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They were sitting at his kitchen table in the early morning sun, rainclouds on the edge of the horizon. Regulus had made eggs and Sirius had made tea and they'd both pretended that there was nothing much to talk about as they ate in comfortable silence. 

Regulus had thought, at first, that Sirius would want to talk often and always, because he always had. But Sirius was quiet now in ways he hadn't been before. And so they'd started a kind of routine, where they'd wake up with the sun and revolve slowly around one another, going about their small tasks in the dawning light, getting dressed and brushing their teeth and folding the laundry.

One of them would start breakfast, and the other would help as they could, moving the stacks of books or papers from the night before and setting jam and butter in their place.

Only after they had eaten would they start talking.

But today the silence had been different than usual.

Regulus had made eggs and toast but he'd been thinking, thinking, thinking. He could feel the clouds coming, slowly covering his window.

The question was coming, and he'd had time to prepare, he'd had years to prepare, and he still didn't know what he'd say.

Sirius hadn't said anything, yet, but the weight of the question had become inescapable over the last few weeks. 

So he wasn't surprised when his brother's grey eyes moved from the distant mountains to look at him with an expression of muted pain and heartbreak.

Reggie, I need to know.

He’d been wondering how to tell Sirius for months now.

What happened in the cave? And why didn’t you come find me?

Regulus looked his brother in the eyes, and felt something almost like relief, and began to speak.

-------------------------------

He had been ill—so ill, for so long. 

It had taken all of Kreacher’s power to rescue him from the cave, and no one else could know he had survived.

In all honesty, it had been a long while before Regulus had realized he had survived. There had been a long period of hazy, half-remembered days, their passing marked only by vague changes in temperature and light. It hadn’t been bad, just odd, and Regulus had begun to wonder if this was what limbo was like.

Kreacher, bless him, had tried. He really had. But something had broken within Regulus, something that salves and casts couldn’t reach and potions couldn’t touch. Coming back from limbo had meant remembering before, and it had hurt like hell to do so.

He’d contemplated obliviating himself, but that was highly experimental, and he couldn’t risk losing his ability to perform advanced magic.

He’d need it, in the coming months.

He’d considered alcohol next. But he couldn’t stand beer, not anymore, and he'd found that wine fed on his melancholy after just a glass. He'd wander aimlessly through empty streets, seriously tempted to lose himself in the drink, to do something—anything—to stop being able to feel. 

But those thoughts scared him more than obliviation.

And so, in many ways, he remained bleeding out on the jagged stone floor of the cave for months and months. 

On his worst days, it was as if he’d never left. He’d remain in bed, feverish and shaking, the water slowly filling his lungs.

With the passage of time, he’d gotten…better? That wasn’t the word for it, but it slowly became less of a struggle to get out of bed, and easier to forget, to push down, to deny, deny, deny.

So what if he flinched when he turned on the faucet? So what if he still couldn’t shower? So what if he hated the rain, and the sea, so what so what so what?

He hadn’t liked them that much to begin with.

(Sirius, all of seven, splashing in the rain-puddles, laughing giddily, their mother’s sharp voice crying, Sirius Orion Black, you are disgraceful! Come back inside this instant!  Barty and Evan, second year, lounging in the sun by the Black Lake after finals. Pandora, perfecting her pond-skipping spell, dancing across the surface and following the ducks.)

And anyway, it had been years since Sirius had moved out, and moved on, and those years had shown him nothing other than Sirius the popular, Sirius the charmer, Sirius, Sirius, Sirius. Flocked by the girls and admired by the guys, wicked smart and cunning and treacherous when messed with, but loyal to a fault. 

To everyone, that was, except Regulus, who watched his older brother drift away towards fame, towards adventure, towards glory, towards anywhere that would take him further from here.

It became a mantra, repeated every minute, every heartbeat, of Regulus’s life.

Further from here, further from here, further from you, further from here.

And at some point, he had to admit, he’d stopped fighting that incessant whisper and started believing it. 

It hadn’t been intentional, exactly, just inevitable. Like breathing. You didn’t realize what you were doing until it really mattered.

-------------------------------

And as the storm rolled in over his little house, Sirius looked at him with his piercingly honest gaze and immediately answered in the way he had known and dreaded that Sirius would respond. 

Of course he would have saved him, or died in the attempt. That was Sirius’s way. 

Regulus, on the other hand, had died trying. 

And as his brother waited quietly with pain and patience in his eyes, he had to admit that some part of him had wanted to die. To have made one last, great act of reparation, and then for better or worse to leave the playing field.

He had been so, so tired of cowering, of constantly looking over his shoulder, of feeling his mind invaded by those greedy, searching hands. For years he had tried to smile and laugh with the others, to bite down the wave of nausea as they celebrated the terrible things they had done, would do, were doing. 

He held and held and held and held and broke and broke and broke and broke and one day, one day he had given in, just for one moment, for one afternoon. He had hoped, desperately, that doing something drastic would cure his wavering allegiance. 

He had gone with the others. No staying back in the shadows, brewing potions in the basement, but out in the sunlight, hunting for blood. 

And they had found it.

He had thought that if he couldn’t quiet his conscience, he could kill it.

He’d been wrong.

That night, he had curled up, made himself as small as possible, and wished that he could go back to his childhood, before his family had shattered. 

When they had been very little, Sirius had tiptoed into his room and tousled his hair and wrapped him in a tight hug, and they had fallen asleep, just like that. 

He had wondered how long it had been since he had been held.

And as he lay there he'd thought of whispered tales of old stories, of mad queens and blood stains that never, never left, and he wondered if it was already too late.

Out, damned spot—but (and this was the question) what if it wouldn't leave?

What if it grew, and grew, until it swallowed him whole?

What if it already had?

He was many things. Second son, heir apparent (heir of what, exactly? old relics of power and a gnawing sense of fear), and a one-time brother to his oldest friend. 

He was cunning and whip-smart and very, very afraid.

He began to dream of peace, and to know every day how unlikely peace was, how distant from his current reality. How every meeting, every hour, bore him farther away from the possibility of making a final stand. He knew that even if his resolution could hold out long enough, his exhaustion would catch up with him eventually, and he knew that “eventually” was coming sooner rather than later.

And so it was that he found himself kneeling—prostrating, really—and breaking inside.

And so it was that he was given orders, and he cowed and nodded and acquiesced and, and, and—

Blacks don’t cower, his brother had said. 

And if nothing else, they can never make you into their own image if you don’t let them.

And so it was. And so it was.

-------------------------------

He was called an idiot, utterly stupid for not seeing through it, for getting wrapped up in it.

Regulus. The kid who’d always known, long before Sirius had, which of their dinner guests they could trust, and which of them would turn them over to their mother immediately.

Regulus, who had the sharp reflexes and the inner sense of his surroundings that came with Seeking, who beat out Ravenclaw’s own champion twice in his first season. 

She’d had five years on him.

Regulus, who made potions, who spun health from faded leaves and the ends of dewdrops, who turned luck from the underside of beetles and the conversation of worms.

Regulus, who’d had tutors since he could speak and access to more books than anyone could ever read.

(And who had done his level best to read all of them.)

Regulus, who had loved his brother, but they’d grown estranged and gone their separate ways.

Regulus, who felt forgotten (who, at times, was forgotten) as Sirius grew up, as Sirius distanced himself from everything tainted with the stain of House Black.

Which included his younger brother.

Regulus Arcturus Black, who never expected to make it to eighteen. 

Whose hands now shook when he washed them, and whose heart raced at the crack of thunder, because water was filling his lungs, he was going under, he was going to drown.

To drown, alone, abandoned, in a cave full of ghosts, where he’d never be found.

Not least because no one would be looking for him.

His parents? He supposed they’d grieve, in their own way, but their allegiance had been clear ever since Orion had ushered him into the reading room and presented him with the offer. That’s what he’d called it, the selling of his youngest son’s soul to a madman drunk with power. Cruelty and destruction, that’s what it was, and the betrayal of all the high principles they claimed. 

Toujours pur, his father said. For the betterment of the world. For purity.

(Lying on his bed in the fast-falling darkness, shivering with the blood that covered him, staining the sheets, the blankets, filling his mind, the pit in his stomach growing, growing, devouring him from the inside out.)

The choice is yours, of course.

The choice is yours—but Regulus, think before you speak. Think of what this will mean for us—

(Not for you, but for us. Always, always, everything for the House. For the Name. For honor and glory and reputation, toujours toujours toujours. He had wanted to vomit from the triteness of it.)

Sirius would have laughed, that great barking noise, and walked out, slamming the door in his father’s face.

But Regulus?

Regulus had towed the line. 

He hated himself for it, but there it was. One moment of shining clarity, in which the choice was his.

Supposedly.

Pride goeth before destruction, said the ancient tomes that Regulus had read as a child. 

And a man’s foes shall be they of his own household.

-------------------------------

No, his parents would not be coming for him. And why should they? They’d be told…exactly what, he didn’t know, but it would be sufficient, whatever it was. 

Your son gave his life nobly, for the sake of the cause. 

He has brought great honor to your name, and you can be comforted in the loss of your heir, for by his death he advanced a far greater legacy: 

Purity, and wizardry, and the betterment of the world.

Anything to avoid the truth:

One day, he just broke open. 

His conscience found him, and grasped him like a long-lost friend, and held him tight and looked him in the eyes and said if you don’t go now it’ll be too late.

And he ran, fast and far. 

The last of us who saw him, Barty, you remember, they were friends once? He said he was sobbing, these great big tears that made lines down his face, and he was unashamed, and he said I know now. I know what I have to do. Don’t stop me, because Barty I love you as my brother and I will kill you dead if you so much as try to stop me.

I have to go. I have to go. I have to go.

-------------------------------

And he had gone. 

And he had collected his things and scribbled a letter to his brother, and cried, and put his head in his hands, and wept and wept and threw the letter in the flames.

He can’t know. He can’t know. They’ll find him, and they’ll kill him, and I won’t be able to live with myself. 

And he’d called Kreacher to him, and he’d left, making the apartment he’d been renting permanently unplottable, the cinders of his letter flickering into ash in a room that no one would ever enter again.

They’d set out for the cave the very next morning. He had potions, and wit, and salves, and hexes, and a hum of adrenaline running through his blood.

He couldn’t believe, he couldn’t bear, he couldn’t stomach the phrase ricocheting through his head.

The silky, patient voice had called him into the long, dark room, and offered him drink and watched him, invaded him, run its fingers through his mind, withdrawn with a look of immense satisfaction, and slowly drawled out what would become the decisive moment of his seventeen years, the defining minute of everything that had come before and all that would follow after.

Regulus, Regulus, at last the time has come for you to claim what is rightfully yours. To become the heir of your house, to earn your place at the forefront of the turning of the tide. 

Seventeen is a felicitous age. A time for striking out on your own, for action. For leaving behind your childhood—

(Sirius, five, crying from pain and distress, hot welts breaking out across his face and subsiding faster than Regulus could smudge his chubby toddler fingers into the medicinal paste Kreacher had brought them. He grew more and more frantic as his older brother grew whiter and whiter, losing oxygen as he sobbed and sobbed. It had been Sirius’s first panic attack, but it was far from the last.

Could that be called childhood? Had either of them ever been children?)

Regulus had shaken himself mentally. Focus. Focus. 

And the voice had drawled on.

—and to consider what it will mean to be a young man worthy of such an ancient house with so illustrious a history.

Your parents, of course, will take it as a blow, for I fear they cling to the hope, however misguided, that your wayward brother will eventually come crawling back home, somehow, someday.

But you and I, you and I know better. We know the same, sad truth. That many who pretend to love us leave us.

And we know that they never return.

Your brother could have made a fine wizard—don't pretend to be surprised.

I had great hopes for him, but alas. Such is the way of the misguided. Befriended of mudbloods and blood traitors, he will be destroyed by them and will never realize what he could have been.

(Sirius, seventh year, on the Hogwarts Express, head thrown back in genuine laughter. Regulus had frozen that moment in his mind; it had been years since he’d heard Sirius's laugh and its absence had threaded its way through him like a needle. 

If they could make Sirius happy, make him laugh like that again, maybe…maybe they knew something Regulus did not. He’d never love them for their own sake, but for the sake of his brother he found he could.)

Here, the voice had grown suddenly harsh, as if descending from contemplation to the task at hand. 

I am sure your parents always said those Gryffindors would be the death of him. Too right.

This is no easy task I grant to you, but I find that it is necessary. I have heard whispers of doubt seeping in corners, gathering in spider’s webs. They tell me that some among us fear you lack true faith.

Regulus, of course you understand. You’re an intelligent young man. But it cannot be that the heir apparent of the most ancient House grows faint at the sight of blood. Such a thing is…unthinkable.

And while your usefulness as a potioneer has not gone unnoticed, if you remain back in the shadows people will begin to talk. That sort of thing can be disastrous if left unchecked. I’m sure you understand.

Fortuitously, I have found a solution which solves the problem quite cleanly. You see, in one important way you are not yet prepared to shoulder the weight of your family line.

I speak, of course, of your brother, who still, regrettably, draws breath.

Dispose of him, and be free from the taint of the mudblood-loving stain on your lineage.

The color had drained from Regulus’s face. My Lord?

It is marvelously simple. No one would dare doubt your loyalty with his blood on your hands.

The voice had smiled then, a thin, gaunt line.

Farewell, Regulus Black. Do not disappoint me.

And so it was that he found himself kneeling—prostrating, really—and breaking inside.

And so it was that he was given orders, and he cowed and nodded and acquiesced and, and, and—

Oh, Regulus, a last word. I have need of your house-elf. Send him to me immediately.

-------------------------------

And Regulus had sent Kreacher, and the Dark Lord had returned him broken and mumbling and frightened. And Regulus had nursed him back to health, refilled his store of potions, and told him what he had to do.

His blood on your hands. His blood on your hands. His blood, his blood, his blood, his blood.

And Kreacher had told him the secret of the cave, and Regulus had concocted a foolish and headstrong and just perhaps feasible plan, though his hands trembled as he waved them around, trying to envision in his mind’s eye the layout of the space.

And so it was that Kreacher apparated him to the cave’s entrance, where he paused, hesitating.

He’d closed his eyes and taken a deep, shuddering breath.

Okay. Okay. For Sirius.

And he had drug the knife across his palm, and held it to the cold stone of the entrance, which rumbled in acceptance of his sacrifice.

He had no idea how much he’d sacrifice.

-------------------------------

He’d paused, glass in hand, half-poised over the shimmering liquid. Despite all his planning, all his plotting, he’d nearly forgotten.

Kreacher, he'd said, kneeling down to look the elf in the eyes. I want you to have this. He'd taken off his scarf, his graduation gift from Pandora. It was yellow and green and blue and red, delicate stitches beneath his calloused hands.

Reg, you’re better than this, and you know it. One day—one day I think you’re gonna wake up and realize and oh Reg I think it might be too late by then, but you’ll always have a home here, ok? Reg? Reg?

She’d always had a way of cutting through him, had Pandora, of calling his bluff just so, and in a much gentler way than anyone else he’d ever met. And, for reasons yet unknown, she’d come around to the silent son of the old house and decided he was something worth saving.

He hoped she’d be alright.

He breathed deeply, centering himself—one two three four, out two three four—and brought himself back to the present moment, kneeling on the uneven stone, arms outstretched, scarf extended.

I, Regulus Arcturus Black, heir of the most noble and ancient House, under no coercion and in clearest conscience, release you from the service of my family. He'd draped the scarf around the elf.

Master Regulus, Kreacher— The elf’s words failed him.

It’s okay. It’s okay. He’d already thought this through. You don’t have to do anything different. You can watch over the Place, you can serve, or you can not. But this way you won’t have to worry about punishment, or what awful thing they’ll make you do next. You don’t have to hurt yourself. It’s okay. It’s okay. Just promise me you’ll help me recover the locket, whatever happens. And then—and then go tell my family I loved them.

His voice was shaky but his hands, for once, were steady.

Thank you, Kreacher, for being kind to me.

And before Kreacher could say anything, the youngest Black had plunged the cup into the poison and drank it down. 

Over and over again, he swallowed the hot, burning liquid until his head swam and his eyes stung with tears. 

And again until his insides caught fire and his limbs shook. 

Then again until his mind filled with every horrid, nasty taunt he ever hurled (wicked, mudblood, traitor, filth), with every moment of isolation, and with every single second of being the last to be chosen, the second son, the second best.

Except in the eyes of his brother. 

And then of his brother, walking away.

And then of his friends, and the hardening of their voices, the edge that crept in after third year and never really left.

Of that last moment with Pandora and her unhardened voice and his inability to understand that kind of freedom. And her begging, pleading with him not to go, because she knew that it would break him to do so—

She never knew how deeply I was already broken.

But maybe she did, and maybe she loved him anyway, because of and in spite of his flaws, the cracks in his portrait-perfect veneer, and either way she’ll never know, and she’ll never realize that in his last rational moments he understood, with blinding clarity, what she’d been trying to tell him all along.

The best kind of love isn't blind to the defects of the other; it’s perfectly willing to open itself to injury by the scars and faults of those closest to it, because to be known is to be loved and sometimes that’s a weapon and sometimes (always) it’s the only thing worth living for.

He thought again of the mad queen, and the blood guilt that lay on him, and his solemn, solemn vow.

Sirius will not die by my hands. He will live, and live, and live, and I may not, but he will. 

And that is enough, because I swear I cannot, will not kill my brother.

Slowly, the liquid changed on his lips from sickly sweet to harsh and bitter, and it slowly, slowly left the bowl.

He tried to laugh, but the sound came out as a burbling, choking noise.

It cannot be that the heir apparent of the most ancient House grows faint at the sight of blood.

And here he stands, covered in blood and poisonous vomit and spittle, spasming, his hands trembling, trembling, as they carry the goblet to his lips.

But those were the terms. 

Save your brother, save your brother, save your brother. 

And over and over, they had to be met, so over and over again the awful fluid filled his stomach, producing ghosts and shades and spectres. 

Those, at least, he was used to.

The spirits swirled around him, spoke to him, yelled at him. 

He drank and drank until the cup finally collided with nothing, coming up from the great glass bowl, empty.

As he had come up, from seventeen years of life, empty. 

In the back of his mind a terrible caricature of his brother had rolled his eyes.

Nice analogy, Reg, not heavy-handed at all. Why don’t you just sigh dramatically? It’d be more subtle.

All at once he was desperately, terribly aware of his heaving sobs and an itching, scraping thirst. 

Water. He needed water.

He had drawn out his wand. Aguamenti.

Nothing.

Water could not be summoned in this forsaken place, where a drought hex thicker than his chest coated every inch.

He'd stumbled to the lake shore. The screams inside his head were deafening, a carousel of images careening through him.

Water. Barty and Evan, playing with the Giant Squid.

Water. Studying in the grey-green light of the common room.

Water. Pandora, distilling droplets and casting rainbows across the halls.

Water. Sirius, splashing in the surf, calling him over.

Water.

Water. This water. Brackish and grey-green and somehow inviting and he was not supposed to drink it, was not supposed to want to, but—

He'd laced his fingers together and cupped one stolen sip into his mouth. 

Impossibly, it too had evaporated, and he'd been left shivering with fever on a barren island, miles from help.

The utter loneliness of his situation had crashed in upon him and, at the same moment, a single spindly hand had risen up out of the deep.

-------------------------------

Monsters. 

Bleary and weakened, and so, so thirsty, that’s all he could think. 

The waxen, horribly stretched skin, taught over angular bone, the unseeing way they slowly stood and shuffled forward, these were creatures straight out of musty, dust-covered tomes full of curses and nameless horrors.

And despite his exhaustion, despite the fear that was one second away from consuming him whole, the second son had smiled to himself and thought, I love you, Sirius. I hope you can be proud of me, on the other side of all of this. I am proud to be your brother.

-------------------------------

Regulus had known, kneeling on the cold tile of the long, dark room, that his whole world had narrowed, suddenly, drastically, to two options.

He would never be allowed to live if he refused a direct order from the Dark Lord, and they would know, yes, they would know if Sirius remained alive.

He could warn Sirius, but he knew that would never work. These things could be traced, and the silky, patient voice would not remain content with my Lord, I was unable to find him, I think he must have run away.

And, bless him, Sirius was reckless and fey and the furthest thing from likely to run away that Regulus could think of. His brother specialized in being gregarious and loud, the life of every party and the first into a fight. Sirius had never had a problem knowing exactly where his loyalties lay and proclaiming it proudly for all to hear.

(Sirius, eleven, arriving home for Christmas break, covered head to toe in scarlet. He’d had the nerve—brave, foolish boy—to look their mother in the eye and ask what’s the matter? Is there dirt on my forehead?)

Regulus wasn’t like that. He never had been. He’d never needed to. 

But when he’d stood, and bowed, and all but fled the room, his thoughts had crystallized into one sentence that felt like truth.

I cannot kill my brother.

He’d run into Barty, and at that point he’d been nigh-on hysterical, but he’d pleaded with him all the same, Barty don’t stop me, don’t you dare. If you ever loved me, please, Barty, please, let me go.

I have to go. I have to go. I have to go.

They’d think he was distraught because of what he was about to do. And he was. 

They just weren’t thinking of the same thing.

-------------------------------

Was it risky? Yes.

Was it foolhardy? Yes.

Was it exactly what his brother would have done? Yes.

Regulus was young, and impressionable, and he’d grown up in a house full of vainglory and vague visions of righteousness and honor, lofty tall principles built on rotting foundations.

But an idiot? No.

Utterly stupid? No.

He was given an ultimatum, couched in a thin smile and pleasant voice, and he had looked at it and chosen immediately, decisively.

Whatever he had to do, whatever needed to be done, he would do it. 

But he would not choose as they expected.

Broken? Yes. 

But broken open to the light.

-------------------------------

It had taken less than twenty-four hours for the plan to fall into place. 

Kreacher had returned from his mission, dazed and shaking and delirious, and Regulus had remembered medicinal pastes and burns that never really went away.

And he had realized what the Dark Lord was planning, and he had realized what he had to do.

And so they had set out, and he had sacrificed, and he had swallowed down the poison till it drove him mad with grief. 

And Kreacher had taken the locket. And as he had promised, he’d left.

He left with the fragment of the madman’s soul, and he left to tell the lord and lady of the most ancient House of the passing of their son.

And so it was that the younger Black brother found himself utterly alone, riven with despair and beset by ghosts, surrounded by monsters that advanced relentlessly towards him.

Regulus, the potioneer, who preferred Seeking to Beating, who wanted to heal brokenness, not warp wholeness, who painted small things and dreamed in color. Who flinched when doors slammed and cried when baby birds died. Who’d tried, so hard, to tow the line. Who’d watched his older brother leave, and who had remained behind, aching, in his shadow. Who’d come prepared, with potions, and salves, and hexes.

All of which are useful, if your mind remains intact.

He fought, and he tried, and he failed, because he was seventeen and out of his mind with the pain of drawing breath and with madness and with vivid hallucinations of the blood that was on his hands. 

He had saved his brother, but he had not found a way to save himself.

 -------------------------------

But Pandora had been right about something. Pandora, in the end, had been right about most things, though Regulus would never be able to tell her that. 

Pandora, with her paint-streaked hair and her sunburned face, and her eyes that crinkled and her voice that giggled, had been so, so right.

Love leaves its marks, and they persist. 

They bind us, long after we’ve forgotten what it was to be held, what it was to breathe freely, what it was to walk, head high, in the blazing sunlight of childhood innocence.

They define us, even if that childhood never did.

And because of that love, because he was free, because he bore the scarf Pandora’s hands had held, and because—because of everything—Kreacher came back.

 -------------------------------

It had taken far, far too long. He’d had to find a place to hide the locket, which was no small task in a house so highly attuned to the darkest kinds of magic. He had to find a place for the locket and save the lad, but the one could not be done before the other. They had to play their cards precisely, or it would all be for naught. And the lad (for Regulus remained the lad in Kreacher’s eyes, even now, even now) had made Kreacher promise—not swear, never swear, he’d never liked it when Kreacher had hurt himself—that he would bear the news to the house, and Kreacher they have to believe it.

He’ll kill Sirius otherwise, because he’s only targeting him to try me, and Kreacher I can’t let that happen. They have to think I failed, that I died in the attempt.

And so Kreacher had entered the formal dining room at high tilt, keening piteously, the young master, the young master.

The chairs had fallen over as Orion and Walburga rose, questions in their eyes. He’s killed, I saw them take him, he’s lost and he’s gone, he wailed. The details were different, but the panic in his voice was true. He said—he said—tell my family I love them, and then he was taken, and—

He broke into another lament.

He remained, trembling, just long enough for Walburga to look into his eyes and know that he’d spoken the truth, and then he’d fled, out the old oak doors, down the servant’s stair, into his musty room where crack! he’d disapparated.

 -------------------------------

The lake was absolutely still. Standing there on the island, the only sign that anything unusual had happened was the empty boat, drifting idly halfway towards the far shore.

He spun around frantically, looking for any sign of life, any difference at all on the too-still surface. He found it, but only just—one side of the island was slicker, from the monsters that had drug his master to the deep.

He dove in. Immediately, the water awoke with motion, churning, violent, threatening, hungry.

His master, his master, lay motionless, floating suspended, eyes glassy, unseeing

And deeply at peace. He was drifting off, and the waves were calling to him, and Sirius was calling to him, and all was well, and all was well, and a great soft blanket was being laid over him, and the darkness was enveloping him and all was well and he was so, so tired and Sirius had tiptoed into his room and tousled his hair and wrapped him in a tight hug, and they had fallen asleep, asleep, finally, finally asleep and

He grabbed the lad’s shirt and 

They disappeared from the water and

The lad lay very still.

 -------------------------------

The first year had been by far the worst. He had lain, comatose, on a small bed in his unplottable apartment, unresponsive, lost to the world.

Kreacher had snuck him food and brought him water and made sure he ate, but mostly he slept, dancing in and out of consciousness, passing in and out of life.

One day in late winter, Kreacher had opened the door to the little bedroom and found him, eyes glassy, unseeing, sitting in the corner of the room with his arms around his knees, tears streaking his face, sobbing silently. He was rocking back and forth, limbs trembling violently, but no sound came out.

He gasped and gasped and flinched at Kreacher’s touch, at the thought of being touched, cold clammy hands rising up from grey-green water reaching reaching for his throat, down into the water and the burning burning choking bleeding falling fainting dying

Kreacher, he had moaned, I want to die. Please. They’re everywhere, they’re going to find me, my lungs, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t, I can’t. 

I want to die. Let me die. Let me die.

He had grown more and more agitated as Kreacher tried to speak to him, and had rocked back and forth, back and forth, whimpering and unreachable, until finally something had seized within him and he’d slumped over, limbs drooping uselessly on the cool tile floor.

He’d never had a panic attack before, but they became familiar companions to him in the long, slow process of recovery.

Slowly, Kreacher learned to knock three times before entering, and to coax him into clean clothes, and to cut his hair without dampening it.

Slowly, Regulus learned breathing exercises, and read poetry, and tried so hard to get better.

But the first drops of rain upon his window made his heart rate spike and the memories flood back in. Water, filling his lungs, pulling him away, away. Panicking, gasping, flailing, sinking down into the deep dark water.

He’d found Kreacher one evening and told him in a flat, strangely placid voice, that it was too much and he was too tired and he was going to obliviate himself.

See, at least then I won’t remember. And maybe, maybe, maybe I’ll be sane again. You know, I was, once, but I don’t remember anymore.

All I remember are monsters.

He had laughed mirthlessly and smiled, a jagged line across his handsome face.

Then a tremor had run across his features and his voice had dropped low, as if he was telling a secret.

I think I’m still a monster, too.

Kreacher had blanched, and the boy had grinned, and Kreacher had disapparated and hidden his wand, and the boy had stayed up all night, sleepless on the edge of his bed.

To die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream.

He'd forgotten what it was to dream.

 -------------------------------

The day came (it was very long in coming) when Regulus left the narrow apartment and roamed around the city streets, cat-like and quiet, hidden by fourteen different potions and one very large coat.

He'd returned the next morning, having watched the sunrise for the first time in years, and announced that he was leaving.

Don’t try to find me, Kreacher, because I don’t want you to be hurt, and they’ll hurt you if they realize I survived.

They’ll hurt everyone if they realize I survived.

The Dark Lord did not deal kindly with defectors.

Or their families.

So he had transfigured himself into an old, stately gentleman and walked authoritatively into the Portkey Office and said Morgan, Vincent Ophelion. They’d scrambled under the weight of his gaze, as he'd said in his best imitation of Orion—ten Galleons to the man who can find my papers; I had my name down weeks ago.

It had been laughably easy to slip the registration into the pile of papers strewn about on desk and floor, and to wait with affected irritation till they had found it, stumbling over their own apologies.

The testing had been the trickiest part, but he had not been the Dark Lord’s potioneer for nothing. He'd had enough Sanguimuto running through his veins to fill his mind with a gentle throbbing as he discoursed loudly that it was terrible, simply terrible, how things had gone downhill since his day. 

He’d entered the great Departing Room and been ushered over to an antique umbrella, where he’d been told that he was to announce his arrival to the governing body of wizardry in whichsoever location he frequented, whether for permanence or pleasure or passing obligation, and he had smiled and nodded and waited.

The attendant had stepped back, and announced that it would be leaving quite soon and have a pleasant trip, Mr. Morgan sir, in three, two, one.

He’d grabbed the umbrella’s handle, and he’d even had the presence of mind to laugh to himself. Water, always water.

-------------------------------

He’d settled into his new routine far faster than expected. Separated from London by—irony of ironies—a large body of water, he’d slept more peacefully that first night than he had in years.

Peace at last, he told himself.

Exhaustion was much more likely.

He’d found a place in a sleepy town, with miles of woods to roam and mountains on the edge of the horizon. He’d loved it, immediately, and he’d tried not to think of how Sirius would have felt the same.

He’d not done very well at that.

And so the time had passed, and he met his neighbors, and read his books, and attended festivals, and denied to himself that anything was wrong with him, that it was natural to flinch while washing one’s hands, and when a pretty girl asked him to dance. He’d said yes, of course (he was only nineteen by then), and she’d teased him for being nervous, light blue eyes flashing up at him, sparkling and kind, and he'd thought fleetingly that in any other world he’d have wanted to kiss her.

In this world, though, he’d barely made it through one song, her hand on his shoulder a light thing, gentle, but still far too much.

As the last strains of the fiddle had faded from the autumn air, he’d bowed low and looked her in the eyes and said thank you and wanted very much to kiss her and

Excused himself politely and walked deliberately away, hands clenched into fists and trembling, trembling.

-------------------------------

He returned only once, after he'd realized his Dark Mark had disappeared. 

He’d been working outside, preparing for the winter, when his left arm had abruptly gone numb. He’d rolled his eyes, wondered aloud why he’d moved somewhere so cold, and gone inside to warm up. Sitting by the fireplace, he’d taken off his gloves and Pandora’s scarf (Kreacher had insisted he take it with him) and peeled off his jean jacket. When his arm was still tingling twenty minutes later, he’d begun to be concerned, and pushing up the sleeve of his sweater he’d stared, unbelieving, at the lack of all.

He’d known in a blazing instant that the war was over.

Long after his tea had grown cold he’d remained sitting there, thinking a thousand things, and debating what he would do.

Over the nauseousness and elation dueling in his stomach, he’d decided he had to know, had to go and see for himself.

He’d spent three sleepless nights weaving fifteen layers of enchantment into his favorite cloak, turning his hair lighter and making it curl, and praying he remembered all the steps to making a doubletrip-portkey.

He’d arrived in London by afternoon and had stumbled upon the information he was looking for almost immediately.

Boy-Who-Lived Does In You-Know-Who, the newspapers had proclaimed, James And Lily Potter Dead, Protect Son In Final Moments.

His heart had broken for Sirius, because losing James and Lily would have shattered him. Regulus had known full well that they were everything to him, and he could think it without jealousy, because Sirius had had friends who made sure he knew they loved him.

Turning over the paper, his brother’s name had leaped out unexpectedly.

Sirius Black In Care Of Ministry Officials, Sentenced To Azkaban.

Azkaban. The name chilled Regulus to the bone, but was followed the next moment by an involuntary convulsion. 

He’d turned quickly into a side street and brought his head between his knees.

Sirius was alive, he was alive, he was alive.

Sirius, his Sirius, alive.

He hadn’t known for sure. He’d hoped, or thought, or expected, that he’d have felt it in his soul if his brother had been killed, but he hadn’t known.

And now the war was won. And Sirius was still alive. Regulus’s gamble had paid off.

So what if his hands trembled, even now, even now? 

His brother was alive, and he had saved him, and he would live and live and live.

Azkaban was a dreadful place, but it had remained in the control of the Ministry throughout the war, and Regulus knew firsthand how the fog of immediate action took a while to disperse. 

Sirius, who was first into every fight, had also always known where his loyalties lay, and had made damn sure that everyone else knew too. 

He would not have done something worthy of Azkaban, Regulus knew in his bones, and that would come to light with the passage of time.

And Sirius would have people fighting for him, Remus and Minerva and Albus, people who had taken care of him when Orion and Walburga had not. 

When Regulus had not.

And so Regulus had shuddered, and wept, and taken out his portkey, and traveled home.

As evening fell on his little house three thousand miles away, he had watered his garden.

He had cautiously run his free hand through the graceful arc, sending bursts of varying lengths cascading onto his pansies.

Sirius is alive. He survived. He survived.

It was worth it, he'd told himself as he stuffed his hand back in his pocket and ignored, ignored, ignored the way it shook, it was worth it.

-------------------------------

What happened in the cave? And why didn’t you come find me?

Sirius had looked at him and waited, patiently, gently, for an answer.

And slowly, all of this came tumbling out of him, the pain of his three decades spilling out across his kitchen table, staining the tablecloth and seeping like so much blood onto the hardwood floor.

He spoke hesitatingly at first, then all at once, moment after moment reremembered, relived. Older now, but still so weary, his eyes stared down at his hands clenching and unclenching in the early morning light. 

At some point, his voice grew quiet, and he broke off mid-sentence. Sirius bent low and checked his breath and went and made them tea. He set down Regulus's lemon ginger with milk and extra honey and his brother began to speak again, resuming as if no time had passed. 

There was another long pause when Regulus described what Kreacher had done, and how it hadn't been enough to save the boy he'd been at seventeen. He grew very, very still and very, very white as he recounted his panic attacks and how he'd pleaded to be able to obliviate himself.

I just wanted to be able to sleep, he said. I just wanted to be able to rest.

And the tears had run silently down his face.

In the distance, a rumble of thunder broke across the mountains, and the rain began to come down in earnest.

-------------------------------

After a long, long time, Regulus came back to himself. He was sitting under a blanket in front of the fire in his living room, in a sweater he did not remember putting on. The rain beat steadily down upon the windows in a way that he would have found pleasant a lifetime ago.

He emerged from dreamless rest to the realization that something was touching him and hands were reaching for him and his lungs were burning and he was going under, going under and no one would look, and no one would find him, and no one would care, and

Reggie, the something said. It's okay, it's okay. I'm here now. It's okay. It's okay.

The something rubbed his back and gave him liquid warmth that tasted like fire and marshmallows and being very young.

And his wracking sobs subsided, slowly, and the something looked at him with kindly grey eyes that mirrored his own.

The something’s eyes had been crying too.

Reggie. 

The sound reached him down the long hallways of things he'd forgotten, lying broken in the water of the cave.

Reggie, thank you for telling me.

No one had ever called him that except his brother, and he was dead, and he had failed, and he'd damned him to something much worse than death, because he'd lived in his house and watched plants grow tall and brewed new potions and painted small things and rescued small creatures and his brother had died, and it hadn't been enough, and his brother had been broken, and he'd never even known, and it hadn't been enough and he had killed his brother just as surely as if he'd held his wand to his head and said those ancient, horrible words and—

You saved me, his brother said. You saved me.

He started to cry again then, hot fresh tears burning, scrambling to get out. His brother was speaking, but he couldn’t hear him, and he had killed him, and no one had come for him, and it was all his fault, his fault, his fault and his brother was reaching for him and it was all too much and he was hyperventilating and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, and his brother tried to touch him and

He bolted from the room.

Out into the rain, the pouring driving rain, he ran, slipping and falling and rising and his heart was pounding in his ears and his lungs were scraping, heaving and the water was coming and maybe it would wash him away, and maybe it would drown him, and maybe everything would finally be made right because he ought to have died a long time ago and his brother was supposed to have lived.

And he ran, from everything, from hands that would hold him and hearts that were open and the love in those kindly grey eyes.

After all this time they ought to have known.

He had done nothing but break and hurt the ones he loved.

So he ran, and he ran, and he cast himself in layers of spells, cloaking him from sight, from recognition, from everything except the rain, which soaked him through until he shivered with cold.

Good, he thought. I deserve that.

Sirius had been cold, and the dementors had stripped away every memory of warmth till only winter remained in his disintegrating mind.

And Regulus had been warm, and safely protected from the snow and the chill, and he’d had sweaters and cocoa and mittens and scarves.

And what would Pandora have said? To know that all this time, he’d been something like happy, never mind the way his trembling hands betrayed him. 

And all the while, his brother had been abandoned, forgotten, the faces of his dead friends burned across his mind as he writhed and warped with grief.

He’d gone mad, they’d said. And rightly so.

After all that, after all that, he’d looked Regulus in the eyes and called him by the name that meant I love you.

And he couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear it, and when he tripped again and fell he didn’t have the strength to stand, the will to go on running, or living, or any of it.

He made himself as small as possible, and he wished very much that no one would ever find him, and he wouldn’t have to face them and look in their eyes and know that he’d failed, no matter what their kind words said. They couldn’t know, they didn’t know, but he had failed and his brother’s blood was on his hands.

The rain beat down and the thunder rolled, and the second Black brother lay motionless, eyes glassy, unseeing, blood pooling out around him in the steadily falling water.

-------------------------------

The wind was cold, and the old house creaked as the storm blew in. Regulus stared up at the timbers, unable to fall asleep.

The door to his room opened slowly, quietly, and he turned to look. His brother stood there, dark hair askew, a question on his face.

Siri? Regulus said. Is everything okay?

His brother grinned, his missing-teeth smile brilliant in the dark of the room.

I couldn’t sleep and I thought that maybe you couldn’t sleep either, and I thought maybe I’d come and see you because it wouldn’t be any fun if we were both awake but not together.

Regulus nodded gravely. This made sense. His brother was very good at making sense.

Sirius tiptoed into his room and tousled his hair and wrapped him in a tight hug, and they had fallen asleep, just like that. They’d drifted off to sleep, just like that.

Sirius, five, with welts across his face.

Sirius, seven, dancing in rain-puddles. 

Sirius, eleven, scarlet and daring and foolish and brave.

Sirius, with barking laugh, head high and proud and true.

Sirius, his brother, holding him gently, muttering into his hair I love you I love you I love you until Regulus had fallen asleep.

He had woken up the next morning with the rising of the sun, his brother’s arms around him, and he had laid there quietly listening to the steady thrum of his brother’s heart, the most important sound in the world.

-------------------------------

The scene shifted, and he was wrapped in Pandora’s scarf, with hands that shook and bled and ached, marching steadily down to the darkness of the cave.

Regulus, three, comforting his brother as he cried and cried.

Regulus, seventeen, staring into the cruel red eyes and thinking no, no, no.

Regulus, little Regulus, resolute, defiant, set.

I cannot kill my brother. I will not kill my brother.

I love you, Sirius. I love you. I am proud to be your brother.

-------------------------------

Sirius ran after him as far and as fast as he could, sick to his stomach with worry and grief.

He should have known, he out of everyone should have known, but it had been years since there’d been someone with him during a panic attack and he’d never known what to do. 

Regulus had always known what to do.

He had held his hand and had hoped that was right, but the moment Regulus had woken up, Sirius had known that it was not.

He’d flinched and jumped back like Sirius had slapped him, and Sirius had muttered low, soft things and brought him another blanket.

His sobs had slowly subsided, and Sirius had looked into his brother’s grey eyes.

Reggie. 

Regulus had startled and gasped and trembled, but Sirius had had to say something, he had to make sure that Regulus knew.

Reggie, thank you for telling me. 

His brother had stared at him wildly, with an intensity of focus that scared Sirius. Regulus, his baby brother, always trying to follow him, help him, save him, and Sirius was so, so worried and he had held his brother’s gaze and said

You saved me, Reggie, you saved me.

And he had known it to be true.

But Regulus had started to cry again, tears tumbling down his face.

Sirius had spoken to him quietly, gently, but he couldn’t seem to hear him, and then he had frozen, unreachably still.

Sirius had looked him in the eyes and slowly reached across the divide, across the years, back to when they were very small and Regulus would have followed him anywhere, and he had rested his hand on Regulus’s cheek and said it’s okay, I’m here, it’s okay, it’s okay.

And Regulus had fled.

And so Sirius ran after him, barefoot and reckless, shivering in the pouring rain.

I can’t lose him, I can’t lose him, I can’t lose him, I can’t.

Not again, not again, not again.

And he transformed into Padfoot and kept running, dead out, till his brother had stumbled, had fallen, and had not gotten up.

-------------------------------

Floating, he was floating away. The water was coming and was welcoming him home, the long-lost son returned at last and

Sirius knelt by his brother’s side and pleaded and wept, his tears mingling with the pelting rain and

he was falling, and the colors were fading, and the darkness was enveloping him and he was so, so tired and

Sirius lifted him up, like they were children again, like nothing had happened, and struggled to his feet and

he remembered what it was to be held.

Sirius lifted him up, and held him to his chest, and apparated back to the living room, a sopping, shaking mess. He laid him on the couch, and bandaged his head, and brought blankets, and warmers, and sweaters, and pepper-up potion, and waited, and waited, and waited.

Reggie, Reggie, please come back. I love you. I love you. Come back.

-------------------------------

It was dark in the room, and the wind was cold, and the old house creaked as the storm blew in. 

The younger Black awoke, and found his brother next to him, sprawled on the floor by the dying fire.

He shifted, and his brother woke, and their grey eyes met. 

Sirius.

Reggie.

I love you.

They said it at the same time, and they smiled, and there were tears in his eyes, and after everything his brother was alive.

After everything his brother was alive.

And his brother rose, and hugged him, and they stayed like that for a long, long time.

And he drifted off to sleep, just like that.