Revelations and Resolve
By SXS
Disclaimer: I don't own any copyrighted aspects of this story nor did I intend any copyright infringement.
A/N: Takes place a couple hours before his death. This feels a bit rushed in general...what do you think?
He thought he'd never come back.
When he'd left at sixteen, he had screamed at his mother how he was done with the family; sick and tired of their irrational beliefs and outrageous behavior towards those they thought of as lesser. He had left his howling mother, who had blasted his name off the tapestry, his overworked, exasperated father, and one of the closest friends he'd ever had in his life, for awhile, anyway—his brother.
And now he was back—had been back for months, but never ventured to most parts of the place.
Sirius stumbled through Number Twelve Grimmauld Place blindly, unable to recognize many of the rooms due to the excessive cleanout by the Order. Each room was filled with memories, many more bad ones than good. Sirius couldn't help but smirk triumphantly as he passed his parent's bedroom; it was now inhabited by a very hungry Hippogriff. He had shot a Stunning Spell at his mother's portrait, and she had stopped shrieking.
The silence was cutting into him to the bone. No one else was at Headquarters.
He loped ungracefully across the hall, until he came to a room with a brass plaque on the door that read "Sirius." No one had entered his room, on his request. Personally, he had even been hesitant to look at it until now. It brought back too many unwanted memories. Sirius, out of boredom, pushed open the door and stared around inside. He found it completely intact, even if shamefully dusty. There were his old Gryffindor curtains and sheets, their old bright red zest had faded to a dull maroon. He glanced at the walls; Gryffindor colors, along with his old motorcycle and Muggle girl posters, along with a picture of the old foursome. Sirius half-smiled—this was so much a part of him, he couldn't touch it. He felt a smile gracing his worn face as he stepped around in it, breathing in the dusty air.
His eyes flickered to his desk, where he spotted an aged piece of parchment, dated sometime fifteen years ago. It was yellowing, and the ink was blotchy in some places, as if the writer had been crying while it was written. Sirius had certainly not authored such a thing. His eyes darted to the bottom of the page, where a name was signed that was almost too blotchy to read—but Sirius knew exactly who it was.
My deepest apologies. For everything.
—Regulus Arcturus Black
Sirius's heart skipped several beats. Regulus was apologizing…did that mean…? He scanned the rest of the parchment hungrily, a new hope springing into his heart.
To my brother Sirius,
I was wrong. I don't have the time to explicitly explain everything in such a short letter, for in a few hours, I will meet quite an unpleasant and untimely death. But I know this now—I was wrong. My last request to mother and father was that they never open the door to yours or my room again. I certainly hope they upheld it, but they must have, if you are reading this.
Everything will be explained in my diary. It's in my room—the password to my room is "Death to the Dark Lord." You will find it beneath a series of old Quidditch magazines in the bottom-left drawer.
My deepest apologies. For everything.
—Regulus Arcturus Black
Sirius's heart was pounding furiously as he rushed out of his room and headed toward Regulus's. Could it be true? Did Regulus really realize everything he had—except much too late? Untimely death…was Voldemort about to kill him for treachery, not incompetence? Sirius felt his head give a throb of rage—Voldemort had killed his brother.
That made two.
Sirius arrived at Regulus's door, with his snide warning pinned to the door. Sirius tried the handle, but it wouldn't budge. He uttered quickly, "Death to the Dark Lord." The lock clicked contently, and Sirius barged in.
He hadn't been in Regulus's room since he was fourteen. It certainly looked the same; Slytherin hangings everywhere, green and silver. Sirius felt a lurch of disgust, and briefly wondered if the note was a joke, or perhaps a ploy to get him to return home. He saw the various clippings of the attacks Lord Voldemort had lead, and this theory was backed even further.
But perhaps it was an empirical instinct that urged him to open the bottom left drawer, just to see.
Inside were a jumble of Quidditch magazines, but at the very bottom was a leather-bound little book. Sirius flipped it open, and he was relieved to find it covered in the miniscule and painfully neat writing of his brother. Most of it was logical reasoning and figuring of something—the word "Horcrux" came up multiple times, but Sirius hadn't a clue what that was. He noticed that during the second half of the diary, Regulus began to refer to the Voldemort as "Voldemort" rather than "The Dark Lord." Sirius came across several blank pages, and then reached the near end, where he found a paragraph of hardly legible writing that seemed to have been written in a terrible rush.
There is no difference, it read, the words screaming silently, between purebloods and Muggles. It's a lie, it's all a lie. What he has been saying—what Voldemort has said to us, it's all a lie. Tonight I committed the unspeakable, an act that has torn my soul apart. I murdered an innocent Muggle—for no reason, no reason at all. I thought it would be like killing an animal, destroying something useless.
I was wrong.
He was bleeding, and screaming. My head hurt, my heart nearly stopped. Everything suddenly became real to me, so painfully real. Then I saw it.
I saw the blood.
The Muggle's blood was drenching the pavement, it was everywhere. I couldn't see straight. But it looked…it didn't look any different from mine. I placed a cut along the edge of my finger, and let my own blood drip, mixing in with the Muggle's.
There was no difference.
Sirius's eyes widened; his brother had realized it—so what had caused him to meet such an untimely death? Sirius felt rushed, as if he didn't have time to pore over the entire diary. His fingers flipped the pages quickly, as the entries steadily got shorter and messier. The last one nearly made his heart stop.
I am about to die.
But with me, I shall take a part of his broken soul.
Sirius.
I know you must be reading this.
I'm sorry.
The last thing I'll ask of you is this: please, please forgive me.
Sirius could feel his own eyes welling up, and himself shaking. He closed the diary curtly, shutting his eyes, his mind a blur. Everything was just coming at him so fast—Voldemort's return, Wormtail's betrayal unpaid…and now this. It felt like he was reliving James's death all over again.
Except this time, a nasty voice in his head spat, this time it's your real brother.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of a knock on the door, and he wiped his eyes, dispelling his pitiful sobs with a loud sniff. He heard Mad-Eye's voice shouting something about a break-in at the Department of Mysteries…something about Harry, who seemed like a completely different person at the moment, and the Death Eaters…and Voldemort.
A new, inexplicable rage blazed in Sirius's chest. He snatched up his wand and narrowed his eyes. His heart was pounding harder than ever before. This was all his fault—all Voldemort's. Sirius felt a burn stronger than Fiendfyre course through his entire being as he shoved open the door to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, into the stormy skies outside. Mad-Eye was standing near him with a lopsided expression, but Sirius simply glared determindedly.
"He didn't die for nothing."
The two Apparated away, Sirius not knowing this would truly be the last time leaving that place of revelations and resolve.