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When Draco learned of Regulus Arcturus Black, he was seven years of age.
He’d been roaming the halls of the manor, playing by himself in the East Wing — his mother’s wing of the manor. He had tired of his games by then; bored and lonely, he sought out his Mother as he often did. Draco had looked through all of the rooms she’d sit and paint in, until he came upon a door made of oak and not mahogany.
“ Maman ?” He called, the French tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop himself. His father had been trying to teach him to be more formal, more elegant the way all Malfoys were expected to be, but Draco was tired and lonely. He wanted his Mumma.
“There you are Draco,” Draco’s Mother did not smile, but her eyes would crinkle ever so slightly and she’d look at him in such a way that it felt as if her lips had woven into something gentle. “Come inside, mon étoile .”
Draco practically pranced inside. He scurried over to his Mother, who had been occupied with a painting. It was a portrait.
“Who’s this, maman ?” Draco asked, curiosity bubbling like a potion overheating in a cauldron.
“This is… was, ” Narcissa corrected herself, “your cousin. He was to be your Godfather.”
“What’s his name?” Prodded Draco.
“Regulus Arcturus Black,” Narcissa answered patiently, the way she often did when Draco would mouth a thousand different questions while she painted. Draco watched, entranced as her mother waved about her hand and the paintbrush caressed the canvas, a thousand hues dancing onto it at once.
“Arcturus?” Draco asked, his nose wrinkling in confusion. Without looking, Narcissa straightened out his expression with her gentle fingers.
“Arcturus Black is your Great-Great Uncle,” she explained softly. “He’s on the tapestry over there.” The tapestry Narcissa was referring to was a large, grand thing. It covered the entire wall, tall and morose. Faces and names had been sewn onto it with silver thread on the obsidian fabric, like stars in the night sky — although many of them were dim and faded. “Regulus was named after him instead of his father because he was the younger son.”
“But there’s nobody next to him on the tapestry?” The words leave him like a question. His Mother paused, and her paintbrush stilled. Draco froze as well, scared he’d finally angered her the way he sometimes would with his father. It happened very rarely — whenever Draco would make the mistake of stumbling onto his father when the man was at work, whenever he’d make an additional request that was one too many, whenever he’d ask another question. His father wouldn’t say much, just look skyward and let out a sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d still answer, but it was a short and stiff thing and he’d ask Draco to leave him alone.
Testing one’s patience — Draco had read about it somewhere.
“Well,” his mother cleared her throat and Draco readied himself to be asked to leave, to be told ‘oh Draco darling, shouldn’t you run off to study?’
But his mother did none of these things, Instead, she murmured a charm — one of her quick spells — and soon, another hundred names blazed onto the tapestry, though most of them had been shrunken nearly to obscurity save for Narcissa’s and Regulus’s branch.
Regulus’ branch was the brightest, which Draco presumed was because it was the main family — the Malfoy family tapestry was similar, thousands of names and faces stuck onto the branches of a mahogany tree. Most of them were too tiny to make out, though. The ones that weren’t were Draco’s family and a few other relatives — the main family.
That is how Draco noticed the name next to his would-be Godfather’s.
Sirius Orion Black.
And so, Draco is seven when he also learns of Sirius Orion Black, but that is neither here nor there — because Sirius is a name in passing, a secret that his mother had yet to share.
Regulus, though.
Regulus was a legacy Draco had to bear.
Draco learned of his mother’s family through passing tales. Tidbits that were more precious to him than any of the trinkets he’d ask his father to buy. Narcissa was never much of a talker, but she’d slip him a story or three whenever Draco would linger at her side during a quiet afternoon.
Most of them were fond or melancholic. Some of them were pained, told with what Draco would learn to call a note of shamefulness when he was older.
These stories were the ones that included Regulus. These stories were the ones Narcissa narrated while finishing her relative’s portrait.
“My sisters always doted on Sirius more, but I always preferred Regulus,” said Narcissa. “As easily bullied as he was, he always had a certain tenacity. One that was quiet, yes, but it was certainly there.” And then, quietly, to herself she’d say: “oh Reggie, where had your arrogance led you to?”
She stepped back with a morose but proud expression on her face as the portrait came to life. The expression on the subject’s face was grim, and Draco personally thought his complexion was rather ghastly.
And then he opened his eyes, with a haughty look in his eyes. It was one of the same quiet tenacity that his mother had mentioned. Draco realised that if only Regulus looked less miserable, he could’ve been pretty.
“Well,” drawled the portrait. “Hello there, Cissy and spawn.”
✴
Draco was sixteen when he learned of Regulus’ death.
The tales of the Blacks had always been told in vignettes, so he had learned little throughout the years. Puzzle pieces that he had yet to put together, since none of them would fit just yet.
And then, he turned sixteen.
Sixteen and blessed (although some would say cursed) with a task and a sign of his Lord’s faith, Draco learned of Regulus’ own fate.
“He was sixteen,” said Narcissa one afternoon when both Mother and son sat drinking tea. Her eyes were trained on the arm where Draco had been marked- no, blessed. “Just as you were. And he’d been given a task. Just as you were,” her voice turned to a whisper, as her gaze turned to a certain portrait. They were, after all, in the room where Regulus’ portrait was hung — a place they often sought reprieve in. Once, it had been away from Draco’s father. Now, it was from his allies.
“Did he succeed?” Draco asked, barely able to look at her. He had yet to touch his own cup of tea; his fingers were too busy trying to resist drumming against his thighs — a nervous habit.
“Yes,” Narcissa whispered. “Just as you will.”
“How old was he?” Draco asked, “when he…”
“...Seventeen.” She said, “He was seventeen.”
Later, the night before Draco had to leave for Hogwarts, Narcissa would make him sleep in her chambers. In a rare show of affection, she held him close to her as she cried.
“Oh, my boy, my boy…” she wept as quietly as she could, “I wish… oh I wish how I could’ve stowed you away. How I wish you wouldn’t have to…”
Draco had not slept in the same bed as either of his parents since he could crawl — but there he was that night, once more a child he had been desperate to grow out of being. Although in the morning, he found himself alone and sixteen once again.
He got ready quickly in his own chambers, and prepared to leave with little fanfare when his Mother entered the room.
“Are you ready, mon étoile ?” She asked with her red-rimmed eyes.
“ Oui, maman, ” he answered softly. She approached him, dusting off his shoulders and straightening out his clothes although there was no need to, save for her own maternal satisfaction.
As she stepped back to look at him, she could not help but say, “you remind me so much of him.”
Draco nearly asked if she was referring to his father — but then, he registered the pain in her eyes and immediately knew of whom she spoke. He said nothing, and let her continue.
Cradling his face, she spoke. “But for my sake, I pray and pray that you turn out nothing like him.”
✴
Mother’s prayers were, of course, in vain.
Draco died, just like Regulus, when he was seventeen.
He died at the hands of the Lord who had not blessed him, not marked him, but cursed him and branded him like cattle. He died at the hands of his own aunt, whose cackles continued to ring in his ear as all the filial piety he had cultivated from the lessons he was taught crumbled away.
He died, slowly and painfully, because he was in love.
Many, many nights ago — some time between Dumbledore’s death and Draco’s own demise, Draco found himself stationed before Regulus’ painting, asking Regulus of his own task. Regulus had laughed, unable to answer for he was not privy to that information himself.
After all, Regulus had drawled. Portraits only knew what their painters did.
“But I’ll tell you how I died,” Regulus offered. “I was seventeen — just as you. I was seventeen, and I marched to my own death because of a loyalty I found lacking.”
“I suppose you don’t know how you actually died,” said Draco, as emotionless as he could be. He found himself hollow, most days. Utterly depressed if he was at his best. “Since Mother doesn’t either.”
“No,” said the portrait. “No, I don’t.”
“So in the end, it turns out, you know quite little of yourself, no?” Draco tilted his head ever so slightly, assessing the painting. Due to the silence that followed, Draco turned to make his leave when the portrait spoke once more.
“There’s one thing I know for sure, though,” said Regulus. “That you and I, we are not so different, Draco Lucius Malfoy. If you die, you will die for the same thing I did — and you will do it by choice.”
“And what is it? The thing that I shall supposedly die for?”
Regulus smiled, and said nothing more.
It was love. It had to be love.
After all, while Draco might have been the same as Regulus, he was entirely the opposite of Harry James Potter.
And if Harry Potter lived because of love, then Draco would be the one to die because of love.
So, there he was, writhing on the floor of a cellar as the Dark Lord cursed him — over and over again. He was punished harder than the prisoners Draco freed would have been. Tortured twice as many as the times that Draco had shown their hostages any sort of kindness, no matter how small and insignificant it had been.
And then, he was killed, for protecting the Boy Who Lived and freeing him. (Once more, did the Chosen One survive because of love, though it was not from anyone he would have expected.) Draco’s death was not a slow, or a kind one. His aunt carved into his body in ways that would not kill him instantly, leaving him to bleed out all over the floor of the cellars of his own home.
His mother came to visit him in the dead of the night when he was minutes away from his death. He could not tell if she had brought his father along with him. Salazar, he could barely even make out if it had been her who had come to visit.
It must have been, because he swore he could hear her voice as wept and called out his name.
“Oh Draco, my boy, my boy, Draco, oh Draco, you—”
She continued to weep, calling out his name. He wondered if it was his imagination when a heartbroken ‘Regulus’ left her mouth.
“ Shhh... ne pleure pas, maman. Maman, ne pleure pas.” Draco managed to croak out with what remained of his voice as his vision began to become spotty. Unfortunately, that only made his mother cry harder.
“ Oh, mon étoile! ” She wept. She cradled him as he began to lose his consciousness. “Oh, how I wish… how I wish you could have lived. How I wish you had not become a Death Eater at all.”
With all the effort he could manage as he clung onto what was left of his life, he whispered half-unintelligibly, “I’m sorry I…”
Draco never got to finish his sentence.
I’m sorry I never got to make you proud.
Draco’s mother fervently prayed, weeping and wishing as he died to the sound of her crying out his name.
✴
When Draco awoke, it was to the sound of his mother calling out his name.