Chapter Text
31 July 1981
Dear Sirius,
Today I looked into your eyes and finally accepted that there was no love left for me. Perhaps the worst part is how little I blame you.
You were born during one of the worst storms of the winter. I was four at the time, barely capable of lasting memories, but I do remember one other thing: I was not impressed. You were a red, squalling thing, out of place in the stifled, perfect world I was already used to, just like the storm raging outside. I did not love you from the start, but that matters little. You shattered my life with your first cry — I will forever be grateful for that.
I was already a perfect heir by the time you took your first steps. I did what I was told and rarely asked questions or, Salazar forbid, cried. Mother trusted me enough to leave us alone with the house-elves. So that was our childhood, you toddling after me, me trying to do my best to teach you our ways, Kreacher desperately keeping up with the both of us.
I am sure my memories of our childhood are very different from yours. I grew up looking at the portraits lining the walls of our homes with starry eyes. I delighted in hearing of our long unbroken line of ancestors and their numerous achievements in a way that made Father and Mother fawn over me as much as they were capable of fawning over anything. I looked on with distaste alongside our parents as the first Muggleborn Minister of Magic was elected and spoke out against blood purity. I listened avidly as Father taught me how to act, how to feel, how to think. And I did my best as your older brother to convince you to do the same. Of course, you being who you were, you realized something I did not.
Do you remember how I indulged you? I told myself it was just childish whims and that there was no need for Father or Mother to know. I was the one who hid the Muggle memorabilia you begged your friends to bring you, the one who learned the spells to charm your posters to move just enough to avoid suspicion, the one who gave you a look when you needed to be silent and interrupted when you said too much. I told you over and over to let it go, to see how important and powerful blood was and how the people you admired were stealing our culture and our legacy from us. Still you persisted in your ways. You refused to let our parents — or me — stifle your bright enthusiasm, your huge heart, your barking laugh. It was blinding. It was beautiful. Even now I resent and long for it in equal measure, this bravery I saw then as foolishness.
Do you remember the first time I was disciplined for your actions? I hardly remember the pain. I just remember your pale, stricken face peaking through the door and the way you ran to my shaking arms after it was over. You felt like a bird, trembling harder than me, so fragile against my chest. That was the first time I realized that you would ruin me.
That was the first time I realized I did not care.
Yes, you forced me to grow up too fast. I despised the hours I had to spend in the library searching for ways to protect you, the fear that rose in my throat whenever I heard our parents’ footsteps approaching your room, the calculating eyes I approached our family dinners with, the fact that I had to bear the consequences of your actions. Sometimes I wanted to scream with it. But then you would smile your wide smile at me, cuddle into me under my covers, call me “Reggie” and laugh when I chased after you for it, and I could not hate you in your innocence. Sometimes I wish I did. Then maybe all this would have been easier. Not better, though.
Even with all that happened, you always made me better.
Do you remember how I begged Father and Mother to allow us to attend Hogwarts? After they heard that Dumbledore had been appointed Headmaster, they were determined to send us to Durmstrang. You cried in the privacy of my room at the news — not going to the same school as your beloved cousin Andromeda, not seeing the enchanted ceiling and gory ghosts, not being able to say that you attended the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I told them that Blacks have always attended Hogwarts, the best school of magic there was. I would be proud to continue the tradition, and they knew that I would not let Dumbledore corrupt either of us, did they not? I truly believed that. That we were pure.
Please do not blame yourself for the depth of my convictions. I was the older brother. I knew better. You were my responsibility. Those were the truths I lived by until I boarded the Hogwarts Express and was struck with the fact that for the first time, I would be leaving you with no protection against Father and Mother. Then, I only regretted not being more firm with you. I was older. What kind of man lets his younger brother change his opinions? I obviously knew more about the world. That was the way of things. Arrogant, stupid, proud. But so young.
“Do you remember.” As if that will excuse what I did. I suspect nothing will. Still, I write this so you might understand a selfish boy who grew up into a selfish man. Even now I try to excuse my actions, make it all about my love and my sacrifice, when I know you have suffered more than I can know.
I cannot bear to write any more. A part of me longs to return to our childhood, however horrible it was. Our relationship was messy and twisted — rather, I was messy and twisted — but at least the love was true. We had each other and you still called me brother.
You still called me brother.
I will never send this letter. I can pretend it is because of the plans I have laid out, for the good of the Wizarding World and the end of this war. But I know the truth. I’m scared, Sirius, and there’s so much I regret, so much I wish I could change, and I just can’t find the words to tell you I’m sorry.
Funny how easy it is to write those words.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
So why can’t I say them to you?