He could blame it on ignorance. Muggle devices were so unnecessarily convoluted, their apps so poorly written and constantly changing. Simple tasks, like logging out, took them three steps what a spell could have done in one. It was easy, then, to blame his reluctance to click away on fallacy of design.

“Oh look, I see he’s nailed that Insufferable Jerk look pretty nicely.”

His brother’s face glowered up at him from a box at the top of the screen. It was shocking, the quickness of it all. How, in mere moments, the eyes that he had not looked into for -- was it 8, 9 months since they last crossed paths? -- were now right there, plastered across the width of his phone. The whole thing reeked like a challenge. Click or quit. Your move.

“Yeah, don’t shave your face at all any time this year. That looks real good. Real professional.”

At least it gave him the opportunity to be smug. Sirius had become exactly who he’d expected. Everything about the profile was so repulsively contrived. The text updates revealing how Cool and Clever and Sarcastic and "Chill” he was. The photos of the lads, out for a pint on a Saturday night, breaking glass in the alleyway, probably all staged and carefully selected. Sirius had worked hard in his youth to reach a certain level of the aesthetic he was grabbing for, and it seemed, in some sense, he had achieved it.

“Way to totally not have a job or anything! That’s so great for you, because now you have all this time to do absolutely fucking nothing with your super-cool friends!”

His thumb rubbed raw from scrolling. Somewhere in the background, his more rational side was screaming, blaring sirens and dancing around to get his attention. Stop that. Just put it down. Put it down, before you see something you don’t like. None of it mattered. The app had a sort of dark magic of its own, one that appealed to the baser senses.

“Family: James Potter, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew...”

That was, perhaps, the worst part. Caught in the throes of the Imperius curse, you were free from fault. 

“...Oh. Wow. Okay. That was cruel.”

Regulus had not been there when Walburga had picked up her wand and diligently strode down the hall, towards the first room on the right. This time, he had left the house long before she could ask him to stick around. Packed up and fled to the park a few blocks away. The place wasn’t usually too crowded, except on summer weekends, when the Muggles would arrive in swarms with their blankets and their frumpy shorts and their cameras and just sit. For hours. That was the price of living in a Muggle neighborhood.

But today was a light day. Occasionally a Muggle couple would amble down the path, sometimes holding hands, sometimes following a dog. No one seemed the least bit interested in the boy laying on his back amongst a patch of cyclamen.

In these times, it was best to keep his mind busy. He cycled through lists that flashed through his consciousness one by one.

Lots to do before returning to school. Must buy new books. Must buy new supplies. Must update broomstick. Must complete reading. Must decide on classes. Books. Supplies. Broomstick. Reading. Classes. He counted on his fingers, assigning one task to each as he slowly unfolded his fist. Books. Supplies. Broomstick. Reading. Classes.

The organization relaxed him a little. He felt a headache that he had thus far been unaware of slowly subsiding. School excited him. When all else failed, he could turn his attention to the smell of parchment, the dim lights of the classroom, the rising intonation of the arithmancy professor as she lectured.

He returned home just before sunset. Mother would surely be waiting for him, perhaps with a stern word. It was rare that Regulus ever ran off unannounced. Perhaps that in fact infuriated Walburga worst of all, the rarity of it. The knowledge that he, Regulus, the good child, nevertheless had autonomy and occasionally acted upon it.

When he arrived, he padded down the hall, careful his shoes would not squeak as they scuffed the hard wood, and slipped inside the first door on the right.

There were two new burn marks. One for Uncle Alphard, one for Sirius. Seven, now, in total.

Regulus was dimly aware of the larger body of feelings now encompassing him, but the only one he could only tangibly grasp onto now was anger. Perhaps unfounded anger, but anger nonetheless. Anger for the things that did not make sense; anger for how quiet the house would be now; anger for the state of the tapestry, which was starting to look as if someone had used it as a human shield.

With a scowl, Regulus dove his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a single cyclamen flower, which had become slightly crumpled and wilted on the walk home. He thrust it to the ground where the wall met the floor, beneath where his brother’s name had once been. It being a flower, it did not have the same cathartic effect as if he had thrown something heavy, instead floating daintily to the ground and serving only to ignite Regulus’s anger even further.

The place was drearily dark and had a particular smell to it. Regulus couldn’t quite place what the smell was, except that it smelled like old. Everything in the store gave off an aura of being handled too many times by too many unwashed hands. And the patrons treated the items with such little care, it was almost offensive. A middle-aged Muggle woman rifled through racks of clothes that were crowded too tight, haphazardly pulling out pieces and then throwing them back out of order. An elderly Muggle couple stood at the shelves at the backs, admiring old clocks, running their fingers down the faces. Rarely did Regulus ever feel so sick where he stood. Even Borgin and Burkes, which boasted items centuries older than this shop could ever dream of, sported a certain cleanliness that signaled respect for the artifacts, respect for the wizards that had owned them.

“23 quid.”

“What? No. No way, man. That’s way too low.”

“Not by my book. 23′s a steal, if y’ask me.”

His hands were growing sweaty from anger. They gripped onto a thin, rectangular box made of glass, which he cradled protectively against his chest. Inside the box lay a wand, growing lighter with age: 13 inches with ebony wood and a dragon heartstring core.

“Sir, with all due respect, I’ve done the research. This is worth at least 300 gal--” Shit, no, what was the exchange rate from galleons to Muggle money again? “Pounds.”

“25′s high as I can go.”

“But it’s been in my family for generations!” Particularly, it had belonged to Sirius Black I, older brother of the great Phineas Nigellus and namesake for his own brother -- and that made his blood boil even hotter.

“Look, kid. This thing might be worth a load where you’re from.” He glanced Regulus up and down once. “Russia, I’m guessing? But to me, s’nothing more than a stick, an’ t’me, a stick idn’t worth nothin’.”

He felt his heart surge as he squinted his eyes a little, suppressing tears of rage that were threatening to burn the skin. It had taken all he had to come here in the first place; it had taken all his nerve and swallowed pride to even consider selling a family artifact, even if Sirius I did have several wands do his name. But he needed the money. All the galleons in his account meant nothing in a culture ruled by the pound, and his transfiguration spells just hadn’t been sticking.

Freeing one hand from the box, he dove it deep into the pocket of his satchel slung over his shoulder, finding the comforting sycamore handle of his own wand. The word Obliviate played over and over in his mind. His fingers gripped tightly around the wand as if they had a mind of their own; as if they, without Regulus’s consent, could choose to cast the spell.

He had promised himself he would stop at Legilimens. Reading minds was one thing, but altering them -- this was a power too great to be used in anything but the most dire circumstances.

With a low snarl, he released his own wand and returned his hand to the box. “Well. I suppose I’ll have to take my business elsewhere,” he snapped. The man behind the register did not look particularly upset at this.

He stormed to the door and pushed it open with his hip, turning once more to face the man. It was unsettling to end a conversation, no matter how unpleasant, without a proper goodbye. And although he tried to remain calm, gentlemanly, like his father would, the words ended up seething through gritted teeth and thin lips.

Tiny feet slosh gracelessly inside men’s-sized shoes. Wide, brown eyes are temporarily blinded by the rim of a top hat, two heads too big; he pushes it away with the palm of his hand and it slides off, tumbling to the floor. The jacket arms hang too long, his own hands reaching only to the elbows, causing the fabric intended for the forearm to flop around in the air before him.

He stands before a mirror, thoroughly impressed.

He is six years old, and his father is out at a banquet, making a speech for the Magical Historical Society. Father and Mother had left the house some time ago, adorned in the finest velvet robes, his mother’s neckline and fingers glittering like the stars they were named after.

How professionally Orion carried himself, how suave, how cultivated. He looked the perfect picture of the dapper English gentleman, pulling off the air so naturally that he easily could have been all the wizards in all the history books, in all the magazines.

Each of Regulus’s pleas to join his parents at their various banquets was met with the same response: “Not until you’re older.” He wasn’t quite sure what the fuss about being old was all about. He could be civilized too; he hardly ever complained about the food at family dinners and never ever tracked dirt inside the house except for that one time.

It must be the clothes. He decided this definitively. What was that saying – the clothes make the man? He knew for a fact that that was not literally true; he had seen plenty a seamstress diligently imbuing fabrics with protective spells at Madame Malkins, but certainly never the other way around. Even so, perhaps he could look convincingly Grown Up enough if he donned the right clothes, and what a better selection was there than his father’s closet?

He picks up the top hat from the floor and raises it gently back to his own head. He needs to hold it with both hands to keep it from slipping over his eyes, and as he does so, he tips it slightly towards the mirror, as he has seen his father do to so many a passing stranger. “Afternoon,” he proclaims, elongating the [ɑ] sound.