Chapter Text
It’s a small thing, for how earth-shattering it is. Sirius finishes his nominal packing by layering sticking charms over the most provocative contraband. Have fun removing that, you vicious old hag, he thinks. The web securing the poster of the muggle girl posing on a motorcycle in her underthings is connected to a rather clever chain of explosive charms set about the house.
It’s a balm to focus on the necessary arithmancy. Charms aren’t his forte, but a good starting equation and some space to work is all he needs to wreak havoc. Plus, of course, the calculations are perfect to keep his mind away from—How dare they—If he hadn’t—Regulus and his squeaky voice are good for one thing, at least. He would have walked to his enslavement like a Merlin-damned lamb, and for what? So that his fucking mother could hold the attention of her glorious leader for one cursed second. It’s pathetic, a woman of her age panting for a man who clearly has no use for her—Fuck them, honestly, them and their inbred fucking family, they can rot in Hell—
Regulus watches him drag his trunk from the gallery, nose in the air like the snooty brat he is. He’s even got their father’s gestures down, all dismissive and uncaring—
The flash of—something behind Regulus catches his eye and his eyes trail to—That’s odd. Why are his knuckles so white? The unexpected show of tension catches him off-guard. Regulus should be celebrating. He’s driven off his embarrassment of an older brother. Now he can step into the role he had strived for since his First Year. Why is he—
He can’t help dragging his eyes over his body, looking for another sign of that odd tension. Nope, his expression is imperious and blank. Shoulders back and faux-relaxed, the standard Pureblood posture. Only his hands are off. Is that—are they trembling?
He pauses, trunk hitting his calves and thighs. Something is—off. He timed his escape. Their fucking parents are gone, won’t be back for at least an hour. Kreacher is skulking about no doubt, so it’s just the three of them. Is Reg worried Walburga and Orion will be back in time to stop his escape? No, that doesn’t make sense, he knows as well as Sirius does that they won’t. Why then—
A spear of ice stabs down his spine. A piercing whine rings in his ears—Is that—Blood?
“Reg.” He throws the trunk—Fuck the trunk—Up the stairs, quick, quick! Something is wrong—something is really fucking wrong—
His brother retreats from him, imperious mask shattered, the shards of it that still remain sitting oddly on his face. He buries his hands in the wide pockets of the robes, not quick enough that he doesn’t spot the tell-tale tremble. That’s not stress, roars the little bit of sense he apparently has to his name. That’s nerve damage. The little spot of red spreads from below his right shoulder, red dots blooming into a diagonal slash across his torso—
“I have nothing to say to you,” the idiot fucking child says. Ignore him, he’s just—Never mind what he is, never mind what you are. Just—
He stumbles to a stop, hand reaching out to check—Maybe he was wrong. Maybe his eyes are fucking wrong because it looks like—It looks like someone cursed Reg in a way that even Kreacher couldn’t heal. It looks like—
“Those faithless fucking monsters.” Fuck, what happened to his throat? Sirius may be named after the Dog Star but he never really growled like one before. “Those imbeciles—How did—Since when—I—” You what? You’re surprised? You thought they would only hurt you? What possible reason did you have to think that, Sirius Black? They hurt you even when you were trying your best to be what they want. They hurt you when you were good. Why wouldn’t they—
“Speak sense, Sirius,” says Reg. His voice shakes just enough to be audible, buried underneath all the endless training. “Better yet, leave. The floo is open, but it won’t stay that way—”
“If you think—” Breathe. Inhale—Exhale. “If you think, for a second, that I would leave you here, now that I know—”
“Now that you know—what?” The poison in Reg’s voice is pretty common these days, but the layer of hurt underneath isn’t. “It is much too late to pretend. You haven’t cared about what happens to me for a long time.”
That’s deserved. Moreover, it’s true. You haven’t seen what you didn’t want to see. Now you get—this. Your baby brother is cut up and still, he looks at you like you are the threat in this situation.
“I am an idiot,” he says, much too dizzy for pride or self-consciousness. His occlumency barriers buckle. The time for fighting it out is later. Now his rage and triumph and hope are all sacrificed at the altar of desperation. He can’t— “Regulus, I will beg if I have to. Please, come with me. Please, Reg. They won’t—We can run. Fuck them. Nothing justifies this, you must see that.”
“Run—where.” Finally free of his well-bred facade, Reg bares his teeth like a wild thing, eyes lit with enough rage for both of them. “The Potters? I would sooner slit my throat. Your werewolf will be put down in a second if he considers sheltering two Black heirs. Who, Sirius? The Slytherins, who take out on me what they can’t do to you? Tell me. Dumbledore, who sends Snape back to abusive Muggles each summer no matter how much he begs?”
In another situation, Sirius’ own rage might have ended the conversation there. Now, though, he is nothing but fear and pain. Occlumency barriers whine, buck and shatter, releasing all the self-loathing and guilt and shame back out. Fuck—fuck—fuck—
He staggers, hands flying to his temples. A hiss of pain escapes.
“Siri?”
Fuck. Another wave of agony hits at the long-unheard nickname. Fuck—
“Nothing. It’s nothing, Reg. Really. Look, okay. Okay, no Dumbledore.” Fuck, Snape is what. Dumbledore does—Sends him back to— “But Potters, Reg, they’re a powerful House, they can—Dorea can keep us safe.”
“I would rather jump into the Veil.” The maniacal light shines brighter. “James Potter ruined my life once, I will not let him do so again. What is wrong? Tell me so I can fix it and you can leave—”
“To borrow your lovely phrasing, I would sooner slit my throat.” Another wave of pain, and it’s almost easy to time his breaths to match the tempo. “Okay, fuck, fine. They could—Fine, no. You don’t want the Potters? We don’t go to the Potters.” Nausea is making its way through, which means he’s got about ten minutes until he either meditates or, fuck knows, breaks his mind apart irreparably. “We can—” Think! “Fuck, okay. You want family, I’ll give you family. Uncle Alphard gave me a cabin in the Caribbean for my Presentation. Aunt Cassie warded it. I’ve never been there, but it should be safe. Deal?”
Finally, a spark of hesitation breaks through, something like incredulous shock skittering along the tense jaw. “What—A cabin? Be serious, Siri, we will be dragged back in a day. Leave. I bought you your—”
It’s impossible to stop the whine that builds in the back of his throat. Tears swell in his eyes, as a hurricane of denials mixes with the ever-growing howl of shame. He bought you—He staged it. He probably—After everything, he risked pain and Dark Magic to give you a chance to run—That’s what you’ve always done, isn’t it? Run and hide and beg for help, pretend and lie and lie some more—You don’t deserve him—You’ve never deserved him—
“Sorry, sorry. I just—Never mind.” Okay, so it’s time for desperate measures. He’s already at maximum intake, but he can skirt it a little, surely? Where—There. Perfect. He downs a Calming Draught in a single gulp, relishing the bitter, acidic heat as it spreads through his body. Yeah, fuck. It’s not like you didn’t know the risks. A lifetime on the run will be a good cure for addiction, hey? “Okay. Listen. Some of my Occlumency barriers fell. Nothing to be concerned about.” Sure. “I didn’t know, Reg. I am an idiot and a poor excuse for a brother, but I’d never have let them hurt you. I’d have sooner killed them all. Now, the choice is this. You run with me or I stay and try to fight. I’m sorry to put this choice to you. It’s unfair, I’m well aware. I’ll try to buck that trend as soon as I can, but tonight? I can’t.”
Regulus’ eyes fly from the empty vial to Sirius’ greenish fingernails. Clever. He always was so clever. “Siri, listen. We can’t run. They would let one of us go, maybe. Both? Both heirs? They would turn over every stone in Britain, trying to find us. We have Family Magic, they can track us. Plus Mother will—She needs an Heir, Siri. She won’t stop.”
“We run, we hide. Nobody can access my vault but me, now that I’m fifteen. We have gold, Reg. How about—” Think! “Okay, how about you run and I stay. Just for a little while, until you’re safe somewhere, fuck, anywhere, and then I join you?”
“You are to be sworn to the Dark Lord in a fortnight,” shrills Reg. “I have a few years left. Plus, Mother—She loves us, Siri. She, okay, she gets her moods, but the rest of the time—”
The artificial calm wobbles, as the madness threatens to overtake the drug. “I can taste the Dark Magic on you. How long did they hold you under the Cruciatus for? Don’t even bother, Reg, I know all this. When I got sorted into Gryffindor, Mother had to get a Healer to transplant functional spinal nerves, after one of her moods. Remember that? You were confused about my having Dragon Pox when you thought both of us had it when we were babies. Well, I wasn’t in seclusion, I was in the basement watching a Muggle boy get torn into pieces so that I can move again. They’re monsters Reg. They’re traitors.”
It’s Reg turn to wobble. “She—She hadn’t told me that. They—Surely, that’s too much even for a--”
Sirius hums an approximation of a laugh. There’s not much emoting to be done when under the influence. “I do not accept their label of a Blood-traitor. Not anymore. I did, but I realized—What’s a Blood-traitor if not someone that betrays their blood. They betrayed us, Reg, our own parents. The very definition of our blood. They tortured you. They tortured me. They almost killed me. Mother would have, but Family Magic wouldn’t let her.”
Reg gulps, closes his eyes. “I’ll have to leave Kreacher.”
Sirius swallows down the first ten things he would want to say.
“You would be wise to leave, Young Master,” says Kreacher. “The traitor-son speaks sense. Kreacher will always be yours, but your life is not secure, here. Glory of the House is important, but you are more important still. Leave and do not look back.”
Regulus grabs the horrible little thing into a hug. Sirius—yeah. Fuck that. Kreacher can go die in a fire.
“Please Reg. The cabin, for a little while. Lock the Wards down, lay low. After that—we see what our options are.”
“Are we to live on the street,” says Reg, trying for disgust, but Sirius knows that line at the side of his mouth. Knows that twitch of an eyebrow. He’s excited, at least a little bit. It says a lot that life on the street is that much more exciting than slowly being tortured into madness or slavery, whichever happens first.
“If we have to. Fuck, Reg, I’ll build you a house in the middle of the Pacific. I’ll charm a giant floating castle to bob next to the Chardak in Yugoslavia. Please, we must leave.”
“Fine.” Tears run down Reg’s face as he hugs the traitorous little monster close to him. Sirius—finds that he isn’t jealous. Huh. Good riddance. “I’ll miss you so much Kreacher, but Siri is right. Things are getting out of hand here, and Mother’s infatuation with Riddle is—She loves him more than us. It’s an untenable situation for either one of us.”
“Your life, before the entire world. There is no choice, Young Master.”
Reg’s damage is worse than he thought. The cursed wound is barely the worst of it. There are also the broken ribs, a possible concussion and, of course, all the nerve damage. The maniac has been charming his torso straight and downing numbing potions by the dozen.
“Who will go through the detox first,” he says, rummaging around the cabin to find the potions cabinet. “You with your mandrakes or me with the hellebore?”
“Joy.” Regulus laughs, hysteria carrying the tone straight into the famous Black Madness. “Precisely how I imagined my Fifth Year to look like, a homeless, penniless addict, trying to evade England’s most powerful House.”
“We’re neither homeless nor penniless just yet, Reg.” They are absolutely addicts. “We might be, when we get chased away from here, but you leaving too should throw them off our trail for a little while. Then they check my usual haunts. We have weeks until we have to worry about that.”
“Weeks.” The hysteria softens, edges into something more aware. Not sane, neither of them can be called that on a good day, much less today. Their fates are more or less sealed. Reg is right. Walburga might have let him go and redirected her attention to the one heir who still listened somewhat. Now? They’re fucked. “Well, we might not live long, but damn if it doesn’t feel good.”
“Just like we talked about. You and me, travelling the world, getting into shenanigans. It would be great if we could have skipped all the shit in-between, but you know me. It takes a while for anything to sink in.”
“You could have left me, you know?” Sirius’ hand slips and he crashes to the floor, like an imbecile. “I’d not have minded. Had it all planned out. You’d live with the Potters, happy in the Light, and I’d wait until I’m of age, take Kreacher and my vaults and move to, I don’t know. Madrid. Somewhere sunny, where I couldn’t ever leave the house without the strongest sun-block charms.”
Merlin wept. “Now you get to go somewhere sunny with me. I may not have been as loyal as Kreacher, but at least I haven’t set up any children to be tortured, so. I have that going for me.”
Haven’t you, though? What has been going on with Reg, precisely?
“He doesn’t know any better, Siri. He wanted to protect me. I never asked him to do that.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure Mother was taught to murder children by her own monstrous family. I won’t let it go, not ever. I am a pillock, yeah, I fucked you over so many times, but not back then—” Deep breaths. You absolutely cannot take another Calming Draught, and you still have to patch up your mind as best you can. Easy. “Look, I’m sorry. I can’t be decent about Kreacher, so I won’t say anything. You do the same with James, and we’re square. Deal?” James never set a violent maniac wielding Dark Magic on a ten-year-old, so there’s that. Then again, Kreacher didn’t have many options, so there’s that. It’s pretty fair.
“Deal. Now, sit down you big lump, until you hurt yourself even more, somehow. We have weeks to live, we might as well not spend them applying healing potions day in and day night.”
Uncle Alphard finds them two days later.
“Alright, you two. Off we go to see Arcturus. He’s been going out of his mind.”
Sirius doesn’t lower his wand. Regulus is out of sight in the other room, charming the portkey, which should be done any second now. Key-word being should. Neither one of them has ever made a portkey, but Reg at least read about it a little. It’s, yeah, fucking reckless but neither of them has many options by this point.
“You don’t know me very well, Uncle, if you think that will work. Did you know they were torturing him?”
Sirius has never known Uncle Alphard to be far away from his own brand of madness, but it’s usually expressed with bawdy jokes and the most outrageous paramours he can charm, bribe or coerce to accompany him to family functions. Never—This. Whoever this stone-faced, emotionless block of a man is, Sirius has never met him.
“Pardon?”
“Walburga and Orion. You knew about me because your Lord okayed the ritual to save my fool life. Did you know about Reg? His nerves are damaged. His ribs are broken. He has been slashed by something I suspect is a ritual knife. That he survived says more about his resilience and cunning than it does about that fucked-up place.”
“I did not know, no. How about you put down your wand and we all take a deep breath and think about this—”
A dark grey rabbit hops from the other room, holding a bracelet in his teeth. He would know those eyes anywhere. It jumps into his arms and Sirius’ exclamation of Portus mixes with Alphard’s pathetic pacifying efforts.