Chapter Text
Walburga Black was not a woman interested in the ordinary. Her home was full of ornate and beautiful furniture collected from the finest woodworkers, carpenters, and artisans. Each and every rug was as intricate as it was delicate, whether it was meant to be displayed like art across the walls or to be stepped on with clean, socked feet. She used the finest china for every meal, every cup of water, every tiny morsel of food she pulled from the cabinet. Sometimes it was difficult to tiptoe around your own house, but it was the only way Regulus had ever known how to live.
Naturally, this meant her children were expected to conform to her intense level of perfection. Each morning, Regulus was expected to make his bed, tucking his sheets so firmly into the corners that his father could bounce a coin off the surface. For a long time, Regulus was too little to accomplish this task. His fingers weren’t nimble enough to pinch and tug the sheets across such a large area, his small hands unable to collect large amounts of his blanket in one go. Orion would loom above him, watching without offering a suggestion for how he might make the task easier on himself. More often than not, Regulus knew the coin would fall flat before Orion had flicked it. It caused a great deal of stress for him, back when he was too young to understand why it was required at all.
Walburga’s interest in the exquisite extended beyond the things she could collect, however. Never once had Grimmauld Place been host to an animal as simple as a dog. Walburga might drop dead if a creature as trivial as a cat were adopted by her family. Walburga was interested in only those which seemed exotic and rare; beautiful and magnificent.
The most simple animals she ever permitted within her house were a set of hamsters Sirius had begged for, and her reasons for the authorization were twofold. First, and most importantly, was the fact that the store clerk assured her the hamsters were both female. Second, and that which she hadn't really believed, was that Sirius promised to take very good care of the two pets. Within the week, both her reasons had fallen flat.
At three years old, Regulus was delighted to meet all eight baby hamsters when he’d woken up for school. All day at preschool, he and Sirius debated what each baby should be called. They'd originally named their hamsters something else, something Walburga called “mundane,” but it only made sense to rename their original pets to Mama Hamster and Daddy Hamster, respectively. This, Regulus thought, was the height of privilege: to be named for something you can be proud of.
When the pair arrived home with a list of eight perfect names for their eight perfect babies, they were distraught to discover they’d moved out. Walburga had gently explained that baby hamsters leave their nest when they're very young, and Regulus believed her until he was nearly eighteen when, while regaling the story at a college party, Barty laughed and told him that Mama Hamster probably ate them. To say he was disgusted would be an understatement.
Regulus never formed any sort of attachment for another pet again. He always liked meeting people's dogs, but their frantic movements and big, sloppy tongues were off-putting. He didn’t mind the horned lizard that lived in his father's office, but he hated days it was meant to be fed, because the crunching of cockroach shells made him rather nauseous. The Grammastola tarantula that lived in the dining room was horrific, and while Walburga claimed the large, writhing ball python that occupied the sitting room was cuddly, Regulus couldn’t get over the feel of its scales.
The closest thing Regulus ever felt that neared affection was leant towards a striking, bright green eclectus parrot. By the time he was old enough to appreciate her soft, silken feathers and her great, wise eyes, she was nearly forty years old. She’d been given the name Congress well before she’d gone into a young Walburga’s care, and despite her interest in all things delicate, Walburga understood that changing the bird’s name so late in life would just confuse the intelligent parrot. Regulus thought it was a fitting name for something so regal.
Congress was permitted free movement throughout the halls of Grimmauld Place. This sort of disorder was not something Walburga would typically tolerate, however, Congress was an exceptionally smart bird. She knew not to squawk too loudly unless something was actually wrong - her leg had been caught in a curtain, for example. She knew not to make a mess of her toys and perches, or else she may lose the privileges she was granted. She knew Sirius and Regulus didn't mind when she tried to nest amongst their long, curly hair, but she also understood she was not allowed anywhere higher than Walburga’s shoulders. Congress, Regulus believed, was the smartest being in their household.
He wouldn’t dream of claiming anything like love for the bird, though. He knew how his friends talked about their pets: everlasting endearment, devoted affection, a fondness typically afforded to family members. Regulus didn’t think he and Congress were leveled enough to adopt anything so familiar. For one thing, Congress was old. As a young child, Regulus could barely comprehend anything being older than his parents, save for his Mamere, and it made Congress into something of an enigma. For another, Congress wasn’t anything like a normal pet.
Deep down, Regulus thought Congress was more like a person than an animal. This was mostly due to the fact that he related to the bird more easily than he related to those he lived with. Congress was quiet, speaking only when prompted, and often in short, rehearsed sentences. Regulus knew he was like that, too. Congress was smart, able to understand basic commands and perform clever tricks for her meals. Regulus understood that all too well. Most importantly, Congress liked Sirius the most out of everyone in the house. Regulus wanted to be her favorite, but in reality, he knew how magnetic Sirius was, and he could never fault her for making such a sensible choice.
When Regulus was four and Sirius was five, Congress’s cage was moved into Sirius’s bedroom. Until that point, Regulus had only known her to live in the kitchen at bedtime because it was the first room Orion visited in the mornings. Unfortunately for Regulus’s parents, Congress learned how to open her cage on her own just after Sirius’s fifth birthday. Every morning for weeks, and despite dozens of zip ties and a small padlock placed against her door, Sirius would wake to Congress asleep by his head. After her cage was moved, Sirius began to invite Regulus into his room, too.
It felt like a sleepover that never had to end. Regulus hadn’t realized he could sleep in a room other than his own until Sirius began insisting they share the space. At night, Sirius, Regulus, and Congress would chat about their days in hushed chirps and whispered voices. Staying up well past their bedtime, and often getting told off by one or both of their parents, the boys contented themselves to fill out Sirius’s too-large bed with their too-small bodies. More often than not, they woke up with a bird between their heads and smiles on their faces.
That was when Regulus started seeing Sirius as a person, too. For his entire life, Sirius felt like something other. He responded to stress with a brash, loud manner: a complete juxtaposition to Regulus’s attempted invisibility. When their mother would scold them for playing too loudly, Sirius would offer a sassy quip or an obvious eyeroll. This would only spur a loud, dramatic bout of yelling that Orion would inevitably exclude himself from, despite sitting at the same breakfast table. Sirius also made friends very easily, always getting invited to sleepovers and birthday parties as though the event couldn’t possibly be held without his presence. Regulus was always invited too, but he knew he was something like an afterthought - a courtesy - all because Sirius asked if he could join in.
Once, for example, Sirius had been invited to Gideon and Fabian Prewett’s eighth birthday. Everyone across their entire school knew the Prewett’s hosted the best birthday parties - decorations that seemed better suited for a rock n’ roll band, a theme fit for princes, and a cake worth several hundreds of dollars. The Prewett’s mother worked at their school, too; a fourth grade teacher. She was known to be funny, talking to her students like they were small adults instead of large children. Everyone wanted to be in her good graces, and rubbing shoulders with Gid and Fab was the fastest way into her inner lunch circle.
Sirius was a year below the twins, but his affable, outgoing personality made it impossible for people to ignore him. It helped that Sirius knew how to talk about things that were cool, like guitars and skateboards and how lava lamps actually work. His popularity almost matched the Prewett’s, so their friendship was a natural outcome.
Regulus knew he hadn’t been invited. Sirius tried to lie, tried to say his name had come up when they’d talked about it, tried to claim that Mrs. Prewett must have simply forgotten to add Regulus’s name to the cherry red invitation that came in their mail box. Regulus knew it was a lie, but he was too excited to attend to call Sirius on it. This was their routine: Sirius was popular, invited, accepted. Regulus was not, but he reaped the benefits of being Sirius’s little brother. It worked out fine for both of them.
Regulus hated the party. It was loud, and there was constant movement, and he knew trampolines had a weight limit but he was still forced upon the thing with nearly twenty other children. He hated stumbling around, flailing for purchase upon the wobbling, unsteady mat, despite seeing every other person succumbing to the same fate. Regulus had never realized he was so self-absorbed, so concerned with his own image, until that party. To his horror, that feeling never went away.
When they’d returned home, showered and sleepy and tucked away in Sirius’s bed, Regulus held his tongue. Sirius chatted with enthusiasm about all the children he talked to, about all the wonderful gifts the boys had gotten, about his invitation to sit with the Prewett’s at lunch. Regulus knew his own fear, his own selfish worries, would bring Sirius’s mood down. As Congress said her silly, simple phrases, interspersed between Sirius’s sleepy, happy memories, Regulus decided his worry wasn’t all that important, anyway.
Regulus once heard that different people think with different parts of their brains. He immediately thought about how Sirius must think with whatever part of the brain makes someone impulsive. Sirius didn’t see the world in angles and lines, but in blobs and blurs and radiant, magnificent colors that whirred and spun and reached for the clouds. Regulus had never understood how someone could live with all that chaos, but he thought that might be why he loved Sirius anyway.
Sirius never seemed burdened by the stress of living with parents that saw him as an investment. He never focused on earning their praise. He didn’t care that the attention he received was that which Regulus considered negative. To Sirius, Walburga’s criticism was an act of adoration; her sneer a warm, charming smile. Regulus shied away from his parents, from their censure and judgment, but Sirius seemed happy to run, head-first, into their disapproval.
For a long time, Regulus understood that their father was fond of Sirius. He understood that Orion saw Sirius as an intelligent young man who would someday inherit their family business. He understood that Orion thought of Sirius as someone that could be shaped into a man worthy of something so valuable, something so honorable. He understood that Sirius was his father’s favorite, the golden child, the child they’d always prayed to be blessed with.
There's a framed photograph on the wall of the staircase. Regulus used to love it until he realized it was a perfect encapsulation of everything wrong with their family. His father is standing on the beach, somewhere in France, his feet barely in the water - just enough to cover his toes without touching his ankles. Sirius is in his arms: one around Sirius’s back, his fingers stretched out, and the other supporting his legs. Sirius is the picture of delight, and each time Regulus sees his perfect, happy, cherubic face, he can hear the squealing screech of Sirius's three-year-old laugh somewhere in his memory. Walburga is behind the camera, the slightest bit of her blood-red nail hovering in the top left corner of the picture, looming like a darkened haze in an otherwise cloudless sky.
Nobody ever notices that Regulus is there, too. Not until they've commented on Orion's softened features, or how pretty Sirius's hair was so early on, even with the water dripping from the rivulets. Nobody notices Regulus clinging to his father's leg. Nobody notices that he isn't smiling. Nobody notices that one of his feet is hovering above the sea, trying to dodge the ocean, which he feared so deeply. Nobody notices that he's looking up into the face of his father, trying to garner any iota of attention he could manage. Nobody notices he looks sad.
For a long time, Regulus understood his father loved Sirius in a way he’d never love Regulus. When he was young, Regulus decided that was okay, because it must have meant his mother had to love him more, if only to compensate.
It wasn’t until he was much older that Regulus realized his father was a narcissist. It took a long time, and a lot of conversation with a lot of people who seemed smarter about family dynamics than he was, but he eventually decided that was the label that fit best. It didn’t fit his mother, though, who Regulus believed did harbor something like affection for both her children. That’s why Sirius was still alive today; why Regulus was something akin to happy with his own life. His mother wasn’t perfect, but she did care for them.
Regulus remembers the first time he thought his mother loved him. Walburga taught at a Catholic primary school, and she had Regulus and Sirius enrolled in their pre-school program when they were toddlers. Regulus wasn’t in the same class as Sirius, because Sirius was a year above, but they still got to sit together through Mass and at lunch and play together on the playground, so it felt like enough.
They would sit in the car on the way home from school, and Walburga would ask how their days were. Sirius would chat, endlessly, about all the toys he played with and all the bugs he discovered at the playground and all the friends he spoke to and about what. Regulus was enraptured, always happy to imagine how fantastic and colorful Sirius’s day had been when he wasn’t around. His own days never seemed nearly as fun - not when Sirius wasn’t there to play with, anyway.
Yet Walburga always managed to tamper Sirius’s energy around the time they passed the grocery store, which Regulus understood to mean they were halfway home. She’d ask Regulus how his day had been, and when he recited the same few one-worded answers, she’d prompt him for more.
“How was your day, Regulus?”
“Good.”
“I’m glad to hear. What toys did you play with?”
“Crayons.”
“That’s so much fun! What did you draw?”
“Flowers.”
Always the same conversation, and she always managed to make his boring, uneventful days feel wondrous. Maybe it was because she wasn’t yet done playing the part of a genial, caring teacher. Maybe it was because their car ride was the one block of time the three of them got away from Orion. Maybe it was all fabricated, and Regulus’s memory isn’t quite right, and none of it happened at all. All Regulus knows is she wouldn’t have asked if she hadn’t cared, somewhere deep down, that Regulus was happy. That didn’t mean she loved him more than Sirius, nor did it necessarily mean she loved him at all. It just meant that, for those precious few minutes when he was four, she cared.
On Wednesdays, their school got out early, and Walburga took them to their Mamere’s house. She was the only living grandparent they had left, and Regulus was often glad for it, because Regulus knew her house was one of the only places Walburga looked really beautiful. She smiled easily, and her arm would drape across the back of her kitchen chair in a relaxed manner, and she didn’t seem to care about the dollar store coffee cups or the plastic spoons Mamare gave them for their ice cream, nor the fact that she used cheap, orange scented hand soap in her bathroom. In that house, Walburga was like a different person: a person that loved them, no matter how plain they looked or how clumsy they acted or how loudly they yelled across the hallways. In that house, Walburga was their mom.
Mamare spoke rapid French, and her house was on an old, clear, winding river, and she had small, single-served cups of ice cream in a freezer in her garage. Regulus always chose chocolate, and Sirius always picked vanilla, and when he thinks about it now, Regulus can’t help but laugh. Regulus always imagined Sirius to be someone that thought vanilla would be boring, especially when any other option was available. Still, that was their routine, and neither boy strayed from it as long as they lived.
When they’d finish their ice cream, Walburga would lick her thumb and swipe away whatever sticky remnants they’d manage to leave across their chins and cheeks and noses. She’d laugh at their sweet, high giggles before sending them off to play with a funny little wink. Regulus never understood what she meant by it. Maybe it was just because Sirius liked to try and wink back, and she’d praise him for his efforts.
Sirius liked to play in the front room, because the door was located under a grand staircase and Sirius liked the blocks Mamare kept in the closet. There was an old, antique rotary phone on a table by the large bay window and Sirius liked to pull the dial and listen as it clicked back into place. They weren’t always allowed in that room because it’s where Mamere kept her fancy china, and because Sirius once dialed the police on accident and they’d shown up at the doorstep to check that she hadn’t fallen over. They’d gotten a very stern talking to for that one, but Walburga managed to laugh it off by the time they piled into the car. Still, sometimes they’d get permission, and Sirius would convince Regulus to create the tallest tower possible, and they’d fight over whether it was bigger than last time or not.
Regulus liked the front room, too, but it was nothing compared to the glass room. Regulus wasn’t sure what else it might be called - a sitting room? A den? - but he’d never needed to know. It was a glass room because nearly everything, from the walls to the furniture to the chandelier, were made of pure, clear, sparkling glass.
There was a starch white couch in the center of the room across from two chintz chairs that were such a pale blue that they could hardly be considered tinted. The floor was a dazzling white, intricately decorated tile, though it was almost entirely covered by a hand-woven rug Mamere had imported from Lebanon. No matter where you stood in the room, you had a perfect view of the crystal clear water in the backyard, so perfectly framed within the windows as to make it appear endless. His favorite days were those that the sun was shining overhead, basking everything in brilliant golden hues and making the room seem ethereal. Regulus loved nothing more than to stand in the doorway, soaking in the divine beauty of the glass room.
He knew his mother was trying to emulate this room, specifically, with all her artisanal wares and hand-crafted trinkets. He knew that Walburga loved this room like he did: loved that everything was so fragile, yet so finely placed as to not be in any real danger. She loved that the view reflected off each surface because everything was placed with precision, with intention. He knew she was constantly chasing the sun, trying desperately to reach that which could never be harnessed.
All her life, Walburga sought to control that which could not be tamed. From her precious pets to her cluttered home to her unruly children, Walburga’s life seemed to revolve around a perpetual state of chaos. It was a miracle she managed to stay so composed.
She wasn’t always perfect, not by a long shot. Regulus would always bear the scars she smacked into his left hand when he’d begun to learn to write. He’ll always hear her whispered cruelty in his ear when he thinks about picking pizza over a salad for dinner. He’ll never forget the scoff that sounded over his shoulder when he missed a note on the piano, or the look of disappointment on her face when he bowed after his senior recital.
But in her mother’s home, the noise and rotations and anxiety seemed to fade. The hard lines of her face softened and her eyes managed to lighten in a way that couldn’t be replicated outside those walls. What was once a razor’s edge dulled to something more closely likened to a butter knife. What should have been a breaking point was quickly resolved the second she found her mother’s smile. What would have killed any sane, reasonable, strong woman became nothing more than a simple problem, easily swept away by a paper plate full of wafer cookies that contained more preservatives than sugar. Walburga was happy there, and sometimes, Regulus wished they could have stayed forever.
But they’d have to leave so Walburga could organize dinner, and Regulus tried very hard not to cry over the loss that could have become commonplace. Before they’d be ushered out by Walburga’s fretting hands, Mamere would whisk them towards her pantry where she stored an intricately designed tin box. It was as though she knew the boys wanted to savor the time; wanted just one more minute within that house. Mamere always found a way to force them to linger, to savor, to enjoy the day for the gift it had been.
Every week, she’d remove the lid of that box as though they didn’t know what might be inside. When an assortment of jelly beans would be revealed, Sirius and Regulus gasped as though they’d never known something so delightful could be found somewhere so ordinary.
Regulus always picked three new flavors. He tried to remember what he’d picked the week before, often confiding in his mother and Mamere alike to ensure he’d run through them all at least once before returning to his favorites. Sirius, however, always picked the same three flavors: blueberry, lemon lime, and cherry. Where Regulus would eat his jelly beans on the car ride home, Sirius would shove his deep in his pocket. When Regulus asked about his peculiar pattern, Sirius simply shrugged.
“I like the colors.” He explained, as though that was the most important part of picking out candies. Regulus would have thought it was odd, like his choice of ice cream flavor, but he had been too busy savoring the flavor of cinnamon to give it any further thought.
On the days they went home after school, Walburga ushered them into the back garden. They had an old, rickety swingset with a slide attached on the right which provided plenty of stimulation for the two rambunctious boys. Every afternoon began with an attempt to swing clean over the railings, and a debate about who got to be Neil Armstrong and who had to be Buzz Aldrin. More often than not, Sirius won Neil, but Regulus was happy to be Buzz if it meant they got to visit the moon together.
They traded days for who got to pick what they played afterwards. Mondays and Thursdays were Sirius’s pick, and more often than not, he chose to learn tricks on his skateboard. Regulus thought Sirius’s selection was nothing less than performative: a clear attempt to appear shabby and commonplace to better upset their mother. Still, when he’d taught Regulus how to do an ollie without falling over, Regulus felt something like a superhero. It helped that Sirius cheered him on like he’d won an Olympic medal.
Regulus’s picks typically consisted of playing Wizards Brew, a game that required them to collect sticks and rocks and a great assortment of other foliage to add to a large pot. Sirius told him once that it was a girl’s game, but he’d always gotten into the spirit when Regulus pulled out the garden hose to create a great puddle of mud. Sirius liked any game that resulted in dirty sweater sleeves and tears in his jeans.
Regulus had never admitted it to Sirius when they were kids, but his favorite afternoons were the days that it rained. Walburga refused to let them out and, instead, sent them to their bedrooms to find something quiet to occupy them. On those days, Sirius would pull out a huge plastic bin of Rolling Stone magazines, and the boys would flip through pages of rockstars and band members' tell-alls. Sirius had inherited the bin from their older cousin, Andromeda, who had dreams of being a rockstar herself, some day. At five and six, Regulus and Sirius’s grandest dreams were getting a hold of the first Rolling Stone magazine with John Lennon on the cover.
One day, an eight-year-old Sirius convinced Regulus that, should they try hard enough, they could dig a hole all the way to Australia. Regulus wasn’t too keen on the idea because it sounded like a lot of work, and a great deal of time, and he was sure their mother would be angry at them for digging up her lawn. Still, Sirius was intent on his plan, and he’d promised Regulus that Australia would be a much happier place to live than Grimmauld. In the end, Regulus knew it was futile to attempt any sincere protest.
Every afternoon for nearly three weeks, both boys sacrificed their typical routine in favor of their grand plan. After scoping out a plot on the side of the house that nobody ever looked over, they took turns digging with a huge shovel Sirius had discovered from the back of the garage, or otherwise falling on hands and knees to scrape at the grass. Regulus’s nails looked worse and worse as the days passed, but Sirius’s smile was more than enough encouragement to carry on. They’d updated Congress with their progress every night, and by the end of the first week, she’d learned how to say “Australia” in Sirius’s voice.
By the time they’d dug deep enough that their ears were below ground-level at all times, Sirius had decided one of them would need to stay on the grass and listen for their mother’s call. Like everything else they did, they took turns with this task, constantly straining their ears to detect the noise of the back door opening. Of course, their plan was ruined when Sirius struck a huge rock that he couldn’t move alone. They’d nearly managed to displace the rock when the sun seemed to cloud over very suddenly. Regulus knew, by the look on Sirius’s face, that they’d never reach Australia.
Regulus had never been grounded before then, and to him, it felt like imprisonment. He wasn’t allowed to play with Sirius in the garden the entire next week, which felt extreme. He and Sirius weren’t allowed to look through Andromeda’s magazines, either. All Regulus was allowed to do was sit and “think about his actions,” confined to his room like a sickly child. The absolute worst part, however, was that Walburga refused to allow them both to sleep in Sirius’s bed together, an effort designed to prevent further scheming.
By that point, Regulus had been sleeping in Sirius’s bed for nearly three years. It hadn’t occurred to him until he’d been isolated to his own bedroom that he relied on Sirius’s soft snores, on Congress’s gentle hoots, on the sounds of creaking floorboards and shuffling bedsheets, to feel like he could actually rest. His bedroom, Regulus was frightened to learn, was deafeningly quiet and far too large.
When their sentence had been lifted, Regulus returned to Sirius’s room like a man seeking salvation. Sirius welcomed him without much fuss, interested only in resuming the routine they’d built the last three years. He never asked how Regulus’s punishment went, and he never shared how his own had been. At the time, Regulus was grateful to forget it had happened at all.
The only lesson Walburga seemed to take away from their grounding was that isolation was an effective punishment. Any time one or both her children did something unsavory, said something offensive, made a move that would embarrass her beyond comprehension, he was sent to his room. By age nine, Sirius had become something of a troublemaker, and Regulus was forced to pay the price. The three hundred and sixty five days that existed between his ninth and tenth birthday passed in a dazed blur, considering how little sleep Regulus got when forced to lay in his own bed. Eventually, and after far too much resistance, Regulus’s body forced itself to find some modicum of comfort in the space.
It would have been fine had Sirius not been entering secondary school at the same time. Regulus had never attended a school that Sirius hadn't also occupied. Sure, they’d been separated on an individual basis, when one boy was sick and the other still had to go to school, and naturally they had never been in the same class, but this felt different. It was another separation Regulus hadn't known he should fear, another adjustment he wasn't equipped to handle. Sirius had always been good at making friends, but Regulus’s only real friend had always been Sirius.
The night before school started, the night before Sirius would start walking a different route than Regulus, he told him as much.
“You know you're my best friend.” He whispered, his words only meant for Sirius and Congress's appraisal.
“You’re my most favorite friend I’ve ever had, Reggie.” Sirius had responded with ease.
It didn't matter to Regulus, all those years ago, that Sirius hadn’t coined him his best friend, too. It didn't matter that Sirius didn't think they were on equal footing, or didn't consider them standing on the same pedestal. To Regulus, being the favorite friend felt more important anyway. Sirius was his best friend, but Regulus was Sirius’s favorite. The person he sought out at the end of the day, the person he’d go to war with and for. Yes, Regulus wore his title of favorite with pride, never fearing anything could take that place from him.
That’s about when James Potter fell right over the garden gate.
A few years before James’s not-so-graceful introduction to their lives, Regulus and Sirius had agreed friends were not permitted within the walls of Grimmauld, not even to pee. There was something disheartening about their father’s scrutiny. There was something off-putting about their mother’s constant creeping on the other side of doorways. No matter what they did, no matter how quiet they’d stayed, no matter the fact that they’d gotten permission, having a friend around always felt like a dirty secret; like being caught in a crime they’d never known was illegal.
So, when James literally fell into their backyard, looking haggard and breathless, Regulus began to fear their self-imposed form of exile was about to be lifted. Sirius’s eyes lit up when he found James’s tanned face. Regulus’ head ducked as though he could avoid detection.
Sirius stood from his spot in the grass as though James was some sort of royalty. Regulus watched Sirius scrub a splash of dirt away from his face and wipe it onto his pants: disheveled, but with intention. He was trying to look cool for a boy they'd never met, and Regulus felt sick.
“Oh, hi!” James said when he’d pulled himself to his feet. His shoes were scuffed. His hair was a frizzy, wild mess of curls. He had a hole in his shorts, just above his thigh, and Regulus could see the blue mask of a Ninja Turtle on his boxers.
“Hi!” Sirius called back, unperturbed. Undisturbed. A stranger was as close to inside their gravesite of a home as anyone had been in years, and all Sirius could say was hi.
“Sorry, I’m just-” James said, sticking his thumb out and pointing over his shoulder to indicate towards the street.
At the time, Regulus understood James to be running from something, though it had been a couple of years before he got the full story. Even then, with Sirius and James explaining it all through their laughter, Regulus wasn’t sure he understood what had actually happened. He doesn’t understand how, at eleven years old, James had gotten caught up in a police chase. He doesn’t understand how, with his winning smile and his wide, bright eyes, James seemed like someone that should be pursued. James had said something about racial profiling, and Sirius had said something about James smelling “loud,” and Regulus felt like the story didn’t make any sense at all. Nevertheless, James had managed to evade some police chase by hiding out in their backyard, and eventually, Regulus decided that was the beginning of the end.
He wasn’t sure he saw it that way at the time, though. James had tucked himself away in their backyard with a presumptuous air, asking about the game they were playing as though it was actually interesting. For the first time in his life, Regulus wished he’d picked something cooler than Wizard’s Brew.
But James took to the game like a bright robin took to the air. He discovered plenty of foliage around their backyard, including soft white mushrooms and golden yellow weeds that made their soup look spectacular. He’d dared Sirius to taste it, and went so far as to kiss the surface of their concoction himself, and Regulus’s anxiety eased. James was funny, and he was simple to be around, and his eyes were lined with red behind his glasses, so Regulus thought that maybe he was familiar with worry, too.
It didn’t matter if James became Sirius’s best friend. It didn’t matter if James was allowed inside for a cup of water, or to use the restroom, or to accompany Sirius to his bedroom for a stint before they returned to the garden. It didn’t matter that James got to go to the same school as Sirius, even though Regulus didn’t. All that mattered, in those simple days of sunshine and laughter, was that James was nice, and he made eye-contact when Regulus spoke, and he showed them both things he learned from his drumming lessons, and he seemed content with being Sirius’s best friend, not his favorite friend.
But James’s lighthearted disposition didn’t stop the resentment from festering. James’s genuine interest in being Regulus’s friend didn’t stop the bitterness that settled in Regulus’s heart. Sometimes, when James and Sirius would duck out of the garden and hide away from Regulus, it felt like being his brother’s favorite friend wasn’t that important anymore. Sometimes, when James invited Sirius to do something with him, like attending drum lessons or skipping class, Regulus wasn’t immediately invited. Sometimes, when James and Sirius would return, giggling and tripping over their tied shoelaces, eyes glassy and expressions dazed, it didn’t matter that Regulus had Sirius first. Sometimes, when James told Sirius he was feeling bored, and Sirius looked at James like he’d said something else entirely, Regulus felt like he wasn’t Sirius’s friend at all.
James always made sure to make up for their absences, though, when Regulus had grown too old to share a bed, rendering him unable to learn about Sirius’s days. When Regulus was intentionally excluded from whatever secretive best-friends activities they’d gotten up to, James would always find him the moment they returned. Whether Regulus was in the garden trying to perfect a kickflip, whether he was in the drawing room and fumbling his way through a piano concerto that was too difficult for his too-small hands, whether he was hidden away in his bedroom, contenting himself with silence and loneliness, James’s head would appear, and Regulus’s mood would soar.
James was the first friend Regulus had ever had, other than Sirius. Where Sirius was required to hang out with Regulus, James chose to. Where Sirius was forced to love Regulus, James decided to. Where Sirius was compelled to allow Regulus to tag along, James invited him without hesitation. For the first time in his life, Regulus felt like he’d been chosen, genuinely chosen, by someone.
It wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows, though. There were still plenty of times that Regulus got excluded from the things he and Sirius used to share. Learning skateboard tricks, for example, often meant Sirius was busy showing James this or that kick, or James was busy showing off handstands and somersaults, and Regulus was left by the wayside. Still, once they’d remembered Regulus was around, James would turn and suggest Regulus show him something, too, and Regulus would forget he’d felt left out in the first place.
Walburga always hated James, and sometimes, it made Regulus feel torn. She loves them, him and Sirius. She loves them more than anyone in the world ever had, more than anyone ever will. Regulus knows that like he knows the earth orbits the sun, and water boils at 100 degrees, and Sirius broke his collarbone when he was seven, and James has a freckle behind his right ear. Regulus knows it because it’s what mothers feel for their children in storybooks and in movies and amongst his friends at school. It’s a simple truth, and it’s undeniable, even if she shows it differently from those other mothers.
So when Walburga would scoff over James’s unruly hair, or fix her dagger-sharp gaze upon him through the kitchen window, Regulus would feel like he was receiving the brunt of her hatred, too. How could she dislike someone both her children so deeply admired? It felt like a reflection of Regulus, himself. Even worse than that was the feeling that it was a reflection of Sirius.
Regulus never knew what to do in those instances of panic, of dread, of feeling his heart get ripped out and scrutinized and put back in a little wrong. Sirius was always louder about his opinions, about his proclivities, about his opposition. If Walburga said something about James in Sirius’s presence, a fight ensued, and Regulus wouldn’t be allowed to see Sirius before bed. If Sirius caught Walburga staring, they’d be out of the garden in thirty seconds or less, and Regulus would be left wondering why he never gave him the option to take his side.
Regulus thinks that was when the fractures started, but maybe it had been before. Maybe they’d been long before, when Regulus was still too small to realize Sirius didn’t see Walburga the way he did. Maybe it happened when they were alone, playing girlish games of Regulus’s design, and Regulus mistook Sirius’s actual disdain for playful protests. Maybe it started when Regulus decided not to confide in Sirius about his fears, about his social anxiety, about his feelings of inadequacy. Maybe it started when Regulus was five, and Sirius learned he could make friends outside of the home they shared. Maybe it started when Regulus was born, and Sirius was elevated to the position of golden child, and neither of them realized the resentment until it was too late.
In the end, it doesn’t matter when it started. In the end, Regulus will end up alone, feeling like he’d missed something important, something he could have changed if only he’d recognized it sooner. In the end, Regulus will have gotten everything he thought he’d ever wanted, only to discover he’d lost everything he’d truly needed. In the end, Regulus won’t be as happy as Sirius, and he’ll spend his entire life wondering what went wrong. In the end, Regulus will know he loves his brother more than anyone in the entire world. In the end, Regulus will have learned that his love was never going to be enough to save him.