Winter, 1968
Regulus
The life Regulus led was a rather lonely, miserable one, despite his riches and social standing; one in which his only sources of comfort and distraction from his home life were his older brother and the quiet solitude of his lab in Salazar University, a beautiful, cathedral-like building. Ironically enough, the institution itself had been founded many centuries ago by his predecessors, which meant that the Black family technically owned it, to a degree. Despite the mockery that the universe made out of him regarding that fact, the amount of power his family had over the institution made it so that Regulus could allow himself some perks—one of them being his quaint little lab, or study room, localized in the basement (jokingly referred to as 'the dungeons' by the student body) of the building.
Regulus had never felt a need to make any friends, or even acquaintances, unlike his older brother. No, Regulus kept to himself—not out of shyness or rudeness, but rather, a cold indifference. He suspected that over the years, the constant isolation and freezing chill of the Black Estate got to him, killing off any traces of that inherent part others were born with, the part that craved affection, craved love, understanding. In Regulus' case, that had evolved into want to be left alone; he didn't need comprehension, he needed peace . He found solace in his studies; in chemistry, biology, in discovering his own answers regarding the world, instead of accepting the ones provided by his parents' faith.
In knowledge, he found his own religion.
One dreary afternoon, as the rain drummed a steady rhythm against the stained-glass windows of Salazar, Regulus found himself in the sanctity of his lab, meticulously analysing a series of ancient studies - it was interesting to see how, over time, beliefs regarding how certain parts of the body worked, what certain chemicals were composed of. The silence was a companion he had long grown accustomed to, a buffer against the chaos of the outside world.
"Still holed up in your dungeon, I see," came a voice, breaking the silence, yet not startling him.
Regulus glanced up to see Dorcas Meadowes standing at the entrance, her presence an oddity in his meticulously ordered world. She leaned casually against the door frame, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. She was a strange woman, and, much like himself, her presence was sometimes unnerving to others, because you got this sense that she was always a step ahead of you when indulging in conversation, a cat toying with the mouse, baiting you to say the wrong thing in the wrong company. Strikingly beautiful, with dark skin and locks of midnight often adorned with silver trinkets, she had a way of gathering attention, but decided to keep to herself more often than not.
The only exception, notably, was Regulus.
Dorcas and he were not friends, per se , but something more complex. They had a strange kinship, an understanding that went beyond the comprehensible, in the way their minds worked. They wouldn't meet casually like friends did, but he knew that if he was ever in need of an ally, a confidante, she would be there, just as he would for her. Their connection was like a whispered secret, hidden from the prying eyes of the world, known only to them.
Regulus couldn't help but feel a peculiar sense of calm in her presence, an odd comfort in the chaos that surrounded him. They communicated in silences and glances, in the unspoken words that lingered in the air. It was as if they were two sides of the same coin, understanding the shadows that danced in each other's minds. Often, Regulus would incline his head slightly, acknowledging her presence when they crossed paths, and she responded with a barely perceptible nod. No words were needed; their bond was forged in the fires of shared experiences and silent pacts. Sometimes, though, she would approach him, an odd dilemma in mind, or an idea she would like to discuss with a mind alike her own.
He knew that if he ever found himself lost in the labyrinth of his own making, Dorcas would be the guiding star, a beacon in the night, leading him back to himself. And for that, he was silently, inexplicably grateful.
"Dorcas," he acknowledged, his voice measured. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
She stepped inside, her eyes scanning the array of ancient books and alchemical equipment with genuine curiosity. "I was passing by and thought I'd check if you'd emerged from your cave. Clearly, you haven't."
"I find the company here more agreeable," he replied, returning his gaze to his work.
Dorcas chuckled, a sound that echoed softly in the vaulted room. "You always did prefer books to people."
"And you always did enjoy interrupting," he replied, though there was no malice in his words. It was a statement of fact, delivered in his usual dispassionate tone.
She moved closer, her footsteps echoing slightly. "Someone has to ensure you don't turn into a complete recluse. Besides, I wanted to show you something."
He looked up, mild interest flickering in his eyes. "And what might that be?"
From her bag, she pulled out a small, leather-bound book. Judging by its state, it was rather ancient. "I found this during my research in the archives, in the restricted section, and nicked it for you. Thought it be of interest."
He flicked it open, and analysed the bizarre drawings inside. They pictured rituals, of sorts, some he recognized, since his parents performed them. Why on earth was such a book in the University?
He nodded, a silent acknowledgment of her effort. "Thank you, Dorcas," he said, returning his attention to the odd book. But as she turned to leave, he spoke, his voice softer, almost contemplative. "I suppose your interruptions are not entirely unwelcome."
Dorcas paused at the door, glancing back at him. "High praise from you, Mr. Black. I'll take it."
With that, she was gone, leaving Regulus alone once more. Yet, as he resumed his work, there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere of the room. The solitude felt a little less oppressive, the silence a little less cold. For in the quiet connection they shared, an unspoken understanding had formed—a foundation of loyalty and mutual respect that would endure beyond the walls of Salazar University.
Remus
It had been barely a week of them staying in their little town house, and James had become a nervous wreck.
His friend paced restlessly across the worn carpet, his steps punctuated by the occasional creak of floorboards. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, his mind racing with plans and possibilities. On the kitchen table, a map of the Lestrange estate lay spread out, marked with meticulous notes and circles around key areas - that very evening, they were due to be in the ball the aristocrats were hosting. Remus sat at the table, his posture upright and composed, his fingers tracing the edge of a coffee mug. His gaze was fixed on the map, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere, grappling with the weight of their mission. The flickering light from the overhead lamp cast gentle shadows over James' face, accentuating the shadows of his concern.
This town, it had a way of messing with people's heads. Every morning, religiously, the bells from every church nearby would start to sing, their sound echoing across every building, as hoards of people left their homes to attend the sermons. It was eerie, the way that they behaved - they tended to keep to themselves, but not in the way city folk did, to which Remus was used to. No, here, they were truly closed off, barely exchanging pleasantries, and shutting down entirely once the topic of the Blacks was breached. Every citizen of that place seemed to have this serious, haunted look on their face, but Remus truly couldn't figure out why. According to their research, the town was rich and prosper, beautiful, full of history and places to explore, so why was everyone so miserable?
"So, you're telling me we have barely covered any ground, Remus? What will we tell the Chief?" James muttered, bronze skin shining bright under the eerie light.
"Calm down, James," he replied, "we haven't even met the Blacks yet. We did find out that the town is deeply religious, and that that family seems to hold a lot of influence here."
"That doesn't help with the investigation, though! Nothing on the deaths, nothing on their personalities, just a very, very ominous allegation of supposed satanism, which won't be taken seriously by the department. The only thing we know is that this place is bloody creepy, and that the brothers are probably axe murders or something!"
Remus chuckled, "Well, technically not axe murderers-"
James slammed a hand on the table, exasperated, " Not the point," and then huffed, "listen, I couldn't care less that two aristocrats are dead. Good for us, two fewer leeches in the country, hurrah. But this could be our big break, Remus. Aren't you tired of desk work, of investigations that last less than two hours because it's so bloody obvious who it was that nicked a lolly from the store?"
"James," he replied calmly, "are you telling me that you… want the two very pretty men we are investigating to be guilty of murder?"
His friend pointed fervently at the map. After staring at it for so long, Remus thought that he knew it like the back of his hand, the perfect places to corner the brothers, the areas they tended to frequent the most during events, potential hiding spots. "Remus, this is it! Our chance to get inside their world, to see beyond the façade. Don't tell me you're not at least a little intrigued by it. Forget the possible promotion, alright? You're a detective, for fuck's sake, so start thinking like one."
Remus listened attentively, nodding thoughtfully as he processed James' words. He shared James' desire to uncover the truth about the Black brothers, but beneath his calm exterior, a storm of conflicting emotions brewed. "I know, James. But remember, we're treading on delicate ground here. Deception isn't something to take lightly, especially when it involves infiltrating someone's life. Their parents just died, and what if they had nothing to do with it? What if we're prodding a wound for the benefit of the rest of that fucked up family? They're our age, you know? Imagine being in that position."
They had gotten files, that morning over the mail, with Walburga and Orions' official causes of death: drowning in the bathtub, product of sudden hypoglycaemia episode - which was explained to be "low blood sugar", and tended to cause shakiness, confusion, palpitations, (something that could apparently happen naturally to a fifty-nine-year-old, albeit very rarely) and promptly causing her to drown. Orion, on the other hand, had been walking down the stairs right in the beginning of a heart attack, causing him to stumble and fall, dying immediately. Just as everyone had been reported, the deaths were clean, unfortunate, and very close to each other in time, but clean nonetheless. Science didn't lie, and there was simply no way that the brothers had induced a sudden heart attack and hypoglycaemia, two natural processes.
It made him uneasy, the multiple possibilities that arose from that information.
James paused in his pacing, his gaze turning serious as he regarded his friend. James knew Remus wrestled with ethical considerations more deeply than he did, and he respected that about him. Yet, the urgency of their mission fuelled a fire within James—a need to prove themselves capable, to unravel the enigma of the Black brothers.
"I get it, we have to be cautious. But this could be our opportunity to make a difference, to expose any wrongdoing. That family has got away with enough shit already, you know? Possible murder shouldn't be one of them."
Remus rubbed his eyes with his fingers until spots of light danced in his vision, "I just hope we're prepared for whatever we uncover. Sirius and Regulus—they're not just targets to investigate. There's something... unsettling about them. This could go two ways. Either they're innocent, and we're awful people for taking advantage of their grief to investigate private matters, or they're guilty, which is way worse, meaning that we are messing with two very dangerous and intelligent individuals, who have got away with murder twice while in the public eye. Do you get where I'm going?"
James sighed, his shoulders sagging momentarily under the weight of their shared concerns. He knew Remus had sensed something beneath the surface, something that tugged at his instincts with an insistent tug. "Alright, then. Let's do this carefully."
Remus nodded again, a determined glint in his eyes as he straightened in his chair. James grinned, a mix of resolve and excitement lighting up his features, clasping Remus' shoulder. They had to be smart, they had to be cautious, and they had to be ready for anything the Black brothers might throw their way. The investigation had just begun, and already, the lines between duty and danger, right and wrong, were blurring in the most unsettling ways.
Sirius
Sirius couldn't help but feel a disdainful amusement as he approached the grand gates of the Lestrange estate, the wrought iron twisting into intricate patterns that tried too hard to impress. The gardens, though meticulously maintained, lacked the ancient charm and subtle elegance of the Black family's grounds. Everything here screamed of new money and desperate ambition.
As he walked through the halls, Sirius observed the decor with a critical eye. The tapestries, though elaborate, lacked the depth and history of those in his own home. The chandeliers, though grand, seemed gaudy in their excessive sparkle. Even the portraits on the walls, depicting stern-faced ancestors, seemed to lack the gravitas of the Black family lineage.
Beside him, Regulus moved with quiet grace, his eyes taking in their surroundings with a calculated calm. Unlike Sirius, he did not wear his disdain openly, but it was there in the slight curl of his lip, the brief flicker of his eyes over the ostentatious displays.
"Sirius," Regulus said softly, his voice a low murmur that only his brother could hear. "Do you think they realize how transparent they are?"
Sirius smirked, his eyes glinting with amusement. "I doubt it, Reg. They're too busy basking in their own reflections."
As they mingled with the guests, the brothers navigated through a sea of opulence and hidden agendas. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and the sound of polite laughter, masking the underlying tension. It was a world of masks, where every smile was calculated, every gesture measured. Sirius, with his charm and ease, quickly became the centre of attention, drawing people in with his charisma. He laughed and joked, all the while keeping a sharp eye on their targets, his senses attuned to the slightest hint of deception or truth.
As the evening wore on, the Lestranges made their grand entrance, clad in their finest attire, exuding an air of superiority. Bellatrix, with her dark beauty and dangerous allure, commanded the room, her eyes sharp and predatory. Rodolphus, always at her side, mirrored her intensity, his gaze sweeping over the crowd with a possessive gleam.
Sirius met Bellatrix's gaze with a defiant smile, a silent challenge passing between them. She arched an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sinister smirk. "Cousin, what a surprise to see you here. Enjoying our humble abode?"
Sirius inclined his head slightly, his smile never faltering. "It's charming, Bella. Though I must admit, it lacks the subtlety of the old family home."
Bellatrix's eyes flashed with irritation, but she quickly masked it with a laugh. "Always the critic, aren't you, Sirius? But I suppose that's what makes you so... unique."
Regulus observed the exchange with a keen eye, noting the barely concealed animosity beneath the surface. He knew his brother well enough to understand that every word, every gesture, was a carefully crafted part of the game.
As the evening progressed, Sirius and Regulus continued their dance of deception, mingling with guests, gathering information regarding the ton's plans for the future, and all the while, the tension between them simmered just below the surface. It was a delicate balance, a game of chess where every move had to be calculated, every word chosen with care.
Silence held more power, he knew. The mystery, the allure, the effortless elegance and grace - that was the true way of making others hang into every word one said. Spending millions without batting an eye, mentioning it casually if it was relevant to the conversation, wearing the finest diamond cufflinks in the continent, and simply going about your day. It was about showing, not telling, and the Lestranges had never understood that.
People were naturally drawn to him and his brother, because they had mastered that art. Himself more that Regulus - his younger brother had never had much interest on the public eye, on being the most skilled socialite, but much like himself, he enjoyed subtly messing around with the ton, when the opportunity was given. The Black brothers, always the brightest stars, being sought and seen without as much as lifting a finger. Before, that magnitude of attention had intimidated him, but now, as a young, beautiful man, he revelled in it.
But, they had grown bored as of late.
It was always the same old power-hungry people, the same faces, the same interactions, and now, as Lord Black, they had been amplified by ten. He vaguely wished he could just stand in a dark corner with his brother like they did years ago, getting drunk and then being subtle about it, judging high society whilst right in the middle of the viper's nest. And then he remembered that he was Lord Black, so he could do just that, even if for just a while, if he wanted to. So, politely excusing himself from the conversation with Baron so-and-so, he snatched two glasses of champagne, and stalked over to where Regulus was standing, by a wall, looking over at the crowd.
"The ton's parties have had a steady decline since last year, don't you think?" he muttered, as he passed a glass over to his brother.
Regulus raised a lazy shoulder, "Well, it's the natural course of things - old people getting older, fatter, richer. We already got to the top, brother, so we don't really see it, but these things are like your loved hunting outings. They're all on edge, can't you see?"
"I couldn't care less, to be honest. Je pense que je rejoindrai notre mère et notre père le plus tôt possible, si je suis soumis à cela pour le reste de ma vie," he huffed.
"Ne te baisse pas si bas, Sirius. Autant jouer avec eux, ce n'est pas comme s'ils essayaient de nous arrêter maintenant - enlevez le 'panem et cirsences ', et regardez simplement comment ils perdent la tête ," his brother replied, chuckling darkly as he sipped his drink.
And just then, as if by fate's hand, two gentlemen Sirius didn't recognize entered the room. Both clad in rather rudimentary suits, they stuck out like a sore thumb, hovering around, looking mildly uncomfortable, desperate to try and fit in, to blend. Despite his rather unflattering and critical perception of the men, Sirius could not deny that they were both rather good-looking - one of them bronze-skinned, kind hazel eyes framed with gold rimmed glasses, and sporting dark curls that looked like had fought nail and tooth to stay put, and the other, slightly taller man, had a sharp face, sandy curls, in that rugged but undeniably attractive way. They caught Regulus' eye as well, and his younger brother amusedly announced, "Regarde, le divertissement est arrivé."
The considered them for a moment, and then, "Tall one's mine," Sirius said, not turning to look at him, but rather opting to fix his gaze on the aforementioned man.
Regulus swirled the liquid in this glass, "Fine by me," was the reply, and then, as if synchronized, both brothers pushed off the wall and stalked over to their targets, like twin wraiths in the night.
Whilst his younger brother had chosen to be subtle, to get the man with glasses to approach him, Sirius went for a more direct approach, waiting for the tall man to find himself alone for a moment. And, when he stood by a corner, finally leaving the other man's company, Sirius walked over, determined to rid himself of his boredom.
"Good evening," he said, smiling in the practised, charming way he'd learned how to do over the years, "I believe we have not met before."
The man startled, finally looking up to meet his own eye - twin pools of honey, enchanting, beautiful. "Oh, hello. Excuse me for my impertinence, but you must be Lord Black, if I'm not mistaken."
Sirius tilted his head, the smile never leaving his lips as he scrutinized the man before him. "Indeed, you are correct. And you are?"
The man straightened his posture, as if to appear more confident. "Remus Lupin. I must admit, I am quite intrigued by the illustrious Black family."
Sirius chuckled softly, the sound both genuine and mocking at the straightforwardness of the other man. "Intrigued, are you? And what brings you to one of our infamous gatherings, Mr. Lupin?"
Remus met Sirius' gaze steadily, masking his intentions with a well-practised ease, and an action he easily recognized from years of mingling amongst untrustworthy company. Despite this, Sirius had to admit, he was entertained - very rarely did anyone challenge him, these days. "I was invited by a mutual acquaintance. I find these events... enlightening."
"Enlightening?" Sirius echoed, raising an eyebrow. "I suppose that's one way to describe them."
Remus smiled, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. "Tell me, Lord Black, do you find these parties as tiresome as I do?"
Sirius leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "More so, perhaps. But they have their moments. Such as now."
Remus mirrored his movement, closing the distance between them just enough to maintain the intimate tone. "I'm glad to provide a moment of respite, then."
Sirius studied Remus for a moment longer, then gestured towards a quieter corner of the room. "Why don't we find a more secluded spot to continue this conversation?"
Remus nodded, and as they walked towards a dimly lit alcove away from prying eyes and ears, Sirius couldn't help but notice a slight limp in Remus' gait. He filed the detail away, suspicion flickering in his mind, but decided to keep his observations to himself for now.
Sirius leaned against the wall, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp, always watching. "So, Mr. Lupin," he began, "what do you do when you're not gracing us with your presence at these parties?"
"I'm an antiques dealer," Remus replied smoothly, "I travel often, searching for rare and valuable items."
"How fascinating ," Sirius said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "And what kind of items do you deal in?"
"All kinds," Remus answered, maintaining his composure. "But I'm particularly interested in items with a rich history. Things that have a story to tell."
Sirius' eyes narrowed slightly, his engrossment piqued. "Historical items, you say? The Blacks must be of particular interest to you, then."
"Indeed," Remus admitted, choosing his words carefully. "Your family's collection is renowned. I was hoping to see some of it while I'm here."
Sirius' smile returned, this time with a hint of genuine amusement. "Renowned is one way to put it. Some superstitious people might say cursed, but I'm hoping an academic like yourself would disregard such rumours."
"Perhaps," Remus conceded, his gaze never wavering. "But every collection has its origins, and it's reasons for existing."
"You're quite the philosopher, Mr. Lupin," Sirius remarked, pushing off the wall and taking a step closer. "But tell me, what do you hope to find in our family's collection?"
Remus met his approach, their faces inches apart. "Understanding. Clarity. Maybe even a bit of truth."
Sirius' eyes flickered with something unreadable before he spoke. "Truth is a dangerous thing to seek, Remus. Especially around here."
"I've never been afraid of danger," Remus replied, his voice low and steady.
For a moment, they stood in silence, the tension between them palpable. Then Sirius stepped back, his demeanour shifting back to the practised charm.
"Well, Mr. Lupin, I look forward to seeing what treasures you uncover," he said, his tone light but his eyes still watchful. "But for now, let's enjoy the party, shall we?"
Remus nodded, understanding the unspoken challenge in Sirius' words. "Of course, Lord Black. Good evening."
As they rejoined the gathering, Sirius' mind lingered on the slight limp he had noticed. He remained suspicious, knowing there was more to Remus Lupin than met the eye.
James
The Lestrange estate shimmered in the twilight, a sprawling vision of grandeur. The ballroom, adorned with lavish floral arrangements and shimmering lights, provided an opulent backdrop for the evening's festivities. The gentle murmur of conversation blended with the soft clinking of glasses, creating an atmosphere both refined and lively.
James navigated through the crowd, his mind focused on gathering any useful information regarding their investigation. He knew the Black brothers were here, and his mission was to get closer to them by any means necessary. He felt uneasy; this gathering was anything but inviting. Every person here wanted something, carefully concealed behind pleasantries. It was a game James didn't know how to play, and the reality of how vulnerable he and Remus truly were hit him.
And suddenly, there they were—Sirius and Regulus, both clad in elegant suits, leaning against a wall, looking at ease, in that lazy way aristocrats had. James' breath caught. They were impossibly, diabolically beautiful, sharp features framed by midnight black curls, twin pairs of grey eyes glinting with slight mischief as they spoke amongst themselves, assessing the crowd. When those eyes focused on him and Remus, he felt a chill run down his spine; he felt like they were seizing them up, two snakes evaluating their prey's dimensions as to devour them whole. Then, they chuckled amongst themselves, and walked away from the wall.
Almost immediately, Lord Black approached Remus, and James was left alone. His heart was beating faster, now is when he's supposed to act, his big chance to finally get somewhere, to get answers to some of the questions that were constantly brewing up in his mind. And when Regulus reappeared, this time, in his line of vision, alone for the first time, James took his shot, preparing himself.
He approached Regulus with a polite smile. "Good evening," he said smoothly, extending his hand. "I don't believe we've met. I'm James Potter."
Regulus turned, and for a moment, James felt the weight of his gaze. The air seemed to thicken, and he felt like his lungs had stopped working, for a minute. Up close, the younger man was even more disarming - faint freckles adorned his sharp, yet delicate features, eyes slightly hooded in a way he hadn't noticed before, framed by thick, black eyelashes. "Good evening, Mr. Potter. I'm Regulus Black," he replied.
James shook Regulus' hand firmly, trying to compose himself, trying to focus on his purpose here, "A pleasure to meet you."
Regulus' eyes lingered on James, intrigued. "The pleasure is mine. I gather you're a guest here, but I'm curious—what brings you to the estate this evening?"
James chuckled lightly, playing up his cover. "I'm an old university friend of Rodolphus', but we've only had the opportunity to reconnect now that I'm back from Spain."
Regulus hummed, still seizing him up, "Hm, I've never heard about you. Strange, that. What about your line of work?"
"I'm an aspiring writer," he offered, playing the cover story he'd rehearsed time and time again with all those involved in the investigation. "I've been working on a few pieces and thought it would be… illuminating, to attend an event like this."
Regulus' gaze was keen, making James feel like he was being dissected. "Ah, a writer . That's quite intriguing."
James felt suddenly uneasy - it felt like the other man was trying to get him to squirm, a cat playing with its food, his intelligent eyes making him feel as if Regulus was trying to assess him, instead of the other way around, like it should be. "Intriguing, how?"
"High society looks down upon aspiring artists of no name," he replied, tilting his head slightly, "Never mind that, though. Has the environment of this gathering piqued your interest, somehow? I've been raised in these kinds of events, so I can imagine that it must be a source of fascination for someone who I assume has never attended one before."
James nodded, trying to portray easy confidence in the way he was used to, though his heart pounded in his chest. "Absolutely. I find that observing people and their interactions can be incredibly inspiring for my work. Are you fond of literature yourself?"
"It's one of the few things that brings me some peace," Regulus replied smoothly.
James glanced around the room, feigning casual interest. "I can see why. It's a beautiful escape. Tell me, how do you manage to keep such a sense of normalcy with everything that's happened recently?"
Regulus' gaze sharpened, a cold, sharp thing that unsettled James to his core, "We adapt. One learns to cope with change, however unwelcome it might be."
James' smile faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked it. "Adaptation is key, I suppose. But I've heard that you and your brother have been quite resilient. It's impressive."
"Resilience is often a matter of perspective," Regulus said, his tone laced with an undercurrent of challenge. "But resilience in the face of adversity is hardly unusual for those who find themselves in our position."
James chuckled softly, his eyes narrowing slightly. "True enough. I must admit, I've heard a great deal about the Black family. Quite the reputation, I hear."
Regulus' expression remained neutral, but a flicker of interest passed over his face. "We've always had a certain… visibility. Some find it intriguing, others less so."
James leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "I've always found it fascinating how people perceive you."
Regulus' smile sharpened slightly, a trace of cold glint in his eyes. "Indeed. Speaking of literature," he deflected, and James cursed internally, "I'm quite fond of Edgar Allan Poe, and I assume that as an avid reader yourself, you must be familiar with his works," at this, James nodded. "I'd be interested to hear your thoughts on his works, then."
James gluped internally - he barely knew anything about the forementioned author, his only recollection about his works being a vague memory of some classes in middle school. He tried to repeat what his old teacher had told his class, once, "Poe is a master of dark and atmospheric storytelling. His exploration of the macabre is unparalleled ."
Regulus tilted his head, his tone casual but deliberate. "I've always found Poe's works to be fascinating. Tell me, which do you prefer, 'The Cat' or 'The Black Raven'?"
James hesitated for a moment, trying to mask the confusion in his face before he responded, "Oh, I'd say 'The Cat.' It's a classic, isn't it?"
Regulus' gaze was attentive, noting James' slight discomfort. "Precisely. The nuances in Poe's writing offer much to explore."
James nodded, clearly trying to regain his composure. "Absolutely. It's what makes his work so compelling."
The other man hummed thoughtfully, looking at him even more intensely than he had before, then, and offered him an excuse, taking his leave. James suspected that he'd been subject to a test, and failed, somehow.
As James moved away to mingle with other guests, he could feel Regulus' eyes following him, a palpable force that tugged at his consciousness. Well, there went Remus' hopes that the younger Black was merely book-smart, rather than socially - the man was a snake, a predator, albeit a rather subtle one, with disarming looks and a quick mind.
James reminded himself of his mission. Regulus Black was dangerous, and he couldn't afford to let his guard down. The attraction he recognized he felt towards Regulus was unsettling, distracting. He couldn't let it cloud his judgment. He was on the younger Black's radar, now, and he needed to tread carefully. This wasn't just a social gathering. It was a game of cat and mouse, and he was determined not to be the one caught.
The brothers
They made their way back to Black Manor roughly two hours later, and now, as they sat in Regulus' study, they sipped whiskey, discussing the night. Namely, the two unknown men that had somehow managed to wrangle their way into a high society event, with no name, no riches, no influence. It was unusual, that was for sure, and simply impossible to ignore.
The thing about being born and raised in the elite circle was that it made you sharp, perceptive. Jokingly, the brothers referred to it as an innate 'bullshit detector', but at the end of the day, it was vital to survive in the pit of snakes that composed the elite group of the continent, the food chain that they found themselves at the very top of.
"James, the one who claims to be an aspiring writer, is lying, but I can't figure out why," he spoke up after a minute or two, slowly circling his finger around the brim of his whiskey-filled glass.
Sirius furrowed his brow, "Why would you say that?"
Regulus looked up to meet his brother's eye, "If you had told me that you are familiar with Poe, and I had asked you whether you prefer 'The Black Raven' or 'The Cat', what would you answer?" he asked, tone grave.
His brother laughed, "I'd call you out on your shit, because both those names are wrong."
"Exactly - and you know what the problem is? That he answered The Cat, putain, without hesitation. As a writer and an apparent avid reader, wouldn't you know better? It's common knowledge, even more so to literary affictionates. And if you were, in fact, a part of the literary world, wouldn't you correct me immediately, albeit politely? Or at least become slightly uncomfortable by the mix-up? James didn't do any of that, just kept on chattering away, trying to prod into what happened with Mother and Father. He's lying, Sirius, and I suspect Remus is, too," he sighed, and took a long sip out of his glass.
Sirius kept silence for a moment, the flames of the crackling fireplace casting shadows over his aristocratic, stern face, and then replied, "Yes, I noticed something bizarre as well. Remus has this odd limp, and I recognize a bullet wound when I see one. For him to limp that way, his nerves must be completely wrecked from the inside, and falling off a tree, or tripping off the stairs doesn't do that to you now, does it?"
"It shouldn't, no," was Regulus' reply, and just as he opened his mouth to speak again, a dull ringing sound began.
That ring belonged to a phone he kept hidden behind a panel in his study, and only one person in the entire world knew the number to it - Dorcas, his old friend. After she'd finished her studies on Criminology, she had to move to the big city as to take in an internship as a secretary, of sorts. And, while his parents had lived, it had been simply impossible for her, a woman not belonging to high society, to visit or write, since the letters were always checked by his mother - so the solution that he'd come up with was to acquire a mean of communication nobody else, other than his brother, knew about. Even after their parent's deaths, Regulus never got rid of it.
It was useful, having someone with access to the police force database as a friend. When his parents had died, she'd kept him informed of the progress the forensic team had made regarding the matter, and whether they were subjects of investigation. Since then, she'd only called twice, both times regarding trivial matters such as literature and theatre.
This wasn't one of those times.
"Dorcas," he greeted as soon as he picked up, "what's the matter? It's late."
"Regulus, I have news I think you'd be interested in," she said calmly, but he could pick up the urgency in her tone.
"Alright then," he replied, steadily meeting his brother's curious gaze.
"A 'Mrs Lestrange' has come around about two weeks ago, and held several meetings with the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department and two of the detectives that work here. I hadn't thought much of it, but I took a peek into some confidential files I mailed this morning, and they were about your parents deaths. The odd thing is, they were mailed to a postal code in your town, Regulus, to the pair of detectives, who left the city about a week ago. I don't know what all this is about, but it's bloody weird."
Regulus took a deep breath, his thoughts racing, dots connecting, and suddenly, he knew. Of course, Bellatrix couldn't leave it alone, and she wanted blood for the small sum she'd been left of the inheritance. "May I know the names of these detectives, Dorcas?"
At this, Sirius stood up, his face grim, recognition similar to his own flashing across his eyes, and walked over to hear the words that left the phone, "Yes - James Fleamont Potter and Remus John Lupin."
" Goddammit," his brother cursed, and stalked off to the table, downing the rest of his glass in a single pull.
"May I ask, how experienced are these detectives?"
"Not very. They've only taken small cases up until now, so I was rather confused by the sheer amount of tracking this investigation is having around the office."
Regulus chuckled darkly, "I don't know if I should be offended or pleased about this. Thank you, Dorcas. I won't forget this."
"Don't mention it. Take care, Regulus," and with that, she hung the phone.
"At least now we know that we were right - we so do love being right, don't we?" He said sarcastically, as he joined his brother on the sofa, filling his glass to the brim once more, "Bella just doesn't know how to let things go, Christ."
Sirius smiled, sarcastic, swirling the liquid in his glass, "Well, we have been complaining about how dull things have got as of late, right?"
"That we have, brother," Regulus replied, but his eyes were fixed on a dead point. For a second, Sirius thought he'd zoned out, but then, his brothers lips tugged upward, and he recognized it; that dark, crazed glint on the eye his younger brother had only got once before - and Sirius revelled, internally, because he remembered perfectly how his brother's mind worked, once this part of himself awoke from its slumber. "What if I told you, we could have fun with it? As you said, the ton has offered no entertainment as of late," he spoke up, finally, now fully smiling, in a way he very rarely did.
Immediately catching on, Sirius cocked his head, matching his brother's expression, "Are you suggesting we play along, Regulus?"
The younger man shrugged lazily, taking another sip from his glass, still smiling, "We might as well - if this investigation concerns us, directly, we must turn it around somehow. The easiest way would be to make them disappear, easy and clean, but it would be such a waste, not to indulge in these fine men, would it not?"
"We Blacks have always been opportunists," he replied.
Chuckling, Regulus said, "Alors, c'est la guerre."
And to that, Sirius raised his glass, tilting it towards his brother, and replying, "Nous verrons qui gagne."
The brothers drank to that, the clink of their glasses a bell announcing the beginning of what this was.
The war.
Summer, 1970
Sirius
He had always believed that if there was a God out there, he hated Sirius with all his being, and had chosen to curse him. Because why would an all powerful being forbid the type of love he felt for men, a filthy, shameful thing, and make it so that he couldn't liberate himself from it? How was that benevolent? How was that noble?
And Sirius tried, he truly did, to resist temptation, the whip a tool that he used upon himself whenever it arose to an alarming point. But no matter how much of his skin tore, how much he bled on the stone floors of the basement, under the watchful eye of God, Sirius knew that it wouldn't go away. That he was doomed to live this way.
The affair had begun innocently enough, or so Sirius tried to convince himself. A lingering glance, a brush of hands in the hallway, and whispered conversations in the dead of night. Thomas, the young servant, was kind and gentle, with eyes that saw straight through Sirius' bravado to the pain beneath. In those fleeting moments, Sirius found solace and connection, something forbidden yet achingly real. With his beautiful blonde hair, kind smile, and soft hands, he sometimes wondered if he was meeting fleetingly with an angel.
But the guilt gnawed at him, a relentless whisper in his mind. Raised under the shadow of the Black's strict, unyielding faith, he knew the wrath that awaited if his secret was discovered. Each stolen kiss, every touch, was laced with dread. Sirius knew the risks, but he couldn't help himself. In a household where love was twisted and conditional, Thomas's affection felt like a lifeline, and every time they met, Sirius questioned how something that felt this way could be forbidden.
That lifeline snapped the moment Walburga found out.
Sirius remembered the cold shock in her eyes, the fury that twisted her features into something monstrous. She didn't scream or yell. Instead, she ordered Thomas to be 'dealt with', and Sirius to follow her. He had tried to apologize, to explain, to beg for Thomas' life, but his words were swallowed by the oppressive silence of the manor. Regulus had been summoned too, and he stood in the corner of the basement, his face pale and eyes wide with horror in a way Sirius had never seen before, his ice-cold facade melting away before the fear of what was about to happen.
Now, in the dim, suffocating basement, Sirius stood shirtless, his breath coming in shallow, fearful gasps. The stone walls seemed to close in, trapping him in a nightmare he couldn't escape. Walburga stood before him, a whip in her hand, her face a mask of righteous fury.
"Filth," she hissed, her voice trembling with controlled rage. "You have brought shame upon this family, upon our name, upon everything we stand for."
Sirius' heart pounded in his chest. He clenched his fists, trying to steel himself for what was coming. The first strike landed across his back with a sickening crack. Sirius bit his lip, refusing to cry out, refusing to give her the satisfaction.
"This is for your sins," she spat, each word punctuated by another lash. "For defiling yourself with that boy, for betraying your blood, for defying the will of God."
The pain was excruciating, each blow a burning brand on his flesh. Sirius' mind reeled, flashes of his time with Thomas flickering through the agony. The warmth of his touch, the soft words of comfort—they felt a million miles away now. He felt tears sting his eyes but blinked them away, focusing on the rough, cold stone beneath his feet.
"Repent," Walburga demanded, her voice a harsh, grating whisper. "Beg for forgiveness, and perhaps you will be saved."
He was going to pass out. There was blood, too much blood, "Mother! Mother, please!" he screamed, finally breaking, "Mother!" he cried, a chant, begging for forgiveness, for mercy that didn't come. Regulus stood frozen, forced to witness the brutality. His face was ashen, his eyes wide with horror and helplessness. He was the same as Sirius, he bore the same curse, but he hadn't acted on it. This was his warning against it. He couldn't look away, couldn't stop the torture. His brother's suffering was a dagger in his own heart, each lash tearing at his soul.
Finally, Walburga stepped back, her breathing heavy, the whip stained with his blood. "You will not leave this room until you have repented," she declared, her voice echoing in the cold, unfeeling space. "And you will never see that boy again."
She turned to Regulus, her gaze icy. "Watch him. Make sure he understands the weight of his sins."
She left the room, and the door slammed shut behind her, plunging the basement into a suffocating silence. Sirius sank to his knees, his body trembling with pain and exhaustion. Tears finally slipped free, mingling with the blood that seeped from his wounds. In the solitude of the basement, he allowed himself to cry, to grieve the loss of his innocence, his love, and the cruel reality of his existence.
Regulus moved hesitantly towards his brother, his own eyes wet with unshed tears. "Sirius…" his voice was a broken whisper.
Sirius turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting Regulus'. There was pain there, but also a fierce determination. "Don't… don't let her win, Reg," he managed to say through gritted teeth. "Don't let her break you."
Regulus knelt beside him, the sight of his brother's bloodied back nearly making him retch. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry."
Sirius shook his head, wincing at the pain. "Not your fault," he whispered back.
But even through the tears, a spark of defiance remained. He would survive this, he promised himself. He would endure, and one day, he would escape this prison. And when he did, he would live his life on his own terms, free from the chains of his family's twisted beliefs.
For now, though, all he could do was endure. The darkness pressed in, cold and unyielding, but Sirius Black was not broken. Not yet.
He never did see Thomas again but, months later while taking a stroll in the woods surrounding the house, he found a lock of sandy blonde hair, tinted with blood, tangled in a bush nearby.