Chapter IV . . . fucking bowie

Sirius always won Exploding Snap.

It was probably fair, seeing as he was the one that brought Wizarding games into No. 12 Grimmauld Place to begin with, and he had the most experience from his year at Hogwarts. He had just returned for Christmas wearing a fuzzy crimson hat with a long tail and a white puff on the end of it that made him look a bit like one of their parents' friends, but Sirius said it was to pay homage to a Muggle creation called Santa Claus.

The first thing Walburga did when he walked in the front door was rip it clean off his head and scream at him until even Regulus's ears were bleeding just from listening up the stairs.

No more Exploding Snap after that.

"It's alright," Sirius had assured Regulus, a few hours later, as they sat in the elder Black brother's childhood bedroom. He had already begun sticking up rebellious and roguish Muggle posters, but it would be a while before he got the Permanent Sticking Charm down, so Walburga would soon come in and rip them all away, just as she had done with Sirius's cap.

"But it was a nice hat," Regulus said, miserably, as he watched Sirius meticulously glue a Chudley Cannons poster on the wall directly across from his bed. "And now it's gone. Did one of your friends give it to you? One of your Hogwarts friends?"

Sirius offered a knowing smile over his shoulder, hearing the way Regulus's voice lit up at the thought of meeting new wizards and witches at Hogwarts the next year. "I did get it from a Hogwarts student—girl my year called Lily—but she definitely isn't my friend, and I doubt she'll be happy to hear I lost it already."

"She isn't your friend?" Regulus frowned. "Then.. is she your girlfriend?"

Sirius scoffed. "There's things besides those two, you know. It's not black and white at Hogwarts, like it is here. You can be friends with someone, or you can hate their guts out in the open, or you can fancy them—like my good mate, James, he's already infatuated with Evans anyway—"

"Have you? Found someone?" chirped Regulus, eyes full of wonder, childish awe reflecting off every way he looked at Sirius. "I think I want a girlfriend when I go next year. Mother's never let me had one."

"You don't need a girlfriend, you're ten."

"And you're eleven," he replied smoothly, then laughed and ducked when Sirius threw his bundle of Muggle tape at Regulus's head. "Where'd you get these posters, anyway, Sirius? Does Father know you have them?"

"Nope." Sirius wiped his hands together, stepping back to admire his work from afar: Six posters in all, each breaking a new rule from the last one. Mother and Father would have had a heart attack if they saw Sirius's wall, but he didn't seem bothered by this notion whatsoever. "Don't you like it, brother?"

Regulus stared up at the wall with Sirius, trying very hard to see what Sirius did, but he can't. The posters weren't cool; they were vile, in Regulus's opinion. But he didn't want to say so, because that was how it always started: Regulus reminds Sirius of Mother and Father, Sirius says Regulus is too much like their parents and needs to be himself, Regulus gets angry and tells Sirius that he needs to be more like Mother and Father. They argue, they don't talk for possibly a week at a time. When they do, it's brief. This is how they worked, for their whole lives.

Too much of this infighting is what shoved the initial wedge between them, but Regulus remembers the thing that finally drove Sirius mad, the straw that broke his back: When Reg ripped one of his stupid Muggle singer posters down.

It was a few years later, when Regulus was fourteen and Sirius was fifteen. Always a year older. They were home for the summer holidays, holed up in the hot Grimmauld Place and just itching for a chance to take their anger out on each other. But Sirius had just confided in Regulus about his new girlfriend. Regulus didn't approve, and he told Sirius so.

They didn't know it then, but it would be their last summer together; and, if you'd told them that, they would have said good fucking riddance.

"She's a Mudblood!" Regulus seethed, as he and Sirius had it out—once again in Sirius's bedroom, because nowhere else in the house was anywhere Sirius would go anymore. "She's Muggleborn, Sirius. Imagine how Mother and Fath—"

"It's always Mother and Father with you!" Sirius looked absolutely mad; his hair—already so long by then—had begun to spring free from its little bun, flying around his face and giving him the air of electrocution. "Don't you have your own mind, Regulus? Are you a carbon copy of them? Everything must rely on what they want!"

"They provide for us, Sirius; isn't that enough?" Regulus shot back, slamming his fist onto Sirius's wardrobe so hard it probably cracked. He didn't look to check. "You just have to make everything difficult! What is it, then; being a Gryffindor isn't enough, so you have to date a Muggleborn just to really emphasize your point?"

"I'm dating Mary because I fancy her! Go figure, Regulus; a Black can actually have feelings for someone other than themself. Is that such a shocker to you, brother? That I have room in my heart for more than mummy and daddy and the bloody Dark Lord!?"

He threw something at Regulus with the last bit, something that Regulus dodged just in time and allowed it to shatter down the wall behind him.

"You're mad," he told Sirius—spat it, really—as he circled the room to get to the door. "Something is wrong with you, Sirius. And what the hell is it with these goddamn posters!"

Without thinking, he threw his hands up and clawed at the more prominent of them, dragging his fingers down and ripping awful, gaping holes through the thin paper. Sirius roared his disapproval and it wasn't long before Regulus felt hands on his back, wheeling him away, shoving him so hard his face hit the bedpost and blood spurted everywhere.

Later, Sirius apologised. Tracked Regulus down in his bedroom and told him he was sorry for losing his temper, but it wasn't fair that Reg didn't see things the way Sirius did. It was hardly an apology, but Regulus accepted it nonetheless; even offered a halfhearted one of his own.

But the damage was already done on both ends: Sirius's poster of fucking Bowie was done for, and Regulus's nose gushed blood until the early hours of the morning.

Now, Regulus can still feel the crack at the bridge of his nose as it collides with the ornate wooden bedpost, can feel Sirius shoving him into pain without a second thought. He's looking at the posters again, of course, just staring at them like they can offer any sort of riposte. Of course nothing happens. They're Muggle posters, the lot of them. And that much had been proved during Orion's manic attempts to rip them off the wall using every curse imaginable.

For some reason, Regulus is the only one capable of baring Sirius's walls. He did it just once—the time all those years ago—and has never wanted to since.

He wonders, now, as he stares at the only blank spot where the image of a flamboyant Muggle with a microphone in hand used to reside, whether things could be different. If Sirius wasn't in Gryffindor; if Regulus was. If Sirius had been born under a different star and been blessed with the ability to keep his mouth shut. If Regulus didn't resent his brother for getting out.

If Regulus hadn't judged Sirius for fancying a Muggleborn.

Anyway, he hears Sirius is into blokes now, which—while it isn't surprising—is taboo, under the roof of No. 12 Grimmauld Place. Regulus heard it from Evan, though, so he isn't sure how Mother and Father found out. But he knows for certain that they don't know he's into that halfbreed Remus Lupin, because if that gets around to them, Regulus is quite positive his father would personally track Sirius down and murder him in cold blood.

It's the first time Regulus is without his brother for the Christmas holiday. It's lonelier here, much colder without someone else to share the load with. Gradually, over the course of at least a few days, Regulus finds himself wishing Sirius were with him. Regretting things. Wondering, like he has been wondering for ages now, whether he could ever fix things. Maybe when he doesn't live under his mother and father's roof anymore, he will go and find Sirius. Maybe they could have a brotherhood outside of the nightmarish one they were cursed with from birth.

"I don't feel bad for him," Regulus clarifies to Kreacher, some offish day when both his parents are out at a dinner party. "Don't go around telling Mother and Father I pity him; I don't."

"Yes, young Master Regulus," croaks Kreacher, as he dedoxies the drawing room's cabinet. "Kreacher will tell no one, as Master wishes."

"Good," Regulus says, "because I don't feel bad for him."

And he may not have on that day, but he slowly begins to; feels it sneak into his mind, as if staying in this house is seeping into his subconscious, poisoning him the way it did Sirius.

Harsh, Regulus thinks, when Orion berates Sirius's empty place at the dinner table.

He deserves it, Regulus reminds himself as he watches Walburga blast Sirius's portrait off the familial tapestry.

He had it right, Regulus decides, lying in the dark in his bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering if Sirius could take him with him. Wherever he is.

Sirius is gone. Sirius is foolish; when he sees Regulus, whenever they see each other next, Regulus will be prepared. He will have a branding, a physical presence, that will show Sirius that Regulus was better off without him. He won't be able to ignore that, will he?

Christmas is dull and entirely un-merry, in the Black household. It's only rarely viewed as a holiday. So the lack of Christmas cheer is probably why Mother and Father choose the twenty-fifth of December to spend out of the house, celebrating with their own friends; Regulus, a forgotten bygone left at home alone.

He doesn't mind, though. Prefers this.

The solitude is what gets him out of the house, too. He bundles up in his warmest coat, thrown sloppily on over his Slytherin jumper, and slips a pair of mittens over his fair hands. The wind still bites at his face when he steps onto the front stoop. It hurts, but just enough to feel good.

Weather in London is foggy as all get-out, with just the right amount of dryness to have a kick. It's dull and tragic and there is definitely a reason nobody is out when Regulus leaves his house, but the weather isn't bothering him whatsoever, so he shuts the door behind him and continues on.

He doesn't know how long he walks. Just knows that he needs to be out of the house, can't stay locked up in that room with Sirius's ghost for any longer or else he might go insane. So he wanders. Meanders. Strolls through the dark. It only gets colder as he goes on, but he has no plans to stop. The weather keeps his mind off of everything else.

Eventually, he must rest, because even wizard bodies cannot go on forever. So he finds a bench, a stopping place halfway through a park's pathway, and settles onto it. Doesn't have any plans, either, to get up anytime soon. This is the most at-rest he has felt in probably years, so why would he disrupt the peace? Why pull himself away from his privacy of staring up at the stars and imagining himself among them?

Ultimately, he isn't the one to break his solitude of peace. Someone else is. A girlish sort of throat-clearing sound, someone from his side, a few paces down the path.

At first, it looks like a standing mannequin, she is so still. Her body is buried down beneath at least two jumpers at once; a knit hat smooshes down the entirety of her hair, and her cheeks are bright pink behind the collar of her coat. She's so bundled up that Regulus nearly doesn't recognise her, but the smile that splits her face is undeniable.

"Lyra North," he says, almost to himself in such a whisper. His brow knits together, but he doesn't turn to face her again, instead letting his head rock back and face the sky. "Look, I've had a decently rough go these past few days, so I think I'd appreciate if you could leave me be—if you're even real, that is."

Could be his imagination getting a kick out of him. Always could be.

She laughs, though, and that's how he knows she is really there. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but I'm realer than the buttons down your coat, Regulus Black."

He scoffs quietly, but it can be mistaken as a laugh so he covers it with a glare in her direction. "What are you doing here? Surely you aren't stalking me."

"Oh, and if I were?" she challenges playfully. Unprompted, she moves to sit beside him, though keeps staring straight ahead instead of up at the stars. "I live down Cressige. I don't think I'm mistaken in thinking we've had a few run-ins before this one, though, if I'm being honest."

That catches him. He furrows his brow and turns his head to her, a confused huff leaving his lips in a white cloud. "Sorry?"

She bluffs a heaving sigh and sinks her shoulders. "Guess that's what I get for thinking Regulus Black could ever remember little ol' me."

Something tugs at the corner of his lips, and he shoves her shoulder. "Piss off. I just—I had no idea you lived around here."

"Yep." She kicks her feet so the sole of her shoe scuffs against the dingy ground. "Me and my dirty blood live just down the way."

For some reason, Regulus flinches. He doesn't know if it's awkwardness, or embarrassment, or plain resentment; but he does, and she must catch it, because she glances over to him with half of a knowing smile.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice bordering on teasing. "But certainly I didn't just catch a look of shame on Regulus Black's face?"

So that's what it was. Of course he hadn't recognised it; shame isn't something he comes across normally. He shrugs offhandedly, not meeting her eyes. "Hardly."

"Looked as much," she says, and there is definitely a sense of taunting rolling in the back of her tone. Is this a game to her? "I reckon you feel bad for calling me that dreadful word, you just don't want to show it."

He shuts his eyes, blocking out the stars, blocking out Lyra. He won't have it. Not this time. "We aren't playing this again, North."

She hums thoughtfully. "Then what game would you prefer to play?"

Regulus glances to her out of the corner of his eye, unsurprised to find she is already looking his way. "I don't like games, believe it or not."

"I believe it. Why not?"

"I find them a waste of time," he says flatly, now looking at her fully, giving her all his attention. Giving her as much he can manage, anyway. "Why should I sit around with a deck of magical cards, just waiting for something to happen? There are a million more productive ways to spend my time."

"You'll always be sitting around anyway," she replies, tilting her head to the side. "Why not make some fun out of it?"

"Terribly boring, don't you think," he decides placidly, turning his head down. "All those games. Play them as children, and they're entertaining. As tweens, they're even alright then. But tell me you don't find Exploding Snap repetitive and dull, and I'll eat my words."

"Odd euphemism of choice," she says with a laugh, "but I see where you're coming from. Sure, it's repetitive, but all games are."

"Not the kind I play."

Lyra raises her eyebrows, giving Regulus a frisky glance, a smile tugging at her mouth. "You're quite the mystery, Regulus Black."

He turns to her, perhaps waggling his eyebrows playfully, perhaps not. "I always thought the same of you, actually."

"Really?" She laughs again, though it's gentler now; now that they're facing each other and he's closer to her. "What in Circe's name would make you think of me as a mystery?"

Regulus simpers. He doesn't like it, but he does it anyway, and now he's smiled at Lyra and that isn't quite something you can undo.

"Just my mind playing tricks on me, I imagine."

She inhales, nodding decisively and giving Regulus a sort of smile that makes him think he replied in a way she hadn't been expecting. "The things I'd give for five minutes in your mind, Regulus Black. They couldn't be traded for a million galleons."

Regulus only just manages to hold back the fact that she has been there since the first time he saw her.

"I expect yours looks quite opposite to mine," she goes on, oblivious, waving a hand offhandedly and shaking her head. "Yes, I reckon there's a load of darkness buried in that thick skull of yours. Possibly a whole murder of crows, a good Thestral or two—"

He huffs a laugh. "Especially after dealing with their dung so often."

"Skulls and crossbones everywhere," she says wistfully, narrowing her eyes at the night sky like she can imagine it to be his mind, if she tries hard enough. Then she gives him a sideways glance, smiling roguishly. "Am I close?"

He tilts his head from side to side as if deliberating, then pulls his lips down in a frown, nodding along. "I think you got everything. Points off for missing the cobwebs, though, I have to tell you."

Lyra laughs, her head falling back. He smiles. Then he stops, because he reminds himself who this is.

"Fair," she agrees, still beaming when she looks back over to him. "And mine, do you reckon?"

Regulus regards her for a short while, his tongue wetting his lips as he thinks—properly, not just to humour her—before he really gets into it, shifting on the bench so he is sitting up straight.

"I think," he says, "you're full of billions of joyous things, like fairies and flowers and all sorts of bright colours. You see everything through a cloud of pink, I expect, and nothing negative gets through that thick skull of yours. Probably all sorts of Muggle singers, like... like Bowie," he says uncertainly, because Bowie is the only Muggle singer he even knows. "You see everyone the same in your head, no matter who they are, what they stand for, where they go when the sun sets. You're a pillar. One covered in shining glitter, of course, but a pillar nonetheless."

"A pillar," she repeats, curiously, no longer laughing but still smiling like something's funny. "Like the North Star?"

Regulus rolls his eyes. "A bit on-the-nose, but sure."

Her lips curl into something more disquieting than her prior smiles have been, and she tilts her head to the side, looking rather pleased.

"My, Regulus Black. A poet. Who knew?" She leans in a bit more, and Merlin, Regulus can swear her eyes leave his for just one millisecond to glimpse his lips before they're back, her gaze piercing him in every way possible.

Somehow, some higher power allows Regulus to keep enough composure to hold her eyes—even though he wants to look at her lips for as long as he can—and murmur, "Certainly you aren't telling me I'm wrong."

Lyra's lips pucker slightly, and she looks down again, like she's thinking. Then she meets his eyes once more.

"If that's what you think is going on in my head, Regulus, then I'm afraid you have a cruel awakening in your future."

(s)he be(lie)ved