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Sirius hated his mother and her rage, the way her voice sliced his skin and left splotchy dark blooms, the way her knuckles whitened as she gripped her wand.
Sirius hated his father and his silence, the way he shut himself in his study or watched with cold, distant eyes, never once flinching or speaking up or caring.
Sirius hated his family and the way they sniffed at those they deemed lesser, spitting out hateful vitriol while sitting on their thrones of wealth and finery
But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how bitter their words were when they clashed, no matter how much Regulus followed their parents and never dared step a foot out of line, he couldn't hate his brother.
He had been a few months shy of two years old when Regulus was born, a tiny, wrinkly thing wriggling around in the crib and shrieking his head off. Sirius remembered clutching the wooden bars of the crib and staring with open-mouthed fascination at the creature within, a fine dusting of jet black curling from his smooth, shiny head, chubby fingers groping at the sheets pulled up to his chin. They had the same eyes, a cloudy, mercurial grey, and the baby blinked owlishly at him before his lips moved into a mimicry of a smile. Sirius was enraptured. He catalogued everything his newly acquired little brother did, every gurgle and wail and twitch of his leg, every clumsy clap, every time his hand reached up to curl around Sirius's little finger.
Even as a toddler, his parents seemed far away, wintry gazes sweeping over him like he wasn't a living, breathing human being, but rather a statue or doll, there to serve and nothing more. He didn't love them, because he didn't know how, and they never showed him. But tiny Regulus was there, giggling and flailing and pressing his fingers to his, warm and comforting. Regulus watched him and tried to copy his every move. Regulus paid attention to him rather than the role he was made to fill.
Regulus had been the first person Sirius ever loved.
While growing up, his little brother had been determined to be his shadow, replicating his actions and showering him with attention. They already looked alike; though Sirius grew his hair out longer and Regulus was obviously shorter, they had the same curling black locks and stormy eyes and smooth pale skin. Regulus could've been his smaller clone. He made an effort to act like it. Their parents despaired, but Sirius found it endearing, how Regulus trailed after him with adoring eyes, chattering away and gesticulating wildly. He hated how cold he turned when the rest of their family was around, the cloying silence and stiff movements. It was like the life drained out of him when the illusion of normal boyhood was snatched away and he was forced into bespoke robes and stuffy dinners, cradling fine china in his fingers and exchanging cool, measured words with judging relatives. Sirius loved his little brother's passion, his fervent enthusiasm.
Then he went to Hogwarts, and everything changed.
Well, in truth, things had started changing before then. Their parents grew restless with their sons, pushing them to further embrace their roles as the heir and spare of their ancient, pure, noble lineage. Sirius lashed out against the restraints and received angry red welts across his body, bruises swelling on his skin and encompassing his eye. Someone smarter would have stopped, would have prevented the abuse and injuries, but he only surged onward, snapping back and shoving them away. His obstinate fire burned brighter with every sickening smack of flesh against flesh, every sting and flash of magic wringing pain from his bones. When he sat on the stool and let the Sorting Hat peer inside his head, there was only one destination, and it turned his tie red and gold, the lions roaring their approval as he joined them, ignoring the glares from his family at the Slytherin table.
Regulus, though. Regulus was smart in a way that was very different to Sirius's stubborn, blazing, black-and-white logic; where Sirius was a raging wildfire, Regulus was the thick sheet of ice forming over a buoyant blue lake, the gentle blanket of white snow that caressed sharp roofs and numb cheeks. Regulus learned to smother his words and exist in chilled silence, listening without reacting, watching without closing his eyes. It was that quiet cunning and determined self-preservation that landed him in Slytherin, not any kind of evil. His brother didn't have an evil bone in his body, and though his belief in him wavered in the years to come, that fact always remained absolute. He was just afraid.
Sirius went to Hogwarts and found people that made him strong, made him brave enough to break free from the chains of the House of Black. He met James, his brother in all but blood, who offered him a home. Remus, who he loved and who loved him unconditionally. Peter, who reminded him of Regulus when they were children, eager and admiring. He immersed himself in their love, their acceptance, and managed to escape Grimmauld Place with his limbs bloody and shaking from curses.
Regulus went to Hogwarts and only met people determined to encase him in darkness. He didn't have a James, or Remus, or even a Peter. He had no one to give him strength or love, or a reason to fight back. His tie turned green and silver, and his fear swallowed him whole. Sirius stared at him with sad eyes and begged him to save himself, but his brother only looked away.
He ran away in the summer before sixth year and left Regulus behind.
"You're leaving."
His hand froze on the doorknob and he turned around, limbs stiff and heart racing, thudding in his chest.
Regulus stood at the top of the stairwell, features shrouded in shadow, a sliver of moonlight coming in through the tiny gap in the drawn curtains and washing over the milky pale expanse of his cheek. He walked down slowly, sock-clad feet finding their place with care and precision as he avoided the creaks and dangers of the staircase that he had learned to remember. Sirius watched him and felt sad, the red-hot anger thrumming in his bloodstream easing as he watched his brother do everything he could to survive in a house that wanted to destroy him.
"You're leaving," Regulus repeated in the same hushed whisper ghosting through the air as he paused a few steps from him, hands hanging limply at his sides.
"I am," Sirius replied, voice scratchy and hoarse from screaming. His body was still wracked with shakes and twitches, the aftermath of Walburga's shrieks and being at the end of her wand, her brutal spells. He couldn't remember what it was that made her snap. Maybe it was all the things piling up; his Gryffindor tie, his blood-traitor and muggleborn friends, his vocal rejection of their beliefs, his half-blood boyfriend. For him, well, he was getting sick of the shouting matches and dark spells and hopeless existence. He had his Hogwarts trunk clutched in one hand, his wand tucked up his sleeve, and his fingers wrapped around the doorknob, ready to break free.
The Black brothers watched each other. Neither of them said a word. Sirius wanted to speak, he opened his mouth several times to say something, anything, but the words were lodged in his throat and refused to be spoken into existence. An apology didn't feel right, because while he was sorry to leave Regulus alone, he wasn't sorry to be escaping. Rage-filled insults weren't right, either, because the night air was cool and tranquil, and he didn't want to disrupt it with hate.
"Where are you going?" Regulus finally asked, fumbling with his fingers.
"A friend's house," he said. His brother's eyes flashed. No doubt he knew it was James Potter's place he was running to, but apart from the slightest twist of his lips and tightening of his jaw, he didn't say anything. Regulus had always had something against Prongs, for an unknown, unfounded reason.
"Stay safe."
Sirius laughed, a tiny, choked thing. "I think I should be the one telling you that," he wryly remarked. The corner of Regulus's lips twitched upwards.
"Goodbye, Brother." The words were so quiet he could barely hear them. He swallowed and made to respond, but Regulus turned on his heel and crept back up the stairs, avoiding the creaks with the same practiced ease as he had before. The hem of his dark pants slipped around the corner. He left only still silence in his wake.
"Goodbye, Regulus," he replied, even though he couldn't hear him. Then he twisted the doorknob, sliding it shut with a low click behind him, and fled into the night.
As he raised his wand, the Knight Bus crashing towards him, he looked back at the house that should have been his home and instead was his prison. He imagined his brother pressing his face against the window, too far away to see him but still watching. It made him feel warm. It made him feel safe.
He curled up in the back of the magical bus and wondered if Regulus knew what warm and safe even felt like anymore, or if they were just distant, foreign feelings.
Sirius wanted to be surprised when he saw the ink peek out beneath the sleeve of Regulus's robes, but he wasn't. It was always going to happen.
Regulus loved their family, his family, too much. He wanted so badly to please them, to keep them together. His brother was no blood supremacist, he was far too smart for that, but he was soft and complaisant. Sixteen-year-old boys weren't made to stand up to parents like Orion and Walburga Black, especially sixteen-year-old boys like Regulus Black, too kind and too gentle in a world drenched in blood. Of course their wretched parents, and likely their half-mad cousin Bellatrix, had pushed him right into Voldemort's arms, and fear stole all his complaints.
That didn't stop him from being angry.
"You're just like them, aren't you?" he shouted, even though he knew it wasn't true, knew that Regulus was nothing like the Death Eaters who wanted to be there and hurt people. But his vision was coloured red even in the depths of night and the words came unbidden, pouring from his mouth like a fountain of acid.
Regulus recoiled, sinking into the shadows of the wall. They were in the Astronomy Tower, Sirius having sent his brother a note demanding they meet at night after seeing the faint flash of black on his left arm before he'd tugged his sleeve tighter and hurried off. There was a hunted look on his face, eyes darting from Sirius standing with fists balled to the door to the open sky. His fingers twitched, and his breathing was uneven.
"You don't know what you're talking about," his brother said quietly.
Sirius scoffed. "And you think you do?"
He fell silent, staring at the floor. "More than you."
"You don't have to do this, Regulus," he said, stepping forward and reaching out a tentative hand. "You can come with us. We can keep you safe. You can run, Reg. Like I did."
That was the wrong thing to say. Regulus's silver-grey eyes flashed, and he hit his outstretched hand away, elegant features contorting into a snarl. "Like you did?" he repeated, knuckles whitening as he clutched his wand. "You think it's so easy, Sirius? I can't just walk out. I won't abandon my family. Of course," he said bitterly, "you wouldn't know much about family loyalty, would you?"
"Shut up," he snapped.
"You're the one who called me up here, brother dearest."
"Stop acting like you're evil!" he burst out. "You can be better. I know you."
"You knew me," Regulus corrected, and his rage iced over. Suddenly, it was hard to look at him.
Sirius hadn't loved him enough to stay, and Regulus would always resent him for leaving. It had been a year since he'd fled Grimmauld Place. Since then, they had only seen each other while passing by in the corridors of Hogwarts, averting their eyes and looking staunchly away. His brother had grown taller, limbs lengthening and voice deepening. He was thinner as well, and the tone of his skin was almost sickly. Even his hair was no longer severely slicked back and instead fell in its natural loose dark curls. They were very different people compared to the last time they had existed in the same area for more than a few fleeting seconds. He realised with an unpleasant jolt that he hadn't known Regulus since they were kids, before the world tore them apart, before he went to Gryffindor and found more to life than just surviving.
What was his favourite colour? His first thought was green, but that was because of his house, not him as a person. What was his favourite food? How did he take his tea? What was his favourite subject; not his best, not the most beneficial for life, but his favourite? What did he like to do when the house was asleep and he was awake, huddled beneath the covers and free from all obligations? Sirius didn't know.
When Regulus turned around and walked away, shoulders hunched and footfalls almost silent, Sirius let him go.
That was the last time they spoke—properly spoke, not hissed insults and accompanying glares thrown across corridors.
If Sirius had known that, maybe he would’ve been kinder, softer. Maybe he would’ve hugged him. Maybe he would’ve told his little brother he loved him.
(In another world, he did)
(In another world, they’re happy)
They caught glimpses of each other in the war: two brothers on opposing sides, one throwing curses with blazing power, never doubting his place and his stance, and one donning a mask and lurking in the shadows of the raids, watching with horrified eyes and reconsidering every decision.
Blood streaked across pale skin.
Grey eyes illuminated by streaks of deadly green.
A wand Sirius would recognise anywhere, because he was there when it was bought.
A wand Regulus would recognise anywhere, because he was there when it was bought.
Sirius didn’t know the identities of the Death Eaters he cut down with his spells. With every shouted incantation and curse, he wondered if it was his brother he was killing, his own blood he was spilling, pure Black blood staining the tiles crimson.
The giggles and antics of two carefree children in Grimmauld Place seemed so far away now.
Your brother is dead. His body is missing.
Don’t bother coming to the funeral.
“You know the worst thing?” he asked James and Remus while sprawled out on his couch, bottles deep into a stash of Firewhiskey. He didn’t wait for his hovering bespectacled friend to reply. “I don’t even remember the last thing I said to him. It was probably an insult. I probably told him I hated him. You hear that, guys? The last thing…the last thing I said to my brother was that I hated him.” He laughed, but it sounded hollow even to his ringing ears, and gulped down another swig of alcohol.
The note from Walburga Black sat discarded on the table.
“He was a Death Eater,” James pointed out as he gently tried to pry the bottle from his grip.
Sirius held on tight. “He was a Death Eater,” he echoed with a nod. The words didn’t taste right in his mouth. He frowned and tried again, repeating the phrase over and over again, but it still felt wrong.
“But he was your brother too,” Remus continued as James finally succeeding in depriving him of precious, mind-numbing Firewhiskey. Stupid Prongs and his stupid newly found responsibility.
“He was eighteen,” Sirius mumbled, examining the pads of his fingers. “Stupid git. He isn’t allowed to be dead. Eighteen-year-olds aren’t meant to die.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “’Course he chooses now to start breaking the rules. Never had a rebellious streak, always did what precious Mother and Father wanted him to do. Killed him in the end, though didn’t it?”
James’s hazel eyes were dim behind the round lenses. Remus was frowning as he eased himself onto the couch beside him, legs pressed against his own. Sirius wanted them to crack stupid jokes and start planning their next prank. Sirius wanted them to be young and stupid and annoying, or maybe he just wanted everyone to be young again, when everything was easier, and people weren’t dying at eighteen.
“Stupid Reggie,” he huffed. “Stupid, stupid Reggie. He was always trailing after me when we were kids, he thought I hung all the stars in the sky. Idolised me, the idiot.” His eyes burned, and he jammed the heels of his palms into them, gritting his teeth. “When he was a baby, I would hobble over and wave my pinky in his face when he was lying in his crib, and he would reach up with his tiny chubby hands and wrap them around my finger.” He waved his right pinky in the air for emphasis, movements shaky.
They didn’t say anything. They just watched with those sad, stupid, understanding eyes.
“He was so tiny,” Sirius said, voice starting to tremble. “He was so tiny. Why did he have to grow up?” He could feel his face becoming damp, salt touching the tip of his tongue. “Why did he have to fucking DIE?!”
He picked up the ratty couch cushion next to him and launched it across the room; it thumped against the wall and dropped to the floor. Remus snaked an arm around his shaking shoulders and Sirius shoved his face into the curve of his neck, beating his fists against his firm chest. He could feel James’s presence at his shoulder.
His brother was dead. Sirius had been there when he was born, watched him grow from a pile of flailing limbs stuck in a wood-barred crib to a beaming toddler with tufts of inky black to a quiet and attentive child to a teenager watching through the window as he left to a boy on the cusp of being a man, standing half-hidden in the shadows with a terrible mark and a terrible fate, only he didn’t quite know that yet. And now he was dead. Dead, gone, never coming back. He’d never see his smile or hear his laugh or even be on the receiving end of his glare, because he was alive, and Regulus was not.
Sirius had been there since the start. He’d never expected to be there for the end. Regulus was always meant to outlive him, because that was what younger siblings were meant to do.
(When was the last time he’d said I love you?)
He went to the funeral as a dog and watched his brother’s empty coffin be lowered into the ground.
They never found his body.
Sirius died before the truth could be uncovered: a false locket in an inferi-infested cave, a house elf’s plight, a dark lord’s precious soul piece, a boy’s decision, a boy’s sacrifice.
He never knew his brother died a hero.