Chapter Text
“I’ll be your mirror,
Reflect what you are, in case you don’t know.
I’ll be the wind, the rain, and the sunset,
The light on your door to show that you’re home.
When you think the night has seen your mind,
That inside your head you’re twisted and unkind,
Let me stand to show you.”
I’ll be your Mirror - The Velvet Underground
***
A squawking wakes Regulus up. He sits straight up breathing heavy, holding his hand over his chest like Sirius taught him; counting his breaths, noticing the objects around him. He’s in Sirius’s room, having crawled in his bed during the thunderstorm last night. Each breath he counts. One writing desk, two large wooden doors, three broken quills, four drawers on the chest, five ornate B’s on various furniture.
“I’m going to Hogwarts!” Sirius yells from the foyer.
Regulus’s breath quickens, and he starts his count over again. Their rooms are nearly identical, the same green bedspread, the same wallpaper with the hidden protection runes mixed with spades, and ornate B’s. Sirius’s is a little messier, robes on the ground, a forgotten chess set in the corner, Gobstones scattered about after the last exploding snap game where Regulus cried because he lost, but every big piece is the same.
“Sirius–behave yourself. Do not go walloping around like a sailor on leave. You are the heir to the Black fortune, not an uneducated goblin,” he can hear Mummy make her way to the foyer. From her tone, Regulus knows she isn’t too upset—she’d go straight to cursing if she was.
Tip-toeing out of bed, he makes his way to the second landing sitting area, his face pressed into the metal railing looking over the foyer.
“But Mummy, look, Hogwarts,” Sirius shoves the letter in the air, right under Mummy’s nose, his chest big and proud.
“As expected Sirius. Children are to be seen and not heard, you do not talk back. Where is your governess?”
“Reggie!” Sirius screams in response, and Regulus cringes back, hiding.
“Lacero,” his mother’s voice doesn’t even raise an octave, like she’s saying any common word: banana, chess, bedspread, wand. Sirius grasps his legs, but it must not be bad because there is no dark spot blooming on his pyjamas.
“You’ll wash the dishes tonight by hand, and you’ll spend the next week dusting the cabinets. Now go– to your room.” Sirius stands to go. “No– give me the book list, I want to show your father.”
A quick thudding of footsteps on stairs. “No scampering Sirius. You look like a rat,” then slow thuds, but still with purpose. Sirius arrives in the second floor sitting room, still in his matching emerald green pyjamas, the same pair Regulus himself has on, his eyes flashing blue.
Quickly, Sirius grabs Regulus’s hands, swinging him around in circles. Giggles escape, quietly stifled until both collapse to the scratchy Veela weaved carpet.
Sirius sighs. “Can you believe it Reggie? I’m really off to Hogwarts.”
His stomach drops again, but his brother’s eyes are the bluest they’ve been since he got his first broom. So instead, he straightens his elbows to lie on his back, staring at the House-Elf head on the wall. Mummy’s childhood elf. “Wish I could go with you.”
“Aw, come on, you’ll be there in a year! And we’ll be housemates, living in the dorms together, and I can show you ‘round and tell you which professors are nice and all that.”
His fingers brush the carpet, digging in until he can feel the weave underneath holding the rare Hippogriff threads together.
“S’pose,” he takes another deep breath. “Won’t be the same ‘round here, without you, though.”
“‘Course it won’t. Be a lot more boring, eh?”
Regulus turns over, facing his brother. Sirius’s cheeks are flushed red, and he looks so different, so happy.
“Yeah,” he feels himself smiling too, “Right.”
“Come on, let’s get dressed, we have French this morning and I know how much you love Madam Gerald.”
Groaning, Regulus could already see Madam Gerald’s wrinkled skin and heavy handed wand work as she marked their conjugations.
Throughout lessons that day, Sirius barely stays in his seat, squirming, looking out the window. Regulus asks an inordinate amount of questions just to keep the focus on himself; when their astronomer tutor praises his interest in the effect of alpha centauri on centaur migration patterns, Sirius sticks his tongue out mocking him. It hurts slightly, but it’s better than Sirius getting reprimanded again.
Supper is no different. Walking in single file, Sirius and Regulus, having changed into their dress robes, take their seats on opposite sides of the large mahogany dining table. Regulus’s head feels like cobwebs – overstuffed from spending all day covering for Sirius. His father is drinking wine, and his mother has fairy sherry in her tiny crystal glass.
Regulus can just tell that Sirius is dying to go to Diagon Alley—he talked about it all day, as if Mummy would give him the chance. But Regulus knows his brother will bring it up again, never knowing how to play his cards right.
So Regulus covers, like he always does. “Mummy?”
“Yes dear,” Walpurga Black rolls her eyes. “You know you are not supposed to talk unless spoken to.” She waves her glass around, and it catches the flickering light from the hundred candles on the chandelier and candelabras lining the large, cold dining room.
Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus can see Sirius’s mind working overtime on how to act out, making him the centre of attention.
“I’m sorry Mummy. I was just wondering–Do you think Sirius will meet any mudbloods? We have only read about them and I was wondering–”
Walpurga scoffs, drinking the rest of her fairy sherry. “Kreacher!”
Her glass is immediately refilled. Regulus and Sirius both relax knowing a long tirade, for once not directed at them, is about to begin.
“I mean, really.” Walpurga sniffs. “They used to have standards. Maybe a few half bloods here and there, but I heard from Domina Lestrange that nearly a quarter of the incoming class are mudbloods. Can you imagine!”
Orion Black nods sagely at his wife before turning to his heir. “Sirius, you’re to stay away from those sorts, understand?”
“Yes,” Sirius mutters.
Immediately Regulus can see his brother is back to focusing on his food, moving his fork around aimlessly, likely thinking about what people he would meet at school–his mind finally off of Diagon Alley. Regulus doesn’t understand why his parents care so much; knowing Sirius, he’ll likely befriend the first mudblood he meets—so what if he eats with his hands and can’t do magic well? Sirius will get bored if he thinks it’s allowed.
“Sit up straight boy, and stop playing with your food this instant.” Walpurga takes another sip of her fairy sherry. “I mean what’s next? Goblins? House elves? Dumbledore has to draw the line somewhere…”
***
There’s nowhere to hide the day of the bestowal ceremony. First, Sirius and Regulus retreat to Sirius’s bedroom, but after two games of exploding snap, and Sirius getting his dress robes dirty; Krescher charms the veranda to trap the two boys; nothing to do but sit stiffly, the lace of their collars scratching their necks.
Over the balcony, they can see a steady stream of maids and servants all under Mummy’s strict eye. The cold stone presses into Regulus’s cheek as he looks back at Sirius, who has his legs kicked up and crossed over the back of another chair, his head tilted back staring at a glumbumble buzzing steady circles over his head.
“You’re not nervous at all?” Regulus asks.
Sirius creaks one eye open, smiling, “Why should I be? I’m the heir of the noble house of Black.” Leaning back on the rear two legs of his chair, he rocks back and forth. Regulus stays quiet, looking back out at the lawn, listening to the muffled sounds of moving furniture and Mummy’s directions.
“Pstt…” Regulus looks back over at his brother’s whispering, “Can I tell you a secret?”
His heart beats quicker and he smiles, turning fully to his brother. The sugary scent of egg whites and sugar baking into a pavlova dances on the breeze.
“What is it?”
“I’m a little nervous.”
“Really?”
Sirius nods. “I mean, what if the wand doesn’t choose me? In front of everyone?”
“But you’re the heir to the noble house of Black!” Regulus smiles when that gets his brother to laugh, the nervous expression on his face wipes clean, back to his normal hubristic self.
“I know, I know.”
“Siri, if anyone deserves that wand, it’s you. Mummy and Daddy are going to be so proud. You were made for this.”
That seems the wrong thing to say though, because the smile that had so precariously come back to Sirius’s face falls again. “Quite right. I was made for this.”
Regulus can’t help but feel like he said something wrong. “You want this right Siri?”
But before Sirius can answer, Kreacher apparates right in front of them. “It is time for you to join your parents in welcoming your guests.”
With another CRACK, Sirius and Regulus find themselves in the foyer, their parents looking disapprovingly at them. The intense scent of bergamot, dust and parchment is suffocating.
Slowly, the family makes their way in. Aunt Druella and Uncle Cygnus come in with their children, Bella and Narcissa. Then, Albraxus Malfoy and his family. The Rosiers, the Crabbes, The Flints, The Bulstrodes, The Carrows, The Averys—then Regulus’s neck starts to ache from nodding hello to so many guests that everyone becomes a blur.
Regulus cuts glances at his brother between guests, but for once Sirius seems to play the part that was given to him. His head is high, his eyes blue and catching the candle light, his mop of black curls slicked back and regal.
Regulus breathes a sigh of relief. He can relax, be an observer and not worry about how angry his parents would be that night.
Dinner is stuffy and formal. Regulus faces down his bourguignon, the iron-blood scent of wine mixing with the muttered conversations around him. He sits in the middle of the table, near his cousins Bella and Narcissa. It was one of the first times the brothers found themselves sitting with the adults. The cousins were still unnaturally sequestered to a section of the long dining table, behind an invisible barrier from the adults, but it was the closest to real life that Regulus had ever got.
They have nearly made it through the lines of silverware when Narcissa speaks.
“Are you going to try out for the Quidditch team Sirius?”
Sirius’s eyes flash fire-blue. “You think I could make it?”
Bella scoffs. “Not as a first year, muggle-brain.”
Regulus nearly chokes on his last sip of lavender fizz. By the time he stifles the cough, the crystal glass is full again.
Narcissa’s hand touches her sister’s. “No need to be mean, Bella.”
“What, Cissy? Who knows if the wand will even choose him? And then what? He’ll become a Squib.” She takes a long sip of her drink. By the looks of it, Sirius is hanging on to every word.
“Or worse,” Her haughty voice takes on a darker tone. “You get all the way to Hogwarts, and as they do the sorting ceremony they realise you don’t belong in any house, and you’ll have to take the train back home with all the other muggleborn failures.”
“Really?” Regulus asks in time with his brother.
Bellatrix smiles. “They say one in ten students have to go back home on the train. Would be such a shame if it was you.”
“She’s lying, Bella, tell them you’re lying.” Narcissa’s cool voice relaxes the younger cousins. “You’ll take the wand, you’ll get sorted into Slytherin, and it will all be fine.”
“I was just kidding,” Bellatrix replies, rolling her eyes. “Of course he’ll be fine.”
The plates disappear, and Orion’s favourite dessert appears in its place—a plum pavlova. Each miniature serving is adorned with small spinning violets, sparkling glacé plums, and a thick cream made from dragon’s milk.
As they eat, a quartet plays Symphony Number Five by Merlina the Magnificent in the corner of the dining room. Narcissa hums quietly under her breath.
Sirius doesn’t even touch his plum pavlova, and to think about it, Regulus isn’t sure he’d eaten his dinner either.
A soft chime comes from his father’s wand. “Would everyone please meet us in the drawing room for the ceremony.”
At this, the soft scrape of chairs and rustle of cloth napkins being placed on seats flutters through the formal dining room.
The cousins follow behind as the adults make their way to the ceremony. In the drawing room, rows of chairs face the fireplace, where a large ornate box sits atop a small, high table. The table is draped with a cloth of rich, green silk, and the box writhes with carved snakes circling the familiar Black family crest.
Sirius and Regulus break from their cousins and take their assigned seats in the front row next to their mother.
Orion stands at the front. As soon as everyone sits, he begins his speech:
“Thank you, Sacred Twenty-Eight, for joining us today. I have been uplifted and sustained by the knowledge that we remain bonded through the eons in our belief and conviction of the purity of our blood.
“The ceremony we will see today is ancient, and some of their origins are veiled in the mists of the past. But their spirit and their meaning shine through the ages never, perhaps, more brightly than now.
“We have behind us not only the splendid traditions and the annals of more than a thousand years, but also the living strength and majesty of our Birthright—united in spirit and in aim.
“Please welcome me in inviting our grand Hierophant Alastor Yaxley in leading young Sirius Orion Black through this momentous occasion.”
The hierophant looks to be over two hundred years old, and speaks only in a mix of ancient Latin and Greek. He starts his sermon, waving his arms around passionately, and Regulus sees Bellatrix stifle a giggle at something Narcissa whispers from the corner of his eye. After an hour, even Orion and Walpurga seem to be nodding off.
“Young Mister Black?” Yaxley holds his hand out for Sirius to stand with him at the altar.
At this, their relations sit up straighter, watching with bated breath as Sirius approaches to kneel at Yaxley’s feet. The old Hierophant traces an ancient rune in oil on his brother’s forehead, so that when he stands, his forehead shines in the firelight. His eyes flash with power.
Yaxley opens the box, and without faltering, Sirius completes his oath:
“I, Sirius Orion Black, firmly embrace and accept each and every definition that has been set forth and declared by the unerring teaching authority of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, especially those principal truths which are directly opposed to the errors of this day.
“I believe, with equally firm faith, that we are the guardians and teachers of the purity of our blood, of the revealed word as personally instituted by the supernatural princes of our fathers. I hold that these same proofs are well adapted to the understanding of all eras and all creatures, even of this time.
“I entirely reject the heretical misrepresentation that dogmas evolve and change from one meaning to another, different from the one which our blood held previously.
“Finally, I declare that I am completely opposed to the error of the modernists who hold that there is nothing divine in sacred tradition; or what is far worse, say that there is, but in a pantheistic sense.
“I firmly hold, then, and shall hold to my dying breath, the belief in the purity of our fathers in the charism of truth, which certainly is, was, and always will be in the succession of our ancestry, our blood, and our magic.
“I promise that I shall keep all these articles faithfully, entirely, and sincerely, and guard them inviolate, in no way deviating from them in teaching or in any way in word or in writing.”
A great sigh leaves Mummy’s mouth as Sirius finishes his speech, not one crack or stutter, or slump of his shoulders.
“Toujours Pur!” the descendants of the Sacred Twenty-Eight chant back.
“Toujours Pur,” Sirius repeats, and after a quick glance around, he removes the wand from the box and holds it up. A stream of light erupts from the end, sending tiny fireworks leaping over Regulus’s head.
Everyone applauds, rising to their feet for a closer look at the family relic. Regulus hears his mother’s voice beside him.
“Well, now,” she says. “You may just make a fine heir yet.”
Regulus feels as if his heart might burst with joy.