Chapter Text
Summer, 1968
“Sirius?” Regulus whispered, and he looked over his shoulder before continuing. “Can I try on your dress robes again? Only while Mother is out-"
“Yes, of course,” Sirius cut him off before he could finish, but not unkindly.
Sirius Black never said anything that he wasn’t sure about. He was quick with his words, and even quicker in his desire to help. Regulus didn’t doubt Sirius’s sincerity, especially in knowing he could always catch him in a lie, anyway.
Sirius swung open his closet and began pulling out all of his clothes and laying them on the floor. Regulus rushed over to watch and he knelt to the floor, waiting patiently. He had seen each robe many times over, but that didn’t change how much he wanted to see them again. He inspected them, taking his time to examine each article before making his choice. Sirius leaned back against his dresser as he watched, a half smile on his face.
Another thing you could count on with Sirius is that he was very slow to judge -at least, verbally- unless it was someone other than Regulus. Ironically enough, Sirius loved to judge other people; Who else was going to tell them they look like an absolute troll in those boots?’ he would whisper to Regulus while they were out, or He would never leave the house again if I had any say in it. Merlin, really– those colours are almost painful to look at. Sirius told people exactly how he felt, every time. There was something comforting about his surety. Some people find Sirius rude, but honestly, he just helps them out of their misery.
However, Sirius had never judged Regulus when he started wanting to wear boy's robes. He helped him learn to mix and match different outfits and taught him how to pull his long hair into a knot on his head, instead of hanging his usual long curls. No judgment was ever unkind or unhelpful. He was patient with Regulus and taught him everything he knew about his own presentation. He gave honest feedback when Regulus pieced together a new outfit he liked, and he often used Regulus as a model for all of his wild design choices. (Despite only being 8 years old, Sirius had always had a love for fashion).
Because of this, Regulus learned quickly what did and didn’t look presentable. He learned how to change the focus of an outfit– how to deceive the eye. He had almost become more obsessed with appearances than Sirius, and that was saying a lot. As Regulus looked through the dress robes in front of him, he carefully planned the next look in his head. He could see it coming together already. The benefit of knowing every piece in Sirius’s closet is that he knew exactly what options were available to him.
Eventually, Regulus decided on his usual: black trousers, and a white flowing dress shirt with sleeves that sort of reminded him of a prince. Overtop, he chose a dark green set of robes with the Alphis Canis Majoris constellation embroidered on the chest, the constellation made up of the star Sirius.
“Ah, that's a good one,” Sirius said with a tone that almost sounded impressed. Though Regulus had worn the exact same outfit at least a dozen times, the fact wasn't mentioned.
“Who has their own star embroidered on their robes, anyway?” Regulus asked with a smile as he slipped on the shirt.
“I’ll have you know, the reason that robe is cool is because it has my name on it. That's obviously the whole appeal.”
“Yeah, yeah starboy. Very cool.” Regulus had a whole array of nicknames for Sirius, and for the time being, ‘Starboy’ worked just fine. Sirius just giggled in return.
Regulus slipped on the outfit one piece at a time, making sure they each sat the way he wanted them to. He was only a year younger than Sirius, so usually their sizing wasn’t very different, but Regulus was still rather small. He had learned to fold the shirts in different places, tucking them into his trousers and making them appear exactly the way he wanted them to.
When he finished dressing he scanned himself thoroughly in the mirror. He stared at the way the robes hid the shape of his body, almost turning him into someone else completely. Regulus’s mother only allowed him to wear tighter-fitting clothing, if he was allowed to wear trousers at all. Normally, he could be found in a neat skirt, sitting just above his knees, paired with a silk blouse that was tight in all the wrong places. He was the image of a perfect daughter; that is, until he would sneak into his brother's room and wear the clothes that were immediately more flattering and comfortable.
Luckily, Walburga Black was often away in meetings with other pureblood families and talking to businessmen within the Ministry of Magic. Regulus didn’t really know what happened in the meetings or what his mother had to gain, but it gave him plenty of opportunities to wear boy's robes, so he never complained. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence for Regulus to ask Sirius for his clothes, and it had become almost habitual at this point. Sirius seemed to love it too– any chance he got to critique fashion, he took. Together, they loved coming up with different pairings of fabrics and combinations of colours. Attention to appearances was something both Sirius and Regulus had in common.
“Really though, I wouldn't have thought to try those trousers with that shirt. I might be stealing that one from you.” Sirius said, teasing.
“Be sure to give me credit if you ever get famous for wearing my outfits,” Regulus shot back. Would Regulus ever really be famous for designing wizards' fashion? No, but the idea entertained them both nonetheless.
“They’re technically my outfits, but whatever you say, little prince.”
It wasn't long after that Regulus carefully took off the clothes and folded them as neatly as his small hands could. Handing them back to Sirius, he thanked him and then turned to the mirror once again, straightening up the outfit first he wore when he came into the room. He tugged at his skirt, willing it to stay in its place instead of riding up his thighs. He folded and tucked his blouse in a way that his mother definitely wouldn’t like, making it look boxy instead of loose and flowing. When he was as satisfied as he could be, he thanked Sirius again and turned to leave.
As he was about to get to the door, Sirius’s voice stopped him. He hadn't even noticed the intense silence that had grown between them until that silence had grown deafening.
“Hey, wait up.”
Regulus turned back, his long braids swinging over his shoulder. Sirius’s face had flushed slightly, and he now sat tensely where he was previously leaning with ease. They both knew that Regulus’s current outfit was bad, but he didn’t think it was that bad.
“You to know that you can talk to me about, er- stuff,” Sirius choked out, clearly fighting with his words.
Regulus shifted on his feet. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just that, you know. You do come in here quite a lot, borrowing my clothes and all.” Usually when Sirius was giving his opinions on Regulus’s outfits, he said it confidently and offered solutions. He had never known Sirius to sound almost.. shy. He hoped that Sirius would just spit it out, so he could fix whatever was wrong.
“I only mean to say that- that you seem so much happier when you’re wearing my robes. Boys' ones. I hardly ever get to see you smile like that. Maybe we could get you a set of your own?”
Regulus had to consciously think to stop his body from jolting.
A set of his own?
“I– you mean it?” he asked just above a whisper.
“Yes, I mean it!”
Well, this was not what Regulus was expecting at all. The previously tense energy dropped from Sirius as he reached to grab Regulus and pull them together, and he melted into his brother easily. It was somewhere he had always felt safe, and always would be. Conversations that surpassed the bounds of language could be communicated in touch, and especially for Regulus, where talking made things hard, he was grateful to feel his brother's arms around him. For months, he had been borrowing his Sirius's robes, and yet somehow, it never crossed his mind that he would be able to have his own. The thought made him dizzy.
“We’ll have to hide it from Mother,” Regulus mumbled into Sirius' shoulder, not realizing how tightly he was squeezing him.
“We can put them in with mine, and she won’t know to check twice.”
Regulus couldn’t stop himself from laughing. It was not often that you could show your real emotions in the House of Black, at least without filtering them to some extent. Giddiness, so Walburga called it, was for the weak. But what else could he say? Regulus is just fine being weak. Sirius laughed too, and held him tighter.
Regulus was beaming. Have his own set of boys' dress robes? His mind ran a million miles an hour. He looked up at Sirius, whose face mirrored his exactly. They had always looked alike, especially when they were young. When they wore the same expressions, it only pointed out the similarities more.
“Thank you, Sirius,” Regulus finally croaked after they were able to stop their laughter. He quickly gave his brother one last hug and bounded out of the room, skipping all the way to his door.
It was at this moment, he would later learn, that Sirius knew. He was the first to know Regulus's secret– before Regulus even knew it himself. Sirius Black was the first to see past the walls Regulus had built so high, the first person who cared enough to look. In the end, Sirius was the only person who would ever see Regulus the way he hoped to one day see himself, to be something worth looking at.
But Sirius cared, and that was enough.
***
It was a struggle for Regulus to take his mind off the new robes he would soon have. So long as everything went right with Sirius acquiring them, of course. Regulus hated the dresses his mother made him wear, but the possibility of having something of his own? There wasn't a thought in his mind that seemed more important. The floral-patterned stockings and delicate lace gloves were the image of witch fashion at the time, and yet, the sight of them made his skin crawl. His white, heeled, dress shoes clicked too similarly to those of his mother made him sooner want to cut off his own ankles than have to wear them again.
Coming down the stairs, Regulus had to walk past the long mirror that hung at a slant, wrapping the wall around the staircase. When he caught sight of his own reflection, he immediately turned away– instinctively, after all this time. He had no desire to meet the eyes of the little girl in the mirror. She was a stranger. She was unwelcome. She would never live up to the expectations that Regulus had set.
Because of this, Regulus had learned to hide from her, to avoid reflections altogether. When walking into the bathroom, he carefully set his eyes on the floor. He took the long way through the kitchen to avoid the second large mirror that hung over the dining table. (Why did his house have so many mirrors?) Regulus had even stopped walking past the lower windows after nightfall, as the darkness from outside created yet another horrible reflection of what he desperately wanted to escape from. That’s all the house was– a trap full of reflections, a clownhouse that distorted the appearance of anyone who looked.
It wasn’t that he hated the girl he met in the mirror. She was pretty, objectively, with silver eyes and long, dark hair that fell past her shoulders. Her hair curled slightly at the roots, in a way that resembled Sirius. Many of her features, in fact, matched those of Regulus’s brother. Her sharp nose and cheekbones, the way her lip came to a half-moon shape at the top, and her eyebrows set perfectly in a way that demanded she be noticed. But, no matter how pretty she may be, she was a stranger, and she does not belong in Regulus' reflection.
It was because of this reflection that left many of Regulus’s thoughts to be consumed, wondering what was wrong with himself. He didn’t know how to explain the fact that his arms didn’t sit right, attached to his shoulders. His skin sat on his bones too tightly. He didn't understand how no one else looked distorted when looking in the same mirror that he did. No one would understand what he meant if he said that his face wasn’t.. his. How could anyone else? Regulus didn’t even know how to understand it himself.
He did know, however, that something was definitely wrong. This led to many nights that Regulus sat alone on his bathroom tile, accusing the little girl in the mirror. He wanted her to hurt. He wanted her gone. It wasn’t like he was stupid, he knew that he was looking at himself. He just didn’t know how he could be looking at his own body and see someone so unfamiliar.
Regulus fell into his trusty pattern of not thinking about it.
If he couldn’t fix it, he would pretend it didn’t exist. He took every chance he could to drown out the voice in his head that begged him to escape. He fancied drawing in his free time, as well as bothering his brother, but what really took his interest was reading. Reading quickly became more than a hobby; he read every book he could get his hands on. He worked from one side of the Black family library to the other, only skipping the books that were written in Greek. Deep down, he had hoped that he might be able to find the answers he was looking for within these pages. He never did.
Education was very important to pureblood families like his, so it was no surprise to his parents the rate at which he read. He took pride in knowing that he could read above the level of many kids his age. The problem was, purebloods had no business being educated in problems as silly as being stuck in the wrong skin, (unless, however, there had been a spell that had gone very wrong). As far as he knew, he wasn’t cursed, but that was no excuse to skip over the books of reversal spells.
Even though he never found the answers he truly wanted, Regulus enjoyed learning. He loved the way that information clouded his mind, stealing attention away from his emotions. It was so easy to lose yourself in a book; too easy, he thought. He had hoped to one day read every book in the world, thinking that he would then know everything. He was very disappointed to learn from Sirius that reading every book ever created was wildly unrealistic. He fantasized anyway.
When simply turning off his mind stopped working, Regulus fought again with his reflection. He searched his features in hopes of finding something he hadn’t seen before, begged himself for it. He thought that if he could just change a few bits of himself, that would be enough. He kept his long hair pulled back tight, (in a way his mother hated) and found a sense of relief. He retired his clothes the moment they got too small, only wearing robes big enough to swim in.
At night, however, Regulus had to let his hair down. He hated the way it felt touching the backs of his arms and neck. He only changed into his night clothes when his room light was carefully off, and he wasn't able to see himself so clearly. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead as he slipped on his sleep gown and walked quickly to get into his bed and hide his body under the covers.
***
On a day that Regulus was feeling braver than normal, he took a pair of scissors from the kitchen (carefully sneaking past Kreature) and hid in his bathroom. For whatever reason, his mind had lost all control of willpower. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, he knew there would be consequences to what he would do, but these thoughts were impossible to hear over the thoughts he was hearing now.
Behind the locked door, without looking in the mirror, Regulus began viciously cutting his hair off in large clumps, starting near the base of his neck. He had grown tired of tying his hair back; it wasn’t enough. At first, he tried to keep the length even, but there was no hope for that given that his small, trembling hands could barely hold the scissors to begin with. He looked down at the pooled hair on the floor, still trying to steady his breathing. He didn’t think he was nervous, but his body must have felt it given the way his heart was racing. Reaching up, he felt for the hair that was now missing from his head, and he smiled. He even started to laugh.
He slowly rose and turned to look into the mirror, and for the first time, he saw the reflection of someone who was almost familiar. Never quite, but almost. His new hair was cut very close to the scalp, leaving it pointing up in all directions. It reminded Reg of a dog that had been left outside too long– the kind his mother kept him carefully away from, the kind she would kill if Regulus ever brought it home.
Years later when Regulus would look back, he realized how silly the haircut looked. Even so, he loved it. This, he thought for the first time, is someone he might want to look at in the mirror. By no means did he like what he saw, but it was a change.
He stared at himself for what felt like hours; it was as though he were seeing an entirely different person, even though it was very little that changed.
Unfortunately, his new haircut lasted less than a total of 10 minutes. Kreacher, the family's house elf, had noticed the missing scissors and immediately called for Walburga. Regulus had his hair returned to its original length, sweeping past his shoulders by the end of the night. See– now, he hates magic. The scissors were replaced in a drawer that was higher up, and out of reach for the seven-year-old Regulus.
Any other attempts that Regulus made to change his hair were immediately stopped by his mother. Which, he’ll admit, were not many. He did his best to make his mother proud, even if it meant he would choose to avoid seeing his reflection again, (not that he wanted to see it in the first place). Though, he couldn’t always help his need to free the little boy he once found that night in the mirror.
Sometimes, Regulus would switch his skirt for trousers at the last minute before departing to a pureblood gathering. His mother would mutter to herself before transfiguring them right back to the skirt. This only happened once, of course, before Regulus realized he had no idea how to change them back, and that he had just lost one of his only pair of trousers.
Occasionally, Regulus would find himself staring a little too long through the windows of the shops his mother would take him to. 'Doc Martens,' the box said. God, did he love those boots. He would imagine himself walking through the streets in his brother's robes and the shop's boots, and let himself escape for just a moment before his mother would sharply drag him away.
Sirius and Regulus both dreamed about Doc Martens. Neither of them owned a pair, because of their mother, but they imagined many of their outfits with the boots. When they talked about accessories to add to different looks, the boots were always high on the list. Something about them just seemed cool, for lack of a better term. Regulus hated using the stupid slang that Sirius used, and he kicked himself for thinking of something as 'cool' in the first place. Both brothers spoke in very proper, high-class sounding tones, except for the times that Sirius would slip in words like knackered or bollocks. Regulus nearly fell over the first time Sirius called him a prat.
God knows where he learned these types of words, but Regulus hated it. It sounded low-class, and was honestly just annoying. Regulus was extra conscious of the words he used now, hoping he sounded more grown up. Regulus loved Sirius, of course, but he would not be the first to notice that Sirius had a skill for drawing attention– something that Regulus would never need. It's not the quiet dog that's beaten, it's the dumb dog that barks.
***
The day that Regulus' life changed was the day that he was caught playing with his brother's set of chess at seven years old.
Sirius had taught him to play in secret, and it immediately became an obsession. He couldn’t count how many games he had played against himself, toying with new strategies and techniques he would use the next time he played against Sirius. He liked how he was able to calculate future moves, even if it was just his reflection who he played against. The feeling of having control over the way the pieces moved put his mind at ease, the way playing Exploding Snap or even Quidditch with Sirius never would. He needed to know how the game would go, and how it would end before it started.
That day, Regulus didn’t plan his moves in advance. He was frustrated after a long night and wanted more than ever to clear his head. The mistake he made -his miscalculation- was not closing the door all the way before he started a new game. He knew the way his mother felt about chess; it wasn't the “type” of game he should play. It was absolutely embarrassing to have a daughter who wasted her life away with her mind, or so Walburga had said. Those were the only words that rang in Regulus' ears as he heard the tell-tale 'click' of his mother’s heels making their way down the hall.
Regulus immediately began scrambling to pick up all the pieces and shove them back under his bed, but he was too late.
“Immobulus.”
Regulus froze instantly, completely unable to move. His first thought was, come on, I almost had it this round, but he knew better than to let it show.
Walburga walked into the room, wand in hand, looking pitifully down at her daughter. Her expression was unreadable. In a word, Walburga was cold. She was a wiry woman with a shrill face, sharing the same sharp features as her children, and yet somehow, she looked so different. Like her daughter, she had long hair that could cascade well down her back, only it was more well-kept. Today, she wore it pulled back in a neat bun, the way it was usually worn. Perfect and in order. Her presence alone could make everyone in the room tense.
“This is not the first time I have told you to stop playing with toys meant for young wizards,” Walburga grumbled out the last word with extra emphasis as if the idea of her daughter resembling a wizard instead of a witch was distasteful. Her words came out like ice, cutting away any remaining warmth that was left in the room. “Do I look like the kind of woman who asks twice?”
Regulus couldn’t respond. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. He wasn’t sure if his inability to breathe was because of the spell or his own fear. They’ve had this type of discussion before; Walburga caught on quickly to what Regulus was trying to do when he cut his hair and played with toys meant for boys. She had also made it very clear that she was not pleased. Walburga was definitely not the type of person to ask twice.
“Why, my daughter, do you continuously fail me?” Walburga asked as if she were bored.
These words sliced into Regulus more than he cared to admit. There were times that it took months to fully recover from something she said to him, and this would likely be one of them.
She bent down to where Regulus was sitting on the floor, leaning too close. When he continued to sit frozen, Walburga sharply grabbed his jaw to turn his head so their eyes met. As soon as they did, he felt it; his mother was inside his mind before Regulus had the slightest of chances. He could feel her presence, and his whole body was shuddering. There was only space for one mind in his head, not two. He shuddered as he felt her clawing through his memories quickly and precisely.
This was the first time Walburga had used legillimency on him. He wasn’t prepared for the way his eyes burned in his head, how his body had gone limp against the floor.
Regulus screamed.
He wasn’t sure if this was only in his head or if his body had screamed out loud, but he wasn’t in a place to care. His mother raced through his thoughts and first stopped at the conversation Regulus had with Sirius about the dress robes.
No, he thought. Please-
The robes were something that Regulus had been able to keep entirely private from his mother, even after all this time. As far as he knew, this would be the first time she saw anything about it. His heart sank as he watched his memories swim through his mind, completely out of his control. If Walburga didn't know about them before, she knew about them now.
She paused only for a moment before ripping once again through his mind. If she was startled by the sight of her daughter dressed like a son, she didn’t show it. Small moments flashed through Reg's head at lightning speed, one after the other. With each memory, his shame grew more and more hot.
Sneaking to get the scissors.
Standing on his toes to get a better look at the boots in the window.
Buttoning Sirius’s clothes over his differently shaped body.
The next memory she saw stopped Regulus in his tracks. This time, she slowed to watch the entirety of the memory, not just flashes like her previous attempts. Something must have caught her attention. She watched the image of Regulus staring at himself in the mirror, tears streaming down his face.
NO, he screamed again, hoping his mother would hear. He shut his eyes, willing the memory to disappear, but you could never take anything from Walburga Black.
He watched his own memory playback in horror.
Regulus looked a little younger then, but not by much. He could tell by the way his hair was cut in the reflection. In the memory, Regulus took his own face in his hands, turning it harshly to examine every angle, eerily similar to what his mother was doing to him now. With each new feature he looked at, he sobbed harder, his cheeks stained pink and shiny. It was obvious that in this memory, Regulus had been crying for a considerable amount of time.
He had hoped that his mother would stop here, but of course, she didn’t. They continued to watch.
Memory Regulus tore off his shirt, staring at his own pale skin in the mirror, long hair tickling his back. Walburga watched her daughter start to tear at her skin with her fingernails, over and over, digging into her chest. Her arms. Thighs. They weren't deep injuries, barely even causing her to bleed, but they were motivated by a feeling far heavier than blood. The girl in the mirror continued, pulling at her hair next and breaking it away in small handfuls.
Screaming.
Scratching.
Pulling.
Over and over.
They watched the little girl writhe and cry, the sound only muffled by the hand she had pressed firmly against her mouth. There was nothing in the girl's eyes indicating a desire to live.
She slammed her fists onto the counter, the floor, her own stomach and chest. She sobbed and sobbed until she couldn’t breathe.
The memory ended with Regulus lying silently on the floor, not a single bit of energy left to give. His body, still without clothes, sat riddled with scratches, with blood drying beneath his fingernails. Clumps of hair lie with him. His hair was not the only part of himself that had died that day.
Regulus didn’t know how things went wrong this fast.
He tried to forget about nights like those, though they were not uncommon. Regulus had grown used to what it looked like to be covered in welts and scratches. He learned that he could damage the skin in places where it would never be seen. They were never very serious injuries, but it brought him a sense of comfort when his thoughts matched his body. He could have physical proof that he was hurt, so that maybe, people would believe him when he said there was something wrong.
Despite his flickering hope, he never showed anyone. He would never dare to let anyone see the damage on his skin, not even Sirius.
To his mother, he must look disgusting. He had no idea what Walburga thought of what she saw– she was always able to hide any emotion on her face. He imagined she felt horrified to watch her daughter tear herself open, but then again, maybe she didn’t feel so much as a single drop of pity. Deep down, he didn’t know if Walburga really cared about him at all.
When she finally pulled out of the legillimency spell, she did so with the slightest look of shock on her face, one Regulus had never seen before. It was only for a brief second, only one, before she masked it back over with a cold stare. For a moment, though, Regulus saw it. As brief as it was, the thought of his mother caring about him filled him up with warmth, despite the storm around him.
Now, he was at a total loss. He didn’t have the slightest clue as to what could be going on inside his mother. He had no way to prepare for what was about to happen.
After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Walburga released the Immobulous hold on Regulus, too, which left him immediately coughing and sputtering, falling straight to the floor. He had nothing to say. He couldn’t make eye contact with his mother. To his own embarrassment, he started to cry.
“Stop that,” she said at once. “The women in the House of Black do not cry.”
Regulus straightened up and quickly scrubbed his face. She was right. He was only embarrassing himself further. He did everything he could to get his face back to a neutral expression, the same one his mother wore.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice strained from holding back more tears.
Walburga’s face was stone still and just as unreadable as before, but there was something trapped behind her grey eyes, trying desperately to get out. To Regulus’s surprise, her face softened, if only the slightest bit.
“This is causing you great grief, isn’t it?”
There wasn't a word to describe her tone. It wasn't soft, gentle, caring -no, it was too cold for that. But somewhere in the vastness of the English language, a word existed to convey the paradoxical pain that seemed to riddle Walburga's thoughts, too. It made Regulus’s skin crawl. She never spoke in a tone other than demanding and cold. He didn’t know how to react, how to breathe.
But it wasn't only her tone, it was the words she had said. Walburga never once cared to ask about her children’s emotions. Obviously not, Regulus thought to himself bitterly. Look at me. He hoped that she could see in his eyes how trapped he was.
But then Walburga spoke again.
“Life will not be easy, mon coeur, given that this is the path you choose. I implore you to know that. But you are mine, and I will do what needs to be done will be done to protect the Noble House of Black.”
“Maman?” Regulus whispered, both out of confusion and desperation.
To him, everything had gone still. The sounds of birds outside were silenced. The ticking of the clock on the wall stopped. The earth must have tilted sideways, because Regulus could hardly feel the floor he sat on.
Walburga, for the one time Regulus ever remembered, swept him off the floor and into her arms. How long it had been since he had been held by his mother? She carried him across the room and placed him on the side of the bed. It was the shortest of interactions, less than ten seconds, but even ten seconds was an eternity when you had never experienced it before.
Now, Regulus had a whole other problem to worry over. There was too much to think about at one time and too many problems to solve. His mind was spinning and he was pretty sure his vision was going out. He tried his best to compartmentalize, to form a list.
First, Walburga had a crack in her mask- one that allowed Regulus to see the emotion, if only the slightest bit. Then, she asked about his feelings. As if that wasn’t enough, she picked Regulus up off the floor and held him in her arms. Three things that she had never done before, and three things he wished he would have savoured in the moment, because they would never happen again.
Regulus held his breath, heartbeat pounding in his ears. After Walburga put him down on the bed, he had to hold himself back from reaching out, desperate to be held all over again. It was clingy and instinctive, he thought, but he couldn’t help it.
Walburga pulled her wand from where it sat on the floor, and Regulus went rigid, fighting every nerve in his body that told him to flinch away. He was definitely wrong. He hadn’t died yet, but he sure was about to. Maybe Walburga was simply making his last moments comfortable.
When she brought the tip of her wand to his head, his fears were confirmed.
His mind went black.
He couldn’t think, couldn’t move.
He couldn't remember the last thing he had said to Sirius. He hoped it was something kind.
Regulus closed his eyes. He heard the swish of a wand; he waited for the world to go dark. He didn’t hear a spell, so Walburga must’ve used wordless magic– something that would be considered very impressive if Regulus wasn’t about to literally pass away.
But then he heard himself suck in a breath.
He cracked open his eyes and looked at his hands– still intact. He watched the quick rise and fall of his chest. He was still alive, and he wasn’t even feeling any kind of pain. He hurriedly looked up to meet the eyes of his mother, without thinking of the way they had betrayed him only moments ago. Her cold look had returned, but the spirit behind her eyes remained.
“My son. Mon petit.”
'Sirius' was the first thought that came to Regulus' mind, and he just about fell off the bed because of it. When did Sirius come in? Had he watched this all? Watched him be torn apart, having done nothing? Regulus turned, frantically scanning the room for any sign of his brother, but saw no one.
“You,” Walburga said, drawing his attention again. “My son. The men in the House of Black do not cry.”
Regulus’s head was spinning so fast he hadn’t even noticed the tears that had begun flowing freely down his face. His mind and his body were so far out of sync, that he felt like he was watching the interaction from a whole different planet. Walburga was talking to him when he called him her son. He hardly noticed it without a second thought– it just sounded right. Secretly, he always thought of himself as her second son. He always wished he was her second son.
And then it hit him.
He wished he was the second son.
All the days he spent wearing boys' clothes, wishing he were wearing boys' shoes, making his body shaped the way a boy's would. The time Regulus cut his hair the way a boy would wear it. The way his skin felt wrong, the way his body was shaped the wrong way. The books he read, searching for anything about being trapped in the wrong body. It all came crumbling down on him. And now, his mother was calling him her son, and he hadn’t even thought she was wrong.
Regulus almost laughed because of how simple it now seemed to him. Regulus wasn't a girl, nor had he been, all this time. This was the answer to the question he had been asking himself for years. It was- embarrassing how long it had taken him to finally think of it because it made so much sense. And now, Walburga was calling him her son. It felt so right, felt so easy.
He didn’t know it was an option to be her son because if he had, he would have played an open game of chess years earlier.
Regulus started to swipe at his cheeks with his palm but stopped as he noticed that his long hair wasn’t sticking to his face the way it normally did when he cried. He ran his hands up to his scalp, and choked when he felt it.
His hair had been cut short.
Not short in the way he cut it that night in the bathroom, but still short in a way his mother would never have allowed her daughter. He ran his fingers endlessly through his curls, feeling from the nape of his neck to the top of his forehead. It was perfect. It was him.
Walburga's words cut straight to the core, yanking Regulus out of wherever he was just stuck in his mind. “I have known this day would come," she started, "And despite my greatest efforts, it is here. Nevertheless, everything will soon be in order. You must know the shame that you have brought me.”
Regulus blinked the remaining tears out of his eyes and sniffled, but only once. He tried to sit up a little straighter. The way a boy would. "I know, Maman."
“I will not allow this to bring shame to the House of Black.” Walburga paused for a moment, as if carefully considering what she would say next. “But if this is the way it must be, I will do what I must to protect my heir.”
Regulus’s face grew hot. He was no longer trying to breathe after several failed attempts. His vision began to spot, too, and he gave up all hope of appearing regular. You could never prepare for what Walburga was going to say. One moment, she may tell you the exact words you’ve been waiting to hear for your whole life and the next, she tells you the words you wish you could burn from memory.
A swell of emotions that Regulus didn’t recognize swam through him. He recognized shock, sadness, anger, confusion, and just pure disbelief. To top it all off, he was now just solving for himself the problem he had been trying to work out for years. He had no real chance of holding himself together.
Walburga called him her son. Her son. Her heir.
As if she could still hear his thoughts, Walburga broke yet another long silence. Regulus was so far in his own mind that he didn’t notice.
“You will be called Regulus,” Walburga spoke slowly. And oh, so there it began.
There he was.
Regulus had always hated his name, now that he was thinking about it, and this, Regulus, felt immediately warmer. It was like being forced to wear shoes that were a size too small for your entire life- you grow accustomed to the feeling that you deem normal. It isn't until you find what you're missing that you learn what you sacrificed to find it. He would accept almost any nickname Sirius gave him, so long as it wasn’t the name his mother gave him. Any time someone called him the name he had before, he had to push down a disgusting shivering feeling.
Now, of course, this makes sense. If Regulus couldn’t even match his body, it was no surprise that he couldn’t match his name.
But now, he was getting a new name– one that he chanted like a mantra.
Regulus Regulus Regulus
The name slipped off Walburga’s tongue like ice. Every syllable pronounced with surety, with power. Regulus was the name of the voice that hid in the back of his mind, that called to him despite being pushed away. Regulus was the name of the boy who found himself in his brother's clothes. Regulus was the name of the boy in the mirror with his hair cut to the scalp. Regulus was his name and his alone.
It was finally something that was his own, that belonged to him, and not to a stranger.
“You are my son, Regulus," Walburga said, and finally, she was cold again. "I will do all it takes to protect you, and to protect our family.”
This time Regulus couldn’t contain his sob, and this time –this one time– Walburga said nothing of it.