Sirius Black pushed open the heavy, peeling black door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, and for the first time in his life felt the faintest, most reluctant pull of curiosity about a house he had loathed from the bottom of his heart since childhood.
He walked the long hallway with his hands in his pockets.
More than twenty years ago, when he and Regulus were still small, they had learned to fly their first toy broomsticks here. They had wobbled unsteadily off the ground along this very corridor, shrieking with joy at the sight of their own feet lifting, while the house-elves panicked behind them — and then they had flown headlong into the ceiling, sending the row of gas lamps swinging wildly on their fixtures.
In the flickering memory of that light, a faint smile crossed Sirius's gaunt face.
It vanished just as quickly.
He walked on, past the velvet curtains with their moth-eaten hems.
He heard no familiar tirade. Instead, a broken sobbing came from behind the curtain. An old woman's voice, hoarse with grief, calling out over and over: "My son... my boy..."
She had abandoned all of it — the pride, the arrogance, the iron-spined stubbornness — and was weeping exactly as any mother in the world would weep.
Sirius's lip curled in disgust. He did not stop walking.
She had two sons. She was not calling for him.
He passed the coat rack fashioned from a troll's leg. A flash of childhood: he and Regulus had tried to climb to the very top of it once, treating it as the tallest peak in the world, and had both fallen off and cried loudly. They had been so small then; the troll's leg had seemed like a tree.
The two Black brothers had looked remarkably alike. The same black hair, the same grey eyes, the same haughty set to the jaw. But Regulus was two years younger, and always a little slighter, a little softer at the edges.
Regulus had always followed Sirius about in those early days. They went on adventures together — climbing on the troll's leg, clattering the silver and gold from the display cabinets to hear the sound it made, terrorising the house-elves in the kitchen by scattering pots and pans across the floor, then fleeing in genuine panic at the sound of their mother's voice bellowing, *"Sirius! You lawless little rascal!"*
When did things change between them?
It had been gradual. Their father's repeated frowns, his endless comparisons. Their mother's habit of showing one son her disappointment and the other her approval. The rift had opened slowly, like a crack in old plaster — invisible at first, then impossible to ignore.
"Sirius is two years older, so he ought to be the more sensible one. If they've done something wrong, it's the older brother who led the younger one astray, and the older brother who bears the blame." He had heard his mother say this to his father once, passing the second-floor sitting room.
And after each scolding: "Don't plead for him, Regulus. You're too young to understand. Be a good boy and listen to your mother. Don't let your brother lead you into trouble."
He had stood in the hallway and pretended not to hear.
In reality, he had been eaten alive with jealousy.
He had believed, for years, that Regulus had stolen his parents' love from him.
He understood later that it had nothing to do with Regulus at all. His parents simply loved whichever son was willing to submit. Sirius was constitutionally incapable of submission, and so they turned to the one who was not. It was as simple as that.
Regulus was not a cruel child. He was, in his way, kind. He couldn't quite bring himself to be truly rebellious — whenever their mother's expression dimmed even slightly, some instinct in him retreated. He wanted to be wild like Sirius, to laugh freely and break rules with the abandon that came so easily to his brother. But he loved their mother's smile more than he loved his own freedom, and he would not do what might make it disappear.
He tucked away whatever small envy he felt for Sirius's independence, and accepted whatever their parents taught him — the unfounded malice, the outdated prejudices, the whole stifling architecture of it — in the hope that his father would be proud of him, and his mother would look at him with warmth rather than reproach.
"Mother has always meant the best for us; she would never hurt us," Regulus had said once. "She says purebloods are born to a particular place in the world, and that this is simply the underlying logic of wizarding society — the basic order of things. Whether one agrees or not, everyone lives within it. I don't yet fully understand her reasoning, but I don't want to oppose it rashly. I don't want to cause her pain."
"She's poisoned you," Sirius had said, furious. "Why should people be divided by blood? Why should some be exploited so others can benefit? Do you honestly think mounting a house-elf's head on the wall is something to be proud of?"
"But Kreacher is happy," Regulus had said. "He told me he'd never dreamed of a place like this. He says it's the greatest honour he can imagine. He wants to serve the Blacks. He's content. Why can't you respect that he feels that way?"
"Regulus," Sirius had said, looking at his brother — the boy who had been his closest companion, who now seemed to be speaking a language he had never taught him — "I don't recognise you anymore. I'm not sure I ever really knew you."
"Don't say that, Sirius," Regulus had said, looking uneasy. "We'll always be brothers, won't we?"
---
Then the Hogwarts letter arrived, and Sirius Black escaped.
He boarded the train and met James Potter, and the world cracked open. James was not a brother, but he was closer than a brother. He understood Sirius's instincts about equality and freedom — really understood them, not merely tolerated them. He was willing to be reckless and irreverent and magnificently himself, rather than bound by someone else's idea of what a proper wizard looked like. He didn't care about the Black family name or the fact that Sirius might just as easily have ended up in Slytherin. He had simply said, *"I think you're a good person,"* and meant it.
The Sorting Hat placed Sirius in Gryffindor, and his parents were mortified. When he came home, Regulus had become a stranger.
He could only guess at what those two years apart had looked like for Regulus. His mother would have been relentless. The "oldest and most noble" house of Black, with its motto of eternal purity — she would not allow a second son to be sorted into Gryffindor, would not permit another child to be like Sirius. She needed an heir who would carry the family honour forward, and Regulus had always been willing to try to be what she needed.
Regulus went into Slytherin. The rumours began. People said he was the better son, the truer Black, the one who would restore the family's glory.
"You idiot!" They had argued once on the fourth-floor staircase, and Sirius had cursed him. "Why do you believe this rubbish? Pure-blood supremacy? Contempt for Muggle-borns? You weren't always like this!"
"I have always been like this," the dark-haired boy had said quietly, with the particular melancholy of someone who has accepted something they would rather not carry. "I think you're right, in one sense. You've never understood me. I am a Black, truly. The family's honour needs to be carried on, and if you'll throw it aside like refuse, then it falls to me."
"They're fanatics," Sirius had said. "Can't you see that? You need to step outside this house — outside this family — and look at the world as it actually is. Not every family lives this way. Not every wizard holds these beliefs. You're in a cage, Regulus, and you don't even know it."
"My dear Sirius." There had been something sorrowful in his brother's patience. "I'm afraid I can't do what you're asking. We can't change where we come from, or who our parents are. We live with the advantages of our position, and we live with the responsibilities that come with it."
"Even when those responsibilities mean trampling the innocent underfoot?" Sirius had said. "Bullying people simply because they weren't born into the right family?"
"You talk to me about innocence?" Something sharp had entered Regulus's expression. "Severus Snape — wasn't he innocent? Weren't you and your friends the bullies? What had he done to deserve that?"
"Don't bring up that greasy little — how can you associate with someone like him and Mulciber? Do you have any idea what they get up to?"
"And you'd have me spend my time with that arrogant, reckless James Potter instead?" Regulus had sneered, and for a moment there was real bitterness in it. "He seems more like a brother to you than I do. Then perhaps that's what he should be. The difference between us is simple: I will not betray my family or my beliefs."
"You cowardly Slytherin!"
"You arrogant Gryffindor!"
*Bang.* Two bedroom doors, slammed shut.
---
After that argument, Sirius stopped pretending the house had any claim on him. He hung a permanent Gryffindor banner on his bedroom wall, surrounded it with photographs of motorcycles and his Gryffindor brothers and everything else he knew would make his parents' eyes go cold, and stopped caring what any of them thought.
Regulus, in his quiet, deliberate way, nailed a small handwritten sign to his own door: *No entry without the express permission of the occupant — Regulus Arcturus Black.*
Mutual disapproval, carefully contained. They had not entered each other's rooms again.
Once inseparable. Now separated by eight inches of wood, and something far harder to cross.
---
Not long afterward, Sirius left for good.
One argument too many with his mother — one too many years of criticism, verbal cruelty, occasional violence — and he walked out without looking back, and went to live with James.
He had never returned. Not until now.
---
Sirius ran his fingers along the small sign on Regulus's door.
The letters were neat and even — tidy, like Regulus himself. He had always lived carefully within the invisible framework his parents had constructed around him. Rigid and orderly and contained.
How had a boy like that broken through it all? How had he, without anyone knowing, turned his coat and quietly walked to the other side?
Something churned in Sirius's stomach. He closed his eyes, and pushed the door open.
---
The room was Slytherin from floor to ceiling.
Silver and green everywhere — the bedding, the curtains, the walls — and the sight of it pressed down on him like a physical weight.
Beside the bed hung a photograph of the Slytherin Quidditch team. Sirius picked it up and found Regulus immediately — sixteen years old, sitting with easy arrogance in the centre of the front row.
He had been an exceptional Seeker.
"Why did you join them?!" The memory of his own voice came back to him, cracked with desperation. "Do you know what you're throwing away?"
He remembered that day exactly.
He had rushed to find Regulus after a match — Regulus had caught the Golden Snitch — hoping to break the impasse between them, to say *happy birthday* and have it mean something. Instead he had seen the Dark Mark burned into his brother's forearm.
"Do you think this mark is given to just anyone?" Regulus had said, with a young man's breathless pride. "I'm the first student the Dark Lord has recruited before graduation. Mother says I'm her hero. Father is proud for the first time in years..." He had looked at Sirius as though offering him something. "Watch me, brother. The glory of the House of Black will shine again."
"Regulus." Sirius had gone quiet. He had looked at this boy — this blood relation he no longer knew how to reach — and felt something colder and sadder than anger. "Do you have any idea what Death Eaters actually do?"
"Death Eaters stand for something greater than themselves. You don't understand, and that's alright. You don't need to. Live the life you want — I won't interfere with you. Don't interfere with me."
"He won't bring you glory. He's killing people, Regulus — purging anyone who disagrees with him. He's a madman. Your hands caught the Golden Snitch today. If you give them to him, you won't get them back clean."
"Enough." The brightness in Regulus's eyes had dimmed, replaced by something flat and final. "I am done discussing this with you."
He had picked up his broom and flown away into the setting sun.
That was the last time they had stood in the same light.
Sirius's expression, looking at the photograph, was something that had no simple name.
If he had known — if he had been given even a glimpse of what Regulus would do two years later, the choice he would make alone in the dark — would it have changed anything? Could he have found the right words in time?
Probably not. Regulus had their mother's stubbornness, deep in the bone. They all did.
He set the photograph down and pulled open the drawer of the bedside table.
Inside: a worn quill, a dried inkpot, a book on the Dark Arts, and a transparent display case.
Inside the case, small and still and glinting faintly in the grey light — a Golden Snitch.
Sirius stared at it.
He reached carefully into the wreckage of his Dementor-ravaged memory and pulled out a fragment.
He had caught it first. They had been playing Quidditch in the grounds — their mother had bought a full competition set, and they were the only children in the world as far as they were concerned — and Sirius had closed his fist around the Snitch a heartbeat before Regulus could reach it.
Regulus had been desperately envious. He had rubbed his eyes, wanting to cry but refusing to admit it, insisting there was dust in them.
Sirius had given him the Snitch anyway. The next morning, he had boarded the train back to Hogwarts — the first time the two of them had been separated for any real length of time — and he had wanted to leave his brother something to keep.
He had never expected, after everything that had happened between them, that Regulus would still have it.
He reached in and took the Snitch out of its case.
The moment his fingers touched it, the little golden object stirred. Wings unfurled — pale silver, luminous — and it fluttered briefly in his palm. Then a seam appeared in its body, and a small roll of parchment was pushed out from inside.
Sirius stopped breathing.
He stood motionless for a very long time, the Snitch resting in his open hand, the parchment waiting.
Then, with the exaggerated care of someone defusing something irreplaceable, he reached out and took it.
He unrolled it slowly, a little at a time. His hands were shaking badly enough to make it difficult. His mouth was dry.
It was a letter.
It had been waiting, alone in this empty room, for years — patient as the house itself, enduring the slow passage of time in the dark — until this moment, this impossible and poignant morning, when it finally reached its one intended recipient.
---
*Sirius, you pure-blood traitor,*
*By the time you read this, I will most likely be dead. I can be honest with you now, at last — you were right. What I believed was naive.*
*The real world is nothing like what I imagined it to be. My reverence for bloodline and power blinded me to everything around me.*
*I've discovered one of the Dark Lord's secrets: the secret of the Horcruxes. I intend to fight it with my life. It may not change the course of things, but it is the only way I can be at peace with myself.*
*I place what hope I have in the future.*
*Looking back: I was always obedient. I lived according to what was expected of me and tried to uphold the family's honour. For that, I lost my brother.*
*By the time I understood what the world truly was, it was already too late. The Black family's course had been set long before I tried to correct it.*
*So let me be wilful, just this once. I am willing to walk alone into the dark, after everything I once believed has been broken apart.*
*P.S. I never disliked James Potter. I admired him. You blindly arrogant fool — a man with a lion's heart belongs to more than just Gryffindor. I wish we could play Quidditch again, the way we used to.*
*Your brother,*
*R.A.B.*
---
Sirius felt the floor tilt beneath him.
He leaned back against the headboard — carved with the Black family crest and the motto *Toujours Pur* — and let it take his weight.
Below the motto, the wallpaper was almost hidden under a collage of yellowed newspaper clippings — uneven, overlapping, faded with age. Clippings from the Daily Prophet, years' worth of them, each one with some variation of the same headline: Regulus Black, the Dark Lord's most devoted supporter. The pride of a family. The brightest jewel of the noble house.
"The Dark Lord's most loyal supporter," Sirius said aloud, softly, to the empty room.
He began to laugh.
It started quietly and built until he could barely catch his breath, helpless and breathless and alone in this green-and-silver room that smelled of dust and old parchment.
He threw himself back on Regulus's bed.
A cloud of dust erupted from the silver-green bedspread. He coughed, and his eyes stung.
He stopped laughing.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and rubbed, hard — just the way Regulus had rubbed his eyes as a child on the day he lost the Snitch, insisting it was only dust, insisting he wasn't crying.
He laid the letter over his face and held it there.
After a very long time, the tears came — sudden and unstoppable, running down his long-numb face in the quiet of the room where his brother had once lived.
He did not try to stop them.