Chapter Text
When Sirius runs away, he takes a part of Regulus with him.
Sirius had always been too brash for his own good, constantly receiving and taking punishments like he wanted to. Those, of course, included Regulus’ own.
He had never understood why his brother wouldn’t just do what his parents asked of him. It would’ve saved them all a lot of trouble. Nevertheless, Regulus always found Sirius in front of him, volunteering in his stead to take a beating.
He would never admit it to anyone, but he still looked up to Sirius. Regulus loved him more than anything in the world, even if Sirius didn’t love him anymore. Sirius could curse him as much as he liked, but Regulus could never really hate him.
Deep down, Regulus still saw him as his big brother, who taught him how to ride a broom and make hot chocolate from scratch. Deep down, he wishes he was sorted into Gryffindor instead of Slytherin. (Anything to go back to how it was; before Sirius could only look at him with contempt.)
Sometimes, he likes to imagine himself in James Potter’s spot next to Sirius. (The spot he stole from Regulus.) James was the brother Sirius had always wanted. He is everything Regulus is not—everything he has failed to be. His stomach can’t help but turn every time he sees them together, laughing and smiling because they are “brothers.”
Although it is selfish and greedy and horrible, Regulus secretly enjoys the summers they spend at Grimmauld Place. Summers are the only time he and Sirius get to be together, seeing as he avoids Regulus like the plague in Hogwarts. Here, there is no James Potter to get in his way. Here, in this house, they are real brothers.
Until Sirius runs away.
Walburga and Orion are out at some death eater meeting and won’t be back till the next day. Regulus takes this opportunity to go see his brother, who’s been locked in his room for more than a day now. Sirius had been caught sending a letter to his half-blood friends and Walburga had, expectedly, been furious. She dragged him into his room and told him to stay there for three days. Clearly, Sirius didn’t listen.
Regulus opens the door to find the room empty. Sirius is gone and with him, any evidence he ever lived in this room at all. His walls are blank, void of his muggle posters and memorabilia. His clothes, which are usually scattered across the floor, are nowhere to be found. His books, figurines, trinkets, are all gone. There is nothing left.
A sound reverberates through the house. It’s a thud, which Regulus would later learn is the sound of his brother leaving. Regulus makes his way down the steps, being careful of the creaky ones that make noise. It’s something Sirius taught him, when they were younger and still both scared of Walburga’s punishments. Regulus never stopped being scared, but Sirius did. He knows that Sirius will always resent him for that.
The sight Regulus is greeted with is not one he ever would’ve wanted to see. His brother is standing by the door, lugging a suitcase that seems to fit his whole life into it. He’s… leaving.
He stands there for a while, watching Sirius drag his ridiculously large bag across the bloodstained floors of their house. (House, not home. He thinks. This house will never be home.)
“Sirius?” he asks, voice barely a whisper. His brother, as usual, doesn’t hear him. Regulus stands there, just for a little while longer, wondering if Sirius will finally notice him. He doesn’t.
“Sirius.” he says, voice flat and cool, slipping into the mask that he finds himself wearing more times than he’s not. Regulus can see his brother visibly freeze up, his suitcase clattering to the floor.
“Regulus.” Sirius turns to look at him, grey eyes interlocking with each other. “What do you think you’re doing?” he presses sharply. Sirius snickers, doubling over in laughter.
“What does it look like, Regulus? I’m finally leaving this hellhole.”
“Mother and father will find you, you know.”
Sirius’s face twists into a dark grin, eyes strikingly cold. He picks up his suitcase and opens the door.
“They won’t care. After all, they still have you don’t they?” he says, turning around one last time to look at Regulus.
“The spare.”
The door slams shut and Regulus is alone.
_______________________________________
When Walburga and Orion find out, they take it out on Regulus. His mother crucios him until he’s too weak to even lift his head. She pries his skin apart, leaving gaping wounds across his entire back.
His father, as always, pays him no mind. It’s always been Walburga doing the punishing after all. Orion never had time for such things. He sits on his armchair, scanning through the newspaper while his son writhes on the floor.
Regulus doesn't attempt to fight back, he knows better by now. Unlike Sirius, he has learned from his mistakes.
His mother throws him around the room, screaming about how everything is his fault and how useless he is. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. At this point, he’s learned to ignore the crude comments and retreat into his mind. (It still hurts though; it always does.)
He can’t stop his stupid brain from going back to Sirius. Every time he receives a punishment, a beating, all he can think of is his big brother.
He wonders where everything went wrong. How one day they were laughing and giggling and playing Quidditch together and the next they could barely look each other in the eye.
His heart clenches. Deep down, he knows it’s his fault. He was too weak to stand up to his parents, too weak to hold on to Sirius. Too weak to resist becoming exactly what his family had always wanted.
And of course, he wasn’t strong enough to stop a tear from escaping his eye.
Walburga looks at him with disgust. “Still crying like a child, Regulus? Grow up. Your brother stopped crying when he was 10.”
His head spins, dizzy from blood loss and what is probably a concussion. He tries to form words, to apologize or say something, anything. Instead, his mouth feels like cotton, and no sound emerges.
He feels something sharp hit his face and can’t bring himself to suppress a small whimper. He looks up to see his mother’s angry eyes boring into him, fist raised right above his cheek. He feels the cut below his eye, given to him by the sharp ring she’s wearing.
It will scar. Again.
She pulls him up by his shirt and brings her lips up to his ear. “You are the heir now, Regulus.” she hisses. “You will not disappoint us.”
“Is that understood?”
A small, small part of him wants to say no. Wants to be like Sirius always wanted him to be and stand up to her. But like always, he shoves it down.
“Yes, mother.”
Walburga releases him and fetches Kreacher to bring Regulus to his room. The poor house elf has to drag him up the stairs. Regulus feels sorry for him.
The oak creaks beneath Kreacher’s steps. If Regulus closes his eyes, he can just vaguely imagine Sirius running up them, dying to tell him about his newest adventures with his friends.
Then he reminds himself that Sirius is gone.
Kreacher leaves him on the floor of his room, muttering a quick apology before he closes the door.
It’s quiet.
He doesn’t know how long he stays there, just laying on the ground. He can feel blood pool around his head and back, wounds still open and flowing freely.
He knows that he needs to take care of them soon if he doesn’t want to risk infection, or just die of blood loss. He knows that.
But right now, he’s so tired. He just wants to rest. Maybe just this once, he can sleep.
Dark spots dance around his vision, making it even harder to keep his eyes open.
I’m tired, he thinks, as he succumbs to the soft pull of unconsciousness.
_______________________________________
When Regulus wakes up, he is (miraculously) not dead. Eyeing the white bandages wrapped around his body, he realized that Kreacher must have come in and patched him up.
How long have I been out? he wonders, feeling his muscles pop and ache as he tries to stand up. He gets up too fast though, his vision blurring and head pounding.
Unfortunately for him, the concussion didn’t come with amnesia. He still vividly remembers the events of last night, from the cruciatus to the cut on his face.
Instinctively, his hand comes up to his cheek. He winces as his fingers come into contact with the cut. It’s not deep enough to need stitches, but still enough to hurt like a bitch.
He reaches for his wand and casts a tempus to check the time. It’s 9:41 a.m. Shit. He’s been out for more than 10 hours. On the bright side, at least he was able to finally sleep last night.
A timid knock on the door snaps him out of his thoughts. Kreacher opens the door and lugs in a suitcase.
“Master, yous is to be returning to Hogwarts today.”
Regulus runs his hands over his face and groans. He forgot that was today. Damn it, with the amount of injuries Walburga gave him it’s going to be harder to conceal them.
He sighs and moves to the door, collecting the bag from the house elf. It takes him longer than it should to walk the short distance between his bed to where Kreacher is standing. His whole body aches and he has a slight limp.
As Kreacher turns to go, Regulus quickly remembers something.
“Kreacher?” he starts, unsure how to broach the topic. “Um, thanks for fixing me up yesterday.” He debates on including how he would’ve died had it not been for the elf, but decides to not dampen the mood any further.
“Of course, Master Regulus. Anything for the young master.” he bows his head and apparates away.
He packs his robes, books, school materials, and what little personal items he has. Closing the suitcase, he drags it to the side of his room and enters the bathroom.
He winces looking at himself in the mirror. He looks horrible. The dark bags under his eyes are more prominent than ever. His cheeks are sunken and hollow, making it look like a dementor just sucked the life out of him.
His eyes trail down to the cut under his eye. It’s a stupid thing to be sad about, but Regulus’s face has always been perfect. He used to pride himself on its pristine skin, free of any marks. His whole body is littered with scars, but his face has always been the one thing untouched.
He hates it. He knows that a simple healing spell won’t fix the cut, and it will leave a lasting blemish on his face. He feels like a dumb kid being upset over something as silly as this, but he can’t help it.
He quickly throws on a few glamour spells until his skin is back to its once perfect condition. He looks more alive now, his face free of the ugly marks it usually bears.
He hurries downstairs and meets his parents at the bottom of the steps. They glare at him coldly, like always.
“Regulus.” his mother says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We only want the best for you, you know that right?”
He nods quickly, looking away from her piercing grey eyes.
“Good. You will be our perfect heir, unlike that brother of yours.”
His father apparates them to King’s Cross, embarrassingly making Regulus nauseous and almost throwing up on his father’s shoes.
They enter Platform 9 ¾ and wait for the train to arrive. Regulus idly watches the other families around him. Mothers hugging their children, crying at the very thought of them leaving. Fathers reassuring their kids that they’ll be fine and reminding them to be strong.
Distantly, he wonders why his parents don’t act like that. He smothers the thought down as quickly as it comes. His parents are doing this for him to become a better son, a better heir.
A horn sounds and he realizes that an hour has passed already. The Hogwarts Express has arrived and students quickly begin piling in.
There’s a strange sensation he can’t get rid of, the feeling of someone watching him, He turns to check. Looking right back at him is Sirius.
He’s next to James Potter and his parents, Effie and Fleamont. It’s clear that they all came here together, meaning Sirius must live with them now.
Regulus almost laughs at the irony. All this time, he’s thought that Sirius was his brother and that James Potter was just someone he would get over soon. Clearly, Potter is more of Sirius’s brother than he could ever be.
After all, Sirius chose him over Regulus.
His mother quickly sees who he’s looking at and turns him away. She backhands him, leaving his cheek a pale red color.
“You will not interact with that scum, is that clear?” she seethes.
“If I catch you talking to that filthy blood traitor, I might just Avada Kedavra you myself.”
“Yes, mother.”
His parents quickly steer him towards the entrance of the train and utter their goodbyes. Walburga reminds him of the same old things she tells him every day, and Regulus nods along like always.
Orion takes a step toward him and grips his shoulder. To anyone else, it may seem like a fatherly gesture. But Orion’s grip is bone crushing, slowly tightening around his arm.
“Do not disappoint me, boy. You will be the perfect heir, do you understand?”
Regulus thinks of Quidditch and smiles and laughter, long forgotten years ago. (Sirius, he thinks.)
Something gnaws at him.
“Yes, father.”