Fic for hpsauce: Sense Memory (Sirius/Regulus)
Author: acidpop25
Giftee: hpsauce
Title: Sense Memory
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sirius/Regulus
Era/Time-Frame: Marauders-Era
Rating: PG
Summary: This is the moment where the love story goes wrong, transcends star-crossed and becomes something different, becomes galaxy-crossed, universe-crossed; this is where the loving gets all tangled up.
Warnings: Incest.
Author's Notes: I hope you like it, hpsauce! Also, thanks very much to my beta C for the look-over and for talking through Regulus' scenes with me, especially on such short notice; you're a goddess.
Sirius Black hates the smell of roses.
His mother always wore perfume, perfume picked out by his father that came in a round, clear glass bottle. The liquid was faintly pink in colour, and overwhelmingly sticky, sickly-sweet in scent. Roses. Sirius often smelled his mother’s perfume before he heard her entering a room behind him. Always roses.
She’s dead to him now, though.
It was all because he did well on an OWL. Which is really pretty bloody ridiculous, but, well, the whole damn family is pretty bloody ridiculous as far as Sirius is concerned, so really, it shouldn’t come as much of a shock.
“An O in Muggle Studies,” she said flatly, in that cold, hollow tone that meant she was gearing up for a particularly spectacular bout of shrieking. “You got an O in Muggle Studies, but a T in History of Magic.”
Sirius grabbed at the parchment. “So what? Everyone knows History’s a rubbish subject anyway.”
It was, in retrospect, stupidly obvious that it was the wrong thing to say, but, well. Sirius was never exactly known for thinking before speaking- Moony pointed that out to him often enough.
“History,” Sirius’ mother shrilled, “is the most important subject you will ever learn! History is in your blood, Sirius Black, and you do your noble ancestors of the House of Black a terrible dishonour to deny your heritage like this in favour of learning about mudbloods and filth! No son of mine-”
“Fine!” The word was out of his mouth without so much as a moment’s consideration. “Fine! Then I’m no son of yours! I didn’t ask to get stuck with all your mad pureblood mania, I don’t want it, I don’t want any of it! I’m leaving!” he shouted, and stormed out of the room before she could say another word.
It was a rather satisfying feeling.
Regulus Black hates the smell of smoke.
His mother always burned the black sheep (the white sheep?) off of the tapestry, the old family tree. Toujours pur. But the thing about blood is that it’s always a part of you, and blood shared is still blood shared (at least in Regulus’ opinion). Toujours pur, yes, it has a place (of course it has a place) because that is part of where they came from. It isn’t the only thing, though, but Regulus never told his mother that. Perhaps he should have.
She’s dead now, though.
It all began with an ending, as so many things do. Of course, Regulus had not known at the time that he was in the middle of an ending (and isn’t that always the way of things?) and when he thought about it later beginning and ending got all muddled up in his mind. Nonetheless, it began with an ending. So this is how the story starts (this is how a different story ends).
It began with a knock on Regulus’ bedroom door; it began with Sirius opening the door without waiting for permission. Some plots are always the same, no matter which story you’re telling.
Regulus had been reading, though he cannot now recall what, and this bothers him considerably more than he would care to admit. (But he ought to remember; it is important to remember the details). He had been reading, sitting on his bed (the bed had been comfortable and the book had been heavy on his lap, a hardcover, and there really hadn’t been enough light in the room to read without straining his eyes, and why can he not recall the title?) and Regulus had looked up when his brother barged in without knocking. From Sirius’ perspective, the irritated glance up and the impatient, arrogant voice (it is the voice of a Black). From Regulus’ perspective, Sirius charging in like an enormous unruly dog, and Regulus had snapped, “What? I am trying to read,” cold as you please, like kicking a fluffy black (white?) puppy. Sirius had stopped, hesitated, then shrugged. “Fine. Forget it,” he had said, and then left. No argument, no histrionics, no slamming of the bedroom door behind him as he left.
Regulus should have known right then that something wasn’t right. Details. He should have known, but he didn’t (or perhaps he didn’t want to), and it was not until he thought he smelled supper burning but found instead his mother before a slowly smoking tapestry that he finally knew (or was forced into knowing). Something ending.
“Where is my brother?”
“You have no brother.” His mother pocketed her wand, his mother’s face did not show sorrow or pity or loss or vindication or fury or anything at all. “It’s time for dinner, Regulus.”
And that is how it ends, and that is also how it begins, and that is why Regulus cannot stand the smell of smoke.
Sirius loves the sound of laughter.
There was never laughter in Grimmauld Place, and Sirius somehow never really noticed it until he got to Hogwarts and students would laugh, in the common room or at dinner or in the hallways or even in the classrooms if they were feeling reckless. And Sirius was a Gryffindor, surrounded by other Gryffindors, and they were reckless, yeah, reckless and bold, loud in scarlet and gold and it felt like what Sirius can only call belonging, and James, James was like what a brother should be. Sirius didn’t feel guilty for thinking so. Regulus had never laughed with him; Sirius couldn’t recall hearing his- well, hearing Regulus laugh. But James did, and Peter did, and even Remus did with a little prodding in the right direction. And there was rowdiness and making merry and ruling Gryffindor house with pranks and general hilarity, and all in all, Sirius was happier there than he had ever been at home, and he was happier at the Potters’ house by extension, because James, after all, was as good as a brother.
Nothing is constant, though.
It was Christmas, everyone carrying on happy and relaxed with holiday spirit or spiced mead- “Same thing,” said James, grinning- when the doorbell rang.
“Oi, who ordered the strippers?” James hollered, and he pulled the door open.
The laughter died in a heartbeat.
“What’re you-”
“Shut it, James,” Sirius interrupted, and pushed past him. Regulus, still standing on the stoop, shifted uncomfortably, pale cheeks stained pink from embarrassment or cold or both, snowflakes dusting his shoulders and hair.
“I can’t stay,” Regulus said, “I just… well. It’s stupid, but. Just, take this, all right?” And Regulus thrust a package at him, a box wrapped neatly in silver paper with a carefully, elaborately curled bow of silver ribbon that Regulus had probably done himself.
“I… I don’t have anything for you,” Sirius said. A guilty shuffle of feet.
“You never know what I want, anyway,” Regulus answered, without recrimination. “It’s okay.” There was a long, awkward pause, the two brothers-not-brothers looking at each other, and finally Regulus asked, “Are you going to open it?”
Sirius needed no second bidding to tear the paper off, destroy all those careful, neat folds and shed ribbons all over the floor.
It was a jacket. A leather motorcycle jacket. Sirius’ eyes went huge.
“You got me a leather jacket?”
“I may have heard a few rumours about a motorbike,” Regulus replied, and the slightest hint of a sly smile tugged at his lips. “Since I’m not a stripper, it’s the best I could do. I don’t think I could pull off the trashy lingerie, anyway- haven’t got the legs for it.”
Sirius snorted, and Regulus’ smile broadened, lost the sly, sharp edges, and he chuckled, very quietly, and then Sirius started to laugh, and then Regulus, and then James and all the rest until the whole house was filled with laughter like birdsong and thunder, and it didn’t die down for a long, long time.
“I’d better go,” Regulus said, when it finally did. “Don’t break your neck, all right?”
“No promises,” Sirius said, still grinning. “See you after hols.”
“Happy Christmas,” Regulus said, and disappeared.
Regulus loves the sound of rain.
He always sleeps best when it is raining, the sound soothing him to slumber surer than any lullaby ever could, the pattering of a million tiny drops. Breathe, breathe. Rain on the windowpane, rain on the roof. It’s the thing he most misses, living in the dungeons. (The thing, not the person). The scent of wet earth and the puddles on the ground afterward are a pleasant but insufficient compensation; sometimes, when he can, Regulus steals away into the rain, even into raging downpours, lets it plaster clothes and hair to his skin and leave him shivering and breathless for as long as he can stay or as long as the rainfall endures.
Nothing beautiful is constant.
Every good love story ought to have a scene in the rain (those without them have succeeded in spite of the lack, not because of it, or so Regulus thinks). And this is a kind of love story, and it has its rain scene. The rain scene does not make the story good (it’s not a very good story, really; it could use more action, more heroics, more of the things that are marvelous in tales but tend to make Gryffindors difficult to deal with in real life) but it’s here all the same. The rain scene is an ending, and it’s also the beginning of something else, but right now that isn’t the point. That’s a different story, and that’s not the story being told right now. This is the love story, not the tragedy (or perhaps this is the tragedy and not the love story, or perhaps they are both all woven together like the family tapestry, and to tell only one story is to follow the path of only one thread).
On a dark and stormy night in May, Regulus was alone out on the grounds, soaking wet and risking lightning as he had done a hundred times before.
“Regulus!”
Of all the people he might have met here, his b- Sirius was not the one he would have expected.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Looking for you,” Sirius said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. (It was obvious, but it wasn’t necessarily natural; the two are not the same). The pair fell into step with one another (it should not have been as easy as it was, because Sirius was a fair bit taller, but it was easy anyway, as though perhaps they had been made to move in perfect time even though they never seemed to). The sound of the rain in their ears, and Sirius shook his hair out of his eyes, spraying water droplets out around him, all over Regulus (not that it made any difference, and Regulus did not mind in any event).
“Regulus,” Sirius said, awkward and abrupt, “listen, I wanted to… well, you hear things around, y’know? And people’ve been whispering about this group, these…Death Eaters, and about the Slytherins. And I heard that Rosier-”
“I don’t want to hear what you’ve heard about Evan,” Regulus interrupted. “Either say what you have to say, or leave it.”
“I just… well. I’m worried, alright? You’re my brother, and I… love you.”
This is the moment where the love story goes wrong, transcends star-crossed and becomes something different, becomes galaxy-crossed, universe-crossed; this is where the loving gets all tangled up. Fact: Sirius and Regulus Black are brothers, defined as such by virtue of having the same parents. Fact: Sirius and Regulus Black are not brothers, defined by words like disown and deny and forsaken and the burn mark on the family tree. Fact: Sirius and Regulus, despite their differences, love one another very much, love being defined as a deep (profound) affection and marked concern for one another’s wellbeing. Fact: one cannot (should not) love another person both as family and as a lover.
Therefore, it follows that Sirius and Regulus Black are caught in a very contradictory position. If they love one another, is it as brothers, or as lovers? (It cannot be both).
Therefore, this is the moment where the love story goes right (wrong).
“You aren’t my brother,” Regulus said (and he did not hide the bitterness in his voice; forsaken, abandoned). “You made sure of that when you left.”
“I didn’t- well, I didn’t leave because of you, but it doesn’t matter either way. Look, don’t make me go through this again, yeah? Just… be careful, it’s safer to stay out of it.”
“You’re not my brother but you love me,” Regulus said, and he caught hold of Sirius and kissed him full on the mouth (and that is where it went wrong), and Sirius didn’t kiss back (so he must be the brother after all; miscalculation).
Blood is important.
Regulus jerked back just as suddenly. “Blood is important to me,” Regulus said sharply (but probably not the way Sirius heard it), and he fled for the castle, and that, well, that was that. That is where it ends, this love-not-love story. This is where another story begins, a war story, but this one, it ends here.
Regulus Black hates the sound of rain. (Regulus Black hates Sirius Black even more).
Giftee: hpsauce
Title: Sense Memory
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sirius/Regulus
Era/Time-Frame: Marauders-Era
Rating: PG
Summary: This is the moment where the love story goes wrong, transcends star-crossed and becomes something different, becomes galaxy-crossed, universe-crossed; this is where the loving gets all tangled up.
Warnings: Incest.
Author's Notes: I hope you like it, hpsauce! Also, thanks very much to my beta C for the look-over and for talking through Regulus' scenes with me, especially on such short notice; you're a goddess.
Sirius Black hates the smell of roses.
His mother always wore perfume, perfume picked out by his father that came in a round, clear glass bottle. The liquid was faintly pink in colour, and overwhelmingly sticky, sickly-sweet in scent. Roses. Sirius often smelled his mother’s perfume before he heard her entering a room behind him. Always roses.
She’s dead to him now, though.
It was all because he did well on an OWL. Which is really pretty bloody ridiculous, but, well, the whole damn family is pretty bloody ridiculous as far as Sirius is concerned, so really, it shouldn’t come as much of a shock.
“An O in Muggle Studies,” she said flatly, in that cold, hollow tone that meant she was gearing up for a particularly spectacular bout of shrieking. “You got an O in Muggle Studies, but a T in History of Magic.”
Sirius grabbed at the parchment. “So what? Everyone knows History’s a rubbish subject anyway.”
It was, in retrospect, stupidly obvious that it was the wrong thing to say, but, well. Sirius was never exactly known for thinking before speaking- Moony pointed that out to him often enough.
“History,” Sirius’ mother shrilled, “is the most important subject you will ever learn! History is in your blood, Sirius Black, and you do your noble ancestors of the House of Black a terrible dishonour to deny your heritage like this in favour of learning about mudbloods and filth! No son of mine-”
“Fine!” The word was out of his mouth without so much as a moment’s consideration. “Fine! Then I’m no son of yours! I didn’t ask to get stuck with all your mad pureblood mania, I don’t want it, I don’t want any of it! I’m leaving!” he shouted, and stormed out of the room before she could say another word.
It was a rather satisfying feeling.
Regulus Black hates the smell of smoke.
His mother always burned the black sheep (the white sheep?) off of the tapestry, the old family tree. Toujours pur. But the thing about blood is that it’s always a part of you, and blood shared is still blood shared (at least in Regulus’ opinion). Toujours pur, yes, it has a place (of course it has a place) because that is part of where they came from. It isn’t the only thing, though, but Regulus never told his mother that. Perhaps he should have.
She’s dead now, though.
It all began with an ending, as so many things do. Of course, Regulus had not known at the time that he was in the middle of an ending (and isn’t that always the way of things?) and when he thought about it later beginning and ending got all muddled up in his mind. Nonetheless, it began with an ending. So this is how the story starts (this is how a different story ends).
It began with a knock on Regulus’ bedroom door; it began with Sirius opening the door without waiting for permission. Some plots are always the same, no matter which story you’re telling.
Regulus had been reading, though he cannot now recall what, and this bothers him considerably more than he would care to admit. (But he ought to remember; it is important to remember the details). He had been reading, sitting on his bed (the bed had been comfortable and the book had been heavy on his lap, a hardcover, and there really hadn’t been enough light in the room to read without straining his eyes, and why can he not recall the title?) and Regulus had looked up when his brother barged in without knocking. From Sirius’ perspective, the irritated glance up and the impatient, arrogant voice (it is the voice of a Black). From Regulus’ perspective, Sirius charging in like an enormous unruly dog, and Regulus had snapped, “What? I am trying to read,” cold as you please, like kicking a fluffy black (white?) puppy. Sirius had stopped, hesitated, then shrugged. “Fine. Forget it,” he had said, and then left. No argument, no histrionics, no slamming of the bedroom door behind him as he left.
Regulus should have known right then that something wasn’t right. Details. He should have known, but he didn’t (or perhaps he didn’t want to), and it was not until he thought he smelled supper burning but found instead his mother before a slowly smoking tapestry that he finally knew (or was forced into knowing). Something ending.
“Where is my brother?”
“You have no brother.” His mother pocketed her wand, his mother’s face did not show sorrow or pity or loss or vindication or fury or anything at all. “It’s time for dinner, Regulus.”
And that is how it ends, and that is also how it begins, and that is why Regulus cannot stand the smell of smoke.
Sirius loves the sound of laughter.
There was never laughter in Grimmauld Place, and Sirius somehow never really noticed it until he got to Hogwarts and students would laugh, in the common room or at dinner or in the hallways or even in the classrooms if they were feeling reckless. And Sirius was a Gryffindor, surrounded by other Gryffindors, and they were reckless, yeah, reckless and bold, loud in scarlet and gold and it felt like what Sirius can only call belonging, and James, James was like what a brother should be. Sirius didn’t feel guilty for thinking so. Regulus had never laughed with him; Sirius couldn’t recall hearing his- well, hearing Regulus laugh. But James did, and Peter did, and even Remus did with a little prodding in the right direction. And there was rowdiness and making merry and ruling Gryffindor house with pranks and general hilarity, and all in all, Sirius was happier there than he had ever been at home, and he was happier at the Potters’ house by extension, because James, after all, was as good as a brother.
Nothing is constant, though.
It was Christmas, everyone carrying on happy and relaxed with holiday spirit or spiced mead- “Same thing,” said James, grinning- when the doorbell rang.
“Oi, who ordered the strippers?” James hollered, and he pulled the door open.
The laughter died in a heartbeat.
“What’re you-”
“Shut it, James,” Sirius interrupted, and pushed past him. Regulus, still standing on the stoop, shifted uncomfortably, pale cheeks stained pink from embarrassment or cold or both, snowflakes dusting his shoulders and hair.
“I can’t stay,” Regulus said, “I just… well. It’s stupid, but. Just, take this, all right?” And Regulus thrust a package at him, a box wrapped neatly in silver paper with a carefully, elaborately curled bow of silver ribbon that Regulus had probably done himself.
“I… I don’t have anything for you,” Sirius said. A guilty shuffle of feet.
“You never know what I want, anyway,” Regulus answered, without recrimination. “It’s okay.” There was a long, awkward pause, the two brothers-not-brothers looking at each other, and finally Regulus asked, “Are you going to open it?”
Sirius needed no second bidding to tear the paper off, destroy all those careful, neat folds and shed ribbons all over the floor.
It was a jacket. A leather motorcycle jacket. Sirius’ eyes went huge.
“You got me a leather jacket?”
“I may have heard a few rumours about a motorbike,” Regulus replied, and the slightest hint of a sly smile tugged at his lips. “Since I’m not a stripper, it’s the best I could do. I don’t think I could pull off the trashy lingerie, anyway- haven’t got the legs for it.”
Sirius snorted, and Regulus’ smile broadened, lost the sly, sharp edges, and he chuckled, very quietly, and then Sirius started to laugh, and then Regulus, and then James and all the rest until the whole house was filled with laughter like birdsong and thunder, and it didn’t die down for a long, long time.
“I’d better go,” Regulus said, when it finally did. “Don’t break your neck, all right?”
“No promises,” Sirius said, still grinning. “See you after hols.”
“Happy Christmas,” Regulus said, and disappeared.
Regulus loves the sound of rain.
He always sleeps best when it is raining, the sound soothing him to slumber surer than any lullaby ever could, the pattering of a million tiny drops. Breathe, breathe. Rain on the windowpane, rain on the roof. It’s the thing he most misses, living in the dungeons. (The thing, not the person). The scent of wet earth and the puddles on the ground afterward are a pleasant but insufficient compensation; sometimes, when he can, Regulus steals away into the rain, even into raging downpours, lets it plaster clothes and hair to his skin and leave him shivering and breathless for as long as he can stay or as long as the rainfall endures.
Nothing beautiful is constant.
Every good love story ought to have a scene in the rain (those without them have succeeded in spite of the lack, not because of it, or so Regulus thinks). And this is a kind of love story, and it has its rain scene. The rain scene does not make the story good (it’s not a very good story, really; it could use more action, more heroics, more of the things that are marvelous in tales but tend to make Gryffindors difficult to deal with in real life) but it’s here all the same. The rain scene is an ending, and it’s also the beginning of something else, but right now that isn’t the point. That’s a different story, and that’s not the story being told right now. This is the love story, not the tragedy (or perhaps this is the tragedy and not the love story, or perhaps they are both all woven together like the family tapestry, and to tell only one story is to follow the path of only one thread).
On a dark and stormy night in May, Regulus was alone out on the grounds, soaking wet and risking lightning as he had done a hundred times before.
“Regulus!”
Of all the people he might have met here, his b- Sirius was not the one he would have expected.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Looking for you,” Sirius said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. (It was obvious, but it wasn’t necessarily natural; the two are not the same). The pair fell into step with one another (it should not have been as easy as it was, because Sirius was a fair bit taller, but it was easy anyway, as though perhaps they had been made to move in perfect time even though they never seemed to). The sound of the rain in their ears, and Sirius shook his hair out of his eyes, spraying water droplets out around him, all over Regulus (not that it made any difference, and Regulus did not mind in any event).
“Regulus,” Sirius said, awkward and abrupt, “listen, I wanted to… well, you hear things around, y’know? And people’ve been whispering about this group, these…Death Eaters, and about the Slytherins. And I heard that Rosier-”
“I don’t want to hear what you’ve heard about Evan,” Regulus interrupted. “Either say what you have to say, or leave it.”
“I just… well. I’m worried, alright? You’re my brother, and I… love you.”
This is the moment where the love story goes wrong, transcends star-crossed and becomes something different, becomes galaxy-crossed, universe-crossed; this is where the loving gets all tangled up. Fact: Sirius and Regulus Black are brothers, defined as such by virtue of having the same parents. Fact: Sirius and Regulus Black are not brothers, defined by words like disown and deny and forsaken and the burn mark on the family tree. Fact: Sirius and Regulus, despite their differences, love one another very much, love being defined as a deep (profound) affection and marked concern for one another’s wellbeing. Fact: one cannot (should not) love another person both as family and as a lover.
Therefore, it follows that Sirius and Regulus Black are caught in a very contradictory position. If they love one another, is it as brothers, or as lovers? (It cannot be both).
Therefore, this is the moment where the love story goes right (wrong).
“You aren’t my brother,” Regulus said (and he did not hide the bitterness in his voice; forsaken, abandoned). “You made sure of that when you left.”
“I didn’t- well, I didn’t leave because of you, but it doesn’t matter either way. Look, don’t make me go through this again, yeah? Just… be careful, it’s safer to stay out of it.”
“You’re not my brother but you love me,” Regulus said, and he caught hold of Sirius and kissed him full on the mouth (and that is where it went wrong), and Sirius didn’t kiss back (so he must be the brother after all; miscalculation).
Blood is important.
Regulus jerked back just as suddenly. “Blood is important to me,” Regulus said sharply (but probably not the way Sirius heard it), and he fled for the castle, and that, well, that was that. That is where it ends, this love-not-love story. This is where another story begins, a war story, but this one, it ends here.
Regulus Black hates the sound of rain. (Regulus Black hates Sirius Black even more).