Chapter V:
The Christmas Letter

If Sirius had been kinder, if he had been a good brother as he had been for years, then the tears wouldn’t have come, Regulus was sure of this. The tears only came because Sirius wasn’t a good brother, and wasn’t kind. The tears came because this would be the first time he couldn’t rely on him for the grand final, the greatest and hardest test of all. They’d had obstacle courses before, a few years back, and last year they even put on a show, with Sirius levitating autumn leaves in the shape of ghosts, and Regulus changed their colours – or so they’d said. Really, Sirius had done both those things, because Regulus hadn’t managed to turn even one of them purple. Sirius had helped him loads at Hallowe’en last year. And the year before. And the year before that.

But this year, like with everything else, he was on his own. And it looked like they had to perform a series of tasks rather than one big one, as Father simply put down two pumpkins and told them to push them off the table. It was something that should be an easy enough start, but really wasn’t, so he didn’t mind that Sirius was to go first again. It allowed him time to come up with a plan.

Not that he knew how to come up with one. He just watched as Sirius stepped forwards, he watched him screw up his face. His fingers trembled as he held them above the pumpkin. Regulus could barely breathe, let alone think – if Sirius failed …

But he didn’t. The pumpkin trembled, then lifted nearly a full inch off the table, hovering there for one, two, three seconds before sliding sideways and dropping down. It split open, spilling its guts all over the floor.

Mother smiled and clasped Sirius on the back at once. ‘Wonderful control for your age –’ she began.

‘Very impressive indeed,’ Father interjected, already turning away from Sirius, who was grinning that horribly infuriating grin again, the one that said, See? I’m better than you. I’ll always be better than you. You’ll never catch up. Regulus hated that grin. Hated how small and insignificant it made him feel. Hated Sirius for how effortlessly he wielded it, for how effortlessly he wielded everything.

Why was Sirius always better than him? Why was he always faster, always stronger, more capable? What was wrong with him that he couldn’t do even this one simple thing?!

‘Regulus? It’s your turn.’

Father’s hand rested on his shoulder and gave him a brief, encouraging squeeze. But when Regulus looked up to meet his eye, he could see he was already expecting to be disappointed, just like Mother this morning.

His shoulders dropped and he shook his head. He couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t let Father down like that. Wouldn’t watch Sirius gloat over it forever. Wouldn’t prove him right.

‘Visualise it,’ Father said gently, but Regulus could hardly see at all now. His eyes were burning and watery, the tears falling freely. The pumpkin had gone all blurry. He tried to think about it moving, lifting into the air the way Sirius’ had, floating up and up, but the tears kept falling, and the pumpkin stayed exactly where Father had put it before.

‘Didn’t I say it?’ said Mother in a voice that made Regulus shrink back. ‘He’s not trying hard enough. Sirius managed on his first attempt –’

‘He’s just not ready,’ Father said, his hand slipping from Regulus’ shoulder. ‘Give it time.’

‘Time?’ said Mother sharply. ‘He’s had almost as much time as Sirius; they’re only about a year apart –’

Mother abruptly stopped talking. Regulus had closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the ongoing tears, but it hadn’t worked. Opening them again, he saw Father glaring hard at Mother, his wand raised, one of his free fingers resting against his lips. Mother had crossed her arms, her lips thin as she glared back. For a while, nobody said anything. Then Father whisked around.

‘Both of you, go upstairs. Dinner will be in an hour.’

Sirius didn’t need to be told twice. He practically bounced from the room, leaving Regulus standing there, rooted to the spot, staring at the pumpkin that represented everything he couldn’t do, that Sirius could. Everything he wasn’t, that Sirius was.

‘Regulus.’ Father's voice was softer now, almost kind – no, pitying. Father pitied him.

He felt more tears come up and nearly choked on them. He fled, running up the stairs as hard as he could, not caring about anything but getting away from the pumpkin, and Father, so he wouldn’t see his tears, and he wished he could stop seeing Sirius’ triumphant face, but it was burnt into his mind, and there was no escape from that.

He reached the topmost landing and burst into his bedroom. The door slammed behind him as he threw himself onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow to muffle the sobs that finally broke free. His mind was racing. He hated Sirius. Hated him. Hated how easy everything was for him, how he never had to try, how he always, always won. How much he clearly loved it, making him feel miserable and worthless and pathetic like now.

He pressed his face harder into the pillow and wished, not for the first time, that he was an only child.

And he cried. He cried until the tears dried and left him hollow and exhausted and still furiously angry, and he hadn’t long to recover from that. Kreacher came to call him downstairs, and he had but a few moments to wash his face and scrub away the evidence of his tears, to hide them from view. But although he scrubbed until his skin was red and raw, when he looked at himself in the mirror, his eyes were still puffy, and his face was all blotchy. A fresh wave of humiliation washed over him; Sirius would see. Sirius would know.

Why did he have to be such a baby and burst into tears over every little thing? He was a Black! He was supposed to be above such silly things!

He dried his face, feeling worse than ever, and waited until he heard Sirius go downstairs, counting to thirty before following. He would not walk down with him. Would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how upset he was up close.

He also made sure to sit as far away from Sirius as possible, and he kept his eyes fixed firmly on his plate all through dinner, never looking up to meet Sirius’ eye, never even acknowledging him at all. If Sirius could mess with him without speaking, with nothing but that stupid face of his, then Regulus just wouldn’t look at it any more.

Even during the ceremony, after dinner, which had him standing next to Sirius, with no opportunity to hide his face, he didn’t look his way. He could feel Sirius’ eyes on him, but he kept looking at the tapestry, and Mother, and the candles. Anywhere but Sirius. And he tried to focus and listen to the names Mother read out, the witches and wizards that had been killed or otherwise hurt by Muggles and their puppets in the Ministry all year. It seemed to go on for ages, far longer than last year. Or perhaps he couldn’t remember last year’s list as well as he thought he could. After all, last year, he and Sirius had been together for it, making funny faces at each other whenever Mother and Father weren’t looking. Now he was stuck focusing on the names, just so he wouldn’t think of Sirius …

But despite that, he was sure the list really was longer; the world outside had already gone black when they were done, and he was sure that hadn’t been the case last year. He and Sirius were also immediately dismissed and sent to bed, whereas last year they’d had tea and some cakes Kreacher had made. He didn’t mind that bit, though. The less time he had to spend around Sirius, the better.

And so he wasted no time and bolted up the stairs again and into his room, closing the door firmly behind him. He took off his robes and climbed into bed without even bothering to put on his nightclothes. He was exhausted. He pulled the covers up and stared at the ceiling, his mind going over every single failure of the day, and there were many of them. Sirius’ smug face found its way into his mind as well, again, as did Father’s disappointment, and his pity. Mother’s glares and stares, and what she’d said to Father about him …

The anger from before came back, though it hadn’t ever really gone away. Dinner and the ceremony hadn’t melted it. If anything, it had grown stronger. More determined. Sirius this, Sirius that. He pulled a face. ‘Sirius managed on his first attempt’ – bah! Sure, he had done it on his first try, but what did it matter? Sure, Sirius had won today. Had made him look like a fool. Humiliated him and stood there grinning whilst he’d cried. But Hallowe’en wasn’t the only important day, and Sirius wasn’t the only one who could ruin things.

Regulus turned onto his side, his mind beginning to work through possibilities. Sirius’ birthday was in just three days. It was only his ninth birthday, so nothing special (loads of people turned nine every year), but Mother and Father always made a fuss out of Sirius’ birthdays and their grandparents would surely come over to praise him and make him feel special.

Regulus’ jaw clenched. He didn’t know what he was going to do yet. But he’d think of something. He still had time to plan and come up with some way to ruin Sirius’ birthday the way Sirius had ruined Hallowe’en.

He fell asleep to that comforting thought and woke up to it early the next morning, and spent all day with it. Two days. Two days. And then it was one day. And all the while, Regulus didn’t look at Sirius. Not even when Sirius, during their lessons, had to read out loud about the burnings and the drownings and the laws that forced them into hiding. He read it perfectly, of course, and Regulus didn’t have to look his way to know the look on his face. And he didn’t have to look at him to know he was making fun of him when he stumbled over his words when it was his time to read. But he’d get back at him in one day, and so it would be fine. One day. And one day became nil days

And it carried on all day, making Regulus feel more self-conscious than ever. He was acutely aware of the ease with which Sirius’ quill moved across the paper whilst he was stuck with a slate and pencil and couldn’t even remember how to spell his own name.

The only consolation was that he’d get back at Sirius about Sirius's birthday. About the cake Mother would bake, chocolate with raspberry filling because that was Sirius's favorite. About the way Father would let him stay up late. About the presents that would be wrapped in silver paper and waiting on the breakfast table.

He could steal one of the presents. Hide it somewhere Sirius would never find it. But that seemed too obvious, too easy to trace back to him. No, it had to be something subtler. Something that would ruin the day without being overtly his fault.

The second of November dawned gray and cold. Regulus woke before Sirius - he could tell because the house was still quiet, no footsteps in the hallway, no sound of Sirius's door opening. He dressed quickly and went downstairs, where Mother was already in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

'You're up early,' she observed.

'Couldn't sleep,' Regulus said, which was true enough. He'd spent half the night thinking, planning, discarding ideas and forming new ones.

He helped Mother set the table, placing Sirius's plate and cutlery just so, and when Sirius finally came down, Regulus was already eating his porridge, eyes fixed on his bowl. He heard Sirius pause in the doorway - probably surprised to see him up first for once - but Regulus didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge him at all.

Lessons that day were arithmetic. Father set them problems to solve, columns of numbers to add and subtract. Regulus worked through his slowly, checking and rechecking each answer. Sirius finished first, as always, and brought his parchment up to Father's desk. Regulus watched out of the corner of his eye as Father reviewed it, nodding, marking it with approving ticks.

When Regulus finally finished and brought his own work up, Father frowned at the third problem. 'You've carried the wrong number here,' he said, pointing. 'Try again.'

Regulus took his parchment back and returned to his seat, his face hot. Across the room, Sirius was reading a book, looking perfectly content. Looking like someone who'd never failed at anything in his life. Looking like someone whose birthday was tomorrow and who had no idea what Regulus was planning.

Except Regulus still didn't know what he was planning. Not exactly. He'd thought about dozens of things - spilling something on Sirius's good robes, hiding his favorite book, 'accidentally' breaking something precious - but none of them felt quite right. They were all too small, too petty, too easily fixed.

That afternoon, Mother announced she'd be baking Sirius's birthday cake. 'You boys can help,' she said. 'Regulus, you'll measure the flour. Sirius, you'll crack the eggs.'

They worked in silence, Regulus on one side of the kitchen and Sirius on the other. When Sirius reached for the sugar at the same moment Regulus did, Regulus pulled back and moved to the other end of the counter without a word. Sirius took the sugar, measured what he needed, and set it back down.

Regulus watched the cake batter come together. Watched Mother pour it into the tin. Watched her slide it into the oven. And suddenly, he knew exactly what he was going to do.

It wouldn't be about ruining the cake or destroying the presents or making some grand, obvious gesture. No, what would hurt Sirius most - what would really, truly ruin his birthday - would be for Regulus to simply not be there. To refuse to participate in the celebration at all. To make it clear that he wanted nothing to do with Sirius's special day.

It was perfect. Mother and Father couldn't force him to pretend to be happy for Sirius. Couldn't make him smile and play along. And Sirius would have to sit there through his birthday dinner, open his presents, blow out his candles, all while knowing that Regulus hated him. All while feeling Regulus's absence even though Regulus would be right there at the table.

The thought made Regulus feel warm and cold at the same time.

That night, the night before Sirius's birthday, Regulus heard Sirius moving around in his room across the hall. Heard the creak of his bed as he got in. Heard the silence that followed. Regulus stared at his ceiling and thought about tomorrow. Thought about keeping his face blank when Sirius came down to breakfast. Thought about not singing when Mother brought out the cake. Thought about how Sirius's perfect day would be ruined by Regulus's perfect silence.

He fell asleep smiling.

When Regulus woke on the third of November, the house already smelled like breakfast. Mother was making Sirius's favorite - eggs and sausages and toast with jam. Regulus dressed slowly, deliberately taking his time, knowing that Sirius would be downstairs first, would be sitting at the table surrounded by his wrapped presents when Regulus finally appeared.

And he was. When Regulus came into the dining room, Sirius was already seated, still in his nightshirt, staring at the pile of silver-wrapped packages at his place. He looked up when Regulus entered, and for a brief moment their eyes met. Regulus saw something flicker across Sirius's face - hope, maybe, or expectation - and then Regulus looked away, taking his seat at the opposite end of the table.

'Happy birthday, Sirius,' Father said warmly, coming in behind Regulus and ruffling Sirius's hair.

'Thank you,' Sirius said, but his voice sounded oddly flat.

Mother brought out the breakfast, setting Sirius's plate down with extra care. 'Eleven years old,' she said. 'Such a special age. Soon you'll be going to school, learning properly.'

Sirius nodded, picking up his fork. But he kept glancing at Regulus, who was methodically eating his eggs without looking up. The silence stretched between them like a physical thing.

'Well,' Father said after a moment, 'aren't you going to open your presents?'

Sirius reached for the first package.

Sirius’ birthday was upon them quicker than anyone could’ve guessed – or, rather; it was upon them quicker than Regulus could’ve guessed. But that was mostly down to two things: his own birthday seeming so recent, and his managing to read an entire book two days prior to the big event.

Well, calling it a big event was a bit much. Regulus refused to allow Sirius to overshadow his academic achievements just by not dying the entire year. Turning nine was nothing special.

But he didn’t tell Sirius any of this. Not because he wanted him to enjoy his day or anything noble, but because they still weren’t speaking, and Regulus took this very seriously, even after two months of it – especially after two months of it. He would not be the one to give in first. He wasn’t that weak. Besides, Sirius had started it, so it was on Sirius to end it.

That was why he would use gestures if he needed to ask Sirius something, or even write it down now he could write. And Sirius did the same. Anything to not admit defeat. Anything to not be proven wrong – Blacks were never wrong.

Neither of them seemed likely to change the situation for the better.

The only change that happened was Sirius worsening it, on that first of November. He’d worsened it so much.

Father had entered the study with two large stacks of paper that morning.

‘Take hold of your pen and write your name at the top,’ Father had said to Sirius, placing the stacks in front of him. ‘Then work your way through the sums.’

And oh, how Regulus remembered hearing, and seeing, Sirius scribbling away with ease. Oh, how he remembered his grin. How he heard his mocking, silent voice telling him how useless he was, because he couldn’t write the same as he did. Because he was stuck with a slate and pencil, copying down simple words. Because he wasn’t Sirius, wasn’t as good as he was. He was a failure. A panicky, forgetful failure, who had forgotten, just for a little while, how to even write his name. Father had come to his rescue, sure, but the damage had been done and Sirius’ smug grin would forever be etched on the surface of his mind. Even managing to read a whole book hadn’t numbed that pain.

He still grinned now, whenever their eyes met, and mimicked writing with his hands. Regulus hated him for it, and he couldn’t even tell him off, not without breaking the silence.

But he could get back at him. He would.

And so he made sure to sit between Grandfather Arcturus and Grandmother Melania on the sofa in the drawing room, forcing Sirius to sit in a lone armchair. And he made sure to talk to them and their other grandparents excessively, so they couldn’t talk to Sirius. On his birthday.

Only their grandparents had come. Uncle Alphard was in France and Aunt Lucretia was on holiday with her husband and his family. Their cousins were at Hogwarts, and Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella had some other thing to do. And ninth birthdays just weren’t important enough to invite the whole family. That would all be reserved for the big eleven – Sirius would have to wait two more years for that.

‘You know, I read a whole book two days ago,’ said Regulus, when the conversation fell silent. ‘It was about a wizard getting his first wand. It was really good.’

Everyone murmured words of appreciation, and Regulus sat up a little straighter.

‘I can write now, too,’ he said proudly. ‘Not as well as Sirius, but …’

‘I’m sure you can write just as well, dear,’ said Grandmother Melania. ‘You just need to practise.’

‘I have been. Every single day,’ he said proudly. ‘Sirius hasn’t even practised at all.’

‘That’s very good. Keep up the good work and you’ll be better than Sirius very soon.’

He looked to his brother, briefly, but he didn’t seem to mind the comment.

‘Father said something similar, you know, last Friday,’ he said. ‘Said I’ll be better than Sirius soon, because I take it seriously and he doesn’t. You know he doesn’t even care if he writes his name poorly? Says it’s just a name so it doesn’t matter!’

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. The disdain for their family name was clear enough in Sirius even if he hadn’t spoken of it last Friday. And, more importantly, it got his grandparents’ full attention. All four of them turned to Sirius, who sat slouched in the chair, staring at the clock as if it would make time go faster.

‘Is it true what your brother says? You don’t care for this family, is that it?’ Grandfather Pollux asked harshly.

‘What? No.’

‘Liar,’ called Regulus. ‘He wouldn’t put effort into his name, and he said he hates me, and he’s called Mother and Father names – he even tried to run away last summer, isn’t that right, Sirius?’

Sirius glared at him with such intensity Regulus had to look away, but he didn’t let that stop him.

‘And I bet he doesn’t like the gifts you got him,’ he said.

‘He’s just making stuff up,’ Sirius muttered angrily. ‘He’s trying to make me look bad on purpose!’

‘Now, now – why would he do that?’ Grandmother Melania interrupted.

‘Because he’s a little pest that –’

‘Sirius!’

Father had come over and now hovered over his chair. ‘If I catch you calling him names one more time, I swear –’

‘Sure!’ Sirius yelled, getting to his feet. ‘Accuse me all you want when he’s the one who started it!’

‘I am not accusing you, nor am I interested in games of who started what. I simply need you to be on your best behaviour. Now, apologise to your brother.’

‘Never.’

‘Apologise.’

‘No!’

Next thing he knew, Sirius was being dragged out of the drawing room, and the birthday was cut short. His grandparents left with many apologies to Regulus for their short visit and with promises of a do-over, and Mother complimented him on how mature he’d been despite Sirius’ provocation.

They ate dinner without Sirius that evening, and when Regulus was sent upstairs to go to bed, Sirius’ door was locked.

Perhaps he’d gone a bit far in getting his older brother punished, but he hadn’t fully lied – he hadn’t – and therefore Sirius had kind of brought it upon himself.

He was the one who had started with the name-calling, after all.

He told himself that a few more times to lull himself to sleep.

He repeated it a few more times throughout the following days, and weeks, as well, until he finally started to believe it.

It was almost December when that happened, and that meant it was almost time for the Christmas holidays. He was already counting down the days; Narcissa would come back from Hogwarts, and she would take him to visit the burial chamber again, and he could hardly contain his excitement about that. It overshadowed all the nasty things Sirius had said, and did away with all his guilt, because everything went according to plan again – he would simply take Sirius with him to visit the burial chamber, and the problem would sort itself out.

With just a week to go until the holidays would begin, Kreacher approached him, a letter in his hand.

And the letter was his. It was his very first letter, and it was delightfully exciting, so he eagerly took it and broke the seal, smoothing it out to read.

Admittedly, he wasn’t a very fast reader. Kreacher had long disappeared when he finished the letter. But that in itself was a good thing, as the letter left him in a state of such utter confusion he had to read it over again. And again. And again. And not just because of the difficult words she used, no, he was certain he knew what she meant. But he had to be reading it wrong all the same, because it couldn’t be true.

It couldn’t mean that she wasn’t coming at all; she had to come home. She had to. She couldn’t just trade him in for some Malfoy! They had made plans! She had promised! She couldn’t just leave!

But the rereads brought him to the same conclusion, so he leant against the wall and let his head rest as he tried to make sense of it through his rising tears.

Why did this happen to him of all people? Why had she picked this time to visit the Malfoys? There’d be no fun in spending Christmas on his own. If Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella had made her do this then they ought to have said something to him about it. She ought to have said something about it! She knew how much he looked forward to their going to the burial chamber again together. She knew!

He let out a cry, his tears spilling out, having won the silent war he’d been waging against them. He was angry. He was sad. He was devastated; his whole life was ruined. All of it. Forever. He sank to the floor and hugged his knees for comfort but it brought him none, and so he got to his feet and went for Sirius’ room, not even caring that it was weak to break their fighting for something so trivial, in such an emotional state.

But it was empty.

Of course.

Why had he even gone there? To his brother, as if he’d offer him comfort and not ridicule, as if Sirius would even understand his sorrows! No, it was a good thing Sirius wasn’t there; he would surely mock him for acting so childishly.

So down he went in his search, not for his useless brother, but for his mother and father, both of whom he found in the drawing room.

He ran in through the open door without knocking, ignoring their serious looks or the way they were bent over the Daily Prophet. He ran straight at them, tears flowing from his eyes. They were unstoppable. Especially with his parents in sight.

‘Whoa, whoa! What’s wrong?’ Father grabbed hold of him, forcing him to a standstill near the desk.

He was shaking and fell into his arms, still crying, unable to speak, gasping for air. Father held him and he let himself be held. He could do little more than lean on him for support.

Meanwhile, Father found his letter in his hand and plucked it out, holding it up for Mother to read as they rightly guessed it to be the source of his crying. When they finished reading it, in far less time than Regulus had needed, Father pulled away.

‘Listen, son. Dry your tears. They won’t do you any good; they won’t bring home your cousin. I know it is hard for you to understand this right now, but sometimes, grown-ups have to make difficult decisions. The Malfoys are very powerful, very influential … especially in these times, it would be good for us to be friendly with them.’

Regulus tried to follow his instructions and dry his eyes, but failed, and the rest of Father’s words just didn’t seem to make much sense at all. He wanted to scream and shout about the unfairness of it all, he wanted to force Narcissa to come home, he wanted to destroy something to show how angry he was, he felt so little and insignificant and worthless having to spend Christmas all alone.

‘Regulus …’ Mother crouched down in front of him. ‘Come here.’

She took him in her arms, and he snuggled up against her as she carried him to the sofa, muttering something under her breath about his weight. He ignored it. He closed his eyes. He breathed in her scent and actually calmed down a little. After a few moments of sitting there, together, he mumbled an apology.

And Mother agreed. ‘You’ve got to understand this kind of behaviour … it isn’t right. You’re too old to be acting this way, especially over something as simple as your cousin changing her Christmas plans.’

‘I know … I’m sorry …’

She pulled away from him. ‘Your father and I are very disappointed in you.’

It stung. His heart sank. Tears threatened to come back and fall again – No! No, no, no, no, no – so he desperately tried to focus on something else, something fun or cute, such as puppies or baby occamies, or –

Or the fact Father was sitting there going over the newspaper instead of paying attention to him. It kept the tears at bay as anger and determination grew in its place. He would act his age and make sure they had to take him just as seriously as they took the stupid newspaper.

‘It won’t happen again,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

‘Good boy. Now, off you go.’

He stared back at his father one more time as he got away from the sofa. He still wasn’t paying attention. Mother had turned her attention back to the newspaper now, too … Oh, why had he done this!? Why had he been a baby in front of them when he was supposed to be a big boy now, nearly grown up? He was seven!

He was a Black!

But as he left the drawing room, and his mind went over everything again – and again, and again – the tears came back.

No!

He wouldn’t cry! He wouldn’t cry over feeling bad about crying, that was a silly, childish thing to do. It would only make everything worse.

He turned and ran, back to the stairs, taking two steps at a time as he raced up, to get to his own room. He couldn’t stop the pressing feeling (it was as if he was suffocating!) nor the pricking in his eyes, but he could prevent others from seeing it and thinking him a baby.

‘Whoa, watch out!’

He sped past his brother, whom he’d nearly run into, and raced up the next flight of stairs. He had to reach his room. Fast. Now. He had no time for Sirius and his mocking words.

‘Reg?!’

He heard Sirius storm up the stairs behind him and he quickened his pace – his brother couldn’t see him in this state, he’d never hear the end of it if he did – and reached the topmost landing. He took but a second to regain control of his breathing, then continued towards his own bedroom, Sirius in tow.

And Sirius called out to him several more times, but Regulus reached his bedroom in time and ignored him, shutting the door behind him.

He sank to the floor. He heard his brother on the other side, asking him what was wrong, asking to be let in, but he couldn’t bring himself to open the door; the tears were flowing freely now, and he did not want to be made fun of.

But Sirius continued to ask to be let in, and Regulus couldn’t bear to hear more of it and moved over to his bed, silently, and lay down, pressing his face into his pillow and wishing everything would just stop.

He wished he’d never turned seven. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t good at being seven. And he was a horrible Black.

Sirius called more things through the closed door – and then there was silence.

And creaking. The door opened and Regulus stiffened, and he could hear his brother approaching, could feel the mattresses pressing down, knew his hand was hovering over his shoulder …

‘Reg … whatever happened, it’s all right,’ he heard him say, which was ridiculous, because it was far from it.

And he tried to say that, but he couldn’t get the words to form.

‘Reg …’ Sirius said again, and his hand finally touched his shoulder, and Regulus found he couldn’t keep it in any more and he crawled up against him, holding onto him as if his life depended on it.

And when he calmed down for the second time that day, he told Sirius everything that had happened. The letter, their parents’ reaction, everything. It was as if all anger and resentment he’d fostered all those weeks disappeared with that one touch.

And Sirius’ words made it all so much better.

‘It’s all right to feel sad about it,’ he said. ‘No matter what Mother and Father say.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. And if you ever feel sad about anything again, you can come to me. Because I’m your big brother.’

‘You were mad at me,’ he whispered.

Sirius shrugged. ‘Still am. But we’re brothers, remember? Our bond can’t be broken. You being annoying won’t change that.’

Regulus smiled a little at that. ‘You’re the annoying one,’ he muttered.

‘Sure am,’ Sirius agreed, grinning wide. He reached out and dried some leftover tears with the hem of his sleeve.

Regulus shifted on the bed and put his face upon his brother’s shoulder, listening to him breathe, thought about what he’d said, and supposed it had to be true.

They were on the same side, now and forever.