Chapter Text
Sirius had never claimed to be a good person, let alone a good brother. Maybe if you’d asked him years ago, back before everything had gone to shit, he would’ve agreed. But people change. His brother changed.
Seeing Regulus on the platform had stirred up some… unwanted feelings. He couldn’t help but notice the bags weighing his eyes down and the pale sheen now coating his skin. He couldn’t help but feel just a twinge of pity.
But then Regulus sees him, and immediately shifts. He regards him with disgust in his eyes and holds his head up a little higher. The arrogant bastard.
Suddenly, Sirius’s small, small feelings of empathy for his brother are squandered. Regulus made his choice that night, watching with empty eyes as Sirius left his whole life behind to start anew.
He made his choice when he watched Sirius get the life beaten out of him without so much as batting an eye. He made his choice the day he got sorted into Slytherin and began hating Sirius with the same poison in his eyes as his parents.
Regulus would never be like him—it was too late for that. His mind had already been infected with their parents’ blood purist ideals and hypocrisies. He was the perfect son; the heir Sirius could never be.
And of course, that meant Regulus had never once been punished. Sure, when they were younger he’d get a few slaps now and then; but other than that, he’d gotten away with everything scot-free. Sirius, being the good brother he was, took his brother’s punishments as his own.
It only got worse once they drifted apart. Regulus, the golden child, was safe from their mother’s wrath. He was a lapdog, licking at her feet to get just a few scraps. Well needless to say, it worked. He remained untouched and untainted.
Sirius, on the other hand, found himself on the floor of their house more times than not. He was sure his blood had permanently stained the pristine white walls, although that might’ve just been his constant concussions.
It took him the whole summer, a shit ton of therapy, and six breakdowns to finally come to terms with what had happened to him. Thankfully, Effie and Fleamont were great and never pushed him to do anything he wasn’t comfortable with. They were the parents he had always wanted to have.
And James, his best friend, his brother, had been his rock. James held him while he cried, woke him up from nightmares, and sat with him in silence, just so he had company. (A small part of him whispered that he was the brother Regulus wasn’t.)
So no, if you were to ask Sirius if he was a good brother, he would say no. Not because he isn’t capable of being one, but because Regulus doesn’t deserve it.
“Oi Pads, what are you looking at?” James hollers, lightly smacking the back of his head. “Moony and Wormtail are waiting for us.”
Sirius turns to see Remus and Peter waving at them from the other side of the station. He can feel his bad mood wash away, a grin spreading slowly across his face.
“Ah, nothing. Just spaced out for a bit. Let’s go already!” he says, sprinting ahead to the two boys. He yells a goodbye to Effie and Fleamont as James catches up with him.
“Really, what were you looking at though? Was there a hot girl or something?” James asks, inching his head back to look.
Sirius barks out a laugh. “Nah. Just saw someone I used to know.”
“Regulus, wake up!”
His eyes slowly flutter open, being greeted with the sight of Barty, Evan and Dorcas looking at him strangely. He groans, stretching out his sore muscles. His whole body aches from the wounds scattered around.
“Are you sick, Regulus? You don’t look very well.” Pandora frowns from beside him, brushing a curl away from his eyes.
Regulus quickly composes himself, slipping on his practiced mask and hoping the pain doesn’t show on his face. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well last night.”
Dorcas makes a comment about a recent Quidditch game and the group falls back into their light chatter. Regulus exhales, feeling a migraine coming on. He’s still lightheaded from the concussion, which was thankfully minor.
He runs his hand down his face, trying to soothe the throbbing pain in his head. He pokes around his ribs and winces when he touches a soft white bandage. Still broken, he mentally notes.
“I’m going to the bathroom.” he states quickly. Excusing himself, he exits their compartment and almost runs to the bathroom. He feels like he’s going to throw up and pass out at the same time. He gets a few side eyes from some first years, but shoves past them nonetheless.
He slides open the door and abruptly walks face first into James Potter’s shoulder. Regulus wants to drown himself.
“Well look who it is! Baby Black!” James chuckles, taking a step back. “Don’t call me that.” Regulus snips, cold and uncaring.
Maybe this bathroom trip wasn’t such a good idea. Just looking at Potter’s face is honestly an upsetting enough experience. Regulus hates him. James Potter stole his brother from him. (James Potter was everything Regulus was not.)
“Wow, you’ve gotten taller,” he comments. “You’re practically Sirius’s height!”
His eye twitches. The mention of Sirius is enough to set him off. You’d think his mother would’ve beaten it out of him already, but Regulus never had been really good at taking punishments.
Now his brain won’t shut off. Thinking of Sirius leads to thinking of his mother which leads to thinking of pain which leads to blood and wounds and open skin and—
His breathing picks up. Shit. He refuses to have a panic attack in front of Potter. He’ll probably gloat about how weak and vulnerable Regulus is to Sirius.
“Get out of my way.” Regulus pushes out, shoving past Potter and slamming the door. Only when the lock clicks and he hears the sound of footsteps growing fainter does he allow himself to cry.
He pulls at his hair, hoping for the pain to take away his panic. Internally, he wonders if his ribs had collapsed his lung, since it clearly doesn’t seem to be working. He gasps for air to no avail, breath hitching in his throat each time.
He hates himself. He’s weak and pathetic and a whiny baby and he hates himself. He can’t do anything right and now Sirius will hate him even more.
His hands are shaking like an old man’s. They won’t stop trembling, no matter how hard he clenches them. He digs his nails into his palm, going deeper and deeper until he pierces his flesh and warm blood pools out.
It’s a few shallow cuts, barely even visible. Yet it’s enough for him to ground himself and pull it together. He punches out a few shaky breaths till eventually standing up and casting a few more glamours to make himself look like a normal human being.
He squashes down the pain and the tears and the hatred. He buries it deep in his chest until he can’t feel anything anymore. Good. Being numb is better than being weak.
(“Are you weak Regulus?”
“No, mother.”
“Then act like it, brat.”)
He will pretend for as long as it takes. He will stay an actor and wait for the day the movie finally kills him off. He will lie and lie until his tongue turns blackened from the poison shoved in it. He will keep waiting for something. (What he is waiting for, he still does not know.)
If later his friends ask why he took so long in the bathroom, he’ll ignore them and say he’s fine. And if later he feels a pair of familiar stormy grey eyes staring at him? Well, he’ll ignore that too.