water glistening from his head and reflecting the starlight and foam as a black beacon. He listens intently to the pounding of the surf, or so he thinks- but he knows that what he is waiting for is the tired pattering of his brother, skin slapping against salt; he cocks his head to the side and tries to make out the sound of someone cutting through the water, expecting the ferocity of the shark but starting when the faint keening reaches him. A plaintive whine carries over the air, almost drowned itself by the rush of waves; his brother is calling out, his voice a thin, wavering cry.

The rust that coats his heart melts under the force of his brother's plea. The sounds of taunts that have rung in his ears die down; the image of a back turned against him disappears. The sea appears in sharp relief around him, the waves and the wind and the rocks that now glow in the passing beam from a lighthouse and then are swallowed whole by the sea. In the flash of the safety lamp, he sees him, the years melting off the face and frame of his older brother until there is nothing but a frightened child- the one that kicked out when he was first thrown into the water, the one who has been hiding behind a cloak of bravado and achievement his whole life.

The eyes widening around grey capture his; for the one second that the light bathes them over the waves, he fancies that he sees fear flashing between them in an arc, and those rocks, those rocks he had thought to dash this part of his identity against pulling him in, closer, almost reaching out in a jagged embrace...

With a scream that seems to subdue the treacherous ocean, he leaps forwards, frantically thrashing through the water to reach his brother. The welcoming waves no longer goad him on; they cruelly laugh at him and cling to him, pulling him back, mocking his struggle. Every second he dares to look, his older brother is a little closer to the killer line and it is this that makes him fight harder, abandoning all thoughts except this most vital one. His heart runs over, full to burst with sudden emotion; his mind is imploding with horrendous images that he had tried not to think of; his lungs are burning under the strain of breathing water.

It only takes one second. He lashes out and feels skin against his fingertips, cold, slippery skin; he hears the rising shout that is muffled by a thunderclap overhead. With the last of his strength, he grasps at his brother's arm, locking his trembling fingers around his wrist as he tries to keep the black out of his eyes, and pulls. In the sea, there is no anchor, and there is no weight, but he pulls against the raging water anyway, forcing the tide to relinquish its hold on the elder but not paying attention to how it slinks its fingers back and ties him down instead... there is the satisfying tug as his brother slides past him, as the older prince is suddenly snatched from between greedy, hungry jaws, and even the skies open to celebrate with the brightest flash he has ever seen.

In the light, he turns, raising his arms in triumph. He can see his brother, so close to him, about to reach out; he can see the stormy sea reflected in his brother's face, grey eyes blue for this moment of victory, his gratitude and horror both mingling on a face that should have never had to bear either.

He closes his eyes, and feels the release flowing from him as his body is pushed against the rocks, a smile upon his dead lips as he slips under, succumbing to the sea.

*

He never answered my owls, never recognized me in the street when I'd shout after him. He knew everything that had happened, knew exactly when I had gone into the Ministry employment, knew when Father died, and of course, he knew all about it when I became a Death Eater. I say he knew because I heard it from his friends; unbeknownst to him, a little boy from his circle had once sought me out when I was at Hogwarts and we maintained our friendship... even after Sirius had run away, even after we had both left school, even after... everything.

But Peter Pettigrew never told me anything of Sirius straight out, only gleaming snippets here and there, tales that slipped out over a 'friendly' glass of firewhiskey after work. I always had to dig for my information on him, to try and ease it out of Pettigrew bit by bit, and in return I sent him scurrying back with a few choice details that I wanted Sirius to know. Then, it was just until the next meeting, and the next round of drinks, to hear what had befallen my brother when he had heard that I was rising fast in my job while he was still struggling with Auror training, that I had chosen to proudly state my ambition of keeping our purity safe while he flitted through the Muggle world.

Still, it was something. I did not think of him as a brother anymore, because there was no way I could imagine myself as ever being related to someone who had betrayed their family, and so heinously. But I did think of him sometimes... every time I found myself faced with a choice, I always took the path he would have not taken; every time I opened my mouth to speak I made sure that I would say the opposite of what he might have said, put in my situation. I was consumed by a constant need to know what he was doing, did and would do, if only to provide myself with a counter to my own actions... and I'm sure that a good portion of what he did was simply in protest of what I was getting into. Pettigrew may have only supplied me with the barest of details, but I knew Sirius well enough to understand where all of this fit in with his so-called life.

In a way, my whole life was still under his shadow. My name was nothing, compared to his... I was petted and pampered and then, left alone, expected to struggle through and uphold our beliefs. But what I really thought accounted for nothing; what I said, even less. If I was anything, I was 'what Sirius could not be' or 'the one who should have been the example, not Sirius' or... well, you get the point.

And that's what probably started it all, this downward spiral of recklessness. It was nothing but down, down, down, swimming through the depths of belief and barely able to surface to breathe, being indoctrinated at every step. I figured that I must show the world what it would be to be the heir to the Blacks, and it was only logical that I signed up for the Death Eaters.

At the time, they never said anything, though, about death... or killings, or torture, or fanaticism. They began at the ministry, a few well placed people whispering to disgruntled workers about a new union that would cure all their problems. Unsurprisingly, all those approached happened to be the ones who had lost their jobs to Muggle-borns or had been bested by them at some point, and this new 'union' seemed like a good idea, a good way to have their voice heard and hopefully to oust those who they felt had no business in their world.

I simply listened to those rumours and turned away, scratching the tattoo on my arm. I had been promised a large role in 'the fight for purity' and as far as I knew, keeping my mouth shut was my only assignment. Father said that joining the 'union' was the greatest thing I could have done, and Mother was so proud of me... but, then again, Father died only a week after my initiation and Mother went mad not-so-long after. My other family members were more receiving... those who I still kept up with, that is... but probably because they had all preceded me into this.

Bellatrix, my cousin, had long since educated me, playing on my strained relationship with Sirius to get me to agree to join her. She was a wily one, fluent in the Dark Arts, and I saw in her an ally, someone who could actually share my grief- after all, Andromeda's marriage to a Mudblood had left her shattered. She knew full well what it was to lose a sibling to treachery. I never knew the true extent of my hate until she showed me, but after knowing, it was all I could do not to be fully consumed by it. It was like she had found a small, smouldering spark in my soul, and fanned it so that it engulfed me. I had hated James Potter before, but now I loathed him, his Muggle-loving ideals and his mudblood fiancé; I hated Remus Lupin, simply because he was rumoured to be a half-blood and I somehow thought that it was association with someone as tainted as him that had ruined my brother. I even hated Peter Pettigrew for seeing more of Sirius than I did, but Bellatrix warned me of showing my dislike openly. 'He may be useful later, Regulus,' she said, and so we spent more evenings together, talking about Sirius, and I spent more nights fuming as I thought of him and felt my arm burn in a manifestation of hate and disappointment that I was doing nothing.

But the illusion of nothingness did not last long.

The killings were not something commonplace, but even if they had been, I might have never been able to link them with the people in our group if I wasn't a part of them. Slowly, but surely, I began to be included- first meetings, then plans, and finally I was summoned before The Dark Lord to be given an assignment, the one that would determine my dedication to our cause.

The one that would give me my first taste of death.

She was a young Muggle-born, a girl they had snatched from her mother while the family were wandering around Diagon Alley, buying her books for her first year at Hogwarts. She was Stunned when I entered the chamber, alone, my wand held stiffly in my hands. I knew what I was supposed to do, but seeing her curled up on her side, lying there as if asleep made my steps falter. She simply looked too young to be of harm to anyone.

As a reminder, the Dark Mark burned itself into my skin so many times over, the pain rushing over me, instructions echoing in my head. I raised my wand and looked at her; in her face, I imagined those who hurt me... who hurt us, who took Sirius and Andromeda away from us. It wasn't difficult then...

Fury is a dangerous thing, I learnt that night; fury and ambition is even worse. I do not know when I gave in to the throbbing of my arm or to the regrets I had harboured... I only remember the way the Dark Mark pulsed against my skin, burning me afresh...

It only cooled when her blood splashed against me, the swollen red skin suddenly hissing and retreating until it was black again. I was entranced by the change, but at the same time, I began to retch from the stench of blood; I tried to block out the screams that still echoed around the chamber and avoided looking at the body of the girl that lay before me, stumbling past it to the door. But I passed... I had killed her, and with her blood, I effectively signed myself to the Death Eaters.

That was my first victim. I made sure I told Pettigrew about it the next time I met him, casually letting my sleeve fall back as I spoke. I knew Bellatrix was watching me to make sure I didn't give away too much; she only wanted to see the shock on Pettigrew's face when he understood, only wanted to watch in amusement as he would surely scamper off to tell Sirius what was going on. She wanted to draw Sirius out, using me as bait, and while Pettigrew did exactly as we expected him to, there was no response from the other end, nothing, nothing at all.

I once wondered why she seemed obsessed with bringing Sirius to us, but she was Bellatrix, and no one could question her. 'Patience,' she whispered, her voice low, 'Patience, mon petit.' For someone to like her to talk about patience, I knew it had to be important, and I was so fooled by my own position in the operation that I did not ask again. I think that it was the only time I felt higher than Sirius, that I was finally able to shake him off, that I didn't have to simply be the younger brother, the younger Black, the 'heir in place of the heir' anymore. I was drunk on my own importance, so I did not suspect. I simply killed when I was told to, and when I came home I pretended that I was only dreaming and that the reason why Bellatrix sat in Mother's old chair and closed the door to others when I rested my head in her lap was that she was watching me to make sure I was safe. Delusion sets in for most of the Death Eaters, especially those who find it difficult to make themselves understand the reality of what they have done. Regulus the Death Eater was one person, and Regulus the man was another. But the delusion... it was definitely a part of me, of anyone I decided to be, festering in my soul for so long. It was easy to slip into excuses and fabrications, easy to slip into the lies that Bellatrix fed me and the orders that came from above. It was so easy to just forget what... who... had caused me to become a Death Eater in the first place...

Until the day it all hit home.

I was called into the Dark Lord's presence, only the second time since I had joined. I was still a little unsure of myself as a Death Eater, and I had told Bellatrix so... but stepping into the Dark Lord's chamber, I knew immediately that I should have kept my thoughts to myself. There was a tension in the room that seemed to hang heavy over everyone except the Dark Lord Himself; when I passed the line of masked Death Eaters that had not been there the first time, I fancied I actually heard a few of them snickering at me. But all was silent once the Dark Lord spoke, and even if I hadn't wanted to, I found myself compelled to listen.

'We must test you, young Black,' He said softly, His voice nothing more than a low hiss, but at that moment, I only wanted to clap my hands over my ears. Instead, though, I swallowed nervously and nodded, even if His back was to me. He chuckled to himself, a sound that did not even remotely resemble anything produced in happiness. 'Yes, we must.'

'What...' I began to speak but I found my voice faltering. Cursing to myself I tried again, hoping that my Lord would not think of me as weak... that He would not think of me as a child who could not handle anything, because I had heard it said of me before and I would not have my own determination underestimated. I was a Black after all... I opened my mouth but even before my tongue could shape the words I heard them issuing from the Dark Lord.

'What would I have you do?'

'Yes, Master,' I murmured, suddenly growing uncomfortable. Unbidden, an image of Sirius flashed before me, and to block it out I squeezed my eyes shut and knelt, taking the end of my Lord's cloak between my fingers, trying to make everything simply fade away, fade into the black of the cloth I now held.

'Young Black, I would have you kill the traitor that you long for, the traitor that you keep with you.'

My mouth went dry, but I forced my head down, forced my lips to brush against the hem of His robes, not saying anything. I was not so sure I understood, but I would not say anything... I would not have them know what I was thinking...

One of the Death Eaters stepped forward, and I only glanced up as she spoke, recognizing Bellatrix's voice. But it sounded eerie and shadow-like as it issued from the depths of the mask she wore, full of malice, her words making me understand everything.

'You must kill Sirius Black.'

That was two days ago.

I waited for him, sitting in the kitchen of our- my home. I knew that he had not spoken to me for years, and had never before responded to any requests I had sent him, but I also knew that he would come. He would come, simply because he was Sirius, and he had to.

I waited for him, and when I heard his footsteps, I simply leant back in my chair, picking up the glass of firewhiskey I had poured for myself and holding it up to my eyes. I surveyed the doorway in amber, hoping to soften my first view of him in years through the buzz of alcohol. Everything was as it should be- my wand in my hand, an open chair for him, the promise of a reunion, the plan that could not fail.

Through the firewhiskey, he came, tramping in through the door, and I had to force myself to stay seated, to pretend that I did not want to run up to him and shout for him to help. No. There was no use in asking for help, or anything of the sort, because everything had already been set out for me: to lure him here, to kill him, to please my Master, to prove my worth. Ironic, really, that that even this had something to do with him, when I think about it.

'Regulus?'

His voice was deeper than I remembered it, rough around the edges; his image through the glass was hazy and unrefined and bore little resemblance to the boy I remembered. I only put down the glass when I noticed him standing stubbornly in the doorway, looking around in distaste. He had changed so much... I wasn't sure that I was prepared for this change, even if I had expected it, the bubbling resignation rising in my throat like bile. Or maybe that was just my reaction to what I had to do.

'What is this about, Regulus?'

'Nothing,' I said quickly, maybe too quickly. My resolve was wavering and I was determined not to let it. But it wasn't easy. Denying him as my brother was one thing, and I was sure that, as I had always done, I could stem up enough hate to carry out my assignment. But to recognize him, to acknowledge who he was... that meant accepting him back. As my brother, as my blood.

He rolled his eyes. 'Look, Regulus, I didn't come here to just stand and stare at you.'

Upstairs, Mother laughed at something, I wasn't sure what, but I ignored it because she was always laughing or screaming and I was used to her noises. Sirius started at the sound, glancing towards the stairway, his eyes narrowing, his face settling itself into a cold, indifferent mask. I was actually glad for that expression, because it was something I remembered, a constant feature on his face after his third year at Hogwarts. It was oddly comforting to just see that, actually, and I found myself smiling despite the look on his face.

They say, smiling is contagious. As a child, Sirius would test this by going up to any of our aunts or uncles, and he even made the most sour-faced of them crack once in a while. I wondered if my smile could infect him now. When he looked at me, I saw the edges of something akin to a ghost grin pulling around the corners of his mouth, one that was trying to make its way onto his face but was being refused to by his overwhelming hate of everything Black. I smiled anyway, smiled at the remembrance of how he would compare himself to the portraits in the hallway, and how his features hadn't dulled a bit, despite his running away from himself. I noticed how he hadn't changed that much, that maybe it was just seeing him again after so long that made him look a little unfamiliar.

'It's... it's nice to have you back.'

He snorted, his favourite response from long ago, his voice sarcastic when he spoke. 'You know I didn't want to come.'

'I know.' Yes, I knew... I knew that he didn't want to come, that much was painfully obvious.

'Then?'

I looked down at my feet, to the side, anywhere, just not at him. I didn't want to look at him, didn't want to give a name to that emotion that seemed to seep through the cracks in my soul, overriding my mind, two conflicting thoughts each struggling to come to the fore. I could still hear Bellatrix's voice in my head, I could hear her whispering as if she was standing next to me, her lips brushing my ear. 'You must kill Sirius, you must,' she intoned breathlessly, her voice echoing as footsteps began to rise from the doorway, making their way to me. 'You must kill Sirius...'

'Regulus?' Sirius asked, and I snapped my head up as I heard his voice sound from right above me. He was staring with a look that was so reminiscent of the day he had told me not to listen to Mother, to get out of the garden. To think for myself. The image swirled in front of me, something I had forced myself to forget, something that suddenly startled me because I remembered... squinting up at him I felt like myself again...

No, Sirius hadn't changed. I recognized him perfectly, saw him like I had never seen him. He never had left... I understood. I was the one who had changed, who decided to forget myself and instead live for others, to try and make my blue eyes grey.

So much confusion... my head hurt. My arm throbbed. I closed my eyes. I knew that I didn't want to do this... couldn't do this... but what now? I tasted blood from biting down on my lip and my hands were shaking so hard I had to clench my fists to stop it.

I could have just hexed him and have it done with. I could have just cast the Killing Curse on him, stood up and walked out and said that my work was done. My life's work, drawing to this one horrible, tense moment. Or I could have let my thoughts lead me, I could have thought on who he was and who I was.

In fantasy, I will admit I had killed him, so many times over, but when faced with the actual moment, I couldn't.

Simply because he was my brother.

'Come and sit down. We can... talk.' I was surprised at my own voice, how shaky... weak... it sounded.

'I didn't come here to talk, and you didn't call me here just to make idle chit-chat, Regulus,' he said, his voice getting an edge to it. He whirled around, planning to go, and I knew that I had to tell him what was happening. I had to warn him, or he would never know. I could barely force myself to speak, but as I watched his back I called out to him, knowing that there was no other way.

'They want to kill you!' I shouted. The words burst out of my mouth before I could think of what to say, but the strain of saying them left me breathless, left me trembling in fear. I wasn't sure if I was more scared for myself, or for what he might do. I watched his back carefully as what I said sunk in, as he began to react. He stopped in the doorway, one hand against the doorframe, leaning against it heavily, bracing himself.

'What?' His voice was sharp, slightly high-pitched; his shoulders were rigid and every breath he took hung over me in the heavy silence strung between us. Recklessly, I continued ahead, plunging into my confession, feeling the tension rise as I spoke.

'They want me to... I'm supposed to... kill you.' I could hardly get the words out. 'They... I called you here...' and then I really couldn't speak; my throat seized up, prickling painfully and I let the room lapse into unbearable silence, to let him absorb what I had just said.

I, his brother.

I, his would-be killer.

When he faced me again, his face was slack. Gone was his impudence, his untouchable air. It was like my words had suddenly cracked open his shields and I was looking at someone so vulnerable...

It was like looking at my reflection.

'You're not serious...' he breathed, his eyes widening in disbelief. I only nodded, letting my wand slide into my hand, getting to my feet. We stood there for what seemed an age, simply looking at each other, sizing the other up. My wand was beginning to slip from my fingers, sweat making the wood slippery; my muscles began to cramp from standing, tensed, for so long.

He moved, just slightly. I immediately readied myself. I half-hoped that he would strike out at me, that he would produce a wand from nowhere and send some sort of hex whizzing through the air... so that I could have an excuse to run. But this was Sirius, and he did nothing of the sort. Instead of drawing a wand, he raised his empty hands; instead of a hex, I was assailed by the sight of him reaching towards me, his arms open wide in a move that was reminiscent of a hug, an invitation to be held.

As a child, it might have been, but that idea died a long time ago, buried in the backyard of our youth. Instead, I recognized it as another kind of invitation, a more sinister one, one that would not breath new life into us... but would kill. Resignation rang in his voice, and his words were bitter, laced with pain and defeat.

'Do it, then,' he said softly, taking a step back. 'Do it, Regulus.'

He didn't believe that I could.

I say that I knew Sirius, but even that move surprised me... because I only realized then that he knew me almost too well. I smiled, mirthlessly, because of this irony; sadly, because I had actually hoped that he might not be so damn noble. Damn him, noble Sirius. Damn him.

Damn him for guessing that I was probably as noble as he was.

Every step towards him was heavy, difficult; every breath was impossible. I kept my eyes trained on him until I was within distance. I could see his eyes flitting between my wand and my face, his stance confused as I raised my hand...

The sound of his exhalation nothing more than a sharp sound that sliced through the tension between us as I snapped my wand in half.

'But I won't do it, Sirius,' I said softly, glancing down as I let the pieces of my wand clatter to the floor. 'I won't do it.' I suddenly felt so tired, so relieved, even if my arm began to itch and burn, even if I could hear the shrieks sounding in my ears, accusing, screaming, traitor, traitor, traitor... but I ignored them. Over the painful shame that was welling up, shame of my failure, I only allowed myself a single glance at him to try and store this image in my memory, of the two of us as brothers, just for a second.

And then I told him to leave.

'Go, Sirius,' I said quietly, my voice nothing more than a feeble croak. He didn't seem to listen, standing frozen in place, unsure. 'Go,' I repeated, this time letting a hint of a plea creep into my voice. I wanted nothing more than for him to be gone... not because I hated him, but because I could not bear for him to be caught by another, just after I had let him go.

'Why?' He placed his hand on my shoulder. The sudden feeling startled me and I looked up. His face was impassive once more, but I could see the pity, the sadness in his eyes.

'Because,' I said thickly, my voice growing alien, 'Because you're my brother.' The word rolled around on my tongue, a misused phrase that should have been warm but instead sat uncomfortably in my mouth, a name I should have never let leave me.

He nodded. 'Brother,' he whispered hoarsely, his whole face lighting up in understanding. 'Regulus... Reg, if there's anything...'

'No. Nothing.'

'I'm sorry,' he said, and like a momentary flash of lightning that threw everything in the darkness into harsh relief, he was gone, leaving me with the reality of my actions.

That was yesterday. Now I sit with the rain trickling down my neck, staring into the depths of a puddle in front of me. The ripples distort my image and for a few seconds I can pretend I recognize the boy that stares back up at me out of the water. But when the surface is smooth and clear, I don't know who he is. I cannot be so haggard, so sad. He is nothing more than a smiling shadow, and I... I am...

Well, I don't know who I am anymore. I thought I did.

I was told once that a man is defined by his dreams, by his desires. I have none, none at all anymore. I am actually content to sit here, fill my ears with the patter of rain instead of harsh screams; I am happy to feel the years being washed away.

The puddle ripples once more, and in between the ridges, I think I see someone standing behind the boy in the water. It is a thin, masked figure, one that I instantly recognize, one that does not need to speak to tell me what she is here for. I see the wand in her hand; when the cold wood touches the back of my neck, I laugh.

'Do it,' I whisper, a voice rising in my head with the words. 'Do it, Bella.'

I am that noble, but I know that she isn't.

The woman in the puddle rips off her mask, her face contorted in fury. She says something, her voice nothing more than a savage snarl, but I am not listening. Instead, I am smiling at the boy who sits opposite me, and when I feel the ice pass from the tip of her wand through my body, when I lean forwards, I see the boy rising to meet me, wrapping me in his cold, wet embrace.

Through the green light, I hear his laugh; I can see his wet cheeks, his tears falling, his blue eyes grey.

*

fin

*