They stood side by side for a few long moments, both eyeing the contraptions in the centre of the room, weird-looking things Regulus now knew his ancestors lay in. It was a funny idea, picturing them in those stone boxes. Sleeping – no; dead.
He knew what that meant, being dead. Well, he knew it was something that only happened once, and that it meant the person was no longer in this world but in the next. He also knew that nobody knew just what was in that next world, or where it was, or how it all worked. Actually, he wasn’t too sure if he knew what it meant after all. He wasn’t sure if anyone knew, because nobody had ever been able to answer his questions about it – and he’d had loads before, so that wasn’tthe problem
But whether he knew or not, whether he understood or not, whether anyone was even able to know or understand – something about it all drew him in.
Perhaps if he just …
He took a few tentative steps towards one of the contraptions and looked back at Narcissa, the question burning in his eyes and his hand almost shaking with desire as it hovered just above the stone.
Narcissa nodded, and he let his hand rest upon it.
The stone wasn’t as cold as he had expected it to be, so deep underground. But it wasn’t hot, either. It was warm, pleasantly so, and it radiated not from his fingertips inwards but from his heart outwards. It spread through his body from his head down to his toes and it seemed to exit through his hand, and it was such a strange feeling he pulled it back from the contraption almost immediately.
The feeling disappeared.
He reached out again, something inside of him missing the warmth. He grazed his thumb over the stone and could clearly feel the heat building again, building, building –
‘They say the dead never really leave us,’ said Narcissa, and he jumped at how loud and close her voice was. She stood next to him now, still smiling as she looked around the room.
‘And it’s true. They’re right here,’ she said. ‘They know we’re here, too, and they’re proud of us. And they’ll be so much prouder when we’re old and all shrivelled up and joining them – after we lived our lives to the fullest, after we’ve left our own marks on the world … wouldn’t that be wonderful? To be a part of this? To lie with the best of the best someday?’
Regulus looked around the room. The best of the best. A funny feeling fluttered through his stomach at the thought. He had already wanted to lie here before she’d told him that, but now …
‘You can feel it, can’t you?’ she continued. ‘The heat. The whispers. I can hear them, too.’
He closed his eyes and reached out his hand again, touching the stone once more. The warmth exploded throughout his body and his mind was spinning, spinning, picking up on something no louder than the wind but distinctly human. Something inside him lit up at that, and he opened his eyes again, to find Narcissa beaming back at him, touching the stone herself.
‘We’ll make it, you and I. I just know it.’
He was convinced by those words. After all, he had heard his ancestors. He had felt them. He was already with them now, so why not stay around after he was dead, join them, send whispers and warmth out to the next generation of Blacks just as they were doing right now?
And so they spent the day; trying to talk to their ancestors, asking for advice, never leaving the room except for lunchtime, briefly. They stayed until it was almost five o’clock and Regulus, inevitably, had to go back home.
‘Can I come back tomorrow?’ Regulus asked Narcissa pleadingly as they made their way back outside.
‘Can’t,’ said Narcissa. ‘I’ve got finish up on some homework before I go back to school.’
‘But surely not all day …?’
‘I’ve to go to Diagon Alley and pick up my new robes, too,’ she said apologetically.
‘I could come after all that?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s such a busy time, just before school. You’ll understand some day, when you’re old enough to go.’
‘I want to go now,’ he whinged.
‘I’m sorry, but you can’t. You know you can’t.’
She said nothing more to any of his requests the rest of the way back to the house, and so Regulus stopped asking. But inwardly, he was devastated. He didn’t want to have to leave now, and go back home. He didn’t want to have to wait until Christmas! He didn’t want Narcissa to go back to Hogwarts and leave him alone with Sirius again. He wanted her to stay, or for her to take him with.
But the only one taking him anywhere was Father, who was already waiting for him by the front door, and took him home in one, swift, spinning motion that dizzied him as much as it always did.
They landed in the dining room, and Father barely gave him a chance to adjust. He just told him to sit down, and so he did. But he felt oddly empty inside. Cold. Silent. He longed to go back to the place his ancestors lay, where he could spend hours surrounded by people who had done incredible things. Not Father. What had he ever done? Not Mother. And certainly not Sirius, not with his antics. Not after trying to run away. Sirius would never end up in that burial chamber. Regulus didn’t even feel bad for thinking about him like that any more. Perhaps if he’d been a better brother …
‘Did you not have fun today?’ Mother asked as she, too, sat down at the table. He hadn’t even heard her enter.
‘I did,’ he mumbled. She wouldn’t understand.
‘Yet you seem so …’ she sighed and shook her head.
She said no more about it for the rest of the evening, and neither did he. Father occasionally spared him a look that seemed to ask what was going through his mind, but never voiced his thoughts, and Regulus didn’t feel up to starting the conversation about all he’d seen today. It wasn’t something he could easily bring up over dinner. It wasn’t something trivial.
So he only spoke of it when he and Sirius had been sent up to their rooms.
He took Sirius with him and sat him down on his bed.
‘You should’ve come with me today,’ he started.
‘To Cissy’s?’
Regulus nodded. ‘Did she take you when you were seven?’
Sirius looked utterly confused.
‘The burial chamber. With our ancestors,’ he clarified.
Sirius still looked confused. ‘We haven’t even got a “burial chamber” –’
‘Yes, we have!’ he said, excitement building. Because if Sirius didn’t know … ‘I went there today, and everyone was there, in the burial chamber –’
‘There’s no such thing,’ Sirius maintained, crossing his arms.
‘But there is! I saw it! And they were talking to me! Our ancestors, they were there!’
‘You’re making this up,’ he argued. ‘Imagining things. It’s all in your mind.’
‘But they spoke to me. They spoke to me. How could they speak to me if they weren’t there?’
Sirius clasped his hands and rose from the bed. ‘The dead are dead. They are gone. Whatever you heard, it wasn’t them. Goodnight.’
‘That’s not true, I could hear them, they’re there, Sirius, I’m telling you!’ he called out, but Sirius ignored him. The door fell closed and Regulus glared at it for a while.
‘It’s your loss, if you don’t believe me,’ he muttered under his breath when it became clear that Sirius was not coming back.
And it was Sirius’ loss, of course, this disbelief. He would never hear their ancestors. He would never feel their presence. He would never know how it felt to stand in their midst.
But to be made out a liar? To be accused of making it all up? To say he was imagining things?
It made him angry. Very angry. So angry that he didn’t even care that Sirius was upset. So angry he even wanted to destroy something.
He balded his fists and tried to push the feeling down, but failed; the urge was too strong, and he punched his pillow several times, and his mattress, and his thigh – ow! maybe not his thigh, but he did hit his pillow again.
It didn’t help. The room seemed to close in around him. His chest ached and he wished desperately for Sirius to come to and understand he hadn’t been lying. He wasn’t making stuff up. If only he could prove it. If only he could take Sirius with him next time.
He curled up in his bed, not even bothering to undress. He didn’t feel up to it. He didn’t feel capable. He felt horrible and childish, pushed aside and not believed, and there was nothing he could do about it.
It was only by some miracle that he managed to sleep that night, even if it were but a few hours. Even if, when he woke up, his conversation with Sirius still haunted him.
He had simply wanted to share in his wonder, and it had resulted in disappointment.
And he shouldn’t have been surprised. That’s what hurt so much: he shouldn’t have been surprised that Sirius had managed to twist the conversation and make him miserable instead of excited, because that’s what Sirius did. Sirius loved making everyone feel miserable.
But nobody ever seemed to understand that. They all liked Sirius too much to see.
The resentment remained all weekend. He did little more than sulk in his own bedroom during that time, hoping that Sirius would come looking for him – but he didn’t. He was all alone, cold, longing for the burial chamber and the warmth he’d felt there. So he hoped that Narcissa would somehow miss the train to Hogwarts. Then he’d be able to visit her – and their ancestors – sooner, but he knew his chances were slim. Had anyone ever missed the Hogwarts Express? But even if, by some miracle, she did; there were probably countless other ways to go to school. It wouldn’t keep her at home.
And so the weekend passed (and Narcissa left for Hogwarts), and the week made way for Monday, and Monday cast away all of his resentment, all of his anger. It pushed back his wishes and the whole visit to the burial chamber; it was his actual, real birthday today. That meant he was seven for real now. And being seven meant so many things, things beyond the gifts he’d received at his party. No, being seven meant the start of his formal education, as Father always called it.
Father was always very serious about it. Regulus was serious about it, too. That’s why he made sure to wake up earlier than he normally would’ve, and he made his way over to his wardrobe feeling all big and grown and ready ready to face the first challenge that came with this new age: choosing what to wear.
Up until this point his parents, or else Kreacher, had always picked out his robes. Up until this point all he’d had to do was pull them on in the morning and off in the evening. That was all. There was nothing more to it.
But now? There were no clothes laid out for him. It was his own task. And he was determined to get it right.
But there were so many of them! They still hadn’t done away with his old robes, and they stared longingly at him from the wardrobe. Under-robes in all the colours he could think of: plum and maroon and emerald and gold and fiery red and purple and pink and even one in an ugly shade of yellowish green that reminded him of bile. There were many outer-robes with beautiful embroidery, which showed constellations or had the Black family crest on them, or charmed ones, which showed the wearer’s mood or warned of nearby spell-casting. There were dress robes with many buttons and cuffs and collars, but there were also play-robes with elbow patches (but he was far too old for those now – they’d be the first to go when Kreacher sorted through their clothes again, come December) and all-weather robes, which were hooded and had capes already attached (but he had no need for those on his birthday, either. He had to look serious and ready to learn, not ready to go outside and play with mud).
It was almost impossible to choose, and yet he had to, so he pulled them all from his wardrobe and stalled them out in his room. Some on the floor, some on his bed, all visible to him from where he stood, so he could take his pick more easily.
He ended up wearing green, calf-length robes – he knew he should’ve chosen one of his new ones, but they were so plain and boring and this was his day, after all. And these green ones were embroidered with his own constellation, his own star shining brightest of all. Because that was what he was today, wasn’t it? The star. These robes would only make sure he’d be seen as one, even if they were only calf-length. They really were the only option he had.
This all had taken so long – picking out his robes and dressing, combing his hair, washing his face, putting on his hat – that he barely had any time left before he was expected downstairs in Father’s study. Not even enough time to eat breakfast.
So he raced down to Father’s study – who cared about breakfast? – and seated himself at his new desk there. It was a small one, compared to Father’s, or even Sirius’, but it was beautiful and made him feel grand and important. And he made sure he sat upright, with broad shoulders and a straight back, and his hands neatly folded on his lap as he waited for Father to arrive. It couldn’t be long now, could it?
He glanced at Sirius, who sat at his own desk, beside him, and smiled. The contrast between them couldn’t be greater: Sirius was slouching in his chair. Sirius was impatiently drumming on the wood with his fingers. Sirius yawned and stuck out his tongue whenever their eyes met. Sirius did all sorts of things Regulus would never dream of doing on such an important day.
Regulus allowed himself a few seconds of glee before forcing his face into a straight position again. He would wait patiently. And he did. He waited, only glancing back at the door occasionally, but intently, as if he could summon Father just by thinking very hard about it, though of course that didn’t work. There were Summoning Charms, but he wasn’t sure they worked on people – and he’d need a wand and plenty of practice for that, anyway.
But Father did enter, eventually, and he carried with him a hornbook, a writing slate, some paper and even parchment, and also a couple of quill pens, an inkwell, slate pencils, a sponge and blotters, sand, and a little knife. All were floating beside him until Father directed them to put themselves down upon his own desk, away from either Sirius or Regulus, except for the hornbook.
As it came near, Regulus could make out the lesson sheet bearing the inscriptions. He wasn’t stupid; he knew these inscriptions as the letters of the alphabet. He wasn’t completely illiterate, that was impossible with an older brother and older cousins so intent on reading him books and getting him to guess the letters for the last three years of his life. But to be put on the spot …
And he was, for Father drew up a stool and sat down, still holding the hornbook. ‘After today’s lesson,’ he said, ‘I want you to have this. Keep it on you at all times.’
Regulus nodded, eyeing the hornbook with much curiosity. It was silver and rather pretty. And it would be his after this? Really? He looked sideways to Sirius, but he didn’t seem very impressed.
‘For now,’ Father continued, ‘let’s go over what’s written on here. Regulus?’
But Regulus, not wanting to guess incorrectly and disappoint everyone, didn’t say anything. He simply stared at the shapes – the letters – in front of him, trying his best to be sure of his case but not knowing how to be.
‘All right, let’s go slowly. This is A,’ Father prompted, pointing to the first one, ‘the letter of Astronomy, Amulet and Alchemy. And this is …?’
‘B, for Billywig, for Butterbeer and Broomstick. C is for Cauldron –’
‘Yes, yes, Sirius,’ Father interrupted, annoyed. ‘I should hope you know this by now. I wasn’t asking you; I was talking to your brother.’
Sirius scoffed but spoke no more.
‘Regulus, your turn. Can you tell me what sound this makes?’ Father pointed to the next letter, and he knew he could no longer remain silent. He had to say something. He had to dig deep into his memory and come up with the right letter.
‘Err … D … as in … er … Dark Arts?’
Both Father and Sirius laughed. ‘That’s certainly creative, son, certainly … Let’s keep that one: D is for Dark Arts. Brilliant!’
‘No, it’s for Dragon,’ Sirius protested, ‘It’s for Dragon, and Demiguise, and –’
‘And Dark Arts,’ said Father, and that was that.
The rest of the lesson was much the same, reciting letters and voicing them, and knowing what words matched the letter best.
After three hours of hard work, they were done, and he got to take the hornbook with him. And only then he noticed the engravings depicting all sorts of things easily traced back to what the letters stood for. Whenever he sounded out a letter with the hornbook carried around his neck, the appropriate engraving would spring to life. There were many, including an Erumpent, and a Flitterbloom, a Hippogriff and an Invisibility Cloak – which was his personal favourite: the engraving was completely invisible until the word itself was mentioned. It took him a while to figure that out.
This all made it far easier to study than he’d imagined, and by the end of the week he had mastered the entire alphabet – and it had taken over his life. It was all he did. He only thought back to Narcissa and the burial chamber when Father mentioned Hogwarts during one of their lessons, just offhandedly. It made him very much aware of the fact that his three cousins were all there, having fun and learning loads of spells, whilst he was stuck in his father’s office, dissecting words into letters and forming new words with those letters.
‘Regulus’ for example became ‘Rat’, ‘Elf’, ‘Galleon’, ‘Umbrella’, ‘Lamb’, ‘Unicorn’, ‘Silver’ – all of which could be further dissected. ‘Rat’ became ‘Remembrall’, ‘Acromantula’, ‘Transfiguration’; and ‘Elf’ would be ‘Enchantment’, ‘Lunascope’, ‘Fluxweed’ – and so on. The trick was to come up with more and more difficult words each time, yet all he could think of was his cousins, and how they had to feel, spending so much time away from home. If they felt lonely or sad.
Did they miss him?
He felt all funny inside and decided break this little vow of silence that had been between himself and his brother since that day he’d come back from Narcissa’s. It hadn’t been a complete vow of silence – they had spoken no less than they normally did, they just hadn’t really … done anything together.
But with any luck, that was about to change.
He stepped up to Sirius, and asked, quite confidently, as if nothing had happened between them, ‘Want to play wizard chess with me?’
‘Oh, so it can talk,’ Sirius spat back at him as he brushed past.
‘What?’
‘You’ve been ignoring me for ages,’ Sirius scoffed.
‘Well, I didn’t –’
‘You “didn’t mean to”?’
‘Well, you wouldn’t believe me about the chamber!’
‘Because it’s not real.’
‘It is!’
‘Is not!’
‘It is!’
‘No, it isn’t!’
‘It is, just because you didn’t get to go when you were seven –’
‘I didn’t go because it isn’t real!’
‘It is real!’
‘No it isn’t. And you stink!’
‘I do not! And it is!’
‘Yes you do! You’re a poopyhead!’
‘I’m not, I’m not, I’m not!’
‘Poopyhead,’ Sirius sang, sticking out his tongue. ‘Poopyhead.’
‘ARGH! I hate you!’ Regulus yelled, anger and the need for destruction building inside him. He clenched his fingers into fists and stormed down the stairs before he’d do something worse.
But Sirius seemed not to care. ‘I hate you more,’ he said calmly.
He turned back around, standing halfway on the stairs. ‘I hate you the most!’ he called back.
‘Children, children! What’s the meaning of this?’
Regulus – and Sirius, for that matter – jumped up at the sudden voice sounding through the hall below. They leant over the bannisters to see who had interrupted their bickering, and Regulus’ heart was still racing when Sirius broke the silence. ‘Aunt Lucretia!’
She stood in the entry hall and told them, rather sternly, to come downstairs – and they did not have to be told twice. They went down as quickly as they could without running, and came to a halt in front of her.
‘Now, what’s all this about hating each other?’ she questioned.
‘He started it!’ Regulus pointed at Sirius.
‘That’s not true!’ Sirius protested at the same time. ‘He –’
‘One at a time, please! Sirius?’
‘He was lying to me.’
Aunt Lucretia raised her eyebrows and turned on Regulus. ‘Were you?’
‘No!’
‘He was!’
She sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter if he lied or not. You mustn’t say such things, or you’ll come to regret it. Apologise to your brother, both of you. Go on.’
‘Fine. I’m sorry,’ Regulus mumbled.
‘Good enough. Sirius?’
‘Sorry,’ he spat. ‘Happy now?’
‘Quite. I’ll leave you two to it, then. I’m here to see your father. Do you know where he is?’
Sirius vaguely pointed at the ceiling and Aunt Lucretia brushed past them to get upstairs. They waited for her to disappear from sight, then turned to each other again.
‘Poopyhead,’ Sirius whispered, and Regulus could only glare at him; nobody ever picked his side, and Aunt Lucretia would surely hear if he said anything.
And so they went their own ways; Sirius down to the kitchen to sulk by himself, and Regulus up to his room to sulk there. Because they were Blacks, and when Blacks grew angry, they either exploded or imploded – or both. And seeing as both brothers preferred not to get in any more trouble, they imploded and ignored each other for the rest of the day.
And the day after.
And the day after that.
Because that was the problem that lay at the core: working through issues together, talking about it, trying to fix it – it was a foreign concept to them both.