Chapter Text
Regulus Black never hoped for a life beyond his sacrifice. He hoped the Dark Lord would be defeated, with or without the help he had provided, as he laid on the sharp rocks, retching water from his lungs, the bright glow of the moon doing nothing to warn him of the incoming waves.
He had hoped that if he just kept his mouth shut, obeyed his parents and stuck to people stronger than him, his sacrifice would not go in vain. He had never hoped for happiness, but perhaps honour could suffice. And there was a great honour in being The Black Heir.
That sacrifice did go in vain, as he realised slowly - agonisingly slowly - during the course of his adolescence. So he decided to make another one, the harshest one he could think of, as if to repent for the years wasted by his mother's side. For how silent he was when others suffered. For the mark on his left forearm.
Sacrifice came naturally to Regulus. And it never seemed to work.
It took colossal amounts of diplomatic skill to convince the triumphant Dark Lord of his loyalty. After Regulus suffered through a frankly absurd experience of being physically embraced by him, he left Spinner's End in a hurry. Or, at least he tried, before a figure in flowing dark robes appeared in the corner of his eye. He turned, and knew he would have one more negotiation to wriggle out of.
"Black," said Severus Snape in a way of greeting.
"Severus. Can I help you?" The tone was well-trained. Neutral, cold, confident. It was the exact opposite of how Regulus felt; sweat streaming down his back, hands clutching a cane so as not to shake.
"I'm sure you are aware of what befell the Potters."
"I am." Unfortunately.
"I have a... favour, to ask of you."
Regulus didn't think he would ever see his brother again, after leaving the grounds of Hogwarts. Sirius had moved in with that… friend of his, and made abundantly clear with which family he chose to spend his life. But the war was lost, and the chance for anyone to have a real life along with it.
Credit where credit was due, his brother didn't crawl back to 12 Grimmauld Place, like a prodigal son begging to be taken back. He was very much brought there by force, and made it known to everyone involved exactly what he thought of the arrangement.
The arrangement in question was better than either of them had hoped for. They would receive the honour of bringing up their lord's horcrux. Voldemort, apparently very indulgent in the wake of a won war, had graciously spared Sirius' life, and allowed him to live with his godson and brother under house arrest - provided he showed loyalty, of course.
Regulus had to start hiding his shaving razors, lest one of them would find its way back to Sirius' left forearm.
The boy was of fawn complexion, with shining green eyes and a scar on his forehead.
"Do you know anything about child raising?" He asked his brother as the toddler sat on his knees, reaching for no one in particular.
"I know what not to do," Sirius replied, harshly, and whisked the Potter child away from Regulus. For the next year or so, he wouldn't allow him in Regulus' proximity at all. Not that it made a difference.
The boy was never left alone. If there was no man to hoist him in his arms or tell him stories, there would be a black dog, licking his face and allowing the little hands to tug at his black fur. Regulus was slightly taken aback by his brother's… abilities, but he found Sirius the dog much more amiable than Sirius the man. At least the dog didn't bark as much – only growled, when Regulus or Kreacher got too close.
Regulus quickly begun searching for a way out. The war might have been a victory for the forces of darkness, but no victory was absolute. He didn't sleep much, exhaustion settling permanently under his eyes. When he dreamt, it was of an almost full moon, watching his grand – pointless – gesture of martyrdom like a silent audience. What he did wasn't worth any applause. Perhaps his next sacrifice would – if he would even live to make it.
For how merciful the Dark Lord was to some of his followers – like a certain potion's master, or two brothers, in equal measure brilliant and weak – he showed no favours to the less... desirable crowd. Allies and enemies were cut down alike, with a cruelty leaving no room for speculation as to what the Dark Lord demanded.
Obedience. Purity. Perfection. The things Regulus had just started to unlearn, he needed to uphold again.
Treason was not a difficult choice. Even so, sometimes Regulus would stare at his drink, wondering if – perhaps – this was the end. If he had missed his chance to do any good, and the world would not give him another one. If this was time to return in earnest to what he knew to be safe.
But no one was safe, even the proudest Death Eaters lived in fear. And when Regulus had been shivering in the storm, coughing up sea water, he had realised what freedom meant to him. He had known what it's like to make sacrifices for what he believed to be right, to be decent, to be good. That no amount of safety was worth being someone else’s sacrificial lamb, or slave.
He decided not to wait for the universe to throw him an opportunity. At night, as he heard his brother comfort a crying toddler, he wrote letters, gathered reports, and tried to put both his cunning and his bravery to good use.
Albus Dumbledore was alive, and more than willing to believe Regulus' intentions – as was only natural for a man handing out double agents like lemon drops.
Minerva McGonagall refused to answer his letters, so he met with her, wandless – he found her choice to remain in school, protecting children, understandable. Augusta Longbottom, along with approximately a third of the Order of the Phoenix, expressed in no uncertain terms that, should they ever meet in person, he will be hexed. Arthur Weasley was much more understanding, he and his wife looking at him with pity, when he visited their poor excuse for a house – admittedly, he was a little tired at that point. Alastor Moody called Regulus a number of unflattering words, but begrudgingly accepted his help.
There was no response from Remus Lupin.
It was now summer, and the Dark Lord apparently took to speaking with - talking to - the boy regularly, by way of a telepathic connection. It sent shivers down Regulus' spine each time. One day he found himself shoved against a wall by a pair of large hands, with shackle marks still on them. A pair of silver eyes – not unlike his own – was staring him down with fury, which then melted into desperation and finally, fear.
"It's hurting Harry. You have to fix this." Regulus reminded himself to breathe, and slowly wrung himself free of his brother's lion grip.
"What would you have me do, Sirius? I can't teach him occlumency." A glint of thought went through the other man's eyes. He knew that plotting look well, but it used to be accompanied by a grin. Without it, it was just terrifying.
"You can, and you will. He never gets inside of your head. Hell, if he did, you would be a dead man."
"Potter's too young," Regulus said, honestly, although Sirius' idea was growing on him the more he remembered just how creepy the boy's conversations with "Tom" were.
"Yes!" Sirius roared. "He is! He is too young to have that evil bastard whisper Godric-knows-what to him!"
Regulus had to agree with that.
Teaching himself to be resistant to legilimency was a challenge. But teaching another person – a toddler – was much harder. Made even more so by the fact that the boy, for all his undeniable wit and magical talent, was not a very fast learner. But that didn't bother Regulus too much. He was quite fine with playing patiently.
They started by instructing the boy – Harry – to inform them when "Tom" wanted to speak with him. Then, he learned never to tell "Tom" of what his caretakers were up to. Regardless of whether they were simply reading by the fire, or plotting treason - not a word was to be spoken about their actions and whereabouts.
In the first few months, Regulus tried to regard Harry's presence in his house as a necessary evil – he was his brother's godson, anyway, not his. But Harry was a sweet child, the only person who Regulus had heard laughing – besides Bellatrix – for literal months. For how much it felt wrong to see another child growing up in the dark, hostile corridors of 12 Grimmauld Place, the house would be downright unbearable without him.
Albus Dumbledore had invited him to a secret meeting of the remaining Order members. A few hours beforehand, Severus Snape paid him a visit to deliver a steaming vial of polyjuice potion. The man glared at Harry, eyes glazing over him and finding an even more detested sight in the boy's godfather, who returned Severus' stares with a look of disgust of his own.
The battle of masterfully curated insults that ensued was only stopped by Harry announcing the arrival of "Tom", followed by Snape going white as a sheet.
"You mean to tell me, Potter has a telepathic link with the Dark Lord?"
"I have been teaching him some of the easier techniques of resisting, but he is a child. Making him a master will take some time, as I’m sure you understand."
"Perhaps I should be the one providing him with that training." Severus' tone turned uncharacteristically saccharine.
"Why?"
"I am an expert."
Regulus did not like the sound of that, at all. "We'll discuss it with Dumbledore," he said, already aware of whose side the man will take.
Regulus was met with a rather cold treatment at the meetings, but that was hardly surprising. Those who did not recognise him under the polyjuice treated him with suspicion, as they should. Those who knew what face hid under his transformed body, looked at him with either contempt or pity. Regulus didn't exactly hope for making friends in the Order – that was just a part of the sacrifice.
Dumbledore spoke softly but with passion, capturing the attention of everyone with an expertise one could expect from a school headmaster. The strategy was clear – direct action was too risky, when the loss still gaped like a fresh wound. Information was key, and suspicion, though at times invaluable, must never replace reason.
Someone inquired after the missing members. Regulus had hoped he would see the Order as the opposite of the meek, dishevelled band that the Dark Lord proclaimed them to be. But it had suffered too many sacrifices. Too many people were lost, either to curses or treason - it was like looking at ashes. Dumbledore told the truth, but his eloquence did nothing to calm the agitated questions and watery eyes. After the meeting, he approached the Black heir, and invited him to a private conversation the way one would to an afternoon tea.
"Regulus, I think I have found a purpose you are uniquely qualified to fulfil. Can I count on your discretion?"
And thus, Regulus' mission became clear.
He forgot just how tedious and insufferable formal dinners were. That always had been one of the few things he and his brother saw eye-to-eye on. But now, boring dinners with people he did not enjoy looking at, much less speaking with, were the key to his job. After all, there was no better place to gather information about atrocities committed under the Dark Lord's regime, than amidst his ranks. And there was no better way to learn them, than sit for three hours in Malfoy Manor, pretending Lucius' opinions on history or politics were something worth listening to. Surprisingly, he found hearing Narcissa talk about the Malfoy heir, Draco, to be much more tolerable – maybe because they both seemed more human, when fawning over their son.
Unavoidably, there always came a moment, when Regulus slithered into his intended subject and tried to hold back a wince, as Lucius described in detail which Order members and mudblood - muggleborn - families found themselves at the end of a Death Eater's wand.
It was an ugly routine. Every name could make a difference, and Regulus was the one who counted them all, wrote the reports and made the lists. Each detail inscribed and protected by charms, found itself in the hands of Albus Dumbledore, before eventually being carried to the families of the victims. Regulus ached with how little that helped, with how little he could do. He was uniquely qualified to be the bearer of bad news – to give information that could have just as well been carried by corpses. So he took on every other task he could, exchanging messages between Order members and people who have fled abroad, helping Arthur Weasley make ends meet in the Ministry of Magic, and schooling those going on particularly dangerous missions. He didn't feel he was doing enough, but it eased the guilt.
As he visited the Weasley house - the Burrow - to deliver a package for Arthur, Molly forcefully sat him down at the table and gave him a cup of tea.
"Dumbledore shouldn't be asking this much of you," she said, cooking three meals at once. "Look at you! Have you even eaten today?" He nodded, but failed to mention said meal consisted of a watered-down nutrition potion. "If you strain yourself like that you won't be much of help to anyone." And then, he heard her mutter, "-ust twenty four..."
Looking over the furious, black sea, Regulus had not bothered to hope that he would live past eighteen. And there he was, six years afterwards, remembering that sacrifice as the easiest one he had ever made.
"You look like shit." Sirius was always so very considerate with his words. Regulus reluctantly took the Earl Grey offered to him over the table. They both avoided the dining room, in favour of the much more cosy, and much less familiar kitchen.
"Thank you, Sirius." He meant it. His brother was many things, but apathetic was not one of them. They did not speak very often – the glares and looks of regret were enough of a conversation. The stalemate seemed to go on forever. But as they both stared down the kitchen tiles, sunlight painting the exact same patterns on their hair, Regulus knew it had come to an end.
"Sirius, I'm sorry. For everything I did, and for what I didn't do. I know why you don't want to forgive me. But please, I- we can't live like this. It will be the death of us." Words spilled out of him, more quickly than he had hoped.
His brother looked up, eyes flanked by ragged, black hair. They were deep with emotions that Regulus didn't bother to decode, staring right into his own. "I've forgiven you. It's been hard not to, seeing how you torture yourself." Regulus let out a breath. Sirius' lips twitched, a shadow of a smirk. "But now that I have, stop doing that, you miserable git. I can't have you dying of exhaustion because of some bloody martyr complex."
Regulus smiled.