Sirius leaves, is disowned, and no one knows what to do with you. You hear your mother spouting curses and traitor, traitor, traitor, and she looks at you like you’re dead weight, now. And you understand her, you do. You’ve always pitied your mother, looked down on her for giving birth to three daughters and not a single son.
You’re not a son (that’s your curse), but at least you would’ve always been a Black; and now you’re dead weight.
You hate him, your favorite cousin, the one you taught how to hold his wand right. Your co-conspirator at miserable family functions, your own flesh and blood— a traitor.
ii.
Regulus is made heir, your soft spoken baby cousin. Sirius’ little brother, his constant shadow, always one step behind him unless you could manage to steal your older cousin away for a few hours.
It’s strange seeing Regulus without his brother in front of him, covering him like a shield, and you think it’s the first time you’ve properly seen your baby cousin. He looks wobbly on his knees, like a weak comparison to his older brother. It’s strange following his gaze and not finding Sirius at the end of it.
Your mother doesn’t want you to marry him and your father strikes her with an open fist to remind her of her place. He says, you’re not a Black, and then, you don’t decide who my daughter marries.
Regulus is heir, now, after all, and you’re just a girl despite having eight years on your baby cousin.
He’s malleable, though, like clay, and you’ve got strong hands and sharp teeth.
You give him the Black smirk and a wink. He flushes a pretty pink at that, lips parted and long eyelashes fluttering as he tries to hide behind an imaginary body.
You think, sweet little lamb, as you crowd him like the predatory wolf that always lived inside you.
iii.
He looks at you so sweetly, your baby cousin. As if you’re his guiding star, like he needs you; like he used to need his big brother— and you struggle a little not to see him as a blushing seventeen year old kid instead of the heir of house Black.
Regulus has always watched you, mostly whenever you interacted with Sirius, as if you were standing in his way or, sometimes, as if he wanted what belonged to his brother: you.
You let him touch you and he’s so gentle, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands or where to put them. So you do it for him, your back against the wall in his childhood bedroom. He calls you pretty, so pretty, and it’s easy to believe him when his lips are trembling, his hands shaking.
You were never pretty, that was always for your younger sisters.
It’s Regulus’ birthday so he goes down on one knee and puts a ring on your finger. His gray eyes never leave your gray eyes. His lips taste like home, like solidity, and you bite down to taste some of your shared blood. Sealing the deal.
You tell Narcissa about it over tea, showing off your ring, and you’re both laughing. You tell her how sweet he was, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you, stars in his eyes and bending to your every will. Narcissa can’t stop giggling, that’s our baby cousin! And you laugh, too, and say, he’s my fiancé, actually, and you give her a wink.
Regulus writes to you every week while he’s doing his last year at Hogwarts. He finishes the letters off with kisses every time. He complains about Sirius and you roll your eyes.
He writes, I can’t wait to be yours, and you forget, for a moment, that you’re the girl.
You write him back, you wanna be my wife, cousin? because you can’t help yourself. It’s going to your head.
He writes, please.
iv.
You’re a married woman and you can’t help but resent how well it suits you. It was your biggest nightmare growing up, the end of your delusions about autonomy that you never really had in the first place. You’re a girl, something to be handed over and dealt with. First you belong to your father, then you’re supposed to belong to your husband.
All girls grow up just to become their mothers. At the hands of husbands like their fathers.
Regulus isn’t like his father. Or your father. He’s not even like his brother. He’s heir, and you’re his wife— and people respect him more than they respect you. That’s to be expected.
It’s different behind closed doors, though. As if the roles are reversed. Regulus looks to you, as if asking you to take the reins. Like he’s a marionette and you’re holding the strings.
It’s a heady feeling, being man of the house.
v.
Regulus looks to you, so he takes the mark because you ask him to, because it’s what’s best for him. And you want what’s best for him.
He doesn’t ask questions, only gives you that look that goes to your head before he straddles your lap and says, you take such good care of us, and you pull him closer by the waist and say, I’ll always take care of you, darling.
Because you do, you take care of you and yours.
vi.
There are whispers of a cave, the sea, but they get smothered with ink and death. As if they’re whispers from another life, far from here.
Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night, and it’s cold and dark, and you’ll panic for just a second, like you might never feel happiness again. Then you turn on the lights.
You rise to the top, hand in hand, Mr and Mrs. Black. The Dark Lord speaks directly to you, like you’re a person, like you’re worth listening to. Your husband stands at your back, you cover him like a shield— and he’s always one step behind you.
The Dark Lord takes a liking to you both. He lets you sit the closest to him, your husband to your right. The others give you strange looks whenever they forget themselves.
You don’t let them forget themselves.
vii.
It works— you’re happy and it works.
You’re enough like Sirius that Regulus can fall in love with you, and eventually he stops giving you that searching look of his. He stops trying to find his brother in your eyes— until all he sees is you.
It’s easy to dote on him. He’s soft and pliant, you lead and he follows. It’s almost love, for you. You love him because he’s your cousin and because he let you remain a Black. You love your marriage, the power, being man of the house.
You’re a good match and you remember cursing Sirius for abandoning you, and now you wouldn’t trade this for anything.
You take care of you and yours. He stays faithful and submissive like a wife, and he smiles so sweetly when he smells another woman’s perfume on your robes; like he’s just grateful you came home to him, because that’s what matters.
Your mistresses mean nothing to me, he says, you’re my wife, so you kiss him to let him know who you belong to.
He keeps you out of Azkaban, you make him a believer.
