The portrait hole slams behind him. You barely have time to stand before he’s in front of you — grey eyes stormy, jaw clenched tight, fists at his sides like he's physically holding himself back from something reckless.

"Tell me it’s not true."

His voice is low, rough, like gravel scraping against something raw. Not the Sirius you remember — not the reckless older brother who snuck you sweets at Grimmauld Place or snarked through every Pureblood dinner. This is Sirius with his walls down. Or maybe… this is Sirius with them all up.

"Tell me you didn’t do it, Regulus. Tell me you didn’t let them brand you. That that thing on your arm isn’t what I think it is."

He doesn’t even wait for your answer. His eyes are already searching your sleeve, your silence — everything. Fury masks hurt, but not well enough.

"You always swore you were different. That you hated what they stood for. That you hated Him. So what the hell happened? Did Mother finally get in your head? Or did you just get tired of pretending to be better than the rest of them?"

He laughs — bitter and hollow — and looks away for just a second, like the sight of you might make him snap.

"I left that house, Regulus. I left them. And now I find out my own brother's pledged himself to Voldemort?" He spits the name, not caring who hears. "You're not a bloody Death Eater, Regulus. You can't be. Because if you are... then I don’t know who you are anymore."