
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/318941.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Regulus_Black/Sirius_Black
  Character:
      Sirius_Black, Regulus_Black, Remus_Lupin, James_Potter, Peter_Pettigrew
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Blackcest, MWPP_Era, Angry_Sex, Semi-Public_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2006-04-18 Words: 7244
****** 7 Loves/7Lives ( i called you brother seven times) ******
by xylodemon
Summary
     This is a thing that never should have started.
Notes
     Written for
     [[personal profile] ]
7spells 2006. Section headers from prompt_set_#2.
I didn't tag this as necrophilia because it really isn't, but it's a close
call. Mileage will vary, and all that.
vi. cold hands cold feet
People often link Sirius' family to the Dark Arts, but despite the rumours,
despite the things whispered in the bogs and corners of Knocturn Alley, the
familiarity only goes so far. Sirius has never cast the Killing Curse, had
never seen it cast until the war started. A year ago, he wouldn't have known a
murdered man and from the unfortunate victim of a heart attack. Now, he can
recognise the signs of Avada Kedavra at fifty feet.
Regulus is cold.
The street lamps burn with a strained, weak light that washes his body in a
jaundiced, amber glow. Snow falls quietly, frosting the pavement like sugar. It
crunches softly under Sirius' heels as he kneels at his brother's feet.
He reaches out, his hand hovering over the toe of Regulus' boot, his thumb
poised just above the scuffed, black leather. Voices skitter down the alley,
climbing the back wall of the pub like vines, and Sirius' fingers curl in the
material of Regulus' trousers.
"Breathe," he tells his brother. He chokes, his shaky voice trapped in the back
of his throat because he's forgot how to breathe himself.
Regulus' stillness is infinite, stubborn. Snow mingles with his hair, greying
it, forming it into heavy strands that cling damply to his forehead. Sirius
leans forward over this thing that was once his brother and uses an unsteady
hand to brush it away.
"I hate you," Sirius begins, but it freezes on his tongue before it's said,
hangs frozen in the sharp, February air. Sirius swallows it, because the lies
don't matter any more. Regulus is no longer alive to hear them.
Sirius hears his heart beat, imagines the emptiness in Regulus' chest, and in
that moment, the war stops being about right and wrong or winners and losers.
It becomes a matter of survival. Revenge.
In that moment, Sirius imagines Regulus the last time he saw him -- flushed,
half-naked, wrists pinned above his head against a Knockturn Alley wall. He
remembers the way Regulus' knee crept between his legs, the way Regulus' teeth
scored the soft skin of his neck, the way Regulus whispered don't and stop
around his name.
He buries his face in Regulus' neck, his cock hard and heavy against the cold
stillness of Regulus' thigh. Shadows stretch across the alley as the wind picks
up, dancing over Regulus' body, rustling his hair, his shirt. Sirius hears his
heart beat again, and he almost expects Regulus to move, almost expects Regulus
to arch up against him the way he did before the colour left his cheeks and
Avada Kedavra stole the light from his eyes.
Sirius feels fevered, filled with a sick, prickly heat that mocks the lifeless
shell underneath him. His hips jerk forward before he can stop them, searching
for friction he knows he shouldn't want, his body begging him to finish this
thing that never should have been allowed to start.
In the line of Regulus' jaw Sirius sees the attic of Grimmauld Place. They are
young, full of childish urges and stolen wine, a sweaty twist of clumsy mouths
and nervous, unsure hands. Regulus' cock is hard against his hip, and Sirius'
face burns with shame because he likes the way it feels.
Regulus' fingers are small and wet with snow, and they bend stiffly as Sirius
tries to twist them around his own.
The pub's back door flies open, splintering against the faded bricks as the
final leg of the battle spills into the alley. The midnight sky explodes in a
jumble of light and hexes and noise, and Sirius flattens himself against his
brother's body.
"Sirius."
Remus' voice is thin, laced with fear, and his tired face is wreathed in spells
and moonlight. Sirius teeters on the edge, his cock aching, but he almost
welcomes the intrusion.
"Is that..."
"Yeah."
Remus studies Regulus silently, his lips pressed into a thin line. Sirius
watches him, his hammering heart trapped in his throat, but Remus' gaze slides
to Regulus' arm, and with an anxious breath Sirius allows his to follow.
Regulus is in the open, without a hood or cloak, and his sleeve is rolled up,
baring his Dark Mark to the night sky. Red slashes mar the skull and snake,
jagged knife wounds that have recently stopped bleeding, and Sirius finds
himself wondering where Regulus' loyalties had lied.
"I'll get Dumbledore," Remus says quietly.
"James?"
"He's fine," Remus replies. "He took a nasty curse, but Moody says it's nothing
to worry about."
"I shouldn't have left him," Sirius says.
"Lily needed you," Remus reasons. "She's too pregnant to Apparate on her own."
"How is she?" Sirius asks. They'd barely reached James and Lily's flat before
Sirius Apparated back, but he looks at the snow melting between Regulus'
fingers and thinks of the tears staining her face.
"Molly just went to check on her," Remus replies. He sighs, a soft, sad noise.
"I'll get Dumbledore."
"I shouldn't have left him," Sirius says again. He doesn't know if he's talking
about Regulus or James.
He shudders against Regulus' body as soon as Remus turns away. His release
leaves him empty and cold, as void as the thing underneath him, and at the edge
of his vision the world flashes green.
 
                                      --
                               To the Dark Lord
                I know I will be dead long before you read this
          but I want you to know it was I who discovered your secret.
   I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.
            I face death in the hope that when you meet your match
                         you will be human once more.
                                      --
 
v. the puppet master
The Order talks.
It's ranks are full of off-duty Aurors and kids who left Hogwarts this last
June, two groups of people who spend entirely too much time in pubs. After a
couple of rounds they forget they aren't supposed to know each other, and after
a couple more they forget they shouldn't discuss certain things in public.
No one wants to be the one who says it to Sirius' face, but Sirius knows.
Sirius has heard.
The Boar's Knuckle looms at the edge of Knocturn Alley, so far from The Leaky
Cauldron in both location and atmosphere it might as well be across the arch in
Muggle London. It's a crumbling, misshappen lump of wood held together by rusty
nails and mumbled spells, and wedged between a brothel and an abandoned
warehouse, it festers in the middle of a dark passage like a boil.
Sirius waits across from the front door, hiding in the shadows of a dilapidated
building that's large, broken windows suggest it might have once been a shop.
He pulls a cigarette from the pocket of his cloak, lights it with the engraved,
silver lighter Peter gave him last Christmas. The grey smoke lingers in front
of his face, burns his throat in a way that warms him against the brisk, early
evening air.
An hour crawls by, marked only by the sun's slow progress toward the horizon,
and The Boar's Knuckle's patrons come and go. Sirius decides in the first
fifteen minutes that if this lot is the usual custom, he doesn't want to know
what the gutted shop behind him used to sell.
The door of The Boar's Knuckle opens, creaking with both age and disrepair. Two
people slither outside, hooded and cloaked in a way that's a bit much for the
weather -- which is cool, but not cold -- and Sirius lights another cigarette,
watches them from behind lowered lashes and the bright flare of his lighter's
flame.
One is tall and slim, and underneath his clothes Sirius catches a glimpse of
pale hair curtaining paler features and a familiar, gilt and ebony cane.
Malfoy's companion is shorter and female, and Sirius thinks if he looks under
her hood he'll find his cousin's face. They pause in the middle of the alley,
standing squarely between Sirius and the door, and Sirius braces himself for a
fight, his stomach knotting in a twist of excitement and fear.
A third exits the pub, and Sirius is suddenly cold. He can't see the
straggler's face, but Sirius knows his brother's body too well to be fooled by
a hood and a few yards of black wool. His cigarette slips from his fingers,
smoulders quietly on the uneven cobblestones. Regulus speaks to Malfoy, his
hand resting lightly on Malfoy's sleeve, and the Order's rumours echo in
Sirius' ears.
He pulls a ring from his pocket -- a silver and onyx signet he inherited from
his uncle. It's heavy in his hand, a cold weight in the centre of his palm, and
he throws it sooner than he should simply to be rid of it. Regulus pauses as it
arcs through the air, glittering like copper in the poor light, and it hits him
in the shoulder, lands next to his foot with a muted, metallic whisper.
"I'll catch up with you," he murmurs to Malfoy. "I think I left my wand back at
the pub."
Malfoy replies sharply; Sirius misses the words, but the caustic edge to his
voice cuts the space between them like a knife. Bellatrix laughs, a sound like
shattering glass, following Malfoy as he disappears into the shadows. Regulus
doesn't watch them go.
"I didn't want to believe it," Sirius says quietly.
"Sirius, I..." Regulus' voice falters, fails, and he seems to fold in on
himself as he studies the filthy pavement stretching under his feet.
"Stupid," Sirius spits. He steps away from the abandoned shop, lingering at the
edge of the shadows it affords, and Regulus looks up at him. His face is pale
and drawn, almost ghostly, and the rest of Sirius' lecture catches in the back
of his throat, unspent vitriol burning his tongue.
"Sirius." Regulus starts strong, forcing each clipped syllable through clenched
teeth, but his next breath ends in a sigh.
A pained shriek from rusty hinges rips through the sudden silence, and a squat
man with greying hair shuffles out of the Boar's Knuckle. Regulus ignores him,
straightening his cloak and fiddling with his wand like he means to Apparate.
Sirius slouches back into the shadows, and once the man passes, Regulus joins
him.
It starts to rain.
"You don't understand," Regulus begins.
"What's there to understand?" Sirius demands. He's not sure he wants an answer.
He thinks of the rubbish about bloodlines and pureblood superiority their
mother has been spewing since Sirius was old enough to listen, and a cold
weight settles in his pit of his stomach.
"Do you think I asked for this?" Regulus hisses. His body twists strangely, as
if he's torn between approaching Sirius and recoiling. "Do you think I wanted
it?"
"I swear to God, Regulus, if you tell me this was her idea, I'll--"
"What, then?" Regulus asks sharply. "What will you do? Hit me? It's not like
you haven't done it before." He laughs, a harsh, humourless sound. "Or will you
run away, again? Will you bugger off with Potter so you can forget you have a
family and pretend you're not alone?"
Sirius can't breathe. Words suddenly feel pointless, endless. He lunges. He's
hard before his fingers brush Regulus' cloak, and Regulus hits the shop's
crumbling wall with an oddly soft sound.
 
                                      --
                                    Sirius,
                     I don't expect you to understand why.
           You've never understood anything I've ever said or done.
       Just remember that I'm not you. I never have been. Just remember
            that things have been different since you left. Believe
                   me when I say I didn't have much choice.
                                      --
 
iv. a broken circle
Mrs Potter doesn't bat an eyelash. She yells for James to come downstairs and
help Sirius with his things, and she makes a linen cupboard into a bedroom with
a few flicks of her wand. It's blue and pink and floral, and James is horrified
by the lace things on the tables, but Sirius loves it more than he's loved
anything in his life.
Regulus writes him every day the first week, and every other day the next.
Sirius curses at the owl each time it pecks his window, and he sends it back
with empty claws. He opens the letters only to drop them on the floor after
Dear Sirius, and when she tidies up, Mrs Potter lays them neatly on his desk.
By 31 August, Regulus hasn't written him in a week. Half of Sirius is hurt and
the other half isn't, and he wonders if Regulus stopped caring or if he just
grew tired of talking to himself. He doesn't wonder about their mother, or that
house. He can't.
The letter in his hand is dated 11 June, and he makes it as far as Dear Sirius,
I hope... before he's interrupted by a knock at the door.
"James?" Sirius asks.
"Not quite," Mrs Potter replies. "Are you decent?"
"Mostly," Sirius admits. The prickly summer heat has beaten him down to an
undershirt and y-fronts.
"I'll chance it."
She opens the door before he can find his trousers. Her greying hair is
arranged in a hasty knot on the top of her head, and she laughs like a
schoolgirl at the way Sirius blushes.
"I've told you before, Sirius," she says. "I'm a married woman with a grown
son. You haven't anything I didn't see when I was changing James' nappies."
"I know, Mrs Potter."
"And for Merlin's sake, stop calling me 'Mrs Potter'," she continues. "My name
is Evelyn. I know you're only trying to be polite, and that, but you've been
here near on three months, and you're my son's best friend." She pauses to wag
a chiding finger at him. "All your 'Mrs Potter this' and 'Mrs Potter that' is
making me feel older than I am."
Her hands settle on her hips, elbows sharply angled, and Sirius feels compelled
to obey. He nods.
"All right, what did I come in here for?" she asks. Sirius doesn't reply; he's
learned that when she asks these kinds of questions she doesn't want an answer.
"Oh. Of course!" She sighs and pats at her hair. "James and I are off for
Diagon Alley. I figure it's time to get his books and things, what with school
starting tomorrow."
"Right," Sirius mutters. His Hogwarts letter is buried at the bottom of
Regulus' missives. "Tomorrow."
"Care to join us, then?" she asks.
"Oh," Sirius says. "No, thank you."
"What about your books?" she demands.
He mumbles.
Mrs Potter sniffs. "I'm not sure I caught that, Sirius." Her hands settle on
her hips again.
"I haven't any money," he admits, and he swears there's Imperio in that
gesture. "I've already spent the little I brought with me, and my parents
aren't like to give me any more."
"How will you study, then?"
"They've copies in the Library," Sirius says. "Or I can borrow from Remus. He
always does his lessons early."
"Nonsense," she says. "I assume you're in the same classes as James?" she asks,
and at Sirius' stubborn silence, she pulls her wand. "Accio Hogwarts Letter!"
His desk erupts into a cloud of parchment, and Regulus' letters rain down like
hail. His Hogwarts letter flies into her hand, and she rearranges the others as
she read with a lazy flick of her wrist.
"I'm taking Divs instead of Arithmancy," Sirius says quietly.
"Divs is rubbish," she comments, shaking her head. "You should drop it for
something useful. Ancient Runes, maybe. Or Muggle Studies."
"Muggle Studies?"
"You never know," she warns. "What if you have a Floo accident and end up in
Muggle London? How would you get home, not knowing how to hail a maxicab or
find their Lube?"
"I'd Apparate, I suppose," Sirius says.
"Teenagers," she mutters. "Have an answer for everything, don't they?" Sirius
thinks this is another one of those questions, and he presses his lips
together. "Never mind all that. We'll get your books today."
"You can't," Sirius says. "That's too much money!"
"Too much, indeed," she replies, waving him off. "In case you haven't noticed,
my husband and I have more money than we know what to do with."
"But it's yours," Sirius argues.
"It is," she agrees, "and it's mine to spend on whatever pleases me. Including
your books. And I might as well spend it before I die. It'll go to James,
otherwise, and he'd only piss it away on women and Firewhisky."
Sirius laughs, because it's true.
"Be ready in fifteen minutes," she says, with an air of finality.
"No," Sirius starts. "I'd--"
"We already went 'round about this," she says. "I'm buying your books, and I'll
hear no more about it."
"It's not that," Sirius says. "Well, it's that, too, but mostly, I just don't
want to go."
He glances at the tower of parchment on his desk, and Mrs Potter sighs.
"Get some rest, Sirius," she says. "You've an important day, tomorrow. James
and I will be back in a few hours."
Sirius turns back to Regulus' letter. 11 June, the morning after he left.
Dear Sirius,
Dear Sirius, I...
Dear Sirius, I hope...
Dear Sirius, I hope this...
An owl pecks at his window, and he frowns at the familiar tawny feathers. He
favours it with a rude gesture, but it persists.
"I don't want it," Sirius snaps, as he flings the window open. "Return to
sender."
The owl clicks its beak, ruffles its feathers. The letter it drops on the
windowsill is thick, as if the dam on Regulus' sudden silence burst and flooded
three yards of parchment.
Sirius throws the letter out the window, and the owl squawks at him in shock.
He doesn't hear it hit the ground. He leans out the window, and finds Regulus
perched on a branch of the ancient oak that taps on his window in the wind.
"What do you want?"
"I want to talk." Regulus looks tired. The skin under his eyes is nearly
purple, and his face is thinner than Sirius remembers.
"There's nothing to say," Sirius says shortly.
He turns, but he doesn't shut the window. Regulus follows. He clamours over the
windowsill with the owl fluttering around his head like a mad pixie. Sirius
ignores them both and Banishes Regulus' letters to the bottom of his wardrobe.
"How did you get here?" Sirius asks. Regulus is fully dressed, robes and all,
and Sirius feels strangely exposed.
"I walked some," Regulus says. "I flew some."
"Flew what?" Sirius asks. Regulus' hair is neat, clipped short. Sirius' fringe
falls in his eyes when he turns to look at Regulus, and he bats at it with an
impatient hand. "You left your broom at school."
"I did," Regulus says. "I borrowed Mother's flying carpet."
"Stole, you mean."
Regulus shrugs. He has twigs stuck in the collar of his robes. He stares at
Sirius, and Sirius flops down on the bed to avoid the scrutiny.
"Why are you here?" Sirius asks, mostly to his blankets.
"I want to talk," Regulus says.
"You're not."
"I know."
Silence spreads through the room, waiting for one of them to speak. Neither
does. The bed dips, springs creaking. Sirius rolls onto his back, and Regulus
curls up in the curve of his arm, pillowing his head on Sirius' shoulder.
"Regulus."
"Let me," Regulus says. He burrows deeper, reaches blindly for the blankets. "I
haven't slept since you left."
Sirius shivers. His chest tightens. "You're leaving when James gets back."
"I know," Regulus mumbles. "I know."
 
                                      --
                                  Dear Mother
              I hope this letter finds you well. School is fine.
           I dropped Divinations like you wanted, and I plan to ask
      Dumbledore if I can use that time for independent study in Defence.
                 I saw him today, but he wouldn't talk to me.
                     I don't think he's ever coming home.
                                      --
 
iii. five shades of white
Dumbledore sits, which rings in seven o'clock as clearly as a bell tower. The
first course appears when he clears his throat, and the charmed ceiling shows a
slowly darkening sky.
It's twenty-eight days later.
James sits in-between Sirius and Remus, and he eats like it's his last meal.
Sirius ignores his food, and in the corner of his eye Remus is pale and silent.
Next to Remus, Peter fiddles restlessly with a pot of salad cream. This sudden
change in their usual seating arrangements -- James in-between Sirius and
Peter; Remus on Sirius' other side -- seems to upset him.
It seems to upset the rest of Gryffindor, as well. They watch the four of them
from behind their rolls and over their glasses of pumpkin juice. They manage to
keep their whispers a hair below audible; Sirius' ears burn as he strains to
hear.
Their greens suddenly transform into Sheppard's pies. James attacks his
immediately, tucking in with a bit of lettuce still hanging from the end of his
fork. The pies are perfectly round and full, and Remus pushes away his plate.
"Eat," James chides.
"I'm not hungry," Remus replies. He retrieves his napkin from his lap and lays
it over his pie like a funeral shroud.
"Eat, anyway," James says, undaunted.
"I'll only be sick," Remus argues. He pitches his voice so low Sirius can
barely make out the words, but their half of the table is staring like their
having a row at the top of their lungs.
James sighs around a mouthful of roll. "You'll be sick either way. You might as
well have something in your stomach."
"Leave off," Remus snaps. It's almost a growl; this close to moonrise Remus'
temper is short. "You're not my mum."
James sighs again and favours Sirius with a sideways glance. This is when James
usually says talk to him, Sirius, he'll listen to you, but he doesn't. He
can't.
Remus is barely speaking to Sirius, and Sirius considers himself lucky for
every word he gets.
The Sheppard's pies shift into treacle. The sky over Dumbledore's head is
practically black and pitted with stars, and Peter fumbles with his bowl until
half his treacle slops into his lap.
"Evanesco," James barks.
The treacle flees, and after a strange, shimmering moment of indecision, so do
Peter's trousers. His open robes frame diagonally striped pants that match his
tie. The handful of students near Peter titter with nervous laughter, and Remus
excuses himself from the table with shaking hands.
Sirius looks at Snape.
Snape is hunched over, stabbing at his treacle so violently Sirius fancies he
can hear his wrist bones snapping. Sirius retreats behind his pumpkin juice
when James kicks him under the table. Snape doesn't watch Remus go, but as
Sirius sets his glass aside he notices Regulus does.
Dumbledore had sworn them all to secrecy. He'd forbidden them from talking
about the incident after leaving his office, but Sirius, James, and Peter spoke
of it almost daily. Regulus' eyes are curious and intent, narrowing as Remus
slips through the door, and Sirius wonders if Snape forgot what he promised
Dumbledore as easily as he and his friends did.
They could be friends. They could be. Sirius has never seen them together, has
never heard Regulus mention him, but Regulus glances at Snape once Remus
disappears, and Sirius decides they could be. They are both outcasts in their
house -- Snape because of his sourness and ugliness and the rumours of his
dubious bloodlines; Regulus because he's shy and bookish and related to Sirius.
James stops coaching Peter on how to Transfigure his napkin into a pair of
trousers long enough to kick Sirius under the table again. Sirius cuffs James
in the head, and when he turns back to the Slytherin table Snape has left and
Regulus is leaving.
"What's this, then?" Marlene McKinnon asks, leaning across Peter to poke James
in the shoulder with her spoon. She gestures toward the door Remus used -- the
same door Snape used and the same door Regulus is opening. "Were we not invited
to a party?"
"I'll just find out." Quickly, Sirius rises. James grabs his sleeve, and Sirius
tries to shrug him off.
"Don't," James says. "You'll only fight."
"Remus," Sirius blurts. He rarely lies to James, and bitterness coats his
tongue. "I'm worried about Remus."
James arches an eyebrow. "Just today, like?"
"Sod you," Sirius snaps. "Geroff," he adds, and pulls his sleeve free from
James' fingers.
"Sirius."
"He's my brother!"
"I am not my brother's keeper," James quotes.
"Oh, Potter!" McKinnon, whose Muggle father raised her Catholic, smiles from
ear to ear. "You were listening the other night!"
"Of course I was," James says. "Interesting stuff, your Muggle religion."
"Don't be fooled, McKinnon," Sirius cuts in. "You were discussing it with
Evans. That's about the only thing he found interesting."
"That's not true!" James argues. "Evans had nothing to do with it!"
"Talking about me again, Potter?" Evans, who is four seats up from McKinnon,
doesn't bother to look over.
"Sod you, Black," James grumbles. "Bugger off after your brother, then. And if
he breaks your nose again, I won't be fixing it."
"If Evans stuffs your next love letter in your ear, I won't help you charm it
out," Sirius counters, and McKinnon laughs.
"Don't mind Sirius, McKinnon," James says. "He's completely mad."
"Oh, I already knew that," McKinnon replies, winking.
"Runs in the family," Peter observes, and Sirius yanks on his ear as he passes.
He finds his brother outside the blank wall that serves as the door to
Slytherin. Regulus paces, taking a short circuit with nervous, uneven steps,
and he frowns as Sirius approaches.
"What are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?" Sirius returns.
"I'm allowed to be down here," Regulus replies. "I'm a Slytherin," he adds, and
Sirius dislikes his lofty tone.
"Not so loud," Sirius snaps. "It's not something you should brag about."
"Yes, because Gryffindors are such a decent and trustworthy lot."
The line of Regulus' jaw is sharp under Sirius' fist. His head whips back,
barely missing the wall behind him. He straightens slowly, carefully. He purses
his lips, and blood wells in the corner of his mouth.
"As I was saying," Regulus murmurs. "Decent and trustworthy." He pauses to poke
at his lip with a fingertip. "Kind and loving, as well," he adds. "Stop me when
I lie."
Growling, Sirius swings again, but Regulus is quicker this time. He ducks out
of the way just as Sirius' blow should have connected, and Sirius' knuckles
barely graze his cheek. He catches Sirius by the wrist, pulling him close. His
tongue tastes of copper, and it curls around Sirius' like a snake.
"Just once." Sirius closes his eyes, mumbles the words against his brother's
mouth.
"It's always been just once," Regulus says, and Sirius thinks that's a lie.
Once became twice became thrice became too much. This should stop, but it never
should have started, and Sirius' breath catches when Regulus presses him back
against the wall.
Regulus' hands are still as small as they were the first time. His palms are
sweaty, damp, one creeping under Sirius' shirt and the other stealing inside
his flies, and Sirius' hips hitch up, seeking the familiar heat he shouldn't
want.
They kiss the way they always have -- fast and hard, with frantic lips and
desperate tongues. Regulus moans, grinding his cock against Sirius' hip. They
have to be quick, they have to hurry. Sirius bites at Regulus' lower lip and
twists his hands in Regulus' hair. They shouldn't have started but since they
have they need to finish before someone finds out, before someone sees.
Regulus' fingers slip over Sirius' cock, and his eyes are almost black as he
sinks to his knees.
Regulus' mouth is hot and wet and perfect, and Sirius hisses at the way
Regulus' tongue curls around his length. Regulus fists his own cock as he
sucks, his hips thrusting and his hand lost in the mire of his robes. Sirius
hears a sound that could be footsteps, but he knows it's probably just his
heart.
Sirius thinks just once as he comes, but Regulus' eyes are closed.
When he goes outside, the moon is high and full. She's silvery-white and awful,
and Padfoot breaks into a run.
 
                                      --
                                    Severus
                     I would prefer to say this in person,
               but you've been avoiding me of late, which makes
             that difficult. I wish to apologise for my brother's
                 behaviour. I don't know what's come over him.
                      He has not been himself, recently.
                                      --
 
ii. dishevelled
She's screaming again.
Her tirade fills the house, whistling through the rooms like the wind. Sirius
can't hear the words any more, only hears the frantic, piercing rise and fall
of her shrieks. He wonders who her target is -- if she's yelling at their
father, at Kreacher, at Uncle Sargas' portrait in the hallway.
He wonders if she's yelling at them, and just doesn't realise they are no
longer there.
The attic is cold and draughty, and an ancient oil-lamp hangs precariously from
the centre beam. Dust lingers on the antique furniture and forgotten heirlooms,
tarnishing the family honour. Sirius and Regulus wait for the inevitable
between a sheet-draped harpsichord and stack of trunks marked 'Perseus Black',
hidden under a pile of musty blankets and the sudden plunge of the roof.
Their mother's voice seeps through the floorboards, upsetting the dust and
cobwebs as it curls around the room. The rain interrupts her, chattering
against the tiny window over their heads, and Regulus passes Sirius the wine.
It's sour and practically black, a temperamental vintage that was bottled
almost a century before either of them were born. It clings to Sirius' tongue,
bitter and horrid, but it warms him, a slow burn from the inside out, and he
forces it down.
"Do you think she'll find us?" Regulus asks slowly. He slurs slightly, but not
enough to dull the nervous edge to his voice.
"No," Sirius replies, after another swallow of wine. He doubts anyone has been
up to the attic in years, doubts his mother remembers this house has an attic,
at all.
"I hope not," Regulus mumbles. He slouches down the wall he's leaning against
until he's hopelessly lost in the blankets.
"You're drunk," Sirius observes. They're halfway through their second bottle;
Sirius is heated and lethargic, feels a bit muzzy. He thinks of all the
Firewhisky he and James have stashed all over Gryffindor, and he wonders if
Regulus drinks at school.
"Not much," Regulus says.
Silence creeps through the attic, and Sirius allows it. His brother's breathing
is even, shallow, and Sirius wishes they could sleep up here. He knows they
have to go back downstairs eventually, but he wants to put it off as long as
possible, wants to enjoy this fleeting moment of peace.
Regulus stretches against him, murmuring softly. He's a confused twist of
blankets and too-long limbs and sharp elbows that catch Sirius in all the wrong
places, but Sirius allows this, as well. Regulus is warm, and -- despite his
boyish angles -- soft, and like everything in Grimmauld Place, the attic is
not.
The wine bottle is now tucked behind Sirius' head, and Sirius clucks his tongue
when Regulus reaches for it, catching Regulus by the wrist. Regulus ignores
him; he shifts until he's straddling Sirius' leg and pulls the bottle free with
Sirius' fingers digging into his skin.
"You've had enough," Sirius says.
"Have not," Regulus replies. He tries to twist free of Sirius' grasp, but the
bottle in his hand makes him clumsily, as does the wine in his belly. Sighing,
he leans over Sirius, bringing his mouth closer to the bottle.
Sirius watches Regulus' throat work as he swallows, and he can feel Regulus'
pulse under his thumb.
Downstairs, their mother rages as efficiently as the storm outside.
Regulus pulls a face as he lowers the bottle, and offers it to Sirius with a
shudder. Sirius shakes his head, but when the cool glass presses against his
lips they part around it, and he swallows because he'll choke if he doesn't.
Regulus slumps against him, resting his head on Sirius' shoulder, and the
wine's sourness makes Sirius think of poison and Potions class.
"It's Christmas, tomorrow," Regulus says. "What did you ask for?"
"I want a new broom," Sirius replies. "But I didn't ask for it."
"I asked for a new cauldron. Mine has a dent from when you threw it at Kreacher
last summer, and I can't get the spell right to fix it." Regulus says. "Why
didn't you ask? You made Quidditch."
"For the wrong House," Sirius grumbles. He suddenly wants Regulus off him;
Regulus is heavy and the weight is making his arm numb. "They're not like to
buy me a new broom when I'm not playing for Slytherin."
Lightning flashes through the tiny window, and their father's low, rumbling
voice creeps into the attic in a way that rivals the thunder. It washes over
their mother's tirade just as she reaches a fever pitch, and when she suddenly
ceases, Sirius wonders if he silenced her with his wand or his hands.
"I want to go back to school," Regulus mumbles.
"Me too," Sirius admits. He doesn't much care for all the studying and books,
but he craves the solid warmth of Hogwarts and he misses his friends, who he'd
think of as family if he didn't consider the word an insult.
Regulus' hair brushes across Sirius' face, tickling his nose. He manages to
pull his arm free, but the wind picks up, rattling against the window, and he
wraps it around Regulus' waist.
"We should go," Sirius says. Their mother hasn't made another sound, which
means she's retired to her room, hiding while she unhexes herself or charms
away her black eye.
"I don't want to," Regulus argues. "Can't we sleep here tonight?"
"No," Sirius says. "She'll find us if we stay up here too long, and then we
won't be able to hide here ever again."
"I don't care," Regulus replies, and Sirius' skin prickles as Regulus' lips
move against his neck.
"You will, when you have to hide from her next fit under your bed and alone,"
Sirius counters.
Sirius tries to sit up, but Regulus clings to him. He curls his arms around
Sirius' neck and catches his fingers in Sirius' hair, and something hard
presses against Sirius' thigh.
"Regulus?"
"Shut up!"
Sirius closes his eyes.
"Shut up, Sirius!" Regulus begs, even though Sirius didn't say anything, and
his voice is high and thin. "I can't help it. You're warm and you feel nice and
I've had too much to drink and won't you kiss me, Sirius, please?"
"Oh, God." Sirius can't move, can't breathe, feels as breathless and boneless
as he did when the Whomping Willow caught him in the gut and threw him a
hundred feet.
"Just once, Sirius." Regulus is speaking into Sirius' neck again, soft lips
fluttering over his skin, and Sirius twists the tails of Regulus' shirt around
his fingers. "Just once. I won't tell anyone, I promise."
Sirius' mouth falls open, his lips curling around an argument he can't quite
find, and Regulus' chases it away with his tongue. It's sloppy and horribly wet
and Regulus doesn't seem to know what to do with his nose because it jabs
sharply into Sirius' cheek.
You're my brother, Sirius thinks wildly, but the ghost of his mother's screams
echo in his ears, and he wonders if that really means anything.
Sirius pulls Regulus closer, lets his tongue slip inside his brother's mouth.
Regulus twists in his arms, rubbing his cock against Sirius' thigh with sharp
jerks of his hips, and a strange heat flares over Sirius' skin.
"Just once," Sirius mumbles. "Just once, and you can't tell anyone. Ever."
"I won't," Regulus gasps. "I won't. Not ever. I promise."
 
                                      --
                                  Dear Mother
                   I shouldn't be writing this. He'd hate me
                 if he knew I was. He says you're mad. He says
             you hate us. I don't want to believe him, but I can't
               help it. He wouldn't lie to me. I can't tell you
                   why I think that. I promised I wouldn't.
                                      --
 
i. instrumental
Grimmauld Place is wrapped in silence. Sirius sits in the drawing room, tucked
into the corner of an ancient, brocade couch. A brand new copy of Standard Book
of Spells, Grade One rests in his lap, and Sirius thumbs through it anxiously,
his stomach aching each time he turns the page.
He hears the soft shuffle of feet in the hallway, looks up just as the door
creaks open. Regulus hesitates in the doorway, peering at Sirius like he's
afraid to come in. The light from the dying fire casts funny shadows across
Regulus' face. He has horns, then he doesn't; he has a moustache, then it's
gone.
"Do not bother your brother, Regulus," their mother calls. "He has an important
day, tomorrow."
"I won't, Mother," Regulus promises. He steps inside the drawing room, but
hesitates again, his hands folded neatly in front of him.
"Sirius?" Her voice is harsh, expectant.
"Yes, Mother?"
"Your things need to be ready before bed," she says.
"They are--"
"I want your books packed in your trunk, and I want your clothes laid out," she
continues. "You will wear your black trousers and your green sweater."
"My books are packed," Sirius says. He closes Standard Book of Spells, Grade
One, and tucks it behind his back. "Kreacher already put out my clothes."
"He laid out your red sweater," his mother argues. "You will wear the green."
"Yes, Mother."
Sirius looks up at Regulus; the shadows have given him a beard now, a long,
pointed thing that practically reaches his knees. Regulus approaches slowly,
glancing over his shoulder for their mother. When she doesn't shout, doesn't
appear in the doorway, Regulus crawls onto the couch and curls up at Sirius'
side like a cat.
"Do you have to go, tomorrow?" he asks.
"Yes," Sirius replies.
"Why?"
"Because I have to," Sirius says simply.
"No, you don't," Regulus argues. "Brad Parkinson isn't going," he adds. "Mother
was talking to Parkinson's mum at Flourish and Blotts when we went to get your
books."
"Brad Parkinson is a Squib," Sirius replies. "I'm not."
"How do you know?" Regulus asks. "You haven't done any magic."
"Have so."
"Have not."
"Have so!" Sirius insists, shifting away from his brother. "Go away."
He gives Regulus a shove, but Regulus only moves closer, burrowing further into
Sirius' side. Sighing, Sirius retrieves his Standard Book of Spells, Grade One
and opens it across his lap. Chapter One talks about wands and the proper way
to hold them. Sirius thinks of his own -- ebony and dragons heart-string, ten
inches, purchased just yesterday and packed in his trunk -- and he wishes he'd
smuggled it downstairs with his book.
"I don't want you to go," Regulus mumbles, his mouth pressed against Sirius'
shoulder. He sounds small. "I'll be so bored."
"I'll be back for Christmas," Sirius replies. Deep down, Sirius isn't sure he
wants to go, either. Hogwarts is new and big and he's never slept away from
home. "That's only a couple of months."
"Who will I play with?" Regulus asks.
"Kreacher, I guess."
"Kreacher's no fun," Regulus complains. "He never wants to play what I want to
play, and he cheats at Hide and Find."
"No one cheats at Hide and Find," Sirius says.
"He does," Regulus insists. "If I get too close to where he's hiding he
Apparates somewhere else and that's not fair because I can't Apparate and if
you hide somewhere you're supposed to stay there."
"That's a silly game, anyway," Sirius says. "You're too old for it."
"You'll write me, won't you?" Regulus asks. He sits up, frowning, and his
fingers twist in Sirius' sleeve.
"I'll write," Sirius promises. Regulus settles against him again, his head
pillowed on Sirius' shoulder, and Sirius ghosts a hand through his hair. "I'll
write."
Grimmauld Place creaks, a stretched, pained sound that echoes through the
drawing room. Regulus jumps, and Sirius' book falls from his lap.
"Sirius? Regulus? It's time you were in bed!"
"Yes, Mother," Sirius replies. He slides off the couch and collects his book,
hiding it inside his robes.
"Can I sleep in your room, tonight?" Regulus asks.
"Yeah," Sirius says. "Put your pillow under your covers like I showed you, and
wait until she goes to bed."
 
                                      --
                                 Dear Sirius,
              Mother says it's silly for me to write you already
         since your probably still on the train, but I don't care. I'm
      terribly bored without you, and we just got home from the station.
         You'll have to tell me all about school, and about Slytherin.
               Mother's sure you'll be in Slytherin. I miss you.
                                      --
 
vii. to the last syllable of recorded time
Everything is cold and dark and dead and the sky that peeks through the tiny
window is the same grey as the walls and he can hear the ocean but he can't
feel it and the sun rises and sets and he never sees it but the moon is always
there.
Things come and go as they please crawling through the window and slipping
under the door and they float and hover and wait and his mind screams and his
memories slip through his fingers like water dripping down his arms and legs to
puddle uselessly on the floor next to feet he doesn't recognise.
Rats scuttle across through the dirt with bristly fur and stringy tails and
gnashing chattering teeth and it's dark enough that he never really sees them
but he hears them and he knows they're there and they make him hate but he
doesn't quite know why.
He pulls his hair to remember James and bites his lip to remember Harry and
scratches his skin to remember Remus and when his fingers wander the curves of
his own face he thinks he still has a brother but the shadows twist away from
the corners and he sees snow in a dark alley and a bleeding snake and someone
who's dead.
Things creep into his mind slithering in through his eyes and mouth and nose
and they dig for things he doesn't have and they ask for the truth because they
want to know and they want to eat it and drink it and live it and he screams
that they can't live because they're dead and he promises that there's no more
truth and they ask for his secrets instead but he has nothing left to give.
He thinks there was a time when stone walls made him feel safe and secure and
warm but they scare him now and make him cold and he shivers when he thinks of
the colour red but he hasn't seen red in a long time and he's forgot what gold
looks like and everything is grey and white except for when it's black.
He's black he thinks and the brother he never quite had is black unless the
snow in the alley and the snake mean the brother is dead then the brother was
black not is but he doesn't know what black means and the idea leaves him
colder than the walls.
The moon cuts a careful arc through the sky and the ocean tries its best to
wear away the stone.
Things whisper outside the door and Padfoot whines.
 
                                      --
                I know I will be dead long before you read this
          but I want you to know it was I who discovered your secret.
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