Chapter Text
October 17th, 1979
They frowned at each other over the trembling on the wards, hands instinctively falling to their wands. They weren’t expecting anybody. But the wards didn’t try to repel whoever it was who just stepped into it, so they knew it was someone whose magical signature was registered and allowed previously. They waited for a little over a minute for a knock on the door, which never came. However, times were far ominous to pay it no mind, so together they went to the front door and opened it.
Cautiously, they stepped outside and the night welcomed them. Cool, quiet, with a cloudless sky, and the waning moon shining above, casting a gentle light on the yard. Light which reflected on something lying ahead close to the tree line. They walked towards it, Lumus cast on both wands, and their step faltered as they realized that what was reflecting the light was a white shirt. Someone was down.
They sped towards them, and then kneeled next to them. Next to him . It was a boy, no older than 20, soaked wet from head to toe, clothes ripped apart, and blood pouring out of cuts and scratches, some deeper than others. Turning the boy around, who wailed with the movement no matter how gentle, they froze. It was a boy they had long lost hope to see at their house.
“Is that…” Fleamont stared in shock.
“Shhhh, it’s okay, Regulus. It’s okay.” Euphemia cooed as the boy whimpered in front of her, wand already working on his body.
“Did he splinch?” Fleamont asked, getting closer to his wife and giving her better light to work under.
She shook her head, “No. Which is a miracle, considering the state he’s in.” With her free hand, she brushed the wet hair away from his face. Euphemia Potter had seen Regulus Black on several occasions, even if only in the distance. On quidditch games, on the Platform 9 3/4, on Diagon Alley, and she could swear she’d seen him on a bookstore in Muggle London over a year ago. From that, she knew that he was smaller than his brother. Not necessarily shorter, only… smaller. Thinner shoulders and waist, and slenderer arms and legs. Regulus was built like someone always ready to slither away. She knew all of it.
And yet, she couldn’t hold back a tear as she held him in her arms and took in his face. Merlin, he was so fragile. So small. So young.
So hurt.
Regulus carried lines on his forehead, dips on his cheeks and bags under his eyes that no one his age should ever carry. It was sign of a weight she saw only some of the oldest Aurors and Order members carry. She thanked the heavens for his eyes being closed. She didn’t think she would be able to hold it together if she saw what was on them.
“You’re safe, now, Regulus,” she tried to shush his cries, “You’re safe.” And by God, did she mean it. She would pay no mind to the symbol carved on the boy’s skin, even if it represented everything she and her family fought against. He came to her. Regulus came to her and she wouldn’t fail a child that needed her. Never. “You can rest, we’ll take care of you, okay?”
Regulus produced the tiniest nod, barely just a squeeze of his eyes, probably using the left of his strength in doing so. As if choosing to believe her, he stopped fighting to stay awake and allowed his conscience to drift away, and his breathing slowly evened out as his wounds were tended to.
Euphemia was adamant that she finished healing the worst of them before moving him inside. Fleamont then wasted no time in gathering his supply of healing potions and setting the room ready to welcome Regulus, while his wife cleaned him up and put him in some of James’s old pajamas.
Only after the boy was resting peacefully on the bed, did they send a Patronus to their sons. They didn’t say much through the message. This was not something to say over a message. They simply asked them to come home.
James arrived first, as usual, stepping out of the fireplace with the wand on his hand, hair disheveled as he had just gotten out of bed. “Mom? What’s wrong?” He urged.
Euphemia stepped closer, embracing him tightly. She sighed as she let him go. “Let us wait for Sirius to get here, yeah?” Her tone was soothing which calmed James slightly, but his anxiety had already taken his chest hostage, and he found it difficult to remain calm and wait .
Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait for long, as only a couple minutes later Sirius floo’d in with Remus on his toe. “Effie! Everything’s alright?”
Sirius was given the same welcoming as James, and so was Remus, the oh so familiar Potter Hug. Smiling softly at them, Euphemia nodded to the couch. “I think it’s best if you boys sat down.” They reluctantly did so.
“Mom, please, what’s going on? Did something happen?”
“Was someone attacked?” Sirius added. By her hesitance, they realized that that might just be the case. Her eyes landed on Sirius, and he felt a cold down his spine. “Who?”
“It’s your brother.”
“What?” Sirius snarled, and Euphemia shook her head. Of course his first thought would be that Regulus did the attack.
“Regulus was the one attacked, although I’m not sure by whom, or what. He is upstairs, in your old room.”
She didn’t know who moved, Sirius or James, but James was the first to reach the room.
The door had been left open, and James halted at the doorframe of the room that once had been Sirius’s, the shock of seeing Regulus’s sleeping form on the bed just a few steps ahead of him struck him like a stunning spell. Sirius, however, did not stop.
Sirius stormed into the room with no faulty step, at least until he reached the bed. Then he hesitated. He hovered by the bed in silence, but the ones who knew him knew his mind was anything but. You could see him battling with himself, wondering what to do. Wanting to get closer and cradle Regulus as he did when they were kids, when they were Reggie and Sisi (a nickname Sirius despised but he never actually minded it in Reggie’s little voice).
But you could see in the twitch of his brows and tensing of his muscles his replaying of all the stories and scenes that proved they were in fact not Reggie and Sisi anymore. See him remembering all the fights, all the hurt, all the reasons he chose to lose contact with him in the first place.
As Sirius battled with himself, time seemed to slow down. No one moved, no one spoke, no one dared to breathe too loud. Not even James. Some time later, none of them were entirely sure how much, Sirius spoke.
“What happened?”
“We don’t know. He was barely conscious when he apparated here,” Fleamont answered.
“Was it my parents?”
This time, Euphemia took the lead. “I cannot tell, Sirius. However… I don’t believe it was. He was hurt physically. Cut and scratched all over, but no sign of a curse. This doesn’t–”
“Doesn’t look like my family’s doing, no,” he finished somberly, his eyes not once leaving his brother. Silence fell upon them once more, only shorter and somehow heavier this time. “Did you tell the Order?” The question did nothing to alleviate the weight.
“What? No, of course not, dear!” she replied softly.
“Well, then you should,” Sirius finally stepped back and turned around. “You have a Death Eater in your house, Effie,” he walked past them and exited the room. “I’ll go check on the wards. Reinforce them.” He was down the stairs before anyone could stop him.
“I’ll–” Remus tried, but Fleamont put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
“Let me.” And after Sirius he went.
After Fleamont’s steps couldn’t be heard anymore, James started. “You’re not…” Remus looked at James as he spoke for the first time in minutes, oddly quiet and reserved. “You’re not calling them, are you mom?” His hands were fidgeting with a gold ring he always wore on his index finger.
“No, James. I’m not.”
He sighed, relieved. “Good. I- I don’t think Sirius would appreciate Regulus being arrested, no matter what he says.”
“Yeah,” Euphemia put her arms around him, and pulled him close. “I don’t believe he would either.”
“Sirius?” Fleamont called. Sirius was ahead in the frontyard, hands up, one with the palm facing ahead, and the other holding the wand, a gentle blue light coming out of it.
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m certain he must have an explanation for-”
“No. The wards. They’re intact.”
Fleamont frowned. “Well, but of course they are! You thought your brother would have broken through them in that state?”
Sirius shook his head. “But how? I thought I had taken him off after– After he–”
“Ah, yes. James put him back a while back.”
Sirius whirled around with tears in his eyes, tumbling back. “What? How the fuck could he trust that Death Eater into your wards?”
“Aren’t you thinking too little of your brother, son?”
“Me? You lot are the ones that are delusional! He’s the perfect little Black, as if that wasn’t bad enought already, but he’s also a Death bloody Eater! And you say I am thinking too little of him? How am I suddenly the wrong one here?”
Fleamont didn’t try to interrupt Sirius’s rant, nor did he get intimidated by it.“You’re not wrong, son. I understand where all of this come from, but–”
“No! No, you don’t! You don’t understand! You don’t know what I’ve been through in that house, what they made me go through.”
Fleamont knew they would get into this point in the conversation, but he couldn’t let Sirius use that again. “That is your problem, Sirius.”
“What?” He looked like a dog being yelled at for the first time, even though Fleamont’s tone was gentle.
“You think just because you suffered, that you know everything. Trauma doesn’t make you wize, son. It makes you hurt. It doesn’t mean you can’t learn from it, of course. We can, and must, always learn from our experiences, good or bad. But suffering doesn’t make you suddenly an expert in life. You’re still a kid, Sirius.”
“I’m 19.”
“As I said, a kid. And your brother–”
“ My brother is a bigot, pureblood supremacist twat!" He spat.
“Your brother has barely turned 18. That’s too little of a lifetime to define a person forever, Sirius.” Fleamont walked towards him, and gently put his hands on Sirius’s shoulder, staring straight into his eyes. “And you think that just because your brother wasn’t hurt like you were, that he wasn’t abused, but he’s a victim of that house just as much as you are. Perfection is a heavy burden to carry, son.”
Sirius’s eyes welled with tears, and he could hold his dad’s look much longer. He had to look away. Fleamont sensed that Sirius needed time to himself now. “Look, your brother is here because one of the two: or he’s ready to change, or he’s ready to ask for help. Whatever it is, we can’t turn our backs on him.” He gave one last squeeze on his shoulder and dropped his hands. “We’ll be waiting for you inside, yeah? Don’t stay out too long in the cold.” And with that, he left Sirius alone, once again, battling with himself.
Regulus blinked his eyes open effortlessly, feeling well rested despite his body being sore, and with a warm sensation on his chest. Curious… It has never felt like that at– Oh fuck, he was not at Grimmauld Place, was he?
He promptly sat on the bed, looking around, forcing his eyes to get used to the dark. Where was he? How did he get there? Why was he there?
He did not recognize the place at all, but surprisingly he didn’t feel scared or threatened, which had seemed to be his standard way of being lately. No. Regulus felt strangely safe in this unknown place, like a child calming down after hearing their parents’ voice for the first time. Parents. The thought triggered a memory. A vague one. Of a mother’s embrace, a mother’s voice, a mother’s care. Sincere affection like he’s ever seen or experienced before. No, that’s a lie. He had experienced that a long time ago.
The thought triggered another memory.
He knew where he was. He was at the Potters.
And another.
He knew how he got there. He did an extremely dangerous move to get out of an extremely bad situation (and wasn't that the understatement of the century) — he apparated while struggling to stay conscious.
And another.
He knew why he was there. Because he was the one thing he had the capacity to think about. Because there was the only place in the world his mind associated with safe , even if he had never been close to it. It had been almost an unconscious decision. If he had been thinking straight, he would have gone home — no, not home. To his house — and he would have dealt with everything on his own.
But he wasn’t thinking straight.
So there he was, in a room at the Potters, dragging them into the mess he had made.
He chastised himself, thinking of how he potentially got all of them in danger. He had hopes that Kreacher had got away safe and that the Dark Lord hadn’t noticed a thing. But he didn’t know what kind of magic there was in that – he swallowed a lump down his throat – cave. He didn’t know if Voldemort had been alerted of his intrusion somehow. He didn’t know if he could track him by any means, being the mark or the potion he took or following the apparition trace (he didn’t know if any of these things were even possible).
What he knew was: he had to get out.
Because if there was a possibility that the Dark Lord was after him, then he couldn't bear the idea of bringing him to the Potters’ step. And if his doing had gone unnoticed, then he had a meeting to attend that morning, if that morning was even the morning after the incident — he did feel so good he wouldn’t be surprised if he had slept for a week. Euphemia and Fleamont Potter certainly knew what they were doing. He had never felt like this after being healed before. Healing was an exhausting deed for both the receiver and the performer of the magic, but somehow there he was, more rested than he had been in months. He wondered if this lingering warm effect of their magic was because it was never taunted with dark arts, or if they were just that good. Or both.
Regardless, he couldn’t stand around to figure it all out.
Throwing the covers aside, he stood up and started looking for his wand. He found it thankfully fast, by the dresser on the opposite wall to the bed, next to his own clothes: fixed, cleaned and folded.
He changed rather quickly, not having the time, guts or light to look at the new scars he knew would be marking his body. A wound caused by an Inferi was bound to leave a mark, just like a werewolf’s was. You can heal it, but never make it disappear. He just hoped they were all easy to cover, as he could not afford raising suspicion.
Regulus's upbringing was not what one could consider ideal, but he had to admit that it did have its benefits sometimes. He knew how to move around the house without making noise, for example.
He got downstairs in almost absolute silence and he was ready to leave like nothing had ever happened. However, as he pointed his wand to the lock of the front door, Alohomora at the tip of his tongue, he stopped. The problem was that nothing had not happened. In fact, a huge capital letter Something had. He, the enemy, showed up at a good caring family's doorstep like a stray dog, and instead of being kicked out or handed over to the authorities, he was taken care of. So no, he couldn’t leave like something had never happened. Euphemia and Fleamont had saved his life, and despite what his parents or Sirius might have thought of him, he was not an ungrateful brat.
He cursed at himself as he took a step back, reaching into his pocket for the quill and parchment he always carried, and got frustrated as he realized they had been probably lost at the lake. So he resigned to his surroundings – there must be something he could write with and on nearby. He found it quicker than he anticipated, next to a muggle phone on the way to the kitchen.
He was putting the last dot after R.A.B. when the note suddenly flew from his hands, stripped by the known pull of magic. He turned around instantly, startled, wand in hand and ready to fight if needed, but as he was met with the sight of an old woman, at least a palm shorter than him, in her nightgown, he deflated.
Her eyes followed the lines of his note, and as she finished reading it, she smiled. “Well, I am glad you had decided to at least leave a note,” she said as she raised her eyes to look at him. Brown like an autumn storm, warm like the fire that warms and shelters you through it. “And you don’t have to apologize, my boy. You were no problem whatsoever.”
Regulus could only stare at her. He had never been this close to Euphemia Potter. He knew of her reputation, yet when he saw her from afar she always looked small, simply an old lady. Boy, was he wrong, there was nothing simple about her. She was a gentle lioness. Her voice had something that made him want to melt into it, like a purr, welcoming and encouraging him to let his guards down, yet one wrong move next her, and you were history. A powerful force of nature that would fight with tooth and claws to defend what she loved.
“You don’t have to leave,” she spoke again.
“I do,” Regulus somehow found his voice.
“You’re safe here. I won’t allow them to touch you. You’re more than welcome to stay.”
Regulus could never again blame Sirius for leaving. Because he believed her. He knew that if he stayed, that woman, lioness, would protect him as one of her cubs, and no one – her side or his – would touch him. He believed her with all his being, and for a moment he truly thought about it. About how easy it would be to never go back to the hell he lived in, how easy it would be to stay.
But he couldn’t.
“I appreciate it. I do. But I must go back. They can’t notice I’m gone.” He realized he had said the wrong thing the moment the words reached Euphemia, for her eyes glinted dangerously close to understanding.
She stepped closer, silently studying him. She took a deep breath in, and sighed, “Okay.”
For some reason, he had expected her to fight him on it. To try to convince him to stay again. He felt weirdly hurt that she didn’t. “What?”
“I’ll let you go back. Go make yourself seen, so you don’t raise suspicion. But at night, you come back here. Have dinner with me, and tell me what it is that you’re doing and how can we help.”
That took Regulus way off guard, so much he stumbled back a step. “I- I’m not doing anything.”
Euphemia smiled sadly, “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.” Regulus opened his mouth, but he knew anything he tried to say would be a worthless rebute. Not a minute next to her and she had already seen right through him. “I’ll send James and Sirius away, don’t worry. It’ll be just you, me and Monty. You and me, if you must.”
“I- I can’t. I wouldn't w-want to-” Regulus wanted to hit himself. He had not stuttered in a sentence like that since he was 12. He always knew what to say and how to say it, but now he felt like a child caught red-handed.
“Regulus,” Euphemia stepped even closer, making him look down. “You are not that mark on your arm.” It was only then he noticed he was picking at the skin around the Dark Mark. “I have been waiting for you to go through that door for years now, so have James and Sirius. And you finally, finally, did it, so I don’t plan on letting you walk away from this family again, especially when it’s clear how much your choices are costing you.”
This family , she had said. Not my family. The choice of words mattered somehow.
“If I wanted to, I could make it so you didn’t leave this house,” she kept going. “But I don’t want to do that, as I do not want to take the choice away from you. Besides, I do believe that it would be best if they didn’t notice you gone , as you put it. I don’t know yet what you are doing, but I trust it must be important. So I’ll let you go. But you have to promise me you’ll come back.”
Regulus was having a hard time controlling his breathing. Was he about to cry? No . No he wasn’t .
“Promise me, Regulus.”
“I promise,” the words left before he could think too much about it, but far more certain than he felt.
Euphemia nodded, satisfied, and stepped away. “Good. The door is already unlocked. Stay safe, yeah?” And with a last smile, she left him there and went upstairs.
He remained in place for several seconds before he found it in himself to move. As she had said it, the door was unlocked. He stepped outside, the sun giving its first sings in the sky. He breathed in the cold breeze, and then out. He could do this. He had to.
With a loud crack , he disapparated.
For the first time in his life, Kreacher didn’t welcome Regulus as he entered Grimmauld Place. If the circumstances were different, maybe Regulus would have had it in him to be sad about it. Instead, he was relieved. Because that meant — that had to mean — Kreacher must have followed with his orders: take the locket (and destroy it when he can), and disappear. Regulus had no idea where to, but he guessed maybe Kreacher would have pleaded refuge inside the walls of Hogwarts' kitchen, which would be ideal since that was the safest place for him to hide ( from him especially).
The Dark Lord would never find him there. And that was perfect because —
The Dark Lord could never dream that Kreacher had survived that cave because —
The Dark Lord had to believe his secret was and would always be safe.
That was a good thing with Tom, Regulus thought. Tom, as he chose to call it in his head for most of the time in an attempt to diminish his power, never believed anything he did was or could go wrong. He thought he was above flaws and mistakes. He thought that because he learned powerful magic and found a way to trick death, that he was somehow a god and nothing could touch him.
But he was blind to the fact that gods could be overthrown.
He was blind to the fact that gods had little to no power over a non-believer.
He was blind to the fact that Regulus had become an atheist.
Regulus saw throught Tom, beyond the deity he tried to make of himself. He had watched for hidden meaning in his words, for hidden fear in his eyes, for hidden hesitation in his confidence, and he had found it. It was not lost on him that the reason he did was one that the Dark Lord loved to reinforce once in a while: Regulus reminded him of himself when he was young.
Regulus carried hate, and hurt, and ambition in a similar way Tom had once, but he had something Tom had never had, as cliché and it sounded.
He had people who loved him enough to save him from himself before it was too late.
"Reg?!" A shaky and hesitant voice came from the end of the corridor.
Regulus raised his eyes from the floor, finding furrowed brows and worried eyes.
"Evan? What are you doing here?" He kept his voice low and his step temptative.
But all his subtleness was in vain when, from behind Evan, someone else showed up. Rounding the boy, he went straight to Regulus, and more quickly than he could react, punched him in the face. "What the fuck, Regulus?" Barty cried. "Was this some kind of joke?" He asked as he threw a piece of paper on him.
Regulus' eyes widened. He had completely forgotten about that. Okay, no — that's the wrong assessment. The thing was he had not had the time to even think about that. About the note he'd written Evan and Barty in the cave. It was short and far from detailed. A simple (yet sincere) thanks for them always being there for him, and a quick (yet not so honest this time) apology for not being able to be there for them in the future.
Sending the notes was one of Kreacher’s orders, and as the good elf he was, he hadn’t wasted any time.
Regulus grimaced, sucking the blood from the new cut on his lower lip. “I'm sorry.”
“Oh, you're sorry? ” Barty was furious. Regulus hoped his temper wouldn't attract his mother.
“Yes. I am.”
In complete disregard on any niceties, Barty blurted out, “Did you try to kill yourself?”
“No,” Regulus's throat closed.
“Were you planning to?”
Regulus swallowed dry. “No.”
“Regulus.”
He repressed the urge to cross his fingers, “I promise I wasn't.”
“Then why-”
“I thought I wouldn't be able to get out of a situation, is all.”
Barty eyes narrowed, but for some reason — maybe he was tired from spending the night praying to not need to grieve his best friend, or maybe he saw something in Regulus' eyes that begged for a truce — he stepped away, allowing Regulus to walk past into the corridor, with Evan and Barty following him to the sitting room.
“ Did you get out of the situation?” Evan asked, his tone laced with suspicion.
Regulus curled up the right corner of his mouth. Fucking Evan. “I'm still not sure.” He looked around. “You floo’d in?”
“Yes.”
“Was she–”
“We didn't see her all night. Don't worry.“
Regulus hummed, visibly relaxing a bit. He kept staring at the fireplace — cold black marble adorning their even colder room. No fire in the world could make that place warm. He pointed his wand at it and murmured an incantation. When he turned around to take a seat on the armchair (that used to be his father's place) and nothing happened, Evan and Barty frowned at him.
“What did you–”
“Blocked it,” Regulus answered matter-of-faclty. “If someone wants in, let them come through to door.”
Aside from a quiet hum from his friends, no one spoke for a solid minute, and Regulus knew they were trying to pull together a puzzle with the little pieces Regulus put out.
“Where’s Kreacher?” Evan eventually asked. “I think we could use some breakfast.”
Regulus tightened his jaw. “He's gone. If you want breakfast, go make it yourself.”
Again, Regulus didn’t know if because they were tired or because he looked like bad, but the subject was dropped easily. Not even raised.
Evan sighed, slapping both his tights and pulling himself out of the sofa. “Fine then. Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee,” Barty said.
“Tea,” Regulus said at the same time.
Evan nodded shortly and left for the kitchen.
The silence stretched and itched between the two that stood behind. Regulus knew Barty wanted more information, and Barty knew Regulus wanted nothing less than to share it. Regulus knew Barty worried, and Barty knew Regulus hated the attention.
Regulus always wanted nothing more than not being perceived. He hated being acknowledged, because in the end that always meant that something would be expected of him. Politeness, posture, power, ambition, answers. And the simple act of being cared for made him extremely uneasy for it expected the worst of him: honesty.
Can we help? Barty wanted to ask. But he wouldn't. He knew the answer would be no. Always no. There was only so many ways you could help someone who didn't want to be helped.
So he asked even a worse question, but that he knew at least wouldn't be brushed off as easily. “Have you… Do you think about it?”
“About what?” Regulus tried to gain some time, feeling Barty's eyes on him but still fixing his own on the fireplace.
“You know what.”
Hesitance.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it bloody does.”
“Why?” Regulus turned to him. “It's not like you haven't.” Barty eyes widened. “C'mon Barty, look at our lives. Is it really surprising and out of question to think about it? But like I said, it doesn’t fucking matter. I'm too much of a coward to do it anyway.” Regulus got up, heading towards the stairs. “I'm taking a shower. I have a meeting in an hour.” He left before he could hear Barty’s response.
Upstairs, Regulus finally heard it. Walburga's screeching voice muffled by the walls of her chambers. So the bitch was awake.
He could make sense of Kreacher’s name here and there. Sometimes Sirius’s as well.
He wondered if Mother knew what the outcome of that trade would be when she offered Kreacher to the Dark Lord a week prior. He guessed not. His mother hasn't been the same since his father died in July, and the Black madness that once showed itself only through glimpses had completely taken over her. He couldn’t decipher if it was only a coincidence or if the woman actually felt something when Orion died.
That day, a week from then, she had looked straight at Regulus when she offered Kreacher up for the Dark Lord’s endeavors, wearing a grim that she used to only redirect at Sirius. That had been happening more and more often, looking at him like he was his brother, calling him by his brother’s name. Maybe that’s why having Kreacher treat him nicely became insulting to her. That's why she proudly gave away the Black’ most loyal house elf, and the only one remaining at Grimmauld Place. To hurt him.
Tuning her yelling and screaming out, he showered and got dressed, taking his time before getting down again. Maybe if he took long enough, Barty and Evan would leave (dim chances, he knew, but he could still hope). Before getting down, however, he took one last look in the mirror to adjust the collar of his shirt, and he couldn’t stop his eyes from meeting themselves in the mirror.
He froze, as he usually did when this happened. He hated his eyes, the look of them. He hated how they had become so much like his mother’s. The same emptiness behind the once-light-now-dark grey, the same hatred.
You try to put on this pureblood façade your family wants you to, but your eyes don’t lie, Reg. You’re kind.
Regulus forced himself to keep his gaze locked as the words played in his head. Kind. That was a word that could never be used to describe him or any part of him ever again.
He hadn’t noticed the passage of time until his mark started to tingle. “Shit!” He cursed, storming out of the bathroom and running downstairs where Barty and Evan waited for him, plates and cups already empty, the tea cold. He took one quick sip of it anyway, and, with one swift movement of his wand, put his cloak and mask on.
“You two better not be here when I get back,” he told them, voice altered by the mask, as he headed out. He disapparated even before the door clicked close.
The meeting was, as usual, at the Malfoy Manor, and they were to discuss an attack happening north of England in the following week.
Regulus was not the first Death Eater to arrive. When he entered the large dinning room, some seats were already taken, all faces hidden away by masks as if they didn’t know who they were. Most of the Dark Lord's inner circle, the ones that participated in the planning and not only the doing, were all proud of being who they were. Of being what they were. The mask was simply a formality at this point.
By 8 am sharp, with all seats filled, the doors opened in a dramatic slam to the wall, and he got in.
Regulus closed his hands into fists over his tights, hidden by the sleeves of his robes. This would be it, the moment of the confirmation. Was he discovered, or not? The Dark Lord had always had a flare for dramatics, but Regulus couldn't help but think that his painfully slow walk past his followers to his place by the head of the table was a torture method designed specifically for him.
Regulus never hated being under the Dark Lord's favor more than in that moment, for it meant he was one of the last on the table, sitting by his left side right after Bellatrix, who sat in front of Lucius (his true right hand).
Eventually, after what felt like eons, the Dark Lord walked right past him and sat on his chair, which resembled a throne more than not, and he started the meeting.
Not once did the topic get close to "traitors“ or treason, and barely ever did those bloody red eyes land on him, but still Regulus couldn’t breathe or focus properly. He didn’t feel completely out of the woods yet. And throughout the whole meeting, all he could focus on was not letting his nervousness show, nevermind who was doing what in that mission, he was, as usual, not involved in it directly.
The meeting came to an end about an hour later. Voldemort stood up — always the last one to arrive and the first one to leave — and he walked out. But before, his hand lightly (and almost gently if one could believe) rasped over Regulus’s shoulder, a sign that Regulus knew very well what it meant.
He waited until everyone started to leave to do the same, but instead of leaving the Manor, he went to the library where he knew he was expected.
“My Lord,” he said as he opened the door to the room. Voldemort was seated by the fire, a book in hand.
“Ah, Regulus. Come, sit,” he gestured to an armchair next to him. Regulus walked to him, his mask and cloak disappearing by the first step. He sat down properly, back straight, hands on his thighs. The Dark Lord leaned slighltly on his direction. “Tell me, how is your little project going?”
Regulus did his best to smile. “Very well, my Lord. I was able to make progress using the red ginseng you brought me. It went really well with the lotus petals.”
“Amazing. Any results yet?”
“The rose button is holding on for now, still hasn't bloomed.”
Tom grinned greatly at him, and his red eyes sparkled. One could interpret that sparkle as pride, but Regulus knew it too well, he wore the same one a year ago. It was his ambition, shining more than anything. Regulus knew he couldn’t reproduce that anymore.
“You will do great things, my boy, I am sure of it. Your abilities with the dark arts are truly remarkable.”
Regulus let his head fall gracefully in reverence. “I am not worthy of such words, my Lord.”
“Nonsense. Few are those who can deal with such meticulous and dangerous work without losing themselves.”
But I did lose myself. “Well… Thank you, my Lord. I could never have gotten this far without you.”
Tom smiled at him then, knowing it was true. Regulus owed everything to him. “Well, let us drink to that.” Suddenly, them both held glasses of firewhiskey, nevermind that it was not ten in the morning yet. They raised their glasses and Tom cheered, “To a better future!”
Regulus mirrored his smile, and, to his surprise, it felt almost genuine. That was a toast he could get behind, even though his idea of a better future no longer aligned with Voldemort’s. If it ever did. “To a better future!”
10 hours later, Regulus apparated across the street from Grimmauld Place, n12, slightly drunk and, on an empty stomach, and with an order of 5 different batches of potions for next week. He sighed as he looked up to the windows to his and Sirius’s room on the third floor, one next to the other. Sirius’s permanently enchanted to look red, a spell not even his parents could break. Regulus really hated the bastard for it, for having the potential of being great, and choosing to be mediocre and spend his ability on staining glass.
Well, it was clear at 11 that ambition wasn’t exactly Sirius's most prominent trait.
Regulus shook his head, trying to get his mind away from him, but it whiplashed and his mind landed on James. James was ambitious, that was for sure, but in a completely different way from himself and the others around him. James didn’t need or want power, but he still wanted big things.
He wanted love, he wanted to be known, he wanted to be respected, he wanted people to be good, he wanted to believe in the potential of those who weren’t, he wanted a big loving family, he wanted to be happy, he wanted his friends to be happy, he wanted to be responsible for that happiness somehow, he wanted, he wanted, he wanted.
The big difference is that James wanted with his heart.
Regulus wanted with his mind.
Regulus wanted what was logical to want.
Well, Regulus used to want what was logical to want. He finally grew out of that pattern when he decided he wanted Voldemort to lose. When he decided he wanted to play the part in his destruction. That wasn’t logical. But by Salazar if he didn't want it with his whole heart. For that lunatic to lose, for this war to end, and for the people he loved to be safe.
He laughed. Maybe he was the lunatic.
Not that he cared. He had lost his mind long ago.
“Excuse me.”
Regulus was startled back to reality by an old man walking a small white dog, and only then he realized he was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, standing still for quite some time, like a stalker to his own house. “Sorry,” he said, stepping behind and letting the man pass.
Regulus grabbed his pocket watch and checked the time. 8:35pm. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He took the first step towards the house, shivering when he walked the threshold and passed the wards. When he finally closed the door behind him, his stomach tied in guilt. That was not where he had promised to end the night. However, ignoring it was easy enough. It wouldn’t be the first time he would have broken a promise to a Potter after all.