All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

The War : Dulce et Decorum est

BLACK HEIR CONFIRMED DEAD

 

Regulus Arcturus Black II, only child of Orion and Walpurga Black, has today been confirmed dead in a statement issued from the Black family home in Islington. Born in 1961, the heir to the Black house and fortune was eighteen years old. He had recently completed his education at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he distinguished himself as an impeccable student and gifted quidditch player.

Regulus is survived by his parents and his cousins who will attend a private memorial service later in the week. The family have requested privacy.

 

It couldn’t be right. It couldn’t, it couldn’t, it couldn’t…

Regulus Arcturus Black II, only child of Orion and Walpurga Black, has today been confirmed dead…

 

It just didn’t make sense. It didn’t make any sense, no sense at all, so it couldn’t be true—it couldn’t—

Regulus Arcturus Black II, only child of Orion and Walpurga Black, has today been confirmed dead…

Confirmed by who? Confirmed how—by what? It couldn’t be true, because Sirius would have known—he’d have known if his brother was dead. He’d have felt it, somehow—something would have changed, or shifted; things wouldn’t just be the same. So it couldn’t be true, because it wasn’t possible, because Reg was his stupid, infuriating, cry baby, death eater fucking brother, and Sirius hated him, and he hated Sirius—they hated each other, and they were fighting on opposite sides of a war, they were fighting and Reg was alive and Sirius was angry with him and he was angry with Sirius and they were both alive to be angry with each other. And Reg couldn’t be dead, because Sirius was still angry with him. They were still fighting.

He was aware, vaguely, of Remus moving around him, bustling in and out of the room, making tea, holding out a bottle of whisky that Sirius shook his head at, numbly. Remus was saying things, speaking to him, but the words didn’t penetrate—all Sirius could do was stare down at the paper, at the horrible, printed words:

BLACK HEIR CONFIRMED DEAD.

But Reg had just finished school. He’d just finished school, so he couldn’t be dead. He wasn’t even twenty, so he couldn’t be dead. It was still summer, and he loved summer, so he couldn’t be dead. Reg wouldn’t do that—he wouldn’t die in the summer, when the sun set so late and they could watch it, in the evening, lying in the grass while the sky turned pink and then orange and then black, while the stars rose, while Sirius pointed up at the constellations back before they were fighting, before Hogwarts, when he still liked astronomy, when he still spent hours memorising charts of stars so that his mother would smile at him.

That one’s me, he whispered, pointing, And that one’s you.

And Regulus smiled up at him—they were lying in the grass, and he was smiling—they were lying in the dirt, and he was crying, and his eyes were wide and scared, and he was saying Please.

I’m trying to save you.

Sirius gripped the paper until his knuckles turned white, until his hands shook. You bastard, he thought, staring down his brother’s name, printed neatly in black and white, You bastard, you bastard, you stupid, selfish bastard.