Chapter Text
When the patronus first came through the window, Sirius didn’t know what to expect.
That’s a lie. He knew, even before the silvery phoenix spoke: patronuses meant death. How terribly, unjustifiably, devastatingly ironic; that the very charm meant to dispel suffering now seemed to premeditate it.
All Dumbledore had to say was The Potters and Sirius was gone. Heart hammering in his chest, he jumped on his motorbike and took to the skies.
He couldn’t help but remember the first time he’d met James, more than 10 years ago now, on September 1, 1971. Sitting side by side in a train compartment, Sirius dejectedly confessing his familial ties and James, bright-eyed and mussy-haired, saying Blimey, and I thought you seemed alright!
James, 11 and unfailingly willing to see the good in him; 15 and proud and regal, earning himself the nickname ‘Prongs’; 16 and welcoming Sirius into his home without a second thought; 17 and signing up for war; 19 and married; 20 and a father; 21 and dead.
James, who met a Black on the train to Hogwarts, and gave him the courage to break tradition.
When Sirius landed, however many minutes later, in Godric Hollow, he saw a door blown off its hinges, and a pair of legs laying in the hallway. Stumbling through the door, Sirius made a low keening noise in the back of his throat, like someone had stolen all the air from his lungs. For sprawled on the hardwood flooring, discarded carelessly, as if he were nothing but an insect in need of squashing, was the dead body of his brother.
Harry, oh God, Harry-
Forcing himself to step over James, Sirius lurched towards the staircase, praying with every fibre of his being that Lily made it out. All hopes were soon dashed, however, as Sirius came upon the nursery. It was in disarray, toys blasted apart by some show of magic, the sulfuric, electric reek of Dark Magic still lingering in the air. Worst of all though, was the slumped and still figure of one Lily Evans Potter, dark red hair splayed out behind her. Harry was nowhere to be found, and Sirius’ chest cracked open, grief pouring out in waves.
“Harry!” he screamed, desperation clawing its way up his throat. He tripped on his way out of the nursery, having little choice but to leave Lily and James as they were. It was only on his way back down the stairs that he caught sight of a broad, hulking figure on the back porch.
Hagrid.
Calling for the half-giant, Sirius leapt over the couch, where James’ wand peeked out from between the cushions. He opened the back door at the same time that Hagrid turned, and Sirius nearly fainted at the sight of Harry cradled gently in one large palm. He was relatively unharmed, save for a grotesque and jagged scar on his forehead, just above his left eyebrow. Though it was hard to see, Sirius might have sworn it was shaped like a lightning bolt.
“Sirius,” Hagrid said, tears still glistening on his cheeks.
“Harry… is he?”
“Alive,” Hagrid adjusted his arm so that Sirius could get a closer look. “Go’ some nasty lookin’ scar, though.” A million questions ran through Sirius’ head.
How? Why? Where is Voldemort? What the fuck happened?
(He was cold, so fucking cold.)
“Hagrid - Give Harry to me Hagrid, I’m his godfather, I’ll look after him,” Sirius babbled, arms outstretched, pleading. Hagrid shook his head, though it looked like it pained him to do so.
“I’m sorry, Sirius, but I go’ my orders straight from Dumbledore. Harry here is ter go ter his aunt an’ uncles in Surrey.”
White and positively trembling, Sirius’ eyes widened.
“Pe-Petunia?” he sputtered, shaking his head wildly. “No, no, Lily would never allow it. I’m Harry’s next of kin, Hagrid please-” his voice broke, high and whimpering-like. Hagrid shook his head again.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “But with the Potters… they’ve been betrayed. Dumbledore’s go’ ter be crackin’ down on the Secret Keeper as we speak.”
It was as if Hagrid had poured ice-cold water down Sirius’ spine. Gooseflesh erupted across his skin, pores seizing with frozen terror.
Peter.
Sirius nodded numbly.
“Okay,” he whispered, mind whirling. He could always go to Petunia’s after. And as much as he dreaded having to leave Harry, he knew that Hagrid would keep him safe. “Okay. Take my bike. I won’t need it anymore.”
Truthfully, he’d be happy if he never had to see it again. That bike had been a gift from James. Now, after having seen James, stiller than James Potter should ever be, on the floor of his home, Sirius had half a mind to blast that rudding motorbike to bits. Hagrid, blinking, nodded.
“Okay,” he said. Sirius nodded again, barely having the wits to do anything but. Then, before he lost his nerve, he stepped into Hagrid's personal space and pressed a bruising kiss to Harry’s cheek. The baby barely stirred in his sleep, but made a small, cooing noise that cut Sirius to his core. Squeezing his eyes hard enough to feel pressure behind them, Sirius blinked away tears and stepped back.
“I’ll see you soon, Harry.”
He took a step back and turned on his heel, disapparating with an echoing pop. Peter lived on a Muggle block with his mother, though she spent most of her time in St. Mungo’s these days. Not caring for who heard him, Sirius landed with a deafening roar that may have been Peter’s name.
(Later, he would recall how odd it was that Peter had been there. Of all places Sirius could’ve checked, how lucky was it that Peter had just happened to be on his street? Almost as if he was waiting for Sirius to show up…)
Sirius barely had time to register the devious gleam in Peter’s eye before he started sobbing, loudly and without regard for the Muggles who were now starting to come out of their homes.
“Lily and James, Sirius!” Peter sobbed, and Sirius’ heart stuttered in his chest, feeling rage and grief wash over him in equal favor. “How could you?”
Sirius gaped, opening his mouth, the words on the tip of his tongue (what the fuck are you on about you traitorous little cunt-weasel?) when Peter withdrew his wand and shouted “BOMBARDA MAXIMA!”
Barely lifting a shield charm in time, Sirius covered his eyes just as the street exploded. Echoing screams began to pour into the street with such fervor that Sirius thought for a moment that it was his grief made sentient. Then, coming back to his senses, he realized with a terrible dawning horror what Peter had done.
The popping sounds of apparition landed around them, but just before the smoke began to clear, Peter sliced off one of his fingers, and with one final whimper, shrunk before Sirius’ very eyes. The last thing he saw was a rat scurrying down the street.
The absurdity of it all seemed to hit Sirius very quickly, then.
Wormtail. He was the rat all along.
Unable to stop himself, hysterical laughter began to bubble in Sirius’ gut, bursting from his mouth in cackles fit to rival his dear cousin, Bellatrix’s. This was how the hit-wizards found him, once the rubble settled, standing in a crater in the middle of a cracked street, gutters running red with Muggle blood.
As they hauled him off, with the echoes of screams still ringing in his ears (whose are they? Mine? Or theirs?) Sirius had one final thought: that he had been gifted two brothers, in this life, and that both times, he was the last man standing.
*
In Sirius’ first memory, he is 20 months old. He’s a pale, cherubic baby, with velvety soft black curls and eyes so pale they almost seem to stare through, rather than at.
“Sirius Orion,” someone beckoned, and Sirius followed as obediently as the constellation he was named after. Black Dog.
What a fucking joke.
“Est-il ici?” he asked.
Is he here?
His father smiled, an expression that always seemed illfitting, like he had to force to make it seem natural. Sirius thought it rather looked like an amateur had crudely taken a chisel to a marble statue.
“Oui,” Orion replied. He took hold of Sirius’ right hand and led him through the bedroom. His mother was sat upright in bed, a serene and lovedrunk smile highlighting her sharp cheekbones.
“Sirius Orion,” she welcomed, sounding slightly breathless. It was the one and only time she ever sounded soft. “Come and meet your brother.” He was lifted onto the bed, and Sirius clambered to the side, where a bassinet was attached. Peering over the rim, his mouth opened into a small ‘O’ shape. Staring up at him was the tiniest creature he had ever seen. Sirius blinked, and the baby blinked back. They had the same eyes.
“Wow,” Sirius breathed.
“This is Regulus Arcturus.”
Sirius tried to copy his mothers lithe pronunciation, but only managed something that sounded like Egg.
“You’re his older brother,” his father said, watching approvingly as Sirius gently reached into the bassinet. Regulus’ tiny fist closed around Sirius’ pinkie finger, and he grinned toothily. “That means that Regulus is your responsibility. You must look out for him, protect him, and teach him to do well by our family’s standards.” Sirius nodded, barely listening. He was too entranced by his new baby brother to care what his parents were saying.
“Bonjour, Eggy,” he whispered, then, like it was a secret: “I’ll take care of you.”
*
A knock at the door.
The small light coming from under the door extinguished immediately. Sirius couldn’t help the small scoff he let out.
“It’s me,” he hissed. A beat of silence, then the slight pattering of footsteps, only for his benefit. He knew better than most that Reg can be quiet as a dementor when it counted. The doorknob turned, and then Sirius slipped inside, easy as pie.
“Word of advice, your light can be seen under your door. I’d remedy that, if I were you,” he said, foregoing pleasantries and perching on his brother’s bed as if it were his own.
“What do you want?”
“I’ve got a secret.”
Regulus perked up at this, silently crossing the room and hopping to sit parallel to Sirius. Two sides of the same coin, Blacks twice-over. Secrets are a family tradition. Sirius used to make them up, when Regulus was too young to know any better. Then, somewhere down the line, they became true.
Perhaps it’s a feminine indulgence, this little exchange of theirs. Merlin knows that’s what their father would say. Sirius once made the mistake of telling Orion there wasn’t much difference between gossip and blackmail. It did not end well.
“Tell me,” Regulus urged. Sirius’ eyes sparked with mischief.
“Cissa is marrying Lucius.”
Regulus’ jaw dropped. At 10 years old, he liked to fancy himself all-knowing. Sirius privately thought his brother was sort of pompous, but he mostly kept that knowledge to himself. He was practicing for Hogwarts, see? Sirius had a hard enough time keeping his mouth shut, and that was only around family and at societal events. Imagine how difficult it would be once he was sorted into Slytherin.
“You’re lying,” Regulus said, pointing a dainty finger accusingly. Sirius shook his head, biting back a grin.
“It’s true. The marriage contract is in Father’s study right now.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Snuck in,” Sirius shrugged. Regulus’ eyes gleamed with envy. Despite being the sneakier of the two, Sirius was the only one daring enough to slip behind closed doors. Probably why he was always the one coming up with the secrets.
“Wow,” Regulus breathed, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Will we have to go?”
“I suppose. We went to Bella’s.”
Bellatrix, newly 19, had just recently been married off to Rodolphous Lestrange. Recalling this, Regulus shuddered.
“At least Lucius isn’t as creepy as Rodolphous,” Regulus reasoned. Sirius grinned boyishly at this.
“Lucius is way slimier though,” he whispered conspiratorially, delighting in the way Regulus giggled. “Reckon I’ll find some way to make myself invisible and scourgify him in his sleep.” Regulus’ giggles increased, but only just so. It was as if a veil had been drawn over them, the realities of the morning creeping up on the two brothers.
“I don’t want you to go to Hogwarts,” Regulus whispered. Sirius smiled indulgently.
“You won’t even know I’m gone,” he said. “I’ll write every week. I’ll figure out all kinds of secrets, and before you know it, you and me will be sharing hot cocoa in the Slytherin common room in no time.”
Regulus smiled, eyes only slightly misty.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
Then Sirius Black became acquainted with one James Potter.
“Maybe I’ll break the tradition,” he said, and felt, like a sudden jolt, as if someone had cast petrificus totalus over him. White-noise flooded his ears, almost like a howling wind, one that made him break out in a cold sweat. His vision swam, nearly hazy. For a split second, the windows of the train compartment seemed to become encased in a silvery sort of fog-
Severus Snape scoffed, and Sirius blinked. The train compartment was back to normal, and the rest, as they say, was history.
*
He can’t remember which one of them, exactly, came up with the nickname Moony. James will argue that it was him, which only incentivizes Sirius to argue more in his own favor. Peter can’t seem to decide who to side with, and Remus (the Moony in question) couldn’t care less, as long as they stop their badgering.
It had, apparently, been a particularly rough moon. Remus explained to them once that lunar events can have adverse effects on the wolf.
“Bloody blood moon,” Remus said when they arrived in the hospital wing that morning. It took the three other Marauders a second to gather their bearings after seeing Remus, laid up and looking more frail than he had in a while.
“Buggering hell,” James had breathed. Sirius elbowed him when Remus winced, and James looked appropriately chastised.
“Anything we can do, Remus?” Peter had asked, pulling up a chair. Remus shrugged.
“Just be here?”
“Always,” Sirius had said, following Peter’s lead and gingerly perching on the edge of Remus’ bed.
Peter and Remus played a rather rousing game of wizarding chess (which Pete won, the scheming prat). Remus seemed to tire quicker than usual, something Sirius figured must have had to do with the aforementioned blood moon. It didn’t take very long for Remus’ eyes to close and for his breathing to settle. The three remaining Marauders could have left, but there seemed to be an unspoken agreement that Moony needed them.
“This summer,” James said, voice quiet but determined. “That’s our deadline.”
Neither Sirius nor Peter had to ask what he was talking about. They came up with it in second year, after Peter mentioned wishing they could help Remus through his transformations. Sirius had practically leapt off his bed, bounding around the dorm with raucous energy.
‘Peter, you genius!’ he had shouted. Peter, bless him, had looked remarkably alarmed at this declaration.
‘What did I say?’
Roughly two years later, and the boys were finally making headway on becoming animagi. Remus would kill them for even entertaining the idea, which is why Sirius, James, and Peter had sworn each other to secrecy.
(Sirius had always been good at secrets. Except for the one that truly mattered. He well and properly dropped the ball on that one.)
“This summer,” Sirius agreed. The sooner they figured it out, the better. For all of their sakes.
*
Did you know that a dog’s sense of smell is 100,000 times better than a human's?
Sirius can smell sweat and vague human sick.
Padfoot can smell the briny qualities of one’s skin, can smell the layers of sweat permeating the air. Can sense when it’s brought upon by nature or by nerves. There are certain hormones associated with anxiety, which only become more pronounced when one is sweating bullets. It takes on a sweeter, almost nauseating note. People often say that dogs can sense when their owners are nervous, and it’s true. When a human is nervous or agitated, and they give off that sweet, almost nauseating stench of nervous sweat, it’s near impossible for a dog to ignore.
In large quantities, or among mobs, it can become almost dizzying.
Padfoot curled up, tight as he dared, and covered his nose with his tail, like he could block out all the fear-hurt-shame-betrayal-guilt-despair if he tried hard enough.
*
The news came three weeks after the death of the Prewetts. They were good fighters. Brave, true Gryffindors to the very end. Sirius heard it took 5 Death Eaters to kill them. Last he read, Antonin Dolohov was being carted off to Azkaban for his involvement.
His cousins, once upon a time. Never spent much time together as a family, not after Voldemort started to gain traction. The Prewetts never subscribed much to blood purity or the old ways, and though the rest of the family still kept in touch with their Aunt Lucretia, Walburga had pitched a fit. She refused to allow him and Regulus over to the Prewetts home, but they got to spend a little time together at Hogwarts, before the twins graduated. Sirius tried reaching out to Molly, after their deaths, but was shut out harshly.
After the deaths of her parents, Molly had never quite reconciled with Aunt Lucretia. She thought in black and white, and Aunt Lucretia, try as she might, was a Black first and foremost. Molly didn’t like referring to Sirius and Regulus as her cousins. Perhaps part of that was the age difference. Perhaps Sirius just had it easier with Fabian and Gideon, practically following in their prankster footsteps once he arrived at Hogwarts. After his own disastrous sorting, Sirius had just found himself lucky that at least there were some members of his family who were proud of him being sorted into Gryffindor. Fab and Gid took Sirius under their wing, something he was always grateful for.
Remus was over. He had been more often, since the Prewetts. He was in the kitchen, brewing a cuppa, when the sharp breaking of porcelain echoed through the small flat. Sirius, lounged on the sofa, sat up so quick he got lightheaded.
“Moony?!” Grabbing his wand, Sirius ran for the kitchen, mentally prepping for a fight. Though, why one would be occurring in his kitchen was beyond him. Suppose that was the effect of war.
Constant vigilance. Moody would be proud.
Remus stood over the counter, a broken teacup on the floor in front of him. In one hand, Remus held that morning’s copy of the prophet. At the sight of Sirius, Remus flipped the newspaper over. Dread settled in Sirius’ stomach like a stone.
“Oh,” he heard himself say, lowering his wand. “Who’s dead, then?” It was the only explanation as to why Remus had reacted so strongly just from reading the paper. It was another unfortunate effect. Obituaries seemed to take up half the paper these days. Remus swallowed, throat bobbing tightly.
“Remus,” Sirius said, concern mounting when he didn’t receive an immediate answer. “What’s happened? Who is it?”
“Sirius-”
Perhaps it was the use of his first name. Perhaps it was the way Remus said it, an odd blend of disbelief and pity. Heart clenching, Sirius reached forward and snatched the newspaper out of Remus’ hand. He turned to the front page and stilled
(ice-cold)
at the headline.
His head buzzed, as though someone had unleashed a cage full of cornish pixies into his brain. His knees wobbled, legs weak. Remus grasped onto his elbows and pulled gently, lowering Sirius into one of the dining chairs. His mouth was moving, but Sirius heard nothing. Goosebumps prickled on every inch of exposed skin.
The words on the Prophet did not change, and Sirius absently wondered why he kept expecting them to. He tried to remember, suddenly, the last conversation he had with Regulus, and felt his heartbeat quicken when he couldn’t immediately recall it. No matter. It wouldn’t change a fucking thing, and it seemed so very pedestrian at the moment. After all, who gave a flying fuck as to what they last spoke about, probably years ago, when the headline stated, clear as day: BLACK HEIR PRESUMED DEAD, AGED 18.
Somewhat detachedly, Sirius wondered with a slightly hysterical laugh, what Molly’s reaction would be. Would she think this to be some sort of karmic justice?
You know what they say about the Blacks, he thought, almost wryly, recalling something Lucretia had joked once. Their tragedies are written in the stars.
Remus, bless his heart, was crouched in front of Sirius, and it wasn’t until he put his hands (cold) on Sirius’ cheeks that he realized he was crying. Funny, he couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel much of anything, to be frank.
“Well,” Sirius said, or rasped, or cried, it didn’t fucking matter anymore, did it? “Suppose the little bastard got what was coming to him.”
James dropped by, at one point. Sirius had locked himself in his bedroom. Fingers fiddling with one of the few items he still had from his childhood; his Black family signet ring. He had always worn it, for as long as he could remember. It had been charmed to grow as he did, so there was never any need to take it off, unless he was showering, or when playing Quidditch. Even after he got sorted into Gryffindor, even after he ran away, even after he was disowned, Sirius had never taken it off. He couldn’t tell you what, exactly, made him keep it on. Perhaps because it linked him to Regulus, who, for a long time, was the only person in that goddamned family Sirius could stand, could bear to stick it out for. Maybe it was because Sirius’ ring was only one of two, the brother to Regulus’ matching one.
It was one of those things that all of his friends politely ignored. Up until the Order, that is. Moody was the most vocal about it, even going so far as to question Sirius’ loyalties. James was particularly outspoken following this comment, but the sentiment remained. For the first time in years, Sirius had taken off his ring and tucked it away in his sock drawer.
Now, in the wake of his brother's death, Sirius held the ring between his fingers and simply stared at it. His engraved initials seemed to mock him. Peter had once thought it the funniest thing in the world.
You really are the biggest S.O.B. I know, he’d said one time, and Sirius had howled with uncontrollable laughter.
A knock at the door.
“Sirius,” James’ voice floated through. “C’mon, mate. Open up or else I’m transforming and ramming the door down.”
Without moving, Sirius jerked his head to the left, unlocking the door with wandless magic. He’d always been particularly good at that. James came through a second later. Closing the door behind him, James plopped down on the floor beside Sirius. He startled a little at seeing the signet ring in Sirius’ hand, but said nothing.
“I saw the news.”
“I figured.”
Silence.
“I’m so sorry, Pads.”
“Like I told Moony, the snake got what he deserved.”
“Don’t do that,” James said crossly. “Don’t do the Black thing.”
“What, pray tell, is the Black thing?”
“The whole ‘ooh I’m too inbred for emotions’ thing.”
Sirius snorted, though it sounded hollow. His eye kept drifting to the black mourning robes he’d hung on the back of his door. It swayed to and fro, almost as if it had a mind of its own. The light seemingly dimmed, and a claw-life shadow began to rise out of the sleeve. The room chilled. Sirius blinked; and the room returned to normal.
“That’s not a thing.”
“Au contraire, it’s definitely a thing. And it’s definitely one of your things.”
“Don’t butcher the French language.”
“Don’t change the subject,” James shot back.
“Sirius-” He flinched, he couldn’t help it. “-your brother died. It’s okay not to be okay.”
Sirius closed his eyes, but when he imagined Regulus’ face, all he could see were two vacant hazel eyes, staring up at him from a hardwood floor. Gasping, Sirius forced his eyes back open. James didn’t seem to notice. Shaking his head, Sirius clenched his hands into fists, the signet ring digging into his left palm.
“My first memory is meeting him,” he whispered. He couldn’t bring himself to look at James. Didn’t want to see whatever feelings were swimming in his eyes. Didn’t want to see his own reflected back at him. Didn’t want to think about what happened when a coin lost one of its faces. “I was 20 months old when he was born.” Entire body seeming to droop, Sirius uncurled his left fist and stared down at the signet ring. There was no body. That was the one detail of the article that Sirius kept coming back to. There was no body.
Why would the headline have said presumed dead? He’d wondered. In the end, Sirius reasoned that the family tapestry must have changed, shown a death date. No body. Only a silver signet ring, with the initials R.A.B., had been found somewhere on a cliffside in Cornwall. The article hadn’t said, but it had been implied that he committed suicide.
It could have been minutes before Sirius was able to lift his head. James’ eyes only held concern, and it was enough for whatever spell was over Sirius to break. He gasped, suddenly and harshly enough that it physically hurt, like someone had attached a fishing hook to his diaphragm and yanked, forcing the breath from his lungs.
He felt he was on the edge of a great precipice, and when he finally fell, letting loose a devastating wail, James was there to catch him.
Padfoot went to the funeral. He sat at the edge of the forest, concealed by the shrubbery, and peered through the graveyard. In his snout, he held his signet ring gingerly, between two canines. Orion had died a few months prior, and without him or Regulus by her side, his mother looked frail and birdlike. It was discomfitting, and Sirius couldn’t help but feel he was intruding on something shameful when he saw her. He was too far to hear the service, even as a dog, but that wasn’t why he came.
He dropped the signet ring onto the ground and settled back on his hind legs, whining as he laid down, resting his snout on his paws. He saw Narcissa and Malfoy, the slimy git, standing a few feet away from his mother. Grandfather Arcturus, as imposing as ever, and Grandfather Pollux, ever in his brother's long shadow. Then Bellatrix and Lestrange. It was the first time in months that he saw something other than deranged glee on his cousin's face. No Andromeda, but she wouldn’t have been welcomed, not when she had also been disowned years prior. Slightly surprising was seeing Aunt Lucretia and Uncle Ignatius, standing a respectable ways away from the rest of the Blacks. Then again, Aunt Lucretia had always been sweet on Regulus, back when they were tiny tots. Regulus ambling after Sirius, who ambled after Fabian and Gideon.
Narcissa was pregnant. Sirius had already known that. Caradoc brought the news back from one of his recent spy missions. Godric only knew what kind of sorry name her child would be stuck with. Likely something horrifically pretentious. His Aunt Druella and Uncle Cygnus stood next to Narcissa and Malfoy, each looking appropriately solemn.
Perhaps the most striking sight (although the least surprising) were the hunched figures of Barty Crouch Jr. and Evan Rosier. Rosier, they knew, like Regulus, was a confirmed death eater. Sirius had tried telling the rest of the Order that Crouch was likely to be one, too, but nothing had ever come of it. It didn’t help that his only evidence was circumstantial, or that said circumstantial evidence was simply: he’s a mate of my Death Eater brother.
Rosier’s cheeks were blotchy and red, like he’d been crying. Beside him, Crouch was still as a statue, with a look in so vacant Sirius wouldn’t be surprised if Crouch was dissociating. He hadn’t been sure what to think of the trio, back in Reg’s first year. Rosier was a cousin-by-marriage via Druella, and had attended many of the same society events as the Blacks. A bit of a mousy boy, but one who had grown into a formidable dueller with one of the best shield charms Sirius had ever seen. Crouch was the outlier in their unholy trinity; a bit of an odd duck, who always seemed to hedge when it came to politics (took after his dad, in that regard), with a sharp tongue and even sharper wit. Got 12 O.W.L.s, if Sirius remembered correctly.
Privately, Sirius always thought that it was Crouch’s intellect that bound him, Rosier, and Regulus together. Regulus, much like Sirius himself, was smart as a whip, with a silver tongue as smooth as mercury and a sense of humor dryer than a martini. Sirius could banter with the best of them, as was expected from a Marauder, but Regulus could wield sarcasm as if he’d invented it himself. The trick, Sirius found, was in skirting the line between truth and lie. Almost like he used to do, back when they played Secrets.
Lastly, standing boldly between the two boys, was a girl: Pandora. Her back was straight, staring defiantly at the empty coffin. If Sirius didn’t know better, he would have thought she was a mannequin. There was a stubborn set to her lip, like she was trying not to cry. Her friendship with his brother had always confused Sirius. From what he heard, they stayed in touch up until graduation. Surely, she must have known what Regulus and his friends were.
He laid there, on the outskirts of the graveyard until the last of the mourners had left, and then he waited a little more. Finally, when the sun had long disappeared and the stars took to the sky, Padfoot stood, stretched out his limbs, and took his signet ring into his mouth.
There was no body, but Walburga was sure to have buried Regulus’ signet ring. It was a Black family tradition, and probably why Regulus had left it on that goddamned cliffside in Cornwall.
Suicide.
In an Anglo-Latin translation; felo-de-se.
‘One guilty concerning himself.’
Regulus, Sirius, thought to himself, was as guilty as they come. As guilty as the fucking brand on his left arm. Maybe that’s what drove him to it. It was actually hard for Sirius to believe, in the beginning, that Regulus had taken the mark. Sure, he knew that Regulus had been force-fed pureblood ideals that only got worse after Sirius’ sorting, that only got worse after his own sorting, until he was practically choking on pureblood mania.
Logically, Sirius knew that Regulus becoming a Death Eater was a possibility, but he could never imagine it. Regulus had always seemed rather soft; crying over animals and house elves alike. He was too fucking smart to get caught up in a cult.
Then Sirius had faced his brother on the battlefield, and all pretenses dropped. Regulus wore a mask like all the other Death Eaters, so Sirius couldn’t see his face, but he knew his brother. He knew his wandwork, his spell-casting, and the way he duelled.
Trotting through the cemetery, Padfoot barely paid attention to the graves he passed. The only one he cared about was just ahead. A simple gravestone. Regulus Arcturus Black II. 1961-1979. Dead not even one week after his 18th birthday. Barely able to resist growling a little at the epitaph, Padfoot pressed his snout to the dirt, as though bowing.
He dug a small hole, dropped his signet ring in, and buried it. He had no more use for it, and as for the family tradition?
Well, Sirius had only ever been a Black in name, anyway.