Chapter Text
Regulus Arcturus Black will die on a Tuesday.
Well. That’s the plan, at least. He’s always hated Tuesdays. Nothing interesting or worthwhile ever happens on a Tuesday. It’s fitting, that one will be his last day- he supposes he’s never really done anything interesting or worthwhile before. He’ll die as he lived.
Tonight is a Monday. Tonight marks the one-year anniversary of when Sirius escaped to the Potters’ and left him behind in this house. Tonight, Regulus lies on his bed and stares upwards at the bare ceiling.
When he was 11, the summer before he went to Hogwarts, Sirius had gifted him a box of small, sticky plastic stars that glowed a faint blueish-green when the lights were off. Glow-in-the-dark , he had proclaimed proudly. You can stick them on your ceiling, Reggie. It’s awesome. Mary Macdonald brought ‘em from home to put in the dorm. I told her that you would love them and she gave me some. He had smiled at the wide-eyed awe this put on Regulus’s young face as he inspected the little decorations closely. Here, he had said. I’ll help you get them up.
Regulus did love them, with all his heart. He’d lie awake at night, smiling at the ceiling and drawing out new constellations in his head. Sometimes Sirius would lie with him and Regulus would point at the ceiling, mapping out his creations with his stretched finger, and whisper Look, Sirius, it’s a cat, see? And Sirius would whisper back, smile evident in his voice, Yeah Reg, I see . Until, of course, the day that his mother had barged into his room without warning and slapped him hard across the face for the “mudblood filth he had dared to bring into these respectable halls”, eyes wide and lips thin with rage. And when Sirius had run into his room at the commotion and, at the sight of Regulus’s eyes rapidly filling with tears, blurted out that it was him who had put them up and that Reggie didn’t know they were Muggle, honest, I gave them to him, his mother had… well.
It was safe to say that the stars were swiftly removed from Regulus’s ceiling.
He shakes off the memory and turns his head to look at the clock on the wall. 12:00 AM. It was officially Tuesday.
He swallows and slowly lifts himself into a sitting position. He’s nervous. Why is he nervous? This is for the best. For him, for Sirius, for his friends, for… for everyone, really. What has he ever done that makes his life worth living? Nothing. And now he’s expected to- to mark himself with some ugly fucking brand, and live out the rest of his pathetic life in servitude to some narcissistic madman? No. No, this is for the best.
He drags himself out of his bed and shuffles over to his drawer, opening it slowly. It’s empty, save for a small silver knife, lying alone and unassuming on the bare wood. The metal is cool against his skin as he picks it up, turning it between his fingers.
For a moment all he can do is stare at it. His throat remains dry no matter how many times he swallows. The room is so silent he can almost hear his own heart beating. And then suddenly, he can hear Sirius’s voice in his head, a fleeting memory, as ephemeral and fading as a music note carried by the wind- I told her that you would love them.
He did. He really did- he had treasured those little stars. Sirius had always known him so well. And Regulus knew him too- or at least, he did. Once. Now, not so much.
How will Sirius react to his death? Would he grieve? Would he scoff, disgusted at how weak his little brother had once again proved to be? Would he be relieved that Regulus was finally gone? Would he cry, if not for Regulus now, for the child that he had once cared for? Or would he not react at all? Would he glance at the paper, shrug, and go back to his morning tea?
Loathe as he is to admit it, that’s the idea that frightens him the most. Sirius had been his everything once. (Maybe he still is, not that Regulus would ever admit it to himself.) And he likes to imagine that he had been as important to Sirius as he was to him, at least, before he had gone off to Hogwarts and met the infamous James Potter. Before Regulus had been sorted into Slytherin, just like the rest of his family, and any hope that his brother may have once had for him had faded away in an instant.
Love me, hate me, rage at me, mourn for me, mock me… just please think of me. Once in a while. Please.
Regulus had never told anyone, but he was never supposed to be in Slytherin at all. It was only his desperate pleas to the Sorting Hat that changed his fate.
He was 11 years old, small hands tightly gripping the sides of the stiff, uncomfortable wooden stool he was made to sit on. His eyes were screwed shut, not that he would see anything had they been open, with the coarse fabric of the too-big Sorting Hat falling down to his nose. The Great Hall was silent, all eyes trained on the young boy, the tension in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife. Only a year ago, his brother had been historically sorted into Gryffindor, and everyone waited with bated breath to see what the younger Black would become. Would he be Slytherin, like his family? Or would he also break the mold, following in the footsteps of his older brother? His sorting was, indeed, taking an unusually long time. Most Blacks before him were sorted into Slytherin within seconds of the hat touching their head. Regulus’s sorting, however, had already dragged on for over a minute.
Slytherin, the young boy was chanting in his head. Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin. Please.
Are you sure? Asked the hat, just as it had done at least five times already. Are you sure this is what you want? It is not where you belong, young Black. That is something we both know.
Please. Regulus had thought. Please. Images were flashing through his head, unbidden. His mother’s face when she had received the news of Sirius’s sorting. His father’s knuckles white from how hard he was gripping his bottle of brandy. Fear coursed through his heart, thick and syrupy and nauseating. Please. Please.
The sorting hat fell silent. Regulus could almost hear it sigh. Then- “Slytherin!”
Regulus could still remember the collective exhale that seemed to come from everyone in the Great Hall. The applause, some seeming genuine, some disgruntled. The look of abject relief on Narcissa’s face, and the look of disappointment on Sirius’s- a look that he would see many, many times through the next few years. Sometimes, it would feel like that was the only look Sirius would ever wear when their eyes met.
Sirius hadn’t spoken to him once since he had left, though sometimes Regulus would catch him looking. He’d seen that familiar disappointed expression once again that horrible night, when he wouldn’t escape with him to the Potters’. But it was for the best. It was- it was for the best. Mother and Father would never have let Sirius leave if Regulus had left with him, he knows that for certain. The only reason that they had not gone to drag him back kicking and screaming was because they had a perfect little spare sitting at home. Regulus knew that then, and he knows that now. Yes, not leaving with Sirius had been perhaps the only worthwhile thing he had done in his life.
(And besides. James Potter wouldn’t have wanted him there anyway. There was only room for one brother in Sirius’s life, and it clearly wasn’t Regulus.)
Now, Sirius was officially disowned. Officially free. He had turned seventeen, and Mother and Father were no longer able to force him to do anything he didn’t want to do. Now, Regulus was able to take himself out of the equation for good.
His heart is still beating fast, but now he feels strangely calm. The world seemed to narrow down to just him and the knife in his hand. This is for the best, he reminds himself once again. For the best.
He leans against the wall, and, after a moment’s contemplation, slides down to sit on the floor. He almost (almost) laughs at the thought of his mother finding him dead on the ground. Blacks do not sit on floors, he imagines she would say, nose wrinkling with disdain. If this boy must die, one would think he would at least have the sense to die in a dignified manner. Apparently not.
Regulus closes his eyes and drops his head back against the wall with an audible thump. He inhales deeply and holds his breath for a few seconds, lungs tightening. Then he breathes out, slow and steady. Again, and again, and again, until his heart rate slowed. To his dismay, an unsolicited memory flashes through his mind.
“In and out, Reggie. That’s it,” Sirius whispered, eyes concerned and shining. “Please don’t cry. It’s alright. Everything’s going to be alright.” His arms were warm around Regulus, the beating of his heart comforting and steady.
The shattered vase lay on the ground, shards strewn about in a manner that made Regulus sick to his stomach. It had been so expensive- two lovers in tender embrace painted gracefully across the ceramic. Merlin knows how old it was. Now, their eyes stared at him accusingly, forever torn apart by Regulus’s clumsiness. See? They seemed to snarl. See what you did?
He had just wanted a closer look.
“Mother’s going to be so angry,” he whispered mournfully, voice trembling. He felt Sirius swallow against him, felt his arms tighten protectively. His hand came up to soothingly wipe the tears from Regulus’s face.
“Don’t worry about Mother, Reggie. I’ll- I’ll tell her it was me, alright? That old bat will believe it.” He tried for a comforting smile, but it went unreturned. Instead, Regulus jerked himself out of Sirius’s embrace, blanching in abject horror.
“No! No, Sirius, please. She’s already angry at you!” It was true. Just yesterday, Sirius had made the mad folly of dropping a piece of his lamb on the ground at lunch. Mother had not taken it well.
“Yeah, Reg, that’s the point. If she’s already angry, how much more angry can she get?” Sirius smirked at him, a defiance alight in his eyes that he had seemed to harbor since the day he came into this world, kicking and screaming. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m always going to be there to protect you, Reggie. Always.” Regulus had shaken his head furiously and opened his mouth to respond, but both boys fell silent at the sound of the opening of the front door.
Sirius had jumped to his feet, back straightening and hands clenching into fists. Regulus had just cried harder.
Regulus opens his eyes, banishing the memory back into the deep recesses of his mind where it had lived for years. Moonlight spilled into his room from the open curtains, puddling silver on the floor. He knows that his brother’s star is not visible this time of year, but he still feels the illogical urge to run to the window and find it. To look upon Sirius and… and… he doesn’t even know. Beg for forgiveness? Yell? Cry, scream, insult him? All of the above?
(He does know. He wants to tell his brother he loves him, and above all, he wants to hear him say it back. He knows it will never happen.)
He lowers his gaze to the knife in his shaking hand, deciding it’s time to stop waiting. At 12:22 AM on a Tuesday, Regulus Arcturus Black slits both his wrists, and then it’s over.
He’s breathing hard and shivering violently. He’s quite cold. It hurts, but he’s used to pain- and anyway, as the minutes tick on, it hurts less and less. A strange sense of euphoria overtakes him. All he’s ever wanted was for the pain to lessen.
The wounds are ugly, but far, far less ugly than the Dark Mark would have been. As he watches the dark red blood pooling on the floor and staining his clothes, he hears his brother’s soft voice in his head. I’m always going to be there to protect you, Reggie. Always. And, suddenly, all the previous euphoria drains away and he wants very much to cry. Because Sirius isn’t here, and suddenly, he is not sixteen-year-old Regulus Arcturus Black. He is little Reggie, and he wants the pain to stop. More than that, he wants his big brother back.
He really, really wants his big brother back.
Regulus is fading away now. He’s numb and tired, but he’s not quite as cold anymore. He lets his eyes flutter shut and his arms fall limply, knife clattering to the floor. Though his eyes are closed, he swears he can see little glow-in-the-dark stars dancing around in the darkness, rearranging themselves into the constellations that Regulus had once imagined at eleven years old. For the first time in a long time, he feels at peace.
Somewhere distantly, he hears soft, small footsteps, and a quiet voice. “Would Master Regulus like something to eat? Master Regulus did not come down for supper- Master Regulus! ”
This is the last thing he hears before he is swept away into blissful unconsciousness. He knows he’ll never wake again.
(He is wrong.)
- - -
The past year has been strangely paradoxical for Sirius Black, in the sense that it has been both the happiest and the unhappiest of his life.
The happiest part is fairly obvious, of course. For the first time in his seventeen years of living, he’s finally out of that hellhole of a house. It’s a freedom like he’s never felt before- a freedom that courses through his blood, that sparks in his eyes, that fills his lungs like the first breath of fresh air after years of suffocation. He’s never felt quite so alive before. He’s experienced things that he’s never had before, living with the Potters’. Parental love, for one. Even now, after a full year has passed, every time Effie or Monty shows him the slightest bit of affection he soaks it up like a sponge.
It’s the little things that make him the happiest. Dessert before lunch. Family dinners. Watching Monty spin Effie around while dancing to a muggle record. Watching James watch his parents, and seeing the pure, unfiltered love shining in his eyes. Being able to send and receive letters to Remus and Peter without the underlying fear of them being stolen and opened by his wretched mother. The first time he tries Indian food and immediately declares it his new favourite cuisine. Being able to sleep in without any admonishment for his “laziness”. The first time he accidentally breaks a plate and, while he stands frozen in fear, Effie sweeps him up into a tight hug and kisses him on the forehead, with a Don’t you worry, sweetheart, I’ll clean it up and a laughed That plate was hideous anyway instead of a slap across the face.
But it’s also the little things that make his heart constrict because… well. Because Regulus should be here too.
It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid, because Regulus made his choice. He chose to stay. That night…
Sirius frantically shoves clothes into his duffle bag. He’s shaking violently, and his mouth is filled with the taste of blood, but he doesn’t dare stop. He doesn’t bother to look at whatever he’s stuffing his bag with. He’s done. He’s done. He’s leaving, he’s getting out, he’s getting out, he’s getting OUT-
“Sirius?”
Sirius freezes. Heart racing, he turns around. Regulus is standing in his doorway, his hand clutching his sleeve nervously. His eyes are wide and shining. Sirius watches them slowly move from his face to the clothes in his hands, to the one thing he had placed in his bag with purpose- a framed picture of them as children- and then back to Sirius’s face. “What- what are you doing?”
He doesn’t need to ask. Sirius can tell that he already knows.
After a moment, Reggie takes a deep breath and stands up straighter, his face going blank. It sends a stab of pain through Sirius’s heart. “Where will you go?”
“To the Potters’,” Sirius says immediately. He watches as Reggie’s eyes flash with pain for just a second, then just as quickly return to emotionless. It’s so fast, but it’s all the encouragement he needs to say what’s been on his mind since the moment he made the decision to leave. “Come with me.”
Regulus inhales sharply, his usual carefully crafted mask falling into an expression of surprise. Sirius doesn’t dare break eye contact. “Reggie. Please. Please, you know that neither of us are happy here. Come with me.”
It’s silent. Sirius watches as emotions flash through Reggie’s face, almost too quick to decipher. Hope rises in his heart, a hope he thought was long buried.
But the hope was futile, as it often is. Sirius watches as, once again, Regulus’s face goes smooth and blank, all traces of feeling gone as if they were never there. He inhales and, in a monotone voice- “No.”
For a minute, Sirius feels that he will drown in his despair. He watches as Regulus- his baby brother, the boy who he used to read bedtime stories to, who used to toddle after him with wide, adoring eyes, whose ceiling he had once helped stick glow-in-the-dark stars to, who he loved with every little bit of his soul- draws himself up, and with a hurried, choked, “Goodbye, Sirius”, rushes out of his room.
The silence returns. All is still for a moment, and then Sirius falls to his knees.
It’s a mantra of his- He chose to stay . Sirius tells himself this every time the thoughts of his little brother crawl into his mind. He chose to stay. He made his choice, and he chose to stay. But he’ll never be able to silence the voice in the back of his head that appears without fail every time he lets himself feel happy, every time he lies awake at night, every morning when he wakes up. Regulus, it whispers. Regulus, Regulus, Regulus.
Oh, he tries, that’s for sure. He chose to stay, he whispers furiously right back. He’s a lost cause. I gave him a chance. I gave him so many chances. And still, every time, he crawls right back to them. He’s not worth my tears. He’s not the same boy I loved before. That boy is dead. This Regulus is a coward and a traitor and a Black above everything. He chose to stay. He chose to stay, and I hate him for it.
Yet the voice whispers still, as it always will. Because no matter what Sirius says to himself, Regulus will always be his little brother. And if he ripped the beating heart out of Sirius’s chest, he would die loving him.
Regulus, Regulus, Regulus.
Tonight, the voice is almost quiet. It’s past midnight, and Effie and Monty went to bed long ago, so it’s just him and James downstairs. They’re on the sofa, with James on one end and Sirius lying on the other with his feet in James’s lap.
“Sirius. Sirius. ” James says, whipping his head around to face him from his place on the sofa.
“ James! ” He gasps in return, widening his eyes and slapping his hands onto either side of his face for dramatic effect. James huffs a laugh.
“Git. Do you know what sounds amazing right now?”
“I don’t know, Prongs. What does sound amazing right now?”
“ Cheese toasties.”
Sirius inhales, sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue, and then pauses. Well… yes. Cheese toasties do sound amazing right now.
“Mhmm,” James says smugly. “You know I’m right.” Sirius rolls his eyes with gusto, but has to concede with a sigh.
“Yes. You’re right. Let’s go make cheese toasties.”
They push themselves off the sofa and James laughs at the way Sirius groans and cracks his back like an old man. The voice whispers, Regulus, and Sirius pushes it down.
They’re making their way to the kitchen when James pauses.
“Did you- did you hear that?” His brow is furrowed. Sirius raises an eyebrow at him, fully prepared to call him insane, to which he’d reply with a People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, Black, and Sirius would-
But then he hears it too, and whips his head towards the front door. A knock.
“Erm,” Sirius says, throwing James a sideways glance. “Who the fuck is knocking at your door past midnight on a Tuesday?”
James shrugs, looking just as confused as Sirius feels. Sirius sighs and walks towards the door. “I’ll go see who it is. Prongs! If I am brutally murdered by a madman at your door, I expect you to avenge me.”
“Of course, my darling!” James says theatrically, and Sirius opens the door laughing. He’s not laughing for long.
The first thing he sees is Kreacher. The second thing he sees is the blood. It’s all over Kreacher’s arms, and a little bit on his face. The third thing he sees is the boy collapsed in Kreacher’s arms, and then that is the only thing he sees. Base horror like he’s never felt before slams into him like a bus.
Because, though he can’t see the boy’s face, he recognizes the head of dark curls. He recognizes the small scar on his collarbone. He recognizes the old shirt he’s wearing. Sirius is sure he’d recognize his little brother even if he was blind.
He opens his mouth and
screams.