The Black Family Line

by shittywritting

Summary:

When their parents die, a strange man knocks at their door and tells them the life they know to be true is nothing but a lie. The Black brothers are sons to King Orion and once tehy find that out, nothing stays the same.
A war is brewing and while Sirius wants to fight with his whole life, Regulus needs to be convinced.

Chapter 1

A man with a long black cloak knocked on the Prewett door on a Sunday afternoon.

No one had seen him strolling down the street; he simply appeared, as if the air itself had conjured him.

Inside, the house was heavy with silence and the faint smell of spilt perfume. Their mother had collapsed only minutes before, her body still at the foot of the stairwell, the lace of her dress fanned around her like a broken flower. The police had already come and gone, delivering the news that their father had been stabbed in an attempted robbery the night before.

Neither boy mourned much. Grief did not hang in the air—fear did. They both knew their relatives well enough to wonder who would swoop in next to claim them, to torment them.

Walburga Black, their formidable mother, now lay pale and motionless on the floor. Regulus had expected death to strip her of her sharpness, to soften her somehow, but even now she looked scornful, jaw tight, pearls digging into her throat.

The knock came again, steady.

They froze.

Sirius, taller, older, braver—or at least better at pretending—rested a hand on Regulus’s shoulder.

“Don’t answer,” Sirius whispered. “If we’re quiet, he’ll think no one’s home.”

But the man did not leave. He knocked again, harder, until the sound shook the picture frames on the walls. Then his voice bellowed through the door, deep and commanding, calling their names—full names.

Regulus stiffened. No one outside their blood knew those. It was a private shame, the kind of thing only whispered at family gatherings.

He turned to Sirius in alarm, but Sirius only met his gaze, steady and certain, and after a moment, nodded. Regulus didn’t need words to know what his brother meant. Sirius would handle this. He always did.

And so Sirius opened the door.

The man was already there, waiting, as though he had been poised for the exact moment the latch clicked. He loomed—immense, broad-shouldered, blocking the sunlight. A brown leather duster clung to him despite the summer heat, his boots heavy and silver-shod. Each step rang hollow against the threshold as though the earth itself resented his weight.

Regulus craned his neck to look up at him. The sheer size of the man was almost impossible. Not fat but built of something denser than human flesh. His shadow swallowed the entryway whole.

His dark eyes swept the room, landing on Walburga’s corpse. His brows shot up.

“What ‘appened ‘ere?” His voice rolled out like thunder, rumbling, shaking.

Regulus blinked at him. To him, the answer was painfully obvious. “She died.”

A sharp smack to the back of his head made him stumble forward. Sirius. Again.

Regulus shot his brother a glare, rubbing the sore spot. How was it rude to tell the truth? He had been told never to lie, and yet his honesty always seemed to earn him punishment.

“She had a heart attack,” Sirius said smoothly, eyes never leaving the man. “Our father was stabbed yesterday. She got the news.”

“She didn’t take well to them either,” Regulus muttered under his breath. Another smack.

The man crouched beside Walburga, placing two massive fingers on her wrist. After a long pause, he released her hand. “She’s gone, right enough.” He looked back at them, expression unreadable. “But yer wrong about yer da’. He’s not dead.”

Sirius tilted his head, unimpressed. “We saw the photographs. The police showed us. Ignatius Prewett is dead.”

The man studied him with a strange intensity, as though weighing his words. Then, firmly: “Ignatius Prewett weren’t yer father.”

The words landed like stones. Regulus felt his stomach twist. “Of course he is,” he said quickly. “He’s been here forever. He—he—” His words faltered. Ignatius had never looked much like them. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Freckles. Whereas he and Sirius—so alike they might be twins—had the same ink-dark hair and storm-grey eyes as their mother.

The man’s voice softened but grew no less certain. “Yer father’s Orion Black. King o’ our land.”

Regulus laughed out loud, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Oh, come on. King? Of what—Finchley?”

But Sirius didn’t laugh. Sirius’s face had gone still, strange. “I know,” he said.

Regulus’s head whipped around. “What do you mean, you know?”

Sirius didn’t flinch beneath his stare. “My name, Reg. Sirius Orion Black. You never wondered why? You never wondered why Mother hated us? Why she flinched whenever we—” He broke off, glancing toward the man, then back to his brother. “Whenever I did things. Unexplainable things.”

“Magic,” the man supplied gravely.

Regulus shook his head furiously. “No. No, that’s—that’s not—”

The man’s enormous hand settled on his shoulder. His grip was warm, grounding, terrifying. “It is. Yer mother stumbled into somethin’ too dark fer her own good. But yer father—he’s waitin’. He’s wanted ye back. Both of ye. Stolen from him, ye were.”

“Stolen?” Sirius’s eyes narrowed. “By her?”

The man only inclined his head.

Silence stretched. Regulus’s pulse thundered in his ears. Then Sirius spoke, voice sharp. “And who are you?”

The man chuckled, a sound so deep it seemed to shake the house. “Rubeus Hagrid. Keeper o’ the grounds. I mind Dumbledore’s castle—and yer father’s Thestrals and Unicorn.”

"Unicorns?” Regulus snorted. “Right. Next you’ll tell us Father Christmas is real.”

But Hagrid’s eyes, dark and steady, did not waver.

“You’ll believe soon enough,” he said. “Because whether ye like it or not, you’re the heirs of Elfhame. You belong with yer own kind.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Regulus crossed his arms, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

Hagrid sighed. “Where else would ye go? Look ‘round ye. Ye’ve no one left.”

And though Regulus hated him for it, the man was right.

Outside, the night was waiting. And with it, creatures. Black, skeletal, their skin stretched tight over bone.

Sirius stepped closer, squinting at the hollow faces. “What are those?”

“Thestrals,” Hagrid answered. “Ye can only see ‘em after ye’ve seen death. I reckon ye qualify.”

Regulus’s stomach lurched. He didn’t want to see them. He didn’t want to know. But before he could argue, Hagrid’s massive arms swept them up, placing both brothers on the Thestral’s back as if they weighed nothing.

The wings spread. The ground fell away. Their house shrank into nothing behind them, and they did not look back.

Chapter 2

Summary:

There was someone in the comments months ago telling me how this was good and where was chapter two and then someone else said I always do this to them and where was chapter two... I love you guys, here's chapter two all for you two especially!!!

Regulus

It took Regulus years to get used to royalty. It took Sirius seconds.

If you ever wondered whether royalty was made or born, you only had to look at Sirius. It was stitched into every part of him, a crown woven into his very bones. The tilt of his chin, the careless arrogance in the way he entered a room—he had the kind of presence that made people look. And worse, he knew it.

Regulus, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. He hated being dressed by attendants, hated meals decided for him, hated the way guards shadowed his every step. Especially his guard.

James Potter.

Regulus quickly became accustomed to not having his mother around. No more yelling, no more Latin, no more piano recitals. The silence was a relief. His biological father—the King of Elfhame—was surprisingly tolerable. Kind, even. They didn’t see much of each other, but when they did, the conversations were… almost pleasant. And there was no denying the resemblance. The Black brothers were his sons through and through: the same inky hair, the same sharp cheekbones, the same storm-grey eyes.

Sirius didn’t like the man much. That wasn’t surprising. Sirius never liked authority. He also never stayed in Elfhame long enough to make peace with it. Where Regulus adapted, Sirius escaped—slipping back into the mortal world at every opportunity.

And once, he brought back souvenirs.

Two mortal boys.

Remus Lupin and James Potter.

When Orion Black had asked, quite seriously, what work the boys were meant to do in his halls, Sirius had laughed—laughed in his father’s face. He thought it a joke. But in Elfhame, mortals were not guests. They were property. Servants. Slaves.

Sirius, as usual, refused to yield. And when Sirius refused, the entire court bent to his stubborn will. Orion relented, though not without cost. If they were not to be servants, then they would serve another way. Guards.

Which is how Sirius managed, yet again, to ruin Regulus’s life.

Remus became Sirius’s personal guard. James was given to Regulus.

And now, as Regulus sat before his claw-footed mirror, James Potter stood behind him, chattering endlessly about the upcoming tournament.

“—I heard they’ve set an obstacle course through the briarwood. Full of illusions. You’ll see through ‘em easily, of course, but for the others—”

“You do realize the tournament isn’t until another two weeks,” Regulus muttered, adjusting his collar, refusing to meet James’s reflection in the glass.

James only grinned wider, unbothered. “Preparation is everything. If I do well enough, maybe your father will consider me for knighthood.”

Regulus let out a short, derisive laugh. “Knighthood? You’re a mortal who doesn’t even know how to hold a blade properly.”

James’s reflection tilted its head, his eyes flashing with mischief. “You watch me, though.”

Regulus’s hands stilled on his cufflinks. His jaw tightened. It’s true he pays attention to James, but Remus also. You see, just as they were mortal, so was Regulus. Sirius may have been born magic, but by some twist of fate, Regulus was cursed to live, as always, in his brother’s shadow. Always the lesser half. So yes, he was interested in them, only because they were similar. “I watch because I’m forced to. Don’t mistake duty for interest.”

James only leaned casually against the dressing table, as though the Prince of Elfhame hadn’t just insulted him. His smirk widened, as though Regulus’s coldness only fed him. “You wound me, Your Highness. Watching me out of obligation instead of affection—what a tragedy.”

“You mistake yourself for someone worth tragedy,” Regulus said flatly, rising from his seat. The mirror caught the faint roll of his eyes, the way his hand twitched as if resisting the urge to shove James aside.

James stepped closer, deliberately invading the Prince’s space. “Oh, I think you find me worth something. Otherwise you wouldn’t listen to every word I say, wouldn’t notice when I train, wouldn’t—”

“Enough.”

The word cracked through the chamber like a whip. Regulus turned, his robes whispering against the marble floor. “You’re insufferable.”

James grinned, all teeth. “And yet—here I am. Still breathing your air. Still assigned to you. Imagine that.”

For a fleeting, dangerous moment, Regulus wanted to strike him. To wipe that smug mortal smile off his face. Instead, he strode toward the balcony, shoving open the glass doors. The summer air rolled in, scented with honeysuckle and something sharper—iron, maybe, or blood. The fae lands always carried that double-edged beauty: sweetness and danger interwoven until you could no longer tell them apart.

Beyond the castle walls, banners were already being raised for the Tournament. Gossamer-winged fae draped crimson silks across spires. Goblins hammered together stands of dark wood, their nails glinting green in the twilight. The whole court was preparing, a low hum of expectation hanging over the land.

James leaned lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, unbothered. “You’re curious about it, aren’t you? The Tournament.”

Regulus didn’t turn to face him. “I’m curious only in the way one wonders how many mortals will embarrass themselves before the first round is finished.”

“Harsh,” James said, though his tone was light. “You might be surprised. Some of us are made for more than you think.”

Regulus’s lips curved—half amusement, half warning. “Careful. The last mortal who thought that way ended up drowning in faerie wine and waking chained to a lord’s hound kennel.”

James’s laugh was bright, careless, as if the threat meant nothing. “Maybe I’ll do better. Maybe I’ll win.”

Regulus turned then, really looking at him. The mortal boy’s hair caught the torchlight, all wild bronze and shadow. His eyes burned with a confidence Regulus almost envied—confidence without foundation, without fear.

“You won’t,” Regulus said simply. “But I’ll enjoy watching you try.”

For the first time, James’s grin faltered, just slightly, as though Regulus’s words had pierced something deeper than he cared to show.

Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring.

And then the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, sharp and certain. Sirius’s voice, loud and mocking, carried through the doors.

“Regulus! Don’t tell me you’re hiding in here again, polishing your cuffs while the rest of us actually live?”

James straightened instinctively, his grin snapping back into place. Regulus, however, felt his stomach tighten. Because where Sirius went, trouble always followed.

The double doors banged open, slamming against the gilded walls hard enough to rattle the chandelier overhead. Sirius strode in as though he owned the place—which, technically, he almost did. His black hair was untamed, his grin wolfish, and behind him trailed Remus, quieter, sharp-eyed, a shadow to Sirius’s flame.

“There you are,” Sirius said, sweeping into the room without so much as a glance at the attendants who scurried to bow. “Hiding away with your mortal guard again. Figures.”

Regulus stiffened. “Some of us have obligations. We don’t all spend our days chasing trouble across the court.”

Sirius barked a laugh. “Obligations? You mean sitting here while Potter prattles on about the Tournament?”

James bristled, crossing his arms. “Better prattling than sulking in corners, Black.”

Sirius’s grin widened at the challenge. “Careful, Potter. You’re only here because I willed it. Don’t mistake my generosity for permission to mouth off.”

“Your generosity?” James echoed, incredulous. “You dragged me here, Sirius. Against my better judgment. Don’t pretend this was some favor.”

“Dragged you?” Sirius’s voice was all mock outrage. “You begged me to bring you.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

James scoffed, but his cheeks flushed pink.

Remus, leaning against the wall, spoke at last. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the bickering like a blade. “You’re both insufferable. And you, Regulus, are glaring as though you wish you could drown the lot of us in wine.”

Regulus’s gaze flicked to him, sharp as glass. “At least someone notices.”

Sirius only laughed again, tossing himself into a chair as though it were a throne. “You’re welcome, little brother. Without me, you’d have no one to glare at but your reflection.”

Regulus’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Without you, I wouldn’t be saddled with him.” He jerked his chin at James, who looked more delighted than offended.

“Ah, but then you’d be lonely.” Sirius stretched out, boots on the table, all insolence. “You need someone to keep you sharp. Otherwise you’d wither away from boredom. Admit it—Potter’s the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“Best thing?” Regulus hissed. “He’s an irritation. A constant reminder that I am always at the mercy of your whims.”

For a moment, silence fell. Even Sirius blinked at the venom in his brother’s voice. Remus shifted his weight, studying Regulus carefully, like a scholar watching ink bleed across parchment.

James, however, only smiled—slow and infuriating. “Funny. I thought I was the only one who noticed how closely you watch me.”

Regulus’s breath caught, heat rising unbidden to his face. Sirius’s head whipped toward him, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

“Oh,” Sirius drawled, voice dripping with amusement. “Now this is interesting.”

“Drop it,” Regulus snapped.

But Sirius never dropped anything. Not when he smelled weakness. Not when there was something to pry open, something to expose.

And Remus, quiet though he was, leaned forward slightly, as if bracing for the storm he knew was about to break.

Sirius’s grin stretched into something wicked. “Well, well. No wonder you’ve been sulking about your precious guard. You don’t hate him—you fancy him.”

Blood roared in Regulus’s ears. “I do not,” he bit out, every syllable sharp enough to cut.

James, standing just behind him, froze. The amusement slipped from his face, though his eyes gleamed with something unreadable—surprise, maybe, or the barest flicker of triumph. But he had the sense not to speak.

Remus’s gaze flicked between them, careful, calculating. He bowed his head slightly toward Regulus, voice low, deferential. “Perhaps this isn’t a jest to make in front of the guard, Sirius. Princes deserve better than gossip.”

But Sirius only laughed, throwing his head back, heedless of decorum. “Better? This is the best entertainment I’ve had all week. My straight-laced brother, the mortal-obsessed one, a mortal himself—finally caught out.”

“Sirius.” Regulus’s tone dropped into warning, heavy with the weight of command. “Enough.”

The mirth didn’t leave Sirius’s eyes, but something in his brother’s voice—something sharp, cold, kinglike—stilled him. He leaned back in his chair, boot heels scraping against the carved table. For a heartbeat, silence pressed down on the room. Even Sirius knew the line between needling and treason.

James cleared his throat softly, then bent at the waist in a bow—short, but deliberate. “Your Highness. I meant no offense.”

Regulus’s jaw clenched. He hated how the words soothed him, hated how his chest loosened at the show of respect. He gave the barest nod, dismissive, as if James’s words had been beneath notice.

Sirius snorted. “Always so serious, little brother. One day that crown will sit too heavy on your head, if you don’t learn to laugh.”

“Better heavy than empty,” Regulus murmured. His gaze cut across the room, lingering on Sirius, then flicking toward James only for the briefest second. “Now get out, all of you. I’m done entertaining.”

There was a beat of stillness, the weight of command holding them in its grip. And then, one by one, they obeyed.

Remus moved first, quiet as shadow, slipping through the door. James followed, casting Regulus one last sidelong glance, unreadable but sharp, before he vanished into the corridor.

Sirius lingered, of course. He always did. “You can try to bury yourself in books and etiquette, Regulus,” he said lightly, “but the court will tear you open sooner or later. Better me than them.”

Regulus did not look at him. “Leave.”

For once, Sirius obeyed.

The doors closed. Regulus stood alone, the fading echo of their laughter clinging to the chamber like smoke.