More Fools Than Wise

MORE FOOLS THAN WISE: All Is Illusion


His escape from Grimmauld is flawless.

As Kreacher predicted, his mother is engrossed in applying pounds of cosmetics in preparation for her Sisters of Purity meeting, while his father is passed out in the study, snoring away in his squishy armchair.

No one takes note of his frenzied packing; he's out of the house, through the warded garden gate and into the back alley without incident. He crosses the park across the street without looking back, keeping his head down to avoid making eye contact with the few Muggles he encounters.

He reaches The Leaky in record time, ignoring old Tom's perfunctory greeting and making his way to the grubby courtyard behind the inn. Tapping the bricks with his wand, he darts through the opening and into Diagon Alley.

Regulus shifts his rucksack as he threads his way through the mid-day throng of humanity choking the main street. He detests crowds, especially when the majority of those in it are disgustingly cheerful and impudent. They smile and nod to him as they pass, but he doesn't return the empty gestures, preferring to either completely ignore them or, when assailed with a particularly offensive display of faux civility, to repay the offender with his most fastidious sneer.

He wonders which of the smiling wizards he's passing have just given their wives a sound thrashing, or how many of the laughing witches had recently reddened their child's backside unnecessarily.

The façades these liars put in place when in public sickens him. The masks they wear are obvious, clearly unreal, just like the layers of make-up his mother applies daily.

It's delusional thinking that he abhors and actively avoids.

Better to wear one's true face, no matter how unpleasant it might be.

He pauses for a moment before Quality Quidditch Supplies, mesmerized by the display of the latest Cleansweeps in the shop's expansive front windows. While he most definitely needs a new broomstick before his next match, he's too anxious to be on his way to make a purchase.

Ducking down a blessedly empty side street, Regulus quickens his pace, heading away from Diagon proper and into the oldest section of Wizarding London. The cobbled streets and alleys narrow as he goes, the buildings on either side of him growing older and more unkempt.

The air is heavy and dense, rife with the promise of more rain to come. He looks up at the sliver of grey sky visible between the looming buildings just as a low rumble of thunder breaks the silence of the empty street.

His fingers close around the box in his jacket pocket, the wood smooth and warm beneath them. Leave it to Kreacher to find it; Regulus was certain that he'd never see the item inside ever again. Sirius is sure to be pleased.

A few more yards and the road opens into a small square, a mossy fountain trickling away contentedly. Six narrow streets empty into the square, and Regulus heads down the third one on his right. It' is so cramped that if he were to outstretch his arms, he could brush the buildings on either side with his fingers.

Another flash of lightning is followed by a crack of thunder, and the first raindrops thunk into the multitude of puddles pocking the alleyway.

Regulus takes the next right, then left, then right again, knowing his route by heart. He makes his final turn down a blind street when the heavens open and loose a deluge upon him. He sprints the final hundred yards, lighting flashing and thunder rumbling almost continuously. He's drenched to the bone as he climbs the front steps of the last row house on the left and darts inside, closing the wide front door and leaning against it to catch his breath.

A lone wall lamp illuminates the grimy entranceway. The carpet is threadbare, and where the wallpaper isn't badly stained, it is beginning to peel. He'll have to speak to Uncle Alphard about the state of his rental flats.

“Starting to look a bit too much like Grimmauld,” he thinks aloud.

He brushes his long fringe out of his eyes, mounting the stairs and extracting his wand. He's mostly dried off by the time he reaches the top of the staircase, pocketing his wand to knock on the door of flat 2B. His fist stops just before contacting the blistered and chipped surface of the door; grinning, he carefully turns the knob, delighted to find the door unlocked.

His brother can be so predictable!

With a firm push, Regulus slips inside the small flat, Sirius's name dying on his lips.

The state of the room isn't what's so surprising.

One of the many things his brother is not is neat or tidy. So it isn't the clothes strewn across every available horizontal surface, or the overflowing ashtrays, empty firewhiskey bottles nor the colony of odorous Muggle take away boxes that startles him. Though the lively pornographic centrefolds tacked to the walls are a new addition, they're hardly unexpected, nor unwelcome.

What has temporarily rendered Regulus speechless is the tableau writhing about on the huge brass bed dominating the room: Sirius is completely starkers, flat on his back, eyes squeezed shut and both hands magically lashed to the tarnished bars of the head board. An extremely skinny arse flexes away atop Sirius, a sheen of sweat clinging to pale, scarred skin.

“Shit.” Regulus slams the door as hard as he can, which causes an immediate cessation of skinny arse flexing. He watches with immense satisfaction as Lupin's head whips about to stare at him, face ashen, eyes wide.

“Nice day for it,” Regulus offers, dropping his rucksack and shrugging out of his jacket.

Lupin utters something unintelligible and tries to crawl off the bed whilst concealing his erection, only succeeding in tumbling to the floor most unceremoniously.

Sirius shifts around on the rumpled bedclothes, his cock fully hard. “Still haven't learned to knock, have you?” he says, smirking.

“Still haven't learned to lock your door when you're fraternising with rough trade,” Regulus shoots back.

Lupin jumps up, sandy hair a total mess, both hands covering his wilting dick. “I am not rough trade.”

Regulus snorts, kneeling to root through his rucksack. “Compared to that twat Potter, you are.”

Lupin opens his mouth to respond but Sirius interrupts him.

“Don't you need to use the loo, Moony?”

“Loo? Actually I don't—”

“I think that you do.”

Lupin looks from Sirius to Regulus and back again. “Honestly, I don't.” He scans the room and snatches up his clothes. “I do believe I will get dressed now, as the mood is most definitely broken, I should think.” He stomps into the loo, slamming the door.

“Is he always so dramatic?” Regulus quips, sitting on an arm of the ratty sofa that faces the hearth.

“Yes, he is,” Sirius replies with a wicked grin.

“Am not!” Lupin huffs from the loo.

Regulus admires how nonchalantly his brother lies there, as if having a conversation whilst naked and bound to a bed is an everyday occurrence. As far as he knows, for Sirius it most probably is commonplace.

Not for the first time, he marvels at how fortunate fate has been to his older brother, in not only providing him with a wantonly carefree attitude, but with a handsome body as well. Unlike himself, who takes after his short, stocky mother, Sirius more closely resembles their father: tall, lean and perfectly proportioned, with just the right amount of muscle. Sirius's hair is more desirable as well, jet black and straight, the polar opposite to his grey-black mane of unmanageable waviness.

Sirius is quite the looker, all told, and he knows it, too, wielding his good looks like a weapon.

Regulus's gaze takes in Sirius's broad chest, a light dusting of short hairs covering both pectorals. A thin trail leads down the centre of his stomach, terminating in a thick bush surrounding Sirius's sizable cock. Larger than his own, naturally, and still at attention, as it happens. His eyes meet Sirius's, and the knowing behind his brother's fathomless, grey eyes nearly takes his breath away. He shifts about on the sofa's arm, the pressure on the front of his trousers becoming just a bit of a problem.

Sirius smiles and turns his head toward the loo. “Erm, Moony? If it isn't too much trouble, how about releasing the bonds? I do believe my arms are falling asleep.”

The door opens just enough for the tip of a wand to fit through. With a flick, the leather ropes unwind and fall to the mattress. Without a word, the wand retracts and the door slams shut again.

Sirius sits up and stretches luxuriantly, rubbing both shoulders. He plumps up the pillows behind him, leaning back and summoning a pack of cigarettes. He lights one with his wand, pulling on it and throwing one arm behind his head. He shows no intention putting on any clothes or covering himself, which pleases Regulus no end.

Always the exhibitionist!

“So,” Regulus says, his tongue too thick and uncooperative.

Sirius blows a trio of nearly perfect smoke rings, the fingers of his free hand drifting across his abdomen as if searching for something. “So, Mum and Da are Mum and Da, and here you are.”

“I just can't tolerate that house any longer. You know how it is.”

“Indeed I do. Why do you think I left two years ago?” Sirius's hand wanders lower, the tips of his fingers brushing against the head of his now flaccid, yet still fat, cock.

“Because you were fucking Potter.”

“Correction, little brother. James fucks me.” Sirius shrugs. “That was simply a bonus, gravy if you will. I would have moved in with the Potters even if James wasn't as confused as he was. Or is.”

The door to the loo flies open and Lupin steps into the room, violently stuffing his mis-buttoned shirt into his trousers. “I submit that James has finally gotten his head on straight, no pun intended. He and Lily are to be married, you know. You're simply jealous that he's found someone else to shag rather than you. Where are my shoes?”

“Here. Behind the sofa.” Regulus points to the floor next to his feet.

“Rather rude eavesdropping on someone else's conversation, my dear Moony.” Sirius purses his lips, creating a respectable skull with his cigarette smoke. “Besides, who ever said that James stopped shagging me when he started fucking Lily?”

Lupin ceases his hopping and drops his remaining shoe. “You can't be serious?”

Regulus and Sirius snigger in unison.

“Most amusing.” Lupin struggles to jam his foot into his shoe. “James wouldn't do that to Lily,” he mutters to the carpet.

“He isn't; he's doing it to me,” Sirius replies. “Bloody bi-sexuals. They'll shag anything, really.”

Lupin shakes his head and returns to putting on his shoes. “You're disgusting, truly.”

“Not as disgusting as someone who's so frightened of their parents and societal norms that they'll hide their true selves and marry simply out of convention. Like our dear friend James.”

“I don't know at all what I see in you,” Lupin replies, smoothing his hair.

“I do.” Sirius grips his dick and strokes it.

Regulus barely restrains his laughter, locking eyes with Sirius again.

“Well, I think I've had enough of this for one day.” Lupin glowers at Regulus. “I doubt I'll be back tomorrow, so you'd best make other plans, Sirius.”

“Come now, don't be like that. Petulance doesn't suit you.” Sirius crushes out his cigarette and leaps from the bed. “You're always so uptight around full moons.” He grinds his groin into Lupin's thighs. “And don't pretend that you weren't aware of James and I. You know him as well as I do, and there certainly are no secrets in that dorm room of ours.”

Lupin stares at the ceiling as Sirius's hands caress the werewolf's ass. “I suspected that you two were still involved. Your silencing charms are most atrocious.”

“Who says we even cast silencing charms?”

“You're a pig.”

“And you love it.”

Lupin barely conceals a grin. “Regardless, you could've had the decency to tell me, you know.”

“I know,” Sirius murmurs, suckling and biting at the skin of Lupin's neck. “I simply assumed you knew and didn't care. Even that dullard Pettigrew managed to sort things out. You're right, though, I should have said something. Please forgive me?” He slips both hands down the rear of Lupin's trousers.

“I don't fancy sharing you, with anyone,” Lupin gasps.

“Merlin on a crutch,” Regulus blurts out, stalking over to the corner of the flat to root about in the cold box.

“Fine. The next time James wants to climb into my bed, I shall send him packing.”

“Truly?”

“Of course.”

“Why don't I believe you?”

“I wouldn't,” Regulus comments, still sifting through the cold box.

“Ignore him,” Sirius says. “See you tomorrow then? Same time?”

Lupin's hands clamp onto Sirius's arsecheeks. “Tomorrow.” He plants a sloppy kiss to Sirius's forehead and moves away toward the hearth. Sparing Regulus one last withering stare, he Apparates away with a much louder than necessary crack.

“How—why—do you put up with that?” Regulus snorts, popping the cork on the last bottle of butterbeer.

Sirius flops onto the bed and lights another cigarette. “He's got a nice, long cock.”

“I shouldn't think that would be enough to compensate for the rest.” Regulus sits next to his brother.

“The lycan thing, you mean?”

Regulus shakes his head. “It's not that he's a werewolf. Actually, that's his only redeeming quality.”

“Now you're just being hateful.”

Sirius's remark stings more than it should. “I'm not being hateful. He's a poncey git, plain and simple.” He guzzles his butterbeer and makes to study the design of the hideous carpet. “And he's incredibly naive if he believes that you'll actually stop letting Potter fuck you.”

“I never said anything of the sort. I merely promised to rebuff James the next time he slips between my bed curtains. A world of difference, actually.”

“So Lupin's not only shockingly gullible, he's an idiot as well.”

“Remus has his issues, but then again, don't we all?” He leans back on one arm, blowing smoke rings again. “Hasn't had an easy way of it, and if you got to know him, you'd feel differently. He puts up with me, which really says something.”

“Yes, it says that he possesses incredibly poor taste, not to mention low self-esteem.”

“Someone's in a right foul mood today,” Sirius barks out, jumping from the bed and grabbing the nearly empty bottle of firewhiskey from the cluttered counter top.

“I find that being Crucioed before noon really tends to have a souring effect on one's outlook.”

Sirius takes a sizable swallow of the alcohol. “They'll never change, you know. They'll only get worse as time goes on.”

“And that's all you have to say?”

“What would you have me say?” Sirius paces the room, bottle in hand. “Our parents are monstrous, vile people and it's our rotten luck to live with that fact. Is there something in this that you're not aware of? Some aspect of our situation that hasn't been discussed, analysed or dissected previously?”

Truthfully, Regulus has no idea what he wants his brother to say, either. What he's after is more than mere words, something unspoken yet immediately unimpeachable. He watches as Sirius pushes the dingy curtains aside. Lightning flashes, immediately followed by a thunderclap that rattles the window panes.

Sirius notices Regulus noticing him. “What?”

“Would you mind putting something on? The sight of you prancing about like that is—distracting.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “You are in a state.” After a few moments of searching through piles of clothing, he pulls on a pair of Muggle denims, leaving the zip down and button undone. “Better?”

“Much. Thanks.”

“So what was it this time? Grades? Poor performance on the Quidditch pitch? More murmured longings to be in Gryffindor rather than Slytherin? Didn't clean your plate at tea?”

“Declan Wilkes lent me his Walkman for the hols. Kreacher found it and gave it to Mother.”

Sirius picks up a glass from the sink and sniffs it. “Detestable creature. Watch yourself around him; he cannot be trusted.” Shrugging, he fills his glass with firewhiskey. “So you dared bring Muggle filth into the house. Honestly, a Walkman though? Plays those awful cassette tape things, doesn't it?”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

“A real appreciator of Muggle music would know that cassettes are an imperfect medium, all full of hiss and distortion.” Sirius shoves several days' worth of The Daily Prophet off of a small table to reveal his battered phonograph. He opens the lid and carefully holds up a large, black disc. “Vinyl provides the most accurate playback of the recording.” Replacing the record, he summons his wand and taps the phonograph device three times, causing some mellow, Muggle jazz to emanate from the machine's tiny speaker. “Delicious, isn't it?”

“Is it possible for you to ever stay on point?” Regulus rubs his forehead. “Walkman or phonograph, the end result would be the same and I'd still be sitting here hoping to have an intelligent conversation with you.”

“Now who's being overly dramatic?” Sirius snorts, turning off the phonograph. Folding his arms across his chest, he adopts an exaggerated posture meant to suggest attentiveness.

“They never treated you this badly,” Regulus says. “You always brought Muggle things home.”

“And not all of them inanimate, as I recall. But that was then, little brother, before the great disappointment.”

Regulus nods, remembering all too well the depth and breadth of their father's rage at Sirius's coming out as queer part way through his brother's fifth year. If conditions at Grimmauld had been steadily slipping since Sirius's sorting into Gryffindor, they'd entered a full-on tailspin following that particular revelation. “The second great disappointment, you mean.”

Sirius nods, pulling a face. “No one was more surprised when that manky Hat croaked out Gryffindor. I had no idea the thing was so fickle. The Hat did place Pettigrew in Gryffindor that night as well; perhaps it was simply having an off year.”

“Actually, you're a good match for that house. So full of yourself, you're ready to burst at any moment.”

“Love you too, little brother. So why the sudden urgency?”

“I don't think I can stay there any longer, Sirius. You wouldn't believe the dreadful state of the house. And still, they go on as if nothing's amiss.”

“You expect too much of them,” Sirius replies softly, sitting next to Regulus. “They're beyond redemption and they know it, although they'll never admit it to anyone, especially themselves. So they lash out at the only one they can.” He sips his whiskey. “You should get out of there. Soon.”

“I know, but where?” Regulus's heart leaps into his throat as Sirius furrows his brow in thought.

“That bloke Wilkes sounds decent. Perhaps his parents would take you in?”

“No,” Regulus replies far too quickly. “That wouldn't work at all.”

“Why not? Doesn't he, well, fancy you?”

Regulus jumps from the bed as rain pelts the windows. “No, it's not—that's not the point. I—”

“You want to get out and if that's your only option, you should take it. I know the family. Sturdy, if a bit on the boring side. Perhaps not as dull as the Potters, but close.”

“Declan's parents—they're nothing like Mum and Da, but they're still beholden to all that pureblood nonsense. They wouldn't be thrilled to find that their son and I are shirtlifters, that's a sure and certain fact.”

“Don't tell them.”

“I wouldn't, but I'm positive Declan would. He's so immature that he still believes love can conquer all.”

“So, you're in love with him?”

Regulus pulls a face. “Absolutely not. He's the deluded one, not me.”

“But you're still shagging him, eh?”

“That's irrelevant,” Regulus barks, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just believe me when I say it wouldn't work.”

“Fine. One of your other housemates, then.”

“Not a chance. All of them and their families are far worse than the Wilkes are.”

Sirius strokes the stubble on his chin. “Aren't there some Ravenclaws that you're friendly with? I see you hanging around with that Ewan Carmichael fairly often.”

Regulus shakes his head in frustration. He does enjoy Carmichael's company from time to time, and while they've enjoyed themselves in the empty locker room on more than one occasion, the admittedly attractive Ravenclaw is even more childish than Declan. “I don't really know him that well,” he lies. “How many times do I have to tell you there's no one from Hogwarts who'll take me in?”

“You'll never find a solution by being so negative, little brother.”

“I don't need a lecture on positive thinking, Sirius.” This isn't at all how Regulus wants things to go. He's planned out everything, practiced the conversation over and over in his head, and now that the time has come, he's botching it completely. Why can't he convince his brother see the only solution?

It's so blasted obvious!

“Then what's your point? You keep telling me you need to get away, but you've shot down each and every one of my suggestions out of hand.”

Frustration overtakes Regulus as the storm outside intensifies.

“I don't know what the fucking point is! All I know is that I want—I need—”

Words fail him once more and he leans his forehead to the window casement. A moment later, arms encircle his waist. He breaks out in gooseflesh as Sirius's breath washes over the back of his neck.

“Slow down, dragonarse,” Sirius soothes, hugging him tightly. “Take deep breaths and imagine that calm sea, yeah?”

Regulus closes his eyes and leans into Sirius, placing his hands over his brother's. He struggles to visualise that mythical body of water, their very own “calm sea”. How many times had they come to each other back home, one or both of them distraught over something horrid that their parents had done? He cannot begin to count all those times, when they'd held each other in silence, imagining placid waters, sometimes for hours. “I'd forgotten how much I need this,” he whispers, as much to himself as anyone else.

“You know how to do this on your own,” Sirius reminds him.

“It's not the same—without you.”

“Perhaps, but you've gotten through incidents like this before,” Sirius continues, “and you'll be fine this time. No worries. Right now, I've got ya.”

His anxiety melts away instantly. Regulus turns around, throwing his arms around Sirius and burying his head into his brother's bare chest. The tang of Sirius's musk is irresistible. Sighing contentedly, he slides his hands down to rest on the loose waistband of Sirius's denims. “I knew I could depend on you. Gods, but it's horrid at home with you gone. I miss you so much.”

“As I could imagine. I do tend to brighten up any room.”

Regulus snuggles against Sirius, closing his eyes and allowing his fingertips to drift down inside the back of his brother's denims. He sighs, feeling more relaxed and content than he has in months. He hasn't truly realised the gaping hole left in him by Sirius's absence from Grimmauld Place. He's been limping along, a wounded shadow of himself, incomplete without his brother. Being in Sirius's arms again makes him feel light hearted, almost giddy. Perhaps things really do tend to work out for the best. He's never believed such nonsense, but right here and now, anything seems possible.

“I miss being with you so much. I go into your empty room, and the silence...the emptiness...it's too much to bear.

“I suppose I've seen this coming on for some time now,” Sirius says, stroking Regulus's hair. “You've no idea how difficult it was to leave you behind, with those people, in that place. You understand that I had to get away, and going back there...well, I can't. I'm surprised that you've lasted this long.”

“If I can get away from them—” Regulus tails off, relishing the feeling of his brother's body.

“You will, Reg. We'll get you out of there straightaway.”

“It can be just like it used to be, remember? Both of us together again. And don't worry, I'll stay out of your way, I won't touch any of your things, and I'll make myself scarce when your wolf boy comes round.”

Sirius pushes him away, his head cocked to one side. “Whatever are you going on about?”

“Moving in with you, of course. At least for now. If you speak to Uncle Alphard, you might persuade him to allow me to move into one of the other flats here, once one is available, that is.” Regulus's heart sinks as Sirius shakes his head.

“You can't move in here.”

There is a finality to Sirius's statement that chills Regulus to the bone.

“You said you'd help me, didn't you?” Regulus tries to hold on tighter as Sirius pulls away.

“Yes, I said that, and I will help.” Sirius stalks around the sofa, hands planted on his hips. “Meaning that I'd be happy to go with you to speak with the Wilkes, to explain the situation at home. To support you and assist in convincing them to take you in. To find another alternative should that prove unworkable. But to move in here? With me?” He throws his arms wide. “That's simply not possible.”

The room seems to tilt sideways as more lightning flashes beyond the windows. Thunder rocks the entire flat as Regulus stumbles toward the sofa and drops into it. “But you must let me stay here. I've nowhere else to go.” He twists about on the cushions, attempting to catch Sirius's gaze. “Please, Sirius. I need you.”

Sirius refuses to look at him, continuing to pace the small flat like a trapped animal.

Time slows to a crawl as water begins to plink from the ceiling into a small pan on the table. Seconds drag and the very air in the room becomes concentrated, heavy and oppressive.

This isn't happening.

He's made some progress but it's all slipping away now. He's got to convince Sirius to take him in. There's no one else in all the world that can save him.

“Please,” he repeats, sickened by the neediness of his own voice.

“We can't go back to the way things were,” Sirius says evenly. “It's too easy to fall into old habits. We're both older now, stronger and smarter. Having you here would be...counterproductive.” He meets Regulus's gaze, the anguish in his eyes tempered with a implacable coldness.

Regulus moves to his brother, throwing his arms around Sirius's waist. “How can you say that? There was nothing that we couldn't face, because we knew we had each other to depend on. You're the only one I really—”

“Don't!” Sirius wriggles out of Regulus's embrace.

“Don't what? Speak the truth? Don't remind you how it was then, how we withstood the madness, together? The things we did, what we said to each other?”

Sirius moves away, shaking his head. “The past is just that, Regulus. We need to look ahead if we're ever to leave it behind.”

“Some things need to be remembered,” Regulus murmurs, his mind aswirl.

More lightning, and then a revelation!

How could he have forgotten?

“Wait, wait!” he calls out, leaping from the sofa and snatching up his jacket.

Sirius ceases his pacing and regards him hesitantly.

Regulus extracts the wooden box. “You'll never guess what this is! Kreacher found it in Father's study.” He crosses to Sirius and offers up his prize. “Go on. Look inside.”

Sirius takes the box, turning it over in his hands, studying it intently.

“Open it!” Regulus cries out, rushing toward his brother, startling him in the process.

“Calm yourself,” Sirius says sharply, pausing a moment before releasing the catch and opening the box. His eyes brighten as he views what is inside. “Merlin's balls, but I'd never thought I'd see this again! I was certain that Father destroyed it.”

His brother's reaction causes some of the weight to lift from Regulus's shoulders. “I couldn't believe it either. Looks no worse for wear, eh?”

“No, not at all,” Sirius replies. “Here, help me move the table.”

The brothers shove the small table and chairs against the wall, clearing a space in the centre of the room. Sirius carefully extracts the tiny object from the box, setting it on the floor. Summoning his wand, he murmurs an incantation, and with a bright flash, the thing is instantly returned to its normal proportions.

“Good thing I know every one of Da's spells forward and backward,” Sirius says, his eyes locked onto the restored object. “Hello, beautiful.” He runs his fingers over the motorbike's gleaming front fender. “It's been far too long.”

Regulus watches as his brother mounts the bike and places both hands on the handle grips. Sirius's smile is bright enough to ignite a thousand suns. He remembers the day Sirius first brought the Muggle contrivance home, purchased with Galleons Uncle Alphard had given him for his fifteenth birthday. A 1962 BSA A-7, whatever that was. One motorbike was much like any other to him, and he hasn't a clue as to the particular allure of this machine, although it's evident that Sirius does.

“I thought Mum was going to pass out right there in the garden,” Sirius recalls.

“Da almost touched it,” Regulus adds, recalling the faint glimmer of appreciation that had manifested in their father's dull eyes. It had been clear that their mother had wanted to dispose of the motorbike immediately, but Orion had inexplicably overridden her wishes. Their father never explained his reasoning then, or his abrupt change of heart barely six months later.

Everything went profoundly wrong immediately after that.

“You'll have to shrink it again to get it outside,” he says, placing a hand on Sirius's shoulder.

“Damn right we will,” Sirius replies, eyes ablaze. “Thanks for this. We'll definitely take her for a spin once this blasted rain stops.”

“Sounds brilliant.” Regulus picks up his rucksack and plops down on the sofa. “I shouldn't have any problem sleeping here, although I'm sure the bed's much more comfortable.” He musters what he hopes to be his most winning smile, yet when he glances at his brother, it fades instantly.

Sirius isn't smiling. In fact, he isn't even looking at him. Instead, he leans forward, hanging his head so low that his collar-length locks graze the surface of the motorbike's petrol tank.

A sense of overwhelming loss and hopelessness washes over Regulus in a suffocating wave.

Please, don't...

“You don't think that this alters anything?” Sirius asks, his expression somewhere between confusion and anger. “I'm grateful that you brought the motorbike to me, but you can't stay here. This is mine, understand? You've no idea what it's taken for me to get this far.” He swipes the hair from his face, anguished but clearly steadfast. “You've got to find your own path, little brother.”

“I don't know what that means!”

Sirius dismounts the motorbike, the unfastened denims barely clinging to his narrow hips.

Regulus hoists himself from the sofa, his head throbbing. “You're all I've got, Sirius. You're my last hope. I need you.”

“You seriously overestimate me. I don't have any answers.”

“Yes, you do. Look at you! You've escaped, you got away from the insanity and you're happy. You've friends, people who love you, who want you. You've got a fucking future! All I want is a chance for the same thing. You can show me how to do that.”

Sirius stares at him for a long moment before turning away. He grabs the bottle of firewhiskey, draining it in a single gulp. “And you deserve a chance for happiness as well. Everyone does.” He whirls around, his face red. “But you've got to do it on your own terms. Simply doing what I do isn't valid, Regulus. You've got to stop pretending to be me and finally be yourself.”

For the first time, the flames of anger flicker to life in Regulus's heart. “Pretending to be you? Is that what you really think I'm doing here?”

“I think—no, I feel that you're grasping at straws, trying to latch onto something, anything to pull yourself out of the rubbish heap that is our family. Honestly, I don't blame you.” Sirius drags his fingers over the saddle of the motorbike. “You've got to work to be your own person, not some half-arsed copy of me.”

“I don't want to be you, Sirius. It's not—what little brother doesn't look up to and admire his older brother?”

“You're pushing too hard. It's more than that, and you know it.”

“That's total shit,” is all Regulus can muster.

“Is it? You never had any aspirations to be sorted into Gryffindor until I was,” Sirius spits out. “And it was only after I told you that I fancied blokes that you decided you harboured similar feelings. You couldn't possibly have known what you wanted back then. How could you? No one that young knows what they truly want.”

“Oh, I see. So what you're saying is that I'm queer only because you are?” Regulus storms across the flat, sweeping the counter top clear with a swipe of his arm. “I don't know why I'm the way I am, any more than you know why you're the way you are. You weren't any older than I am when you decided on your path or whatever the fuck you call it.”

Sirius stands there impassively, weathering his onslaught as though made of marble. “You've deluded yourself. Can't you see? You believe you're in love with me and that doesn't make you queer. That's someplace neither you nor I need to go.”

“I don't know what the fuck I am!” he bellows in response. “All I know is, I want this.” He drops to his knees, savagely yanking down Sirius's denims. He grins crookedly at the sight of his brother's heavy erection. Pausing only a second, he grasps Sirius's cock at the base, laving the head of his brother's erect member with relish. He then swallows as much of Sirius's prick as he can, sucking and slurping for all he's worth. Sirius's hands wrap around his head, their fingers digging into his hair, holding on for dear life.

That Sirius isn't pushing him away or protesting speaks volumes.

Regulus continues ravaging Sirius's cock, taking in the entire length until he feels he might gag. Sucking off Declan has never been like this, but then again, his housemate's prick is not nearly as magnificent at his brother's. He slowly works his way back up Sirius's erection, dragging his teeth along its underside.

Sirius gasps and pushes him away then, stumbling into the back of the sofa, denims at his thighs, his fat dick red and heavy. “All right, intent on proving to me that you're a good little shirtlfiter then? Here's a little lesson you'll find most useful.”

Regulus watches as Sirius shoves his denims down, kicking them off and then sending them flying across the flat.

“Let's see if you're as good as your word, little one.”

Sirius advances on him, eyes wide and feral. He roughly grabs Regulus's shirt and shoves him toward the bed.

The backs of Regulus's knees hit the edge of the mattress and he loses his balance, collapsing into the tangle of bedclothes. “I'll show you what I'm good for,” he hisses, sitting up and yanking off his Slytherin tee shirt. He kicks off his trainers and pulls off his socks, Sirius staring at him hungrily all the while.

The storm outside continues unabated, a mere spark in comparison to the inferno now raging deep within Regulus. Ripping open the button and zip of his trousers, he rolls back onto the mattress, lifting his legs into the air and shoving his trousers and y-fronts off in a single, fluid motion. He then scoots across the mattress, spreading his legs wide. He toys with his fully erect prick, his other hand behind his head. “Time to put your Galleons where your mouth is, big brother. Show me how wrong I am.”

Sirius stands there, his expression glacial.

“What are you waiting for, prodigal son of Grimmauld Place? You know you want to. Do it.”

More lightning and thunder.

Angry rain pelts the cloudy windowpanes.

The tiny flame of the wall lamps flickers in an errant, indoor breeze.

“Do it.”

“You don't know what you want.”

“Coward.”

“It won't change anything.

“Just fucking do it!” Regulus grasps his aching cock, stroking it feverishly. He cannot make out Sirius's face clearly in the increasing gloom, but he senses a faint smile upon his brother's lips.

After what seems like an eternity, Sirius climbs into the bed, his knees astride Regulus's hips. He utters an incantation and the leather straps wrap around Regulus's wrists, entwining themselves about the bars on the headboard and stretching themselves taut. “This won't make any difference,” he whispers, lowering his body onto Regulus's.

Regulus gasps when their hard cocks align; he gulps for air as Sirius presses fully against him, bare skin to bare, sweat-slicked skin. He strains against the bonds, which are apparently charmed to exert precisely opposite pressure in matching proportions.

“Change is the only constant,” he hears himself say.

Sirius mutters another spell and a warm sensation engulfs Regulus's groin, quickly spreading under and around his bollocks. Sirius begins to grind his erection into him, languidly at first but with gradually increasing speed.

Regulus bucks himself upward and into his brother, timing his movements to match Sirius's. He cranes his neck, licking at Sirius's collarbone, attempting to nip and bite at Sirius's skin.

Sirius finally looks at him then, eyelids heavy with lust, his sweaty hair hanging down and torturing Regulus's brow. “Decide. No going back after this.”

Regulus jerks his hips into Sirius's. “Shut your hole and get to it.” He yanks on the bonds with all his might, causing the headboard of the bed to smack into the wall. His heart pounds in his chest, anticipation of the step they're about to take making his head swim. How long has he dreamed of this, the ultimate consummation of their relationship?

Sirius says something, possibly another incantation, perhaps a curse to the Fates. The next moment, he's hoisting Regulus's legs up and over his shoulders. Sirius re-positions himself, jamming the head of his erection into the crack of Regulus's arse.

The world dissolves into a shower of sparks as Sirius drives his cock into him. The pain is exquisite, mind numbing, completely devouring and insatiable. He cries out, thrashing his head back and forth as Sirius ploughs into him, deeper and deeper, tearing him asunder.

“Gunnnnnhhh,” he groans, thrusting upward and impaling himself fully upon Sirius's cock. He wants to yell, to sing, to pray—everything all at once, but words are impossible. He clenches around Sirius's cock, holding his breath, relishing the moment.

Sirius shatters his hastily constructed world in a nanosecond, slowly withdrawing his length, only to slam it back home once more. His brother repeats the process, faster each time.

Regulus's universe fades away until everything, Hogwarts, Grimmauld, Diagon, the dingy flat—all cease to exist. Nothing is real but the scent of Sirius, his musk, his tangy sweat, his cock pounding into him, making them as one.

Sirius pistons his arsehole, panting now, grunting at the exertion of it.

A red heat begins to blossom deep within Regulus, mushrooming out and upward, consuming him molecule by molecule. He lets go, submitting to the maelstrom of lust as the icy hot inferno blots out further cogent thought.

Sirius

He has no idea whether he's spoken or screamed his brother's name. The essence of Sirius permeates him, weaves its way into every part of his body, so that all of him virtually sings it in an endless loop.

Sirius!

Regulus comes then, his ejaculate coating his abdomen, droplets of his semen spattering his chest and chin. His throat constricts and he gasps for air, yet still Sirius ravages him. Just when he feels as though he can take no more, he senses a slowing to Sirius's movements, a notable shortness of breath.

The next instant, Sirius shudders to a halt in mid-thrust, arching his back and uttering gibberish to the ceiling.

Regulus draws in a deep breath as his brother's load fills him. He pauses for just a second before ramming himself upward into Sirius one last time, railing against the magical bonds with all his might..

Sirius slumps down, spent and breathless. “Statem Solvo!”

The binding leathers unwind and Regulus throws his arms around Sirius. He clenches himself around Sirius's softening cock, attempting to prolong their connection as long as possible. He nuzzles the side of Sirius's neck, suckling his way upward until his lips meet Sirius's.

Sirius attempts to pull away, but Regulus persists, thrusting his tongue into his brother's mouth.

Sirius briefly returns the gesture before pulling out of Regulus and flopping sideways onto the mattress. “Doesn't change a thing,” he says breathlessly.

Regulus meets his brother's gaze but doesn't respond.

His blood runs cold at the fear in his brother's eyes, at the abject terror threatening to erupt from Sirius's every pore. It's so clear now, so obvious that even a blind man could have sensed it. All these years, he's imagined that Sirius has succeeded in conquering their past, that his brother had put Grimmauld Place and its infectious decay behind him.

Now, he sees the truth.

He's been such a fool.

He understands now.

He knows that Sirius hasn't conquered a thing, how the same sense of dread that eats away at his own heart is still at work in his older brother. All the bravado merely a false front, a pathetic attempt to conceal the creeping darkness and consuming despair overwhelming Sirius's soul.

Regulus understands that Sirius is not his salvation but merely a harbinger of what is in store for him.

There is nothing else to say.

Truth is truth.

He rolls on his side, facing away from his brother, pulling the thin sheet up to his waist.

It's all clear to him now, every bit of it. He's been right all along in that Sirius is the only one that could help him, the only one that could illuminate his true path.

Mostly right, anyway.

Some things simply aren't meant to be.

With a hastily muttered Nox, the flat is plunged into darkness.


~~~~~ * ~~~~~


The day is gorgeous.

Electric blue skies without a cloud in sight.

Too bright.

Overdone.

False.

Regulus closes his eyes again, the wind roaring in his ears. He holds Sirius tighter, burying his head against his brother's broad back.

The motorbike's engine wails and screams as Sirius navigates them through the cramped streets of Diagon.

Regulus is numb, blank, as if the previous night's thunderstorms have surged through him, leaving him clean yet barren.

Empty.

It's all just another lurid joke played upon him by a callous universe, nothing more.

His mind wanders until he's aware of the distinct sounds of traffic and motorcar horns.

Muggle London.

He opens his eyes, blinking at the brightness of it all.

It's strangely flat, unreal, barely two-dimensional.

A few more moments pass and Sirius brings the motorbike to a jerky halt.

Regulus looks around blearily, the familiarity of the small park finally registering upon him.

“We're here,” Sirius says, not bothering to kill the motorbike's engine.

Regulus dismounts the cycle, adjusting his rucksack and staring at Sirius.

“Let me know what I can do to help.” Deep grey eyes, bottomless, immutable, stare back at him.

He knows I know.

“You already have.”

Sirius averts his gaze. “I'll go with you to see Wilkes' parents, if that's what you still want. You understand why we can't be together, yeah? How it would be the ruin of us both?”

Regulus remains silent, studying his brother, memorising every freckle and pore, the grey of his eyes, the fall of his raven locks on his shoulders...

“Regulus?”

“Good bye, Sirius.” He turns away then and trudges across the park.

He doesn't turn around when the motorbike's engine revs repeatedly, nor does he look when the tire squeals against the pavement.

By the time Regulus reaches the kerb in front of Grimmauld Place, the sound of Sirius's motorbike is lost amongst the endless cacophony of Muggle London. He rounds the back of the block of row houses, calling out the incantation that drops the obscuring and protecting wards for number twelve.

He steps through the back door, navigating the dim, narrow hallway.

Regulus stops to gaze into the study, Orion asleep in his desk chair, his head lolling crazily to one side. If not for the laboured snores, one might think him to be dead.

“Did Master Regulus enjoy his little adventure?”

Regulus looks down to see Kreacher peering up at him, the elf's expression one of immense satisfaction.

“It was most—illuminating,” Regulus replies flatly.

Kreacher snorts. “Knew that it would be, I did. Kreacher rarely wrong about such things.”

“When my father wakes, please tell him that I need to speak with him. About Lord Voldemort.”

“Very good Master,” Kreacher answers. “About time. Father will be most pleased, indeed. Is there anything else?”

“As a matter of fact, there is.” Regulus rummages about in his rucksack and removes Declan's Walkman. He stares at the Muggle device briefly before handing it to the house elf. “Destroy that thing, immediately. I have no further need of it.”

Kreacher takes the device, nodding sagely. “As you wish, Master.” With a soft pop, the elf disappears.

Regulus shuffles into the parlour, dropping his rucksack at the doorway. He flops into the hideous chaise and stares at the tapestry of the family tree.

All things must pass, even The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Oblivion is inevitable, inescapable, it seems.

He may have failed to escape his destiny, but there are still options.

Minor variances that a person can affect before the looming finality of it all.

To leave a mark, to ensure that one's name continues even after the actual person is dust.

Though his decent into shadow is certain, why must he make that journey alone?

Aren't experiences always best when shared?

Why not take as many down with him as he can?

Regulus shifts in the chaise, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It's a brilliant idea.

Quite elegant, really.

Just like the tapestry.

“The artistry is exquisite,” he says to the empty room.


~~~* fin *~~~