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The second the Black’s could walk, they were placed in prim cushioned seats, sheets of music in hand. If they weren't fated to be anything else — they were at least the best of the musically inclined. It started with ten extended fingers stretched upon white ivory teeth. Sirius never found much enjoyment on these visits, rather preferring the sharp sound of strings.
He’d been enrolled in lessons for what felt like eternity; he knew the familiar press of keys before he could even correctly pronounce his cousin’s name. The brassy echo of the piano was beginning to grate at his ears.
So, when Regulus finally laid siege on the piano’s runway, Sirius took this as his big break; he no longer needed to know these motions. He could forget it all, retire his namesake as the family’s pianist, take the final bow and accept his flowers.
He’d begged and cried for a guitar, something cool, something muggle, but with a sharp snap of his mothers wand, he settled for a violin with bloody, bandaged fingers. Only this wasn’t him either. It didn’t feel right, and the creak it left in his neck after hour long sessions made him irate. He found the sound beautiful, but too shrill. He thought that he’d go deaf if he played so many high notes so close to his ear.
But, he would suck it up, dig the tips of his fingers into the strings and vibrate, drag the bow along the strings — which often left him calloused and aching. He was a prodigy, the best of his family. His hand was forced to be, else he’d be punished. For the Black’s, everything was a competition. Every missed note on Narcissa’s harp meant it was a bragging right for his mother. And a shame on Druella. It was that her son, Sirius Black, was better. The best of them all. The best Black. He had large shoes to fill after all, he’d been given this name and title of heir for a reason.
This often turned them against one another, as they were just chess pawns in a larger game. Every family gathering became a concert. Never a full orchestra, rather a handful of lonely solos. This didn’t have to be the case, surely they could ask to play together, but the watchful gazes of the audience that befell on them told them otherwise. Unspoken, despite their blood, they were always meant to be rivals.
And Sirius could take this. He could take the weight of the expectations and solitary recitals. He'd been doing it since birth, what was ten more years? He could handle it all. He could.
But the one thing he couldn’t, above all, was listening to his baby brother’s sorrowful score. A piano solo through thin walls that screamed all the things Regulus wouldn’t dare to say aloud. Not to him, and especially not to their mother. For the family they’d been raised in, Regulus was far too calm. Far too soft.
That was why it was Sirius’ job.
There was not much explanation needed. Sirius didn’t need to know why he wasn’t allowed to be in the room with Regulus during his lessons. He'd lived that life already. Been there, done that. It was sickening to know that despite his status as his older brother, their parents still reigned supreme.
The knot that laid in the pit of Sirius’ stomach tightened when after a particularly long session, the thin ravines of broken flesh on Regulus’ fingers mirrored the scars on his own. His mother. And that wretched wand of hers. For every wrong key, one quick slash on the knuckle. For every late step, a stinging hex on the wrist. It was all too familiar.
When Sirius asked him about it, tried to pry and get his baby brother to say anything at all, Regulus refused. He claimed he had overworked himself, chaffed himself on the pedals tuning it, and nicked his fingers on the sharp edges of the fallboard.
Sirius couldn’t accept this. He knew the truth. Regulus knew that he did.
It lasted as an unspoken looming problem for three weeks. It was then, Sirius realized they’d never played a duet. Even at home, outside of recitals and lessons, the two had never played together for fun. Always isolated, never playing as one. It was one thing for his cousins, he didn’t care if they played together at all. But Regulus was his little brother, two stars who shared the same sky.
So, Sirius threw a fit. A textbook example of a temper tantrum. Before a lesson, he smashed his violin to the ground, chipping the hull, cut the unicorn haired bow, and screamed so loud that it rivaled the highest note on their family piano.
His mother, of course, red faced and embarrassed, scolded him. She belted out spells, waving her wand furiously, all aimed at Sirius. Regulus stood behind her, too fearful to make a move, but clenched his father’s wand in his hand tightly. Just in case.
This stunt did little to aid his cause; at least in Walburga's eyes. She saw him as jealous, envious of his little brothers obviously growing talent. Regulus was a natural, he skimmed through pages of the most difficult music with ease.
However, Sirius had failed to consider all of the consequences. He had thrusted himself out of the limelight, allowing for Regulus to soak up the spotlight, now surveyed under more watchful eyes than ever. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that this was worse. Sirius could handle it, he could take their scolds and rude words with pride. Regulus couldn’t.
Sirius refused to allow it. So, in wake of his tantrum, he used it as an opportunity to take up a new instrument. His options were limited; Narcissa was masterful with the harp, Andromeda could play the viola, with Bellatrix on wind.
Thus, he was assigned the cello. A bulky thing. The low hum it sang settled calmly with Sirius. And even though Walburga oversaw his lessons and chose the music he would play, it granted a coven of peace for the two brothers. Regulus now had the option to play violin. To move to a less violent instrument, where his mother couldn’t so easily curse his fingers.
Sirius couldn’t remember the last time he saw Regulus enjoy music. He'd play piano keys sullenly, even applauded for it, as they sat around tables talking about how much emotion he put into it.
Sirius thought the opposite. there was no emotion, rather robotic movements that had been drilled into him. A new instrument allowed for a newfound hope.
1976
Regulus ought to have known. He stared at the violin that he had dragged out from underneath Sirius’ now vacant bed. It was still broken, but instead of fixing it, Sirius had resorted to stuffing it away. He likened himself to that broken violin, missing strings and a deep hole in its side, but quickly dismissed the thought before it could go any further.
The violin was light in his hands, it was nothing in weight compared to the smashed cello that laid on its side, discarded across the room. Regulus didn’t dare to pick that one up.
Sirius had left all of his instruments behind. From what he’d seen in passing glimpses at Hogwarts, he now held a shiny, proudly red electric guitar.
It was more him, no doubt. It matched him like a twin flame. Like a brother.