Of Truths

Of Truths

1. Chapter 4: Revelations

The attic.

That’s where he usually (always) hid when Regulus wasn’t there to protect him. Huddled deep in
the small space between two suitcases, facing the circular window, coated with dust and
cobwebs which allowed only a few shafts of light to actually reach his toes. He hid there because
he didn’t want anyone to see him cry. He was a grown nine-year-old boy and if he cried, people
(Sirius) could always get what they wanted from him, he was so vulnerable. Something he
actually didn’t gain from his mother, still sick in that run-down town, still in bed. Alive, but only
alive.

Auntie wouldn’t allow him to see her, saying that she had enough of an influence on him as it
was.

“That’s because she’s his mother,” Andromeda would whisper to Narcissa behind Auntie’s back,
always glancing meaningfully at him, and Narcissa had always agreed. He loved Andromeda, the
sister he never had. She was the kind of person who would hand you sweets beneath the table
after you were told to have none. She was the mother in replacement for the one who he was
likely to lose, or, in truth, already had.

But she wasn’t here now. Wouldn’t be until the eve of Christmas. As of now all he had was
Auntie and Sirius and his little friends who would climb through the window of his bedroom. He
knew how they got in, seen them plenty of times, but no matter how many times Auntie and
Regulus asked he would never tell, for he had sworn to secrecy in return for the safety of his
stash of savings he’d been salvaging for a visit to his mother. Of course Sirius had to use that
against him.

And Regulus just left him there, alone.

He never returned on the train, wanting to spend the Yuletide hols in Hogwarts with his new
friends. Auntie, oddly enough, was very understanding with this and had even said that that was
a brilliant idea. “One day, you’ll have friends like Regulus’s too, and make me so proud,” she’d
say, pinching his cheeks. He never understood why she loved Regulus’ friends so much. She’d
never met them, had she?

He hated this. He hated Sirius. He hated his friends. He hated Regulus. He hated his Aunt. He
just hated everything

Darius clutched his robes tightly, giving a small whimper as fresh, hot tears streamed down his
face again. Just when he’d gotten himself calmed down, his subconscious would remind him of
how horrible his life was. Raised in a brothel, mother deathly sick, his Aunt not letting him see
her, Regulus ignoring him, Sirius. He hadn’t any friends to talk to, he hadn’t anyone, save for a
few portraits in his bedroom, but still. He was sobbing now, cradling himself, his head falling to
the side of the suitcase a tad too hard, but he barely felt it.

--- 

Darius was never one to ask for things. He’d been raised in what was a few notches above poverty. He
and his mother lived poor, very poor, but they still had a roof over their heads, although it was
cobwebbed and soiled, and they had enough meals to live on, though not enough for seconds. The
brothel itself was rather extravagant — golds, emeralds, sapphires — but only where the customers
wandered. The living quarters of the ‘ladies of pleasure’ were rather below par to that of the
moderately affluent, but Darius became able to call it home and feel truthful in his words.

Because of his raising he’d grown humble and quiet, the ability to feign happiness as natural as breathing
to him. Yet he still knew how to flaunt what he had, his anonymous father’s hair, his lips, his smile. A
customer would never pay for a whore who cried before being penetrated, and he never did cry.
Though he heard his mother being violated, though he was violated, he never cried, didn’t want to,
couldn’t want to. He still had his pride and his health no matter what happened, no matter what bruises
or cuts he was awarded. His mother, however, was not as lucky.

Then he was thrust into a world polar to the one he knew. It was a world of silks and jewels and white:
wealth.

His aunt drenched him with it: valuable robes, priceless shoes, and other luxurious things people like her
had that still boggled Darius’ mind. “When you get older,” his mother had said as she tucked him into
bed. Small, uncomfortable, but still a bed, “When you get older and become very, very rich, I want you
to spend as much as you like on all of the birthdays and Yules that I couldn’t get you presents for.”
Back then it sounded like a brilliant idea, back when he was still a small child and only recently
introduced to the life a whore, but when he finally reached money he couldn’t bring himself to do it, buy
things for himself. He didn’t want sympathy from others, or rather didn’t want others to think he wanted
sympathy.

Though this is true, just a week earlier Darius had not asked but begged Lucius for an additional week
off, giving the man an excuse so awful it was not worth repeating. Yet, surprisingly enough, Lucius
agreed without batting an eye, simply telling him he’d better be in his office first thing in the morning on
the Monday after, or else. Darius didn’t complain about that arrangement though, never really did.

The suitcases were still there, though he never realized how small the space between them was until he
sat there for awhile, his back began to throb painfully and his foot so heavy with that pins and needles
feeling it was twitching from time to time. Either way, he didn’t plan to move any time soon and had
stayed there for nearly the entire period he’d called off.

Molly had fretted about him the full seven days which was reason enough to stay where he was. She
was a pleasant woman, and Darius liked being in her warm, motherly presence, but she asked far too
many questions, so the best thing for him to do was to steer clear of her unless he wanted to blurt
something that no one but he needed to know. Or worse, break down into tears.

Moreover, he would have never forgiven himself if he’d received any more sympathy than she’d
already given. He’d hate himself if he’d brought someone into his worry, his self-hatred, because it was
noone’s concern but his own, and no one needed to drop their lives to drown in his little sea of
problems: self-loathing, guilt, insecurity, melancholic memories and thoughts. No one needed to go
through that but himself. He would never forgive himself, not the least bit. And if someone convinced
just a bit to let it go, it would never perish entirely.

He’d barely slept that night just a week before. He’d sat there on the cold stone floor for a while,
ecstatic that the potion was not in Sirius’ possession, yet entirely bewildered and angry at what he’d
done, ruining the most absolutely perfect scenario ever possible, but he destroyed it completely with
that teeny moment of lack of self-control. He’d struck Sirius rather hard on the cheek, he could tell in
that fleeting moment by the bright, almost purplish flush that had appeared, and the way his own hand
stung a bit as well. And what Sirius had said, and Darius’ response to it, Sirius would not think of going
that far again, surely, because of what had happened. Why did he have to be so utterly asinine to do
that?

He surely wasn’t hiding from Sirius which was usually the reason why he’d slip into the attic, but he was
avoiding him the best he could, and avoiding is not the same as hiding. Darius tried to lean backward,
but then chose against when something dug into his sore back. He sighed and accepted the discomfort
anyway, his eyes sweeping over the dust-coated antiques and such.

That night six days ago, Darius supposed he’d forgotten who he was.

He was Uldaricus Black, child of Lucetta Black and one of her customers, male whore extraordinaire.
He knew how to bring a man off quickly by the age of seven and bends over for his boss, his cousin,
on a daily basis. There was no way he could’ve panicked when Sirius just began to feel him up, but he
did. He panicked like no cocotte would and had even struck his customer.

He acted on impulse once again, and once again damned himself for it, at the exact time wondering why
he should even bother scolding himself if it was just going to happen again. Sometimes he wondered if
he was a Black at all. Blacks were known for their self-control and pride, two of many other things, but
Darius had neither, or rather a little of one and practically none of the other.

There was a sudden soft thud from downstairs, making Darius’ heart jolt, beating hard and fast in his
chest, and then the chorus of many shoes and soft conversations. It was the members of the Order,
he’d concluded, all arriving for the meeting like Molly said they would. A tight smile captured his lips
when he recalled something she had said to him earlier that week:

“We would love to have you at the Order meetings, dear. There must be information that you
have that could assist us!”

He’d been close to laughing directly in her face. Rude, maybe, but it just seemed so downright hilarious
for him that being rude didn't matter. He couldn’t ‘assist’ the Order, no way, no how. He hadn't any
information to give and there wasn't much else he could do to assist them, other than getting himself
caught and killed by Death Eaters. He knew very few hexes, and they were surely not up to par with
those of the Death Eaters, or the other members of the Order, for that matter. And he wasn’t good at
theories or coming to conclusions. If they wanted to think of some way to sneak in to You-Know-Who’s hideout or whatever, he was definitely not the one to go to. He hadn't any talents that could help
the Order at all; he was useless. Sad as it was, that wasn't a complaint. The fewer chances he had to
being killed, the better.

The more he thought about it, though, the more pathetic he sounded.

Darius wiggled his foot a bit, trying to rid it of the numbness, unsure of what his next tactic was. Yet, he
was also trying to find himself, although he was sure he wasn’t entirely lost in the first place. What had
happened was simply a slip of control and what had happened was never going to change, no matter
how much he’d like it to. He was just going to have to find a way around that to get this finished with
once and for all. Other than this, nothing was going to change once he was pregnant. Once he was
impregnated, he was to leave directly for his old flat and raise the child on his own. Sirius would never
be able to do anything about it because he was a wanted man of whom wasn't about to be let off any
soon. He couldn’t be seen, let alone try to gain custody of his child.

After he’d left, his only worry would be raising said child, of which would be a hassle, seeing that he
shared partly Sirius’ genes. At first he’d planned to have Narcissa assist him, and she was rather willing,
but with the soon arrival of her next child that plan might have been scrapped seeing that she would
have a child of her own to care for. And—

What the hell was he going to do?

--- 

“You what!?”

“It was just a dream, Moony! It can’t amount to anything more than that!”

“But— but— dear Merlin, Padfoot, I don’t even know you anymore!”

“It’s not like I really fucked him or anything!”

Remus’ face was stricken, the creases of old age more prominent in his features, making him look
dreadfully older than he truly was, especially with the dark circles beneath his watery blue eyes. Sirius
gave him a withering glare anyway, placing his head in his hand, silently regretting ever mentioning the
dream to his friend. The dream was still fresh in his mind, though. Glossy soot black hair, crystallized
silver-grey eyes, the man had goddamned curves, hips, lanky body, at least in his dream. He’d just
grown bloody gorgeous he’d realised a hardened angel that still held its innocence. Very effeminate,
yet not.

And he felt disgusted thinking about it, had vomited twice because of it, yet couldn’t stop remembering
it. He couldn't stop imagining just how brilliant his cousin would be in bed after seeing how experienced
he was at nine. He just couldn’t stop thinking of Darius.

“Pad? Sirius!”

Sirius’ head jerked up toward his name, but instead of being greeted by angry Remus as he suspected,
he looked more curious than anything, and perhaps even a bit . . . confused?

“Padfoot . . .”

“What?”

Remus bit at his bottom lip and turned back to the dishes in the sink, pushing up his dampened sleeve
again to his forearm. He was trying desperately to find a way to word this question, but he couldn't
think of how he could without revealing what he knew about Darius. If it was something that Sirius
didn't want to hear (which Remus was quite sure it wasn’t), he would go straight to the source and do
the worst to him. And even more, it was possible that Remus misinterpreted the letter (though it was
rather straightforward) and to put Darius through Sirius’ wrath for nothing would be awful.

“Has . . . has Darius been acting weird these pass few days?”

Sirius raised his eyebrows and plopped his chin on to the table, reverting his gaze to the worn wood.
“Weird? Hunh. If you mean Darius pissing his pants at the sight of me, that’s not weird, that’s— OI!”
The Animagus spluttered and wiped the water from his face with his sleeve after Remus had hit him with
the soaked dishtowel.

“That is not what I meant! I—” Remus paused and sighed. “Never mind. Just— Just forget it, Padfoot.
And remember to ask Darius for Dumbledore.”

Sirius’ lips pursed, but then he sighed as well and slipped out of the chair.

And he still couldn't stop thinking about him.

--- 

“Oh . . . oh fuck Lucius!”

Fingers drew out of him quickly, too quickly, and Darius winced, but it was quickly replaced by
eagerness, a groan escaping his throat as pressure was added to his hips. This was how he was used to
being, bent over a desk, bare from the waist down in complete submission to another's wishes and
lusts, just waiting to be fucked and used and whatever else the person wanted him to be. This, as
awkward as it was, was his comfort, his sanctuary, and his body was humming happily just being away
from Sirius and Grimmauld; away from the past.

He felt Lucius lower himself, his chest against his back, his chin resting at the juncture of his neck and
shoulder. This was as close to love as Lucius would give him, teeth nipping his neck, tongue lapping up
the sweat that gathered at his chin, and he felt that he would like to die in his arms, they so familiar
whether they’re causing pain or pleasure. Familiarity kept him together, kept him at peace.

“Whore,” Lucius whispered, cupping the twin globes of Darius’ pale arse, they pliable and soft, curving
against his palms perfectly, and then pulled them apart. Darius embraced the comment with a nearly
silent ‘yes’, it an insult or compliment he couldn't care less. The head of Lucius’ cock, thick and hard,
hot and moist, nudged against that tight ring of muscle, tearing a gasp from Darius’ dry throat, his
tongue heavy, his entire mouth dry after having it agape from quite some time.

Lucius . . .

It was all he could think about, but then Lucius thrust into him hard, obnoxiously, painfully, hard, and his
mind was reduced to a barren plain. The pain was searing, his hand instinctively grasping the corner of
the desk in time with his cry. He could have sworn that he felt the skin of his palm break against the
polished wood, hot yet cooling blood slipping down in-between his fingers, but it could have simply
been sweat.

He moved his hand to brace himself better against the onslaught of barely human thrusts, the rhythmic
slap of flesh against flesh echoing throughout the room, slowly picking up speed. He could vaguely hear
Lucius’ mouth beside him giving long, hoarse groans, feel his fingernails digging into his thighs. Darius
found himself babbling praises and encouragements to the man, just as any whore knew to do. The pain
was still there, still as fresh as it had started, but it was another thing Darius was used to. Lucius only
cared so much.

“Filthy bloody slut,” Lucius mumbled, clutching the thick raven hair and harshly jerking the younger’s
head towards him and whispered in his ear, “Worth nothing more than a good fuck, aren’t you? Lucetta
taught you well.”

“Yes . . . ow.”

“I even turned Rossi down until I was in your arse again.”

“Lucius . . .”

“You—”

“Yes, yes! I’m your filthy bloody slut, I know! Just don’t fucking stop!”

Oh Merlin, had he said that aloud?

In response, Darius cheek was forced down against the table, Lucius’ thrusts becoming even more
savage, his grunts and groans becoming louder, clearly expressing how this new side of his baby cousin
brought him to the edge. Really, that’s all a whore could ask for, their customer’s enjoyment. Even at
their own expense. As Darius stared at Lucius’ inkpot, relishing the sharp crack it made when it
disappeared over the edge of the desk and shattered against the floor, he realised, remembered rather,
that that was all he cared about, how others felt, never himself, never was in the place to think
otherwise. Yet he didn’t care much as long as he was being fucked.

Lucius, Lucius, Lucius

His fist moved jerkily on his cock at the thought, eyes fluttering as he desperately tried to reach release.
And he was so close, his senses on fire, he able to feel the sweat beading on his eyebrows, slowly
crawling down the sides of his face in rivulets, the sweat from Lucius’ chest dripping onto his back,
pooling near his shoulder blades. He could feel that knot tightening almost painfully in the pit of his
stomach —

Orgasm was upon him within a few short pulls of his erection, before he could comprehend it, before he
was ready. His body went rigid as the waves wracked his body, making joints involuntarily twitch, a
sharp gasp escaping his throat, as well as a name when Lucius released his hair and his head hit the
desktop with a thump. His breathing was ragged as he lowered from his high, his mind focussing
gradually. Vaguely realising that Lucius had pulled out of him, he drowsily craned his head backwards
to the man whose eyes were boring through him, icy, calculating.

“Lucius—”

“You may leave now, Black,” Lucius said simply, his gaze finally averting to his robes.

There was an awkward silence as Darius returned Lucius’ indifferent stare with that of shock,
attempting desperately to gather what the man had said, and his reasons for saying it.

“Pardon?”

“You. May. Leave.” The words were urgent, the only part of his demeanour that indicated that he was
on the verge of losing his composure. They alone were all that was needed to press Darius to straighten
himself out, arising from the desk silently, eyes downcast, avoiding Lucius’ gaze as if berated by him,
tugging up his trousers with a flush in this embarrassing situation.

And, as soon as he strode through the door, he realised that Lucius hadn’t even came.

--- 

“Well if it isn’t the man of the hour.”

Octavius grinned brightly at him, trying his best to look as happy and as awake as he could, but was
failing miserably, he knew he was. He prodded his eye with his friend until it gave a dull ache, just to
keep himself conscious. Octavius had panicked after Darius didn’t return to work without a single
notice, thinking that maybe his murderer cousin had down something awful to him. But that wasn’t the
only reason as to why he hadn’t gotten the sleep that his body required. No, Daniel had to be in his bed
every night since his wife was out of the country. Octavius had wondered what Daniel had done about
the children (the eldest was only six, wasn’t he?) but he never answered him.

He realised that Darius looked horrible, his clothes dishevelled and hair mussed. Really, that wasn’t
surprising seeing he’d just left Lucius’ office, but then his eyes were watery, his face taking a dull flush,
though his face still held an indifferent expression otherwise. His eyebrows creased. “What’s up,
Darius?” He glanced at the office door and said in a low voice, “Did that cousin of yours do something?
Because I swear, if he did—”

Darius smiled slightly and shook his head. “No, no. I just have to go to the loo.”

Before Octavius could point out that he was definitely telling a lie, Lucius’ door opened slightly and the
blond poked his head out. “Rossi. My office. Now.” Then the door slammed, making Darius flinch
before rushing off.

--- 

Darius stared coldly at his reflection, hating himself a little bit more with each passing second. He was
actually crying, after years and years of gritting his teeth and swallowing his pride, just for people to see
that he was fine, but then the incident with Lucius crushed things and Octavius had nearly caught him.
He sniffled and wiped furiously at his eyes with the sleeve of his robes, hating the slick feeling of tears
on his face. He finally realised what had happened back in Lucius’ office.

He wasn’t thinking about Lucius, he was thinking about Sirius. It was his name on his lips, not Lucius’.

He gave a wail and sank to his knees, shielding his face with his hands, so wound with grief he wasn’t
sure what to do with himself. He hadn’t cried so hard in years, not since he found Regulus was dead,
killed by his fellow Death Eaters, murdered, murdered. And he was so naïve, he didn’t know, didn’t
realise how much pain he was going through, how much he needed him. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t
there by Regulus side. He’d failed him, much like he’d failed his mother. She’d died alone in that
brothel, and he wasn’t there when she needed him most.

Then, Auntie.

He hadn’t even known until three months after. They were afraid to tell him, afraid that he might have
taken his own life. And many times he wondered why he hadn’t. He’d lost all that meant anything to
him, all that mattered: his ‘brother’ and his mothers. He was left with no one to turn to, had nothing to
turn to, barely made a living on what he made then. He sobbed loudly, his mind flashing images of the
worst aspects of his life.

He didn’t have anything.

“You still in here, Dari—”

Darius rubbed his face wildly and stood abruptly, but Octavius had already seen, his black eyes wide in
shock before switching to saddened, his lips curving downward. It was perhaps the most suffering
expression he’d ever seen cross the younger man’s face. There was an awkward moment as Octavius
stepped in and silently closed the door behind him.

“Hey . . . ”

Darius rearranged his robes on his shoulders. “Sorry, do you have to go? I’ll just lea—” Octavius
pressed himself against the door, preventing the elder from exiting, his face creased in concern.

“What’s up with you, Darius?”

“Nothi—”

“Don’t give me that shit!” Darius flinched, his eyes still trained to the flaking paint on the door, and
Octavius immediately regretted raising his voice. He sighed and stepped closer, now realising just how
short he was to Darius. “Look, Darius, I hate seeing you like this. Would you just tell me what’s—”

“Nothing’s wrong!”

“I’m tired of hearing that! I just—” He bit his lip before tentatively hugging him, pulling him close.
Darius’ breath hitched, a faint blush rising on his cheeks, but he found himself snuggling into the
embrace, sobbing loudly into the crook of Octavius’ neck, then broke out into his story. Octavius ran
his fingers through his hair the entire time. When the elder had concluded, it was followed by an
awkward silence.

“ . . . Blimey. Just when I thought my life was shitty.”

Darius laughed lightly and wiped his eyes. “Yeah, well.”

Octavius’ expression turned serious once more. “But remember this: you’re like a big brother to me,
Darie. Things like this I need to know, ‘kay? And if you tell anyone about this little ‘moment’ we had
here, I swear—”

Darius my have had nothing, no one to depend on, but he had someone depended on him, and that was
just as good.

Darius smiled. “Sure thing, Tavie.”

Though his mood was uplifted, Sirius still tugged at the corner of his mind and he decided that he hated
him even more.

--- 

“Sirius?”

That’s when he noticed the hand being waved in front of his face and blinked stupidly, both his
mind and vision clearing so that he was able to detect that all eyes of the Order were on him and
he closed his legs uncomfortably albeit his arousal was hidden by his robes and the table.
“Huh?” he blurted a bit too loud, for a snort rose from his right; Severus of course, attempting
to hide it behind the back of his hand.

“It would be nice if you would actually pretended to be interested, Black. At the very least when
a something is asked of you,” he said smugly, not in undertone as Sirius had wished, prayed, but
loud enough for everyone at the dining table, save for Dumbledore who was conveniently
oblivious of the comment.

Remus gave Sirius a small look of worry as he lowered his hand, his forehead creasing, eyebrows
furrowing, after he’d flashed Severus a glower with a respectable amount of hatred. “I’m
sorry,” Sirius said, eyes still hard against Severus’, albeit his lips were twisted into a tight smile,
“What was ‘asked of me’?” The phrase was not in his vocabulary and even Tonks gave a small
smile from her place beside Remus. Severus rolled his eyes and turned his head away as if nettled
by his immaturity, which, perhaps, he was.

“I was simply wondering if Darius might be able to join us for the next Order meeting,” Albus
said calmly from head of the table.

Sirius perked up at his cousin’s name. “Darius?” he said in the same dense tone as he had when
he first heard the name four days ago, and Remus’ expression seemed crossed between wanting
to slap him or himself.

Albus only smiled, however. “He has arrived already, hasn’t he?”

There was silence, and then, “Yeah.” Sirius slumped in his seat, the cushion giving a loud, airy
fwoosh. “Yeah, I’ll ask him.”

--- 

“You’re home.”

Darius gave a small smile, strained from exhaustion, having only just returned from work in the wee
hours of the morning. He’d also stopped at the grocery as he’d stated he would, hauling a little under a
dozen of the plastic bags with him. “I’m afraid I can’t tell whether you are glad or disappointed,” he
said venomously, his forced smile twitching ever so slightly at the corners.

Sirius frowned and surprisingly reverted the conversation to the grocery bags Darius held. “Do you
want some help with those?” he asked, though it was a bit hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure what to say.
Despite this, however, he was already gathering them from Darius’ left hand, untangling the handles
from his finger when needed, and Darius didn’t stop him, silently appreciating the relief of his burden.
They did this without a word, making their way to the kitchen. Sirius couldn’t keep his eye off him,
though, as he placed the bags on the counter, slipping off his robes and draping it on the back of one of
the dining chairs.

“Is something wrong?” Darius’ voice was heavily laden with fatigue and Sirius felt a tinge of fear that the
younger man was going to collapse at any second.

Sirius smiled slightly. “Just admiring how different you look from what I remember.”

Darius turned his head and fished through a bag. “That wasn’t funny.”

Sirius made a cautious step toward him. “I wasn’t joking.”

The younger twisted his neck, just enough to see Sirius, his grey eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I think
I can take care of this myself, thank you. You can go back to bed.”

Sirius didn’t move from where he stood, instead wringing his hands together nervously. “Right. Well,
uh, Remus wants to know how you are. You’ve been absent a lot recently, and— ”

“Tell him he needn’t worry.”

“Also,” Sirius continued, “Dumbledore wants to know if— ”

“I’d rather not.”

“You don’t even have any idea what I’m talking about!”

“I do actually. I really don’t care to become one of the Order.” He made to take out a jar, but was
stopped by Sirius’ hand encircling his wrist. He hadn’t even heard his cousin near him and it troubled
him horribly. Darius tried to tug his hand back, but he failed to escape from the restraint. “Don’t touch
me.”

Sirius leaned in further despite this, and blurted, “But you would let him touch you, wouldn’t you?”

Darius’ body went ridged and he glared at him, his eyes glistening madly. “Excuse me?” he growled,
not attempting to hide the venom that dripped from his words.

Sirius silently damned himself for the slip but returned the glare ten-fold. “You would prefer Regulus to
fuck that arse of yours, huh?” he hissed, shoving the younger man back. “That’s all he was good for,
right?” He’d broken the little peace that was between them, but he felt a weight lift off his shoulders.

“Don’t you ever, ever talk about Regulus that way,” Darius hissed darkly, dropping all that was in his
hand carelessly, the jar clanking against the tabletop. Sirius had never seen, or even imagined him look
so savage, his dark hair wild, his grey eyes glittering brightly in the light, the wand pointing at Sirius at
him trembling, his steps toward him shaky with rage. He should have backed down then, before he
finally received what he deserved after that long year of torture. But he didn’t, that glass of rum from
earlier strengthening his spirit but leaving his resolve to dwindle.

So instead he smirked smugly and took a step of his own forward, swaggering ever so slightly. “I can
talk about the little shit however I’d like, Uldaricus. He’s my brother, not yours.” Darius’ nostrils
flared. “And besides, he went a got himself killed by his little Death Eater friends. Talking about him
really is just a waste of everyone’s breath.”

Darius felt a rush of adrenalin as he slammed himself against his cousin and knocked the older man to te
floor, proud though Sirius' foot hooked on his ankle and he tumbled down as well. They struggled
indefinitely, clawing and biting at cloth, flesh, leaving nasty bruises and gashes, and tore each other’s
robes viciously, Darius’ thrown to the side, his wand skittering away. It was just a simple tussle to Sirius
at first, that was until he felt a pressure wrapping itself around his throat. He attempted to gasp, gripping
his cousin’s forearms, but he choked instead when the fingers tightened around his windpipe.

“I hate you,” Darius snarled, pellucid tears streaming down his pale cheeks, curving to his chin,
dripping onto his hands that secured his cousin’s throat, “I hate you so much! At least Regulus gave a
shit! At least he— he—”

“He fucking molested you!” Sirius wheezed, but quickly regretted it, his oxygen cut off once again.

“Shut up! You know nothing! NOTHING!”

CRASH

The sound frightened Darius to the very bone, his hands unleashing Sirius for a brief moment, but that
was all that the elder needed to gain control of the situation. Sirius bucked the smaller off, he spilling
backward onto the marble flooring. Before he could groan, Sirius had him pinned to the floor by his
wrists, straddling him. “You little shit! You—”

“Get the fuck off of me!”

Sirius’ hands grasped Darius’ chin roughly and jerked it upward. “Just calm the fuck down!” Darius still
glared angrily at him, but gradually his chest began to rise and fall at a slow, unfaltering rate, and his face
melted to its normal alabaster. He looked like hell, his soot black hair splayed around his face,
plastered to his forehead by a thin sheen of sweat caused by their little struggle, and—

They glowered menacingly at each other, Sirius bearing his teeth ferally and Darius’s nose wrinkling
lethally. However, Sirius saw something odd glitter in Darius’ narrowed silver eyes, something deep,
something familiar yet he couldn’t quite place it as of then. His breath hitched in his throat and he could
feel Darius’ heartbeat steadily increase in his chest.

“I hate you.”

“I hate you more.”

“Why are you such a prick?”

“Why are you even here!?”

Darius gave a small growl, but Sirius silenced him with his lips, unable to control himself, clutching his
chin harder.

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End Chapter 4

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A/N: Reviews greatly appreciated.