"I've just been murdered, I can be childish if I want to." And in truth he just didn't care, not just about this in particular, but most things. What was the point of being here when nothing mattered. When you could be killed in your own room, and just come back again like there was nothing wrong. How was he supposed to make peace with building some sort of life here? No matter the opportunities it might give him at some point.
He shook his head at Regulus' response, his brother was trying to reason what he'd done, feeling even more like he was losing his mind the more they talked and he wondered a little why he'd thought coming to Regulus was the right thing to do in the first place, if they could ever just talk to each other without one of them coming away feeling a little worse for wear by the end of it all.
"Fuck, Regulus, I was eleven when I was sorted, I was just a kid too." He reminded his brother, of course he was having fun with his new friends and loving every second of it. "I don't know what you expected from me. I couldn't change what the sorting hat decided, maybe we would have ruled Slytherin if things had worked out like that, but they didn't - you can't hold that against me forever." He was so tired, and maybe Regulus was right, maybe it was just the lingering effects of the dementors, but it felt like more than that, the war and then Azkaban, and then this place and then what had happened. Twice now.
"I don't want to just be a Gryffindor anymore, I don't want to just be what we were when we were kids. I want more than that and I don't know that I'm ever going to be any of that." It seemed like his past always came back to haunt him. Like there was no escaping it, no matter what he did.