Chapter Text
On his first birthday, Regulus Arcturus Black learned he was destined to die without living and leave his life the same way he lived it, all alone.
Going to the prophets on a child’s first birthday was an ancient tradition in the Black household and it would not end with Sirius, nor would it end with Regulus. Sirius had told Regulus the story of their trip to the prophets countless times over the course of their childhood. The beginning of the end. Sirius, Orion, and Walburga had accompanied little Regulus on the journey. The prophets’ house was small and unassuming with worn-out white paint flaking off the shingles and dying weeds covering the lawn. Sirius entertained little Regulus—who was cradled in his maman’s cold arms—by skipping and dancing down the cobblestone pathway, earning himself several lashings that night.
The prophets opened the door long before the Black family reached the end of the path, welcoming them into the house. A breeze fluttered past the Blacks as they crossed the threshold for the underworld. Hell was a lot colder than the stories described. The prophets had long, patterned skirts that flowed as they walked like waves crashing against the sand. Each prophet was a follower of the Dark Lord, showcased by the gloomy snake crawling on their forearms.
The first prophet had beady eyes that darted across the room and stared at Regulus as though he was both the cure and the disease. At least that was how Sirius described her, though his imagination likely embellished most of this story.
The second prophet had long dark curls with thin braids dispersed throughout it. Little gold charms decorated the curls and braids. Sirius couldn’t remember anything else about her because his distracted little brain was too focused on the pretty gold.
The third prophet petrified Sirius for years after this encounter, her sharp black nails and necklace made of teeth lodged in Sirius’ brain forever. She had long white hair and clouded eyes that had glanced through every soul of the noble and most ancient house of Black. Her screams still echo through Sirius’ dreams to Regulus’ knowledge.
Walburga left Regulus in the hands of the third prophet whose nails scratched Regulus as she held him. Regulus stayed silent. Even as a baby, he was quiet. Maybe it was natural and he knew someone had to be smaller for all the room Sirius took up, or perhaps he had felt the lashings and the pain of being loud or showing emotions. Later in his life, he saw Sirius talk back and return to his room bleeding out, crying for Regulus to stitch him back whole. Regulus swore to himself that he would take care of Sirius and if that meant accepting the punishments and staying silent, Regulus would bear it.
The third prophet laid Regulus on a small, circular table in the middle of the dimly lit room. Each prophet placed a hand on Regulus’ head and began to mutter. Their heads shot upwards, necks cracking in the process, and the third prophet’s nails tightened their grip on Regulus’ head. Blood began to bead on his temple and drip from the prophet’s nails.
The murmurs got louder and the third prophet began to shriek, a high-pitched scream that echoed through the house and shook the little table holding Regulus. It only lasted a moment, but the screams that predicted Regulus’ death haunted Sirius’ thoughts for countless years later. The prophets closed their eyes and rested for a second before sipping their cups of tea.
“His last breath will be taken as his lungs fill with water,” the first prophet began monotonously.
“He will perish long before he would’ve begun to live,” the second continued with a tilt of her head.
“No one will mourn the little sea serpent,” the third prophet finished, flicking the blood from beneath her nails onto the floor.
Sirius says he doesn’t remember much of the rest of that day but Regulus imagines it was filled with arguments and likely many cruel curses were doled out to Sirius, as Regulus was too small to withstand such torture. Thus began the imprisonment of Regulus Arcturus Black. The end of any potential life because he was the perfect heir. Because he was quiet. Because he was malleable. Because Sirius was greater than life and Regulus was barely alive. Walburga and Orion gained a shell of a person to do their dirty work, and they weren’t going to let him go because of a little water.
On rainy days before their years at Hogwarts, Sirius and Regulus would lay in Sirius’ room and play card games or whisper stories to one another. The rain always brought an extra layer of sorrow to their days at 12 Grimmauld Place. For Regulus, the rain felt like a quiet jail cell. He stared out the windows and looked death in the eye. Water had a sort of petrifying beauty as Regulus had come to observe over years of knowing it would be the cause of his demise. The sorrowful songs the water sang as it hit the shower floor and washed away the blood dried on from whatever his parents put him through that day. Regulus imagines that on rainy days, Sirius also felt trapped in that terrifying house. Sirius’ best and only friend at the time was unable to go outside and so he was forced to stay in the house he hated so much. Regulus is sure that Sirius’ undying hatred for the house of Black bled into his love for Regulus. He’s all too aware that every time Sirius sees the rain, he thinks of the cooped up feeling of being trapped in that house and their maman’s angry stare because she couldn’t kick them out when it was raining. He knows that every time Sirius looks at him, he sees his maman’s eyes and his papa’s nose, and he has to resist throwing up or turning away at the sight of Regulus. On the rainy days, his parents became more irritable and Regulus felt like more of a burden and therefore, Regulus became the self-proclaimed nurse for the Black brothers.
On one particularly stormy day when Regulus was eight and Sirius was nine, Regulus was narrating the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, in part because Sirius would never voluntarily read Greek mythology and also because Regulus knew that Sirius liked when he told Sirius stories. He had just got to the part where Orpheus looks back and Eurydice disappears when Sirius shrieks. Loud. Regulus laughs as Sirius falls on the floor and groans.
“Reggie, why?! Why would he look back?! It was so, so simple! Just do not look back. Easy. Are these people idiots?! Like he killed the love of his life solely because he’s clingy!”
Sirius keeps complaining and Regulus keeps laughing at how dramatic Sirius is. The room feels happy and safe, despite the dreary weather outside. As they both calm down, they lay on the floor of Sirius’ room while Sirius mutters about how he “can’t believe it”. However, both boys fall silent when their maman enters the room with a calm face. The brothers know not to trust the tranquility of their maman, for she could be using the cruciatus curse on one of them and not a muscle in her face would twitch.
“I heard yelling.”
Both boys stay quiet for a second, knowing whatever response they give would not stop the punishments from being distributed.
“I’m sorry, maman. Reggie was just trying to read and I was distracting him. Sorry, Reg,” Sirius lies. He smirks and doesn’t break eye contact with their maman.
He’s pushing it with that smile, Regulus thinks to himself as he stares at the floor and brings his shoulders closer together. Sirius is always brave, but he lacks the survival instincts to be able to stay brave and whole. Regulus, however, is a coward and nods, backing Sirius’ lie.
“How about we go for a walk and discuss your punishment, Sirius?” Their maman grabs a hold of Sirius’ wrist, feigning a caring persona and begins to walk out of the room. She resembles a doctor, holding their patient’s arm as they lead them to surgery. Sirius looks back and winks at Regulus, but Regulus can see the terror in the glint of his eyes, the fear for his life.
First, Regulus collects the Black brother survival kit, hidden beneath Sirius’ bed, and heads to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He readies the suture thread, the wipes, the tweezers, the scissors, and peels off the backing to the large bandages to the sounds of Sirius’ screams and chairs screeching across the floor. He must be fighting the curses, trying to get away from her. Regulus had always told him that it was better to accept her punishments, that she gets bored quicker if you don’t fight. But Sirius has never been one to accept Walburga’s ways. He was too brave and too stupid to not fight back. He makes it into a game for her, how badly can she hurt him before he stops fighting. Before he stops moving. Before he stops breathing. Regulus grits his teeth when Sirius’ scream gets duller, quieter. That’s when he passes out. That’s when he needs Regulus to silently carry him to the bathroom, like a funeral procession. However, he’s yet to hear his maman’s retreating footsteps, so he waits, curled against the door, listening. He waits for his job to begin. The resurrector, Sirius used to call him.
Walburga must’ve gotten bored of staring at her crimson artwork and her footsteps soften as she leaves Sirius. Regulus unlocks the bathroom door and peeks his head out. It was too quiet, no groans or complaints from downstairs. Regulus takes the stairs two at a time and sees Sirius fading. He’s bleeding out on the dining room carpet, his eyes closed and tears slowly flowing out of them. Maman will be mad that her carpet is stained. Regulus should clean it after. The carpet has little maroon clumps dispersed in it too, Sirius must’ve fought too hard. He’ll have to wash the whole carpet. Regulus keeps the carpet in mind as he carries Sirius up the stairs. For all Sirius brags about getting muscles, he’s just skin and bones. He misses the family dinners too often to be considered well-fed.
“Sirius. I ask you genuinely, what the actual fuck? Why can’t you wait for maman to get bored?! Why do you have to aggravate her?” Regulus knew he couldn’t respond, he was fighting to stay conscious as it is.
Sirius’ dark curls were matting with blood, she must’ve hit him on the head. Usually she sticks to spells, he must’ve really pissed her off. Regulus keeps cleaning Sirius’ wound on his head and then moves to the larger cuts on his stomach and legs, some likely made with her favorite kitchen knife. The paper towels and wraps they normally used are worthless for such injuries, the blood drowns the little towels and drips through almost immediately. The gleaming white bathroom floor now has a pool of blood staining the tiles. Regulus really needs to clean this up quickly so he can wash the tiles and the carpet. Sirius slowly begins to open his eyes as Regulus moves to stitch up a gash on his calf. The curved needle pokes through the skin and Regulus prays that Sirius is able to hold back his screams.
“You should see the other guy,” Sirius murmured, his words slightly slurred. Regulus smirks despite the horrific sight in front of him.
Once Regulus is finished stitching and bandaging Sirius, he begins telling a different story. He tells the story of the Minotaur and King Minos’ greed. Minos kept a beautiful bull instead of sacrificing it, angering the gods. The gods forcibly created the Minotaur and trapped it inside a palace of vines and vegetation. Young men and women were sent to their deaths to be eaten by the Minotaur. Theseus, however, murdered the Minotaur and became a hero in every story. Regulus despises this interpretation. The Minotaur, a starved, captured creature, was created in vain and as a form of revenge. It is no monster. Daedalus, who created the wooden cow for the bull to reproduce with Pasiphae and the creator of the labyrinth, is the monster. King Minos, the man too vain to sacrifice a bull and the man who created the system of picking the fourteen victims, is the monster. The Minotaur, raised to kill and trapped in a cycle of suffering, is no beast. Regulus often wonders if Theseus knew this too, if Theseus felt any sympathy. Did Theseus see the dark tuft of curls between the Minotaur’s horns? Or the scars, bruises, and gashes lining its gaunt skin? Did Theseus see these injuries and know that the Minotaur was just surviving, that it had no alternatives? Did he drive his sword through the Minotaur’s hollowed chest knowing death was a gift compared to a life in the labyrinth? Did he know that the Minotaur would voluntarily fall onto the sword and plunge it through its ribs if its horns didn’t slice through the victims on the way down? Or did Theseus truly believe himself to be a hero? As he plunged his sword into the beast’s chest, did he think that he was doing the world a favor? Did he not know that the sword should’ve speared Daedalus and Minos?