By: DursleyFamily
The air in Grimmauld Place was always heavy. Not just heavy with the usual city pollution, but with something far more ancient. It clung to the walls like dust, like cobwebs in the corners of an attic—thick, oppressive, and suffocating. Regulus Black had been living with it all his life. The portraits, the ancestral relics, the silence that followed every creak of the floorboard—it was like living inside a mausoleum.
Regulus never minded it much. He grew up in this house. It was a reflection of him, a living, breathing monument to everything the Black family was supposed to stand for. Tradition. Purity. Strength. Those ideals had been drilled into him from the moment he was old enough to understand his name, his lineage. To him, Grimmauld Place was safety, security. A place where he was part of something bigger.
But now, standing in the drawing room, the same room he'd sat in as a child while his mother tutored him on bloodline history, Regulus felt... something else. He couldn't put words to it yet, but it simmered underneath his skin. It itched at the back of his neck, a tension that wouldn't let go.
He adjusted the collar of his robes, sharp and black, as they always were. Everything about him had to be sharp. Not just his appearance, but his mind, his posture, his loyalty. If he faltered in anything, there was always someone watching, waiting for a mistake. And in his circles, mistakes weren't forgiven.
Regulus clenched his jaw, turning his gaze toward the window. It was late afternoon, though you wouldn't know it by the murky light filtering through the grimy panes. The house, like the family, didn't let the outside world in very easily. Good. He didn't need to be distracted by the noise of the streets below, the mundanity of Muggle life beyond the invisible walls that protected their sanctuary.
He didn't have time for distractions. Not now. The Dark Lord had been asking more of him recently. Dangerous things. Things that made him wonder just how far he could go. But those thoughts, he pushed down. Buried. There was no room for doubt. Doubt was a weakness he couldn't afford.
And yet, here he was, back at Grimmauld Place. Only a temporary refuge now that his parents were no longer living. Just long enough to gather his thoughts before the next mission, before the next request that tugged him deeper into a darkness he was starting to fear he wouldn't escape.
The sound of the front door slamming open echoed down the corridor like a cannon shot. Regulus stiffened. His fingers twitched instinctively toward the wand hidden beneath his robes, but he held back. It wasn't an intruder. It was something much worse.
Footsteps, loud and unapologetic, made their way toward him. Each one a statement. A rebellion against the quiet. Against everything this house stood for. Regulus could feel it in the pit of his stomach before he heard the voice—Sirius.
"Home sweet home," Sirius called out mockingly from the hallway. The words dripped with venom, but there was no effort behind them. He didn't care enough to be truly angry. It was just what he did, how he walked through life—kicking over things he didn't agree with, not bothering to pick them back up.
Regulus didn't move. He couldn't. His heart was already pounding, and he hated himself for it. Hated that his brother still had this effect on him. Even after all the years, all the distance. Sirius had left them. Had left him. And Regulus had stayed. He had been loyal. And now... what? He was rewarded with this.
The door to the drawing room swung open, and Sirius Black strode in like he owned the place. Like he hadn't abandoned it years ago. His hair was longer now, wild and unkempt, just like the man who wore it. His clothes were disheveled, that familiar leather jacket slung over his shoulders, as if it could protect him from the weight of the Black family name.
"Regulus," Sirius said, grinning like a predator who'd cornered its prey. His grey eyes gleamed with that same reckless fire they'd always had, as though the world was nothing but a stage for his amusement. "Surprised to see me?"
Regulus forced himself to meet his brother's gaze, his face carefully neutral. "Not particularly," he said, voice clipped and measured. "You always did have a flair for dramatic entrances."
Sirius laughed, a sharp, biting sound that echoed in the cavernous room. He walked further in, looking around like he was cataloging everything he hated about the place. "Still the family lapdog, I see. Keeping things nice and neat for dear old dead Mum?"
Regulus' fingers tightened at his side. "I'm doing what's expected of me."
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Expected? By whom? The Death Eaters? Or was that Mum's portrait's suggestion too?"
The jab was deliberate, and Regulus felt it hit its mark. But he wouldn't give Sirius the satisfaction of seeing him react. He wouldn't give him anything. "You're not here to discuss my life choices," Regulus said coldly. "So what do you want?"
"Can't a brother visit his childhood home without an interrogation?" Sirius smirked, moving closer, his eyes dancing with the thrill of pushing Regulus. "Or is that not allowed in the noble and most ancient House of Black?"
"Visiting implies you were ever a part of it," Regulus shot back, his voice sharper than he intended. He hated that Sirius could still get under his skin so easily. He hated the control he still had.
For a moment, the smile faltered on Sirius' face, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared, replaced with that familiar air of defiance. "Touché," he said softly, but there was an edge to his voice now. He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned casually against the fireplace, looking every bit as out of place as he had when they were children.
Regulus didn't move. He stood straight, shoulders stiff, the weight of the family name and the expectations pressing down on him like a hand around his throat. He wanted to lash out, to tear that smirk off Sirius' face. But he wouldn't. He couldn't.
Instead, he spoke quietly, deliberately. "You shouldn't have come back."
Sirius tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Why not? Afraid I'll ruin the family reputation? Maybe leave a bit of Muggle mud on the carpets?"
"Don't pretend like you care," Regulus said, his voice growing harder with every word. "You left. You turned your back on everything."
Sirius pushed off the fireplace, his carefree attitude slipping away for a moment. He stepped closer to Regulus, his face inches away, his grey eyes sharp and cold. "I left because everything in this house is rotten. Including you."
The words hit harder than Regulus expected, and for a second, the room felt smaller, tighter, as if the walls were closing in around him. But he didn't flinch. Regulus Black had been trained since birth to show nothing, to keep his emotions buried so deep that even he couldn't reach them most days. His mother had taught him that control was the most important thing a Black could possess, and Regulus was nothing if not obedient.
He let Sirius' words hang in the air between them, the silence more suffocating than the house itself. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady. Dangerous.
"You're mistaken," Regulus said, the calm in his tone betraying the storm brewing beneath his skin. "I'm still here because I believe in something greater than myself. You ran away. You abandoned everything because you were too weak to handle what it means to be a Black."
Sirius' eyes narrowed, the sharpness of his gaze cutting through the distance between them. "You really believe that, don't you? That you're some noble heir, following in the family's footsteps, doing what you're told." His voice dripped with disdain. "You're not serving something greater, Regulus. You're serving people who don't give a damn about you."
Regulus' jaw tightened, but he remained still. He wouldn't let Sirius provoke him. Not here, not now.
"You're wrong," Regulus replied, voice tight. "The Dark Lord has a plan. A future that doesn't include the filth that you so eagerly defend."
Sirius barked a short, humorless laugh. "The Dark Lord? Is that what you're calling him now? Or did you just drop to your knees and start worshipping the ground he walks on?" He moved closer, the air between them crackling with tension. "Let me guess—he promised you something, didn't he? Power? Status? Or are you just so desperate for approval that you'll follow any madman who gives you a pat on the head?"
Regulus' eyes flickered with something—anger, maybe, or frustration—but he didn't break. "You don't understand. You never did."
"No," Sirius shot back, stepping closer until they were almost nose to nose. "I understand perfectly. I understand that you're too scared to think for yourself. You're still the same little boy who clung to Mother's robes, desperate for her approval, for Father's approval. You'll throw yourself into the fire just to hear someone tell you 'well done.'"
The words cut deeper than Sirius could have known. Or maybe he did know. Maybe that's why he said them. Because Sirius had always known exactly where to aim, exactly where to strike to make the most damage. Regulus felt the heat rising in his chest, felt the tightness in his throat, but he swallowed it down. He wouldn't give Sirius the satisfaction of seeing him break. Not again.
"This conversation is over," Regulus said, turning on his heel, his voice cold and final.
But Sirius grabbed his arm, pulling him back sharply. "No, it's not."
Regulus turned, his eyes burning with the fire he had been holding back. For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them was electric, charged with years of unresolved anger, resentment, and something else—something unspoken that neither of them would acknowledge.
Sirius' grip on Regulus' arm tightened, and for the briefest second, Regulus felt a flicker of something familiar—an echo of the bond they'd once shared as brothers, as children. But it was fleeting, gone as quickly as it appeared, swallowed up by the weight of everything that had come between them.
"You think you're doing the right thing?" Sirius asked, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. "You think the Dark Lord cares about you? About anything other than his own power? You're just another tool to him, Regulus. And when he's done with you, he'll throw you away like the rest."
Regulus stared at his brother, the words echoing in his mind, but he wouldn't let them take root. He couldn't. He had to believe that he was on the right path. That his loyalty to Voldemort meant something. That it would all be worth it in the end.
"You don't know what you're talking about," Regulus said, his voice low, but there was a tremor beneath it now. "You don't know what it's like to carry the weight of this family, to be responsible for something more than just yourself."
Sirius let go of his arm, his eyes hard and filled with something like pity. "You're right," he said softly. "I don't. Because I refuse to live my life under someone else's thumb."
Regulus turned away again, this time more forcefully, not giving Sirius the chance to stop him. He walked toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the stillness of the room. But before he could leave, Sirius' voice cut through the silence one last time.
"Whatever you think you're doing, it's not too late to stop. You don't have to go down with the rest of them."
Regulus paused at the door, his hand resting on the handle. For a moment, he considered turning around, considered saying something—anything—that might bridge the chasm between them. But that moment passed.
He opened the door, stepping out into the cold, dark hallway without looking back.
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