Unbecoming a Black

Unbecoming a Black

His friends had all gone back to the castle, but Regulus lingered behind the stands watching the two figures who remained on the Quidditch pitch. The sun was sinking behind the distant mountains. Between the long shadows, the deep January snow sparkled in shades of rose, gold, and lavender. The air was brutally cold; it stung Regulus’ exposed face and neck and the backs of his wrists. It would snow again soon, he thought. By morning, the pitch would be covered once again, and all signs of the mischief that had happened here this afternoon would be hidden.

But not erased.

Regulus still heard Madam Hooch’s words to his brother. They rang like a clarion in his memory: One more outburst like that, Black, and you will be banned from this pitch for the remainder of your time at Hogwarts.

Strangely, when he’d first heard the words, they’d meant nothing to him. Even as he’d watched Sirius’ face burn as though he’d been struck, then drain slowly of all colour, they’d meant nothing. He’d laughed along with his Slytherin friends, precisely because the words had meant nothing.

But now he was alone, and Rabastan, Severus, Alan, and Terrence were back at the castle getting ready for dinner, and for some reason the words were no longer meaningless. What they meant precisely he was not yet sure. Quidditch was a game, after all. A fun, exciting game, but still a game. What mattered was the winner, and today the winner had been his house, Slytherin. That was cause for celebration, not theatrics (as Severus had put it). His world did not revolve around this game, and he was fairly certain his brother’s did not, either. Anyway, what hadn’t their mother forbidden Sirius to do, back when she’d still been able to exercise some control over him? He ought to be used to it, by now.

Regulus knew he was rationalising. He knew there was a reason he was still out here, freezing, and not joining his friends in the common room for a quick victory round of Butterbeer, congratulating Rodolphus on his fantastic play.

Potter and Sirius were still talking. The sun was behind them, so Regulus could not see their faces, and the wind carried their words away from him, but he could tell from the way they stood and moved that they were angry. His brother was angry, anyway. Potter seemed more…exasperated. Frustrated, maybe. One moment he was reaching out as though to calm Sirius; the next he was whirling away and throwing his hands in the air. Regulus wished he knew what they were saying, but all he could hear was the wind sweeping across the pitch, his own chattering teeth and--so unexpected it made him jump--the crunch of footsteps behind him.

Turning swiftly, he saw, somewhat to his disappointment, that it was not Alan or Terrence come looking for him, but Remus Lupin. The older boy flashed him a smile and Regulus returned it guardedly. Since his Sorting back in September, only this boy, of all Sirius’ friends, had made any effort to be nice to him. Regulus had rebuffed him at first. Lupin was, after all, a Gryffindor, and poor--judging by appearances--and his mother, according to Cousin Narcissa, was a Mudblood, making Lupin barely better than a Mudblood himself. Still, there was something pleasant about the way he spoke, something disarming. He didn’t tease, and he had actually apologised for the time Sirius and Potter had stuck Severus’ and Rabastan’s trunks to the ceiling with a Permanent Sticking Charm. More convincingly, he had not yet tried to make Regulus talk to his elder brother, or warned him against his Slytherin friends. Regulus knew better than to tell his friends about this curious acquaintance, and he assumed Lupin was also discreet.

Lupin’s smile faded abruptly and he said, without preamble, “That was a rotten trick.”

“We didn’t--” Regulus started to protest, but he shut his mouth quickly.

They regarded each other across the shadowed stretch of snow, while around them the wind picked up and the sun sank lower. Regulus wondered what Lupin saw. An echo of his brother, no doubt, he thought dispiritedly. Maybe something more. He hoped there was something more. He still cringed remembering Severus’ first words to him after his Sorting-- “Merlin, if there’s one face I hoped never to see in my house…” But lately it seemed people only compared him to Sirius when he had done something wrong. He lifted his chin slightly and met the level brown gaze.

Standing there in his patched overcoat and faded boots, Lupin reminded him of an autumn leaf in high wind: fragile, tattered, and looking as though a sudden blast would be the end of him. He’d been ill a lot this year. Of course Regulus did not glance over at the Gryffindor table every morning, but he was fairly certain Lupin had missed breakfast and lunch at least once a month since September and shown up for dinner each time looking as though he’d had an unfortunate encounter with the Hogwarts Express. Sirius and Potter were protective of him, which struck Regulus as interesting because Lupin could and did stand up for himself. Their friend Pettigrew, on the other hand, they often left to his own defences, which were meagre.

Lupin was looking at him very sternly now, his arms crossed over his chest, and Regulus actually felt a twinge of nervousness in the pit of his stomach. “It was a joke,” he muttered. “That’s all. It’s not our fault he went and did his nut. No one told him to hit that Bludger at Mackenzie. He didn't have to say those things. We didn’t make him do that.”

“You knew he would, though,” said Lupin. “I can’t believe you didn’t know what he would do. Anyway, you didn’t just hurt him. You should never have told Mackenzie to say that about him and Maddin.”

“Why not?” Regulus demanded irritably. Lupin was certainly being presumptuous. They said hullo when they bumped into each other in the library and no one else was around, and sometimes they even complained about the amount of homework McGonagall gave out--but they weren’t friends. Not the way Terrence and Alan and Severus and Rabastan were his friends. Moreover, he was a Black. Lupin, practically a Mudblood, had no right to criticise him. Anyway, it hadn’t been his idea. He hadn’t even known Sirius was shagging Maddin Mayfair until Severus had told him that morning.

“Because,” Lupin said, with excruciating patience, as though he believed Regulus to be no more than a dim-witted child, “Sirius hadn’t even told Cynthia, yet. She didn’t even know he wanted to break up with her.”

Regulus felt the flush creeping up his cheeks, and hoped Lupin did not see it. Wishing he were a few inches taller, he stuck his chin out even further and snapped, “Well, it’s his own fault, then. He should have told her. It’s not my fault.”

“Regulus…” Lupin shook his head. “That’s not the point. It was none of your business. It was no one’s business except Sirius’ and Maddin’s and Cyn’s. You had no right to tell Mackenzie and you certainly had no right to make him announce it to the entire school. Your friends knew that. They knew Mackenzie likes to throw--personal information--about the players into his commentary. You knew that, too. You knew what Sirius would do.”

“Don’t talk about my friends! Anyway,” Regulus shot hotly, “it is my business, because Sirius is a Black, just like me.” The latter part of that statement rang false to him, somehow, but he plunged on anyway, because Lupin had to be reminded of his place. “He can’t just go shag anyone. He’s a Black. He has to uphold the family honour. He has to marry the right girl. Just like me.” His mother had told him that over the winter holiday, when he’d told her about Sirius and Cynthia Stewart, who was not, according to his mother, the right girl. “So, it is my business. It’s really none of your business. You can’t understand. You’re not a pureblood. What do you even care? Do you want one of them? Mayfair or Stewart or--”

The sun had nearly set, so it was very difficult to see, but Regulus was certain Lupin had gone even paler. “Look,” the other boy said, and perhaps it was because of the wind, but Regulus thought his voice shook slightly, “it doesn’t matter. You’re still missing the point. Sirius can be a first-class git sometimes. We both know that. And it was wrong of him not to tell Cynthia before he and Maddin started--going out. But it wasn’t your place to try and punish him for that, and anyway, that wasn’t even what you were trying to do. Don’t be so self-righteous. You were trying to embarrass him, and you did. And you embarrassed Maddin, and you hurt Cyn. Your friends are off celebrating their victory, and they didn’t even win fairly. And--” It was so dark by then that Lupin’s eyes, which were opened wide, appeared only as smudges against his pale face. “--you don’t even know,” he finished. “You don’t even know what you almost did to him. What you almost cost him.”

Regulus watched silently as Lupin turned and began to stomp back across the snow toward the castle. He thought about running after him, but his feet, which by now he could scarcely feel, would not carry him forward. To his surprise, however, he found he could turn back toward the Quidditch pitch, which seemed now to be empty.

He blinked a few times, and squinted through the twilight at the pitch, because he could not believe his brother and Potter could have left without his being aware. After a moment’s puzzlement he thought to glance up, and there he saw them, black shapes against the starless flint-grey sky, flitting over the snow-covered pitch, the Quaffle barely a blur between them.

He could tell his brother from Potter because of the way they flew and because, occasionally, the last flicker of sunlight would glance off Potter’s glasses. They must be freezing, he thought, and wondered why he cared. They flew well, he allowed grudgingly. Even Severus had once said Potter was a decent Chaser--although he’d also said he’d down an entire flask of firewhiskey the day Potter died executing one of his daredevil stunts. And Sirius was a good Beater. What he lacked in bulk he made up for with raw energy. They both flew well. As did the other Gryffindors.

Regulus wondered reluctantly if there’d been any truth to what Lupin had suggested, that Slytherin might not have won had he and his friends not baited Sirius. Perhaps…but perhaps not. Rodolphus was an excellent Keeper, and Parkinson was as good a Chaser as Potter. Nott and Goyle might lack Sirius’ and Mayfair’s agility, but they were solid blokes, good with their clubs. No, Regulus decided. That was a deserved mug of Butterbeer waiting for him back in the common room. Still, he thought as he recalled Lupin’s words and his brother’s face, that mug might have been sweeter and more satisfying had no trick been played.

There was hardly any light left in the sky now, just a watery line of blue over the mountains. In a few more minutes, it would be gone. It occurred to Regulus that he ought not to be caught lingering behind the stands by his brother and Potter, who would surely finish their practice soon and be heading back to the castle. He ought to go now, and give the wind time to blow snow over his footprints.

But five minutes later, when all the blue had gone from the sky and night had fallen thick and icy over the pitch, he was still there behind the stands, his frozen hands tucked under his arms for warmth, his teeth chattering. Potter had gone off in the direction of the broom shed, taking the Quaffle with him.

Sirius remained aloft. Regulus could just see him, small and dark as a rook, from where he stood, and it seemed to him as the air and his extremities became colder, that his brother was weaving in and out of the night itself. There were moments when he disappeared altogether against the dark sky and the first few times Regulus caught his breath in fear because he thought that Sirius might not reappear. He might simply take off, vanish without a trace -- and Regulus would never see him again.

But after a few minutes of this, resentment replaced the fear. His brother was playing games with him, of course, pretending to run off, but always coming back just when one was certain he would not. He’d done it often enough when they’d been children. Really, it was a little tiring. Regulus had accepted his place, his duties as a Black -- willingly. Why couldn’t Sirius? Why did he always insist on testing everything’s limit?

Unbidden and unexpected, Lupin’s parting words came back to him: “You don’t even know what you almost did to him. What you almost cost him.”

What could Regulus ever cost Sirius? His brother always took whatever he wanted. Regulus couldn’t stop him. What did it matter whether the school knew he was shagging Mayfair or not? He’d drop her just to show everyone it didn’t matter, or he’d stay with her for the same reason. Sirius didn’t care what anyone thought. And what did it matter whether he was allowed to play Quidditch or not? It was just a dumb game, and doubtless Sirius would be the first to say so. The winner was what mattered, and Sirius was good, but he wasn’t that good. He wouldn’t care who replaced him, so long as Gryffindor still won.

That wasn’t true, Regulus knew, with shame. He wasn’t that naïve. Quidditch was more to his brother than just a game. No one who saw the way he flew when he thought no one was watching could doubt that. He wasn’t hiding, or sporting with anyone. He was becoming a rook, a part of the night, air. He was no longer a Black, but black itself--a colour, a concept, an absence.

Quidditch was a release to Sirius. It was an escape.

Freedom.

01/28/04