Regulus
England, Early Winter of 1971
The day Walburga Black joined her husband, Orion, in the afterlife, the world let out a sigh of relief.
The Black estate lay shrouded in tense silence, a tomb of memories and whispered prayers, where shadows stretched long in the flickering candlelight. The ancestral home, once oppressive, and dangerous, with the austere grandeur of Walburga and Orion's religious devotion, now echoed with the sombre cadence of their absence. The scent of incense lingered, entwined with the faint, lingering traces of old rituals and pious fervour, casting an ethereal pall over the cold, stone walls.
Regulus Black moved through the dimly lit corridors, his footsteps soft yet deliberate, like a wraith navigating a labyrinth of grief and cold satisfaction. It was a story of opposites, having people who haunted one's life for years finally become ghosts - first, came the realization that they were free, he and Sirius, were granted ancestral estates and titles, which guaranteed them a life of comfort and leisure. Knowing that now, they were the monsters roaming the halls, instead of being the ones to hide from them. And then, the second wave hit; grief. Regulus had never imagined that he would mourn his parents, not even for a second, but it was inevitable, in a way. The reality that now, he and his brother were rich and powerful, yes, but utterly alone in the world.
The portraits of stern ancestors gazed down, their eyes seemingly alive with judgment and expectation. Eventually, Sirius and he would join their heavy gazes that defied each person who dared cross these halls. But it would not be today, and not for a long time. In every corner of the estate, Regulus could feel the presence of his parents, their spirits bound to the house by the fervour of their beliefs and the weight of their sins.
Sirius, by contrast, was a flame in the darkness, his charm and rebellion igniting the stagnant air. He had taken charge of the family's affairs with a devil-may-care attitude, his laughter echoing through the halls like a defiant anthem. Sirius was the storm that disrupted the eerie calm, his every move a challenge to the traditions that had once held them in thrall. His presence was a stark contrast to the solemnity that pervaded the estate, a reminder of life's unyielding force against the grip of death. The guests, here to honour their parents, stood in stark disbelief at the newly titled Lord Blacks' defiance, at his inherent way of calling for other's attention.
Regulus watched his brother with a mixture of admiration and irritation, his quiet demeanour belying the tempest within. Sirius should not be presenting himself to be so pleased, so at ease, at their parent's funeral. They were supposed to be acting respectfully, re-enacting grief in the best way possible, to not raise any eyebrows. He had always been the obedient one, the shadow to Sirius' light, but beneath the surface, his mind churned with dark, calculating thoughts. There was a cunning in Regulus that had been honed by years of silence and observation, a depth of intellect that was often overlooked in the glare of Sirius' brilliance. The truth was that, although unnervingly similar in the physical sense - ancestrally inherited black locks, cold, intelligent gray eyes, aristocratic features, unblemished skin of porcelain - the Black brothers could not be more different. But there stood the brilliance of it all, because, although their behaviour could not be more different, they worked side by side flawlessly, as if synced in the mind.
As he stood before the altar in the family chapel, Regulus felt the weight of his parents' expectations settling over him like a shroud. He whispered the prayers they had taught him, his voice a mere murmur in the vast silence, but his thoughts were far from pious. In the dim light of the candles, his eyes glinted with a cold determination, a hint of the darkness that lay beneath his placid exterior. This was far from over, he knew.
The deaths of Walburga and Orion had created a void, a space that begged to be filled with new purpose and new power. Regulus felt the stirrings of ambition, a desire to shape his own destiny rather than be a mere pawn in the hands of fate. He knew that Sirius' defiance would only carry them so far, that it was the subtlety of shadows, not the blaze of rebellion, that would ultimately secure their future. Other members of the Black clan were hungry for the power that him and his brother now yielded - everybody wanted to be Lord Black, to have that sheer magnitude of influence, to have the inherit accommodations that came with it.
The funeral itself wasn't as ostentatious as Regulus knew his Mother would have wanted. Despite Greed being one of the seven deadly sins, Walburga was the living impersonation of it. She often justified their family's riches and flamboyant abodes in the same way she justified the Church's; both were meant to be the house of Christ, to be built to honour him. Regulus doubted this deeply, but it didn't matter now - his mother was dead, and she was being buried, alongside her husband, in the small graveyard adjacent to the family's chapel (an age-blackened, century old legacy building, with intricate walls of stone and a gigantic crucifix carved out of white marble) as it had always meant to happen. Eventually, he would join the heaps of haunting tombstones decorated with statues of weeping angels.
In the stillness of the chapel, Regulus made a silent vow. He would honour his family's legacy, but he would do so on his own terms, with a quiet ruthlessness that matched the cold brilliance of his mind. He would navigate the labyrinth of their past with a keen eye and a steady hand, forging a path through the darkness with the silent determination of a predator on the hunt.
And as the last echoes of his prayer faded into the silence, Regulus turned from the altar, his face set in a mask of serene resolve. The estate might be haunted by the ghosts of the past, but he would not be bound by their chains. He would wield the weight of their legacy like a blade, cutting through the darkness to carve out a future that was his own, that permitted his and Sirius' freedom.
His brother approached him in easy, wide strides, face overall impassive but betraying a glint of mischief. As he kneeled beside him, Regulus muttered, "Mind yourself, Sirius."
Without diverting his gaze from the haunting, familiar cross before them, his brother replied, "Why, Reg? We made it, we're free."
Sighing, Regulus responded, "I understand, but you are sharper than this. Surely you know that presenting ourselves as too gleeful over our parent's passing could bring us unwanted attention."
Regulus knew that there was little that their family members, who were after their titles and money, could do. Both Walburga and Orion's deaths had been clean, immediately ruled out as accidents or unfortunate natural causes by the forensic team, despite the fact that both of them were rather young. The brother's innocence was borderline unquestionable, but he could never be too careful. After all, the Black's ruthlessness hadn't only passed on to himself and his brother - the entire family was dangerous, ruthless. Only that Regulus considered himself and Sirius to be the worst of the bunch, only ever challenged by their parents regarding cruelty over the years.
"Alright, then. But we can allow ourselves to ransack Père's old liquor cabinet when the pleasantries are done, right?"
Regulus allowed himself a small, sly smile, "It's now our cabinet, Sirius. Of course, we can."
"Wonderful," was his older brother's reply, before slowly standing up and nodding towards the exit. "Reporters are waiting for us. As soon as we're done with our statement, let's get as drunk as physically possible."
Regulus chuckled, "Sounds heavenly."
James
As the news crackled alive in James' old television, Remus protested, "Jesus, mate. How old is that thing anyway?"
He chuckled in response, "Way too old, I have to admit. But we'll have to manage, right?"
The nation was brought alive the previous afternoon, after the announcement of Walburga Black's death, and the official title of head of the Black Estate being passed on to her older son, Sirius Black.
The Blacks were very rarely the centre of attention. Untouchable, elegant, aristocratic, they tended to keep their affairs private, despite their massive influence on the nation's economy and politics. People barely knew what the heirs looked like, except for a few pictures caught here and there, but the most recent one was of five years ago. So, since so much now fell on the hands of the newly appointed Lord Black, everyone's eyes were on him and his younger brother, who had inherited half the titles, and held nearly as much power as Sirius himself. As far as anyone new, either of them could easily become the next great public figure, and break the cycle of secrecy the family had kept on going for centuries. Oddly enough, other family members were left to fiend with roughly twenty percent of all capitals and estates (internally, James scoffed. One percent of that equalled a huge mansion plus two cars, and an easy life for a family of five) which definitely raised a few eyebrows. But, as all news centrals reported, the will was authentic and legal, which meant that there was no apparent dirty play from the brothers.
The family itself was not very well liked - years of accusations that were mysteriously taken back, the way they held themselves with a cold air of superiority, the truly sickening amount of money they had, the declarations about how the Catholic faith was the most important aspect of life, and anyone who went against it would burn in hell - all of those things made them borderline unbearable. But, after centuries of power and influence, no one could really do much about it.
Finally, the news channel came on, and Lily scrambled for the remote, long red hair a whip against Peter's face, who unceremoniously sputtered and coughed at the harsh slap. "Lils!" he protested.
"Hush, Peter," she chastised, to which all of them zeroed their attention on the fairly small device.
The brothers were beautiful. The blurry photographs of five years ago did them no justice. Blessed with perfect features, clad in the most elegant of attires, faces neutral and proud, they looked every bit the aristocrats they were raised to be. The Black Estate, a haunting, rather gothic manor, created the perfect setting for a book set decades ago, a black and white film. It was as if the brothers were trapped in the past, paintings hung high in an art museum.
"In this time of grief, all I can ask of the public is for your sympathy, and your prayers for our deceased parents. It was certainly a tragedy, and now, the duty of carrying our family's name belongs to no other than myself and my brother," Sirius spoke up, his grey eyes severe, his language reinforcing the image James had of them as figures of the past.
"God, they're proper posh," Lily snorted. "Look at the younger one! Hasn't as much as breathed since they began recording, I'm telling you."
James disagreed, internally. Regulus, the younger brother, didn't look tense, per se, but rather as if he was trying his best to impersonate a statue - cold, beautiful, forbidden to the touch.
"Regulus, would you mind sharing-"
"No," the younger cut the reporter off, "My brother and I will be making no further statements to the press for the foreseeable future. As he has said, we ask for respect from the public, and time to process the tragic events that are looming not only over us, but over the entirety of the Black Estate at the moment."
"Thank you for your time," the reporter replied immediately, professionally, as Lord Black gave a single nod of acknowledgement, whilst Regulus simply remained impassive.
The news channel cut back to the central, and several reporters began speaking, facing the camera from a massive table. Lily turned the volume down, then, and sighed, "Jesus Christ, they're creepy."
James laughed, pushing his glasses up his nose, "But hot."
Remus
It was the very next day that James and Remus received the news that would change the course of their lives. Or at least, that's what he thought now, years after the most insane, utterly terrifying of experiences that were the product of that conversation they'd had in their bosses' office.
He and his best friend had met in the Academy, whilst training to join the city's police force. They were cops, for a while - that is, until Remus was hit by a stray bullet during a confrontation in a shady part of London, which left him with a permanent limp, and a choice to make; retire from the police force, or become a detective. Knowing that retiring at twenty was basically economic suicide, he opted for the second choice, and, to his immense surprise and pleasure, James followed him into this new stage of his life, announcing his change in department a week after Remus himself had.
As for now, they weren't the highest ranking detectives, considering their youth and experience of four mere years, but Remus liked to think that they would eventually get promoted from small, petty robberies to something more interesting.
Said opportunity arose a week after the announcement of Walburga Black's passing, and it came in the form of a request from a black haired lady, with a crazed, self-righteous look in her eye, and a face that gave Remus the impression that, impossibly, they had met before.
"Gentlemen," Chief Shacklebolt greeted him and James, "please, take a seat."
The strange woman, clad in head to toe in elegant, black robes, eyed them both, and slyly said, "Are they the youngest you have, Shacklebolt?" To this, the Chief nodded, impassive before her despite the way that her voice, ice-cold and somehow unnerving, sent a chill right up Remus' spine. "I suppose they'll do, then."
What did she mean, the youngest?
The Chief cleared his throat, speaking up, "May I introduce you gentlemen to Mrs. Bellatrix Lestrange?"
At this, Remus had to refrain from raising an eyebrow. Lestrange, wasn't that an aristocrat family's name? Why did he get the vague sense that he knew Bellatrix? And then, it clicked. Bellatrix Lestrange-Black, of course. Her union in matrimony to Rodolphus Lestrange had been all over the news two years ago, her husband's family fonder of the public eye than the Blacks had ever been, the ceremony itself being reported to cost roughly thirty-five million pounds, an amount of wealth that genuinely made Remus sick to the stomach.
He quickly got a hold of himself as soon as James muttered his respectful greetings towards the unnerving woman, with a small nod, which Remus quickly imitated.
"You might be wondering why you have been called over," the Chief spoke up. "Both of you have been selected to form part of a high priority investigation, regarding the newly appointed Lord Black and his younger brother, in terms of under what conditions the both of them inherited the Black Estate. Mrs. Lestrange has offered herself as the advocate for a large part of other family members, who suspect some form of… foul play, put in simple terms, concerning Walburga and Orion Black's deaths."
James furrowed his brow, interrupting the Chief, "My apologies, sir, but hasn't it been reported by the forensic teams that both deaths had been by accident or natural cause? Excuse my impertinence, but under what grounds are these accusations being made?"
Remus nodded alongside James, despite his inherent instinct of chastising James for questioning the Chief, when they had both been praying for their first big case for years. "And might I ask why would you go to the police instead of a private investigator, Mrs. Lestrange? I assume that since we work for the government, an accusation of this magnitude must go through many people before being approved for investigation," he added, voicing his own concerns.
Chief Shacklebolt harshly hit the table with an open hand, startling them both, "You are not to be disrespectful in front of Mrs. Lestrange. These technicalities do not concern you, and are a private matter of the higher-ups."
"It's quite alright," Bellatrix interrupted. "We have decided to come to you because for this investigation to be successful, we considered certain attributes to be absolutely crucial, such as official autopsies, access to major events and so on," she concluded, waving a lazy, aristocratic hand.
Oh, Remus saw how it was - the higher ups had been paid, because it was virtually impossible for Mrs. Lestrange to have any base for her accusations, considering the fact that the scenes of death had already been investigated thoroughly, and any possible evidence, removed. Due to that, Bellatrix wanted access to official, confidential police resources. The power money had, right?
James took a deep breath, "I apologize, Mrs. Lestrange, Chief."
"May I ask what the nature of our assignment is?" He voiced, not bothering himself with trivialities, his irritation growing gradually in the presence of this greedy woman.
Shacklebolt nodded, "Lupin, Potter, you have been assigned to investigate the Black brothers undercover, and manage to get a confession, written or recorded, out of either of them."
"Why a confession? Why not evidence?"
"The deaths of their parents were clean, Lupin, so, to confirm the suspicions Mrs. Lestrange brought forward, a confession is crucial," Shacklebolt replied.
"Might I ask one final question, Sir?" Remus said.
"Go on."
"Why us? To be frank, we don't have much fieldwork experience, never mind in a case as important as this."
At this, Bellatrix laughed, a glint of cruelty making the sound deeply disturbing, "That is, dear, because my cousins are… fonder, to put it that way, towards men. Especially the pretty ones."
Oh, shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
An hour later, James and him sat in their shared office two files that Dorcas, the secretary of the department, handed them, containing every bit of information the force and Mrs. Lestrange could gather on the Black brothers, in their hands.
"Alright. Sirius Orion Black, alias, Lord Black. Born February third, nineteen forty-seven, eldest Black brother, currently twenty-four years old, and apparently our main suspect, according to Mrs. Lestrange's and other family members' statements," Remus read out loud, while James spun on his wheeled chair, releasing all the nervous energy that had consumed him over the events of the day. Remus could relate.
"And the other one?" his friend asked, pushing his mass of black curls back, still spinning, but slowing down slightly.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Remus mocked, rolling his eyes slightly, remembering James' bewildered look when the younger Black showed up in the news. "Regulus Arcturus Black, Jesus Christ, what's up with the names, born January fourteenth, nineteen forty-eight. Currently, twenty-three years old, and the youngest of all the Blacks. Mrs. Lestrange told us not to focus on him, but I wouldn't completely disregard him as a person of interest."
James nodded, "Agreed. They both gave me the chills, to be honest."
Sure, James.
"I think he's creepier than the older one, James," Remus emphasized, "Regulus could be your classical underdog, the one that works behind the scenes, but the overall mastermind. It says in here that he's a chemist, of sorts, very smart, spectacular grades all around the board. That isn't something we can simply ignore."
"But they're both so pretty," James whined, finally standing up, and pacing the room, shirt sleeves rolled up, giving him an even more dishevelled look, " why are they possible two time murderers? The universe is cruel!"
"It's that family, I reckon. They've been trying to investigate them since forever, but nobody ever gets a warrant for anything. Bloody aristocrats," Remus muttered.
James sat back down, "What about the older one? Anything on him?"
"Not really," he replied, furrowing his eyebrows, "it just says in here that Lord Black is very fond of hunting, also had stellar grades, and is apparently a great artist, but no more factual things. The statements are interesting, though."
"What statements?"
"People all around high society claim that he's charming, the true socialite of the family. Apparently, charming and sharp enough to work his away around any question you try to ask, a slippery git, that one. Also, and this is interesting, the eldest Black had a tumultuous relationship with his parents," Remus read.
"Tumultuous? Nothing more concrete?"
"No, the statement is from an ex maid from the Black Estate. They're bound by a contract for life, in which they're not allowed to reveal anything that happens inside that house."
"That's bloody suspicious."
"Creepy, yes, but what she said on itself already says a lot, don't you think? Complicated relationship, and a very important title to inherit as soon as his parents kick the bucket?"
"Shit," James muttered.
"Yeah, shit."
"And how the fuck will we even get close enough to them to ask them anything? They're aristocrats, for fuck's sake, it's borderline impossible for us to meet organically enough for them not to suspect anything," his friend protested, leaning his elbows on his knees, tense.
Remus put the files down, "Well, let's think. It states here that Regulus likes attending university debates, since he's in his last year of his second degree, Christ ," Remus huffed, raising his eyebrows. That younger Black was a true intellectual, apparently, which made him uneasy. But, if they were lucky, he was merely book smart, rather than street smart, and, conditioned to socializing exclusively with high society, he wouldn't pick up on any social cues that could blow their cover during conversation. "Maybe one of us could get a permission as to pass as a university student, and attend to some of these debates, try to get close to him. And we know Sirius likes art. Once either of us grows close enough to him, which should be easier than with Regulus, we can invite him to some exposition or something."
"Do they even have friends?" James groaned.
"Not that we know of, no. Both tend to keep to themselves, and they're very close-knit, which we definitely have to be careful about," Remus replied. "Listen, we need to have a plan, because we are arranged to go to a gala the Lestranges are hosting in a week, to which the Blacks are invited. We're meant to start the operation then, so, the best we can do is try to get some information out of the people who live in the town where the Black Estate is, and prepare ourselves as best as we can."
"We are so fucked."
Remus only ever considered how telling that phrase was, regarding what happened later on.
James
The very next day, him and Remus travelled all the way to the small town the Black Estate was built in, and settled their things in a small, cramped, one-floor house nearby. He had to explain to his parents that he had to leave for a while for work.
The town itself was ancient; narrow spidery cobblestone paths, old, elegant houses pushed together, trees lining the streets, now, devoid of leaves, English ivy climbing fiercely up each every building. Its inhabitants were clearly devoted to Catholicism, as well, considering the amount of churches, big and small, scattered all around. James vaguely wondered if their faith was so settled due to the influence of the Blacks. The sky, grey with an imminent storm, loomed heavy over them. And there, far away in the distance, up in a low hill, stood the historic, intimidating but undeniably breathtaking Black Manor. From here, he could barely make out any details, but he could tell that the estate itself was huge, kilometres worth of woods surrounding it.
It was a rather uneventful afternoon, to be honest. Although James and Remus did their very best efforts to ask around, casually, about the Black family and the recent tragedies surrounding it, people were reluctant to offer up any information.
Out of respect or fear, James didn't know.
There was, however, an event worth of mention. The sun was slowly setting, and James had left Remus behind in their arranged house, since his friend's old wound had begun bugging him. James just couldn't leave it alone - the bugging sense that there was something he needed to know, that he had to keep going, keep asking. He never did know when to stop pushing.
Eventually, he made it to an old cemetery - a patch of land, not too far away from the town, that didn't spread very wide, with a small church by it. It was freezing cold, the wind starting to pick up, the stars shyly making their way into the sky. There was an elderly woman, kneeling by an aged tombstone, praying. James, deciding not to interrupt, sat by a bench, contemplating the sky, and wondering what he'd got himself into. This is how horror films begin, Goddammit, what the fuck are you even doing here? There was something about this town, about that family, that didn't sit right with him - something was inherently wrong. But now, as he sunk his toes gently into the matter, he couldn't help but want to dive in head first.
James had always craved adventure, mystery, emotion. In the hustle of the city, where everyone had their own lives, and permanently taking in small cases, his life was boring. No girlfriend, no boyfriend, some friends, sure, but nothing worthy of mention. And this? This, he knew, would drive him nuts one day.
"Young man, I believe we haven't met before," a deep, aged voice startled him out of his thoughts.
And there she stood, the woman, white hair flipping in the wind, rosary hung around her neck, and this look on her face. James smiled easily, despite his uneasiness, "Good evening, ma'am. No, I'm new in town."
"Well, pleasure to meet you," she replied, not smiling. "May I ask, what brings you here?"
James went for his cover story, the one he'd told every person he'd talked to in the day, "I'm a writer. I came around because, after hearing on the news about the tragedy of the Black family, inspiration struck me - there's just something about this place, it makes my imagination run wild, you know?" he replied, keeping his tone light, and smiled once again at the woman, who didn't return the gesture. Uneasy, he kept talking, "I have tried to find out more about them, but people are reluctant about the matter. Would you mind enlightening me?"
The woman's eyes grew dark, and her face, grim. "Be careful with where you go prodding about, boy."
"I'm sorry?" James replied, confused.
The old woman's eyes seemed to pierce through him, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried the weight of countless dark secrets. "Those boys, the Blacks, they are the devil incarnate. You see, young man, their lineage is tainted, steeped in rituals and ancient pacts that no God would ever condone. They worship the shadows, and the shadows answer back. If you dare to dig too deep, you might unearth things better left buried."
She took a step closer, her eyes never leaving his. "I've seen things, you know. Horrors that would freeze your blood and steal the breath from your lungs. The Black brothers—Sirius and Regulus—are not like other men. They are drawn to darkness like moths to a flame, and the darkness welcomes them with open arms. It's said they hold midnight ceremonies in the depths of those woods, where the air grows thick with whispers and the trees themselves seem to shudder."
Her voice grew softer still, barely more than a rasp. "The townsfolk won't speak of it, but they know. They've seen the signs—the disappearances, the strange lights in the forest, the howls that chill the very soul. Many have tried to stand against them, but all have failed. You're meddling with forces you cannot comprehend, boy. Turn back while you still can."
James felt a shiver run down his spine as the woman's words sank in. The air around them seemed to grow colder, the encroaching night more oppressive. He wanted to dismiss her as a superstitious old crone, but there was something in her eyes, something that spoke of truth buried beneath layers of fear and myth.
"Thank you for the warning," he managed to say, his voice trembling slightly.
"Take heed, young man," she replied, her tone softer but no less intense. "Some stories are better left untold, some mysteries left unsolved. The Black brothers are a curse upon this town, and those who seek to uncover their secrets often find themselves lost to the darkness."
With that, she turned away, leaving James alone in the gathering dusk, the weight of her words settling heavily on his shoulders.
Autumn, 1957
Sirius
The cold stone floor of the basement bit into Sirius' knees as he knelt, shivering despite the stifling air. Flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows that danced along the damp walls, their movements like ghostly fingers reaching out to him. The room smelled of incense and something more sinister—something metallic and sharp that made his stomach churn.
His father stood tall before him, his face a mask of stern, cold resolve. In his hand, he held a leather-bound book, its cover embossed with symbols that seemed to writhe and twist in the dim light. Sirius' heart pounded in his chest, the fear and confusion nearly overwhelming, despite the many times this had happened in the past. It was a life of small deaths and resurrections, the one he and his younger brother lived.
"You have defied us, Sirius," Orion intoned, his voice echoing ominously off the stone walls. "You have strayed from the path of righteousness, consorting with those unworthy of our bloodline. Tonight, we shall cleanse your soul."
Sirius tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but his mouth was dry. He remembered the laughter of his friends, the freedom he felt outside the oppressive walls of the Black Manor. But now, that freedom seemed a distant memory, replaced by the cold reality of his father's disapproval.
Orion began to chant, the words foreign and guttural, making the hairs on the back of Sirius' neck stand on end. The candles flared, their flames stretching high, casting grotesque shadows that twisted and contorted like tortured spirits. Sirius' knees ached, but he dared not move. He knew better than to show weakness.
As the chanting grew louder, Orion opened the book, its pages yellowed with age and marked with strange, dark stains. He pulled a vial from his robe, filled with a thick, crimson liquid. Sirius' eyes widened in horror as he realized what it was—blood.
"By the blood of our ancestors, we cleanse thee," Orion proclaimed, pouring the liquid into a shallow, stone basin. The scent of iron filled the room, mingling with the incense to create a nauseating perfume.
Orion dipped his fingers into the basin, drawing the blood out and marking Sirius' forehead with a harsh, swift symbol. The liquid was cold, and it dripped down his face, stinging his eyes. He wanted to cry out, to scream, but he bit his tongue, holding back the tears that threatened to fall.
"Repeat after me," Orion commanded, his voice brooking no disobedience. "I am of the blood of Black, pure and untainted. I shall not stray."
"I am of the blood of Black," Sirius echoed, his voice trembling. "Pure and untainted. I shall not stray."
Orion's eyes bore into him, searching for any sign of insincerity. Finding none, he continued, the ritual growing more intense, more invasive. He lit a bundle of dried herbs, the smoke thick and suffocating, making Sirius cough and his eyes water. The chanting grew louder, the words merging into a cacophony of sound that seemed to press against Sirius' very soul.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Orion's voice fell silent. The oppressive atmosphere lingered, the silence more deafening than the chants. Orion looked down at his son, a flicker of something—regret, sadness, perhaps even love—crossing his face before it was gone, replaced by the cold, stern mask once more.
"Remember this, Sirius," he said quietly, almost tenderly. "Our bloodline is sacred. You must never forget who you are, and what is expected of you."
And then, slowly, he pulled out a whip from the top of a desk, and walked back to him, offering it to him. Sirius, having been subjected to this before, carefully, trying not to tremble, unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it off and taking the offered tool - he knew better than to object. "You know what must be done, son," his father said, ominous.
Sirius nodded numbly, his body aching, his spirit bruised. He watched as his father turned and left the room, the heavy door closing with a final, echoing thud. Alone in the darkness, Sirius let the tears fall, the weight of his family's expectations pressing down on him like a suffocating shroud.
It was flagellation for him, waterboarding for Regulus, although it varied, from time to time. Sirius had walked into his mother holding his younger brother's head underwater in a basin, in this very basement, not even a week ago. The thump, thump, thumping of his brother's hands hitting against the wood of the basin, pleading for it to stop, scared for his life, has haunted him since then.
He vowed then, in the depths of that cold, dark basement, as his back bled, that he would never become what his father wanted. No matter the cost.