Work Text:
Sirius doesn’t bother closing the door quietly.
It slams against the wall of Regulus’s room, the sound sharp enough to crack through the suffocating stillness of Grimmauld Place. Regulus looks up from his desk, quill paused mid-stroke, ink bleeding into the parchment in an ugly blot.
“Sirius,” he says, cool and flat, like he always does, though there’s the faintest edge of irritation now. “What are you doing here?”
“Get up.”
No greeting. No sneer. No mocking drawl. Just that—low, urgent.
Regulus’s fingers tighten slightly around the quill. “I’m busy.”
“Don’t care.”
Sirius strides across the room in three long steps, snatches the parchment off the desk, glances at it for less than a second, barely even registering the contents, and lets it fall carelessly to the floor between them.
Regulus watches it drop before pushing back his chair and standing slowly, controlled. “You’ve made your point.” He spoke, voice low, dangerous, clearly annoyed, though his eyes linger on Sirius a second longer than usual.
Sirius grabs his wrist. That's new.
Regulus stares at the hand around him–-tight, unyielding, a grip that isn’t brotherly irritation or careless roughhousing. It’s deliberate. Final.
“Sirius.” The boy spoke quietly this time, not understanding what was going on but neither liking the way his brother behaved at the moment. His eyes caught the glimpse of a backpack hanging from his brother’s shoulder. “Unhand me.” Regulus lifts his eyes, something colder settling behind them.
“Not happening.”
“Father—”
“Isn’t here.” Sirius’s voice sharpens immediately, cutting him off. “Mother’s downstairs, Kreacher’s wherever he crawls off to. No one’s coming, Regulus.” The younger one’s stomach twists, just slightly. Not fear. Not quite. But confusion, and something close to it pressing at the edges.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being late,” Sirius snaps. “Grab what you need.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Sirius huffs out a laugh, but there’s nothing amusing about it. “Yeah, I know.”
Regulus frowns. “Then what exactly—” Sirius yanks him forward and Regulus stumbles, more from surprise than force. There was something wrong with Sirius. Something seriously wrong.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Probably.” Sirius says. “Walk.”
“No.”
The word lands between them, sharp and absolute. For a second, Sirius stills. His grip shifts, not loosening but adjusting, like he’s bracing for something. “Regulus,” he says, quieter now. “I’m not asking.”
Regulus straightens despite the hold on his wrist, chin lifting in that practiced, aristocratic defiance. “And I’m not going.” He sees Sirius. Really sees him for the first time since he got in the room.
His eyes were puffed, red, just as his ears, nose and face. His chest rose with every breath he took, too uneven, as if he had just ran a marathon. Regulus stares, trying to figure out what had happened this time.
When Sirius fought with their parents, he didn’t usually look like this. Not… this bad. Usually, when they fought, Sirius was a bit wounded if it was bad, but he always lifted his chin with pride for not letting himself down. He didn’t cry, he laughed. He never let Mother have the satisfaction of seeing him down, he didn’t let Father see him cry.
So what had happened?
“Yeah,” Sirius breathes, almost like he expected that. “I figured.” There’s a flicker—something raw and frustrated—before Sirius moves. Regulus doesn’t even have time to react before Sirius twists his arm just enough to unbalance him.
“Walk.” Sirius repeats, but Regulus digs his heels in.
“No.”
“Fine.” Sirius doesn’t argue again. He just pulls. Regulus stumbles forward this time, catching himself against the doorframe with his free hand. “This is absurd,” he snaps, struggling to wrench himself free. “You can’t simply decide—”
“I can,” Sirius cuts in. “And I did.” They make it halfway down the corridor before Regulus tries something else—he plants his feet, hard, and twists, aiming to break Sirius’s grip properly this time.
It almost works.
Sirius swears, grip slipping for half a second and then tightening, harsher than before. “Stop fighting me!” Sirius barks.
“Then stop dragging me like a common criminal!”
“You’d prefer I stunned you and carried you?”
Regulus opens his mouth, then closes it.
“…You wouldn’t.”
Sirius meets his eyes, dark and steady. “Try me.” Something shifts then. Not surrender—Regulus Black does not surrender—but calculation. He studies Sirius like a problem, like an opponent.
“You’re serious,” he says slowly.
“Brilliant deduction.”
“You’re leaving.”
“And you’re coming with me.”
“No.”
Sirius exhales sharply, like he’s running out of patience. “Reg, I’m not doing this all night.”
“Then let go.”
“No.”
“Then I suppose we’re at an impasse.” Sirius stares at him for a long moment. Then, abruptly, he moves again—faster this time, more forceful. Regulus barely keeps his footing as Sirius drags him down the stairs, past the looming shadows of portraits that hiss and mutter as they pass.
Regulus feels their words settle under his skin like thorns.
“Sirius,” he says, voice tightening now despite himself, the strain creeping in no matter how much he tries to keep it contained, “Stop this. Whatever point you’re trying to prove—”
His words come out sharper than intended, cutting through the heavy air of the hall, but they don’t seem to land the way he expects. Sirius doesn’t slow, doesn’t even look back at him right away, and that—more than anything—sets something uneasy twisting in Regulus’s chest.
“I’m not proving anything.”
The answer is immediate, almost automatic, but there’s a roughness to it now, something worn thin beneath the surface. Sirius’s grip doesn’t loosen; if anything, it steadies, like he’s holding on with purpose rather than force.
“Then what are you doing?”
Regulus presses, more insistently this time, his voice lower, searching for something that makes sense. His gaze stays fixed on Sirius’s back, on the rigid line of his shoulders, trying to read something in the tension there.
Sirius doesn’t answer immediately. The silence stretches between them as they reach the front hall, their footsteps echoing faintly against the high ceilings. The massive door looms ahead, dark and imposing, a boundary that suddenly feels far more significant than it ever has before.
For a second, Sirius hesitates. Just a second—barely perceptible—but Regulus feels it through the stillness of his arm, the pause traveling through Sirius’s grip like a falter he doesn’t quite understand.
Then he says, quietly, “Getting you out.”
Regulus goes still. Completely.
The words hang there, strange and heavy, settling into the space like something that doesn’t belong, like they’ve been said in the wrong house, to the wrong person, at the wrong time.
“I didn’t ask you to.” His voice is quieter now, but firmer, grounding himself in something familiar—control, refusal, choice.
“I know.”
Sirius doesn’t turn around when he says it. He just stands there, facing the door, like looking back might make this harder than it already is.
“I don’t want to leave.”
There’s a beat of silence after that, thicker than before, stretching long enough that Regulus almost expects resistance, an argument, something explosive and loud and familiar.
“I know.” It comes again, the same words, but softer this time, and somehow heavier for it. Not dismissive. Not careless. Just… acknowledged.
Regulus’s chest tightens, something sharp and unfamiliar pressing against his ribs, making it difficult to draw in a steady breath. It lingers there, uncomfortable and insistent, as he searches for footing in a moment that feels like it’s slipping out of his control.
“Then why—”
“Because you’re coming anyway.” Sirius cuts him off, not harshly, not even impatiently—just with a certainty that leaves no space for argument. It settles between them like a final decision already made.
For a moment, neither of them moves. The house itself seems to hold its breath around them, the distant murmurs of portraits fading into something indistinct.
Then Sirius reaches forward and opens the door.
Cold air rushes in, biting and sharp, spilling into the hall and curling around them. It carries with it the distant sounds of a world that exists beyond these walls—faint, unfamiliar, and impossibly wide, pressing in against everything Regulus has ever known.
“You’re mad,” Regulus says, but it lacks its usual precision, his voice roughened by the cold and something else he refuses to name. He straightens quickly, pulling against Sirius’s grip again, this time with more purpose, more intent, as though the act of resisting might restore the balance that’s just been shattered. “You’ve lost whatever sense you had left. Let go of me. Now.”
Sirius doesn’t even look at him at first. He’s scanning the street, eyes sharp and alert, like he’s expecting something to come barreling out of the darkness after them. “We don’t have time for this,” he mutters, already pulling again, urging them down the street at a brisk, unrelenting pace.
“I am not going anywhere with you,” Regulus snaps, digging his heels into the ground hard enough that the motion jars up his spine. The resistance forces Sirius to stop, if only for a moment, and Regulus seizes it immediately, turning sharply to face him fully now, his free hand curling into a tight fist at his side. “You don’t get to decide this. You don’t get to storm in, make a scene, and drag me out like I’m—like I’m something that belongs to you.”
“That’s funny,” he says, finally meeting Regulus’s gaze properly, his eyes dark and burning with a kind of intensity that makes something uneasy coil in Regulus’s chest. “Last I checked, they already decided that for you.”
“That’s none of your concern. Whatever you think you understand, you don’t. So I suggest you let go of me and go back to whatever reckless, pointless rebellion you’ve decided to throw yourself into this week.”
“Reckless?” Sirius repeats, incredulous, the word coming out sharper than before. He takes a step closer instead of away, his grip tightening just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind Regulus that this isn’t a negotiation. “You think staying there isn’t reckless? You think letting them decide every part of your life, every choice you make, isn’t just as bad—if not worse? Look what they’re turning you into, Regulus!”
“It’s called loyalty,” Regulus fires back immediately, the answer automatic, ingrained so deeply it doesn’t even feel like a choice to say it. But even as the word leaves his mouth, there’s a flicker of something behind it—uncertainty, maybe, or doubt—that he quickly tries to suppress.
Sirius sees that too.
“Is it?” he asks, quieter now, but somehow more cutting for it. “Or is it just easier than admitting you don’t actually have one?”
Regulus’s breath catches again, sharper this time, and he yanks his arm back with everything he has. For a split second, it almost works—the grip loosens just enough to give him hope—but then Sirius adjusts, steps forward, and closes the distance between them entirely, leaving no room for escape.
“Let. Go.” Regulus’s voice is lower now, less composed, the edges of his control starting to fray in a way that feels dangerously close to something he can’t quite contain. “I mean it, Sirius.”
“I know you do,” Sirius says, and there’s something almost tired in it now, like he’s already had this argument a hundred times in his head and none of the outcomes were ever good. “That’s the problem.”
For a moment, neither of them moves.
The street stretches out around them, quiet and empty, the night pressing in close as if it’s waiting to see what happens next. Regulus can feel his pulse pounding in his wrist where Sirius is still holding him, steady and unyielding, like a tether he can’t break no matter how hard he tries. He could shout. He could fight harder. He could do something—anything—to regain control of this situation.
Instead, he just stands there, breathing too fast, staring at his brother like he’s trying to understand something that refuses to make sense.
“I’m not leaving,” he says again, but it sounds different this time—less like a command, more like something he’s trying to convince himself of.
Sirius exhales slowly, the sound heavy with something that might be frustration or might be something closer to regret. “Yeah,” he says quietly, almost under his breath. “Sure.”
And then, before Regulus can react—before he can argue again, or pull away, or gather enough of himself to resist properly—Sirius moves.
It’s quicker this time, more decisive. He shifts his grip, steps in close, and with a sharp crack that splits the silence of the street in two, the world disappears around them.
Regulus barely has time to register the sensation—the violent twist of space, the sudden, disorienting pull—before they reappear somewhere else entirely. His knees buckle slightly on impact, the ground unfamiliar beneath his feet, the air different, carrying scents and sounds that don’t belong to Grimmauld Place, to anything he recognizes as safe or known.
For a second, he just stands there, stunned, his mind struggling to catch up with what’s just happened.
Then it hits him.
“You—” His voice breaks off, sharp and disbelieving, as he whirls on Sirius, eyes wide with something that looks dangerously close to panic now. “You can’t just—Apparate me like that without warning! Have you completely lost your mind?”
Sirius doesn’t let go. Even now, even here—wherever here is—his grip remains firm, anchoring Regulus in place as effectively as any chain.
“Yeah,” Sirius says, a little breathless, but unwavering all the same. “Probably.”
Regulus stares at him, chest rising and falling too quickly, the last remnants of his composure slipping through his fingers like water. “Take me back,” he demands, but there’s a crack in it now, a strain that wasn’t there before. “Right now, Sirius. I mean it.”
Sirius shakes his head, just once, sharp and final.
“No.” For a moment, everything is noise—ringing ears, rushing blood, the sharp drag of breath he can’t quite steady.
Then—
“Blimey, you actually did it.”
Regulus freezes.
The voice is unfamiliar—warm, surprised, edged with something dangerously close to impressed—and it does not belong anywhere near him.
His head snaps up. They’re not alone.
The place is small—some kind of flat, cramped but alive in a way Grimmauld Place never is. There are mismatched chairs, books stacked in careless piles, a faint smell of something burnt lingering in the air. It feels lived-in. Messy. Free.
And standing a few feet away—
Three boys.
No—three strangers. Except they’re not strangers, not really. Regulus recognizes them immediately.
James Potter is the first thing he notices—untidy hair, glasses slightly askew, an expression caught somewhere between astonishment and something sharper, more assessing. His posture shifts the second their eyes meet, surprise smoothing quickly into alertness, like he’s already recalculating everything about the situation.
Next to him, Remus Lupin looks less startled and more… concerned. His gaze flicks between Sirius and Regulus, taking in the grip, the tension, the fact that Regulus is very clearly not here by choice. There’s a quiet understanding there, something measured and careful, as if he’s trying to piece together a problem without making it worse.
And then there’s Peter Pettigrew, hovering just behind them, eyes wide and uncertain, like he’s not entirely sure whether to be impressed or terrified by what Sirius has just done.
Regulus doesn’t move.
“You—” Regulus’s voice comes out sharper than intended, cutting through the room with brittle precision as he turns slowly back toward Sirius, something dangerously close to fury flashing behind his eyes now. “You brought me here?”
Sirius finally lets go of his wrist. The absence of contact is almost as jarring as the grip had been.
“Yeah,” he says, a little breathless still, but steady—too steady, like he’s already braced himself for this reaction. “I did.”
Regulus stares at him like he’s just said something incomprehensibly stupid. “You brought me here,” he repeats, each word deliberate, controlled in a way that barely conceals the anger building underneath. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
“Pretty much, yeah,” Sirius mutters, running a hand through his hair, pacing once like he suddenly has too much energy and nowhere to put it. “Didn’t have a lot of better options, Reg.”
“Better options?” Regulus lets out a short, incredulous laugh, the sound sharp enough to cut. “You could have tried letting me be. That would have been a significantly better option.”
“Oi,” Potter cuts in, stepping forward slightly now, his attention fixed squarely on Regulus with a look that’s no longer just curious—it’s challenging, sharp-edged in a way that mirrors Sirius more than it should. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re all being very accommodating right now, considering he just kidnapped you and dropped you in my living room.”
“I noticed,” Regulus replies coolly, not even sparing him a glance at first, his focus still locked on Sirius. “I also noticed that no one here seems particularly concerned about that fact.”
“We are,” Lupin says quietly, though his tone suggests something more complicated than simple concern. His eyes flick again to Sirius, then back to Regulus, thoughtful and steady. “But I imagine there’s a reason he did it.”
“There isn’t a good one,” Regulus snaps, finally turning, his composure cracking just enough to let the frustration bleed through. “There rarely is with him.”
Regulus looks between them—all of them—and something shifts in his expression, something colder, more guarded, snapping back into place like armor being hastily reforged.
“You’ve made your point,” he says, straightening fully now, reclaiming what little control he can. “Whatever this was meant to accomplish, it’s done. Take me back.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to make that decision for me,” Regulus says again, taking a slow step forward, posture straight, chin lifted, every inch of him slipping back into that cold, aristocratic composure like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “Whatever misguided point you’re attempting to prove, this is over. You will take me back. Now.”
“I’m not taking you back there.”
It’s sharper this time. Less controlled.
“There,” Regulus echoes, a flicker of irritation breaking through. “It’s our home.”
“It’s not a home,” Sirius snaps, and that—more than anything else so far—lands wrong.
The room stills.
Potter shifts slightly where he’s standing, eyes flicking between them, alert now in a way that suggests he’s seen this kind of thing before. Lupin doesn’t move at all, but his attention sharpens, quiet and focused. Pettigrew looks like he’s about to say something and then very quickly decides against it.
“Lads, let’s go.” Potter mumbles, barely audible, likely referring to the other two around. It definitely wasn’t a moment for them to stick around.
Regulus didn’t even look as they left the room. “You left. That was your choice. You don’t get to just—”
Sirius laughs once, but there’s nothing amusing about it—it’s hollow, brittle, like something cracking under pressure. “They were going to make me take the Mark.”
The words land heavy.
Regulus’s breath catches—just slightly—but it’s there.
“And?” he says after a second, too quickly, too defensive. “That’s expected. It’s an honor—”
“They seemed to think the same way, because they were offended enough to try and cruciate me into agreeing.”
The room goes dead silent. It’s not loud, the way Sirius says it. Not dramatic. Not even particularly emotional.
Just… flat. Like he’s stating a fact that’s already settled, already done.
Regulus blinks. Once. Twice.
“They—” He stops, the word faltering in a way that feels foreign in his mouth. “They wouldn’t—”
“They did.”
Sirius doesn’t look away. Doesn’t soften it. Doesn’t give him any room to pretend otherwise.
“For saying no,” he adds, quieter now, but somehow worse for it. “First time, I thought it was just… a warning. Something to scare me into it.” His jaw tightens, the memory clearly too close, too recent. “Tonight they let me know it wasn’t a choice.”
Regulus doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Something in his expression has gone very still—not composed, not controlled. Like everything inside him has locked up at once.
“You’re lying,” he says finally, but it’s weaker now, the certainty gone from it.
“I’m not.”
“You are,” Regulus insists, but there’s a crack in it now, something thin and fragile that wasn’t there before. “They wouldn’t—Mother wouldn’t—Father—”
“They would,” Sirius cuts in, voice low and rough, the restraint in it slipping.
“That’s not—” Regulus shakes his head sharply, like he can physically force the words away, like denial is something he can still choose if he just holds onto it hard enough. “You’re exaggerating. You always do this—you twist things, you—”
“Regulus.”
Sirius steps closer. Not aggressive this time. Not forceful.
“I’m not exaggerating,” he says, and there’s something raw in it now, something stripped of all the usual deflection and sharp edges. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d say exactly this. That it’s normal. That it’s deserved. That it’s just how things are.”
Regulus’s throat tightens.
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
For a moment, neither of them speaks. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, filled with everything that isn’t being said, everything that can’t be.
“You think they won’t do the same to you?” Sirius asks after a second, quieter now, but no less intense. “You think if you say no, they’ll just… accept it?”
“I won’t say no,” Regulus replies immediately, the answer automatic, but it doesn’t land the way it should. There’s hesitation there now, doubt threading through it in a way that wasn’t there before. “I— I understand what’s expected.”
“Yeah,” Sirius says, a bitter edge creeping back in. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Regulus looks away for the first time. “It’s my choice, Sirius. Not yours. If you want to go around meeting with mudbloods, creatures, traitors… go ahead. It’s your choice, and mine is to think you’re crazy for even thinking they are the same as us.”
“They are.” Sirius spoke coldly, clearly unhappy about the term Regulus had used. “But I’m not telling you to befriend them. Merlin, I couldn’t care less if you decide pure-bloods are all you wanna relate to, despite finding it stupid!”
“Then what’s the problem with it?!”
“I won’t stay still and let you turn into a murderer, Regulus! You may say all you want but their fear is the same as ours, and so are their screams when being tortured, or their tears when they’re about to be killed!”
Regulus stares quietly, not really having an answer for that. He despises muggles, they thought themselves more powerful, they got rid of hundreds of their people— and now? They sneaked their children amongst them again. He didn’t want them around, of course he didn’t!
But would he be able to kill one? To watch them scream in pain, begging and crying for it to stop?
The idea that Sirius had gone through that made him sick again. Regulus swallows hard, his composure slipping in small, almost imperceptible ways. “You should have told me,” he says finally, and it comes out quieter than anything he’s said so far, edged with something that might be anger or might be something else entirely.
Sirius lets out a short breath. “Yeah. Maybe.” A pause. “Would it have changed anything?”
Regulus doesn’t answer.
Because he doesn’t know.
And that—that uncertainty—is worse than anything Sirius has said so far.
“I can’t let you go back there,” Sirius says after a moment, not forceful this time, not demanding—just certain, in a way that feels unmovable. “Not now. Not after—”
“You can’t keep me here either,” Regulus cuts in, but there’s less bite to it now, less certainty behind the words. “This isn’t—this isn’t my place.”
“No,” Sirius agrees quietly. “But it’s safer than there.” Regulus exhales slowly, the sound uneven, like something inside him is shifting in ways he doesn’t quite understand. “Regulus, please. I can’t stand the idea of living there anymore, but neither can I leave you behind to become their puppet.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“Yes you would. You’ve always been, and you’ll always be as long as you live under that roof.” Regulus wanted to refuse, because he truly wasn’t their puppet. He had his own beliefs that just happened to be the same as their parents… but the worry written all over Sirius’s face really troubled him.
After a long sigh, still dubious, Regulus nodded. “For now.”
Sirius’s eyes widened for a second, almost as he didn’t believe it–-which, fair. It would make sense, after the way he had fought to be let go.
Neither of them were sure how much time had passed when someone knocked on the door of the room. A short, sand-like haired boy opened it just a few seconds after. Sirius lifted his gaze, demeanor changing easily at Regulus’s eyes.
“Prongs said dinner’s ready. Uhm, is he…?” Pettigrew’s gaze fixed on Regulus for a second, then Sirius.
“He’s staying.”
“Willingly?” Sirius nodded, and the blonde one smiled briefly.
“Right, well, that’s definitely good. I love you, Pads, but I won’t end up in prison for you.” A short chuckle escaped his lips and Sirius’s followed, filling the room.
Regulus looked between them, the warmth already settled. It was odd but comforting. However, he didn’t belong here. Not really, and it made him feel out of place.
As they walked to the kitchen, the ongoing conversation made itself present.
“Thank Merlin my parents weren’t here yet! I really don’t think they would resonate with kidnapping, not even for a good reasons. Or at least not if I didn’t tell them before— ah! Pads! Pads’ brother!”
Regulus scanned the room quickly. Potter was setting down some plates. The boy could only guess the other two were staying as well, due to the five chairs at the table, one barely having appeared when they were close enough.
The scarred one, Lupin, was leaning on the doorframe. Regulus noticed the way Sirius’s eyes lingered on him for a few seconds longer than usual, but he didn’t comment on it.
He wasn’t sure he could comment on anything right now without something slipping.
“Right,” Potter says, clapping his hands together once. “Food. Everyone sits. No dueling at the table, Black family rule or not.” His brother wheezed, of course he did, but Regulus didn’t. “Too soon?”
“I don’t think that’s a rule,” the small one—Pettigrew—murmurs just arriving, already pulling out a chair.
“It is now,” Potter shoots back easily.
The table is wrong. The room is wrong. Everything is wrong—too small, too warm, too alive. There’s no careful arrangement, no quiet order, no invisible lines dictating where he should stand or how he should move. It feels… loose. Unstructured.
Unsafe.
Safe.
He can’t decide which one unsettles him more.
“Reg,” Sirius says, quieter this time. Not a command. Not a pull. Just… there.
Regulus looks at him.
Sirius isn’t grabbing him anymore. He isn’t dragging him anywhere. He’s just standing there, a step ahead, watching him with something that looks dangerously like hope—and something else beneath it, something tighter, like he’s bracing for the moment Regulus changes his mind.
Regulus hates that he notices that. He hates that it matters.
With a small, controlled motion, he pulls out a chair and sits.
It feels like stepping off something high without knowing where the ground is.
The conversation starts again almost immediately, as if that’s all it was waiting for. Potter talking about something pointless, Pettigrew chiming in, Lupin adding the occasional quiet comment that somehow keeps the whole thing from tipping into chaos. Sirius slides into the seat next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Regulus doesn’t speak, he listens.
It’s strange—how easy it is for them. The way they interrupt each other without offense, the way they laugh without restraint, the way silence isn’t something heavy and dangerous but just… a pause, something that doesn’t need to be filled with careful words.
No one is watching him the way people do at home. No one is measuring what he says before he says it. No one is waiting for him to get it wrong.
“…and then he says, ‘that’s not a kneazle, that’s my aunt,’ and I swear—”
“That didn’t happen,” Lupin cuts in mildly.
“It could have,” Potter insists.
“It didn’t,” Sirius says, but there’s a ghost of a grin there now, something lighter than anything Regulus has seen on him in… he can’t remember how long.
Regulus looks down at his plate. At the food. At his hands.
They’re steady again. Mostly.
“…you going to eat, or are you just planning on glaring at it until it apologizes?” Sirius murmurs, low enough that the others don’t catch it.
Regulus exhales slowly through his nose but picks up his fork.
Maybe he had yet a lot to think about. He wasn’t suddenly going to change, nor did he expect to stay here for too long, as Sirius seemed to plan to do. Luckily enough, his birthday was just a few months after the break. He’d turn seventeen and, if he didn’t go back to Grimmauld—a possibility that still lingered—, he could go live by himself.
He could even think of going to Evan’s at some point. That’d be better than staying here until his birthday. Regulus didn’t think he would mind, and whether Sirius liked it or not, he’d accept it if he didn’t want him back at their home.
Conversations drifted slowly and the boy was able to hear the taller one there—Lupin—asking Sirius about his puffy eyes quietly, low enough to be covered by Potter’s and Pettigrew’s conversation. There was a warmth and care in his voice Regulus only heard from his own friends, and for once, it made sense why Sirius would like it here.
It’s not that he was too sure about his decision yet, about agreeing to not go back. After all, he still wanted the pride, he still wanted the glory. The mark hadn’t gone completely from his mind. But would he truly be able to do those things himself? It was right when others did it, but would he have the strength to stand still and just— do it?
That’d be something to think about.
And Grimmauld now felt out of place. Not completely, not really, but enough. It hadn’t ever been a surprise when his parents reprimanded Sirius in a bit of extreme ways. Regulus had always convinced himself it was deserved, that Sirius had looked for it. But this? It was just… different. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to look at his parents in the eyes, not knowing which one held the wand that sent his brother into the worst pain ever imaginable, not sure that if, despite never having raised their wand at him, he’d be the next at the slightest mistake.
He’d miss Kreacher, though. Regulus really loved that elf. Maybe he could call him once he was alone, and he’d appear, and Regulus would explain to him what had happened, asking him to keep the secret.
“You ok, mate?” The boy looked up, noticing Pettigrew speaking to him. “You were just staring at nowhere. Are you sure you’re here willingly now?”
“Oh, come on! Don’t you trust me, Wormy?” Sirius interrupted, looking offended and dramatic as he always had.
“You did bring him here against his will—”
“He’s got a point.”
“Not you too, Moony! Awe, everyone’s against me now.”
Regulus stares quietly, finally starting to eat while the conversation develops.
Whether he’d stay for long or not, if he’d go back home or not, was still to be figured out, but one thing was sure. Wherever this place was, Sirius was bright in a way he hadn’t been since they were kids.
Maybe it wasn’t Regulus’s place, but it was Sirius’s, and seeing his brother smile so widely after years of constant fighting was, for sure, comforting.