Chapter Text
On January 5th, 1977 Regulus Arcturus Black remembers being called into Dumbledore’s office and sent home with few words of explanation.
“Hello?” He utters into the stale air of the manor. Not much has changed in terms of appearance, the marble floors still shine the same, the furniture is still worth a fortune and everything remains entirely unwelcoming and cold.
Even Kreacher's wrinkled face, as he gets older and older, soon bound to join his predecessors in the graveyard, seems to get darker when he says, “Young master Regulus, there is horrible news, I am sorry to say that young master’s father–”
“Killed himself,” Regulus finishes for him, voice barely above a whisper. Kreacher doesn’t seem too surprised by his words, only glancing back once, as he continues leading him into Orion’s room where a pale body draped in silk sheets lies. The elf has spent his entire life with the family, Regulus cannot doubt he must know all their secrets going back three generations, at the very least.
The body he sees cannot possibly belong to the lord Black. It’s just a body, as yellow and sunken as they come, and there is nothing personal about it. There cannot be.
Because love in the House Black has never been anything personal. Most of his life Regulus spent trying to teach himself how love looked, never much focusing on how it felt.
He can’t know what expression he is making, he doesn’t feel his face or any other part of his body, but that’s mostly fine. His thoughts are racing and half-mad with emotions pouring off of others gathered in the room – sorrow, grief, anger, desire – all-consuming and mingled, so strong he has no idea how to distinguish his own amongst them.
“Your mother found him, Mister Black,” A supposed friend of Father's supplies unhelpfully. “He was hanging from the ceiling.”
Regulus finds it insulting how the man can pretend he respects anybody present. He refrains from commenting, “Where is she now?”
“She wishes to be left alone,” Narcissa’s back is stiff and straight. She looks as put together as always, not a hair out of place, not a spot on her face, not a crease on her clothes. Lucius is trembling with uncertainty beside her, obviously waiting for her to command, so that he is left out of making hard decisions. Regulus finds himself as disgusted with the Malfoy heir as always.
He breathes in deeply, then utters a bitter excellent through his teeth, demands the unnamed guy and Lucius along with his cowardice leave the room.
Narcissa is watching him, observing for a slightest sign of grief, and that’s too bad – since he is not giving that much to her. This is not about grief – as this is not about love – as everything for the Blacks, this is about power .
Shouldn't she be aware of it by now?
“I get a title,” He says monotone, tasting the supposed victory and finding it only souring his mood. His eyes remain trained on the body that is supposed to be his father. Regulus wants Narcissa to hear, to know, to understand that he cannot do this.
Maybe he is more adjusted to following orders than Sirius could ever be but he was not made with family loyalty ingrained into him, not carved out for sacrifice, not rigid enough with rules the way she is.
The failure is palpable and far from sweet. His life is over – or maybe it’s just begun.
“Well, that is more than he gave me my entire life.”
Narcissa’s eyes flash with guilt, or with malice, it’s hard to tell these days, but he is out before she has a chance to utter a word.
Regulus Arcturus Black leaves Grimmauld Place 12 with what feels like the weight of the entire sky on his shoulders. He leaves his home as a lord to the House of Black. Or perhaps just a sixteen year old who is expected to do the Titan’s work, despite being a pathetic traitor with little reason to do so.
—
Clouds seem to envelop the whole world in a moment, cover the sky, and hide the sun behind an undisturbed wall of smoke. It seems as though soon, or perhaps right now, everything will be lost. The gloomy clouds of steam hanging over the world seem to herald a second big bang – not just snow.
Pathetic, Regulus thinks, cursing the cold and the fancy robes that did nothing to help manage the weather. He must look presentable – the crowd wants to see the new Lord Black, so the new Lord Black he shall be – but nobody is overly concerned with his health or levels of comfort for that matter. Regular winter turns out to be a problem quite often in those circumstances.
Mother made sure he understood the weight of his new role in great capacity.
“Sirius will not be hearing from you,” Was the first thing she said to him in her usual manner, leaving no room for arguments, when they sat down for afternoon tea yesterday. “Neither about this, nor about anything else.”
“Yes, Mother,” Regulus answered, attempting to show as much obedience as he could pull off while his insides turned and twisted with anger. He was not actively starting conversations with his brother, obviously, that was not what was expected of him – but you would presume their Father’s death to be a rather justified exception.
“We don’t allow blood traitors to dictate our lives,” She continued, waving dismissively, “In any way.”
Her fingers tightened around a crystal goblet; The fact she opted for red wine instead of tea probably the only sign of distress after her husband’s death. She didn’t look him in the eye, continuing with even more weight to her words, “The period of grace is over, Regulus, there will only be scrutiny and judgement from now on. You are not allowed to be a boy – you are Lord Black .”
The world is all about playing roles you do not want to play.
Walburga stood up, her dark flapper-style dress making her look like a statue made out of shadows, and her boney fingers pinched his chin in a gesture that was everything but motherly. He is long past cowering in fear before her but it was still a deeply ingrained urge to bow his head, avert his eyes, make himself smaller – one that he had to fight with all self-control he had.
“Do not bring shame to our name, son.”
“Yes, Mother,” He echoed.
She stands perfectly still and composed by his side right now, her long and heavy robe d'après-midi almost entirely hidden under the fur coat. She looks undeterred by the circumstances, perfectly adjusted to the cemetery, appearing more a ghost than a living person with her pale skin and lips painted red; Charming in a deadly way.
The sky has already turned dark by the time they are done with the burial ceremony, the night cold and starless, so that when he looks up only a void stares back at him. It feels both wrong and fitting.
—
The most mortifying thing about the funeral is the family dinner after.
Regulus isn’t grieving and he is fairly sure no one actually is. They are all power-hungry and miserable in their attempts to subtly sniff around.
Crystal chandeliers hang above their heads, sophisticated appetisers float around the dining room along with bottles of red wine and there are cigars being smoked everywhere – it’s beneficial, Walburga, haven’t you heard? – and Regulus is sat between the Rosiers and the Lestranges serving as an unlikely buffer.
There is little he can do but remain politely cold when aunt Druella expresses her concerns about his young age and his mother’s fragility or when Bellatrix leans in with a wolfish smile and a promise of proper lessons coming soon.
It’s perfectly dreadful, as it usually is when the Blacks are concerned, and he is glad when Narcissa comes along to sweep him away to the second-floor sitting room.
“It’s going amazing as always,” She teases lightly.
Regulus doesn’t answer, doesn’t even offer as much as an eyeroll, instead opting for staring at the tea fixing itself on the coffee table. It’s baroque style, all rounded edges and over-the-top ornaments on the legs, although the gold plating is long gone, not even masterful preservation charms able to hold up for more than three centuries.
Regulus hates that table.
Narcissa continues, unbothered by his silence, but now she sounds more serious and even hesitantly concerned, “Nobody would really blame you if you put off going back to school, you know? I suppose it would even be advised that you stay to sort out some crucial business.”
There are a million things that Regulus has on his mind worth sorting out right now, both concerning the shift of power as seen by the wizarding community, and the fact that Mother still holds authority over him until December rolls around. He is sure Narcissa could be helpful in the matter of politics, although less so in the war department, and that Bellatrix’s lessons, however horrid that sounds, might become worth something in the future.
It’s war, after all. War is kind to nobody.
“Does it matter?”
His sudden question gives her a pause. She looks at him funny, like she dreads to hear the answer, when she asks, “Does what matter?”
“Does it matter what I want?”
Narcissa sighs, “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
She crosses her arms. She looks older and more worn out in the faint light of the art deco lamps. “Do you think you are able to handle all of this without any help?”
Not really.
“Not much of a choice, is it?”
“Right,” She picks up her cup as well, examines it in faux interest, even though it’s still the same tea set they’ve had for the past few hundred years. He can see her weightning her next words and he is waiting, patient but curious, for her to reveal the real reason for their little one-on-one.
Fishing out her wand, Narcissa uses an elegant movement Regulus has never seen before, and a pitiable-looking notebook pops up in the air between them.
She shoves it closer to him, stating drily, not genuine at all, “Happy birthday.”
“But you’ve sent my birthday present already?”
Narcissa shoots him a tired look, as though he is the one doing something odd, something confusing, and not her. She sighs, “Happy Christmas, then.”
Then after another second of silence, she adds, “You should write to me if you need anything.”
“I will,” he promises and tries to store that moment for later, so that when even worse times come, he can remember how it felt having someone who truly cared.
—
There's something about going with the flow that people don't appreciate, there's something about haunted libraries, and there's something about doing things that shouldn't be done. Tasting it. Scratching at it until the seams are broken.
Carpe diem, he believes, is the muggle phrase .
Therefore, according to this principle, it is only natural that the first thing he does after coming back to Hogwarts is go against Mother’s wishes. Regulus is not sure how he feels about that development, though he can clearly remember the former Lord Black doing so fairly often, and in case all of this comes back to bite him later he can just claim having a bad example his entire life.
“It was a suicide,” he says in lieu of a greeting, walking up to Sirius and not bothering to give any kind of warning. “He left no letter, no note, no nothing. But it was a suicide.”
“What?”
“Father’s death,” It must have been all over the Prophet with the way Wizarding world cannot help but love gossip, though Mother would never allow anything about suicide make its way into the newspaper. It would be a disgrace. “I thought you should know.”
“ What? ”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Am I speaking Chinese, Sirius?”
There is a long-dragging silence between them. Sirius shifts his weight from side to side, pondering over the information, graciously not picking a fight even though Regulus is ready to throw one. It’s not his fault if he comes off a bit harsh, Regulus has been fluctuating between resigned and raging for the past few days, to the point he is starting to wonder if this is some form of mourning after all.
The corridor is empty, unusually devoid of life, but Regulus chose it deliberately – just because he knows how Sirius is always late to divination and he is, admittedly, petty enough to keep track of those kinds of things.
“Why should I care?” Sirius asks, finally, in a way that drives Regulus up the walls but it’s simultaneously the most Sirius-like response ever given. It follows a simple rule of repressing and disregarding – pretending it’s possible to ever free himself of a burden such as being a Black.
There are things you can run from. There are also things you can fight with. There are some things you can fix. Then, there are things which you didn’t choose and will be blamed for – those you can only accept.
Regulus knows that – Sirius apparently does not.
“See, that’s why you are considered deficient, Sirius,” He scoffs, quirking his brow in what is almost amusement. “Why should you care? Come on, you are not as daft as you pretend to be.”
Sirius crosses his arm and glares with those silver eyes Regulus was always so jealous of, “It means you’re Lord Black, now.”
“There you are,” Regulus nods. “Which also means Mother will start making moves.”
His brother straightens a bit at that and Regulus’ heartbeat picks up, recognising the moment realisation hits Sirius, something akin to regret contorting his face in an ugly way.
“Are you threatening me?”
He scoffs, “I’m warning you.”
Oh, how things change.