This Bird Has Flown

20 December, 1976

Regulus moved slowly through the long dark corridors and tried not to think about Sirius. Which was impossible, he realised after only a few frustrating minutes. Every room he passed seemed to echo with his brother’s voice, his brother’s laughter, his brother’s screams. It was funny, Regulus thought, that Sirius should fill the house now he was gone, when for the two days he had actually been here, there’d been scarcely a trace of him. He’d spent one day holed up in his room, venturing out only for meals and to use the loo. He’d spent the next day in Muggle London and returned to find his sanctuary broken into, his secret discovered.

Regulus had known for months. Severus had told him--

“Snivellus?” said Sirius coldly. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

--but he hadn’t believed him, not truly, until that late afternoon in October, when he’d gone back to the Charms classroom because he’d left his quill there a few hours before, and seen them--

“You and him. I saw you! He was-- You had your-- His--”

“His what? My what? I had his cock in my mouth, is that what you’re trying to say? Well, that’s what you’d’ve seen if you’d shown up at the beginning. If you’d shown up later or hung around you’d’ve seen him stick his cock somewhere else. Well, little brother? Tell me, I’m curious. What did you do, then? Had yourself a nice wank in the bog? With a little help from dear Snivellus?”

Merlin, his brother could be crude. He’d been baiting him, of course, and Regulus, like some gentlewitch’s trained lapdog, had gone straight for the lure.

“That was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. You’re the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. You know what I did when I saw that? I threw up. I think I’m going to throw up right now, just looking at you. What is wrong with you? Why can’t you be normal? Why couldn’t you lie, at least? Why couldn’t you just say it was a love potion?”

“Because it wasn’t. I don’t give a shite what anyone thinks, but

He, thought Regulus bitterly. Remus Lupin. Sirius’ friend--and Regulus’. Well, he’d come to think of the older boy as a friend. Clearly he had never been one. All those years he’d been pretending, using Regulus to get to his brother. Or maybe--and his stomach lurched again at the thought--Lupin had been after him, because he thought he couldn’t get Sirius. He could not recall any flirtation on Lupin’s part, but that did not mean it had not been there. What did Regulus know about that? He had only just turned thirteen. Sirius had been having sex at fourteen, he knew, but Regulus wasn’t like that. Anyway, he and Sirius looked enough alike. That was what everyone said. That was why Severus had hated him at first.

And why should Lupin have thought he had a chance with either of them? Sirius liked girls. Sirius had sex with girls. (But not exclusively, obviously.) Why did Lupin think Regulus would want him? Regulus liked girls. He had never shagged one, but he wanted to. Some day. He thought about girls when he wanked off. (And no, he had not gone and had himself a nice wank after catching his brother and Lupin together that day. He really had run straight to the loo and vomited.)

But he’d kept his brother’s secret. For two months he’d kept that filthy, sickening scene locked in his memory because he’d thought--hoped, truthfully--that some explanation would surface. A love potion. A bet, a dare. A stunt. But Sirius had been writing a love letter in his room. A love letter. To a boy. He hadn’t used Lupin’s name in the letter, had referred to him only as Moony, but Regulus had known who it was because he’d overheard them talking together often enough, and knew the idiotic nicknames they’d given each other. He’d talked about sex in the letter--that kind of sex--and that was how his parents had known.

His parents.

His father had gone out, probably to a pub. First, however, he’d snarled at his wife, “This is how you repay me. I gave you that name you’re so proud of, and you give me filth.” Then he’d gone, slamming the door behind him--as Sirius had done a short while earlier.

His mother had sat very still on the divan chair in the parlour, her pointed chin held high, a glass of firewhisky clutched in one long, white hand. She’d remained so for a full ten minutes. Then, very slowly, she’d turned her head and seen Regulus, hovering in the shadows. She’d beckoned to her younger son, a strange smile on her pale face, and he’d gone to her obediently. She’d captured one of his hands with her free one, and he’d been surprised at the firmness of her grip. She wasn’t a very big woman, had always struck him, somehow, as fragile.

“Regulus,” she had said, and a little thrill of fear had raced through him at the sound of his name. There’d been desperation in her tone, a plea, and she’d looked up at him as though she were drowning and he her only lifeline. He half-believed she’d have crumbled into nothingness if he’d tried to break free.

So, “It’s me, Mother,” he’d said hoarsely. “I’m right here.”

“I know you are,” she’d said. “My Regulus. My son.” Her eyes, the same colour as his own, had been slightly unfocussed and he’d wondered--still wondered--what she’d really been thinking, what she’d really seen. “Regulus,” she’d said again, still with that strange, half-pleading voice. “You won’t betray me, will you, Regulus?”

“No, Mother,” he’d answered.

“You won’t ever forget that you are a Black, or ever act in a manner unbefitting your heritage?”

“No, Mother.”

She’d seemed to relax at that point, had withdrawn her hand and leaned back against the divan. Still not really looking at him, she’d murmured half-dreamily, “All my children, and you are the only good one. The only one I ever cared for.”

All my children.

He did not know what she’d meant by that. All my children implied…more than two, he thought. But Lavinia and Rigel Black had only ever had two children, two sons. And now they had one, Regulus reflected. The only good one. The only one his mother cared for.

It was only a matter of time, he thought, before his mother went to the drawing room and blasted Sirius’ name from the great tapestry that hung there, the ancient one with the Black family tree and their motto Toujours Pur embroidered on it in gold thread. She’d done it to her niece Andromeda after the girl had become pregnant and subsequently married her baby’s father--a Muggle-born. (Which had been the greater sin, the pregnancy or the marriage, Regulus did not know, and did not dare ask.) She’d threatened often enough to do it to Andromeda’s father, Alphard, who had promised to support his middle daughter, despite her shame.

Regulus did not want to be there when it happened. He supposed he could contrive to be absent, although knowing his mother, she would probably set Kreacher to watching him, making sure he stayed in the house. She would want him to be present.

He was not even sure why he did not want to be there. Only half an hour ago he’d certainly done all he could to hurt his brother--

“You’re a freak and you’re disgusting. So’s your boyfriend.”

--and taken pleasure in it. Because for the first time in thirteen years he’d been in a position to get back a little of his own from Sirius. And Sirius had pushed him.

But to hurt was not necessarily to repudiate, and that was what his parents were doing. From now on they would deny their elder son’s existence, as they denied their niece’s and her husband’s and daughter’s. And Regulus was not sure he was ready for that. It wasn’t only because he knew he would still see Sirius almost every day at school. For thirteen years he had been someone’s little brother. He hadn’t always been aware of doing so, but he’d always defined himself that way. He’d always been Sirius’ little brother. Now he was not. Now he was no one’s brother.

Sirius’ room was as Kreacher had left it. His desk was unlocked and open, as was his trunk and his wardrobe. The House Elf had taken no pains whatsoever to disguise his intrusion; it was as though he had known Sirius would not be coming back.

The bed was unmade. Sirius never made his bed. His mother always used to say to him, every morning, when he’d been younger, “Did you make your bed?” and Sirius had always replied, “No.” Then he’d cut her off before she could summon Kreacher: “Don’t you fucking dare.” “You will not use that language in my presence.” “If you let him in my room, I’ll give him clothes, I swear.” “Don’t threaten me.” “Don’t let him in my room. It’s my room.” “Make your bed, then.” “Fine.” But he never had.

Regulus had slept in that bed a few times. Once, beside Sirius, the night before his brother had left for Hogwarts. Regulus had gone to say goodbye to him, and then he’d been afraid to leave because Kreacher had been lurking in the corridor outside. So, Sirius had let him stay--albeit reluctantly--and made him promise that he’d give their parents hell. He’d promised, knowing full well he would not keep his word. He’d lain awake almost the entire night, watching his brother while he slept and knowing somehow that he was losing him.

He’d slept in that bed a few times after Sirius had gone.

Now Regulus hated to think about what his brother had done in that bed. No, Lupin had never been to the house, but--still. Regulus had woken often enough with his own sheets wet to know-- He stopped thinking about that abruptly, and looked away from the bed.

His gaze fell upon his brother’s racing broom, his beloved Nimbus 1500, which stood against the wall. Merlin, Sirius had chattered about that broom. Almost non-stop it had been, the week leading up to its purchase, and for quite some time afterward. He’d never let Regulus use it, but then, Regulus doubted he’d even let Potter use it. It was Sirius’ broom. It was, he’d realised, after seeing his brother fly, almost an extension of Sirius himself. It had made him faster, stronger. It had lifted him up and let him move in ways he’d never been able to earthbound. It had been his means of escape. It seemed strange to Regulus that he would have left it behind.

He’d left all his clothes as well, and his books. Merlin, had he taken anything? The pockets of his parka had been bulging, but he’d held nothing in his hands. There’d been no rucksack, no trunk. It had been dark and rainy, but Sirius had been standing in the light of a streetlamp. Regulus would have seen something, if there had been anything.

If he’d left his broom, how did Sirius expect to get anywhere?

The Knight Bus, Regulus thought. His pockets had been bulging--with money. And of course he’d had his wand. He wouldn’t have left his wand. He’d have drawn it and summoned the bus the moment he’d stopped--

Hurt. All he wanted to do was hurt Sirius, who’d hurt him so many damn times in the past. And he could. Finally, he knew how. The pale blue eyes were staring at him through the rain, and he saw the crack, and finally he knew just what to say.

“If you like playing the bitch so much--”

--running, thought Regulus. He’d have to stop running at some point. How far could he go? He’d stop, and summon the Knight Bus, and--

Regulus gaze settled upon Sirius’ dresser. He stared at the thing on top of it, the small, folded leather thing that for a long moment did not register to him as a wallet. Then it did, and he felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach.

“If you like playing the bitch so much,” he said, looking down on his brother from what seemed a great height and working every ounce of bile he had into his tone, “if you like playing the bitch so much--”

It was still raining. The bare branches of the tree outside shook in the wind and tapped insistently at the window.

“If you like playing the bitch so much-- “

He closed his eyes, shutting out the room and shutting in his brother’s white, upturned face. The pain-filled blue eyes, the gloveless, white hands.

“If you like playing the bitch so much, here are some real dogs.” Then he summoned the Crups.

There’d been a cacophony of barking. There had to have been, but he hadn’t heard it. There had to have been, as well, the staccato tap of boots against pavement. Maybe there’d been a scream. He didn’t know. He hadn’t heard, hadn’t seen what had followed. He’d turned his back and gone inside. And Sirius would never come back. Never.

He left his brother’s bedroom, then. He did not take anything, though he knew that by this time tomorrow his parents would have had Kreacher destroy everything inside.

Sirius is never coming back, he thought as he stumbled back down the corridor. He isn’t coming back.

There were the House Elf heads, lining the wall, staring straight ahead with sightless eyes. He’d been so afraid of them, once. So afraid that Sirius had had to hold his hand in order to get him to walk past them.

He isn’t coming back.

On the floor below, his mother was laughing, hysterically. Every now and then she’d break off and there’d be a brief pause and Regulus knew, though he could not hear, that Kreacher was muttering to her.

He’d been afraid of Kreacher, too, as a boy. Even now, when the old House Elf turned his limpid gaze on him Regulus felt as though millions of tiny insects were swarming underneath his skin. He shuddered now, thinking about it.

Sirius had never been afraid, of course. Whenever he’d caught the House Elf tormenting Regulus he’d ordered him to slam his fingers in a door or stick his feet in the fireplace.

Sirius was never coming back.

He hadn’t had any destination in mind, but somehow Regulus found himself in his father’s study. There was no one there, which made it as good a refuge as any. He walked to the desk and threw himself into the large, leather-backed chair. He gripped the clawed armrests, swivelled so he was not facing the rain-streaked window, and gazed about listlessly. Three walls were hidden behind bookcases that stretched from floor to ceiling and were filled to capacity with tomes, most of which, Regulus knew, were the family chronicles and financial accounts. Sirius had hated this room, had only ever gone into it when ordered. Regulus did not mind it. It was hardly a cheerful study, even with the tall windows and the great, yawning fireplace, but he felt closer to his ancestors here. That was probably the reason Sirius had felt so uncomfortable here. Sirius had never cared for his lineage. Regulus, on the other hand…

Actually, the name Black meant less to him than his parents thought, although it meant a great deal more to him than it had ever meant to Sirius. It was important to him to belong to something, though. Whereas Sirius had gone out and joined other things--Gryffindor, his little gang of friends, the Quidditch team--Regulus had always been content with the ties with which he had been born and saw no need, as yet, to shrug them off.

“Well,” said a sharp voice, cracking the silence, and nearly startling Regulus to his feet, “are you going to tell me what that gold-digging bitch is carrying on about downstairs, or must I guess?”

Regulus knew the voice. It belonged to his great-great-grandfather, Phineas Nigellus, whose portrait hung over the fireplace. “Don’t you know?” he said, when his heartbeat had slowed back to a normal thump.

“Well,” the man in the portrait said, “I assume it has something to do with my worthless great-great-grandson. I mean, my other worthless great-great-grandson.”

The barb struck, but did not draw blood. It was a cruelty to which Regulus had long ago grown accustomed. Sirius had the same streak. So, Nigellus didn’t know. Which meant Regulus had to tell him.

“He ran away. Sirius,” he said. He could not say why.

“Again?” The thin black brows drew together over piercing blue eyes, and a bemused smile lit the lined, regal face.

“For good,” said Regulus.

“Well.” Phineas Nigellus stroked his pointed beard with one silk-gloved hand. And then, to Regulus’ utter bewilderment, he began to sing, very softly, almost to himself:

The tone--and the words--stung Regulus to his feet. “Shut up!” he shouted.

Nigellus regarded him bemusedly. “Well, you’ve some spirit, at least,” he said at length. “All is, perhaps, not lost. So, the elder of my two completely worthless great-great-grandsons has run away for good. I suppose there’s little point in asking you why. The gold-digging bitch can’t stay downstairs forever. At some point she’ll take her shrieks up here, and then we’ll all be edified.”

“He’s--” Regulus began, without thinking, but stopped himself in time. He clenched his fist against his father’s desk and looked away from his ancestor’s portrait.

“If you like playing the bitch so much--”
“All my children, and you are the only good one. The only one I ever cared for.”
“There was a bitch had three whelps…”

“He’s never coming back,” Regulus said tightly, still avoiding Nigellus’ eyes. “He’s a disgrace to his family. He’s brought shame to our house, and degraded--” Those were his mother’s words. They tasted bitter, but they were the only ones that came to him.

“Has he been blasted off the tapestry?” Nigellus inquired.

“Not yet,” muttered Regulus. Well, perhaps by now he had been. He thought his mother would have wanted him to be present, but she’d been drinking. If she’d forgotten about him it would not have been the first time.

“I do wish she wouldn’t,” Nigellus said dryly. “That was my tapestry long before it was hers, and it’s very old. By the time it’s yours--should you live so long--there’ll be little left of it.”

“There’ll be enough of it left for my name.”

“Sure about that, are you?” his great-great-grandfather said. “I must say, the odds are no longer in your favour. Two-to-one, I’d say. Two down--”

“If you mean Andromeda,” Regulus said, turning back to face the mean blue gaze and sly smile, “she’s a disgrace, too. And she has two sisters. Bellatrix married Rodolphus Lestrange, and Narcissa is going to marry Lucius Malfoy. Those are good matches. You should--”

“I was not, as it so happens, talking about your cousins,” Nigellus remarked, and before Regulus’ bewildered glance, his expression changed. It did not soften--not quite--but the pale blue eyes went a little distant, and the lines around the smiling mouth became less severe. “Do you know what the worst thing about being dead is? It is not, as you may think, having to wear the same outdated robe every day until eternity. It’s not having to watch your worthless great-grandson pore over his financial records as though every galleon saved will earn him an extra year of life. No. For me--and you may find this hard to believe, being just out of nappies--it’s missing all the new books. Look at these.” He gestured over his shoulder, at the background of painted books on shelves. “I’ve read these. All of them, over and over. I haven’t read a new book since I died. That was more than thirty years ago. Try to grasp that. See if you can.”

“Books,” echoed Regulus. “That’s the worst thing about being dead?”

“I never claimed to be a deep man. I never claimed to like people. Any people. I rather loathed my students when I was Headmaster of Hogwarts. They were young minds to be moulded, but they never did what you wanted them to do. No, I always preferred books to people. And now I’m stuck here, in a library of all places, and people come and go all the time, but the only books I have are the ones that are painted with me. She used to read to me.”

“Who?” said Regulus, but Nigellus ignored him.

“She used to come in here,” he said, and now his voice did soften, just a little. “I don’t think she ever quite knew who I was. I think she only thought I was a painting who talked. She had my eyes, though. And Sirius’. You have your mother’s, unfortunately. She used to read to me. She never understood half the things I asked her to read. She was very bright, but she was very young. In return, I told her about the things she was not allowed to see. Places I’d been, people I’d met. It wasn’t a formal bargain. They never let her out, you see. They were always afraid someone would see her, someone from their circle, who would not approve. Who would realise, I suppose, that for all the purity of their blood, they’d produced a child who was less than perfect.”

“Who?” demanded Regulus, striding to the painting, his fists curled tightly at his sides. He didn’t have the patience for this. He hated being toyed with. “Who the hell are you talking about?”

His great-great-grandfather regarded him again, finally. “Your sister,” he said in a tone that made it clear he thought Regulus an imbecile. “Your elder sister, Electra. My great-great-granddaughter.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“Correct,” Nigellus said scathingly. “You don’t have one, now, but you had one. I’m not surprised you don’t remember her, since you were just a baby when she died. I am surprised your brother never told you about her. Maybe he wanted to keep her memory to himself. She was, after all, the only one he cared for, here. She tried to protect him, I remember, when the gold-digging bitch was feeling particularly vengeful. I imagine she thought no one would strike a little girl with a weak heart. A stupid thing to do, but rather brave. I don’t imagine she’d have been Sorted into Slytherin, had she lived long enough to attend Hogwarts. She used to come to me, crying, and beg me to make her parents leave her brother alone. As though I had any power over them. He could never do wrong in her eyes, you see. And yet, the first time he ran away--when he was five--she was the one who caught him and made him stay. I don’t know how far he’d gotten. He came back to the house for some reason, and she found him and made him stay. She said--I overheard her say--‘Please stay for me. Hold on, just a little longer. It’s not time, yet.’ You’d think she knew… A year later, she was dead. He held out for ten years. That’s fortitude, I suppose.”

Regulus’ world was shaking. He put out his hands to steady it, but there was nothing for him to grasp. There were shadows in his mind, where memories ought to have been. “I don’t have a sister,” he said, and clung to that notion because it was something he had known all his life and was, therefore, safe. “I never had a sister.”

“Sirius used to look for her,” Nigellus said quietly, as though he’d finally lost interest in Regulus. “For a few weeks, at least, after she’d died. He’d wander through the house, calling her name. Your parents loved that, as you can well imagine. It never occurred to him to stop, or shut the hell up, no matter what they did. He must really have thought he’d find her. Who can understand children? I never did. I suppose I should feel lucky my line has extended this far. Are you still there?”

“I never had a sister,” insisted Regulus, though, almost against his will, he had begun to feel through the shadows, for something that would either support or refute his ancestor’s story. “I never had one. Her name would be on the tapestry if--”

“--If it hadn’t been erased,” said Nigellus. “Not blasted off, but erased. A burn mark is a thing you can see. It’s a reminder that something was there once, and now is gone. But to charm away an entire limb on a family tree…that’s repudiation of a different sort. That’s a denial of a thing’s very existence. You ask your parents. They won’t talk to you about your sister. Mention the name Electra Black to them and they’ll give you blank stares. But I remember her. Sirius does. And somewhere in that tiny brain of yours, you must remember, too.”

“I don’t,” said Regulus. “I really don’t.” All my children, his mother had said. All my children…

“A pity,” Nigellus said dismissively. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some thinking to do. And so, I should think, do you. About how to stay in your parents’ good graces. If that’s what you want. Come, now, Regulus. You’ve been listening, I think. A sister erased from the tapestry, a brother about to be blasted off. That’s two down, and one to go, and the way I see it, the odds are not in your favour.”

The corridor had been empty when he’d gone into the study. Now, as he closed the door to that room, and leaned against it and tried to make sense of what he’d been told, the corridor seemed to teem with spirits. Mostly, they belonged to his brother and himself, at various stages of life. There they were, walking together past the House Elf heads, Regulus clinging to Sirius’ hand, Sirius trying to look as though this were the most tedious of chores. There was Sirius, emerging from his bedroom on the day he’d first left for Hogwarts, rucksack slung over his shoulder, his broomstick in his hand. There he was, pausing at the landing and turning back to say to a sleepy-eyed, pyjama-clad Regulus who’d followed him, slowly, out of his bedroom, “Remember: do everything I’d do.” There was Regulus, nodding obediently and biting his lip to stop himself from crying out, “Don’t leave me!”

These were relatively new spirits. Weren’t there any that were older? Regulus had been seven when Sirius had left for Hogwarts. He’d been about five or six when his mother had charmed the House Elf heads to watch him as he went past. What had they been like, before that, he and his brother?

He’d seen pictures. It occurred to him now that it had actually been a long time since he’d seen a picture of the two of them, together. When had they begun to disappear from the mantelpieces and end tables? Probably around the time of Sirius’ Sorting. It must have been gradual, a subtle and growing denial of a child who no longer met expectations.

He had never discarded anything, though. Quietly, so his mother would not hear him from the floor below, Regulus went to his bedroom and pulled, from the top shelf of his bookcase, the photo album he had always kept, but ignored and nearly forgotten for years.

It was a fairly old book, though it was neither dusty nor yellowed, thanks to the charms his mother had cast upon everything he owned. The cover was a rather poisonous-looking green leather, and at some point he had stuck iridescent, snake-shaped stickers all over it. He had a very vague memory of Cousin Narcissa giving those to him, many birthdays ago. He sat cross-legged on the rug and opened the book on his lap, and began to flip through it.

There were not very many pictures. He’d never had a camera, had never been very interested in preserving his memories, so these had come to him from his parents and older cousins; they were the ones they had not wanted and thought it would cause no harm if he possessed. There were a few of Regulus’ youngest cousin, Narcissa, who liked to be photographed, and who invariably turned out well--except when Sirius photographed her with curlers in her hair and cream on her face. He found one picture of his middle cousin, Andromeda, wearing Ravenclaw colours. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a neat plait, and her expression was quite solemn. She was holding an award of some kind. Andromeda had always won awards for her brilliant essays, as a Hogwarts student. If Cissa was the beauty, Meda was the brain. There were no photographs of Andromeda’s daughter, Nymphadora. Regulus had never seen a single photograph of her, or met her, though he knew Sirius had. He was curious about the baby girl, whom his parents had not even bothered to add to the tapestry, but he suppressed his curiosity. His parents would find out, if he ever tried to communicate with Andromeda or her husband, and he knew better than to provoke their ire.

There were no photographs of Bellatrix, either. Regulus’ eldest cousin did not like having her picture taken, despite the fact that she, like her sister Narcissa, was quite beautiful. He’d never asked her why. There was something magnetic about Bellatrix, but there were times when she frightened him, too, and he had a feeling she would have considered the question impertinent.

There was one picture of Regulus’ mother and father, dressed formally, and looking bored. There was one picture of Sirius, in his scarlet Quidditch robes, broomstick in one hand, Beater club in the other. He looked young. The photograph had probably been taken his second or third year. Regulus did not remember how he’d obtained it. It wasn’t something his parents would have owned, let alone given him. He was quite certain he had not gotten it from Sirius.

There were a few pictures of Regulus as a baby. There was only one of him and Sirius together.

There was no date on the back of the photograph, but Regulus guessed himself to be about three years old, making Sirius six. They were seated next to each other, in chairs carved from some kind of dark, highly polished wood, with green velvet cushions. On the wall behind them was the tapestry depicting the Black motto and family tree, which meant that they were in the drawing room. They were both dressed in robes of dark green, with silver trim at the collars and cuffs. In the torchlight their hair gleamed like polished coal, though Sirius’ was somewhat dishevelled. Neither boy looked particularly happy. Regulus was too small for the chair, and seemed not to like the way his feet dangled so far above the floor. He kept glancing, askance, to the right, where one or both of his parents apparently stood, outside the photograph’s edge.

Sirius swung his long legs, fussed with his cuffs, rolled his eyes, and pulled faces at the photographer. At one point he glanced to the right, and wrinkled his nose, so Regulus assumed his parents had snapped a reprimand. What followed stole Regulus’ breath and chilled him to his core. He never saw the wand, never heard the spell, but as he watched, wide-eyed, bolts of light shot from the photograph’s bottom right corner and struck Sirius in the chest. There was no sound, but his brother went rigid. His eyes widened, and tears gleamed in his eyes. His mouth contorted, but from the neck down he appeared to have been paralysed. Full-Body Bind, thought Regulus, dully. People always said it was the only way to get Sirius to sit still.

But not shut up. The six-year-old continued to mouth what were probably profanities--Regulus was convinced his first word had been fuck!--until his mother strode into the frame. Regulus could not see her face, but he could tell from her thin, tensed shoulders, that she was furious. She stopped in front of Sirius, raised one hand, and brought it down, hard. His mother’s body hid his brother’s, so he did not see the blow land, but he saw the expression on his own three-year-old face. It was one of horror, but not surprise. Mrs Black struck her elder son a second time, then seemed to kneel and, as thirteen-year-old Regulus watched, seized him roughly by the shoulders and jerked him upright. She next wrenched his hands from the armrests, and when she rose a few moments later and stalked back to her corner, they were folded neatly in his lap, one over the other.

The tears appeared to have been wiped from Sirius’ cheeks as well, but they still stood in his eyes. He blinked at them furiously, and bit his lip to stop it trembling. His face was very pale, except for the red streak, where his mother had slapped him. Well, no wonder his parents hadn’t kept this photograph, Regulus thought. He was beginning to think he did not want to keep it, either, when, to his bewilderment, Sirius’ gaze flickered to the left, and his entire aspect altered.

He still couldn’t move anything except his face, of course, but he seemed to relax, as though he’d finally stopped fighting the posture his mother had forced him into. His mouth softened, and opened slightly, but he did not appear to be speaking. He stopped blinking, his eyes went slightly rounder, and his eyebrows lifted and came together above the bridge of his nose. He sniffed once, but did not cry again. The blue eyes shone, but not, this time, with tears.

It took Regulus a moment to identify the emotion in his brother’s face. Until now, he’d been quite certain he’d never seen it before, in this house. It wasn’t happiness. It couldn’t be, after the hexing Sirius had just endured. It wasn’t happiness. It was love. He’d never seen Sirius look at anyone that way, not even Lupin. There was no desire in his gaze, only pure, utterly untainted adoration. And Regulus knew that he’d found his sister’s portrait, in his brother’s face.

Then he happened to look at the face of his three-year-old self and saw the same expression, only Regulus was looking directly at Sirius.

There was a knock on the door, too close to the floor for it to be anyone other than Kreacher. Regulus snapped the album shut and clutched it to his chest, like a shield between the House Elf and his pounding heart.

“Young master,” said Kreacher, through the door, and Regulus could not believe he was imagining the note of glee in his tone, “young master, my mistress has sent me to fetch you. You must come down, now, yes, now, to the drawing room. There is a thing my mistress wishes her son to witness. Her only son, yes, now the filthy blood-traitor has gone. Come now, young master. Come with Kreacher.”

Regulus was on his feet, backing away from the door. “Go away,” he insisted. “I’ll be down--in a minute.” He had to hide the album. It made no sense, but it seemed to him that now that he knew what it contained, his parents know, and want to take it from him. “I’m coming!” he shouted, when the doorknob rattled. “I’m--I’m starkers. I’m changing. Getting my robe. Coming--” He lifted his mattress to slide the album underneath, then remembered that his mother had Kreacher search his room, periodically. Anything Kreacher found under the mattress would be reported. There was the bookcase, again, but even the topmost shelf seemed horribly exposed.

“Young master,” Kreacher entreated again, and there was a click as the lock came undone.

“I’m coming!” Regulus shrieked, and cast about, desperately. His gaze lit upon his Hogwarts trunk. Merlin, he couldn’t take the album with him. What would his friends think? There was no time to worry about that. The door was creaking open. Regulus flipped quickly to the pages that held his cousin Andromeda’s photograph, and the one of himself with his brother. He took them and stuffed them into his pocket. Then he opened the trunk and tossed the album inside, slamming it shut just as Kreacher waddled into the room, pale eyes gleaming, a smile stretching his old, sallow skin.

“Young master is dressed, Kreacher sees,” he said. “Time for young master to come down and see what Kreacher’s mistress wants to show him. Kreacher’s mistress is most kind, most gracious-- She says he can watch, too, oh, yes. Come, young master. Come.”

Regulus took his wand from his bedside table and stuffed it into his pocket with the photographs. He felt his other pocket surreptitiously. Yes, there was money, there. How much, he did not know. Not enough, probably, to get him to Scotland, but enough, surely, to get him to Diagon Alley and to pay for a post owl. What he would say to Sirius when he saw him again, he did not know. Perhaps he would not need to say anything. Perhaps his brother would see his face and know what he felt, as Regulus had known just by looking at that photograph. He would show it to Sirius and ask him about their sister. Maybe they’d spend Christmas with Cousin Andromeda and her husband and daughter. They’d buy presents for little Nymphadora, and teach her the games they’d played, in secret, as children.

Kreacher was beckoning. Ever the dutiful son, Regulus followed him along the corridor, past the House Elf heads, and down the stairs. The ghosts were at bay, now, all but one. As he stepped onto the ground-floor landing he thought he saw Sirius, white-faced and trembling, out of the corner of his eye. When he glanced round, quickly, there was no one there.

Kreacher led him to the drawing room. The door stood open. Bright torchlight spilled into the corridor. Regulus saw his mother, a small, terrifying figure in her stark, black robes, one arm extended, her wand pointed at the lower part of the tapestry. Regulus saw his brother’s name, gold thread flashing like fire in the flooding light. Sirius Cyon Black. And, to the right of it, Regulus Deneb Black. The closest name to the left of Sirius’ was Cousin Narcissa’s, but, Regulus noticed for the first time, there was room enough between the names of his uncle’s children and his parents’ for another.

Lavinia Black turned to her younger son. With the fire at her back, Regulus could not see her face, except for the deep red stain of her lips. “Come here,” she instructed. “There’s something I want you to witness.”

He’d meant to say goodbye to his mother. Now, he found he could not. He took one step backward, away from the door. His mother said his name again, sharply, and he bolted.

He ran for the front hallway, knocking aside everything in his path. Behind him, he heard his mother’s shrieks, and Kreacher’s flustered gabbling, but those were cut off sharply as he slammed the door behind him.

Rain still pounded the pavement. The air was chilling. He hadn’t thought to grab a jacket on his way out. It didn’t matter. There’d be hot chocolate on the Knight Bus. He could stand the cold until he saw Sirius again.

He didn’t hear the door open behind him, didn’t hear the footsteps. He pulled his wand from his pocket, and began to raise it--but a long-fingered hand clamped around his wrist and yanked it down, and then Kreacher was on him, one arm around his waist, dragging him back.

“Mustn’t do it, young master,” the House Elf hissed. “Mustn’t leave. Mustn’t break his poor mother’s heart, mustn’t be like the other one, the filthy, sodomising, fornicating--”

Regulus struggled with all his strength. If he could shake the House Elf off, if he could get his wand up-- But Kreacher was surprisingly strong. The short legs hooked round Regulus’ ankles, tripping him, sending him sprawling against the rain-soaked pavement. He cried out in pain and fought to rise again, but Kreacher clambered onto his back and grabbed his hair.

“Mustn’t, mustn’t--”

“Sirius!” Regulus screamed. It was no use. His brother couldn’t hear him, couldn’t save him. He’d gone, he wasn’t coming back, and it was Regulus’ fault. But, as he thrashed and tore at the arms that held him down, childhood instinct overcame him and seized control. “Sirius! Sirius!”

He kept screaming until his mother found him and made him stop.

For five days it was as though Regulus had never had a brother. His parents did not mention him. Neither did his aunt or his cousins, when they came for supper on Christmas Day. The morning after Christmas, however, an owl arrived at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, with a letter attached to its leg. Regulus, who had gone downstairs early for a glass of orange juice, recognised the owl at once; he’d seen it many times over the past two years, at Hogwarts, delivering letters to James Potter. With trembling hands, he took the letter, paid the owl his Knuts, then limped, as quickly as he could, back upstairs.

In the relative safety of his bedroom, he sliced open the envelope--which was addressed to his parents, he noticed, not him--unfolded the letter, and read it. He had to read it three times before its import struck him:

Sirius is alive. He will not be returning to you, ever. --Elizabeth Potter

Sirius was alive. The breath seemed to rush from Regulus’ lungs, leaving him cold and faint. Sirius was alive. Not fine, perhaps, but alive. Regulus wondered, briefly, what mishap could possibly have befallen his brother on his journey north. It didn’t matter, he told himself, firmly. Sirius was alive, and he was never coming back to Grimmauld Place.

“Good for him,” Regulus murmured, and lay back against his pillows, taking care to arrange himself in such a way that little touched his bruises. “Good for him.”

In the days that followed, he thought about writing to Sirius. A few times, when his parents were away and Kreacher occupied with some chore, he sat down at his desk, and took out a quill and a piece of parchment, but no words ever came to him. He knew that if he wanted to write, he had to do it now, before he returned to Hogwarts and saw his Slytherin friends, again.

Sirius never wrote him. Sirius hadn’t sent him a Christmas present, or even a card. Regulus’ dreams were a chaotic whirl of drowning blue eyes, barking dogs, and two bodies thrusting together. Some things could not be taken back. The fact remained that the things Sirius did sickened Regulus. Perhaps that was due, in part, to his parents’ conditioning, perhaps not. When two things disgusted him, which could he choose but the one he understood, a little better?

He never wrote the letter. He never spoke with his brother again.

03/06/04