Chapter Text
Regulus slammed the book closed, startling Barty, who was in the depths of this evening’s dramatic rendition of assorted Hogwarts gossip.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“What did I say?”
“They tried to kill Snape? Wannabe pureblood, suckup Snape?”
Barty shrugged.
“Yeah, that’s about the size of it, but it’s your brother, so are we really surprised?”
Regulus inhaled deeply, reminding himself that Ravenclaw was not Slytherin, and more importantly, that Crouch was not Black.
“They’ll disinherit him for this.”
“What, your parents? Over Snape? You’re shitting me.”
“No, I’m fucking not, and then I’ll have to take over the heirship—I’m not meant to be the heir, Barty! What the fuck do I know about… tithes, or votes, or the fucking Wizengamot?”
Truthfully, Regulus really ought to know more than his parents had ever deigned to teach him, but with an heir like Sirius, who’d bother? Even as rebellious as he was, he was more powerful than Regulus could ever dream of being.
“Cool your jets there, Bennie,” said Barty, perturbed. “Maybe they won’t. It’s your mum, I’m pretty sure murder is more like a call for a bump in pocket money, not disinheritance.”
On any other occasion, this would be true, especially since Snape was a half-blood. But rumour had it— well, Barty had it, and that was about the same thing— that he was getting marked in the summer. Surely his mother had more stringent policies about murder of one of the Dark Lord’s own chosen few?
Barty reached out, patting his knee carefully, as one would a bomb, or a cactus.
“There, there,” he said, utterly hopeless. Regulus mourned, sometimes, that a little light murder of significant politicians was, as mother put it, not good for business. Barty’s father deserved anything he had coming for him, the abusive dickhead.
“Thanks, junior.”
Barty’s uncertainty and hesitation vanished in an instant, transmuted entirely to rage, and Regulus smirked at him.
“Don’t fucking call me that, you cock headed toad-dick!”
Job well done, Regulus thought to himself, and then scrambled up and away, laughing as he dodged Barty’s hexes.
A week passes with no word. Then two. If it wasn’t for the fact that all of Hogwarts seemed balanced on the point of a wand, ready to explode, Regulus would have thought nothing had happened at all. Dumbledore said nothing. There was nothing from McGonagall, nothing from Slughorn. The only visible difference was that only Peter was talking to Sirius, who could usually not be pulled from James and Remus’ sides, and that Snape was rocketing around Hogwarts in a high fury, pale faced with rage and impotent in his silence.
Regulus pitied him. A poor coverup, it was, and yet nothing he could do. There would be no word that could stand against an Ancient and Noble pureblood house from a common half-blood.
Beyond all this, what Regulus could not understand was why mother had not said anything. If nothing else, bylines stated that parents must be contacted in the event of moderate to severe distress, of which this certainly counted, even if one ignored the blatant attempted murder. Therefore mother must have simply… ignored it?
With every day that passed, his mother’s silence grew louder inside of Regulus. His brother walked by in the corridors, flirting with unattached upper years in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, and spoke not at all to the whole of Gryffindor house. Barty eagerly relayed it all to him, every bit of gossip he could get his grubby little hands on, and Regulus consumed it all like poisoned wine, like he was Tantalus.
Mother, he wrote, and then after some filler about his grades and assorted pleasantries:
I understand that my brother has made himself subject to certain eyes of late. I hope it has not interfered with your business at home?
Your loving son,
Regulus Arcturus Black,
R. A. B.
Her reply, when it came, was cold and to the point, congratulating him on his achievements, berating him for not doing better, and contained exactly one line to address his light prod:
Perhaps my son may inquire as to my business when he matures in the same manner as my heir, who displays that of the Black spirit which you do not.
I’ll be damned, he thinks distantly, rising to leave breakfast as if in a dream, she approves of him. She approves of my stupid, Gryffindor, womanising brother, who pines after a halfbreed werewolf commoner and retains none of the manners of his youth. As I do. As I have.
Barty tries to catch up with him, but it’s as if Regulus doesn’t see him. He doesn’t see the phalanx of eyes that follow him as he leaves, quicker than a good Black heir should leave. It’s as if nothing exists in this moment except the rising tide of his inadequacy, and a fury entirely unknown to him. Everything else is a blur.
Sometimes, when the world is shite, Regulus allows himself this. He hasn’t done so in public since he was a child, so in control has he been, but the blankness overtook him before he could outrun it this time, and so he stares at nothing and thinks. In this, as in everything, there must be some sort of pattern. The rage subsides into calculation.
Runic algorithms rely on certain formulae to work. Fire signs could not be grounded by other fire signs, and Elder Futhark should not be mixed with Egyptian Hieroglyphs except in very rare and controlled cases. There are rules. These rules may be broken, or bent, but they would always, always be guided by logic. The more specific, the more detailed the algorithm, the more controlled the result.
Nothing was more complicated than human behaviour, which was why Regulus kept such a close eye on everything he saw, why he read so extensively. People were complex algorithms, and illogical, and unpredictable. Yet, they also followed patterns, and therefore, could be predicted, if the algorithm was detailed enough, specific enough. Day to day was easy enough, so experienced was he in the minutiae of school life. Barty was always happy to tell him any tiny detail he wished to know.
This was different. This was unbroken ground, a rune scheme that had never been bespelled before. It would require close attention to detail, an experiment in practical logic.
Regulus was good at logic.
Fact One: Sirius was the Heir, and also powerful, charming, every inch the ideal of a pureblood family if not for his liberalist politics.
Fact Two: Regulus was the Spare, and also underwhelming, obedient, and thoroughly ignored.
If they were runes, Regulus would place them opposite each other, for how well they balanced out. A sufficient heir and a sufficient spare. Perfectly equal. Their parents, naturally, would run a-compass-point to them: the strong north, a guiding star. Opposite, perhaps their friends, perhaps their enemies: to lead, and never to follow, the south one walks away from.
Fact Three: Sirius, in almost murdering Severus Snape, Regulus’ one time friend, had earned the approval of their mother.
Fact Four: Regulus can never win mother’s love out from under an heir she is proud of.
Fact Five: Sirius would never consent to being an Heir to politics he hates.
Ergo, there would be a tension in the rune scheme that Regulus could not balance. Sirius and Mother would explode, in one way or another, and Regulus would be caught with their father and the rest of the world in collateral.
Regulus was vaguely aware of his body moving at this point, something like the crush of corridors around him, brown eyes looking worried, a hand at his elbow.
“It’s all wrong,” he said to Barty, who startled and asked all sorts of inane questions which Regulus handily ignored.
He was missing something.
He drifted through the corridors like that, responding to teachers when spoken to, blithely unaware of the odd looks he was drawing for his answers, which were perhaps shorter and blanker than he would otherwise allow. He caught eyes with no one but his brother, across the crowded halls at lunch, and Sirius looked oddly concerned. He looked away.
An explosion was not uncommon, but this had far reaching effects, this would not be a simple argument. This would be the end of the Black Family, if its brightest star gave out, the scheme ran in concentric circles under every other runic structure of their family. Their father, in all of Regulus’ memory, had never uttered a word, never met his eyes on anything but the briefest of occasions. Mother had no patience for fools, only endless and relentless devotion to their proud House, and so she had married her cousin to redeem them from the shame of having such an Heir. Grandfather had passed down the title within an hour of Sirius’ birth. Mother had built a generation around her ambitions, her shining son. It would tear them apart if he left.
That was it, then. His House would die. His mother’s ambition, so close to realisation and then snatched away, would ruin her and damn them all, with no heir to overrule her and Grandfather preoccupied with the war. Sirius would be killed by the Dark Lord for disloyalty, and Regulus would be the heir to a crumbling house.
Regulus took after his father. If Kreacher had not taught him to speak, he would be as his father, sitting quietly in his study and reading book after book on obscure warding, humming snatches of the same Celestina tunes for weeks on end, the shame of his family. He could no more be their star than Sirius could, albeit for the exact opposite reasons. Sirius burns too brightly, and Regulus not at all.
Fact Six: Regulus was far too stubborn to let anyone at all in his family come to any sort of harm when there was a single thing he could do about it otherwise.
There was a rush of air around his ears and then a splitting pain on his chin, and he became suddenly entrenched within his body.
“Is he okay? Shit, I’m so sorry.”
Firm, gentle hands held him steady, and a face dipped down and to the side to meet his lowered gaze. James Potter blinked up at him, and gave him a concerned smile when he saw Regulus was looking back.
“You took a right tumble there, Reggie.”
“Don’t call me Reggie.”
James looked amused, like he’d expected that answer and was relieved to have received it. He stayed like that, crouched down. It didn’t look very comfortable.
“Sirius says that’s your name.”
“Sirius doesn’t say a damned thing about me.”
Barty choked on a snicker behind him— oh, good, Barty, Regulus thought vaguely.
“He says you’re a real sourpuss about rules and you don’t look where you’re going. I think that’s fair enough, don’t you?”
“That’s the biggest… bullshittiest… hey, Potter?” Regulus squinted. “Why’re you covered in ink?”
“Same reason you’re about to go to Madam Pomfrey, Reggie.”
“I’m not Reggie. I’m Regulus.”
“Sure, Reggie.” James grinned, sun catching in his stupid, perfect hair. Merlin, he smiled a lot, did he ever stop smiling? Come to think of it, where where they?
Regulus looked away from James and found himself somewhere on the Charms staircase, Barty hauling a stack of books and a raised eyebrow beside him, and fucking Remus Lupin looking as entertained by this as he was by any of the usual antics of his idiot friends— which was to say, mildly, and with concern. The world then began tilting, and James made a little alarmed noise before his arms snapped up and held firm, a bulwark for Regulus to lean on.
This was not normal, Regulus decided, and probably had something to do with the pain in his chin.
He poked it curiously, and then hissed and flinched, his hand coming away bloody.
“Okay, yeah, that’s enough from you, baby Black, up we go.”
Regulus was guided to his feet, Barty’s wand at the ready and Lupin making the usual Lupin noises in the background. They walked to the Hospital Wing slowly, and Regulus tried to pay attention to his feet as they walked. A levitation charm at his age would just be embarrassing. Barty was oddly quiet alongside him, but James talked as though he and Regulus had exchanged more than two brief conversations ever in history. He didn’t talk to Regulus precisely, more to the general room, directing the flow of chatter as though Regulus had simply chosen to sit out this conversation, rather than the more undignified reality. Lupin seemed resigned to this, like it was just normal behaviour.
James Potter did like to talk.
Lily Evans, he said, had left her notebook behind in charms, and James had offered to go get it for her, wasn’t that chivalrous, Reggie? And of course James did not expect anything to come of it, just like he hadn’t for— what was it again, Moony? right— the other 23 times he had deployed similar tactics, and did Barty have any suggestions?
Barty, naturally, had exactly one suggestion, and it was to be less of an entitled prat. Nice one, thought Regulus, and tripped lightly over uneven sandstone. James hauled him up before he could go down, lightly continuing to talk as though it hadn’t happened. Did Reggie think James was entitled? Reggie had no room to talk, because James knew for a fact that Sirius hadn’t eaten off of anything that wasn’t straight silverware until he came to Hogwarts, and James’ family ate off porcelain, like any other normal family.
No, not heirloom porcelain, Moony, they hadn’t been Potters like that. Moony, he didn’t even know how to throw clay on a wheel, how would he know what they had been Potters like?
It was— entertaining, actually. Like attending a comedy, or listening to the wireless. He snorted a little, barely more than a huff of air.
James gasped as if he’d been mortally assaulted. See what he had to deal with, Moony? Bullied! By his underclassmen! The disrespect! No, Moony, he’s been insulted! Wounded to the heart! He shall have to duel for his honour, if only Reggie wasn’t excelling as the damsel of the hour.
“‘m not a damsel,” Regulus said, stubborn. His head felt thick and— swimmy. He didn’t think swimmy was a word, but it was true. Regulus liked things that were true.
“Oh! Oh, I have been cast aside, Moony! Crouch, take charge of Reggie’s tongue, for it does violence upon my person!”
“I think it’s up to Regulus who’s taking charge of his tongue, Potter, don’t you think?”
“I’m— yes, that is— oh, look, we’re here!”
James propped Regulus half against the wall and knocked hurriedly on the door, his hand snapping back to Regulus’ arm cautiously. Lupin was smiling now, amused at something beyond Regulus. He had the vague sense that Barty had done something appropriately cool, and smiled at him. Barty raised an eyebrow and shook his head back. Huh.
Madam Pomfrey swept the door back with a rush of air, and the next several minutes were taken up with her loud fussing and Regulus being deposited on a bed and waved over with her wand. Barty sat next to him, staring solidly at the mediwitch as though daring her to remove him. Wisely, she did not. Lupin and James, however, she clucked at and shooed back to the door. Lupin went easily, thanking her politely, and shoving James in front of him in a practiced motion.
James stuck his head out from behind them, calling out, “Sorry, again, Reggie. I’ll see you at breakfast!”
Then he was gone.
The world seemed quieter for it, like the sun had gone out of the sky and had been replaced by one of those horrible muggle electric lights. The hospital wing was never particularly interesting to begin with of course, but now the stone walls felt flat and almost unreal. Like the background of a faded memory in a pensieve.
Interesting.
It took a while for Madam Pomfrey to decide Regulus met her exacting standards for students who no longer suffer from concussion or incidental injury. It took longer than that, and a very strong and obscure privacy ward, for Barty to start talking.
“You haven’t been that bad in years, Reg.”
His voice was quiet, as serious as he tried to avoid being most of the time. Barty didn’t enjoy the responsibility heaped on his shoulders. It was only occasionally that he lived up to it. Each time had involved Regulus, Barty’s mother, or his house-elf Winky.
“I know,” said Regulus.
“If your mum knew… Look, if this is about Sirius and what he did to Snape, no one’s talking about it. It’ll blow over.”
“Everyone’s talking about it.”
“No one important, just kids. You know full well they don’t listen to us.”
“It’s not about Sirius.”
It was, but only peripherally. It was larger than that now.
“You need to talk to me, Reg. We’re friends, we’re a team. I can’t do anything to help you unless you tell me what’s going on. Is it your mum? Her letter?”
Regulus met Barty’s eyes for a long, uncomfortable minute. He didn’t do that often, but it helped sometimes to see if Barty was earnest. He was, he always was. Barty was the only person in this school who cared enough about Regulus to want to help him. The only person in the world, really.
He looked away to fidget with his hands, but he’d seen what he needed to.
“She approves of him, Barty. That’s what she said, that I’m more of a disappointment than ever, and that if I ever want to change that, then I need to start murdering people like Sirius tried to.”
“That’s fucked up, Reg. You know that, right?”
Regulus snorted humourlessly.
“Well, that’s my family, isn’t it? Fucked up.”
“But you can’t— I know you, you’d never…”
“No.” Regulus said firmly, and felt it settle in his bones like an oath. “I won’t.”
“Shit,” said Barty.
“Shit,” agreed Regulus.
There was a lull in their quiet conversation.
“What’re you gonna do?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out. All day. But no matter how many variables I add, how many changes I make, the equation collapses. Like a runic network with no balance. Any way I see it, we all die, Barty, one way or another. And I can’t— I can’t— they’re my family. They may hate me, but they’re my family. I can’t let them.”
“I know, Merlin help us, you’ve always been a stubborn bastard. They never deserved you.”
“They deserved more than me”
Barty’s hand snapped out to slap his shoulder.
“They didn’t. You’re the best of anyone I know.”
Regulus smiled a little, feeling the sting in his arm, and glanced over at Barty, who was glowering at him like a thunder cloud.
“I think that’s you, actually. Thanks.”
Barty’s face cleared a little, and his hand returns to clasp Regulus’ wrist, awkwardly but determinedly. He wasn’t familiar with comfort, but he gave it nonetheless. Regulus was honoured.
“You’ll tell me, when you have a plan. I’m great at plans.”
“I’m better.”
“You are not! You always miss the details, you knucklehead, the world doesn’t run on your personal say-so.”
Regulus grinned, and felt himself settle as he continued to needle Barty. But in the back of his head, his mind ticked over the details, over and over and over, like an enchanted clock. Regulus wasn’t used to puzzles he couldn’t solve. Sirius may have his power, and James Potter his ridiculous control over transfiguration, and even Lily Evans with her stranglehold over any charm ever made, but this was what he was good at.
If anyone could think a way out of it, around it, through it— it would be him.
And so it went.
He and Barty left the hospital wing in time for dinner, sat in their usual spot at the abandoned end of the Slytherin table, and discussed the Defence essay that had apparently been assigned to them that day. They endured the unusually high ratio of hostile stares, which probably had more to do with Sirius than Regulus in any case. He ate the same combination of lamb, potatoes, carrots and beans that he had for the last several weeks, indulging in two dinner rolls and relishing the crunch of the crisp bread. Barty, as was his way, levitated a new dish from further down the table, which seemed to be some kind of curry, and bullied Regulus into trying a bite.
It was blissfully normal, in that regard.
Barty attempted to argue his way into walking Regulus to his common room, but met with no success. Regulus was fine, and he wasn’t going to crash into any more Gryffindors, and he was going straight to bed. There had to be a way to solve it. There had to be.
He stared up at the canopy, with its detailed enchanted threadwork, for a very long time.
There was nothing.
Perhaps… perhaps his mother was right. Regulus buckled under the thought, but it persisted nonetheless. Wasn’t it true, that Sirius was the one causing all this trouble in the first place, with his liberal notions and general relentless ways? Wasn’t it Regulus himself, who had thought time and time again that life would be so much easier if he was not even passingly spared a thought for as a future heir? Wouldn’t it all be so much easier if Sirius was the darling of their family down to the core, and Regulus could go to France or Egypt or Russia or Belgium and learn to chain runes and hieroglyphs and dot-poke symbols into endless weavings of cause and effect?
Wouldn’t it be easy, if Regulus just let events play out? Sirius would return home, newly beloved. Regulus wasn’t responsible for his family beyond that. Whatever Mother and Sirius came to, be it blows or an agreement, it was nothing to do with Regulus. He could live his life as a shadow.
And Sirius would die.
No, Regulus thought. No, he couldn’t just stand by. He never could. There was no one else who saw it unfold, except for him, no one who had divined the pattern to it all, and so he had the burden of duty laid upon his shoulders. If anything happened, it would be his fault for not acting.
Regulus loved his family. He could not do nothing. He would not become a tragedy.
He tossed and turned, trying to come up with a solution. With each failure, a weight pulled at his chest, a sucking hole which told him to give up. He refused. He refused and refused and thought and hoped, and when his body could not stay awake any longer, fell into an uneasy sleep.
He woke up before dawn, crystallised to a sharp thought. Fact: he was integral to the balance. Fact: the balance had already been broken. Fact: if a rune scheme was non-functional, it was better to start from scratch than to carve over old patterns. Fact: Regulus was the only variable he could control, and no one would listen to a spare. Fact: there is only one way a spare becomes not a spare and stays alive.
Conclusion: Regulus could be disowned instead.