For a few long moments, they just stood there, side by side, both staring at the contraptions in the centre of the room, the 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’t the 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 nodded absentmindedly, looking around the room, absorbed in the greatness of it all.
‘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?’ he asked Narcissa pleadingly as they made their way back outside.
‘Can’t,’ she said. ‘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.’
‘But 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. Empty and so terribly cold. And quiet somehow. 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? All he ever did was be busy with, well, Regulus wasn’t sure with what Father was always busy, but he still didn’t think it could get him into the burial chamber. And Mother wouldn’t get in either. And certainly not Sirius, not with his antics. Not after trying to run away. Sirius would never end up in that burial chamber. 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, 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? As if he was some kind of crazy person?
It made him angry. Very angry. 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 – but of course! He could! And he would! He would take Sirius to the burial chamber the next time they were at their cousins’ place, and then Sirius would have no choice but to admit he had been wrong, and horrible, all along.
But they’d have to wait so long for that to happen. That was the only problem; their cousins would go to Hogwarts just this weekend, and so they would have to wait until Christmas to visit the chamber. And Christmas was still months away. Months of having to listen to Sirius tell him he was a liar and a crazy person. He wasn’t sure if he could handle it.
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. And to think Regulus had tried his very best to make it up to him, for upsetting him, when Sirius had been the one to upset him, and Mother, and Father! And Sirius never made it up to anyone! Never!
But nobody ever seemed to understand that. They all liked Sirius too much to see how horrible he could be.
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 and apologise, but he didn’t. He was all alone and 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, indeed, arrived at Hogwarts) and 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. 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 a day like today, 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 he was too old for them. 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, anyway? – 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 talking to you; I was asking 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 Regulus 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. And 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 had completely forgotten about Narcissa and the burial chamber until Father mentioned Hogwarts during one of their lessons, just offhandedly. But it was enough to make 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 study, 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 for over a week now, ever since he’d come back from Narcissa’s. Well, 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. Including talking. Really talking. About important things. And it hadn’t even been deliberate. It was just that every time he looked at his brother, there was this gnawing feeling in his stomach, and he couldn’t get rid of it. It only seemed to get worse as the days went on. But he was also increasingly lonely, and especially now he couldn’t stop thinking about Narcissa at school, he just had to talk to Sirius, they just had to do something together, nevermind the gnawing feeling.
And so he stepped up to Sirius after the lesson, 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 grown 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!’
There she was, arms crossed and face stern, standing down in the entry hall. She told them to come downstairs, and they did not have to be told twice – Aunt Lucretia was not someone to mess with.
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 lied to me.’
Aunt Lucretia raised her eyebrows and turned on Regulus. ‘Did you?’
‘No!’
‘He did!’
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 upwards and Aunt Lucretia brushed past them to get to the stairs. 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. And seeing as both brothers preferred not to get into any more trouble, they imploded and ignored each other for the rest of the day.
And the day after.
And the day after that, and the day after that one. Days and days went by and turned weeks, and still they sulked on their own instead of together, and it didn’t even bother Regulus any more that Sirius had been upset that he hadn’t done anything with him for so long. He’d learnt his lesson about that. Every time he felt bad about upsetting Sirius, it was his fault to begin with! It had been his fault with the whole running away, and now as well. Sirius had started all of this. He had. He had brought all of this upon himself. Regulus, though angry, was blameless.
And so the weeks went by. Weeks in which they doubled down on their implosion and didn’t talk, but gestured when they needed something, or wrote it down. Weeks in which Regulus focused on his studies and made real progress. Weeks in which Sirius kept coming close to him, blowing puffs of air into the base of his neck, or shoving him at the top of the stairs, or just looking at him with that horrible, horrible grin of his, daring him to break the silence to yell at him. Daring him to lose.
But Regulus wasn’t weak. He would never admit defeat. Not even to complain when September turned to October and the house grew colder. Not even to gloat when he read his first proper book. Not even to ask for help when Hallowe’en arrived, even though he could really use the help, because he really didn’t like Hallowe’en very much, so that really put a damper on his already sour mood. And it wasn’t that he didn’t understand its importance; he knew perfectly well that it was the one day of the year witches and wizards had any rights at all, the one day the Muggles did not rule them with an iron fist, the one day they were allowed to exist in peace instead of being hunted down. He knew it all.
He also knew it didn’t really change anything. He and his brother still weren’t allowed to go outside for the world beyond their family was dangerous even on a day like this, and there were plenty of Muggles who would seize the opportunity to take revenge, who would boil and eat wizarding boys just as readily as on any other day. And it wasn’t even a particularly festive occasion. It was a day of commemorating the horrors they lived through most of the year – and Regulus understood this well enough, he just hated it. He hated it not for the dreadful tone his parents set all through the day, nor the ceremony after dinner in the drawing room, where they went over all the victims of the year. Not any of that. The reason he hated it was that Hallowe’en made their powers stronger, and that Mother and Father used this as an excuse to test them, to measure how great a wizard they already were, or would one day become. And Sirius always won.
And so Regulus tried not to think about it, tried to ignore the holiday’s existence, right up until Mother woke him for the ‘important’ day ahead. What made matters worse was that she said it in such a way that he couldn’t help but feel as though he’d already disappointed her, and they hadn’t even started yet. So he waited as long as he could after she left the room before getting out of bed, and made sure to dress himself very slowly, deliberately taking his time with his buttons, hoping that the event might somehow be cancelled if he delayed long enough, though he knew that would never happen.
And it didn’t. All he achieved was that Sirius was downstairs before him, which earnt Regulus a sharp look from Father. This made breakfast a rather tense and unpleasant affair. Well, for Regulus. Sirius, who seemed to sense Regulus’ discomfort, livened up and ate his porridge with much enthusiasm, chattering away to Mother about what sort of magic they might try first.
And though Regulus knew he shouldn’t let him get to him, knew that Sirius was doing this just to annoy him, he had to look away just to conceal his own anger. He had to clench his fists just to avoid the temptation of throwing his hot tea at that smug face of his. He was the first to jump to his feet when Mother announced breakfast was over, and he followed her into Father’s study as quickly as he could, just to get some of that energy out.
It barely worked. The only good thing about it was that Mother gave him something else to focus on: a small, glass sphere.
‘This is a special kind of lamp. You can only turn it on by magic, like this,’ she said, holding her hand just above it, and it immediately began to fill with a soft, white light.
She withdrew her hand and the light died. ‘Simple enough,’ she said, holding it out to them. ‘Sirius, you first.’
Sirius – looking as though he just knew he’d be able to do this one, as if he’d been practising for years – took the lamp and held his hand over it the same as Mother had done. He closed his eyes and scrunched his face in concentration. A few seconds passed, and Regulus barely dared breathe – a dim, yellowish glow appeared in the sphere. It wasn’t nearly as bright as Mother’s, and it flickered a lot, but it was good enough. Mother showered him in praise, and Sirius grinned a horrible, knowing grin, and looked straight at him.
Regulus looked away, face reddening. He knew exactly what that grin meant. It was a look that said ‘You will fail’, and he knew Sirius was right. He knew he would never be able to turn on the light. It was too hard. He’d never done anything like it. But there was no way out of it, and so he approached it with shaking hands. And he held his palm over the lamp the way Sirius had, the way Mother had, and concentrated as hard as he could, focusing on light. Any light. Something white-ish. Glowing. Just a light. Please, he begged silently, willing his magic to respond and light it up, but nothing happened. He looked at Mother and knew the desperation was visible in his eyes – Sirius’ ever-smug face told him as much.
‘Concentrate harder,’ Mother said simply, as if that wasn’t what he was already trying to do. ‘You need to focus.’
Regulus closed his eyes and tried again, trying to picture the lamp with the bright, glowing light the best he could. He stood there for what felt like hours, his arm growing tired from holding it over the lamp, his head beginning to ache from the effort … but still, nothing happened.
‘Well,’ Mother said at last, ‘perhaps you need more practice. We’ll come back to this later.’
But they never did. Hallowe’en always followed Sirius’ lead, and Sirius always took them from test to test at a pace far quicker than he could keep up with. Today was no different. Sirius succeeded test after test, creating waves in a bowl of water where Regulus couldn’t get as much as a ripple, and looking more and more smug every minute, whereas Regulus just felt more and more miserable, so that by the time Father entered his study for the final test of the day, just before dinner, he was on the verge of tears again.