Chapter Text
Sirius Black has not spoken half a word to his brother since the early summer he left approaching his sixth year. Not so much as a breath his brother's way since the blow-up that was Sirious' departure—a match of screaming and screaming and screaming; the flick of his mother’s wrist as she spat out hex after jinx after curse and more fucking screaming; Regulus exclaiming ‘I’ll never forgive you, Sirius Black!', spitting out the last name they share like a blood oath and a damning curse.
(I’ll never forgive you, he’d said, so damningly, like he meant it. And he did, oh Sirius knows he did. Perfect heir, Regulus Black: took his parents’ words like law and kept the peace by keeping quiet. Perfect heir, Regulus Black.
So be it then. So be it that he is not forgiven. So be it that his brother damned him.)
‘I’ll never forgive you either, Regulus Black.’ Sirius would whisper, knowing his brother would hear it, feel that he meant it, hope it hurt him like an acid burn; said the last name they share like a damning curse and a blood oath.
(So be it then. So be it that he will not forgive. So be it that he’s damned his brother.)
Now, in his seventh year, watching his brother from across the hall with his gleaming prefect badge and falling black hair, not a shade of charcoal off his own, a familiar, boiling bitterness bubbles in his gut like brewing bloodroot; poisonous.
“What’cha staring at, Pads?” James asks, swallowing a bite of steak, oil coating the sides of his lips messily. Sirius watches him slice another piece, knife going back and forth and back and forth, pink and brown gravy spilling out of the meat's sides like it’s still bleeding. Quietly, the piece of steak sits, taking the back and forth and back and forth and back forth, still spilling and bleeding as James slices right down to the plate to swallow another bite.
“Sirius?” Remus says his name gently, bringing a hand to his sleeve and drawing back his attention. Sirius looks up and notices his friends all staring at him grimly.
‘Again, I’ve done it, have I?’
“Godrick’s balls what’s up with your faces?”
He plasters on his best and widest smile, bringing a hand to his hair, braided down his back this morning courtesy of Marlene, and tosses it over his shoulder carelessly. His spoon ‘clangs’ against his bowl of chicken soup and his fork scrapes against his plate as he digs into the roasted potatoes. He makes a show of spilling a bit of grape juice onto the collar of his uniform, loud as ever.
“You alright, mate?” James bites his lip in worry. Remus reaches over to wipe at the spill and Sirius offers a genuine, grateful smile.
“My, I must be out of it, eh? Been quite a hectic day for me as it is.”
“Hectic?” Peter repeats with a quirk to his eyebrow, turning his nose. “You’ve been knackered all classes today, Padfoot. Don’t even think Minnie tried to wake you up for Transfiguration.”
“ ‘S what I said, hectic. Do you think I get this pretty without some quality shuteye? Quite a bit of effort to sleep in every class, all have you know.”
(Not to mention the egregious nightmare he had last night. Featuring his brother, sitting, watching, wide and teary-eyed as Sirius fought off their mother at ten years old like he was a grown man in a boxing ring. His brother, watching, terrified, as their mother’s rings caught Sirius’ cheek and broke the skin. His brother, no longer watching but now stepping in, eight years old and yelling at their mum like they were both adults on a stage. His brother, jinxed, limbs locked and unmoving as their mother brought her wand down on his head. Sirius, still fighting her off like a grown man in a boxing ring. It does nothing. She brings her wand down again, and again, and again. Regulus takes it, bleeds, like a slab of steak being sliced down the middle...
Is it a false memory? He can't...he doesn't...)
“Did ya have a bender over the weekend, Sirius?” Marlene asks with a smirk. “Might explain it.”
“I did not Marls, unfortunately,” Sirius fake whines with a pout, much to Remus’ distaste. He never did like Sirius' brand of humour. Still, Sirius flashes Marlene a more crooked grin and a bright wink. “Though you’d be the first to know if I do, darlin’. An invite is always there.”
“Watch it, slag,” a colder voice interrupts, a dark-skinned hand slamming right by Marlene’s plate. It’s wrapped in silver and leather, nails painted bright red. Sirius follows the hand to meet Dorcas Meadow’s black eyes, staring down at him with a quirk on her brow. “Joking or not I’ll cut your tongue out if you so much as look at her sideways.”
“Oh calm it, Dory,” Marlene teases with a giggle, turning her head to better face the Slytherin. “Both you and I know his tongue would’ve been cut out ages ago if that were true.”
“Oh?” Dorcas drags her gaze back to Sirius, who hesitantly shifts behind Remus, nervous. Dorcas lifts the knife and stabs it right through the wood of the table, much to the shock of everyone save for Marlene, who only finds the unveiling scene amusing. “Care to tell me more about that, Marls?”
“For Merlin’s Sake Marlene tell her you were joshing around before she skewers me like last night's meal,” Sirius mutters in good nature. “Besides, I have my very handsome and lovely Moony, why would I look sideways at anyone else.”
To emphasise his point, Sirius leans over to plant a sloppy kiss on his lovely boyfriend’s cheek, whose expression scrunches up in disgust as he pulls away, wiping his face with the shoulder of his sleeve and glancing at a faux innocent Sirius blandly.
“Yeah, yeah, you two have been seen way too many times snogging on the most creative surfaces for anyone to doubt that,” Marlene agrees with a snort.
“Oh, if you want creative you ought to see the places I’ve caught my lovely lads having a go at it in. You’d be amazed at how truly flexible Reg is, and Evan has quite a soft spot for ceilings. Of all the bloody things in the world, it's ceilings?!”
‘Did she say Reg?’
“Ceilings?” Peter whispers, astonished, “Do I even want to know how that works?”
Dorcas cups her hands over her mouth and yells across the hall and over the commotion, “If you’re really curious why don’t you ask Barty then?! Whore’s always got his legs wide-fucking-open!”
Barty yells back, which is a rather inconvenient way of communicating considering the distance, just as well heard, “Don’t go on talking about me like that like I didn’t catch you and McKinnon three seconds from fucking in the corridor two days ago, Dorcas!”
Dorcas flips him off before turning back to the table with a smile.
‘Did she say Reg?’
“Got me curious too,” Mary says with an impish grin. “How about it, My Little Flower, want to figure it out with me?”
Lily’s pale cheeks flush a healthy shade of red and with an eye roll she mutters, “By Merlin’s beard, Mary, I’m eating.”
“We all are,” Remus says dryly, “so if you’d all keep it quiet about where you snogged each other, it’d be great.”
‘Did she say Reg?’
Sirius shakes, from his shoulders to his toes, he rolls his body and moves his head back and forth a few times; few people bother to spare him even half a glance, used to his erratics. He blinks and knocks on his head to clear his thoughts, like a parent warning their child they’re about to enter their bedroom past curfew and the child scampering off under their bed in fear of getting scorned.
‘No way, no way, not Walburga’s Regulus Black. She’d smart him silly if she knew her son was rumoured to be praised for his…flexibility, never mind it being said by one of his closest mates. Not my brother.’
“You alright there, dear?” Dorcas asks with thinly veiled amusement.
“Yes, yes, just thought I heard something wrong,” Sirius waves off, bits of potato falling off his fork.
“Oh, if you’re talking about the ceilings you heard me well and clear,” Dorcas reassures. "I think Evan and Barty have got it down well at this point." When Sirius shakes his head without thinking, she nods in a second's fast realisation, clicking her tongue with an ‘ah’ sound.
Sirius looks up at her with furrowed brows.
“What was that?”
“Was what?” she replies innocently.
“That— that ‘ah’ noise you made like you’ve just come to some epiphany about me that I’ll only get like, two weeks later while pissing at the loo or cuddling with Moony.”
“Why those two scenarios?” James asks with a snort.
“Why not? Anyways, anyways, what was that? The realisation?”
“Not sure you'd want to hear it.”
“Dorcas, why are you here exactly?” Peter asks, politely interrupting the conversation. “Not that the invitation isn’t welcome, but you’re usually with your bunch ‘less you’re with Marls.”
“Oh right,” Dorcas stops leaning on the table with a snap of her fingers. “I just wanted to say that the Ravenclaws are hosting a party in their common rooms this weekend on Saturday. Xenophilius Lovegood invited Pandora and us and extended the hand to you all when I asked to bring Marlene.”
Sirius coughs obnoxiously, drawing back their attention.
Remus gently flicks him upside the head with his pointer and thumb. “Stop being a prat.”
“I am not being a prat, they were ignoring me.”
“I did no such thing,” Dorcas denies. She turns back to the table, much to Sirius’ disbelief. His cough goes unheard.
“So about the party?”
“Well, I’ll take the invite with a smile, baby,” Marlene promises, taking Dorcas’ hand and kissing it like a prince would his fair maiden. It’s sweet and over-the-top and very Marlene McKinnon with how she makes a point to raise the hand as high as she can above her head right after.
Dorcas pulls her hand away with a light roll of her eyes.
“Not like you had a choice in the first place, love. But what about you all?”
“‘You all’ would be delighted to join,” James says, a consented murmuring gently overwashing the table.
Sirius coughs again.
“Alright, alright,” Dorcas relents, turning to him. “Are you sure you want to know, though, Sirius Black?” (Said, his last name a blood oath and a damning curse. Said, like a tie to the very thing he wants to be cut out of him. He swears he’ll throw it all up at the centre stage with a spotlight shining down on him so brightly his sweat is blood. His organs spilt out of him so so red it’s proof he is not a Black. He is not Sirius Black.)
Sirius swallows. He is reminded of James’ slab of steak and looks down at it, now cleared off his plate, all that's left of it a small pool of oil and juices, all red. Back and forth his knife went, on a piece of steak that dripped like it bled. He lifts his glass, half empty, and wills it to fill and fill and wills it to spill, knowing it won’t. Messy and loud, he slurps at it like a proper dog and lets Remus use the end of his tattered sleeve to help clean him off. Again, another grateful smile.
“Yes,” Sirius lies with a bright smile, yellow teeth for show. Not as yellow as Remus’ though. His boyfriend's teeth are tawny and weak from the cigarettes he’s held between them since he was twelve. Sirius’ only started rotting in their fifth year. He puts down his glass, barely takes a sip, and starts mashing his potatoes with his fork like a child playing with his food.
(Starts thinking, you’re not a Black. You’re not a Black. You’re not a Black.)
“If you’re sure,” Dorcas gives in, leaning over. She speaks to Sirius but all ears are privy to the conversion. “The only other thing I mentioned was how flexible Reg can be, so I figured it was denial. You know, I found out in fourth.”
James drops his silverware with a clang. It alerts everyone, and he sheepishly mumbles an apology, though he leaves the utensils on the tablecloth as Dorcas looks away from him and back to Sirius. Sirius, heart beating out of his chest.
‘Since fourth, bloody hell? Since-fucking fourth? How old are we in fourth? Like, fourteen?!’
“I luckily never walked in on him during fifth, he was more careful then. Not so much this year, though,” she continues, looking off to the side in James and Peter’s direction for a moment. Sirius doesn’t really notice…mind ringing, echoing with disbelief. (How? How does Regulus Black? Walburga’s perfect heir?)
“Oh, come off it, Sirius. I’d also be pretty damned mortified to find out any of my siblings were doing…well… it,” Lily offers with a shudder, “but you look like someone told you they set the posters in your room on fire.”
“But he’s— I— There—”
“I asked if you wanted to know,” Dorlene reminds him mercilessly. “Besides, after hearing about your rendezvous I’ll hex you if you dare utter even a syllable about how young he is. He isn’t to be coddled, the bloody bitch tried to hex Barty for taking a sip from his drink just a moment ago.”
But it isn’t just how young he is (so young and small and just last night only eight years old in a house condemned for children with parents who struck them like they were grown men). It is that he’s Regulus Black. Black. Regulus Black.
Not Sirius Black. Sirius Black who is so far from his family ties people remember him first by his hair before they do his title. Sirius Black who ran away, who left it all behind, all those memories and peoples and dreams that keep clawing at his ankles to drag him back. Sirius Black, who hasn’t been Sirius Black in seven bleeding years.
This is Regulus Black, new heir Regulus Black. Who wore his title like a crown and carried himself with the regality of a noble, with high shoulders and strong strides and long legs. Regulus Black, who made himself small and made himself quiet, weaponized his silence and used it like a blade he wielded better than a wand. Regulus Black, who was made with the bones and blood of Black nobility since his first, wretched word.
(Sirius was made of the same marrow too, once, bled Black. So he shattered his wrists, his legs, his ribs, bled from his nose and mouth and ears—his every and any orifice; fixed himself with something different. Anything.)
“Yeah, didn’t you lose it to some blonde Ravenclaw while smashed in fourth year too?” Marlene reminds him.
“He did,” James confirms unhelpfully, “had to drag him out of the room myself after he passed out on the poor lass.”
“And you chose to date that?” Dorcas asks Remus in judgment.
“Much to the shame of my bloodline and anyone who’ll come after me,” Remus says, reaching over and threading his hands with Sirius, touching him like he knew that Sirius felt like his brain was melting out of his eyes. Like he knew he needed grounding, needed his feet planted in the soil and vines wrapped around his ankles.
Sirius breathes, slowly, one-two-three, tries to quiet his heart, tries to remember he is Sirius and not Black and that the difference was damning. (So damning he lost his brother, damned and damned.)
“Just a real shock, I’d never…I’d never imagine…” Sirius trails off. Remus squeezes his hand, drawing him back. Sirius breathes.
“Your brother had sex, mate, it isn’t a big deal,” Peter promises,“ ‘Cept if you’re like me, most people have lost it at this age."
“‘S not like you were raised to be abstinent,” James adds casually.
They weren’t. That’s right. They weren’t. This isn’t a real deviance, isn’t too much of a stain. (This doesn’t shatter the porcelain of his brother’s character.) His family wedded cousins with cousins but loved and lusted like people in heat. They only knew how to take, Blacks.
Sirius breathes.
“Anyways, I don’t think I’d be talking much, Mr I-threw-up-on-his-bed.” Sirius cocks an eyebrow at a flushing James. James lowers his head, glasses slipping off his nose.
Dorcas throws her head back with a laugh. “Oh, I ought to know this one, know a lad who’d be curious too. But hurry on with it, I still haven’t gotten to my lamb.”
Sirius, not paying heed to the end of her statement or James’ protests, quickly recounts the story of James who accidentally threw up on the bed of the first person he bedded in his fifth year after it ended. (The guy had kicked him out in his knickers and shirt, it was a sight for anyone who attended the Gryffindor House party.)
He falls back into a rhythm as Dorcas kisses Marlene on the cheek goodbye and reminds everyone of Saturday. He falls back into the motions of Sirius Black.
He sleeps in with Remus that night, held in his long arms, in his sweaters and warmth and promise of love. Thinks of it like an antidote. Thinks of today like an anomaly.
Regulus Black shags people.
Sirius sleeps mortified at the realisation. Mortified, because they were once brothers, could one day be again. Mortified, not lost. Mortified, his brain no longer melting from his eyes.
(In his dreams they are eight and ten, bandaging each other's wounds and smiling because it felt like defiance.
They swore to sear it in their blood.
Is it a false memory?)