Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sirius yawns widely and feels his boy-jaw crack. He rubs at it and shakes his head, blinking the contented tiredness away from his eyes. There are twigs and bits of bracken and moss strung through his hair, a hangover from his antics in dog form the night before. He tugs half-heartedly at the debris before he shrugs and turns towards the Forest again, transforming back into his canine alter ego mid-stride. 

He has always been fond of this peaceful, pink-hued, post-dawn hour. When he lived in London he would climb up onto the rooftop after each restless sleep in that constricting, confining, morgue of a house to watch the sun rise over the muggle city, bathing concrete and glass in its soft forgiving light. 

Rosy-fingered , the poets call this hour. Sirius has always felt as though it is something special, something made just for him. 

And he’s not the sentimental sort - at least, not that he would admit, and what self-respecting, pseudo-anarchic, sixteen-year-old boy would admit to such a thing? But even he can appreciate that Hogwarts at dawn is a thing of beauty. 

The Forest comes alive at dawn. Its trees rustle an orchestral accompaniment to the birds’ chorus, while the Centaurs’ hooves, far in the distance, provide a low, rumbling backdrop. Every living creature joins the ensemble; even the flowers and mushrooms and grasses carpeting the Forest floor hum along in harmony. 

The sky, smeared a painterly pink and gold, admires its reflection in the still, unbroken waters of the Lake. The castle itself appears chryselephantine, enormous, otherworldly: a monument beyond magic, its very walls cast from molten gold and its windows dazzling brighter than diamonds. 

Sirius has never told the others this before. And he doesn’t tell Prongs and Wormtail today, either, after they make sure that Pomfrey has managed to escort Moony safely to the Hospital Wing, post-clandestine night-time adventures. No, he tells them he’s going for one last piss as Padfoot, leg cocked up against the side of Hagrid’s hut, to show the gamekeeper’s new bloodhound who’s the real top dog ‘round these parts. They laugh, wave him off, with Prongs promising to save him a slice of bacon and Wormtail saying “not likely.” 

He doesn’t feel at all guilty for the lie, because this dawn, today’s dawn, is a particularly good one. Last night’s sky had been clear, bitter and star-strewn, so the morning’s frost is cold and crisp and crunchy beneath his paws. 

He lifts his head and gives a sharp, joyous bark in greeting to the sleepy sun, still slung low on the horizon, just peeking up above the snow-peaked mountains. A winter moth flutters past his dog-nose and he leaps into the air, playfully snapping his jaws as he gives chase. 

The moth leads Sirius on a merry jaunt around the Lake, granting him permission to view his beloved Hogwarts from every possible angle. He could die happy here, he thinks, surrounded by pink and gold and Lake and Forest and light and friends. 

The Lake is still frozen, just about, though more and more cracks skitter across the surface each time Sirius looks at it. He pauses, panting, and forgets the moth. He stands among the Fluxweed and Stargrass and lowers his dog-head to press his nose against the fragmented ice. He wonders if the Squid will swim up to see him today or if it is hiding, hibernating, somewhere far, far below the surface, in the depths of the Lake with the Merpeople and the Grindylows. 

His hot canine breath clouds the surface of the ice and makes it crack. The Lake sends back an icy blow in return. Surprised, Sirius jerks his head back and sneezes. And then he notices A Boy. 

He presses himself low to the ground, crouching, concealing himself in the weeds and grasses at the edge of the Lake. He inches forwards slowly and cannot decide if he feels more curiosity or irritation towards this Boy who has dared to venture out of the castle this early, at this time of the year, to disturb his sublime and sacred dawn. 

He halts, one paw raised. Is that…?

The Boy has reached a somewhat sheltered spot on the western side of the Lake where elegant Willows - Weeping, not Whomping - reach their languid branches towards the water and offer some protection from any spying eyes that might be peeping out from any of the castle’s many windows. The Boy gestures towards the ground with his wand, and sits. 

Sirius sneezes again. Surely not. That Boy would never just sit on the ground like some ordinary person, as though he’d never grown up being told he was royalty. 

Would he?

Sirius crawls closer, edging around the Lake, until he is close enough that he would be able to smell the Boy even without his handy canine nose. He cannot deny it any longer. The Boy is Regulus. And Regulus looks more lost and alone than Sirius has ever seen him. 

It has been two months, now, since Sirius left Number Twelve. Six weeks since Regulus turned away from him on the Hogwarts Express and refused to speak to him. Five weeks since Regulus turned away from him in the Potions corridor, four weeks since Regulus turned away from him in the Great Hall. Three weeks since Sirius began staying up late every night, staring at the prototype Map by wandlight, staring at the little label in the Slytherin dormitory that bore the name “Regulus Black”, staring and wondering what his brother was doing, thinking, wishing.

Regulus has never liked dogs. But Padfoot is a magnificent creature, if Sirius may say so himself, all glossy black fur and moon-bright eyes. How could anyone resist the temptation to pet Padfoot, to talk to him, to confess to him all their deepest secrets? Surely even frigid little Regulus could not resist Padfoot’s charms. 

Sirius slinks closer, approaching Regulus from behind. His brother is all sharp limbs, trembling despite his Puffskein fur-lined winter cloak, his shoulders hunched up somewhere past his ears and his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. 

When Sirius is almost within licking distance the traitorous rushes and grasses rustle a little too loudly and Regulus jerks around, alarmed. The two brothers Black - Dog-Star and Lion-Heart, The Scorcher and The Prince, Sirius and Regulus - stare at each other for a moment, as frozen as the Lake. 

Regulus is the first to come to his senses. He leaps to his feet and points his wand at Sirius. Sirius takes a step back, though his brother can barely hold his wand steady enough to be able to cast anything remotely life-threatening.

“Grim!” Regulus yelps. 

Ah.

It is easy for Sirius to forget how much his canine form resembles a Grim. The only living beings he normally spends time with as Padfoot are his friends - who don’t care, since they are generally also in the company of a Werewolf who, despite his fondness for cardigans and Welsh poets, is far more dangerous than a Grim - and the other creatures of the Forest and Lake, who know nothing of the ominous, deep-rooted, folkloric connotations of the Grim.

Regulus, of course, is extremely well-versed in such omens. Regulus, of course, has been raised on a diet of Grims and Thestrals, Blood-Curses and Dark Magic. Regulus, of course, still believes that a Grim is a Herald of Death. 

“Get back!” Regulus whimpers, somewhat hysterically, while taking a step backwards himself. 

If he isn’t careful he’ll step right into the Lake and crash through the ice and be lost beneath its waters forever. Sirius barks a warning. 

“No!” Regulus cries. “Begone, Foul Creature of the Night!” 

Wow. What nonsense has he been reading lately, in the absence of Sirius’s excellent influence? Has Alphard been loaning out his collection of melodramatic Gothic romances again?

“I will not succumb to your wiles, Grim!” 

Sirius considers just sitting there and watching his brother panic. He has always found Regulus’s hysterics quite hilarious, a completely harmless diversion in the face of Walburga’s dramatic and dangerous mood-swings. But there is something much sadder about Regulus, now. There is something much sadder about his panic and hysteria when Sirius knows that he cannot talk him down from it or offer him any comfort afterwards. 

Instead, he lets out a low whine, hoping that Regulus will understand it as the apology it is intended to be. He runs back towards the Forest in search of a hidden place where he might safely transform back to his boy form and join his friends for breakfast. With any luck, Prongs won’t have scoffed all the bacon. 

* * *

Regulus continues to ignore Sirius-the-boy. He sits with his back to the Gryffindor table at every mealtime, he brushes past his brother in the corridors and quickly turns around whenever they happen to bump into each other in the castle grounds. Regulus has been made a Prefect, of course, but Sirius cannot even goad the little git into giving him detention, no matter how many times he lures one of his hideous Slytherin friends into a duel. 

Regulus, however, is beginning to warm to Sirius-the-dog. 

Sirius goes looking for Regulus during those glorious dawn hours and sometimes finds him in that same hidden spot beneath the Weeping Willow at the edge of the Lake. The first few times, Regulus would repeat his wand-brandishing and stuttering, melodramatic half-speeches until Sirius slunk away again. But after the long summer holidays, Regulus has grown to tolerate the Grim that seems so oddly interested in him. Or, at least, he no longer grows hysterical at the very sight of Padfoot. 

One chilly October morning, Regulus is not there. Sirius huffs out a breath and cannot understand why he feels as though this is a personal slight. He lies down in the grasses, rests his head on his paws, and stares glumly out across the waters of the Lake. Maybe Regulus has grown tired of sulking and moping and talking to a creature that cannot talk back. Maybe he has finally made a friend.

Owls hoot to one another in the distance. Sirius’s dog-ears prick up. He lifts his head. Across the Lake, walking towards the Quidditch pitch, he sees a small figure carrying a broomstick on its shoulder.

Sirius leaps to his feet and races around the Lake, his legs and paws a black blur beneath him, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. He swerves into the entrance to the Quidditch pitch and comes to a skidding halt at the lower stands, where he finds Regulus stretching. 

Sirius sits and barks a greeting. Regulus jumps, turns around, and rolls his eyes when he sees who has disturbed him. He resumes his stretches. Sirius shuffles closer and barks again. 

Regulus peers over his shoulder and sighs. “What do you want, you horrible thing?” 

An interesting question. One that Sirius doesn’t particularly feel like dwelling on. He barks again and flashes Regulus his most charming doggy grin. Regulus sighs again and straightens up. He reaches for his broomstick, which he has leant against the barrier wall of the lower stands. 

“I don’t have time for a stalker, you know,” Regulus says. 

He pokes the end of his broomstick in Sirius’s direction. Sirius snaps his jaws at it and jumps in circles around Regulus, barking his excitement. He can see the corners of Regulus’s mouth twitching and knows he has so very nearly won him over. 

“Did those Gryffindor brutes send you to spy on me?” ask Regulus, still teasing him with his broom. “Yes, of course they did. The only way Potter can hope to win the Cup this year is by spying on our training sessions and stealing our tactics - so much for those noble Gryffindor morals. Self-righteous berks.”

Sirius drops to the floor. He growls, his shackles rising, his teeth bared. 

“Well, that confirms it,” Regulus says gamely, though he cannot hide the trembling in his voice. 

He backs away slowly from Sirius, keeping his broom between them. When he judges himself to be a safe distance away he leaps onto his broom and soars into the sky. 

Sirius feels… well, he doesn’t feel bad , exactly, because Regulus is a little prick who doesn’t know what he’s talking about and should learn to keep his stupid mouth shut. Just because Slytherins can’t win without cheating doesn’t mean that Prongs has sunk to the same level. 

But he probably shouldn’t have growled at his brother. Not when they were so close to being… Can a Boy be friends with a Grim?

Sirius sits patiently in a somewhat sheltered part of the pitch and watches Regulus. His brother has always been an excellent flyer; he must have inherited it from Alphard or Cassiopeia, because Salazar himself would surely rise from the dead before either Walburga or Orion deigned to mount a broomstick. 

Sirius supposes it’s on account of the favouritism they always displayed towards Regulus that he’s even allowed to fly at all. He knows they would have set fire to all the broomsticks in London rather than allow him to play Quidditch.

Maybe he could take it up, now that he’s free. He huffs. Maybe not: broomsticks are so pedestrian . Maybe he could enchant one of those hoovers from Muggle Studies instead - Evans said she’d read a book once, where witches rode hoovers instead of brooms. 

Muggles. Fucking wild . 

Regulus releases multiple Snitches from a box near the northern goal hoops and catches them all, many times. He catches the Snitches over and over again and Sirius is beginning to get rather peckish, but Regulus finally directs his broomstick back towards the ground and lands neatly on the grass.

“Still here?” he asks Sirius, regarding him a little warily. 

Sirius whines softly and gives him what he hopes is an apologetic look. He’s been told he has exceptionally powerful puppy-dog eyes. 

Regulus sighs. “Come on, then.” 

He opens the gate at the bottom of the nearest stands and starts climbing the stairs. Sirius follows, trotting along happily behind him, and wonders if Regulus does this often. He should start checking the Map more regularly, now that it’s fully operational. He finds it comforting to know where Regulus is - comforting to know that he isn’t hanging around with Snivellus and his twat-faced cronies. 

They climb and climb until they reach the very top of the stand and then they sit, side-by-side, in the middle of the highest bench. Regulus is still holding the last Snitch he caught. Sirius watches him as he stares at it. Its wings flutter helplessly against Regulus’s fingers and Sirius half-expects him to throw it up and snatch it out of the air, just like Prongs does. He doesn’t, though. He simply stares at it, frowning at his distorted reflection in its shiny gold surface, and then releases it.

Sirius turns his dog-head to watch the Snitch zoom across the Quidditch pitch, until it disappears in a wink of sunlight. Regulus sighs and Sirius turns back to him, tilting his head inquiringly. 

“What?” asks Regulus.

Sirius presses his head against Regulus’s hand, expectant. He doesn’t comply, so Sirius wriggles his nose beneath Regulus’s arm and forces his muzzle through.

“Stop snuffling at me, you disgusting thing,” Regulus says, though there is fondness, not malice, in his voice. 

Sirius whines and nuzzles Regulus’s stomach. 

“You’re not a very good Grim, you know.” Regulus finally concedes and begins to stroke Sirius’s head. “I thought Grims were supposed to be ominous and menacing. You’re not even half as scary as Great-Granny Violetta’s deerhounds.”

Sirius snorts. Great-Granny Violetta’s deerhounds are about as scary as gravy.

“Sirius always liked dogs,” Regulus says absent-mindedly. Sirius stiffens and looks up at him, but he’s gazing far away across the Quidditch pitch. “I wonder if the Potters have a dog. Sirius never mentioned it. But I suppose he never mentioned much of anything, towards the end.” 

That’s a bloody lie, and Regulus knows it. Sirius told him everything. He’d always told him everything, and still would, if only the little shit would let him. 

Well, not everything, he supposes… He’s never told him about Padfoot, obviously. Or the Map. Or that time he got drunk on cheap firewhisky and snogged Moony in the bathroom and had a crisis about it for a month afterwards.

(He’s still having a crisis about it.)

He whines. Regulus scratches behind Sirius’s ears with one hand and pulls something out of his pocket with the other. The something smells delicious and bacony and Sirius noses at it, hungry and curious, and noses at it some more when he realises that Regulus is laughing. 

“Stop snuffling ,” he says. “Bad dog!” 

That’s a very rude thing to say, but Sirius removes his nose and watches Regulus carefully unwrap the brown paper package. There’s a bacon sandwich inside. Sirius sniffs; it still smells fresh. Regulus neatly slices it in two with his wand. 

“Now, sit.” 

Sirius sits.

“Good boy,” says Regulus, and that isn’t weird at all. Definitely not. Sirius chooses to gently bite the proffered sandwich out of his brother’s hand instead of thinking about how definitely not-weird that is. “Good Snuffles.”

* * *

Alphard is dead. 

The Map is playing up and Alphard is dead. 

Sirius hasn’t seen Regulus since he approached him, out of the blue, outside Herbology, to hand him a copy of Alphard’s will and Alphard is dead. 

He’s been left money. Andromeda, too. And that’s great and all but Sirius doesn’t need money he needs his uncle but Alphard is dead. 

Regulus’s name blinks into view again. Maybe he was using a shortcut they haven’t found yet, maybe Sirius should tell the others so Wormtail can go and investigate it, but he hasn’t got time for that. He hasn’t got time for any of it, it’s not important, they won’t understand. Regulus is climbing the Astronomy Tower and they won’t understand . 

Sirius lurches from his bed, tosses the Map aside, and storms out of the dormitory and down the stairs and out of the common room, ignoring Prongs’ stupid questions and Moony’s stupid Prefecty grumbling. He marches noisily along corridors and up staircases. He disturbs the portraits from their snoozing as he strides but he doesn’t care, they have an eternity in which to sleep and he has one night, just this one night, to—

He growls in frustration. Regulus will do a runner if Sirius tries to talk to him as Sirius . He’s flighty, these days, flightier then he’s ever been. Sirius will have to go dog. 

He transforms at the bottom of the narrow spiral staircase and bounds upwards on paws, not feet. He pushes open the wooden door at the top with his dog-nose and spots Regulus immediately, a shadowed figure leaning against the parapet. 

Regulus seems smaller than ever despite, or maybe because of, his thick black cloak. Sirius pads over to him, his paws almost silent on the rough stone floor, but Regulus doesn’t seem surprised when he jumps up to place his front paws on the parapet and lick the side of his brother’s face. 

“I suppose Mother was right when she said this school has gone to the dogs.”

Regulus sighs and folds his arms on top of the stone wall, and rests his chin on them. Sirius sits back on his haunches and rests against Regulus’s legs, hoping the warmth of his bodyweight can convey some sense of comfort.

He knows it’s selfish to hoard grief. Regulus was just as close to Alphard as he was. Closer, in many ways. Regulus and Alphard both loved riding and flying, puzzles and stories. Sirius liked the stories too, but he had always been too impatient to sit still and listen whenever Alphard had returned from his travels, too eager to run off and play with his new presents instead. 

But Regulus has always been better at that sort of thing, hasn’t he? He’s always been better than Sirius at everything , as Walburga and Orion always loved to tell him. 

And Regulus still has the rest of them, doesn’t he? He’s still got grumpy Grandfather Arcturus and grumpier Grandfather Pollux, soft Granny Melania and all the countless Aunts and Uncles and Great-Aunts and Great-Uncles and even Great-Great-Granny Ursula, the persistent old hag. 

Sirius only had Alphard. Only Alphard had been unfailingly kind and generous and understanding. Only Alphard had reached out to him after he’d left home, helped him, reintroduced him to Andromeda (and Dora!).

And it wasn’t the gold that Sirius cherished - the Potters had plenty of that, and were plenty generous with it, too - it was the advice . Alphard was always so good at advice, at leading Sirius to the solutions to problems he’d never realised he had. 

He wishes he’d told Alphard about snogging Moony and all those stupid fucking feelings . He wonders if Regulus has ever had feelings for someone he shouldn’t have feelings for, and if he’d ever asked Alphard what to do about them. Seems unlikely. 

Regulus lets out a heavy sigh and turns away from the parapet. Sirius whines softly, feeling guilty for getting submerged in his own stupid thoughts when he’s supposed to be working out what’s going on inside his brother’s head. He worries that Regulus is going to leave without saying another word. He suspects that Regulus would never allow a Grim to follow him down to the Slytherin dungeons, no matter how sorry for himself he was feeling. 

But Regulus doesn’t leave the Tower. He stops at the wall, slides down it, sits cross-legged on the cold floor and pats the space beside him. Sirius knows an invitation when he sees one and curls up on the indicated spot. He rests his head on Regulus’s lap. 

“You’ll have to forgive my rudeness, Snuffles,” Regulus says as he scratches Sirius behind the ears. “I don’t think I ever told you my name. It’s Regulus; Regulus Arcturus Black.” Sirius can hear the pride in his brother’s voice and it makes him feel six hundred kinds of weird. He’s never , not once, been proud of his name. “All the wizards in my family are named after stars, you see. Well, all except Phineas Nigellus, my great-great-grandfather. I’m not sure what the Naming Seer was thinking when they named him.” 

Sirius huffs. He’s quite sure the Naming Seer had Seen what an annoying, pompous git Phineas Nigellus was going to be and had named him accordingly. No celestial body was pretentious enough for that twat.

“Anyway,” Regulus continues, “Regulus-the-star is in the Leo constellation, which the Greeks thought looked like a lion. Regulus-the-star is at the heart of the lion, something my brother Sirius always found hilarious. He’s named for the brightest star in the sky, of course. The Dog Star. I expect you would like that, Snuffles, wouldn’t you? We’ll have to come back up here in the winter and I’ll show you.” 

Sirius thinks that Regulus is quite mad for thinking that a Grim-dog might be able to follow his directions to see a bloody star, or even care about seeing it at all, but he dutifully licks his brother’s hand anyway.

“My star is just about visible at this time of year,” Regulus says, sounding painfully sad. “It’s only faint, of course. Not as bright as Sirius. Never as bright as Sirius.” 

He’s obviously talking about Sirius-the-star, not Sirius-the-person. Regulus has always been much brighter than him, much cleverer, the little swot. Their tutor was always full of praise for Regulus’s perfect handwriting and Regulus’s perfect diction and Regulus’s perfect fucking everything. 

Sirius huffs and moves his head from Regulus’s lap, flopping down onto the cold stone floor instead. 

“You can see my uncle’s star, too,” Regulus says quietly. Sirius watches him out of the corner of his eye. “My Uncle Alphard. He died last month. Dragon Pox, my parents said, but…” His voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t know. He was so far away, and it all happened so suddenly, and… I hope he wasn’t alone when he died, Snuffles. Nobody should be alone when they die.” 

Regulus sniffs and wipes at his eyes with the edge of his cloak. Sirius whines softly and edges closer to him again, feeling guilty for getting annoyed at his brother, again , when he hasn’t done anything, not really. None of this is Regulus’s fault. 

“I wish Sirius hadn’t run away from home,” says Regulus, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

Sirius holds his breath and thinks about running away from this because he doesn’t think, not in a million years, that Regulus would have confessed that secret if he knew that Padfoot - Snuffles - is Sirius. But he can’t run away because Regulus is looping his arms around Sirius’s neck and crying silently into his fur and there’s nothing he can do. 

“Mother doesn’t want me to speak to him,” Regulus admits. “She won’t even acknowledge that he existed. I don’t know how she can— how can you just stop caring about somebody, as suddenly as that? He was— he is— I’m so scared . What if she turns against me, too? I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t have Potter . I don’t have— I don’t have anyone.” 

Sirius feels his heart shatter but there’s nothing he can do except sit there blinking his stupid dog-eyes while his brother weeps into his stupid dog-fur.

* * * 

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Sirius. Everything alright?” 

Sirius tries not to squirm as Mrs Potter places the back of her hand against his forehead. 

Two years. Two years and one day since they accepted him and welcomed him into their home, allowed him to stay indefinitely, no questions asked.

Two years and one day and he still can’t handle the concept of a parental figure bothering to care about him

“I expect it’s all those roast potatoes repeating on him,” says Mr Potter, glancing over his shoulder to wink at Sirius.

“Yeah,” Sirius says. “Something like that.” 

It’s Christmas night, and while Sirius has indulged in more than a few additional roast potatoes since Christmas Dinner earlier that day, the leftovers aren’t what’s bothering him.

“Well, you know where the indigestion tonic is if you need it, dear,” says Mrs Potter. She pats him on the shoulder and leaves him to it. 

Sirius nods absently. His eyes are fixed on Mr Potter, who has strung up some sort of thin rotating pole in the fireplace and is attempting to roast yet more potatoes - plus parsnips, carrots, and great hunks of turkey - on it before Prongs can come barging in and scoff the lot. 

Leftovers.

Sirius had never encountered the word before he’d come to live with the Potters. At Grimmauld Place, any food that isn’t eaten by the family is just… well. He doesn’t know, exactly, but he assumes that Kreacher must do something with it. All he knows is that his parents certainly wouldn’t consider “leftovers” worthy of consumption by a Black. 

He scowls into the fireplace as his mind drifts unpleasantly to Number Twelve. No doubt they are all wearing their finery for the festive season, stiff starched robes and dripping in jewels. He wonders if they ate goose or beef yesterday. Maybe both. He wonders how drunk Walburga was at the family’s Yule party last night, and if Regulus did a better job of placating and entertaining their endless stream of cousins and uncles and great-aunts than he had ever cared about doing.

Sirius sighs and chews the side of his thumb. There are faint thumping sounds coming from outside; Prongs’ parents gave him a self-propelling training Quaffle for Christmas and he’d bolted outside straight after dinner to practice with it. He’s Gryffindor Captain, obviously, as well as Head Boy, and Sirius is delighted for him, of course he is, he’s dead proud, really, but…

It’s weird, he supposes, to have once been treated like a prince. To have been told every day that you were destined for great things, in between the shouting and the yelling and the “straighten your robes, Sirius!”. To have been named for the brightest star in the night sky. And then to have given it all up, just like that.

To have become ordinary.

Just Sirius. Not Sirius, son of Orion. Not Sirius, the Black heir. Not Sirius Black III. 

Just Sirius. 

Mr Potter stands up and brushes down his red-checked trousers. Prongs always teases him endlessly for his fashion sense, but Sirius secretly thinks he’s quite cool, for an old person. Those trousers are almost punk .

He turns to Sirius. “Cup of tea, son?” 

Sirius’s heart lurches the way it always does and always will do when Mr Potter calls him son . 

Both senior Potters always tell him off for calling them “Mr and Mrs”. They say it’s a far too formal way to address them and that it makes them feel ancient (even though they are). They say he’s very welcome to call them plain old “Fleamont and Euphemia”, or anything else he would prefer. But using their forenames seems wrong, somehow, to the bloke who grew up surrounded by etiquette and traditions and endless fucking rules that he still can’t seem to shake, no matter how many leather jackets he buys. 

He knows what the Potters mean by “anything else.” He would like to call them that too, he really would. He knows how happy it would make them. It’s easy to imagine the way the tip of Mrs Potter’s nose would redden and the way Mr Potter’s eyes would glisten, the way Prongs would thump him on the back when he heard about it and tell him, “about time, wanker”. 

But he can’t bring himself to do it. He just can’t . 

So he doesn’t call them anything at all.

“No, thanks,” he says, throwing Mr Potter a bright, brilliant, Sirius Black Smile. “I think I’m going to pop out for a bit, actually.”

“Going to visit one of your fancy girls, is it?” 

“Yeah. Maybe,” Sirius says, forcing himself to laugh.

Mr Potter claps him on the shoulder and passes through to the kitchen. Sirius can hear him talking to Mrs Potter over the low hum of the wireless, can hear her laughing in return. He expects they’ll be dancing around the kitchen like a pair of teenagers in no time, until Prongs comes hurtling in and yells, “ugh, gross!”

Sirius wonders if his own parents have ever acted like teenagers, or if they just popped out of their respective Black mothers’ wombs as ready-made twats, sneering mouths and haughty eyebrows and all. 

He sniffs, slams the front door behind him, and apparates to London.

Grimmauld Place looks exactly like it always does in December. The same tasteful soft yellow lights are strung across the hedgerows and looped around the lampposts. The same elegant wreaths are hanging from each black-painted door, the same colour-coordinated Christmas trees are displayed in each bay window. None of it is a match for the Potters’ clashing, misshapen, hodge-podge of decorations, many made by Prongs’ own inartistic hands, collected over generations. 

Sirius crouches behind one of the hedges and goes dog. He sniffs the air - once, twice, three times for luck - and steps out onto the pavement. 

The neat row of near-identical Georgian townhouses shudders and creaks and splits right down the middle to allow Number Twelve to grow out of the pavement and into existence. 

Sirius will never confess it to anyone, not even to Prongs, but he has always worried that he would never be able to return. That one day the house would forget about him, and he about the house, and Walburga’s wishes would finally come true. 

But it hasn’t happened yet. The house still knows him, still recognises him as a Black.

Sirius sits, his tail sweeping across the pavement, and watches. 

He can’t see Regulus’s bedroom from here - both boys’ rooms, on the very top floor, out of sight and out of mind, overlook the back garden - but the warm glows in the windows two floors below suggest that Orion is in his study and Walburga in the drawing-room.

Plus ça change.

Maybe Regulus is reading to his mother or helping his father with the end-of-year accounts. Maybe he’s hiding away in the basement kitchen with Kreacher like the odd, soft little child it hurts Sirius the most to remember. To try to forget.

What am I doing here?

He cannot answer himself. He cannot move, either, does not want to, not even when he hears the sound of someone stumbling into existence and dry-heaving as though they have just travelled a long distance via portkey.

After a moment the person says, “Snuffles?”

Sirius jerks around and sees Regulus, his hair windswept from the journey, but smiling.

“It is you! Merry Christmas, you smelly old thing!” Regulus says, bounding forwards and dropping to his knees in front of Sirius so he can ruffle the fur at his neck, just the way he likes it. 

Regulus looks strange. The way he’s carrying himself, the set of his shoulders… he looks confident, self-assured, and it’s completely at odds with the Regulus that Sirius has always known, the image of Regulus that he always carries around in his head. This Regulus, this Brave New Regulus, is wearing a roguish and, quite frankly, Sirius-like grin. Sirius hasn’t seen his brother look this happy for a very long time and he can’t imagine anything about a Black Christmas - the Black Christmases that he knew, anyway - that could make even Regulus look this happy.

Unsure of what else he can do, Sirius barks and licks his brother’s face.

“Shush!” Regulus says through his laughter. “The neighbours will hear and cart you off somewhere muggle and awful and I don’t have time to rescue you. You don’t want that, do you?” 

Sirius makes a low whining sound and sits back on his haunches. He certainly does not want that. Evans has warned him plenty of times about the sorts of things that muggles do to stray dogs and he wants nothing at all to do with it. 

“How did you get all the way down to London?” asks Regulus as he scratches behind Sirius’s ears. “Are you checking up on me? You’re not my mother, you know— oh, but speaking of Mother… I can’t stay here all night, Snuffles. I need to tell Mother and Father something - I need to show them something. They’re going to be so delighted, Snuffles! They’re going to be so proud !”

Sirius tilts his head to the side. He wonders, briefly, if Regulus has done the unthinkable. But he wouldn’t. Would he? Regulus wouldn’t be so stupid as to think that that would make Walburga and Orion proud. Their parents had never— 

Unless they had? Unless Sirius had just been so obsessed with arguing against their common garden bigotry that he’d missed all the signs that they were involved in something so much— 

But Regulus isn’t like that. Bellatrix, maybe (definitely), but Regulus? Soft little Reggie? Fuck off. No way.

“You can’t stay here,” Regulus says, giving him a gentle push. “Go on, shoo.”

Sirius doesn’t shoo. Sirius stays in the park opposite Number Twelve, hiding in the uncut grass beneath a wooden bench. He can see the house through a gap in the hedge and watches the front door open for Regulus, then close again behind him. He watches the landing lights flicker on and off as Regulus ascends, watches the light in Orion’s study dim as, Sirius assumes, the family gathers in the drawing-room.

Regulus has always liked the drawing-room. He’s always thought it a suitable place for grand family occasions, has always taken pride in it in a way that Sirius could never bring himself to do. Never wanted to bring himself to do. He’s never seen the point in idolising their dusty old ancestors, but he supposes that Regulus must take some strength from knowing there were Merlin knows how many Reguluses ( Reguli? Must ask Moony ) before him.

He really is so much better at this heir business than Sirius ever was. He really is a much better son. Wizard. Human being.

Sirius is just considering returning to the Potters instead of hanging around Grimmauld Place like an abandoned puppy when Number Twelve’s front door opens again. He leaps to his paws and bounds across the pavement to meet Regulus, but this time he receives no grin, no cheery greeting. This time, Regulus wraps his arms around Sirius-the-dog’s neck and buries his face in his fur and sobs , gulps, hiccoughs on his tears in a way Sirius hasn’t seen Regulus do since they were children and Evan Rosier set fire to his favourite stuffed hippogriff. 

Sirius whines and turns to lick Regulus’s face, an attempt to soothe him or comfort him or something since he cannot do what he used to do, what he wants to do, which is to wrap his silly baby brother up in a blanket and force him to climb up onto the rooftop and count the stars until he calms down.

Regulus seems to remember where he is and jerks away from Sirius. He stumbles to his feet and wipes furiously at his wet face.

“Why are you still here?” he demands. 

Sirius thumps his tail against the pavement and takes a step forwards. Regulus staggers back. 

“No,” he says firmly, though the effect is somewhat lost thanks to his blotchy face and runny nose. “Bad dog!” 

Sirius whines. That is decidedly unfair.

“Why are you even here? Go away!” 

He barks.

“Stop it! Leave me alone!” 

Sirius cannot stand the way Regulus looks over his shoulder at the house. He cannot stand the way Regulus’s face crumples when he turns back.

“I can’t— I can’t do this!” 

He turns and stumbles away down the street. Sirius follows. He whines, barks, nips at Regulus’s feet. He wishes he knew the right thing to do to stop his brother from crying, he’s terrified about what could have happened inside Number Twelve to change Regulus’s mood so drastically. Regulus keeps batting him away until, eventually, he twists on his heel and apparates out of existence, leaving Sirius alone in the empty street to howl for his little brother.

* * *

It’s easy to forget how young Regulus is. 

Or rather, Sirius supposes, it’s easy to forget how young they all are. But he doesn’t want to dwell too much on his own youth, not now that he has his own flat and his own motorbike and a— and a Moony, and is doing extremely important Work for an extremely important Cause. 

It was easy to forget how young Regulus is, anyway. It was easy to forget until this afternoon. Until Orion’s funeral. Until Sirius was forced to watch, in dog form, from the cemetery gates, the way that Regulus was being so easily consumed by the decrepit old Blacks. They crowded around him like crows around a corpse, all of them older than him, taller than him, louder than him. 

It must be like this all the time. Regulus is the last one, their last son. The only one they have left to twist and manipulate and mould into their idea of the Perfect Black and they’ll peck-peck-peck away at him until there is nothing left of him but perfect, pure, moon-bleached bones. 

Toujours Pur. Toujours Stuck Up Their Own Arses, more like. 

He wonders how Regulus can bear it. Sirius himself had never been able to. All that pestering and nagging, all that “where are your manners, Sirius,” “you need to remember your role in this family, Sirius,” “don’t you dare disappoint me again, Sirius.” Fucking Toujours Pur . All that Toujours Pur and Jamais Think For Yourself , wearing away at him until he had no choice but to leave them. 

And he’s always thought that Regulus was good at all that stuff, all that heir stuff. Regulus has always put the wishes of the family before his own, even if it meant stifling his own feelings and hopes and everything. He’s always been well-behaved, polite, predictable. A good son to terrible parents. 

But now that Sirius has seen Regulus’s puffy-eyed, tear-stained face at Orion’s funeral, now that he’s heard Regulus’s rambling, near-incomprehensible confession of guilt, whispered frantically into Padfoot’s fur, Sirius wonders if he hasn’t got it all wrong. He wonders if Regulus is struggling just as much as he had beneath the weight of the family tree. 

It’s a shame Regulus lacks Sirius’s initiative (because it is initiative, not impetuousness, no matter what anyone else says), because wouldn’t it be hilarious if, after all their boasting and gloating and condescending remarks to other members of the family, Orion and Walburga were left with no sons at all?

The branches of a cypress tree rustle overhead. Sirius glances up, and wonders. Didn’t Regulus tell him, once, that he didn’t have anywhere else to go? That he didn’t have anyone else to turn to? Maybe all Regulus needs is a little push. Maybe he just needs a reminder that the world is so much bigger than Grimmauld Place, that it has so much more to offer than yet another line on the family tapestry. 

And Sirius has his own flat, now. He has a job, if you count vigilantism as a job (which he does: he’s on a timesheet and everything). He eats breakfast before noon at least half the time. He’s responsible . 

What sort of brother would he be if he didn’t offer Regulus a place to stay?

He’ll do it, he decides, as he gazes out across the cemetery, watching the marble roof of the Black family mausoleum slowly disappear into the evening fog. He’ll think of a way to convince Regulus, and he’ll do it.

When he arrives back at his flat, mind full of possibilities and Regulus’s grateful smile, he finds Prongs’ trainers strewn about the narrow hallway, where he must have kicked them off after letting himself in.

“Alright?” Prongs yells from the other end of the flat. 

Sirius walks through the living room and finds his best mate sitting at the rickety kitchen table, helping himself to the biscuit barrel. He supposes he’ll eventually have to tell Prongs about how he’s going to save Regulus, but he doesn’t want to do that just now. He doesn’t want to see that stupid sad face Prongs makes whenever Sirius talks about Regulus. He doesn’t want Prongs to suggest telling Evans so she can help them make a plan . Fuck Evans. Fuck plans. 

“Where’s the missus?” he asks evasively, skirting around the table to flip on the kettle. 

“Potions stuff with Emmeline,” Prongs replies around a mouthful of custard creams. “Y’know, you’re going to have to start calling her Lily at some point. She hates it when you call her ‘the missus’ and she won’t be an Evans for much longer. It’ll be dead weird if you call her Potter instead.”

Sirius scoffs as he opens the cupboard above his head and pulls out two mismatching mugs. Even if Evans does miraculously decide that she wants to marry Prongs, even if they have a Quidditch team’s worth of kids, even if they all grow old and boring and live happily ever after, he reckons it’ll still feel wrong to call her anything but Evans. That’s why he calls her Prongs’s missus.

“Where’s yours?” Prongs asks in return.

“Moony doesn’t live here, y’know.” 

“He might as well.” 

Sirius contemplates pouring the boiled kettle over his own hands instead of dealing with Prongs right now. His head is a right fucking mess and he just wants to go to Grimmauld Place and see Regulus again. He should have gone straight after the funeral. He could have him here, safe, by now.

He sighs. “He’s off doing shit for Dumbledore.” 

“Ah. You alright?” 

“You already asked me that,” Sirius says, stirring the sugar into their tea a little too vigorously.

“Yeah, and you didn’t answer.” 

“I’m fine.” He hands one of the mugs to Prongs and leans against the kitchen counter. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Prongs shrugs. “Just a hunch.” 

He pulls a copy of the Prophet out of his jacket pocket and slides it across the table towards Sirius. The newspaper is folded to a particular page, a particular article: a funeral notice. Sirius takes a quick gulp of tea and tries not to wince as it burns its way down his throat. 

“Did you go?” Prongs asks, his voice low and full of concern.

“So what if I did?” 

“I’m not having a go, mate. You know I would’ve gone with you if you’d asked.” 

“I don’t need you to hold my hand.” 

“I know.” He takes a sip of tea. Sirius picks at a chip in the worktop. “So, how was he?” 

Sirius shrugs. “Dead.” 

“Not him , you muppet. Regulus. I’m assuming he’s why you went?” 

Sirius knocks his mug down onto the countertop and strides over to the kitchen sink. He knows, deep down, that Prongs isn’t judging him. He knows that Prongs is genuinely concerned, because that’s the kind of person he is, isn’t it? Generous. Kind. A good friend. An all-round top bloke. 

Yet Sirius can’t help but feel as though he’s being poked at and goaded. Maybe it’s because he’s just been in the vicinity of the Blacks, poking and goading at Regulus. Or maybe it’s because he’s an arsehole who still can’t comprehend that someone might be nice to him just because they want to be, and not because they’re trying to manipulate him into something he can’t quite grasp.

But he knows that Prongs suspects, just as much as Sirius does. They all do. They all know the sorts of people that Regulus hangs around with at school. They all know - or at least, they all reckon they know - what his family are capable of. They’ve all grown up hearing the same rumours about Slytherins and the Blacks and purebloods obsessed with their status and their blood above all other things. Above their own children’s happiness, even. 

Prongs doesn’t understand, though. He can’t understand. He doesn’t have a brother that he would have to choose to leave behind - and his family would never make him choose, either. 

Sirius does. Sirius did. And no matter how much he rebels against his upbringing, no matter how much he tries to deny his blood, no matter how much he wishes he could just drain it all out of himself and start afresh - Regulus is still his brother. Sirius still feels responsible for the little shit. He still wants to help him.

“Mate—“

“Don’t,” Sirius says sharply. “Just don’t. You don’t understand. You don’t have a—” 

“Yeah, I do.” 

Sirius turns around, frowning. “What?” 

“You were going to say that I don’t have a brother,” Prongs says, looking extremely calm in an extremely disconcerting way. “But I do.” 

“What the fuck are you on about?” 

“We might have different parents, Pads, but you’re the brother I chose. And that counts, alright?”

Sirius’s heart falters. His brain short-circuits. He stares at Prongs and he must look like he’s having a seizure. He can feel his face twitching and his eyes stinging and his throat feels like he’s just inhaled an entire desert. 

“Poncey git,” he croaks. 

He strides out of the kitchen, across the hallway, and kicks open his bedroom door. He sits down heavily on the end of his bed and holds his head in his hands. 

He’s never managed to work out how he’s supposed to respond to the easy, casual affection that Prongs and his parents throw around so freely. They treat it like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t hurt them to give it, like affection doesn’t have to be earned. 

“I know this is shit, mate.” 

Sirius peers between his fingers and sees Prongs resting his arse against the door frame as he shoves his trainers back on. Sirius bows his head lower and scrubs at his hair. 

“You can say that again,” he mutters. 

“But I’m here for you,” Prongs continues. “We all are - me, Moony, Pete, Lils, Mum and Dad - we’re all here for you, yeah? Whatever you need, whenever you need it.” 

Sirius grunts, because he does not trust himself to speak. 

“Good lad.” Prongs raps on the doorframe with his knuckles. “I’ve got to go - I’d give you a hug but you look like you might throw a wobbly if I do. See you tomorrow for a roast at Mum’s?” 

“Yeah,” Sirius says, his voice hoarse. “See you.” 

* * *

“Snuffles!” 

Sirius halts. He’s been coming back to Grimmauld Place every day for the past fortnight and he hasn’t seen Regulus at all. But this time, today, Sirius has barely stepped out of the park and there he is, hurtling down the front steps of Number Twelve, racing across the pavement and dropping to his knees in front of him. He looks paler than usual, his eyes wide and wild, star-bright moon rocks blinking furiously. 

“Snuffles, I’m so glad you came.” Regulus is talking very quickly and his hands are moving even quicker as he picks stray bits of grass and hedge out of Sirius’s fur. “There’s something— I don’t— it’s—”

Regulus’s eyes keep darting this way and that, up and down, left to right. Sirius’s heart is racing and he’s confused. Scared, even. Regulus’s fingers suddenly stop moving. His hands tighten around Sirius’s fur and then he presses his head to Sirius’s dog-neck and hugs him.

“I was so worried I wouldn’t get the chance to say goodbye to you!”

Sirius sits very still. What? Say goodbye - what does he mean? 

Regulus will be going back to Hogwarts soon, obviously, for his final term at school. Sirius assumes that Slughorn gave him an outrageous amount of compassionate leave or whatever, after Orion’s death, but Regulus will have to go back once the Easter holidays are over or he’ll miss his N.E.W.T. exams. But that doesn’t mean goodbye , not really - Sirius can always go up and see him in Scotland. Regulus knows that. And besides, he’ll be back in London for the summer holidays and forever after that. 

Won’t he?

“I can’t believe it, Snuffles. I can’t understand it. It’s incomprehensible, but—” Regulus takes in a deep, shuddering breath. “But it must be true. There’s no other explanation. All his speeches, all those times he hinted at— And Kreacher ! I can’t believe I—” 

Sirius wonders if this is what it feels like to have an out-of-body experience. He has no idea what Regulus is talking about. He’s scared and confused because Regulus often gets himself worked up about things but this is different, somehow. This is wrong . Regulus is upset, and trembling, and speaking nonsensically, in full view of Number Twelve, in full view of their neighbours , and this is not like him at all. 

“Nobody else seems to— Evan is still so— but maybe they do know? And they just— I don’t know, Snuffles! I don’t know what I should do!” 

Sirius twists his head, trying to get a good look at Regulus, but his brother is clinging too tightly to him, his face buried too deeply in his fur. He whines and licks the back of Regulus’s neck, hoping that will annoy him enough to move, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. 

“I don’t know what to do I don’t know what to do I don’t know what to do!” Regulus repeats himself, over and over, as though he’s speaking an incantation that might somehow reveal the truth to him. “I do know. I do. But I don’t— I can’t— I wish I was brave. I wish I was more like—” 

Regulus sniffs and sits back on his heels. He scrubs at his face with his palms and then wraps his arms tightly around himself and stares straight into Sirius’s eyes.

“Only you and Kreacher know,” Regulus says, his voice dropping to a whisper, though what he’s supposed to know Sirius hasn’t quite worked out yet. “I can’t tell anyone. He’ll find out, and then— it has to be me. There’s no one else. It has to. I’m so— but I have to.” 

Sirius whines and butts his nose against Regulus’s.

“I’m sorry, Snuffles,” he whispers. “I’m— I’m glad we became friends. Gosh, maybe you are a Grim, after all.” Regulus glances over his shoulder, back at the house, and suddenly gets to his feet. “I need to do it. Before I— I just need to get on with it. I’ll say goodbye to Mother and then Kreacher can take me there and— and that will be the end of that.” He breathes in a shaky breath, gives Sirius’s head one last pat, and tilts his trembling chin up. “Goodbye, Snuffles.” 

Regulus turns and walks away. He begins climbing the front steps back into Number Twelve and Sirius panics. He doesn’t understand a word of what Regulus has been saying, he’s got no idea what Regulus and Kreacher are planning to do, but the general fucking vibes he’s getting are very fucking Not Good. 

He panics. 

He transforms. 

“Reg, stop!” 

Regulus pauses on the top step, as though petrified. He turns, very slowly, and stares at Sirius-the-human.

Everything is silent, but not. The air feels thick, heavy, cloying, weighing Sirius down and filling his ears and his nose and his head, screaming at him that he’s the biggest fucking idiot on the planet for revealing himself here , of all places, but his brother is clearly in trouble so what was he supposed to do?

And he just stands there like a lemon while Regulus stares at him.

He isn’t sure what he expected would happen. That idea he had of Regulus’s grateful smile when he tells him he’s going to save him seems completely ridiculous, now. How could he have ever imagined that Regulus would be as happy to see Sirius-the-human as he had been to see Snuffles-the-dog?

What did he expect? Appreciation? A hug ?

What a fucking moron.

Regulus’s eyebrows draw together. He grows even paler, his skin drawn of all colour. His face contorts with anger and he draws his wand.

“ You, ” he spits. “How— how dare you!” 

Sirius raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Look, Reg—” 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

“I just—”

“Have you been spying on me?!” 

“What? No!” 

“I can’t believe you would…” Regulus trails off and glances up at the darkening sky. 

Sirius darts forwards onto the first step. “Reg—“ 

“Get away from me,” Regulus hisses. “Just how thick are you? Do you have any idea what I’m— what he— if Mother found out you were here, she—” 

Regulus’s voice grows more high-pitched with every word and he’s quivering, trembling, fluttering like those Snitches he’s so good at catching, and Sirius wishes he could catch him , could just scoop him up and take him away and to hell with everything else. 

“Do you know what Mother would do if she knew I’d been talking to you?” he continues. “Have you forgotten, so easily, what she is like?” 

“No, of course not, Reg, please—” 

“I can’t— I can’t do this. I don’t have time for your sudden realisation of— of guilt , or whatever this is!”

Regulus’s face wobbles and he turns. The front door is already opening for him, and Sirius can’t think of many things he wants to see less than the inside of that dark, foreboding house, that prison, that hell from which he spent half his teenage years planning his escape, but he can’t let Regulus go. Not now. Not like this. Not when he doesn’t know when (if) he’ll ever see his brother again. 

Sirius lunges forwards and grabs Regulus’s arm. 

“Reg, look, just stop , just tell me what’s happened and I’ll—” 

Regulus wheels around and tries to yank his arm away. Sirius tightens his grip. 

“Why are you pretending that you care what I do?” he demands. “Why do you suddenly care if I live or die? Why now, after all these years?” 

“I’ve always cared about you!” 

“No you haven’t! You left me, remember?” 

Shit . He’s really fucking this up, isn’t he? He keeps a tight grip on Regulus’s arm, takes a deep breath in, and looks up, wondering if his ancestors strewn across the star-scattered sky might care to give him a fucking clue. 

“We’ve been over this, Reg,” he says quietly, calmly, trying to channel Prongs.

“Oh, have we?” says Regulus, his voice dripping with derision, wobbling on the edge of hysteria. “Thought you would teach yourself how to turn into a dog, did you, just so you could spy on me? Thought you would get me to confess all of my horrible little secrets so you could go back to fucking Potter and have a good old laugh with him about stupid pathetic Regulus and his stupid pathetic problems?” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Sirius can feel the anger rising inside him, bubbling, spitting, searching for an outlet. He wants to be calm, he wants to be more like Prongs, but he’s a Black through and through and he’ll never fucking escape it. “Contrary to what dear old Walburga has told you, Regulus, the entire fucking world doesn’t revolve around you , you berk.” 

“You— fuck you, Sirius! Get off me!” 

Regulus is wriggly and slippery, like a fucking jellied eel, and Sirius is glad he’s had all that practice handling Dora when she’s being a right pain in the arse or his brother would surely have slithered away from him by now, never to be seen again. 

He grabs Regulus’s other arm, intending to keep him anchored there on the front steps until he can shake some sense into him, but Regulus flinches, recoils, jerks away so hard that he stumbles over the doorstep and lands flat on his arse just inside the hallway. 

It should be hilarious. At any other time, in any other place, it would be hilarious. 

The disgusting troll’s foot that Bellatrix gifted Walburga all those Christmases ago topples over, sending all the umbrellas and shoe horns and Grandfather Arcturus’s old walking stick clattering across the wooden floor. Regulus and Sirius stare at each other in horror. The sound seems to multiply as it reverberates around the wood-panelled hallway and Sirius knows he should move, leave, get out of there as fast as he possibly can but his legs seem to have stopped working. 

“Sirius,” Regulus whispers urgently, his eyes wider than ever as he scrambles to his feet. “What are you doing? Go , quick!” 

“I—“ 

There are footsteps on the staircase. Regulus whips his head around towards the source of the noise and takes a step backwards, towards Sirius, his arm outstretched, as though they are children again, as though they’ve broken something valuable playing one of Sirius’s stupid fucking games and he’s trying to placate Mother before she screams the house down. 

As always, he’s too late. 

“KREACHER!” 

Sirius’s entire body tenses at the sound of that voice, that hateful voice, the voice that has haunted his nightmares since he was about five years old and that he reckons will haunt his nightmares for as long as he lives. And probably afterwards, knowing the old hag that calls itself a mother. 

He sees her feet, first, and then the hem of her heavily-embroidered robes. He can’t. He just can’t. There’s no way he’s sticking around to see her vile face, to hear what vile words she’s going to dredge up from the pits of hell to berate him with this time. 

“Fuck this,” he says, “and fuck you, Mother.” 

He lunges forwards, grabs Regulus by the arm, and apparates them both away.

* * *

“What is wrong with you?!” Regulus demands. “She’ll kill you, she— I…” He trails off, noticing his surroundings for the first time. “What is this place?” 

“My flat.” 

Sirius darts over to the sofa to plump up the cushions. He stops almost immediately, his hand clenched around a bright yellow one with frilled edges, loathing the way his brother’s judgemental expression can make him feel. And in his own home! He drops the cushion to the floor, just to see how Regulus will react. 

But Regulus has moved on. He inspects the bookshelves and frowns at Sirius’s vinyl collection and the stack of well-loved paperbacks he’s nabbed off Moony over the years. He runs a finger along the edge of the windowsill and pulls a face at the minuscule amount of dust that could have gathered there since the last time Sirius attacked it with a cleaning charm. Regulus kicks at the carpet, turns his nose up at the wallpaper, and generally does a good job of making Sirius feel as though the bloody Queen Mum has turned up to inspect his flat. 

So what if it’s a bit shabby around the edges? So what if the boiler conks out every other day? It’s his . 

“Is this how muggles live?” Regulus eventually asks. He hugs his arms around himself and his eyes dart warily around the room, as though scared something strange might jump out from behind the curtains to bite him. “Are you… oh Merlin. I can’t believe it. Sirius, are you poor ?” 

He can’t help but snort at the horror in Regulus’s voice.

“Don’t laugh at me!” says Regulus, indignant. “I thought Uncle Alphard had left you some gold?” 

Sirius shrugs. “He did.” 

“Then why are you living in this… squalor?” 

“Oh my god . You’re so fucking dramatic. I spent the money on a bike, alright?” 

Regulus frowns in confusion. “A... bicycle? With two wheels?” 

“No, a— oh, forget it. You wouldn’t understand. Want a cuppa?” 

“No,” Regulus says, his frown deepening. “I wasn’t planning on sticking around long enough for a cup of tea . I ought to be getting back. I— there’s something I need to do.” 

“Oh, yes. Your mysterious plans with Kreacher.” 

Regulus’s cheeks redden. “I— I wouldn’t have said that if I’d known… I thought I was talking to…” 

“A dog, yeah.” Sirius grins.

“I can’t believe— you licked me!” 

“Don’t start thinking you’re special. Snuffles licks everyone.”

“I hate you.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Sit down. I’ll put the kettle on.” 

Regulus doesn’t sit down. He traipses after Sirius, glowering, and follows him through to the cramped galley kitchen. Sirius watches out of the corner of his eye as Regulus takes in his surroundings with yet more contemptuous looks. Apparently he doesn’t think appropriate kitchen decor includes plastic Devil’s Snares.

“Sit down,” Sirius insists. 

He tries not to laugh as Regulus pulls out one of the kitchen chairs with a single finger and attempts to cast a subtle cleaning charm over it. He eventually sits, perching on the very edge of the seat. 

Sirius plonks down a mug of tea and takes the chair opposite him. 

“So,” he says. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” 

“Nothing’s going on,” Regulus says. He jabs a finger into the plasticky tablecloth, all wild orange and yellow and brown flowers. “What is this?” 

“Moving-in present from Remus’s mum. What are you and Kreacher planning?” 

“Nothing,” he repeats. He turns to the mug of tea. “And what is this ?” 

“Tea.”

Regulus throws him a withering look and sniffs the tea suspiciously. “What sort of tea?” 

“Tetley’s, I think.”

“Whose?” 

Sirius sighs. “Just drink it, Reg.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Sirius tilts his chair back and watches Regulus’s nose wrinkle every time he takes a sip of tea, and he just knows his brother is desperate to launch into an hour-long rant about how superior his favourite Darjeeling blend from Rosa Lee’s is compared to all other teas. Hell, he’d probably marry poor Rosa if she weren’t merely a “lesser” pureblood and far too old for him.

“Tell me what’s going on, Regulus,” he says, eventually.

Regulus wraps his hands around the chipped mug and stares at the lurid tablecloth.

“I didn’t ask you to follow me,” he says quietly. “I didn’t ask you to stalk me, or to start sticking your big horrible nose into my personal business.” 

“I’ve not been stalking you.” Sirius sighs. “I’ve been worried about you.”

Regulus huffs and takes another sip of tea. “I should have known that Snuffles was spying on me. I suppose you forced Potter to transform into a Merperson so he could watch me in the common room, and Lupin into a bloody owl or something.” 

“You’re such a paranoid arsehole. Why are you so convinced that everyone’s out to get you?” 

“Because they are.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Sirius tilts his chair back further and stares at the ceiling. “Why didn’t you just ask me for help?” 

“Why would I want to do that?” 

“Because I’m your brother, you twat. It’s what brothers do .” 

“Are you my brother?” 

Sirius rocks his chair forwards again, slamming all four legs down. The sound isn’t as satisfying on the slightly spongy linoleum as it had been on Number Twelve’s wooden floorboards, or on the stone floors at Hogwarts, but it’ll have to do. He breathes in deeply, trying to keep his anger and irritation at bay. 

Regulus has always known exactly how to wind him up, just as Sirius has always known exactly how to wind Regulus up, but he can’t let that happen today. Not when he needs to work out exactly what the fuck is going on and how he can prevent his little brother from doing something irreversibly stupid. 

“Yes,” he says decisively, reaching across the table for Regulus’s arm. “I am your— what’s wrong?” 

Regulus flinches away from him and cradles his arm to his chest, as if Sirius has just burnt him or something equally ridiculous.

“Nothing!” 

Sirius narrows his eyes and lunges for him. Regulus might have a Seeker’s reflexes, but he doesn’t know the layout of the flat anywhere near as well as Sirius does, and he isn’t half as strong as Sirius is, either. Sirius soon has hold of his arm and yanks his sleeve up, expecting to find a cut or a graze, an old wound that hasn’t healed properly because the daft sod’s always been scared of Healers, but what he finds instead is… unexpected.

“When the hell did you get a tattoo?” 

“It’s not a— DON’T TOUCH IT!” 

“What? Why not?” 

Sirius expects that it would have been strange to see Regulus with any sort of tattoo, but this tattoo is a particularly weird one. A skull, with a snake, and the snake is hissing at him. Sirius sticks his tongue out at it. Fucking Slytherins. 

“Because—“ Regulus stutters. “I can’t tell you. Just don’t .” 

“Why can’t you tell me.” 

“Because—“ 

His eyes dart around, looking at the ceiling and the carpet and the weird, immobile posters Sirius has stolen from all those muggle gigs he’s been to, looking anywhere but at Sirius. Sirius shakes him by the shoulder, trying to get him to speak. 

“Because you’ll tell people,” Regulus says. “You’ll tell Potter . And— nobody can know about this, Sirius!” 

“I won’t tell anyone,” he says immediately. Who the fuck does he know who’d care about Regulus’s poxy tattoo, anyway?

Regulus scoffs. “Oh, very funny. Since when have you been able to keep anything a secret from Potter?” 

“There are lots of things I haven’t told James.” 

Regulus sucks in his bottom lip and stares at the floor. He takes in a deep breath and, just for a moment, Sirius thinks he might have won, that Regulus is about to reveal the cards he’s been holding so close to his chest for Merlin knows how long. But then his face crumples.

“I can’t do this, Sirius. I can’t— I have to go. I don’t have time for this. I have to go .”

“Go where, Reg? And do what?” 

Regulus stares at him, all wide eyes and down-turned mouth. Something clicks in his mind. His gaze drifts to yesterday’s Prophet , left open on the sideboard: MYSTERIOUS IMAGE APPEARS IN SKY: YOU-KNOW-WHO’S SYMBOL?

His heart is racing, his mind churning, but he thinks he does a good job of keeping the panic out of his voice and his expression. 

“Is it to do with this tattoo?” he asks.

“Sirius…”

“Are you in trouble?” 

There’s a pause. Sirius shakes Regulus again and wishes he could just shake all the answers out of him, a thousand pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that could fall to the floor, waiting for him to put them back together again, because fuck knows it would be easier than trying to drag the answers out of this stubborn little shit.

“Reg? Are you in trouble?” 

“Not yet,” he mutters.

It’s not the most satisfying answer, but it’s one Sirius can live with.

“So this thing with Kreacher,” he says, thinking back to what Regulus had told Snuffles earlier, trying to sift through the riddles and half-sentences Regulus had left him with. “Is it dangerous?” 

Regulus nods. 

I need to say goodbye , he’d said, back at Grimmauld Place.

“Is it life-threatening?” 

Regulus hesitates, stares down at his feet, and nods again.

“You told me - I mean, you told Snuffles - that you didn’t know what to do. You said that you couldn’t tell anyone else. You said you were scared.”

Regulus doesn’t say anything. He stands there, completely motionless, and won’t even meet Sirius’s eyes. 

“Reg,” Sirius says quietly, desperately. “Whatever this is… you don’t have to tell me. Not if you don’t want to. Just let me come with you.” 

He shakes his head. 

“For fuck’s…” Sirius closes his eyes and sighs. “Would you really rather sneak around and get yourself killed than accept my help?” 

He shrugs.

“Reg, come on. I’m being serious. You could fucking die , and—”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” 

“Fucking hell, Regulus!” Sirius exclaims, causing his brother to flinch and look up at him in surprise. “Yes! Yes, it bloody well would be a bad thing! You little— you shit. You absolute shit . You’re a fucking arsehole, do you know that?” 

Regulus nods and says, in a very quiet voice that cleaves Sirius’s heart in two, “Yes.”

“That’s not…” Sirius sighs and runs a hand over his face. He stretches the other towards Regulus, intending to clasp his shoulder, but Regulus quickly flinches away. “That’s not what I meant, Reg.”

“Okay.” He shrugs. “If you say so.”

* * *

Regulus refuses to tell him anything else of note. He barely speaks at all, in fact, and Sirius spends the rest of the evening pacing in circles around the flat, berating himself under his breath for his quick temper and quicker tongue. 

Prong’s would’ve known the right thing to say. Prongs would’ve been able to get Regulus to open up, to explain why he suddenly thought it would be such a good idea to go and get himself fucking killed. Prongs always knows the right thing to say. 

But Sirius does manage to convince Regulus to stay the night. Whether he’s as exhausted as Sirius is after their fractious reunion, or whether he’s just happy for an opportunity to spend a night away from Walburga’s claws, Sirius isn’t sure. 

It doesn’t matter, though. Regulus will get a decent night’s sleep in Sirius’s room - he’d refused the sofa, of course, fussy git - and Sirius will make them both breakfast in the morning and Regulus will spill his secrets and Sirius will fix everything and all will be well. 

He acts extremely graciously, he thinks, in allowing Regulus to summon Kreacher from Grimmauld Place. The horrible old house-elf arrives with pyjamas and a toothbrush and fresh bed linen for the Little King, along with a generous helping of scowls and sneers for Sirius. He’s tempted to make a snarky comment about Regulus being unable to sleep without his teddy bear, but it’s probably for the best that boy and elf lock themselves away in Sirius’s room. He eavesdrops at the door for a time, listening to them muttering about Walburga and Narcissa and other tedious subjects, before he grows bored and retreats to the safety of the living room and his record player.

Kreacher can’t help but sneak up behind Sirius, call him a “hateful brat” (he’s heard worse), and warn him against disturbing “good Master Regulus” from his “vitally important rest”. Sirius rolls his eyes - as if he has any intention of waking his brother up, the grumpy git - and breathes a sigh of relief when Kreacher finally leaves. 

He soon falls asleep on the sofa, dreaming about the blissful day when Kreacher’s head will be mounted on the wall at Number Twelve beside his ancestors. 

Sirius wakes up in the middle of the night, desperate for a piss. He grumbles to himself as he staggers down the hallway, blaming all that bloody tea he drank, and squints in the unnaturally bright electric bathroom light as he does his business. 

He’s still half-asleep and, unthinking, automatically walks back to his bedroom instead of his temporary sleeping quarters in the living room. It’s only when he flops down face-first onto the bed, when he feels the thick, crisp, immaculately clean sheets and perfectly plump Fwooper feather pillows, that he realises something is very, very wrong. 

“Shit. Shit .” 

He sits up. He scrambles for his wand that isn’t there because he didn’t leave it on the bedside table, did he, that’s where Regulus’s wand should be, the enormous fucking wanker. Sirius staggers over to the light switch, slams his palm down on it, and stands still, blinking, chest heaving, staring at the empty bed. 

“REGULUS!” 

He doesn’t know why he’s yelling. There’s no point in yelling, because he knows that Regulus has gone. He knows the little shit had stayed up waiting for Sirius to fall asleep just so he could do a runner and go fuck knows where to fucking die because isn’t that exactly the sort of thing that Regulus would do? 

Sirius kicks the bedside table and bellows in frustration and hurt. Real fucking hurt that his brother couldn’t stop being a pillock for long enough to just let Sirius help . His abuse of the furniture jerks the top drawer open and there, lying on top of his odd socks and cigarette papers, he sees the mirror. 

Prongs. 

He dives for the mirror, yells “James Potter!”, and Prongs appears almost immediately. He’s bleary-eyed, squinting as he shoves his big glorious glasses onto his big glorious face, and Sirius doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful sight. 

“Alright?” Prongs says, not quite managing to stifle a yawn. 

“I need you to come over,” Sirius says urgently. 

“Now?” 

“Yes!”

“What’s going on?” Bloody Evans appears over Prongs’ shoulder, her hair sleep-tousled and makeup smudged across her eyes. “It’s the middle of the night, Sirius - are you hurt?” 

“Can’t talk. No time. Prongs?” 

“I’ll be there in a sec, mate.” 

The mirror goes blank. Sirius tosses it aside and marches over to his wardrobe. He pulls on a jumper, takes it off, pulls it back on again. He strides into the hallway and paces up and down, keeping an ear out for the familiar crack! of apparation outside. 

It seems to take hours and hours, but eventually Sirius hears it. He dives for the front door and pulls Prongs inside. 

“Can you remember how to do that tracking thing Moody taught us?” he demands as he leads Prongs into the living room. 

“Er, yeah,” says Prongs, bending down to pull out the bottoms of his pyjama trousers where he’d unceremoniously shoved them into his boots. “Had to use it to find Grandpa last week when he wandered off in the middle of… you know what,” he amends, noticing Sirius’s impatient expression, “it doesn’t matter. Yeah, I remember. Who’ve you lost?” 

“Regulus.” He holds up his hand. “Don’t ask. No time. Can you track him?” 

“Yeah. ‘Course I can.” 

Sirius folds his arms and stands in the middle of the room, attempting an air of casual nonchalance while he watches Prongs work. He’s anything but nonchalant, though. He can’t stop thinking about the million, billion ways Regulus could be getting hurt right now; he can’t stop wondering what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. He’s a kid. He’s a kid who might have You-Know-Who’s mark on his arm and he’s going to die if Prongs doesn’t hurry the fuck up. 

Prongs pulls his wand from his sleeve and gestures in the air, tracing a spiralling pattern. He murmurs the incantation and, very slowly, the living room carpet begins to fill with faintly-glowing marks. As Sirius crouches down to inspect the footprints, some of them fade away - his own, he realises, and Prongs’, leaving only Regulus’s behind.

“When did he leave?” Prongs asks. 

Sirius glances to the clock on the wall. “Within the last three hours.” 

Prongs nods and repeats the spiralling motion with his wand. The rest of the glowing footprints fade away into nothing. Sirius reaches out for one, groaning in frustration as it disappears. 

“Er,” says Prongs. “Where was he, when he…?” 

But Sirius is already marching into his bedroom where, he is horrified to see, the footprints just seem to stop . There’s a small grouping of them around the bed, but that’s it. Regulus’s footprints never left the room. 

“Ah,” says Prongs, looking into the bedroom over Sirius’s shoulder. “Looks like—” 

“That fucking house-elf!” 

Sirius kicks the door frame and knocks his forehead against the wall. He should have known this would happen. The protective enchantments on the flat meant that no one, not Regulus, not Prongs, not even Sirius himself, could apparate in and out. But Sirius should’ve known that Regulus would call bloody Kreacher to come and help him escape. 

He’ll kill that elf if he ever sees him again. He’ll wring his stringy old neck with his own bare hands. He’s always hated Kreacher, always , and now he’s going to get Regulus killed, and Sirius doesn’t know what to do, it might already be too late, and—

“I can try to find out where they went,” says Prongs, the beautiful bastard. “Give me a sec.” 

Sirius nods. He sits down heavily on the end of the bed while Prongs works, his knees jiggling up and down, alternating between chewing his thumbnail and watching his hands twitch as he thinks about the many, many ways in which he would like to kill Kreacher. 

Maybe he’ll stick Walburga’s head up on the wall, too. She’s to blame as much as anyone for this fucking mess. 

“Okay. Got it,” Prongs says, getting up to his feet again. “Do you want me to—”

“No,” Sirius says quickly. He doesn’t know what state he’ll find Regulus in and he knows his brother would, quite literally, rather die than have Prongs witness him looking vulnerable. “Just tell me where.” 

Prongs gives him the coordinates and makes him repeat them three times even though Sirius is pretty fucking sure they’ll be seared onto his mind for the rest of his useless fucking life. 

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come?” Prongs asks, as Sirius is shoving his feet into his boots and pulling on his jacket. 

“No. It’s fine. Thanks, though.” 

“Alright. I’ll stay here though, yeah? And if you’re not back by morning—” 

“You’ll call Moody. Yeah, I know.” He wrenches open the front door and pauses, turning back to Prongs. “Maybe get the Healing Kit ready. Just in case.” 

* * *

Sirius lands on damp, rough rock. He stands slowly, his wand held ready, and blinks as his eyes adjust to the lack of light. 

He’s in a cave, he assumes. He glances over his shoulder, squints, but cannot locate the cave entrance. The darkness is disorientating, but this must be where Regulus had been when Prongs cast the tracking spell; not much time has passed, he can’t have reached much further into the cave. 

The cave is pitch-dark, and almost entirely silent. The only sounds Sirius can hear are the muffled crashing of waves hitting stone somewhere in the distance, and his boots scuffing over the uneven floor as he investigates his surroundings. 

He knows Moody would be screaming, “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” right now, but Sirius doesn’t have time for that. His pulse is pounding, his palms sweaty, because Regulus has never liked darkness or confined spaces or water, so what the fuck is he doing in a cave by the sea?

“ Lumos, ” he mutters. 

The pale golden light of his wand illuminates the cave’s walls, dark rock stained pale in places by streams of salt water running down from stalactites, shadowy spears thrusting downwards. 

Sirius shivers. There’s something sinister to this place, a Darkness far more eerie than commonplace shadows and gloom. He can sense it in the air, in the walls: a residue of lingering Dark magic that repels the life that should be thriving here. There should be bats roosting from the ceiling, moss and fungi growing up the walls, rock pools filled with crabs and barnacles, spiderwebs strung between rocky outcrops. 

But there is nothing. Only Darkness and a thick sense of foreboding thrumming in Sirius’s throat. 

He cannot believe that Regulus has come here, willingly. 

Sirius inches forwards, one hand grazing across the cave wall to keep his bearings. He listens out for Regulus, for Kreacher (for You-Know-Who), but hears nothing but his own footsteps shuffling, water dripping.

“Regulus?” he calls out. 

There is no reply, not even an echo. The dense darkness swallows everything it touches. Even his wandlight doesn’t penetrate as far as it should do. 

Sirius half-wishes he’d accepted Prongs’ offer. He wouldn’t wish this hell-place on anyone, but he doesn’t like to be here alone. He wishes Regulus wasn’t here alone, either. 

He presses forwards, trying to pick up speed though it feels as though the Darkness is pushing back against him, weighing him down. His fingertips brush over something strange, something unnatural on the wall. Something man-made - no, magic -made. 

He pauses and follows the magic-made outline as far as he can reach, and surmises it must be a door or an opening of sorts, a passageway further into the cave that Regulus must have used. 

Sirius steps back and raises his wand. “ Revelio .” 

Bright silver light shoots up both sides of the outline, from the floor towards the ceiling, and meets in the middle, revealing an archway. Sirius steps forwards but as soon as he is within touching distance the light vanishes, leaving nothing behind but cold, hard stone. 

He huffs, tries every spell and counter-spell he can think of, and huffs again. Nothing works. He refuses to let the cave - and Regulus - defeat him. It’s when he raps his wand against his palm, thinking, that he realises. 

Sirius rolls his eyes - this feels like something Bellatrix would have made them do when they were children, some sort of stupid initiation thing - and slices his hand using magic. He presses his bloodied palm to the wall and the silver archway appears once more. This time, it stays. This time, he is able to pass through it. 

“Fucking— Reg! ” 

The archway has opened up into a kind of grotto, a lake within a cave within a cave, and up ahead, Regulus is sitting in a boat - a weird, glowing boat. 

The place stinks of Dark magic. Sirius can practically taste it on his tongue and he does not like it one bit. 

He sprints along the narrow edge of rock, a slither that separates the eerily still lake from the cave wall, bellowing Regulus’s name. 

Regulus looks up in alarm. “No!” he yells, his pale face lit ghostly green by the glowing boat. “Sirius - no ! Don’t touch the water!” He makes a beckoning motion to Kreacher, that fucking traitorous elf. “Get in, Kreacher! Hurry!”

“Don’t you dare, Kreacher!” Sirius shouts. “You fucking—” 

“Ignore him, Kreacher,” Regulus says, his voice panicked and high-pitched. “I order you to ignore Sirius and get into this— that’s it, careful, Kreacher, mind the water.” 

“Reg!” 

“Go home, Sirius!” 

By the time Sirius comes to a panting halt in the spot where the boat had been moored, it has already floated out of his reach, carrying Regulus and Kreacher with it. 

He paces up and down the shoreline, searching for another boat. He looks back up; the boat is sailing, slowly but steadily, towards an island in the middle of the lake. Regulus is kneeling up, waving his arms at Sirius. 

“Go home!” he yells. 

“No!” 

There must be some— could he conjure another boat? Transfigure one from a loose bit of rock? Yes - and with a paddle, or a set of oars, he’ll catch Regulus up in no time. 

He tries and tries, but to no avail. The cave is thick with layered enchantments that prevent him from conjuring a boat into existence. Every time he tries to transfigure something it crumbles into dust. He finds that he cannot summon a boat from elsewhere, nor can he summon Regulus’s back to the shore. 

Sirius is left with no choice but to go dog. He shakes his fur, and—

“STOP!” Regulus screams. His voice is growing fainter and fainter the further the little boat drifts out into the lake, but there is no mistaking his panic and fear. “Don’t go into the water! There are Inferi in the water!”

Sirius pauses at the very edge of the lake, one paw raised above its surface. He looks down. There, beneath the smooth, glossy surface of the water, beneath his own startled reflection, lies a pale, bloated head. It slowly turns around to face him, its milky eyes staring at him, unseeing. 

Sirius jerks back, transforming back into human mid-movement. 

“What the fuck ,” he breathes.

He presses his hands against the cave wall and stares at the head. It gradually rotates away from him again and sinks back beneath the surface of the lake, deep enough that Sirius cannot see it any more. 

He knows it’s there, though. He knows that there will be more of them. He knows that Regulus is sailing on a Dark fucking ghost-boat across an unfathomably large and evil lake filled with Inferi . 

There have been rumours. For years - decades, even - people have speculated that You-Know-Who has been… making feels like the wrong word to use. It implies some sort of care. Craftsmanship. That is not how Inferi come to be. He knows that much.

“An Army of the Dead!” the papers proclaimed. Sirius has never believed it to be true. Before now. What would be the point, he always argued, in You-Know-Who making an army of Inferi if he never bothered to use the fucking things? It didn’t make sense.

It still doesn’t really make sense. 

They’re in the water and, what? They’ll attack if you go for a paddle? Sirius stands a little straighter and sniffs. Stupid fucking things. Fucking zombies . Who’d want to go for a paddle in this shit hole, anyway? 

Merlin . He’s in You-Know-Who’s fucking murder cave. And Regulus is out there, in the middle of the murder lake, doing fuck knows what. Sirius watches, for ages, squinting into the gloom, but cannot make much of anything out. He cannot hear anything, either, this far away. He can do nothing but wait for Regulus to finish whatever the fuck he’s doing, get into the boat, and sail back to him. 

Sirius wonders if Kreacher maybe lured Regulus here. On Walburga’s orders? Or Bellatrix’s, maybe. Kreacher’s always liked Bellatrix, for some fucking reason. It’s always been Missy Bella this and Missy Bella that. Fuck. Regulus is going to fucking die and—

He jumps about a mile into the air, grazing his elbow against the wall, as Kreacher pops into existence beside him. 

“M-Master— M-Master Sirius will— w-will go home!” 

“What? No!” 

The bastard elf is crying. Wailing . What the fuck?

Sirius looks back towards the island. The lake around it isn’t still any more. It’s fucking churning , teeming with the dead. 

“Where’s Regulus?” Sirius demands. 

He wants to shake Kreacher, shake the answers out of him, wring his neck until he tells him what the fuck is going on. But he doesn’t trust the elf not to spirit him away as soon as he gets close enough. So he keeps backing away from Kreacher, keeping his distance, his head jerking between the elf and the island, his stomach flipping over and over. 

“Regulus is on the island, isn’t he? You fucking— go back for him! Why did you leave him there?!” 

“Master R-Regulus—” The fucking elf is hiccoughing with his sobbing now and Sirius has just about had enough of this. “—ordered K-Kreacher—” 

“I don’t give a shit, you little— do you want him to fucking die ? Is that why you brought him here?!” 

“M-Master Regulus ordered K-Kreacher to—” 

“I DON’T CARE!” Sirius bellows. He looks back towards the island, imagines he can see those dead things pulling Regulus downwards, deeper, drowning— “Kreacher, you fuck .” 

A thought hits him. Would he…? Could he…?

“Kreacher - I order you to go back there and save Regulus.”

Kreacher hiccoughs. The tears are streaming down his face. He stares at Sirius. 

“NOW!” Sirius roars. 

The house-elf disappears. Sirius immediately looks towards the centre of the lake, to the island. Within seconds, a blaze of fire erupts around the rocky outcrop, a fire so bright that Sirius has to shield his eyes and look away. There’s a flash of white light, even brighter. 

And then nothing. 

Sirius blinks. He peers through the darkness. He rubs his eyes and peers again. Once again the waters of the lake are perfectly still. Once again the cave is perfectly silent. 

“What the fuck,” he whispers. “Kreacher…? Reg…?” 

* * *

“Alright? Did you find Regulus?” 

Sirius grunts a response to Prongs and slumps onto the sofa. He closes his eyes, kicks off his shoes, and sinks back into the cushions. 

While Prongs rattles around in the kitchen to make them each a cup of tea, Sirius tells him what happened. He tells them about the spooky cave, the murder lake, the ghost-boat, the island glowing green, the fucking Inferi . 

The way Kreacher had, for some brilliant reason, listened to Sirius’s orders. 

“That’s fucked up, mate,” Prongs says sagely. 

“Yeah.” Sirius sighs heavily and rubs his hands over his face. “I waited there for ages to see if they’d come back. They didn’t. The boat did, though, so I got in—” 

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah.” He sits up a little straighter, accepts the mug of tea. “And I went to the island and it was… it was creepy as fuck. There was nothing there at all. Well, I mean, there was this weird sort of basin thing, filled with some potion - that’s where the green glow was coming from - but there was no sign of a fire at all, or a fight, or anything .” 

“Weird.” 

“Right?” Sirius shrugs. “So I came back.” 

He takes a sip of tea and closes his eyes again, relishing the way the sugary warmth spreads out towards his fingers and toes. He hadn’t realised he was shivering, hadn’t realised how cold he was, until Prongs pointed it out. He’s glad Prongs is here. Anyone else would think he’d finally gone mad. 

“Prongs…” he says quietly, eyes still closed. “D’you… I’d know, wouldn’t I? If he’d… I’d know, right?” 

“Yeah. ‘Course you would, mate. He’s your brother; you’d feel it.” 

Sirius sniffs. He sets his half-empty mug on the floor and curls his legs up beneath him on the sofa. He feels tired, suddenly. Exhausted. He punches one of those bright yellow cushions that Regulus had glared at just hours ago and topples sideways, using it as a pillow. 

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Prongs says quietly. Sirius feels the weight of a blanket dropping over his shoulders and sniffs again. “Kreacher will have taken him back to Grimmauld for a glass of warm milk and a bath.”

“Yeah,” Sirius mumbles. “He likes a bath. Yeah, you’re right.” 

“Want me to stay?” 

“No, it’s fine. Thanks.” 

“Alright. See you later, Pads.” 

Sirius wakes up a few hours later with the early morning sun shining into his eyes and an awful crick in his neck. He sits up, stretches, and slumps into his bedroom. This is such a common occurrence, he has fallen asleep on the sofa so many times after so many late nights out on Order Business, that he forgets what has happened, just for a moment. 

He forgets what has happened until he sees the Black family crest embroidered onto the pillow case and the bedsheets.

He falls down heavily onto the bed. The sheets smell like Regulus, somehow, slightly peppery and tart, though he can’t have lain on them for more than an hour. 

Sirius closes his eyes, curls himself around a pillow, and breathes in deeply. He doesn’t think he’ll fall to sleep again, but he must do, because the next time he wakes it’s with a jerk and a strangled yelp. 

“Good afternoon,” says Regulus, as if it isn’t at all creepy for him to be standing there, in Sirius’s flat, in Sirius’s bedroom , watching him sleep.

 “What the fuck?” 

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“No,” Sirius says. He scrambles into a sitting position. “I mean, what the fuck was last night all about?” 

“Oh, that.” 

Regulus scratches at his neck, looking down at the floor, his cheeks tinged pink. Sirius stares at him. His brother looks pale and clammy and he’s trembling. And there are horrible, awful scratch marks up his neck, across his face, on the backs of his hands - on every part of visible skin. 

“Reg…” 

“Yes, well—”

“You nearly died ,” Sirius says. “That fucking house-elf - he was going to leave you there, in that fucking… whatever the fuck that place was.”

“I know.” 

“If I hadn’t—” He closes his eyes, rubs at his head. “He would have left you to die.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“Was that your plan, all along? Is that why you didn’t want me to go with you, Reg?” 

Regulus scratches at his neck again and appears to find something very interesting to look at on the carpet. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Sirius breathes. He knocks his head back against his headboard. “Why there? What was so important?” 

Regulus pauses, considering. Sirius thinks he might throttle him himself. “I needed to check something.”

“You were prepared to die just so you could check something ?” 

“Yes.” 

Sirius sighs heavily. “And…?” 

“It’s all fine. Thank you for your assistance.” 

Regulus makes a stupid little bow and turns to leave, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. He looks so much like Orion that it makes Sirius want to punch something. 

“Wait, Reg!” 

He pauses at the bedroom door. “Yes?” 

“Look. I know you don’t want to tell me what’s going on, and I know you don’t want me to get involved, but…” He sighs. “You’re my brother, alright? I know I’ve fucked up but you’re really fucking annoying sometimes, too, but we’re still family and I know how much that means to you, so.” 

Sirius looks up. Regulus is blinking at him, his face annoyingly expressionless. Sirius sighs again. “Look, what I’m trying to say is you’re always welcome here. You can come here whenever. If you want. I don’t care.” 

Regulus stares at his feet again and fiddles with his sleeves. “Will you invest in a proper selection of tea?” he asks quietly. 

Sirius snorts. “Yeah. Why not.” 

“Alright then,” says Regulus. “I shall consider it.”