I.
All Regulus can remember is shouting.
Well, shouting and Sirius. Just because whenever there's shouting in the Ancient House of Black, there's going to be Sirius, somewhere, in the thick of it, on the edges, watching, taking part.
But now, Sirius is standing in front of him. He feels perfectly safe as he looks up into his mother's livid face, twisted and flushed.
You. Will. Show. Proper. Respect. And. Contempt. As. It. Befits. The Heir. Of. The. Most. Noble. And. Ancient. House. Of. Black!
Sirius is doing nothing, Sirius--what is he? Five or six? Caught playing with a Muggle.
A hand lashes out and Regulus cries out as if it has struck him. Sirius reels, his rebellious, confused expression gone. He is no longer in front of Regulus, no longer protecting, no longer safe. He is cowering in the corner, small and helpless and five years old and he has a cheek burning from his mother's hand.
Regulus steps back in fear--because fear is all he can feel as he totters unstably.
We will not have this behavior coming from you! You will act as you are meant to. As your blood decrees!
Swishing black robes, his mother's face looms huge in his eyes. He lets out a small whimper and she says something swiftly, something he does not understand. He feels cold, alien lips descend upon his cheek. He is frozen.
Your brother may do better!
II.
"But I don't want you to go." Regulus sits uncomfortably on Sirius' bed, his eyes following Sirius' eyes as they sweep the room for things he's forgotten.
"Reg..." Sirius' eyes finally land on him, filled with sorrow and regret.
Regulus drops his eyes down to the bedspread. He knows perfectly well Sirius will never be happier than when he gets to Hogwarts. He knows Sirius is going to be sorted into Gryffindor, he knows he'll be warm and kind and loud and full of trouble and recklessness.
Regulus knows he'll never look at him again.
"I don't..." Regulus trails off. He knows it will do no good. It's just a waste of energy. Just a waste of hope. His heart feels old and battered. He feels useless.
He will not tell Sirius how much he needs him. He will not tell Sirius that he doesn't want to be the perfect Black son. He will not tell him how much he wants to be like him.
"I'm sorry, Reg. I have to go."
Regulus nods and gets to his feet. He knows where he's not wanted. It's something he's very much used to. He's gotten quite good.
As he's leaving, Sirius grabs his wrist, and Regulus' heart lurches with false hope. He's going to stop, he's going to bring me along, he's going to tell me how he does it...he's going to say a word and make everything better, because he's Sirius and he can do anything.
But he doesn't say a word. He crushes him in a hug, strong for an eleven-year-old.
"It's not forever," he says, and Regulus knows he's wrong.
It may be the first time he's acknowledged that--Sirius is wrong.
He kisses the top of his head affectionately and shoves him out the door.
III.
Narcissa.
She is a cousin. What does that mean?
Sirius is a brother.
He is sitting with three boys--a blood traitor and two half-bloods, Bella says. Andy is nowhere, and Regulus feels the ache almost as deep as the ache he feels when he passes Sirius' compartment and sees him wrestling with James Potter. Laughing. Free.
Sirius does not even see him.
Regulus thinks he must have stood there for ten minutes at least, trunk beside him, eleven years old and scared and lonely.
And then Narcissa comes. Regulus sees one of the boys--thin, light brown hair--say something to Sirius.
Narcissa's always liked him the best.
Sirius glances out the compartment window with the exact same expression Narcissa is glaring in with--cold Black contempt.
Mother would be proud, Regulus thinks. He's got it down perfectly.
And then his eyes shift to Regulus', and promises disappear. They are no longer little boys--I promise no matter what happens, Reg, we'll always be friends--they are not nine and eleven and sitting in a sad, cold room--Nothing will change, we're always brothers, no matter what--
His eyes land on Regulus, and there is nothing--recognition, but disgust, familiarity, but coldness, warmness, but complete distrust.
Mother is wrong, Regulus thinks. He's the perfect Black.
Sitting with half bloods and laughing with a blood traitor and no doubt other sorts of...
Narcissa's always liked him best. She could dress him up and he wouldn't put up a fight. He was small and cute and the perfect little cousin.
Not like Sirius.
Something rises up in Regulus' chest--something he recognizes, a second too late, as anger.
Sirius is wrong. Sirius lied. He did not keep his promises.
Narcissa is telling him to come, go with her, to her compartment, her friends, her Lucius--pure, perfect, why are you standing here staring at these blood traitors?
Regulus has never been more angry in his life. Never more angry and never more hurt.
Narcissa's always liked him best. He reminds himself of this as he cowers in her compartment, and her friends coo over his long lashes and perfect cheekbones.
She plants a kiss on his cheek and he has never been more humiliated in his life.
Narcissa's always liked him best.
IV.
Her name is Dorcas Meadows, and she is a Gryffindor.
-
Adrenaline.
He knows why Sirius is in Gryffindor, now, as he looks into her flaming eyes.
Daring.
He knows why Sirius has the record for most detentions, now, as his eyes sweep over her body.
Happiness.
He knows why Narcissa has that stupid look on her face whenever she's with Lucius, now, as he feels her hands run through his hair.
Peace.
He knows why everything is pointless, now, this war and deceit and lies and hatred, he knows now that he doesn't care one bit, as he lets himself drown in her touch.
-
Her name is Dorcas Meadows, and she is kissing him.
-
Regulus tries to still his heart.
He tells himself that he did nothing to make this happen. It was all her.
All her.
Mind-blowing.
A brief thought flickers through his mind. A brief thought that maybe it's not him, maybe it's Sirius, and maybe this girl is taking advantage of his eyes and his aristocratic cheekbones and all other brotherly resemblance.
But that is where the similarities end.
Regulus is not Sirius.
And she knows that.
-
Her name is Dorcas Meadows, she's a Gryffindor, and she's kissing him.
V.
This is not anything like he has ever imagined.
He is alone with a woman.
And he is scared shitless.
Because this woman is not that memory, faint and silver-gold sharp. That memory from Hogwarts, when things were simple. When war was a distant thought, and Gryffindors could kiss Slytherins.
No.
Regulus is deathly scared.
The woman is not wearing a shirt, and the green snake glitters, dull, on her arm. He cannot tear his eyes away from it.
Have you made your decision yet, Regulus?
No.
No.
What a stupid thing to say.
He is trapped under her hanging dark hair. He is trapped beneath a woman eager and cold at the same time. He is trapped between everything he wants and everything he is not strong enough to resist.
She unbuttons his shirt, sliding her fingernails down his chest.
You know it's right, she whispers, running her tongue along his throat. We can bring you power. You will be everything you want. You will have everything you want. Everything they cannot give you.
You can't--you can't give me...
Sirius, he wants to say. Gryffindor, he wants to shout. Anything, he wants to sob.
Instead, he is silent. He will never be brave enough to push off the woman lying in his arms. He will never be brave enough to say no.
And he hates himself for it.
She smiles triumphantly, as if he has responded yes, responded enthusiastically, responded with his soul.
Her fingers run across his upper arm. Soon, she breathes. He shivers, ice running down his spine. Soon, you will be perfect.
Her breath tickles his skin as her lips descend upon his. He shuts his eyes tightly, as if to banish the image of curling, twisting snakes and skulls and instead replace it with warm, flaming eyes and dark, secret meetings with a Gryffindor.
VI.
In Regulus' entire life, there are people that care for him. Of course there are. They might not be the ones that matter, but...
They are there.
-
Regulus is not fighting when Dorcas Meadows dies.
He never knows who did it.
He supposes that's a good thing.
-
It wasn't true love. It wasn't anything, really. It was a fifteen-year-old crush on an older, beautiful, brave girl who was everything he was not.
It wasn't love, but it was all he had.
He hears that she was killed--killed defenseless. Killed without a wand. Killed ruthlessly, just because she's brave enough to stand up for what she wants, instead of cowering behind masks and false promises. When he hears that she was killed, there is nothing he can't do. He is absolutely still but he feels like he is falling, falling, flailing and falling.
Because Regulus knows the promises are false. He knows Voldemort can bring him nothing other than the power to kill and the means to do so.
Not even the wish.
And he knows he would go the same way, if Voldemort ever got a tiny glimpse into his mind. If he slipped--if Sirius stared at him too long when they were fighting. If Peter Pettigrew stuttered one more time. If Andromeda was gone forever.
He knows he's a coward and he knows he should be dead instead of her and it kills him. It fires his veins with desires stronger than blood. Stronger than survival. Stronger than instinct.
-
It was a combination. A combination of Sirius and daring, Gryffindors and recklessness. Of Dorcas Meadows being killed without reason. Without a fight. Without a chance.
Regulus thought it waited too long.
This bravery--why couldn't it have come when he was sitting on that stool, breathing in the inside of a hat that had touched so many?
Why.
Why, why, why.
Regulus does not ask, anymore. He does.
-
It ends with a goodbye.
-
Andy is waiting. She looks at him as he walks up her front steps. He cannot see her husband or daughter anywhere, and it strikes him that he has never seen little Nymphadora.
Sirius is probably like a brother to her. A funny, brave older brother who does magic tricks for her and listens to her laugh and sees Andy's smile.
-
She does not know he is saying goodbye.
She doesn't need to.
She knows something is wrong, though. She knows that Regulus is not just coming to threaten or kill.
Not bringing a message from her sister.
Not bringing a warning from his master.
-
"Hello."
"Hello, Regulus."
"How are you?"
"Good."
"And Ted?"
"Fine."
"And--"
"What do you want?"
"I'm sorry."
-
It bursts out of him like a waterfall. The apologizes, the pleads, the tears. They pour down his face and Andromeda kisses his cheek. Her arms wrap around him and he has never felt more guilty in his life. Never more helpless. He clings to her as if she could give everything back to him--choices and decision, dead girls lying blasted green in graves.
He is just in her arms, and he cries.
"I'm sorry, Andy. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't be more brave. I'm sorry Mother is so evil. I'm sorry you have to live in danger. I'm sorry..."
She lets him say it. Over and over.
"I'm sorry Mother blasted you off the family tree. I'm sorry she blasted Sirius. I'm sorry I didn't stop her. I'm sorry I'm not brave enough. I'm sorry I was in Slytherin."
"I was in Slytherin, Regulus," she whispers. "That doesn't matter."
Regulus half laughs, a sad, choked laugh.
"I understand," she says softly. "No matter what, you're still my cousin."
He wonders what that means, then swallows painfully and decides he doesn't want to know.
VII.
It is a dream.
Is it?
Regulus really doesn't know.
All he knows is cold, ice-cold death. Ice cold death and large, house-elf eyes staring up at him.
Go, he whispers. Leave, he gasps. His throat is burning. I can't hang on much...
His throat is on fire. He is seeing--he is seeing Dorcas Meadows bursting into flames before his eyes. He is seeing Sirius with a wand burnt to a cinder and surrounded by countless, masked figures.
They all bear his face. They all bare their souls.
Lips are against his cheek. Flaming eyes kiss his hair. His mouth. His hands.
Green, slimy and hot and burning and delicious and addictive and awful, awful, awful.
Lips are tearing apart his soul.
Did they send Dementors?
Or is it just her?
Go, he yells. Take it and go!
Black hair whirls, snakes twist. She is...now blonde, now brown, now black. Why is she...
Her lips, they are empty. Empty and nothingness. Cold and useful. Oh, so useful.
Her lips, they are full. Full of fire. Full of life. They are utterly useless. They are dead.
White lights burst behind his eyelids. He can hear his own breathing, harsh and painful. He can feel it deep in his bones. Agony.
It's a pity, the Hat is saying. What a pity.
Slytherin!
Something hits him, and then his eyes open and he realizes he had hit the ground. Smack, hard, and the stones cut into his bare arms.
But there is no choice. Hissing, teasing, taunting, hurting.
Never was.
Never is.
Never.
Title from the song by Devendra Banhart.