dog (ex_dog951) wrote in epiloguesic, @ 2015-05-11 20:52:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !backstory, !log, character: regulus black, character: sirius black, date: 1981 |
Outdoors the wind. Indoors ancestral curse-cum-blessing.
WHO: Regulus & Sirius Black
WHEN: 1981
WHERE: Grimmauld Place
WHAT: Breaking & entering
WARNINGS: PG-13 for language & mentions of abuse
STATUS: Complete
The effect of his mother’s seething destruction of his carefully embroidered part of the tapestry meant very little to the magic that enveloped Grimmauld Place. Orion had bled for this house, Orion had cut into his flesh and paid out with drops of that precious Black ichor, and even as he lay cold and still and dead in his coffin, uncaring of the homage paid to him by the countless relatives and sycophants amassed in the old chapel, Orion Black remained a presence -- more vital, perhaps, than he’d ever been in life (certainly Sirius’ life). For blood recognised blood; and the wards twisted apart to permit the wayward once-heir entry into the house that had never been a home. It had been a number of years since Sirius had set foot here, but he wasn’t going to indulge in the sort of nostalgic fantasies that would lead some to seeing the ghosts of their past lingering on the stairwell, the darkened hallways. Two young brothers and shattered china -- no. None of that fucking tripe. With a quick step and sure feet, Sirius made for his father’s study. There was no telling how long he had before he was discovered, for Grimmauld Place was never truly empty, even when its residents were gathered in mourning. Of the numerous house elves that all but lived in the walls, certainly some remained, polishing the never ending horde of silverware and keeping the kitchen fires going while the other wretches attended to their masters at a wake that had drawn not-insignificant crowds went on and on and on. He had time; not much, but some. Enough to push the ladder around, settling it in a corner behind the desk he had spent a good part of his young life believing was an actual part of Orion’s body, so rarely had the man broken away from it. Hours and hours of interminable silence in this room -- cold now, cold like his father was cold, the fire unlit in its master’s absence -- staring past his shoulder, reading the titles as the clock ticked. Reading them again. Learning them, if unconsciously. Forgetting them -- until Tom had uttered them one night, and everything came flooding back, a deluge of Latin and old letters embossed in cracked leather. Maybe the books that had so captured Orion’s fascination were actually useful. Maybe it was time to collect, to call upon that blood-right that he’d so rejected. Aldaraia sive Soyga vocor. Archidoxis magicae. Cantus Circaeus. Right where he remembered them; easy to grab and stack on the edge of the desk, one book after another. Sirius had been ever so careful not to betray his clandestine re-entrance—and there was no screaming from the wards or the klaxon wails of security overstepped, for he was, after all, noble and most ancient. But what they hadn’t reckoned on, however, was the newfound Black scion deciding he’d had enough of the wake and seeking out a quiet corner to take refuge in. The various branches and twigs of their family tree had been smiling and smiling all day, offering their brittle condolences, meanwhile sizing up Regulus like meat on a slab: extend the neck, twist the head, expose the gleaming teeth for appraisal. He was a bit thin and weedy, unlike his brother Sirius—but then again, exactly, yes, unlike Sirius. With Orion out of the way, the twenty-year-old was master of the house, and they seemed to measure him against the corpse in all its finery before concluding with a firm nod that the boy had passed muster. But barely. So it was inevitable that he would eventually excuse himself from that pack of hounds, instead roaming down the hallways of a house that seemed too small and oppressive even after being relieved of one of its occupants. (Orion’s magic still lingered, heavy and cloying, the man’s stamp left on every last creaking timber and shuffling room of this place.) It was then that he heard the thump of paper hitting paper, the familiar impact of books on aged cherry. He cracked open the door. And it was almost normal, seeing his older brother there: as if the corners of Grimmauld Place had flexed and expanded to fit him back within the margins, filling the distinctly brother-shaped hole of the past five years. “Hello, Sirius,” Reg said. Though the creak of a footboard betrayed the presence of another before the groaning door -- then the voice, his brother’s voice, quiet and exacting -- ever could, Sirius did not entertain the sort of panic or guilt his clandestine entrance should have roused. Perhaps, as muttered by several of the paintings he’d passed on his way in, it was the absence of a moral compass, or perhaps he felt he was owed, that this old house that would have crumbled if not for the magic laced thick through its very foundations was beholden to him for -- something. By the time their late father’s space was broached by the second son, Sirius had amassed a sizable pile of books, and was in the middle of a graceless exploration of the massive desk, drawers yanked open, fingers finally tight around what appeared to be a locked (likely warded) journal, the dark leather creased and weathered down its spine. Orion had clearly pressed the weight of his hands down on this small volume over the course of years. “Carry on, nothing to see here, Regulus.” Sirius hooked his forefinger around the brass clasp keeping the journal shut, feeling the warmth of a spell against his skin even as he lifted his gaze to take in his brother’s appearance (tired and pinched and perhaps not at all surprised). “Wake done already?” “Not yet,” the younger man admitted. Regulus had shut the door carefully behind him, now leaning against the frame as if he could press himself into the wall and quite literally disappear, a withered shade fading from view. Sirius looked brisk and active and blasé as as always—say this for them, but everyone in the family Black was exceptional at keeping up appearances. “Come to pilfer the drawers? Although it should have been part of your inheritance, I suppose.” There were many things which should have been. All of this, his; all of their family, more human in the way they chose to conduct themselves. But the latter had long since proven to be an impossibility, those individuals who’d demonstrated the merest flicker of independent thought and kindness of spirit swiftly finding themselves ousted from the inner circle; and the former? Well, Sirius had told them all where to shove this so-called inheritence. The irony, of course, was that he’d been taken care of courtesy of a dishonourable uncle -- and that he was here, now, pilfering, as if this house that he’d rejected was now his for the taking. Seen in any other light, this lack of reaction to their own father’s death might have been surprising: their voices dry, their temper steady. Not a tear shed. But hysterics were unbecoming. Raised, shrill voices tended to be Walburga’s domain while everyone else tiptoed around the brewing tempest. Regulus’ fingers curled, hands knotted behind his back. “What use do you have for them?” “Before Walburga destroys them.” Their mother had a particularly incendiary way of dealing with grief, and the records of her introverted husband’s innermost thoughts would surely be disposed of in due course. He remembered how she’d handled Alphard’s desertion of the Empire. Fire and screams; wounds which would not ever heal. Sirius dropped the journal on top of the rest of the pile before dropping himself into their father’s chair, a sigh huffed from his chest as he linked his fingers loosely across his abdomen and fixed Regulus squarely in his gaze. “Somewhere in these lies the answer to what Father found so much more interesting than everything else around him.” Beat. “You look tired. Everyone’s been swearing allegiance to you since he kicked it, hm?” Regulus could feel his skin prickling like a cat’s fur standing on end at the sight of Sirius in that chair: you’re not allowed, he thought. It was the voice of a woebegone ten-year-old who coloured neatly and precisely within the lines, never daring to step a foot outside them. But he tamped down the instinct, met his brother’s eyes (such a stormy grey, exactly like his own) and kept his chin high. He’d learned how, over the last few years. “Apparently I’m man of the house now, in your absence. I’ve some rather big shoes to fill on both sides.” The bitterness crept unconsciously into Reg’s voice before he could tamp that down, too. How did you ever stand it? The question loomed between them, the one thing Regulus had wanted to ask his older brother: nowadays, instead of wondering how Sirius could have left, he’d eventually started wondering how he lasted so long. But it fell to the floor, unsaid. “Leave me something, will you? These are valuable, and I like research.” Reg picked up the topmost journal, hand trailing over the worn leather. In your absence made it sound like a temporary state of affairs, as if Sirius had gone on a sabbatical of sorts and was expected home any day now. A smile pulled at the corners of Sirius' mouth as he watched his brother, studied the relative delicacy of those pale fingers against the dark leather; and there was nothing warm in the expression. A humourless smile; ugly, almost, offering no pity to the brother who'd made the conscious decision to stay behind. "You've bigger things to worry about now than research, Regulus Black. A wife and a son -- those are the two topmost things on your itinerary." The hand went still, the shoulders rigid, as if he was carved out of rock. Regulus bit down on the corner of his mouth, hard enough to keep everything inside, not hard enough to draw blood. “It’ll sort itself out,” he said dully, dodging the specifics, as if he were reciting one out of a hundred maxims that had gotten him through the day. There was a flood behind his teeth, of news and thoughts and worries that he’d have told Sirius, once upon a time: his chest had wound tighter and tighter with all the weight of it, with no one to tell them to but Kreacher. “I’ll have to update Grimmauld’s wards against you,” Regulus said, still stiff as a board, straight-laced to the point of strangulation. “You know how she’d react if she found you here.” She: it sounds like an ogress summoned up from the depths of childhood nightmare, unnamed, but recognised nonetheless. Regulus, now more than ever, was a fascinating study in self-control. An ascetic in the making, this new paterfamilias; in five, ten years, perhaps, he would be a force to be reckoned with within the family battleground, coffers and traditions safeguarded under his cool leadership. All he had to do was reach and lead in all the ways Sirius couldn’t… but watching his brother now, Sirius doubted he ever would. This bloodless young brother of his, a man-child who could not open his damn mouth and say the things that really mattered, who could not reject that which upset him (a wife and child -- he was too young for such things, Walburga's baby boy, coddled up until the moment Sirius had left him exposed, but such things were a necessity), who couldn't say no, enough even now. Fucking infuriating. "A Crucio and no supper?" Sirius' upper lip curled. Act like the man of the house. Ignore her. Send her away. Why do you let her do this to you still? The words went unspoken, choked somewhere in the back of his throat as he smacked his hands to the table and got up to his feet. "Do what you like." Once the words were out there, Regulus seemed to belatedly realise the reality of them, and that realisation passed over his face with the smallest flicker of surprise: the knowledge that this, now, was the last time he’d turn a corner in the house to find his older brother haunting a room. Once he started prying open the architecture and fiddling with the magic and changing those spells of protection (walking in Orion’s footsteps in more ways than one), that would be it. It had been five years, an entire half-decade already: it was permanent. Sirius would not be coming back. Finally, something cracked. “It’s not the same,” Regulus blurted out, a rush of words tripping over themselves like he hadn’t planned. “Since you left, I mean.” He could never bring himself to say I miss you, but it was as near as. "Well spotted," was immediate and needlessly harsh, anger a low-grade roar in his ears which almost left him deaf to the meaning behind Regulus' words. It was time to go; Sirius pulled the books toward him, a hard gesture sweeping them against the tabletop and into the clasp of his arm as he dropped his gaze away from his brother -- but not so swiftly that he missed the play of emotion on that familiar (much missed, despite everything) face. Then, a pause. "I mean it," came after a breath; quiet. "Do what you like. Do -- be different. Than them." And then he stepped away from the desk, moving past Regulus and for the door. His brother watched him go: hopeless, helpless, and not lifting a hand to stop him (as always). The door swung shut behind Sirius, leaving the master of the house standing alone and adrift, a single journal pressed to his chest, a deep and hollow pain thudding behind his ribcage. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, already imagining the return to the wake and the army of family members to appease (what would he like to do? that was a question Regulus couldn’t look at too closely, couldn’t examine for fear of what it revealed). The library was quiet. As always. |