"Regulus, come down here," she yelled up to me, with that crisp voice that we all silently hated. I put down the Quidditch magazine I'd stolen from Sirius' empty room, and made my way down the large spiraled stairs. He left about three weeks ago. It was more than leaving though, it was disconnecting. The separation between the two of us grew to the size of a canyon, rather than a small rift. It didn't bode well for me either. Mother had been relying on me heavily now. Every time anyone so much as mentioned Sirius, she burst into a bloody fit, saying how I was the true heir. Well, it was damn near impossible to deal with. I wanted to rip my bloody hair out whenever she called me with that voice of a vulture.
"Yes, mother," I said, addressing her as politely as possible.
"You'll need to let Kreacher know that we'll be out of the house for the next few hours. It better be spotless when we get back." She tugged at the long, black sleeves of her satin gloves, straightening them out fit her long, wiry arms. "Your father and I will be back at midnight. Please do not have anyone over, excepting your cousins. Narcissa mentioned they might stop by in an owl," she said thoughtfully. "Goodnight, son. The spare wands are in the utensil draw, just in case." She walked briskly into the foyer to meet with my father, Orion Black.
I sat on the largest chair in the dining area, where my father usually sat. I always wanted to sit there when we had family gatherings. I wanted, craved, to be recognized as the heir to the Black family name. They only cared about Bellatrix, though. She was the powerful, maniacal, important one. Narcissa was far more reserved, and was already going to marry that Malfoy boy. She was tied down and done with. Then there was Andromeda, probably an even bigger disappointment than Sirius. She brought that mudblood around the first of June. I remember, because mother pulled Sirius and I out of school early that year. She wanted to let us know not to converse with Andromeda every again. I assume it was directed more towards me than Sirius. It was my second year, his third. We had already given up on him, I suppose. Mother still held on to hope with him until about fifth year, when he wrote to Andromeda, and asked how she was getting along.
"Kreacher," I bellowed, ruining my own train of thought. I had to remember to tell it to clean up. It snapped in front of me, it's eyes averting my own gaze out of respect.
"Yes master," it grumbled, never lifting it's large eyes.
"You and the other's will need to clean the house before Mistress returns. She was not pleased," I said, commanding fear in the house elf.
"Please, sir. Let mistress know Kreacher apologizes, sir."
"I shall think about it, Kreacher. Leave my presence," I ordered, waving my hand in a lazy fashion towards the door way. It disappeared with a snap, leaving me once again to my thoughts.
I stood and retreated back to my room, stopping at Sirius' cold and vacant one. No one had stepped foot in his room, excepting me, since he left. Even when I had gone in to see what was left, I did not linger long. I pushed the large door open, which previously spelled his name in ornate gold letters. The window across from the entrance was ajar, and blew the thin curtains to the sides with it's cool wind. His Hogwarts: A History was left open to the last page he was reading. The posters were frayed at the edges from all the folding and unfolding he did, putting them back in his trunk for Hogwarts the next year, taking them out again for the summer he spent here. There was an empty jar that used to contain Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean's on his desk, residing next to the book. There were tread marks from the first time he rode the large and coarse motorbike into the room, and more treads from the night he left. I think I might have turned out a little differently if he actually tried to help me. Maybe it was mostly me. I rejected his ways and new ideals when I was sorted into Slytherin. And oh, how nervous I was that day. If I hadn't been sorted into Slytherin, I think I might have died on the stool. I think he wanted it to be his thing, though. I don't think he really cared about me, or what I was doing. He would've been fine if mother disowned me and he was the prodigal son, I thought angrily, throwing thick glass jar over the useless bed and into the wall. It shattered, and I repaired it numbly. I sat down on the sheetless bed, my hands going into my dark hair. I wish it were true, and I wish he were selfish. I had to pretend now. I had to try hard every day to make sure I was just as, if not more prejudiced and discriminatory than the rest of them. I was forced to treat Kreacher like a piece of property. I had to burn any pictures I had of Sirius and Andromeda. I had to wear a facade every day so I wasn't killed or burned off the tree.
And I had to never enter this room again, I thought as I closed the door to the memory-provoking room I was in. It makes me think like that. It makes me think that mudbloods are equal to me. It makes me talk to Kreacher like a human, and converse literarily with Andromeda Tonks née Black. It makes me wonder, dream, imagine, laugh, and cry. It makes me step outside of the box and try to defy authority. It makes me question Walburga and Orion, and Bellatrix and Narcissa. It forces me to agree, for once, with Sirius Orion Black. It forces me to see the other side of the world, and search out new theories. But mostly, it makes me think that everything I was ever taught prior to his departure, was wrong.