Chapter Text
The first time Regulus failed to speak, Sirius spoke for him.
His silence wasn’t a conscious decision — not an act of defiance against his parents as they demanded to know who knocked over the vase — nothing like Sirius’s brooding silences and snarky sighs. Regulus’s silence was paralysis.
It was wide eyes. It was words on the tip of his tongue but his throat closing. It was shaky hands grasping for something to come out — just the word “Me” would do. Some form of acknowledgement. But nothing came.
“It was me.” Sirius had spoken, and so Regulus had been left alone. Sirius didn’t cry when Walburga closed the office door. It was nearly silent as Reglus stood stalk-still, listening. Silent except for the firm thud of a paddle against skin.
It wasn’t the last time Regulus’s silence would hurt the people he loved, yet no matter what, the words would not leave his mouth.
As he stares at the back of Sirius’s head, these are the thoughts that run through his mind. As he silently slides into the pews of the school chapel, Walburga and Orion on either side of him, he lets his silence fester into bitterness.
Families slide into the seats, murmurs of conversation spreading around the room as fathers greet each other with chuckles and promises of future golfing trips, mothers laughing with each other over the newest piece on some scandalous affair between a woman and the milkman or some other. Old men with stern expressions dressed in stiff suits fill the long table of staff members at the front of the room.
The chapel being the school's chosen room for their welcome assembly, instead of the grand dining hall or even the beautiful sprawling land that reaches towards the Indian River behind the school, tells Regulus everything he needs to know. The small windows, the stages of the cross on the cold stone walls between them. The stale air, like communion bread sat too long and wine not aged quite enough.
It is exactly how he imagined Welton to be.
He lets his eyes hover on Sirius a moment longer before letting them drift to the older man and woman that sit beside him. Mr. and Mrs. Potter, he determines. Mr. Potter has graying hair and a thick but neatly trimmed beard, wearing a neat but simple suit, informal in comparison to the other parents but somehow perfect for him. Mrs. Potter has incredibly shiny and long black hair, draping over a brightly patterned dress. She’s a splash of colour in the dull room. Even just by their backs he can tell they are everything and more than what Sirius told him. The stories back when they were eleven and twelve — before their relationship had fractured and turned into something cold and distant — had told outlandish tales of parents hugging their son and spouting encouragement instead of reprimands.
He hates Sirius for sitting beside them like they’re his family. For choosing them instead of him.
He looks for the boy whose name Sirius spoke like their mother spouted bible verses, but finds nothing matching the description. After years of sitting back, grimacing at the descriptions of tom-foolery and mischief — After feeling an unnamed and untamed anger swell in his gut like he had swallowed riverwater — Regulus had thought he’d know James when he saw him. Like maybe his anger would draw a target around the boy's head. Maybe then, Regulus would finally feel like the hunter rather than the prey.
Instead, he sees uniformed boys and their families and he is unable to determine which one of them he’s supposed to hate.
He doesn’t feel disappointment at his unanswered curiosity. There is no tugging in his gut that shows the intensity of his desire to put that name to a face. He couldn’t care less about James Potter. The boy who captured Sirius’s heart. Who stole him. Regulus waves the thought away — so unutterably childish, like Sirius is a toy he doesn’t want to share.
Sirius isn’t anybody’s, that’s one thing he’s made clear. He makes his own decisions. Regulus is not his brother's keeper, and James did not force Sirius’s hand.
And yet. That bitterness again, the anger that had shaped in Regulus’s gut long before Sirius ran into the snow one December night and never returned. Jealousy.
“Straighten up.” Walburga mutters, and Regulus’s spine instinctively stiffens, his shoulders raising.
He looks away from his brother. His parents have yet to acknowledge Sirius, not that he’d expected them too. Since he ran away over winter break, nine months ago, his name has not been mentioned.
Regulus thinks his silence may simply be a part of the Black inheritance. His parents choose silence, he simply cannot help it. Another thing he cannot escape. Sometimes, in the throes of his self-hatred, Regulus cannot help but see how similar he is to his mother. He hates it so much it only cements its truthfulness. He tries not to think about it.
At the front of the room, a man with a wrinkled face half-obscured by a long white beard stands before the podium, and then the grating sound of bag pipes begin.
Regulus nearly lets his expression of neutrality slip, forcing away a grimace as the too-loud sound bounces around the thick stone chamber. Down the center aisle begins the march of four boys in the Welton uniforms.
The first one enters, a boy with long, straight black hair and a slightly too-big uniform. His eyebrows are drawn, although it’s hard to tell if he’s angry or if his face always appears that way. He marches stiffly as he holds a banner which reads “Tradition”.
Behind him enters a tall brown-haired boy who marches with a confident and strong stride. From his walk and perfectly cut although slightly creased uniform, he shows the sort of confidence Regulus hates. Academic achievements, scholarships, trust funds and inheritance money. Regulus is a hypocrite on the last two. This boys banner reads "Discipline".
Following him is a larger set boy with light brown hair and a freckled face. His uniform is slightly creased and he seemingly struggles to not trip over his own feet. This boy reads, quite plainly, ‘average’. Maybe he’s decent at school and has some friends to his name, but what else? Regulus can’t help but let his eyes run off of this boy like water. There’s nothing interesting there to grab his attention. His banner reads “Honor”.
The final boy to enter has dark brown hair, a perfectly messy mop upon his head, with a pair of glasses on his nose. His mouth is in a straight line as he marches, but smile lines crease his cheeks, contradicting the seriousness he is trying to perform. His uniform is perfect — ironed and well fitting — and as he walks, the room seems to brighten. His banner, as if reading Regulus’s awful and traitorous mind, reads “Excellence”. A word the boy seems to personify.
Regulus swallows, grinds his molars together, and forces his eyes to the bearded man before the room.
As the four banner-holding boys stop at the stage, facing the audience in stiff soldier-like poses, the bag-piping finally ceases.
“One hundred years ago, in eighteen-seventy-six, forty-one boys sat in this room and were asked the same question that greets you at the start of each semester. Gentlemen, what are the four pillars?” The white-bearded man says, and uniformed boys around the room stand at once.
Walburga pinches his arm, and he stands stiffly. “Tradition, Honour, Discipline, Excellence,” the boys chant in tandem, Regulus faintly mouthing the words before sitting back in his seat, careful to not seem rushed.
The Headmaster nods resolutely, “In her first year, Welton Academy graduated five students. Last year we graduated fifty-one. And more than seventy-five percent of those went on to the Ivy League. This, this kind of accomplishment is the result of fervent dedication to the principles taught here. This is why you parents have been sending us your sons. This is why we are the best preparatory school in the United States.”
Polite applause breaks out across the room.
“As you know, our beloved Mr. Portius of the English department retired last term. You will have the opportunity later to meet his replacement, Mr. Shelley, himself a graduate of this school. And who, for the past several years, has been teaching at the highly regarded Chester School in London.”
A man stands from the corner of the staff table, waving at the crowd with a smile on his face, completely opposite to the other teachers. He’s much younger than the rest of the staff, hair not yet grayed with age — light not yet dimmed.
Regulus finds he looks unqualified, like he’s stumbled into a dinner party he wasn’t invited to and yet has confidently seated himself at the table.
It perturbs him.
He can feel his mother stiffen beside him. Once again, he is reminded of their likeness.
The Headmaster continues to speak, words lost on Regulus whose eyes can’t help but drift to Sirius once more. He’s disappointed when he looks at him and finds only long black hair pointed his way, as if he had expected Sirius to be looking back at him. Looking for him.
Regulus faces forwards, lets his vision go blurry, and tries to empty his mind.
Without much effort, time becomes his to bend and the ceremony is over before he can force himself back into his body.
His parents stand, and he follows his father into the aisle, grimacing as his arm brushes against a stranger’s. He follows his father towards the exit, stopping as the Headmaster reaches out to shake Orion's hand.
“Mr. Black, I see you’re well.”
“Same to you, Dumbledore.” his father responds, accepting the handshake. The stiffness does not go unnoticed by Regulus, nor does the way in which the hand shake is abandoned rather than ended. Hands falling away in quick tandem, relief between both parties as the interaction ends.
Dumbledore turns to Regulus, grasping his hand to shake “Ah, your brother has left quite the impression, I hope you’re as passionate and involved as he. You have some big shoes to fill, young man.”
Regulus nods, although he’d use the terms “reckless” and “idiotic” to describe Sirius instead. He accepts the handshake, ignoring the crawling of his skin, and shuffles by Dumbledore.
Big shoes to fill is an understatement. It’s more like the fate of a hundred year old multi-million dollar lawyer firm is banking on Regulus taking the reins of the horse Sirius was supposed to ride. Graduation from Welton, then years of university, marriage with a woman from a similarly prosperous family, the production of heirs to the Black lineage, and if he fails, poverty and disownment. Ruin to the family name. A fate his mother would deem worse than death — at least in death you’re remembered.
There’s no choice for him, only shoes he must pretend fit his feet.
He doubts Welton will be the most of his worries, and that terrifies him. Welton feels so big. It’s ridiculous, giving power to a stone-brick building. Letting it crush him. But he can’t do anything but shrink at the thought of his next three years of education here.
Forcing himself to exist within proximity of Sirius, knowing Sirius wants nothing to do with him.
“I’ll be calling once a month. Making sure everything is on track.” Walburga is saying as they stop at the edge of the parking lot, “You will send me your assignment marks and updates on your school extracurriculars through the post and we will discuss them when I contact you.”
“Yes, Mama,” Regulus manages to speak much clearer than expected.
Walburga looks him in the eye a moment, eyes cat-like and black hair gathered around her head in a neat tangle of thorn-like curls. Her gaunt face does not smile, does not appear to have the ability to. She puts a hand against Regulus’s cheek, slender fingers cold, and Regulus does not flinch.
“Do not disappoint us.” she says. Regulus looks towards his father, who simply nods. Ever distant, ever cold.
“I promise.” Regulus manages, and Walburga pulls away, turning to their car without so much as glancing back. Regulus stands a moment, watching them climb into the black vehicle.
He looks away as they pull out of their parking space, instead looking at the crowd of boys saying goodbye to their parents. Some of the younger ones are crying, most are hugging and waving their goodbyes.
Regulus’s eyes meet Sirius’s. It’s the first time in nine months he’s seen his brother's face. Sirius’s lips are pressed together in a firm line, his eyes distant even as he looks directly at Regulus. Regulus hates it, the frustration and anger in Sirius’s expression — the disappointment, as if it’s Regulus’s fault things are the way they are and not Sirius’s.
Like he wasn’t the one to walk away.
He refuses to be the first to divert his eyes, refuses to give that small, stupid victory to Sirius. So they stare, eyes met unblinkingly like they’re children again, seeing who could keep their eyes open the longest. Sirius would always win those, but Regulus wins this time, because the fourth banner boy runs up to Sirius and he turns away to smile at him. His eyes get brighter, his smile wider than Regulus has ever seen it.
Regulus looks at the banner boy and puts the name to the face; James Potter, the boy who stole his brother. The personification of excellence. A human sun.
It feels unbelievably cruel to be replaced by somebody so opposite to him. He cannot see a single thing in common between him and the boy that laughs unashamedly, running a hand through his perfect curls as Mr. Potter fixes his shirt collar.
He watches as James’s parents bring Sirius and their son into a hug before he’s forced to look away with the shame of it. The enormity of his desire disgusts him. He cannot afford to want.
He walks towards the building, suddenly unbearably cold.
Boys rush past him as he enters the school, laughing as they shove past each other. Regulus shoots a glare at them, reaching into his pocket for the neatly folded sheet that reads his room number. Room Assignment: Tenth Year Corridor, Room 112.
How helpful.
He could ask someone, could get directions, but he knows he won’t. Instead he just begins to walk. He leaves the foyer and begins into random hallways, filled less and less with people as he goes. It should be a sign he’s headed the wrong direction, but he only feels relief in the quiet as he moves further and further into the building.
The hallways are lined with banners and scattered trophy cases. He ends up in a hallway lined with empty classrooms and photos of old, white men. Previous Headmasters with golden plates reading their names and time spent at the school. They all look identical; blank expressions painted on their faces, wrinkled skin and spots covering their balding heads, signs of failing livers and heart disease. Too much sacramental wine, he supposes.
He somehow ends up in the library, an airy room with large windows facing the school grounds and sprawling river. The book shelves are filled with beautifully weathered cloth-bound books.
Regulus steps further into the room, scanning the bookshelves without paying much mind to the titles. He walks towards the back of the room, uncertain what exactly he’s looking for before he spots a small corner between a shelving unit and the wall.
He finds himself crawling into the space before he can ridicule himself on the ridiculousness of it. His back flush to the wall, knees gathered up to the chest, he finds the shelf perfectly fits him, hiding him from the world. He wonders how long he can sit here before anybody notices.
When he was younger he would hide in the basement. It was always cold down there, filled with dusty boxes of items passed down throughout generations — Important to keep as is tradition, but not expensive or elegant enough to be showcased. Something about the clutter, opposing the rest of the perfectly curated house, calmed him.
He’d lay down in the fetal position underneath an old, antique desk, body fitting just barely, and let the pressure calm him. His brother was always so claustrophobic, but Regulus was anything but.
Now, wedged between the bookshelf and wall, the pressure allows him to take the first proper breath he’s had all day. It’s only noon, and he still needs to retrieve his schedule and prepare for classes tomorrow, but he lets himself sit. Lets himself believe that he has time.
He tries not to think about Sirius and James, tries to erase the image of his mothers gaunt face from his mind, feigns forgetfulness on the expectations for the year, and he closes his eyes.
By the time he reopens them, the sun is considerably lower in the sky.
—
He barely remembers the in between of him leaving the crevice and finding his way to his dorm room. Boys linger in the hallways, but it’s considerably quieter than the hallways earlier. He’s opening his door before he can second guess himself, and is promptly faced with an attack of cigarette smoke.
A blonde haired boy lays prostrate in the bed on the right side of the room. He sports a cigarette between his lips as he uses his hands to loosen the tie around his neck. He has soft features, a straight nose, filled in cheeks. He’s unnaturally pale, like a white rose in his softness and fullness. Still, roses have thorns, Regulus reminds himself.
Sat at the foot of his bed sits a brunette boy, square-jawed and grinning as he snatches the cigarette from the other boy's lips and places it between his teeth. He’s much less skinny than the former boy, athletic looking and slightly frightening. When he looks towards Regulus, something in his eyes glints.
“Oi!” the blonde boy exclaims at the robbery, reaching out and snatching back his cigarette before looking over to Regulus. He takes a puff of his cigarette. “Who are you?” he asks, exhaling.
“Regulus.” Regulus says stiffly, turning to his luggage and lifting his suitcase to his bed.
“Evan here's roomie, huh?” The brunette says teasing, “We were beginning to think you weren’t going to show.”
The boy, Evan, swats the brunette's arm. “I'm Evan Rosier, this is Barty Crouch.” he says, civilly.
“Regulus Black.”
“Black?” Barty’s voice, “As in Sirius Black?”
“Yes,” Regulus barely manages to keep the disdain from his voice, “We’re brothers.”
“I didn’t even know he had a brother.” Barty says.
And that about perfectly sums it up. Regulus, the selectively mute child with a history of hospital stays and poorly timed panic attacks, hidden from the world. Name unmentioned, sent to a school closer to home so he could be monitored. Barely Sirius Black's brother at all. Not in the ways that matter.
“Well.” Regulus says, leaving the ‘Here he is’ for them to decipher as he slips clothing into his dresser, meticulously unpacking his things.
“Your brother is a real asshole.” Barty says after a second, earning a cough from Evan and a glance over the shoulder from Regulus.
Regulus examines Barty for a moment, assessing, analyzing. He is unashamed, unfaltering, completely confident in what he’s said.
“That he is.” Regulus says, then, “Where is Headmaster Dumbledore's office?”
“I’ll take you,” Evan presses his cigarette out against the metal rails of his bed frame, pulling himself to his feet. “I need to stop by Gideon’s room anyways, get some packs. My summer supply is almost out.”
Barty groans, “Don’t make me go to my room. I can’t bare being stuck with fucking Mulciber as my roommate for the entire year. God hates me.”
“Hang here, but you’re going to have to face it eventually.” Evan laughs, straightening the tie he had only just been undoing.
Regulus feels unnaturally stiff once again, the unwinding within the library crevice being forgotten as he’s reminded of the performance he must upkeep. Calm, cold. The good thing about being a Black is the looks - black hair, gaunt faces, frown ingrained deeply into his face. The only upside of his trouble with speech is how it also works to deter people.
The combination makes him seem rude or cruel rather than mentally unwell and uncomfortable. Truth is, he sometimes feels as if he’s both.
Evan offering help feels like some sort of trick, but Regulus can’t be bothered to try and get him to leave, so instead he follows Evan as he enters the hallway. Weirdly, he almost finds Evans' presence, even though they don’t speak as they wind through the corridors, somewhat enjoyable.