Dramatics ran in the Nobel House of Black as infamously as their inbreeding.
Walburga had a tendency to curse her children, while most mothers simply put them on the time-out step. Even in death, her portrait wailed about the importance of purity and how mudbloods were tarring the wizard's bloodline.
Sirius had blown up a street, and a handful of muggles while he was at it. As his mugshot was taken, he laughed hysterically. Nobody could tell if he was overjoyed at his supposed success, or if he was being lured to madness.
Regulus stole a horcrux, and left a love note in the locket, mocking the darkest wizard who had walked through the history books. It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine him apparating into his childhood home, landing amongst the roast potatoes, and flinging himself into a shadowed corner.
Before he could blink, before his legs could adjust to being thrown into this new environment, a wand was jabbed into his neck. The wood was close to rupturing the fragile skin, and he was sure there’d be a bruise the next morning.
“How did you get past the wards?” The man growled, one eye spinning in its socket. The man’s face held traces of something familiar, as if Regulus had known him previously.
Scars mangled his features, and the false eye obscured half of the man’s soul, but… Alastor Moody.
“La maison me connaît, connard” Regulus hissed, jerking away from the wand. Rumours of the man had floated around his inner circle, back in the First War. Moody was a ruthless killer; half of the cells in Azkaban were filled with fellow death-eaters.
He felt a sort of pride when he spotted the chunk taken out of Moody’s nose. Somebody had whispered that Evan Rosier had blasted it off, before he was killed.
“You killed Rosier, salaud,” He lunged at Moody, then fell to the floor, head smacking against the cobblestone. Searing pain shot through him, but he couldn’t cry out.
Instead, he stared up at the ceiling, breath hastening. His mother used to do this, when she didn’t want to be disturbed by her youngest son. For hours, Regulus would be frozen on his bedroom floor, only able to listen to people strolling past. Sometimes, his older brother would crouch beside him, reading aloud or telling him that it would be over soon.
Sirius.
Where was Sirius? Had he been killed in the War, rotting six feet under, until the only thing that remained was his bleached bones, and a faint smile which never really left him?
As if somebody had read his mind, an enraged voice shouted, as if from miles away, “What the actual f*ck is going on?”
Moody didn’t seem to react. As Regulus stared, blinking rapidly as he soothed himself, all he could see was one bloodshot eye looking right back at him. The other was caught on another, out of Regulus’ line of vision.
Resembling a scene from their childhood, an unfamiliar, yet known man squatted beside him. Out of his peripheral vision, he could make out the man’s strange appearance. His striking, grey eyes had been hardened by the War, but still, they softened when he looked at Regulus.
Crows' feet were faint pencil lines beside his eyes; they had never been there before. Regulus recognised the man in a way that ran deeper than his surface-level appearance.
His older brother may have aged a few decades, but it was still Sirius.
“If I undo the jinx, you can’t attack anyone, okay?” Sirius’ voice was more gentle than he had ever heard it. In fact, nobody had spoken to Regulus in this fashion since he was at least five years old. Regulus was glad that he’d been bound, as he knew he wouldn’t be capable of forming a response. Now, at least, he had an excuse to remain silent.
Sirius hesitated, smiling in spite of the situation, “Blink once if you promise not to commit a mass murder,”
Reluctantly, and purely because he didn’t want to be frozen on the kitchen tiles forever, he blinked once.
In an instant, the spell was lifted. He wiggled his fingers first, flexing the stiff muscles. Blood oozed from his head, spilling onto the dusty tiles. He reached out and touched it, wincing at the sharp pain.
“Episkey,” He murmured, head spinning a little. The blow to his head had knocked his senses out of kilter, leaving him groggy.
How long had it been? Regulus thought he’d been under the water for a year or two, but everything looked different.
For the first time, he noticed the yellow pot on top of the oven, which he had never seen before in his life. His rock ‘n’ roll, teenage brother was sporting a goatee, and dressed in purple velvet.
The man’s face was waxy, as if Regulus was doing something inherently strange. He tried to stand, but wobbled. Gripping onto the wall, he found his way to his feet, closing his eyes as the room spun.
Sirius followed suit, holding his hands out like he was to catch the other. He had thought that their relationship had been wrecked by the war, torn to shreds as they established their own sides. Was there really a possibility in which Sirius didn’t hate him? Didn’t wish that he had died in that cave?
“Do you want to eat? Can you— eat?”
Some things never changed. His older brother would always be filled to the brim with pointless questions.
Before his lips even parted to answer, Moody interrupted in a splatter of protests, “No. He is not going to sit around this table, unless I am interrogating him,”
Merde.
Sirius turned on his heel, “My brother is not being interrogated in my own home before he’s even eaten,”
“This death-eater will be questioned, or I will take him to the Ministry and let the dementors do my job,”
Both Black brothers flinched as if they’d been hit. Regulus had been close to a dementor before, and he could not describe a worse feeling. It was like… everything that had ever made him happy had been sucked away, replaced by a prominent feeling of coldness. Icy water flooded his veins, struggling into his lungs. When he breathed in, all he could hear was the rattle of the ocean in his chest.
“I don’t mind being questioned,” Regulus interrupted before the men could start shooting curses at each other. Tensions were running high, and that was just between the two of them. If the other figures in the room decided to get involved, then Regulus had a suspicion that the house would be blown to smithereens.
Sitting at the table, a thousand pairs of eyes watched him, curious.
A few faces stood out to him: his older brother’s, the werewolf’s, the Weasley woman.
And, predominantly, Alstistor Moody’s.
A clear vial, sealed with a cork, was slid towards him. Veritaserum.
God, he despised the potion. His mother juggled veritaserum and occlumency throughout his childhood. Honesty was the best policy, and Regulus ought to know that. Even when the truth slipped from his tongue without hesitance, his mother never accepted it. No son of hers, no heir to the Noble House, would be a liar. Walburga’s obsession with veracity rampaged, and could not be held back by Regulus’ unfaltering answers.
Sighing, he popped the cork out, and downed it in one. His audience looked at him with surprise, as if they doubted his willingness to participate in their stupid plot. It didn’t taste of anything, but immediately, his heart beat faster.
“What is your name?” Moody asked.
“Regulus Arcturus Black. You should know this,”
“Can you tell me what year it is?”
“I can,” Regulus frowned, fiddling with the empty vial. He rolled it across the table, beneath his fingertips.
Sirius didn’t bother to stifle his laughter.
Alastor Moody growled, as if he was deliberately being impertinent. Regulus wasn’t sure what the man expected. You were supposed to ask direct, simple questions. Usually, this bundle of thoughts would remain inside his head but…
“I don’t know why you’re blaming me for your negligence. Standard procedure for questioning a person under veritaserum includes asking specific questions,” Regulus grumbled. His patience wore thin, and the crowd of strangers all stared at him. He assumed that they were strangers. His memories swirled around, offering snippets of a movie. Some things appeared clearer than others. In his soul, he recognised his brother’s face, despite the wrinkles across his forehead and the sadness in his eyes.
Chipping in helpfully, Sirius added, “Regulus, what year is it?”
“I don’t exactly know. I originally assumed it was 1980, though that doesn’t make sense now. You look old, and Mother isn’t….” A shot of fear passed through him, and he sat bolt upright, “Where is Mother?”
“She died in ‘85,” Moody supplied, and that was it. The amount of information unloaded onto his shoulders crushed him down, and his mouth went dry.
Moody’s mouth was a harsh line. Sirius had the decency to look slightly forlorn.
Stomach churning, Regulus burbled something about vomiting. A hand forced his head over the basin, and his stomach emptied. In all fairness, veritaserum was the only content. The silver liquid splashed back up, alongside acidic stomach bile that burnt holes in his throat.
“Give him another dose,” Moody barked, a bewildered expression on his hardened face.
He sank to the floor as his knees finally gave out. It may have been the adrenaline wearing off, or the fact that he hadn’t been standing on solid ground for years… Either way, Regulus crumpled like a charred piece of paper.
His fingers scraped across the wooden flooring, splinters catching under his nails, making his eyes sting. He couldn’t have lost his mother. She wasn’t perfect, but it was human nature to be flawed.
Still, she was the centre of his world. She taught him how to play piano, dexile fingers shadowing his own. When taking his first steps, it was Walburga who watched fondly, ready to catch him when he fell. Who would catch him now, if not her?
“No, no,” He keened, heart slowing in his chest. He was dying for the second time, and in front of a group of strangers. He wanted to be surrounded by his loved ones, cradled by his father, not warily stared at by wizards he had never met.
“Sirius…” Somebody murmured, but he couldn’t bring himself off of the floor to contradict that idea. He didn’t want his brother.
Conversations had dwindled in recent years; he hadn’t spoken to Sirius since they were little. He had been abandoned, left to fester in this house. His skin was peeled away from his necrosing flesh, and he listened to the flies buzz around his skin. He had grown used to his fate. How was he supposed to adjust to his older brother piecing him back together?
Seconds passed in years, and he could feel every moment of it go by, itching against his bare skin.
“Reggie?” A familiar voice murmured from somewhere above him. Even prompted by comfort, nothing but aimless wails left his lips.
“Maman… Elle mourut,” There was a gaping hole where his heart must have been, at some point. He remembered faintly how it sounded, but now, all he felt was agony, “Elle mourut,”
“You know I can’t speak it as well as you,” His brother sucked his teeth, then tried to continue in faltering French, “Je suis… désolé. Je sais que tu— uhm, était— tu l'adores,”
“Parlez anglais s'il vous plaît. Cela me fait mal,” Regulus groaned. Even through the pain he held in his heart, he could recognise when his brother spoke terrible French.
Regulus had been taught French as a first language, despite living in England for most of his life. His Mother had thought it a more elegant language, and was happier to speak in her own tongue. Sirius had not been deemed worthy to speak it, and for some reason, refused to learn. He only knew the odd word, and a few disjointed phrases.
“How— How did she…?” Saying the words aloud was more difficult than he perceived; the simple, not-even sentence caught in his throat.
“I wasn’t here but—”
He wasn’t here? Their mother had died alone, in her bedroom. She was most likely staring out of the window, eyes brimming with tears. Regulus hated that she was lonely in the moment where a person should feel most loved.
“Where the f*ck where you?” He snapped, forcing himself upright. Head spinning, he squinted up at his brother.
Sirius recoiled, like he was disgusted at the sheer sight of his little brother, “I was in Azkaban, which you would know if you hadn’t f*cked off out of nowhere,”
“I almost died,” Their voices were both raised. They were teenagers again, screaming the walls down as their parents blatantly ignored the chaos upstairs. Regulus didn't react to the news of his brother being arrested; it was bound to happen at some point.
“What?” Sirius’ voice echoed in the silence of the kitchen.
Regulus repeated himself. His mouth tasted like stale bile; he wished he had a mint. His knuckles rammed into the floor. The coolness of the stone, and the searing pain through his hands, grounded him.
He repeated himself.
He repeated himself.
He repeated—
