Work Text:
AT RISE:
Summer, 1979. The beginning of the end. Grimmauld Place; not haunted, just gothic and mean. BARTY bangs his fist on the gothic, mean front door. It was raining, though it isn’t anymore, indicated by the overcast sky and the fact that he is soaking wet.
He is let in by KREACHER, who disappears as quickly as he enters. BARTY drips water on the gothic, mean foyer. Enter REGULUS, descending the staircase, dressed in black robes that swallow up his frame, and his eyes are rimmed with dark circles. He stops walking when he sees BARTY, thin hand gripping the banister. He seems more haunted than the house.
REGULUS: What are you doing here?
Silence.
REGULUS: (dry) Forgot how to cast Impervius?
BARTY: I came to see you.
Silence.
REGULUS: (noticing now) Where’s Evan?
Silence. BARTY rubs his hands on his trousers, for no reason. They’re clean.
REGULUS: Barty— (beat) Where is Evan?
BARTY stares at the wall just behind REGULUS, adored with various family portraits, all of them glaring imperiously. The space just behind him is bare wallpaper, a curious facsimile of where his own portrait will hang, someday.
BARTY: He’s dead.
We go back to childhood. The scene does not change. REGULUS, now fifteen, stands at the top of the stairs, looking blankly down at the front door. Enter BARTY, from behind. He follows REGULUS’s gaze, puzzled for a moment, before his expression hardens.
BARTY: For fuck’s sake, stop. You look like you’re going mad.
REGULUS: (placid) It does run in the family, after all.
BARTY: Cut it out. I mean it. He’s not coming back. You know it, I know it. What the fuck is wrong with you? You hate him. Why are you mourning him?
(beat)
REGULUS: I have no idea who you’re talking about.
BARTY: (losing his temper, now) Bullshit! You’re so—
(Off) EVAN: Barty. (Enters, shakes head minutely.)
BARTY: (turning to EVAN) I don’t understand him. He didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t get it! And now, he won’t even talk to us. He’s shutting us out, and for what? For him?
EVAN: That’s his brother.
REGULUS turns away from the door to stare at them with cold eyes. His face is as still and smooth as the surface of a lake.
REGULUS: No. He’s not.
He descends the stairs, leaving BARTY and EVAN behind.
BARTY: (quiet) I just wish he’d stop killing himself over this. He doesn’t deserve this. Sirius doesn’t deserve his grief.
EVAN: It’s not about what we deserve.
BARTY: Fucking hell, Evan, then what is it about?
EVAN:
REGULUS: (still fifteen) He asked me to come with him, you know.
BARTY cannot suppress the twinge of alarm he feels at that. The scene is dark, quiet. If REGULUS wants to leave, there won’t be a better time.
REGULUS: I asked him to stay.
(beat)
I guess we’re both disappointed.
The present, now. Only just exited childhood. The Rosier family home is an austere, cut-corner house, the new minimalism of families with too much money who do everything in their power to shield that money from the naked eye. EVAN’s neurotic mother hated what she called “dust-collectors,” a term which included, but was not limited to: paintings, vases, crystalline bowls, tea sets, coffee tables, candlesticks, candles in general, rugs, and chairs.
Enter REGULUS and BARTY, both dressed in black formal robes. They’re standing in a quiet, dimly lit hallway that leads to the bedrooms. It’s clear that this portion of the house is not open to guests. Directly behind them is a door left slightly ajar.
BARTY: (tugging at the hems of his sleeves, visibly ill) Don’t know why we bothered coming.
REGULUS: My parents couldn’t make it, so it was expected.
BARTY: For you. I can’t fucking stand this.
REGULUS: He was our friend.
BARTY: He would’ve hated this.
REGULUS: I wonder if his family is worried. Evan was the only one fit to inherit.
BARTY: There’s Pandora.
(beat)
REGULUS: She’s not here.
BARTY: Of course she’s fucking not. Haven’t heard from her since Hogwarts, have we? She could be dead, for all we know.
REGULUS: (weary, having heard this before) She’s not dead.
BARTY: We could be dead, for all she cares. She didn’t even bother to show up to her brother’s funeral.
REGULUS: Enough, Barty. Let’s just try to get through this.
BARTY: Aren’t you even a little bit angry? You were the one who was closest to her. Besides Evan, obviously.
REGULUS: Pandora made her choices. I made mine.
BARTY: (needling) I always wondered if you were in love with her.
REGULUS flicks his eyes sharply at the ceiling, not even bothering to deign that with a response.
BARTY: No, really. Be honest, did you fuck her?
Silence.
BARTY: (taking a step closer, a cruel smile on his face) Did you even want to?
Silence.
BARTY: Or were you too busy thinking about—
REGULUS pushes BARTY against the wall, wand drawn and pressing against the underside of his jaw. BARTY grins maniacally.
REGULUS: (in a deadly whisper) Enough. Neither of us want to be here. But I’m not the reason Evan died.
BARTY: (grin slipping off his face, replaced by a look of twisted rage) Oh, and I am?
REGULUS: You were supposed to watch him.
BARTY shoves REGULUS with both hands. REGULUS catches himself on the opposite wall, face grim, only for BARTY to crowd forward. REGULUS raises his wand, but BARTY catches his wrist, causing it to slip from his fingers.
BARTY: Fuck you. Easy for you to fucking say, you weren’t there. You’re never there.
REGULUS tries to pry his arm away to no avail. His face bears no expression.
BARTY: We can’t all be little princes, locked up in our towers, brewing poison for other people to drink. What would it take for you to dirty your hands for once, Regulus? What would it take?
REGULUS: Let go of me.
But BARTY does not let go. They remain inches apart, BARTY bearing down on REGULUS. For a moment, they each seem equally afraid of the other.
REGULUS: It would take more than this, Barty. Let go.
BARTY releases him, steps back. REGULUS appears shaken for only a second before he recovers. He lowers himself, with great poise, and picks his wand up off the floor. BARTY’s eyes follow him as he kneels and rises. Upon standing, REGULUS straightens his robes pointedly.
REGULUS: I’ll give you a moment. Find me when you’ve gathered yourself.
Exit REGULUS. BARTY remains standing in the hallway. He glances behind him, at the door left ajar. He places a hand on the brass doorknob with a sigh.
BARTY: Sorry you had to see that, mate.
BARTY shuts the door.
Grimmauld Place, as gothic and mean as ever. Enter BARTY, crashing through the front door, clutching his side, and bleeding from a gash on his cheek.
Enter REGULUS from the sitting room, who falters at the sight awaiting him in the foyer. He is dressed casually, in a soft ochre jumper over brown trousers. The relaxed outfit suggests that his parents are not home. They rarely are, these days.
REGULUS: Fuck. What happened to you?
BARTY: (strained) Well, I’m injured and in quite a bit of pain, in case that wasn’t apparent. I can see how it’s confusing, with the blood and the fact that I can’t straighten up without my ribs making a sound. I’ll try to be clearer in the future.
REGULUS: It must be bad if you’re resorting to sarcasm. Lowest form of a wit, you know.
BARTY: Give me a break.
REGULUS: When have I ever done that?
He steps forward to examine the cut on BARTY’s face.
REGULUS: That’s bad. It needs to be disinfected.
BARTY: (breathing heavily now, from the pain) A scar might add to my good looks, don’t you think?
REGULUS: It won’t scar, you idiot. We have Dittany. Come on.
He turns and strides back towards the sitting room.
BARTY: Didn’t deny the bit about my good looks.
The sitting room. The fireplace is stoked. Every surface is immaculately clean, of course. The only sign that anyone has stepped foot in this room all day is the single book lying open on the coffee table. And next to it, lies a silver tray laid with disinfectant and a small tub of Dittany.
BARTY: That house elf of yours is freaky.
REGULUS: (reaching for the disinfectant) Don’t talk about him that way. Sit down.
BARTY sits. REGULUS sits beside him, disinfects a cotton ball and, without pause, presses it to the cut on BARTY’s face. He hisses, loudly.
REGULUS: Stay still.
BARTY: It bloody hurts.
REGULUS: Don’t be a child.
BARTY falls begrudgingly silent as REGULUS takes his jaw in hand, cleaning the wound with perfunctory motions. He tosses the bloody ball of cotton onto the tray and picks up the Dittany, unscrews it. He applies it to BARTY’s face with his fingers.
BARTY: (fighting a grin) You know I could’ve done this myself, right?
(beat)
REGULUS: (turning red, dropping his hands) Then do it.
He holds out the tub, but BARTY makes no move to take it. For a moment, he’s stunned. This is the most emotive he’s seen REGULUS in months. He’d been surprised, truth be told. REGULUS’s hands were warm.
REGULUS: Are you going to tell me what happened?
BARTY: Pub fight.
REGULUS: You don’t seem drunk.
BARTY: (grinning) I didn’t say I was at the pub, did I?
REGULUS: (sighs) You’re mad.
BARTY: What can I say, they were ganging up on this one bloke—
REGULUS: And your chivalrous spirit just couldn’t resist jumping in to help him.
BARTY: No, I helped beat his arse. He was definitely a twat, if he managed to piss off that many people.
REGULUS: I can’t believe you sometimes. What were you doing near a muggle pub?
BARTY: Who says it was a muggle pub?
REGULUS: The fact that you’re bleeding, not dead.
BARTY: (evasive) Well, you know—
REGULUS: No, listen to me. You can’t do this. Not now, not here. We’re not in school anymore.
BARTY: I don’t know what you’re talking about—
REGULUS: If you’re caught, Barty, it’s not going to be detention and a slap on the wrist. Do you think the Dark Lord wants servants who draw unnecessary attention to themselves in Muggle London?
BARTY: I’m not a servant.
REGULUS: (leaning in, voice dropping to a hiss) You’re not listening. You’re going to get yourself killed. Do you understand that?
(beat)
Do you even care?
Silence. Then,
BARTY: Oh, Reggie, are you worried about me? I’m touched.
REGULUS flinches. The tub of Dittany falls out of his hand and onto the silver platter, green paste smeared across the shiny reflection.
REGULUS: Don’t call me that.
BARTY: (laughing cruelly) You can’t even handle hearing your own nickname because it reminds you of your brother, and I’m the fucked up one.
REGULUS: I didn’t say you were fucked up. I’m quickly changing my mind, though.
BARTY: Don’t bullshit me. You think I’m cracked. You think I’ve flown off the handle because of—
He can’t say it. He’s shocked by how impossible it is to say.
REGULUS’s expression goes suddenly calm, placid, smooth and still as a lake. The exact same expression he’d worn for weeks after his brother left.
REGULUS: No, Barty. You think that.
BARTY surges to his feet—the suddenness of it nearly unbalances him. REGULUS stays seated, looking up at BARTY with all the weariness of an aged parent witnessing a child’s tantrum.
BARTY: Do you remember when Sirius left, and we couldn’t say his name for months because if you heard it, you wouldn’t be able to speak for the rest of the day? Do you remember that, or is that just another thing you’ve so neatly repressed?
REGULUS: Are you done?
BARTY: Or, no, do you remember what your parents did to you? Any of it? I bet you don’t, or you wouldn’t be warming this fucking house for them.
REGULUS: Stop.
BARTY: I really do wonder sometimes, Regulus, if you’ve ever loved something that you couldn’t bury.
REGULUS’s expression shifts, just a fraction. BARTY spots it the way a shark smells blood.
REGULUS: Get out of my house, Barty.
He stands, and exits. BARTY leans down and rights the fallen tub of Dittany. His reflection can be glimpsed in the silver platter, marred by a slash of pale green.
A guest bedroom in Grimmauld Place. Needless to say, BARTY did not get out of REGULUS’s house. It’s dark, but we can see him lying on his back on the bed, one arm crooked underneath his forehead. His face has been bandaged up.
A creak, and the door pushes open, allowing a sliver of dim candlelight in. In the sliver, stands REGULUS in his pajamas. He’s shaking. At the sight of him, BARTY raises himself up on his elbows.
BARTY: Regulus?
REGULUS does not reply. He crosses the room in three brisk strides, and then he’s scrambling onto the bed, onto BARTY, his hands pressing against BARTY’s aching ribs.
BARTY: Oh, what the fuck—
His bewilderment is cut short by REGULUS kissing him. It’s clumsy, given the fact that he’s still trembling like he’s about to burst out of his skin. Mostly teeth and shaky breaths and strange desperation. BARTY responds like a triumph.
BARTY: I knew it, I knew it, I fucking knew it.
REGULUS: (scowling, yanking at the buttons of BARTY’s shirt) Shut up.
BARTY: (grinning as he shucks off his own shirt and gets started on REGULUS’s) You’re so damn easy.
REGULUS: As if you haven’t wanted to fuck me since we were fifteen.
BARTY: As if you didn’t love knowing that.
REGULUS: I ha— (cuts off, gasping, as Barty latches his mouth to his neck) Just shut up, would you?
Needless to say, BARTY does not.
Still, the guest bedroom in Grimmauld Place. BARTY and REGULUS, lying side by side, sweaty and in various stages of undress.
BARTY: You’ve done that before.
REGULUS: (terse) So have you.
BARTY: You already knew that.
REGULUS: Unfortunately. Did you have a point?
BARTY: Was that it? The thing you couldn’t bury?
A long beat.
REGULUS: As if I’d tell you.
Different day, different time. REGULUS’s bedroom. REGULUS sits at his desk, scribbling furiously. Several books are open in front of him. The ground around him is littered with crumpled pieces of paper. He startles at the sound of the door opening. Enter BARTY, through the door.
REGULUS: Do you ever knock?
BARTY: I try not to. What are you doing?
REGULUS: Working.
BARTY: You’d think we were back in fucking school, the way you’re sat.
REGULUS: Yes, well, I’m the one who has to manage the household while my father recuperates.
BARTY: The whole “rest-cure” thing is such bullshit, you know. Your parents just didn’t feel like sticking around to watch London go up in flames. War fucking sucks, no matter how much you believe in it.
REGULUS: That’s a first. I remember you were itching for it.
BARTY: That was then.
‘Before Evan died,’ neither of them say.
REGULUS turns around in his seat and gazes up at BARTY with a slight frown.
REGULUS: Well. This is now.
BARTY: Yeah. This is now.
(beat)
What are you even doing, really?
REGULUS: (turns back around) I just told you. I’m working. I’ve got some things I need to sort out with the solicitor.
BARTY narrows his eyes. For some reason, he trusts REGULUS even less than he normally does. He reaches down and picks one of the crumpled pieces of paper off the floor. He unfolds it slowly, quietly, and
REGULUS: Incendio.
BARTY: Fuck!
He drops the flaming ball of paper and shakes out his singed hand. On the ground, all of the crumpled paper balls are in flames.
REGULUS smiles—a real, genuine, toothy grin. It stuns BARTY more than his own burnt fingertips or the ash all over the hardwood. It sends BARTY back to fourteen, the days where EVAN could say something that would make them all dissolve into peals of laughter, including REGULUS.
REGULUS: Whoops.
BARTY: What the hell?
REGULUS: I can’t have you snooping through Black family affairs, can I?
BARTY: You’re such a prick.
Still smiling, REGULUS gets up from his seat and approaches BARTY, backing him up until his legs hit the bed. When he sits, REGULUS drops to his knees. BARTY blinks down at him, still not recovered from his earlier shock.
BARTY: Far be it from me to complain, but…?
REGULUS: (looks up—wide-eyed, fervent) I want to. Does there need to be another reason?
BARTY grins as REGULUS starts undoing his belt. Then, he reaches down and grasps REGULUS’s jaw, fingers digging into his skin, forcing him to turn his face upwards. His eyes are more lucid than BARTY has seen in months. He looks startlingly alive.
BARTY: You don’t have to tell me what you’re up to. I don’t care. (beat) But Evan’s dead. You don’t get to leave.
REGULUS: Did you love Evan?
Yet another surprise. BARTY loosens his grip on REGULUS’s face.
BARTY: What does that have to do with anything?
In lieu of a reply, REGULUS unbuttons his trousers.
BARTY (to audience): I was there the first time Evan killed someone. Well, actually, he had to do it alone, but I was there afterwards. I helped him get out of there. I wasn’t even supposed to do that; we were meant to do the entire thing on our own, but whatever. I knew he needed me, so I was there.
Evan was the last of us to get the hang of Avada Kedavra. He tried for months, couldn't manage it, couldn’t even kill a spider. Eventually he did figure it out, but that wasn’t until we were out of school. We were seventeen here, and Evan used Sectumsempra to take care of this. He was really good at that one. There was blood everywhere. I don’t think either of us were prepared for how much blood could come out of a person. Every artery slashed open. Evan was nothing if not precise.
I remember him shaking. I remember his eyes being so calm. Evan was angry constantly by the end, but back then, he was calm. He looked at me, and his face was covered in blood. It was in his hair, his mouth, his eyelashes. He’d stood too close to the guy. We didn’t think there’d be that much blood. At least, I didn’t. He was surprised to see me.
I remember thinking he was the most beautiful thing in the world. Then he hugged me and got blood all over my clothes.
(BARTY looks to the side. REGULUS is curled up next to him, fast asleep.)
I guess if you were to ask me if I loved him, my answer would be that there wasn’t a single moment in all the time we’d known each other where I thought that one of us would outlive the other.
(beat)
Plus, we’d been messing around since we were sixteen. If that’s important.
Grimmauld Place. REGULUS and BARTY sit on opposite ends of a long, long dinner table. Both of their gazes are fixed on their plates, which are laid with barely touched, picked-at food.
BARTY: This tastes like shit.
REGULUS: I cooked it.
BARTY: Well, that’s why. Where’s Kreacher?
REGULUS: He’s out.
BARTY: What? Your three-thousand-year-old house elf whose life ambition is to be a decapitated head on your wall isn’t here to make you dinner?
REGULUS: Stop talking about him like that. And no, he isn’t here. Because he’s out.
BARTY: Doing what?
REGULUS: None of your business.
BARTY: So, what, I’m just supposed to believe he left you all alone in this house?
REGULUS: I’m not expecting you to believe anything. Besides, I’m not alone. (He smiles mockingly) You’re here.
BARTY: (mirrors his smile) I’m here. Does this dinner remind you of your parents?
REGULUS: You overestimate how similar our families are. We rarely ate dinner together, unless we had guests. Does it remind you of your parents?
BARTY: Yes, actually. (Rises from his seat and throws his napkin onto the table) Let’s go.
REGULUS: We’re not done eating. I made dessert.
BARTY: Then I’m definitely done eating.
He starts walking away.
REGULUS: Where are you going?
BARTY: Where do you think? You didn’t invite me here for dinner and a kiss goodnight, Reggie.
REGULUS’s expression turns sour, but after a beat, he gets up and follows BARTY.
REGULUS’s room, pitch-black. We can see nothing, but we can hear the faint sound of shuffling, of clothes rustling. We can also hear:
BARTY: This could be so much simpler if you stopped pretending you didn’t want it.
REGULUS: (slightly breathless) I don’t want it. I don’t want you.
BARTY: You’re a good liar.
A hitch of breath, followed by more rustling.
REGULUS: But… you’re the only one who hasn’t left.
BARTY: Oh.
(beat)
So what I’m hearing is that I’m your last resort? Like, last two people left in the world and we have to fuck to continue the species? That’s what this is?
REGULUS: … Yeah. Exactly.
More rustling.
BARTY: Fine. Let’s be the last two people in the world.
Afterwards. BARTY and REGULUS lie on their backs and stare at each other in the near-total darkness. We can just barely make out their blurry and indistinct outlines.
REGULUS: You know, most muggles believe in a god. The kind that provides... salvation, or something. Sometimes I think there’s a vacuum for us. That wizards are desperate for that kind of belief, and that’s why we give our faith to any person who promises to save us.
BARTY: Most muggles are stupid.
REGULUS: (wry) You really think so?
BARTY: Nobody is going to save us.
A long beat, in which there’s a shift in their outlines. It may be that REGULUS has touched his hand to BARTY’s under the covers. Or maybe not. Most likely not.
REGULUS: I’m starting to think that we don’t deserve it anyway.
BARTY: For fuck’s sake, Reg, it’s not about what we deserve.
REGULUS: Then what is it about?
(beat)
BARTY: I don’t know. I can never remember that part.