Chapter Text
Molly Weasley waged war on the Ancestral Home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, recruiting her children and every other avaliable pair of hands. Sirius' knowledge of the house earned him the position of the head troubleshooter, jumping in before the teens could get themselves jinxed, hexed, cursed or otherwise (seriously) harmed by the many malicious objects the Black family accumulated over centuries.
He was cleaning out the cabinets in the second floor guest bedroom for the twins to scrub clean, when Hermione called him over from the study. Distracted by subduing an enchanted music box which did not take kindly to being removed from its place, Sirius yelled an "In a minute!" before returning to swearing at the malevolent antique.
"What is it, Hermione?" he asked as he entered the study. The young witch was hunched over one of the tables, carefully turning pages in a binderbook.
She looked up, a hesitant expression on her face. There were smudges of dust on her cheek, nose and temple, as she kept tucking loose strands of her wild hair behind her ears. Sirius considered suggesting a sticking charm, but Hermione had probably thought of that already.
"I found this wedged behind the divan," she said, stepping away to let Sirius see the book properly.
Sirius felt his throat tighten, and he gupled down the swell of emotions. It was his brother's sketchbook.
Regulus always loved drawing, as long as Sirius could remember. Artistic tools were a safe bet as a present for any opportunity. Though it was mostly the extended family who supported Regulus' hobby; there was the craft desk from Aunt Cassiopea and cousin Andromeda supplied Regulus with paints until her disownment. Sirius wondered if this sketchbook too had been a gift. With a trembling hand he flipped to the first page, and there, inside of the hard cover was an inscription.
Happy 13th birthday to our Little King,
Love, Cissy
On the first page right opposite the words was a drawing of Narcissa, sitting regally in an armchair with but a hint of bookshelves in the background. The lines were by a child's hand still, and proportions of anatomy off just so. Narcissa was wearing an expression that could be both constipated or indulging; Sirius suspected the latter. He thought he could even remember thirteen years old Regulus begging their cousin to be his subject for his first drawing in the book, and Narcissa always indulged her youngest cousin.
The two were close, and very similar. Both soft, malleable and devoted to the family.
In the bottom right corner of the page was a date in meticulous tiny numbers: June 1st 1974.
It hit Sirius, that this drawing was made only five years before Regulus' death.
The thought made him angry; it made him want to scream; it made him want to weep.
He turned to the next page, dated a few days later. Several attempts at Sirius' own face stared back at him. Another page, Kreacher, another, flowers form the garden, brooms with little arrows pointing out design flaws. Then the school year must have started because there was professor Binns surrounded by notes on the Goblin wars. Another page, still lives of potion ingredients that looked like a light and shades practice. Another was covered in sketches of portraits from several angles, as if Regulus drew people sitting around and in front of him at a lecture. Sirius on a broom. The Black Lake. A piece of folded fabric, several times over. Sirius and James at breakfast, James' face scribbled over angrily. Another practice page of creased fabric. A very fluffy cat, runes lining the edges of the page. Several eyes studies and more creased fabric, more portraits of students Sirius mostly didn't recognise, of himself and of other Marauders, of James. Eyes and lips and hands, sometimes covering several pages a day, other times days or weeks in between the drawings. School notes and runes and French and Welsh of all things sneaking on the pages. Then-
Sirius stared at a rough sketch of his own back. The upper half of page was covered in writing, first neat and controlled but getting harsher and larger and messier with each letter.
don't leave come back don't leave don't leave don'T leave don't leavE mE COME BACK DON'T LEAVE ME DON'T LEAVE ME DON'T DON'T DON'T DON'T LEAVE DON'T LEAVE ME DON'T LEAVE
Sirius had suspected that Regulus wasn't as unaffected by his departure as he pretended to be but this was...
"Fuck. Fuck!"
The dedication in the sketchbook.
'Happy 13th birthday to our Little King. June 1st 1974.'
The dates stitched into family’s tapestry just a floor above.
‘Regulus Arcturus Black, 1961-1979′
For the first time, Sirius fully understood Molly's fierce hostility to the idea of her children joining the war. As much as the teens would hate to hear it, they were children. The idea that Harry would only have three more years to live---
Hermione yelped, and Sirius realised he had put his fist through a wall.
"Sorry. Sorry, I'm, I'm fine." He pulled his aching hand from the splintered wood, shaking it out. Blood was seeping through the cracks in his skin and dripped down between his knuckles sluggishly. Merlin, he hadn’t done that since escaping the Azkaban...
Swallowing hard, he glanced back at the drawing and noticed scribbles on the lower half of the page. They were runes, scrawled and crossed out and rearranged as if Regulus was trying to compose a spell.
Sirius used to be quite good at Ancient Runes at Hogwarts but over a decade of not revising them corroded his knowledge. He leaned closer, tracing the signs with his fingers, trying to recall their meanings. A droplet of his blood fell on the yellowed page and sunk into the threads.
.
.
.
Regulus Black had drowned.
It could have been a minute or an eternity.
Regulus Black had died with undead puppets clawing at his clothes and arms and face.
It could have been a minute or an eternity.
Regulus Black’s heart never stopped beating. His mind never stopped running.
It could have been a minute or an eternity.
For the Inferi to keep guarding the Locket even in the case of his improbable defeat, The Dark Lord craved runes into the rock of the cave. The runes spelled the deeper waters of the lake into a field of permanence. What entered this zone could no longer be altered.
It could have been a minute or an eternity.
Regulus Black gained what the Dark Lord had sought. Only at the price of endless suffering.
It could have been a minute or an eternity.
The sweater he was wearing could not keep him warm. (He stole it from Sirius, who had ‘borrowed it’ from Remus Lupin in their fourth year.)
The water he was surrounded with could not quench his thirst. (The Drink of Despair still torturing his mind with visions.)
Expanding lungs never understood air was out of reach. (Water in his nose, water in his mouth, water—)
It could have been a minute or an eternity.
A vision kept coming back (never left?) of the day Sirius stormed out of their home to never return.
It could have been a minute or an eternity.
Regulus had cried. They were sad tears, angry tears, desperate tears. He had begged, in the privacy of his room, for Sirius to come back. Come to stay or to take him away too.
It could have been a minute or an eternity.
If he could muster a positive thought, he would have smiled at the blotched attempts at runes of his fourteen year old self. Brother, return, to, home, he had tried to stitch together, but it had been hopeless. As hopeless as thinking he would ever… that his relationship with his brother could be mended.
It could have been a minute or an eternity.
‘Fratris mei reditus,’ he thought the phrase he had been trying to form four years ago.
It could have been a minute or an eternity.
.
.
.
A droplet of his blood fell on the yellowed page and sunk into the threads.
Magic that never should have worked grasped at the blood circling sluggishly in his cold, cold body and pulled.
Regulus Black inhaled air for the first time in 16 years.