Chapter Text
Regulus does not know if his house is haunted, or if he haunts his house, but he figures the difference is irrelevant if he’s just as wretched as the ghosts of the House of Black. He isn’t sure if the morose, gloomy undertone of Grimmauld Place had begun to stick to his skin like humidity, sinking deep into his bones, becoming a part of him until one could not tell the difference between him and his father, him and his father before him, him and his family and their ghosts. Or if this is just who he is, a shell of a person, disconsolate and despondent.
Although it feels as if the spirits of Grimmauld Place reside in his room, following him throughout the house, fixating on him, Regulus much prefers to haunt the front door. Large, foreboding, dark wood, at which Regulus likes to glare at with the fury of a thousand suns as if the door to number twelve Grimmauld Place has somehow personally scorned him, and in some ways, maybe it has. Maybe he doesn’t know if the melancholy he feels stems from who he is or where he is, but he knows for certain when he began to feel the cracks in his soul that opened space for such a feeling.
The night before Sirius left for his first year at Hogwarts, Regulus had crept into his brother’s room in the dead of night, a habit from childhood long broken by his Mother’s cruelty and his Father’s complicity. But Walburga could not beat the rebellion out of Sirius, and Orion could not scare Regulus’s love for his brother away, so they often found themselves under the covers together anyway, whispering secrets in the darkness that felt safer than their parent’s looming shadows.
The light of the hallway illuminated Sirius’s face as Regulus pulled open his brother’s bedroom door, Sirius rubbing the sleep from his eyes as Regulus settled next to him in bed.
“Do you believe in other universes?” Sirius asked.
“Other universes?” Regulus asked, puzzled.
“Yeah, sorta like our world but different. Different outcomes, different choices, alternate versions of us, yknow?”
“Would you be my brother in every one of these universes?” Regulus said quietly, almost too quiet for Sirius to understand, as if by speaking these words out loud it would somehow bring the thought to fruition. He met Sirius’s eyes, fearful of his answer as if he couldn’t conceive of a world in which Sirius was not his big brother, as if the thought was too much to bear.
“Maybe we would grow up to be different people, maybe we would make different choices in some other reality, but you’d always be my brother, Regulus. I don’t think a world could exist where you aren’t my brother.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, Reggie, I’m sure of it.” He said with a smile, hoping to quash the lingering fear he saw in Regulus’s eyes.
“You won’t forget about me, right? At Hogwarts, I mean? You’ll write, like you promised?” Regulus quietly hoped that Sirius wasn’t imagining some alternate Regulus, a different brother who was stronger, braver, and better than himself.
“Of course, you git!” Sirius said, playfully messing with Regulus’s hair. “I’ll have to brag to someone, yeah? And you’re my favorite brother anyways.”
“The only thing you’ll have to brag about, at this rate, is holding the school record for the most detentions in one year. And I’m your only brother, you idiot.” Regulus smirked.
“Sounds about right.” He cackled. “And you’ll set the record for reading the most muggle romances..” Regulus jumped on Sirius, who immediately fought back, grateful for the distraction from the thought of leaving his brother in just a few hours, from the nerves he felt towards his first year of Hogwarts, from the fear of disappointing his parents, from what they might do to him, might do to Regulus, should he fail to meet their expectations. They rolled around on Sirius’s bed, both throwing measured swings, careful not to actually hurt each other, neither ever having an upper hand. Sirius, absolutely barking mad, kept trying to tickle his younger brother, which is where Regulus drew the line. Eventually, it was Regulus who tapped out. It's always him.
They lay together, each brother a reflection of the other, as if they both chose to share a bed with a mirror, quietly laughing off the adrenaline, until suddenly one of them is crying. They can’t be sure who, because they share the same eyes, the same face, the same heart, and what is felt by one, is felt by the other. If the tears in their eyes blur the image of each other so that they end up seeing themselves, well, then no brother needs to claim such weakness.
“I’ll miss you too Reggie.” Sirius breaks the silence first.
“What? I’m only crying of relief, I’ll finally be free of you at last. I’m not sure if you can say the same.”
Sirius rolled his eyes. “I don’t need to hear you say it, to know that it’s true. Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble, yeah? I know I won’t be around until Christmas, but if you ever need anything, please write to me.”
“Yes, yes I’ll keep a handle on those muggle romances , which are actually sophisticated classics, I mean the way Jane Austen writes–”
“I’m serious!”
“Yeah, and I’m Regulus.”
“Original.”
“Thanks, I thought of it myself. You might be able to match my genius if you ever picked up a novel .”
Sirius fell asleep sometime after that. Regulus will never know if he slept that night, or if he spent the last few hours until morning staring at his brother, willing him to stay, willing time to stop.
The morning came, and reality washed over the brothers like an ice bath. Regulus sat on the stairs facing the door to number twelve Grimmauld Place, staring at it as if he could permanently lock it with his fear, as Sirius attempted to convince their parents to allow Regulus to come to Hogwarts with him. He gave them every excuse conceivable, each more ridiculous than the last, each a testament to how greatly he loved his brother. Sirius sat next to Regulus on the stairs, his head on his brother’s shoulder, who was already surpassing Sirius in height, much to Sirius’s dismay.
“Brothers in every universe, yeah?”
“In every single one Reg.”
“Sirius!” Orion called.
Sirius met his brother’s eye, a thousand unspoken truths between them. And then he got up and walked towards that godforsaken door. Regulus had sworn that as soon as Sirius stepped out of number twelve Grimmauld Place, the lights in the hallway dimmed, the temperature dropped, and the ghosts that would eventually become family settled behind him, just out of view, as if they were afraid of Sirus’s light.
If Orion noticed his haunted look as he walked towards the door, he didn’t mention it. And Regulus waited for Sirius to turn around, to realize something was wrong, to sense the danger that his brother felt, but he didn’t. The door closed.
Crack!
Nothing really was the same, after that.
—------------------------------
The night Sirius left was the beginning, but the night Evan Rosier showed up on the doorstep of number twelve Grimmauld Place, screaming Regulus’s name, pounding his fists on the door that haunted Regulus’s nightmares, was the beginning of the end.
It was late June, in the early days of the summer months, and Regulus had just finished his fourth year at Hogwarts. His parents were out of the house on “official ministry business,” though he figured there was nothing “official” or legal about the meetings his parents had recently begun attending. He’s overheard whispered conversations between his parents about Lord Voldemort's rise to power and the approaching wizarding war, and if anything, Regulus is not a fool. More concerning, he’s overheard them discuss the role that they expect him to play, the script he’s expected to follow, the act he’s meant to flawlessly execute. Ever since Sirius’s fall from grace during his first year at Hogwarts and his insistent refusal to uphold the traditional Black values: Blood purity and the like, Walburga and Orion have favored torture over talking. Needless to say, more was expected of Regulus now. He could no longer be a spectator to his own life, living in Sirius’s shadow, protected in his big brother’s embrace. He was the future of The Noble House of Black. His parents labeled Sirius as a blood traitor, but as far as Regulus was concerned, the only person that Sirius had betrayed was him.
Regulus and Sirius have not spoken since the sorting ceremony of Regulus’s first year when he became a Slytherin, Sirius’s declared natural enemy. The sorting hat called, “Slytherin!” and suddenly the nights spent entangled together, the quiet cries exchanged in Sirius’s bedroom, their years as brothers together, sharing the same soul, the same heartbeat, suddenly it meant nothing. One second he was his little brother, and the next he was a villain. The flip of a light switch, one step to the next, Regulus hadn’t realized how quickly life could pivot. In an instant, he meant nothing to Sirius.
He felt Sirius slipping away after he left. He never did write. He never did respond to Regulus’s letters, either. When Sirius returned, when Sirius crawled into Regulus’s room that night, all he could talk about were his brand new friends. His mates, his brothers he called them. Regulus received the privilege of listening to how Sirius’s brothers made up for his shortcomings with a straight face, but when Sirius began talking about James Potter , who was decidedly perfect in every way that Regulus was not, Regulus promptly kicked his brother out of his room.
Regulus isn’t the brother that Sirius left either. A year alone and unarmed with his parents had left him cold, mean, and reserved, closed off in such a way that Sirius could no longer reach him. For the first time in his life, Regulus had to face the fact that his brother, his protector, his superhero, had disappointed him. So now, every time he looks at Sirius, who he once thought of as his reflection, he feels the blade slide into his back, he feels the sting of betrayal, he feels his raw, beating heart squeeze, but he’s encased these feelings in deep, unbridled hatred, buried them in it until they became unrecognizable, and he drowns in it when he meets his older brother’s eyes. Every time that Sirius looks at Regulus, he sees a different version of himself, the Sirius Black who didn’t disappoint his parents, who hasn’t yet felt the ache of the cruciatus curse. He sees every way in which he has failed his little brother, and the guilt consumes him, so he chooses not to look at his warped reflection.
“REGULUS!” Someone screams his name in the distance, interrupting his thoughts. He races to the door, eager to shut this person up, ready to reprimand them for disrupting the peace, grabbing the door handle-
“What could possibly-”
And standing there on the steps to number twelve Grimmauld Place is Evan Rosier, face pale, hands covered in blood, shaking in fear.
Regulus has known Evan for as long as he can remember. They were related in some roundabout way, in the way most pureblood wizarding families are, and Evan was one of the few that Regulus would tolerate sitting with at their family gatherings. So, when both boys were sorted into Slytherin house, naturally, they became friends. Evan was his only friend, by choice. The minute he sat down at the Slytherin table, he was met with several open palms, greedy for his favor, desperate for the power and influence that came with the title of the heir to the Black family name. The second Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor, Regulus became the heir to his family’s name. He knew it, Sirius knew it, and apparently, so did Lestrange, Malfoy, and Yaxley. Frankly, it was annoying. He watched Lucius attach himself to Narcissa like a leech. Embarrassing.
“It’s Barty.”
And well. Well, that’s all it takes really. Regulus is out the door in an instant.
And then came his second, unexpected friendship. It was his first day of classes, during potions, which was shared between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Regulus was paired with Barty Crouch Junior, who already managed to have a reputation of being a little off the rocker within the first few hours of classes, a feat that Regulus is sure his brother was jealous of. So, naturally, he already hated him.
But Barty?
Barty had never met a challenge he didn’t love.
“Where?” He asks, urgent, desperate, ugly.
“This way.” And then run together, no matter that Regulus is not wearing shoes, despite the insane looks that they get from London’s muggles as they zig-zag the streets like madmen, one thought repeating over and over in his mind like some sort of religious mantra that only the most desperate of men speak to their Gods, on their knees, weak, desolate, reckless.
Barty. Barty. Barty.
Regulus glared at him as he made his way over to their cauldron with the ingredients for their potion. Regulus hoped Barty was getting the message, but he met Regulus head-on, never averting his eyes, smirking like an arrogant fool.
Evan leads them into some dirty, dim alleyway, where Barty is struggling to sit up straight, almost unrecognizable, his face bruised, bloody, swollen, his hair cacked to his skin with dirt, blood, and sweat, tear stains visible on his face despite it all. The alley reeks of death, and Regulus hesitates. He stands there, willing Barty to be alive, to be breathing.
Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. I need you here with me. I don’t know how to be without you.
“Well, aren’t you chipper!” Regulus only stared back. “I mean, you’re practically emanating sunshine and rainbows.”
Regulus gave him a look over, his face twisting in disgust.
“What an attitude. We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”
“Who’s we?”
“Me and you, of course. Barty and…what’s your name again? Reginald, Regina, Regg-”
“Don’t call me that.” Regulus bites.
“Feisty. I like it.”
“Merlin, you are crazy. Can we just make the potion already? Enough talking, your voice is giving me a headache.”
“Already done!” Barty smirks like a madman. “If you weren’t so preoccupied getting your panties in a twist, maybe you would have noticed.”
“What?” Regulus hadn’t noticed Barty preparing the potion, too busy staring at his ridiculous face-
Barty cackles, his brown eyes alight with mirth, his hand over his heart as he doubled over with laughter. Regulus, still dumbfounded, watched him with his mouth wide open.
“Careful, you’ll catch flies.”
One moment to the next, and then he’s there at Barty’s side, pushing the hair out of his face, examining his injuries, pleading with him, with Evan, with any God who might be listening. In the back of his mind, he is aware that he must seem mental to Evan, who has never once seen him lose his composure, let alone have a full-fledged breakdown, and maybe he knows that this is somewhat of an overreaction for two boys who are just best friends but he doesn’t care because it’s Barty.
The two followed a similar routine throughout the rest of the year. Barty, was insistent on irritating Regulus to no end, Regulus matching him insult for insult, but Barty was equally intelligent as he was annoying, and maybe Regulus tolerated him a bit more day by day. Barty knew he was winning.
“I’ve been thinking of trying out for the quidditch team later this year,” Barty said.
Regulus raised an eyebrow at him. “What position then?”
“Was thinking of being a seeker.”
“A seeker, seriously, have you lost your mind? A seeker needs to be agile, quick, and able to weave around the other players, so a seeker should be small, the lightest player on the team. You’re probably the tallest boy in our year, you’re quite literally all muscle, and you may be intelligent but-” Regulus stops himself, face burning as Barty smirks at him.
“Did you just compliment me, Regulus?”
“Absolutely not. I hate you.”
“Merlin, If you wanted to take me out on a date, well, you could’ve just asked.” Barty jokes.
Regulus glares at him. And then he smiles. Laughs at the ridiculousness of it. In a room full of people. For the first time since Sirius wrote him off.
Barty may have succeeded. But Regulus? Regulus was the real winner.
“Regulus, I swear, I’m fine. I’m okay, I promise.” Barty, injured as he may be, still jumps in to comfort Regulus, but his voice shakes as he talks, and the mucus and blood lingering in his throat makes him choke on his words.
Regulus is an exceptional wizard. It is a fact that forms a pillar of his reputation. Cruel, ruthless, cunning, but powerful. Always one to keep his cards close to his chest, Regulus offers the public only half-truths. He keeps the true depth of his magical ability hidden within vaults in his mind, careful to avoid being propositioned to become a puppet, a weapon, a toy in the war on the horizon. But in moments like these, Regulus considers throwing caution to the wind. If his brother ever felt such a way when he returned from Hogwarts to find Regulus broken, bloody, and bruised, he’ll never know, but, before that first year that they were apart, Regulus believed that Sirius would’ve gone to unimaginable lengths to protect him. He wonders if Sirius has ever toyed with the darkness that runs in the Black blood, wonders if Sirius would’ve ever acted on such a darkness to protect him. Sirius has always been good, but Regulus? Regulus would burn the entire wizarding world to the ground and dance in the ashes if it meant he could find the person who did this to Barty, if he could find him, and destroy him. Regulus would embrace the Black family name if he could end the person who did this.
“Merlin Regulus, stop having a goddamn breakdown. I came and got you for a reason. You’re the only one of us competent at healing spells!” Evan snaps him out of it.
Regulus nods and begins working on Barty’s face, his cracked ribs, and his broken nose. Competent at healing spells is an understatement, but Regulus’s magic will only go so far for Barty given his state. He slowly, cautiously repairs Barty’s several broken ribs, casting spells that assess for internal bleeding. He sets Barty’s nose back in place, which earns him a momentary groan of pain, followed by a sigh of relief. The bruises on his face will have to heal naturally, but he waves his wand, and the swelling is reduced, and then Barty looks like himself again.
“Thanks, mate.” Barty says, as if Regulus didn’t spend the past thirty minutes weeping over his body as if he was Achilles, discovering Patroclus’s body after the goddamn Battle of Troy.
“What the hell happened?” The question comes from Evan, obviously attempting to diffuse the awkward tension between Regulus and Barty.
“My Father, who else?” Barty cackles, as if it’s some stupid joke, as if it's funny.
Christmas break of Regulus’s second year had just come to a close, and he was unpacking his trunk as Barty barged into his room, dazed and confused.
“Regulus?”
“Barty? Are you..okay?”
“Do you know any healing spells?”
“Yeah mate, do you need me to bring you to the infirmary…or?”
“No.” He says definitely. “Madam Pomfery will ask questions.”
“And what makes you think I won’t?”
“Please?” Barty gives him his best attempt at puppy dog eyes.
Regulus sighs. He’s weak when it comes to his friends. An error that must be corrected.
“Show me.”
Barty takes off his shirt, revealing extensive bruising over his chest, his ribcage, his abdomen. His skin is a tapestry of colors, a bit yellow, bruises that have just begun to heal, with a purple overlay, from the fresh punches. He’s been beaten. Repeatedly. Regulus thinks his ribs may be broken, the jagged way that Barty is breathing. Regulus thinks he might be sick.
“Who did this?” Regulus asks with a newfound emotion: Rage, all-consuming fire, burning his skin, burning him inside and out, burning for his friend.
“No questions. Please.”
Regulus clenches his jaw, attempting, but failing, to keep the anger in check. He sits Barty down on his bed. Casts a few spells to check for internal damage. This? This is routine. But it’s Barty, not Sirius. Not himself. His hands shake as he waves his wand over Barty’s chest, reducing the swelling-
Barty notices how routine this seems to be for Regulus. Barty grabs his hands. He hears his wand fall to the floor.
“Reg?”
“Sorry. I-” He turns his head, averting Barty's gaze as his eyes fill with tears. It’s all too familiar. It’s Barty. It’s wrong.
Barty tugs him into bed, and suddenly they’re lying together, facing each other. The tears in his eyes threaten to fall, but Barty reaches out to catch them before they do.
“Regulus.”
Regulus looks up at him, meeting his eyes.
“My father. My father hits me, in his free time.”
The choked sob that comes from Regulus is deafening. Not Barty. Not him.
“My mother.” Regulus confesses, voice laced with shame as if Barty was a priest, a priest who could absolve him of the sin of not being worthy of his mother’s love.
And the mask is back. The rage that Regulus feels, it's not funny, it’s inhumane. He doesn’t feel guilty about it either. Let Sirius claim that he is just like their mother, that he is a reflection of his father, Regulus doesn’t think he would even flinch.
He promptly turns and walks away without so much as a goodbye. Later, he would recall this moment as the turning point, the event that shaped his future and the choices he would make. Because there, in that disgusting, decrepit alleyway, Regulus’s love for Barty eclipsed his love for Sirius, and that pure, unrelenting rage settled deep into his chest, becoming a part of him, blending love and anger until the definitions became a little fuzzy, too entangled to distinguish one from the other.
Crack!
The beginning to an end.
—------------------------------------
And then, the end.
It came later that summer. It began during the first of many “family gatherings,” held the summer before his fifth year, but he knew. Sirius knew. This was no ordinary Black family dinner; There was no grand feast prepared by Kreacher, no silver cutlery polished, and neither Black brother was welcome. They both knew what this was. There was an army meeting in their home, plotting the demise of muggleborns, strategizing their takeover of the wizarding world. Regulus doesn’t particularly care for blood purity, nor does he have any inclination to protect muggle-borns with his life, but the thought is unnerving all the same. He’s not very fond of the idea of fighting in a war, on either side, that is.
It’s different for Sirius, who thinks of himself as righteous and noble. Regulus thinks him a fool. If Sirius was smart, he would’ve played the role of the heir to the Noble House of Black, infiltrating the Death Eater ranks, effectively becoming a spy for the opposition. But Sirius is happy to play the role of the fool for his best friend, his brother, James Potter. And maybe Regulus shouldn’t judge him for it. Regulus is willing to become a Death Eater, willing to do horrible things, if it meant that he could protect Barty, who is set on the idea of joining Lord Voldemort when they come of age. Maybe he shouldn’t judge, but maybe Sirius chose James, while Barty chose Regulus, and that distinction has to matter, right? What matters, Regulus thinks, is that Sirius didn’t choose him.
So, if Sirius was smart, maybe, he would listen in on this meeting. Maybe he would gather valuable information for the opposition, maybe he would report it back to James Potter. But of course, he doesn’t do any of these things.
Regulus is sitting at the top of the staircase, intently eavesdropping on the current topic of conversation at this particular meeting: Albus Dumbledore, the current headmaster of Hogwarts. Sirius’s bedroom door opens, and out comes his brother, his long mess of curls shifting with every step, his head held high, his gray eyes set with determination. Rough seas meet thunderstorms, a million sunken promises between them.
“How can you just sit there, listening to them? How do you live with yourself?”
Regulus doesn’t respond to him. Regulus believes that there’s a chance that Sirius could understand his reasoning, maybe, if Sirius gave him the time of day to explain, if he didn’t abandon him, didn’t betray him. Regulus believes that he might tell Sirius, might force him to listen, if the betrayal didn’t hurt as it did, if he didn’t understand the pain it would bring to his brother, knowing that he couldn’t save him. So he stays quiet and allows Sirius to think of him just as he thinks of their mother, just as he thinks of their father. And Regulus? Regulus is content with imagining some alternate universe.
Sirius scoffs at him, looking at his little brother as if he were the dirt under his shoes. And then he turns. And starts to walk down the stairs.
“What are you doing?” Regulus asks. It’s the first thing that he’s said to Sirius in years.
“Obviously I’m not going to stand by and allow this meeting to continue. I’m not going to listen to these people discuss muggle-borns as if they aren’t human beings, as if they’re lesser than us because of their blood. It’s wrong.”
“And what makes you think that you can single-handedly put an end to this meeting? What makes you think that an interruption will have any effect on their plans in the long term?”
Sirius turns to face his little brother, danger in his eyes, murder in his smile.
“I’ll kill them all.”
It’s shocking to hear such violence from his brother, and momentarily, it leaves him speechless. Maybe he was wrong, after all, maybe Sirius has toyed with the evil that runs in their blood.
“Once a Black, always a Black. They’ll kill you first.”
Sirius flinches at that. Kissing his teeth, “Join me then, fight with me. As brothers.”
Regulus just laughs at him, voice dripping with rage, tongue laced with revenge, teeth coated with violence. “It’s your funeral.”
And then Sirius is gone, out of sight. Regulus is frozen with disbelief at his brother’s stupidity, attempting to put his brother’s foolishness out of his mind. And then the screaming starts.
Awful, wretched, nauseating screaming. Screaming that tears through his chest, through the density of his hatred, the depths of Sirius’s betrayal, until all that’s left was his raw, throbbing, erratic heart, beating in tune to the sound of his brother’s name. Ripping through him until all that was left was his buried love for his brother, long pronounced dead, back from the grave, back from the pits of hell. Regulus followed the sound of his brother’s screaming like a hopeless sailor searching the horizon for land, he chased Sirius’s cries like a crazed man entranced by a Siren’s call, luring him into the viper’s nest.
He stormed into the room with no plan and no wand. Sirius was on the floor twitching, muscles contracting, crying out in pain, eyes glazed over with an emptiness that was unnatural for the Sirius Black, who was always full of joy and humor. Their father stood over him, face twisting in what could’ve been concentration or disgust, Regulus couldn’t be sure, wand pointed at his son, the familiar red light of the cruciatus curse radiating from it. Absently, Regulus considered the notion that Walburga might be protecting them by taking on the role of the abuser, protecting them by shielding them from Orion’s rage, his power, because the force of his father’s cruciatus curse far eclipses that of his mother’s. He wonders if his mother has ever felt the sting of it.
With a flick of his hand, Regulus has Orion off his feet and against the wall. He drowns out the cries of outrage, the gasps of terror, the background noise from Voldemort’s worthless foot soldiers. Quickly, he materializes a shield around him and his brother, crouching down to meet Sirius’s gaze.
“Reggi-”
“You need to leave.”
“I don’t understand. You stopped him. Why?”
“The reason is irrelevant. You need to leave before they kill you . I can only hold this shield for so long.”
“How are you-”
“Sirius!”
“Come with me. They’ll torture you for letting me leave. Come with me to James-”
Briefly, he considered it. Leaving with his brother, basking in the safety of his embrace, rekindling their relationship. And then there’s Barty, bloody, bruised, and beaten. And maybe he was wrong before. Maybe his love for Barty hasn’t eclipsed his love for Sirius. Because he considers it. But Sirius has always been his reflection, no matter how long he’s tried to run from him, run from himself. In his eyes, he can see himself, and in his reflection, he can see Sirius in his eyes, and then maybe all that hatred he had towards Sirius was actually for himself.
Regulus has heard enough. “No. They can’t hurt me, Sirius. I’m the heir to the Noble House of Black. Haven’t you heard? My brother has been disowned” His smile is laced with venom. “Leave now, or I’ll kill you myself.”
And under his breath, almost too quiet to hear:
“In an alternate universe.”
Sirius stares at him, searching his face for any emotion. Finally, he nods, and crawls, bloody and broken, into the fireplace. Engulfed in flames of green, and then he’s gone.
Crack!
Regulus drops the shield, sweating, and panting, from the exertion of it.
“Impressive.” Calls a cold voice, steeped with malice. The atmosphere in the room instantly changes, the air becomes suffocating, the temperature drops below freezing, the ghosts move to hide in shadows, afraid. Goosebumps erupt all over his body, a chill running down his spine. Regulus knows. He knows who this is. He curses under his breath. Sirius's idiocy resulted in his exposure. Sirius has damned him in a single moment. The flip of a light switch. One step to the next. The choice is made before there even was a choice at all.
Regulus turns to face him, mask in place, a vicious smile forming. He is not afraid. He will not be afraid. But he meets Voldemort’s eye, and for a second he falters. Because, well, there’s no other word for it. He’s ugly. He looks like something other than human. His skin is nearly white, and it shimmers when the light catches on his face, as if he was coated in a thick snake skin. Veins transverse his skull, weaving in and around each other, throbbing under the weight of his skin, throbbing with the pulse of this thing’s anger. His lips are sunken in, shriveled, as if he’s a lost traveler in the depths of the African desert on a fruitless quest to quench his boundless thirst. He only breathes through two small openings on his face that take the place of a nose, making him look all the more snake-like. Regulus thinks he might start an entire war if he looked like that too.
“Thank you, my Lord. Pardon my interruption. My father was wasting his time on Sirius.”
“How do you figure?”
“Sirius is a blood traitor, my Lord. He will never be loyal to your cause, nor the Noble House of Black. It is a waste of time, to try and torture him into doing so, especially when I am so eager to join you.”
Regulus is acutely aware of his dire need to prove his loyalty to Voldemort should he wish to keep his life. Power like his, power that should’ve been kept under strict lock-and-key, is a dangerous threat to someone like Voldemort, to someone like Dumbledore. And so, in an instant, he is on his knees, and he thinks of Barty. Just a few weeks prior, on his knees, praying into the abyss for him to be alive. Desperation brings him to the ground, and it feels as if he is bastardizing his religion, how he bows at the feet of this man who believes himself God, in a room full of his worshipers, when Barty has made a theist out of him.
“I pledge my complete allegiance to you, my Lord.”
“Get up, you fool!” His voice is hoarse as he laughs, manic, crazed, but calculated. “Tell me…Regulus Black, what is it you want?”
“To serve you, my Lord.”
“DO NOT LIE TO ME!” His wand is at Regulus’s throat in an instant. Regulus looks up at him, meeting his gaze, giving him no sign of fear, no gratification.
“Glory, my Lord. I want to be remembered.”
Voldemort considers him, the room is dead silent as the two assess each other, and for a brief instant, Walburga looks afraid. And then:
“Very well. You will be a useful resource to our cause.”
And then his wand is pointed at Regulus, the familiar angry red light of the cruciatus curse racing towards him. And this? This is so much worse than anything he’s ever experienced, worse than any pain he’s ever endured. He thinks of his brother laughing, running with him in the gardens of Black Manor, he thinks of Barty, joking with him over a cauldron, comforting him when Sirius vacated the position. He thinks of flying with Evan, trying out for the Slytherin Quidditch team in their second year, eating enough sweets to make their stomachs twist with pain to celebrate making the team. He thinks of Barty creeping into the dungeons in the middle of the night, creeping into his bed, the gravity of his stare. Soon enough, his own screams break through his thoughts, drowning them until his mind is completely blank, but he stays conscious, fighting the stars that dance in his vision.
Endure.
When it’s over, Regulus is alone. He isn’t sure if the torture lasted seconds, if it lasted hours, or how long he’s been on the floor, but one thought rings true. He would take it again, he would take it tenfold, if it meant Sirius and Barty would be safe. Which creates an impossible dilemma. How is he meant to keep two people, on two opposite sides of a war, both safe? Fuck Orion for waking up his cold, dead heart, for reminding him, that even after everything, he still cares for his brother.
With a sigh, Regulus limps to the bathroom and promptly throws up.
The end. Whether this be the end of his villain origin story or his hero’s journey, well, that remains to be seen.