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Lost Boy

In which there is a portrait of Regulus Black hanging in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.

The first time Sirius Black steps into Number Twelve Grimmauld Place and finds the screaming portrait of his mother, he nearly decides to burn the place down with the memory of her in it. Even after he’s pulled the curtains shut on her snarling, furious face, her yells echo off the walls and reverberate in his skull. He might as well be back in Azkaban for how miserably sick it makes him. He wants to sink his nails into something, to feel blood gushing up between his fingers.

Grimmauld Place is a knotted, twisted sort of space. It is dark and disorienting, and even a whole childhood spent within its walls was not enough for Sirius to become fully familiar with it. Layers and layers of old magic leave a sort of burnt smell in the air and wrap around his chest like a vice. For some, it would feel comforting, like coming home. For Sirius, it is a tight, oppressive thing. He's been running out of air since the moment he stepped inside.

There is a part of him that is tempted to sit there in the hall and tuck his knees into his chest with his hands over his ears. For one despairing moment, Sirius wonders if he's merely traded one cell for another. Not even the dementors could make him feel as small as his mother could.

But Sirius, for all that he has tried to shed his family name, is still a Black. So he straightens his back, tilts his head up, and puts his shoulders back as he walks through the house. They are all dead, he reminds himself, and he is alive. And isn't that just ironic? That he could spend his whole childhood raging against his family, only to be burdened with the task of carrying the name alone. It makes him want to vomit.

As he walks, lights flicker on, though it does little to brighten up the place. He makes his way to the kitchen, stepping gingerly through the sitting area and halting at the sight of his mother’s favorite chair next to the fireplace, the cushion still slightly depressed from years of carrying her weight. It’s as if she has only just gotten up, perhaps to greet a guest or grab the morning paper to read.

“Never thought I'd see you step foot in here again.”

In Azkaban, Sirius often replayed every conversation he could remember having with James. He would agonize over every inflection, clinging to the cadence of his friend’s voice. He was so afraid of forgetting.

But this voice. He could never forget it. He'd know it anywhere, no matter the horrors, no matter how much time has passed.

He looks up, and his heart seizes in his chest. There, just above the fireplace, sits a portrait of his little brother. He is depicted just as Sirius remembers him: sharp features, steely eyes, an impassive expression on his face, still slightly rounded with youth. It is so undoubtedly Regulus that Sirius wants to run. It is all at once too much for him to handle: the hurt, the longing, the resentment, the disgust, the grief. But he can't run from it, so he does the next best thing.

He turns into a dog.

Regulus looks down at him with a raised brow. “This explains a lot. You never were very good at getting a handle of your emotions,” he all but sneers.

Padfoot raises his hackles, muzzle pulled back into a snarl.

“Really, Sirius,” Regulus sighs. “Aren't you a bit old for the dramatics?”

Padfoot growls.

“I suppose they didn't just let you out of Azkaban, then?” Regulus muses. “Not sure the life of a fugitive suits you, but even Mother would be impressed you managed to break out.”

At the mention of their mother, Padfoot barks loudly.

“Of course, we both knew you didn't belong there,” Regulus continues. “No one knew better than us that you'd never betray the Potters.” Even to Padfoot’s ears, Regulus’ voice sounds bitter. “Mother was most displeased that they wouldn't even give you a trial. Said it was an insult to the family. Stormed the Ministry, even, but Crouch was too eager to have everything wrapped up and much too righteous to be bribed. Truly pathetic.”

Despite himself, Padfoot finds himself listening intently. Most people, he thinks, would take this story as a show of Walburga Black’s love for her son. But Sirius knows better, and so does Regulus.

“She only made it a few years after your incarceration. I watched her go mad. I don't suppose talking to a portrait of her dead son everyday helped much,” Regulus says, as if he's simply filling Sirius in on the morning news. As if they're old friends catching up over tea. As if there's not a chasm of grief and anger that sits between them. But Regulus was never very good at voicing his emotions either, so maybe it’s fitting that they've both reverted back to doing what Blacks are best at: enduring.

“There were times, near the end, where she thought she was talking to you. Her greatest failure, she always said. Her biggest regret.” Regulus looks down at Sirius with a look he can't quite parse. And you? Sirius wants to ask. What do you think?

He's not sure either of them could bear for him to ask it aloud, and he's sure he already knows the answer anyway. Padfoot flattens his ears back, and growls again. It comes out a bit like a whine instead.

For a long moment, Regulus simply watches him. Then, quietly, he murmurs, “Welcome home, Sirius.” His mouth quirks into the barest hint of a smile, no doubt indulging in the irony.

And Sirius, well. He can't do this. He can't do this. Above all things, Azkaban was a monument of grief. He had cried for Lily and James, cried for Remus, cried for his old life. His life Before. But when he was most cold, and equally as out of his mind, he’d cry for Regulus. He thinks, in some ways, he will always be crying for his brother. And having an echo of Regulus here in front of him makes Sirius feel as though he's going mad all over again. He just can't do it.

So Padfoot tucks his tail between his legs with a whimper, turns around, and runs.

From then on, Sirius makes a point of avoiding that room altogether. And if, for some reason, he has to go through it, he turns into Padfoot before Regulus can speak to him and trots by as quickly as he can, but not usually before he catches Regulus muttering something to the effect of, “I see your immaturity is still intact.”

Some nights, though, Sirius just cannot bring himself to close his eyes. He's afraid he’ll wake up in a cell again. He's afraid he’ll wake up in his childhood bedroom. He's afraid of being alone. And god, but he just wants to hear someone talk, to hear a voice outside of his own head.

Before he can even think too hard about it (he tries to avoid thinking entirely these days, except for where Harry is concerned), he makes his way to the fireplace. More importantly, he makes his way to Regulus.

Against all instinct to transform into a dog so that he may bear it easier, Sirius stays himself. The painting of his brother is asleep, and Sirius can't help but notice that it doesn't quite capture how much younger Regulus always looked when he was sleeping. There is a lack of depth to the painting that will never do justice to real life, and Sirius is reminded all over again that his brother is really and truly dead. Looking at it is like pressing his thumb into a bruise.

Regulus opens an eye. “Can I help you?”

Sirius laughs like it was punched out of him. How can he? he thinks somewhat hysterically. What could he possibly fix now?

“Have you ever?” Sirius retorts. He grasps, desperately, at the thread of anger inside of him, and pulls, letting the grief fall away around it. He does not know yet, that anger and grief are one and the same.

Regulus raises a brow. “That’s hardly fair.”

"When has a Black ever played fair?”

“I thought you weren't a Black,” Regulus challenges.

“I thought you were,” Sirius shoots back, but there is a question in it.

“Of course I am,” Regulus tells him, and there is something in Sirius that is inexplicably disappointed. Regulus died upholding Black family values. What did Sirius expect?

“You always did like to lick Mother and Father’s boots,” Sirius sneers. “Was it worth it? Dying for your cause.”

Regulus tilts his head then, considering. His lips quirk for a moment, like there's a joke somewhere that Sirius is not picking up on.

“Yes,” Regulus says simply. “I think it was.”

And it makes sense. Of course it makes sense that the boy who was a blood purist and showed nothing but devotion to Lord Voldemort would think that dying for him in a blaze of glory was worth it. In death as he was in life. It makes Sirius want to burn the portrait in front of him.

“I hate you,” Sirius spits, and Regulus just looks at him, face unchanging. Still a little amused, even.

“I know,” Regulus agrees, and it's not, I hate you too, which, to Sirius, counts for something. Maybe even everything.

He doesn't want to think about it. He turns on his heel, ready for some much-needed distance.

“I’ll be back to burn you,” Sirius mutters.

He thinks he hears Regulus laugh as he goes.

Sirius does not burn the portrait, but of course they both knew he wouldn't. They were always each other’s weakness, and no amount of time or space could change that.

But the days persist, each followed by a night plagued by nightmares and twisted memories. He wakes up gasping, with James’ name on his lips, followed by Lily’s, and always, always followed by Regulus’. These days, Sirius is nothing more than a waking, walking graveyard. He stumbles through the halls of Grimmauld Place, both haunting and haunted.

Almost inevitably, he finds himself back at his brother’s portrait. On this particular night, Regulus is already awake, as if expecting him. Maybe he was. Maybe Sirius has become predictable in his mad sort of grief, and he hates himself for it. He hates how weak he feels, like a child climbing into his brother’s bed after a bad dream. It had always been the other way around.

“You're back.”

“I don't want to be,” Sirius admits.

“I'm not real,” the portrait reminds him. Regulus is not gentle or kind when he says this. His voice is sharp and vicious, merciless as Regulus so often was, as he had to be to survive in a family like theirs.

Sirius clenches his jaw. He wants to reach through the frame and shake his brother’s shoulders. He wants to pull him close, he wants to shove him as far away as possible. The conflict in him swells and spills over, a wretched combination of longing and hate and years of bitterness wrapped in love and life. He does not know what to do with it, he wants to shed his own skin to be rid of it. For one hysterical moment, Sirius thinks he might cry.

He hastily turns himself into a dog and sighs as the transformation dampens his emotions. Regulus gives him a pitying sort of look, and it makes Padfoot’s hackles rise.

He says nothing else, though, and Sirius, in spite of himself, can't get himself to leave. Padfoot’s head droops in exhaustion, and before he can think too hard about it, he lets himself drop to the floor, curling his tail around his body. He knows his brother is still watching him, and as Sirius starts to fall asleep, he can't really bring himself to care.

The first time Sirius brings Remus into Grimmauld Place, it goes about how Sirius would've expected. He was half-afraid the Blacks had drenched the place in some sort of dark magic that would burn anyone deemed less than “pure” the moment they walked in, but instead they were simply met with Walburga Black’s enraged portrait, spewing a litany of curses and slurs their way.

So, it could have been worse. After they've pulled the curtains shut, Remus gives Sirius a look. “That can't be good for you.”

“Well, it's not like it's my choice,” Sirius says bitterly, and Remus gives him a sad look. It makes Sirius want to snarl at him. “Anyway, it gets worse.”

“Worse?” Remus asks, looking slightly ill at the thought. Sirius smiles grimly and leads him to the spacious living room.

Regulus looks up at them when they arrive.

“Bringing half-breeds into the house, now, are we? Mother must be rolling in her grave,” he comments, and Sirius wishes he could punch him.

"Mother no longer has a say in anything. And neither do you,” Sirius says coldly.

“Sirius, what—” Remus looks like he's seen a ghost and, well, he basically has.

“My mother apparently saw fit to have a portrait of Regulus installed,” Sirius informs him. “Of course she couldn't live without her precious son. It's all very sweet.”

Regulus sighs.

“Sirius, you've got to remove this portrait,” Remus says. “This is definitely not good for you.”

At that, Regulus looks supremely offended. “I have more of a right to be here than you do, werewolf,” he says haughtily.

“How do you even know—?” Sirius starts to ask, and Regulus gives him a deadpan look.

“You and your friends weren't exactly subtle in school. Besides, I have been known to actually shut up and observe, unlike you—”

"And yet, you're the one who's dead—”

"Thankfully,” Regulus mutters darkly.

“—and I'm still very much alive, so I will continue to do as I please,” Sirius says hotly.

“You mean do as Dumbledore pleases,” Regulus practically spits. “The man who left you to rot in prison.”

And Sirius flinches back at that because… yeah. He has thought, several times, that maybe he's still in prison, except this time, it’s Dumbledore holding the keys. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and his jaw clicks shut.

Regulus tilts his head. “So you aren't just his brainless lapdog.”

Remus grabs Sirius’ arm. “Why don't we go make some tea? We can talk about… whatever this is.”

Sirius shrugs his arm away, and Remus coils back, as though burned. Sirius can't bring himself to care.

“Fine. Let’s talk,” Sirius all but snarls and heads for the kitchen without a second glance at Regulus or Remus.

Remus sighs, steeling himself for an overdue conversation with a very volatile Sirius. He's not excited for it. He makes to follow Sirius, and gives the portrait one last disapproving look.

Regulus is looking exceedingly smug. Remus scowls.

Sirius knows Regulus’ portrait will pose a problem as the Order moves in, but he still can't bring himself to move it.

For the most part, Regulus just watches people come and go without comment. A couple of them give his portrait a nasty look as they recognize him, but most of them pay him no mind. But Sirius knows his brother. He knows Regulus is listening and watching intently. He's interested in news of Voldemort’s second rise to power, and Sirius cannot wait to rub Voldemort’s defeat in his brother's face when this damned war is over.

Because it will end. It has to.

So, all in all, Regulus listens a lot and talks very little. That is, until Hermione Granger comes in.

Sirius finds himself quite fond of her. Not just because she's one of the reasons he's free, and not even because of her loyalty to Harry. No, Hermione reminds him very much of Lily Potter. Not just because she's a fiercely intelligent and talented muggleborn witch, but because she, like Lily, is also the perfect mixture of kind-hearted and hot-headed.

Hermione avoids Walburga Black’s portrait like the plague for obvious reasons, but when she finds the portrait of Regulus Black, she can't help but approach it curiously.

“Hello,” she says politely. “I didn't realize Sirius had a brother.” She shoots Sirius a questioning look, and he just shrugs, unapologetic.

Regulus gives her an assessing look. “Yes, well, ‘had’ is the key word there. In any case, Sirius is rather averse to acknowledging me as such. And you are?”

“Hermione Granger,” she says confidently.

“Granger,” Regulus repeats slowly. “How… mundane. Half-blood?”

“Muggleborn,” Hermione says firmly, without shame.

Regulus looks past her to where Sirius is standing. “Mudbloods and blood traitors and werewolves,” he tuts softly. “You always did have such… peculiar taste in company.”

"Fix your language,” Sirius says sharply.

But Hermione, used to Draco Malfoy’s liberal use of the term, remains unfazed. “You're not very kind,” she tells Regulus.

He looks amused. “No, I’m not.”

"Hermione is one of the reasons I escaped the Dementor’s Kiss,” Sirius tells him.

“What a shame,” Regulus says mildly. “I think it would have been an improvement.”

“It would have been cruel,” Hermione says heatedly. “Nobody deserves that.”

“Oh?” Regulus raises an eyebrow. “Not even the Dark Lord?”

“I can't say I think he has much of a soul to suck out of him,” Hermione says icily. Regulus barks out a laugh, and it's so uncharacteristic of him that Sirius does a double take.

“Indeed,” Regulus agrees.

Hermione gives him a thoughtful look. “You worked for him, didn't you? Voldemort. No one ever calls him ‘the Dark Lord’ unless they worked for him.”

If Regulus is surprised by her use of Voldemort’s name, he doesn't show it. Sirius wonders if he’ll lie. He wonders if he’ll correct Regulus if he does.

As it turns out, he needn't have worried because Regulus inclines his head. “I did.”

“Did… do you regret it?” Hermione asks, as if she can't believe this boy, who couldn't have been much older than her, would swear his life away. And Sirius, who has tried to have this conversation before and knows how it ends, prepares himself for the inevitable disappointment.

“You are quite bold for someone of your, ah, background,” Regulus observes, appearing more curious than bothered.

“Am I supposed to be meek and timid because my parents are muggles?” Hermione challenges. “They raised me to be good and kind, which is more than you can likely say for yourself.”

“Some purebloods would kill you where you stand for talking to them like that,” Regulus tells her, and Hermione puts her chin up defiantly.

“I don't make a habit of talking to those kinds of people.”

“That’s probably wise.” He watches her quietly, considering. He seems to be choosing his next words carefully. “To answer your question… I did what I had to do, in the end. And what about you, Miss Granger? Will you be able to say the same for yourself, when it's all over? Will you still be good and kind?”

Hermione clenches her jaw. “I can try to be.”

Regulus looks at her like she's a particularly interesting puzzle he can't quite figure out. The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly.

“You certainly can.”

Halloween was never going to pass without Sirius getting drunk out of his mind. Remus is already passed out in bed, but Sirius… he can’t seem to rest. He paces through the hallways, jumping at things that aren't there, flinching at the sound of Kreacher rifling through some forgotten closet for some trinket, some memory of what used to be.

Sirius keeps his hand on the wand he's been using. It doesn't feel right. Not like his old wand. But he grips it tightly anyway, and resists the urge to blast the shit out of everything around him.

Azkaban put a stasis on Sirius’ grieving process. It kept him hanging right at the beginning of it. It kept him replaying his last words to Lily and James over and over again, seeing their bodies unmoving on the floor, and his own rough, calloused hands closing their eyes for the last time.

Before Azkaban, when Sirius had found out Regulus died, he didn't let himself grieve at all. He hadn't seen his little brother in years, and there was no body to be found, so he could almost make himself believe that Regulus was still out there, somewhere. That maybe they would eventually cross wands in battle, and they'd get pretty damn close to killing each other but never actually would.

But in the prison, reduced to only his most potent miseries, Sirius was unable to avoid the truth: his little brother was dead. Almost everyone he loved was dead.

And now, here he is, on the anniversary of the worst night of his life, and he is just itching to pick a fight, to release all the pent-up, unfiltered grief that sits right under his skin at all times.

He takes a swig of firewhiskey and makes his way to his brother’s portrait. It's not his wisest idea, but Sirius has never been wise, especially when it comes to his brother.

Regulus takes one look at Sirius and wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“You're an embarrassment,” Regulus tells him, and Sirius just barely resists the urge to throw his bottle of firewhiskey at the portrait.

“I hate you,” Sirius tells him, and Regulus sighs.

“So you've mentioned,” he says dryly. “Is that all?”

“No!” Sirius practically shouts. His ribcage feels tight with a pressure that's been building for weeks, and he digs his fingernails into his palm as if to try and relieve it. Sirius has always been a little too much of everything all at once, and James was one of the very few people who could manage it. But he's not here. Sirius is. He's here and painfully, achingly alive, and he feels a rush of fury at the unfairness of it all. And his stupid, stupid brother—so fucking soft, so weak—how pathetic it is to die licking someone else’s boots. “Why did you have to follow him? Why couldn't you just—why couldn't you just be—”

“Like you?” Regulus sneers.

"Strong,” Sirius spits. “Brave.” Not like me at all, Sirius thinks.

“You’re the one who ran away!” Regulus accuses.

“You’re the one who stayed!” Sirius rages.

Which is worse? The unspoken question sits heavy between them. It takes up all the oxygen in the room and Sirius can't fucking breathe. His chest heaves, heart pounding hard enough that he's sure the room is shaking with it.

For a long while, Regulus says nothing. He looks at a space just past Sirius’ shoulder and Sirius wants to grip his brother’s chin in his hand and make him look at him. He wants bruises to blossom under his fingertips, to feel the warmth of blood rushing underneath skin.

“You didn't ask me to come with you,” Regulus finally says. His voice is quiet, as if he knows how fragile the moment is, as if he's afraid to see what might break.

“Would you have?” Sirius shoots back.

Regulus purses his lips. His eyes lock back onto Sirius. “I guess we’ll never know.”

And Sirius—

Sirius shatters. He just sort of keels over, the air wrenched from his lungs, because for the first time, maybe ever, he is realizing that his little brother is truly dead. That this… this echo of him cannot give him the closure he so desperately wants because the real Regulus never gave it either. Sirius presses a hand to his chest just to feel the thrum of his own heart and, oh god, it aches, please make it stop and Regulus is right there, bloodless, forever stuck on the cusp of adulthood, and neither of them will ever get to know what could of have been, because both of them failed to be brave for each other when it mattered most. Regulus lived with that bitterness until the very end, and Sirius knows, with sudden clarity, that he will too.

He chokes back a sob, shoulders curling inward, and he thinks he hears a low, pained whine coming from somewhere. It gets louder and louder, until there are hands on his shoulders, arms wrapped around him tightly, tugging him backwards, away from the portrait. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, someone—Remus—is telling him and Sirius opens his mouth and screams.

He kicks and snarls and yells as he's dragged out of the room, half-mad with grief and longing and all the love in him he never got to give. He screams louder than his mother, louder than his father, louder than his guilt and his hurt and his shame.

“I tried!” Regulus is yelling, desperately. “I tried to be brave! I betrayed the Dark Lord!”

And Sirius screams, louder than his brother.

#me exposing my hp sideblog bc i love the black brothers :(#also i'm proud of this little oneshot #i should write more sirius and regulus #one day

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