Chapter Text
I’m almost me again, she’s almost you
The first time Regulus Black sees Luna Lovegood is the day she was born.
The second time is at a funeral.
She’s this dolled up thing, dressed in an all-black frock embellished with one too many frills, tightly squeezed between Mr. and Mrs Rosier. Above, the heavens have cracked open, releasing a torrential downpour that drums heavily against umbrellas unfurling like black blooms, a sombre requiem in an otherwise silent cemetery. As the casket lowers, the rain only intensifies, mingling with the scent of freshly turned earth, as though nature mourns today alongside the solemn assembly.
Regulus can’t watch. Ironic, really, isn’t it? When he’s committed…the most unspeakable things, had a bloody hand involved in the worst kinds of atrocities, witnessed horrors beyond the imagination without so much as twitching, stared death in the face with a smirk and raised a glass, but when it comes to this, when it comes to Pandora, he can’t do it. He can’t bear the thought that her descent into the ground will become his final memory of her. Especially not when her last memory of him would have been -
Well, he can’t do it - won’t do it - so he doesn’t. Simple as that. He looks away. Does that make him a coward or a monster? Both, most likely. It’s nothing he hasn’t been called before. Regardless, his eyes find Luna, as if drawn to her in the absence of another, and that’s an entirely different kind of gut-punch.
She’s so big.
She’s so small.
Amidst the gathering gloom of Ottery St Mary Parish Church, Luna stands out like a solitary star poked through the night sky, her pale skin and silvery hair borderline luminescent in the greying light, appearing more ghost-like than any soul buried in these plots. An arthritic-appearing hand belonging to Rosier Sr is clamped firmly on her left shoulder, as though her grandparents fear she may bolt if given the opportunity. Regulus wouldn’t blame her; he ran from his parents' funeral too.
Fitting that this should be the one that stops him dead in his tracks.
It’s a nice service, he supposes. Quaint. More muggle than he was anticipating, but true to form, even from beyond the grave Pandora found one last way to spite her family. Frankly, Regulus is surprised they elected to attend at all. Perhaps they realised that they’re running out of children to lose.
There’s a lot of that going around lately.
It’s surprising, in a way, how many townspeople of Ottery St. Catchpole came. Though perhaps, upon reflection, it’s not surprising at all. Their genuine love for Pandora and Xenophilius is palpable, even to Regulus, who stands as a complete outsider to this tight-knit community, and consequently, to the funeral of one of his closest friends - if he even has the right to call her that anymore. It would seem Pandora and Xenophilius had no qualms transcending barriers here, effortlessly bridging the gap between the wizarding world and the muggle one.
Regulus might not recognise any of the faces present, but he can sense the depth of their affection, the shared memories, and the collective sorrow that unites them. He wonders, to torture himself, what their connection to Pandora was. Were they neighbours? Friends? Confidants? How many of them shared laughter and stories with her at the Lovegood residency? Which ones brought a smile to her face when he couldn’t even manage to write to her? He doesn’t know, and that bothers him. He should know. A good friend would know. This town is Pandora’s life, the one she built for herself, and he doesn’t know a single thing about it. Now he never will.
The regret aches painfully around the empty space carved out of his chest.
He only has himself to blame, really.
All of this, he acknowledges, is his fault.
A dark figure steps up beside him. Regulus takes a deliberately slow drag of his cigarette, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. There’s only one person who’s ever been able to see through his notice-me-not charms.
"You shouldn't be here," Regulus says.
"Neither should you," Barty retorts, both hands shoved into his pockets.
Regulus steals a sideways glance at him, silently berating: the idiot isn’t even wearing a coat. No doubt this was a last minute decision - a poor one, at that. The urge to lecture Barty over how irresponsible this is, how they should be laying low right now crawls up his throat, the taste of satiric venom, but it dies a quick death on his tongue. He’d only be making a hypocrite out of himself.
Barty’s gaze is steely, observing the funeral proceedings with a blank sort of detachment that betrays no hint of emotion in the unyielding set of his jaw. But Regulus can see the cracks; the pain in Barty’s eyes, the wild anger that’s burning him from the inside out, boiling, bursting, bleeding, begging for a release, like the white fire of an avenging angel poised to scorch the earth to the bone. If someone were to arm him with a blade and demand retribution, Regulus isn’t sure Barty would ever stop swinging. It’s a dangerous sort of fury, like that which spelt the doom of Achilles, that painted the tragedy of Cassandra, the echoing cadence of a thousand wings beating amidst the distant rumble of thunder in the cloudburst.
Regulus feels none of that. He stands in stasis, shoulders taut ropes of barbed wire, snakes and serpents writhing in his stomach. What is there to say or do?
Pandora is dead.
Xenophilius is dead.
His fault. His fault. His fault. His fault.His fault.His fault.His fault -
Rain plasters Barty’s hair to his scalp, cold rivulets running down the arc of his nose, tracing tracks down his cheeks. Regulus, at least, came prepared with an umbrella, but there isn’t enough room beneath its canopy for two, and he’s not feeling especially generous. He’s acutely aware of the chasm currently between them; six-foot deep and hallowed. His fingers have gone numb around the handle, like they don’t even belong to him anymore, and he can’t discern whether that’s due to the chill in the air or not. He’s not feeling much of anything. It’s all turning a bit buzzy at the edges. Like drowning.
And Regulus would know all about that now, wouldn't he?
“Smoke,” He offers instead, reaching into his pocket and holding out a cigarette box. He’s already gotten through half of them today. So much for quitting.
"Thanks," Barty mutters, plucking a cigarette from the pack and igniting it with a snap of his fingers. Regulus responds with a curt nod, because that’s frankly all he’s got to alleviate the sticky tension strung between them.
With a practised motion, Barty brings the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply so that the tip burns bright, casting a devilish glow across his hollowed cheeks. Regulus quietly observes him, eyes tracing the contours of his face, committing to mind each minute difference since their last encounter. There’s a pale scar that cuts through Barty’s left brow. Regulus has no idea how it got there, and no right to ask.
Barty holds the smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling slowly into the damp air. “So,” he begins, cracking the silence with a single word that bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds.
“So,” Regulus echoes.
“You’re supposed to be in France.”
“You’re supposed to be in London.”
“Right pair of fuck-up’s we make then, hm?” Barty muses, scuffing his boot against the ground. After a beat, he snorts and shakes his head. “Do you know how long it’s been?” Barty asks, and doesn’t wait for a response. “Four years. Four whole years. I mean, fuck me, If I’d known one of us dying was all it’d take to get you to come crawling out of whatever hole you shut yourself in, I’d have done it first.”
Regulus sighs. “Barty...”
“What? I’m just saying it how it is. You don’t floo. You don’t owl. You don’t so much as send a sodding patronus to let us know you’re not face down in a ditch somewhere. Not to mention - and this is my favourite part - we had to hear you left the country from your house elf. Gotta say, that was low. Now, what was it he said? Ah, yes: young masters friends mustn’t go searching for young master Regulus - i mean what the fuck, Reg? Genuinely.”
“Kreacher wasn’t supposed to tell you I was in France,” Regulus replies quietly, and that is, evidently, the wrong thing to say.
“He didn’t,” Barty bites back. “I worked that one out all by my lonesome, thanks. Very nice work on your office wards, by the way. Those were almost iron-tight. I’d have come after you, but you were smart enough not to leave and address in your notes. Just some vague scribblings about a lead you were chasing in Europe - managed to narrow it down to La France. Don’t suppose that came through in the end?”
“Not at all.”
“Grand. Well worth it, then.”
“If you went through my notes, then you know exactly why I had to limit contact.”
“Au contraire mon ami , I only ever know as much as you deem fit to share - which, shockingly enough, amounts to very little. Even your notes were sparing with details. But I figure, that’s just how you like things, right? Everyone else running around in the dark while you pull strings you shouldn’t. Right little control freak, you.”
Regulus bristles, because it wasn’t like that. “If I’d stayed, It would have put the safety of everyone at risk -”
“Well, that’s considerate and all, but Pandora’s dead,” Barty interrupts and Regulus’ mouth clacks shut. The delivery of it is sharp, brutal, sliding between his ribs with the precision of a blade, one that Barty gladly twists. “And you weren’t there.”
They plummet into a silence, Regulus staring unblinkingly at the burning embers of his cigarette, watching it crawl dangerously close to his fingers, letting the smoke sting his eyes.
I’m here now , he thinks helplessly, stupidly, but it’s not enough. He knows it’s not.
Barty remains impassive, turning to face him with an arched brow, eyes not quite locking onto Regulus’ - sliding off his form like oil on water onto some undetermined point over his left shoulder, consequent to the notice-me-not charm still in place. “I thought you might be too, for a while there.”
“Well,” Regulus manages, and his voice sounds lame even to his own ears. “I’m not.”
“You’re a cunt.”
“I know.”
“An unbelievable cunt. I could punch you.”
“If it’ll make you feel better.”
“It would,” Barty sniffs haughtily, bringing his cigarette up his lips like it’s a lifeline. Regulus wavers for only a moment before reaching out, brushing his fingers lightly over Barty’s bare arm. In a single instant, the charm pops - only for Barty, who flinches, head whipping around to face him again, the guarded parts of him crumbling as he drinks in Regulus like a man dying of thirst. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, followed by a hard tick in his jaw. It makes Regulus shift uncomfortably; it’s been a while since he’s been on the receiving end of such intense scrutiny. He doesn’t think there’s much to see. It’s not like he’s changed much in the past few years. But then again, he just gave Barty the same treatment.
“Go on, then.”
Barty swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing before he jerks his gaze away again. “It’d probably be disrespectful to fight over her grave,” he says, and Regulus recognises it for what it is: a tentative olive branch.
“Probably,” he agrees.
“You look like shit, by the way.”
Regulus scoffs. He knows he looks immaculate. He spent a good hour glamouring away all the evidence that might betray the toll the day is taking on him. “You look like a drowned rat.”
“At least I didn’t arrive late.”
“I had to catch a plane, asshole.”
“Just be normal and apparate like the rest of us.”
“It’s illegal to apparate overseas. Not to mention dangerous. I lost a fingernail the last time I tried.”
“Oh, Founders forbid Regulus Black lose a fingernail ,” Barty exclaims in faux sympathy, slapping a hand dramatically to his chest and staggering back a few steps as if taking a physical blow. Despite everything, it makes the corners of Regulus’ lips twitch upwards, which feels grossly inappropriate, given the circumstances. “The horror. The shame .”
Regulus shakes his head with a small huff of air through his nose, trying to banish his mirth before it becomes too obvious. “Fuck you. I don’t even have a licence. Downfalls of skipping Seventh Year to join the ranks of an insane bastard, I suppose.”
“Oh, but didn’t you hear?” Barty muses, flicking away the remains of his cigarette and grounding it into the dirt with the tip of his boot. Regulus wrinkles his nose and swiftly vanishes both his own and Barty’s without comment. “War’s over. We’re free men again.”
“For now,” Regulus grimaces, his voice tinged with uncertainty, effectively killing the fragile mood.
Barty’s face shutters again. “For now,” he echoes, and Regulus can feel the exhaustion weighing down those two words in the depths of his soul. “Odds on whether You Know Who will be back?”
Regulus shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know,” he answers, because that’s the truth. He doesn’t. He could hazard a guess, but it all largely depends on how much progress Pandora made before -
Before.
When he casts a sideways glance back at the ongoing committal, still unable to look at it directly, the glossy coffin has disappeared, swallowed into the yawning maw of freshly dug earth. It’s easy, almost, when the recognises nothing about this scene - not the people dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs nor the location - to pretend that Pandora isn’t in there.
“I don’t understand. If Prometheus told her not to open it, then why would she do it? They were already happy. There was no reason for her to risk it.”
“Wouldn’t you want to know what was in a mysterious box handed to you by the Gods, Reg?”
“No.”
She laughs, silver bells and windchimes at dawn. “Boring.”
“Hardly. It’s a cautionary tale about curiosity. She releases all evil into the world by opening the box: sorrow, disease, vice, violence, greed, madness - death.”
“There was hope in there too.”
Regulus thinks, if he were to open it, the box, the coffin, the facts, if he were to confirm what the papers have likely already printed, the only thing he’d find inside is hope, and it would fly, fly away never to be seen again. So, he pretends that nothing is in there. Not Pandora, not Xenophilius, not a thousand other horrible things that could come climbing out in ugly truths. He pretends, because the reality of it all doesn’t make sense to him. Pandora was never supposed to be in that box - that’s not how the myth goes.
And really, how is it fair that Regulus gets to stand here, an ex-Death Eater with blood still pumping through his veins, eternally stained on his hands, while Pandora, the only one of them who actually deserved to keep this life, lies cold?
That just doesn’t seem fair.
It doesn’t make sense .
“There’s, ah,” Barty begins, reaching up to scratch his nose, a slight tremor to his fingers that would probably go unnoticed to anyone other than Regulus. “There’s going to be a Wake down the street. The locals organised it. At the Silver Otter Cafe, I think it’s called. I don’t know. It sounds nice. The sort of place she’d like.” Barty mumbles, scuffing his boot. “Reckon you’ll go?”
“No.”
Barty's head bobs like he was expecting that. “Me neither. Don’t think I could stomach it to be honest. Besides, I’m only here on Evan-duty.”
Regulus’ brows bump together. “Evan-duty?”
“Yep,” Barty says, popping the p. After a moment, he makes a small gesture towards the other side of the cemetery where there’s a row of moss-covered tombstones, so old they’re propped against the ivy-covered wall marking the edge of the burial plots. A solitary figure stands there, within running distance of the arching iron gate, and it takes Regulus a split second to identify the shock of green hair.
“Oh, for Salazar’s sake…”
Barty looks grimly amused. “You know, he’s a wanted Death Eater now. Someone tattled about him in a plea-deal.”
“I suppose that would explain the hair.”
“Mhm. My handiwork, that. I told him black would be better, but he wouldn’t listen. I also haven’t found out who ratted on him yet, but when I do…” He trails off with a wistful sigh that speaks volumes of the amount of bloodshed he has planned. Regulus actually pities the sorry git responsible. Nobody fucks over Evan Rosier without either involving or invoking the wrath of Barty Crouch.
“And what about you?” Regulus asks, rephrasing the question beating in his chest so that it doesn't feel as awkward on his tongue. Are you safe?
“Me?” Barty’s brows shoot up like he wasn’t expecting that. “Oh, yeah. I’m just aces. Nobody’s breathed a word about me - or you for that matter. We’re in the clear for now. And If that changes, I’ll be the first to know. I took my old man up on that apprenticeship he was always banging on about.”
“What? Why?” Regulus immediately scowls at the mentioning of Crouch Sr.
“Well, I needed some way to sit in on all those Death Eater trials to ensure no one else grasses on us, didn’t I?” Barty explains easily, like taking that job isn’t slowly killing him on the inside the way Regulus knows it is. “I still can’t wrap my head around how anyone knew about Ev to begin with. We all wore masks.”
“Well, either we weren’t discreet enough or the group wasn’t as anonymous as we were led to believe,” Regulus mutters, and they’re both acutely aware which of those is more likely.
For Regulus, the threat of exposure isn’t an immediate concern. Hidden away, presumed dead, he operates within shadows so deep even the Dark Lord’s gaze glossed over him. That isolation served as a reliable shield, concealing him from both friend and foe alike while he was busy picking away at secrets. It now guarantees his safety. After all, a dead man's name isn’t going to hold much weight in a plea deal. Auror’s are out for blood, seeking scapegoats in the Dark Lord’s absence. They need bodies to display on the hangman’s podium, where all may see the triumph of those that call themselves the forces of light.
Barty plays a far more dangerous game than Regulus. His position within the Ministry, seated among those who would destroy him if they knew the truth, is as advantageous as it is perilous; a double-edged sword that threatens to cut deeply should he misstep. He walks into the lion’s den to observe a cage filled with old serpentine colleagues. If he’s going to maintain such a precarious cover, each action, each word, must be measured.
Regulus knows that won’t last. It’s not in Barty’s nature to play court. Sooner or later, he’s going to slip up, or Merlin forbid somebody recognises him first - after all, any respectable Death Eater wouldn’t hesitate to sell someone out to save their own skin. Barty is too close to all the fanfare to survive that kind of heat. They’ll string him up within seconds, and Crouch Sr will do nothing.
Regulus won’t let that happen. He won’t lose another friend. Can’t.
This is neither the time nor place to have that discussion, though. Likewise, he has a sneaking suspicion that Barty isn’t going to be receptive to the idea of relinquishing such a beneficial position - especially if he’s in pursuit of vengeance for Evan (fueled indirectly by the loss of Pandora). Regulus is too worn out to deal with the inevitable fall out that is going to cause, so he shelves it for later.
“He shouldn’t be here.”
“It’s his sister, Reg.” Barty says quietly. “I don’t think Merlin himself could’ve kept him away.”
“Is he…um,” Regulus opens and closes his mouth a few times. “How is…”
“Better than expected,” Barty takes mercy on him. “He’s not sleeping much, but we’re all doing the best we can.”
Regulus nods. “I know of an effective sleeping draught. I’ll brew a batch for him - and for you if you also require it. Any."
Circe…
Barty turns to appraise him fully, searching for something on Regulus’ face before quirking a challenging brow. “That so? You do realise you’ll have to actually be back to do that, yes?”
Untrue. Regulus can think of at least seven different ways he could discreetly get a box of potions to them, but he bites his tongue and avoids Barty’s gaze. The idea of lingering here a moment longer than absolutely necessary sounds unbearable. He currently stands before a grave dug for two bodies. He wants - no, he needs to leave. If not for his already dwindling sanity then because it's the sensible thing to do. Too many people could easily recognise him here, so the most logical course of action would be to get out of town and stay as far away from the aftermath of the war as possible - at least until the ash settles again.
Barty tsks disappointedly when the silence drags on too long, like he’s able to read Regulus’ mind, before lifting his wand and casting a wordless stinging hex at Evan. A tiny flash of light later and Evan is recoiling, flinging himself away from the wall with such force it’s a wonder he doesn’t trip over. The umbrella in his hand is not so fortunate, bouncing onto the grass upside down as he clutches his arm in visible alarm. Regulus feels only a twinge of sympathy, suspecting that wasn’t the nicest way to get Evan’s attention, all things considered. He’s likely already on edge, the wanted man that he is, but on the flip side of that, if he’s going to insist on attending today then he really should be more vigilant. Anyone could have snuck up on him prior to them, and knowing Evan, he’d be none the wiser about it until they had him locked behind bars in Azkaban.
Regulus doesn’t plan on letting that happen either.
Evan’s head swivels around for a few seconds before spotting Barty. The tension bunched in his shoulders drops immediately, and he flips Barty off before awkwardly fumbling the gesture into his pocket, a flush of embarrassment colouring his cheeks upon recalling where they are. Promptly regaining a semblance of semi-respectful propriety, he retrieves his umbrella and speed-walks over, his expression a mixture of irritation and exhaustion.
“Alright?” Evan mumbles once he’s within earshot, automatically angling his brolly so that it shelters Barty too. He doesn’t even spare a glance at Regulus, which admittedly stings a little but until he remembers only Barty can currently see him. Evan’s eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, dark bruises smudged beneath.
“As alright as one can be given the circumstances,” Barty responds evenly, stowing his wand in the back of his waistband. Regulus has told him not to keep it there. The amount of times Barty’s had to replace a snapped wand due to sitting on it…
“Yeah,” Evan nods jerkily with a small sniff, blinking hard as he tilts his head back to look up at the grey overcast. It mirrors his eyes. “Yeah, me too. I just - I can’t believe she’s really gone, you know?”
The sharper edges of Barty soften in a way they only ever do for Evan. “Yeah.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“She’d only haunt me if I didn’t.”
That knocks a wet laugh out of Evan. “Lovingly, though.”
“Oh, no doubt. She’d be the absolute worst. Can you imagine it? She’d haunt me into fulfilling basic human needs. I’d have to start practising self-care and drink water at least once a week to keep her off my back.”
“You’re supposed to drink water everyday.”
“Disgusting,” Barty states with feeling, and then, “But just so we’re both on the same page here, you are aware there’s a reward out for you, right? A big one.”
Evan smirks wryly up through his slightly dampened fringe. “You gonna turn me in, Crouch?”
“No. I’m just making sure you know the lengths of your stupidity.”
“I know you said it’d be safer to stay away, but I just - I - It’s Dora .” Evan manages, and that’s all he needs to say, really. They all get it. They’re all here . After a heavy moment, he snorts mirthlessly at the ground. “Merlin, can you imagine the look on Regulus’ face if he knew we came? He’d kill us.”
Well.
He has considered it.
Sadly, to do so would make him a hypocrite.
Barty’s eyes dart over to Regulus with a flicker of confusion before he realises too. “Stop being such a prick.”
Evan blinks, and then scowls at Barty. “Alright. It was just a joke. I could say a lot worse. At this point I think the selfish git has sort of earned it.”
Barty bites down on the insides of his cheeks. “I’m begging you to put the poor man out of his misery.”
Regulus rolls his eyes and reaches out to deliver a light flick to Evan’s forehead, dispelling the charm for him. He won’t drop it altogether—there are too many eyes present, and he’s overly mindful of being recognized—but he is, of course, willing to remove it for them. Only them. Evan startles violently once more when Regulus pops into existence right next to him, nearly toppling onto Barty, who readily steadies him with a firm hand.
“Good thing we’re already in a graveyard so I can make quick work of that,” he says dryly, and Evan looks bewildered - he looks downright struck - before his eyes turn abruptly misty, much to Regulus’ rising alarm.
“You piece of shit,” Evan chokes. “Where have you been?”
Barty waves a hand. “We’ve already covered that, Rosier. He was in France chasing dead ends. Do keep up.”
“France - what ?”
“You didn’t tell him?” Regulus arches a brow.
“You knew?” Evan crows accusingly.
“No,” Barty denies cagily, and then, “Maybe. Not the whole story. Look, he’s the one who left, shout at him.”
Evan turns on Regulus.
“Please don’t,” Regulus says before he can get started on that. “We’re in public. People are mourning.”
“ We’re people!” Evan snaps, and oh, he’s angry . Far more angry than Barty is letting on, but that’s the way it’s always been with Barty. He suppresses his emotions until they explode later - often in violent outbursts. Like a bottle of butterbeer shaken repeatedly. “ We’re supposed to be mourning! I don’t - I don’t even know any of these people. I mean fuck, who cares? She was my sister - and in case you’ve forgotten, your friend.”
Regulus bristles.
“Ev,” Barty warns, eyes darting over to Regulus like he’d afraid he might bolt if spooked enough. “Dial it back a bit, yeah?” Evan immediately opens his mouth to argue, but Barty beats him to it. “No, I know. Really, I know , okay? But let’s not do this here. I mean, fuck, can we just -” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we just say goodbye and get this over with? I’m sure our shit can wait until later.”
“Oh, I dunno. Doubt he’ll stick around long enough for that. And you know what? That’s fine. That’s so fine, because we’re doing just fucking fine without him,” Evan snarls bitterly, wrapping an arm around his middle, shoulders hunching. Regulus supposes that’s fair. He deserves that. Barty, however, fixes Evan with a stern look, which seems to temper him a bit, knocking some of the wind from his sails - though, not by much. Evan sets his jaw and glares at the ground. For a while, the only sound is the gentle patter of rain against their umbrellas, cascading in thin rivulets off the edges.
It is a herculean effort not to shift uncomfortably on the spot, wholly uncertain as to where they all currently stand with each other. He didn't return for them, and that is a guilty truth to bear. He didn’t even necessarily return for Pandora; he came back to collect something he left in her possession because it was too dangerous not to, but he got diverted by her funeral - and isn’t that just fucking awful when put plainly? Diverted . He’s not good at this. He’s never been good at this. Navigating relationships. He acknowledges that he’s on treacherous waters with Barty and Evan, but he doesn’t know how to remedy that. Doesn’t even know where to begin.
Perhaps it would be better to let it be.
Let it sink.
“I understand that you’re upset with me,” he starts, tongue heavy.
“That’s certainly one word for it.”
“What I mean to say is, today is already taxing enough without my presence. If you'd prefer that I took my leave, I wouldn’t begrudge you -”
“No,” Evan says immediately, shaking his head quickly and exhaling forcefully between clenched teeth, a whole maelstrom of emotion rattling waywardly behind them. “No, I - you don’t have to - please don’t do that.”
Regulus swallows, heart beating in his throat. Barty raises both brows pointedly at him.
“Alright, then,” he says, “I’ll stay.”
Evan starts nodding, and he doesn’t stop, his gaze glued to the ground. “Good. Pandora would want you here. And I want -” his voice crumbles into a million pieces. “I mean not to be a sentimental bastard but you and Barty are all I have left at this point. Of course I want you here. I need - but If you’re here then you need to be here . I can’t - please don’t do that to me again,” Evan is saying, a bit nonsensically but Regulus gets the gist of it. His breathing is starting to do something a bit funny too, and Barty is immediately closing ranks, confiscating the umbrella in one swift motion so that Evan doesn’t drop it again, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder - one that instantly strays downwards to instead rub at his back, and then back up like he’s not quite sure where the boundaries lie. “I mean, you were both just gone ,” Evan stresses, looking up at Regulus with these wild, desperate eyes that make something twist sharply in his gut. “Do you get that? You were - you were gone in my head like she’s gone now, and I’d accepted that, you know? I’d told myself I’d just have to live with that, and - and I’m so fucking mad at you. I hate you.”
“Okay,” Regulus rasps.
“But I need you to be here.”
“I’m here.”
“I need you to stay.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll stay?”
“I’ll stay,” he says, and he even manages to convince a part of himself that it’s not a lie. “For as long as you need me too.” his mouth adds before checking in with his brain, Evan’s pain seeping through the cracks of his armour to sting at old wounds. “I hear you both let everything go to shit in my absence anyway.”
Evan barks out a singular laugh, before promptly bursting into tears.
“Fuck,” Barty says at the same time Regulus throws up a muffling and a disillusionment charm around all of them.
Evan goes down, knees hitting the mud with a thud, all his strings cut in one fell swoop. Regulus and Barty go down with him. Sinking ships. It’s instinct, the way they catch him from either side, preventing him from falling any further, crowding him in a tangle of limbs until Regulus can’t tell where he starts and they end. In that moment, nothing else matters. Not the secrets between them. Not the fact Regulus left. Not the threat of the Dark Lord’s potential return. Nothing. It all fades into background noise, the pain of losing one of their own becoming louder than anything else. Evan is sobbing into his hands, nails digging into his forehead hard enough to leave marks, and it’s an agonising sound, like an animal that’s been left to die, something raw and bloody that scrapes over shards of glass. Regulus tightens his arms around him, pressed flush against his side to stop him from flying apart, and Evan is shaking so hard Regulus is half afraid that he just might.
It takes a while for Evan to come back to himself. The ceremony concludes, and the funeral officiant begins handing out flowers to the attendees, meant to be thrown in the grave as a final farewell.
Evan hasn’t moved, so neither have they. The tears have stopped, but now he’s just staring numbly into space, hunched forward, arms braced on his knees, bending towards the ground like a wilted plant. Barty is…well, he’s not quite fussing , but his eyes keep darting over Evan like he’s trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle, hands clenching and unclenching like he wants to reach out, or do something, but isn’t quite sure what. Regulus doesn’t bother trying to work it out. He’s here, a solid presence sat beside Evan in the mud, and that has to be enough. There are several concealment charms plastered haphazardly around them now, because he refuses to risk Evan getting discovered. Especially not by his parents. He’s not overly sure what the Rosier’s would do if they saw Evan, but he’s not eager to find out. Best case scenario? Nothing. Worst? They slaughter him to save face. The Rosier family name remains tainted so long as Evan lives and breathes due to his affiliation with the Dark Lord (of which, his parents demanded in the first place, but they won’t print that part in the papers, will they?)
The officiant crouches down in front of the Rosier family, a kind smile on her lips as she offers an elegant, blood-red rose to Luna, who shakes her head, shoulders bunched all the way up to her ears. Mrs. Rosier makes a show of sighing dramatically and snapping something sharp at the little girl that Regulus isn’t able to hear over the rain, but it’s enough to make her flinch. Whatever Luna responds with afterwards brings Mrs. Rosier to the end of her already thin patience, snatching the rose from the officiant and forcibly handing it to Luna, before shoving her towards the grave. The officiant, poor soul, awkwardly offers a rose to Mr. Rosier, who just sneers at her, before hurrying onwards.
“ Roses ,” Evan spits out the word like it’s something nasty, voice thick and nasally. “She didn’t even like roses. Fucking hated them.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Regulus replies, already planning to eviscerate them once everyone leaves for the wake.
“This is their doing,” Evan quietly seethes, glaring daggers at his parents. “Bastards. They have no right coming here. No fucking right. Not after how they - this is just their way of trying to get one last claim on her before she’s gone.”
“I know.”
“I could always kill them?” Barty offers.
Regulus considers it. “I suppose it’s already a funeral. We should leave soon, though.”
Barty shoots him a glare, then nudges Evan gently. “Hey. What do you say, Rosy? Ready to blow this joint?”
“Yeah.” Evan mumbles, head hanging as he heaves a sigh, scrubbing both hands over his face. “ Yeah . I just -” his eyes are red-rimmed as they lift again. “I hate that I have to leave her behind.”
Regulus' chest aches and pounds something fierce. “Pandora wouldn’t want you to go to jail for her.”
“No, not Dora. I mean -” he gestures vaguely at the Rosier’s, where Luna is still waiting for her turn to throw a flower. “I can’t get her. I can’t - there’s just no way. I’ve tried . I mean, it’s impossible. I’m a wanted Death Eater and they’re her grandparents. I’d have to kidnap her to get her away from them at this point, and Barty won’t let me.”
“No, I will not,” Barty confirms, much to Regulus’ relief, though he doesn’t look particularly happy about it.
“It’s just - she doesn’t deserve this. Any of this. She’s such a good kid, Reg,” Evan turns these wide, beseeching eyes onto Regulus, and for one horrible moment all he can see is Pandora shining through her twin. “Like you wouldn’t believe. She’s so fucking sweet, and they’re going to kill that. She can’t - she won’t survive the childhood we had. She’s not made for that. And it’s not fair. None of this is fair. Dora got out with her strange as fuck boyfriend, and built this strange as fuck life in this strange as fuck town, and it was beautiful. They were so beautiful. But now they’re gone, and Luna has to go live in that awful house, and -” Evan’s voice cracks in half, “- and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Stop that,” Barty says before Evan can spiral much further down that path. Regulus is privately grateful because he doesn’t know if he can handle another show of waterworks. “We’ll fix it.”
“She’s my niece.”
“And we’ll fix it,” Barty repeats, a bite harsher. “But not here. Not today. There’s nothing we can do for her right now. It sucks, I know, but we need to focus on clearing your name first. You won’t be able to do anything for her from inside a cell. So, come on, it’s time to go.” Barty ushers, clambering to his feet and holding out a hand for Evan. Regulus follows suit, rising in one fluid motion and brushing the creases from his trousers - force of habit. They still look pristine of course, by dint of the glamour plastered over top. Beneath that illusion though, he can feel the mud now caked to him. The rain. The regret. The grief. He’s sure there’s a stirring metaphor waiting to be cobbled together from all that.
Evan blinks at Barty’s hand for a moment, before sniffling miserably and accepting it, allowing himself to be pulled up as well. Barty doesn’t let him go, holding on to his arm like he expects him to fall back down with one strong gust of wind. To be fair, he looks like he might.
“Where are you two staying?” Regulus asks.
“Your house,” Barty answers, and it shouldn’t shock Regulus, but it does. The indignation must show on his face, because Barty snorts. “Don’t look at me like that. If you didn’t want us invading your home, you shouldn’t have left us keyed in.”
“That was for emergencies only.”
“Yeah, well, Evan being a wanted man sort of qualifies, don’t you think?” Barty points out, and Regulus can’t really argue with that. “He’s been keeping Kreacher company. Weird little fucker is actually a decent conversationalist once you get past the whole -” Barty pulls an overly grouchy face. “Anyway before we go, fair warning, you’ve driven the Ministry into a bit of a tizzy.”
“Oh?”
“Turns out little Lord Black going missing causes a bit of a stir, you know? All that wealth you're sitting on. Grimmauld’s one big ole treasure trove covered in shit. They were very quick to proclaim you dead in the hopes of claiming a portion. Backfired quite a bit when they realised they couldn’t even find the place. Fidelius, right?” Barty hazards, and Regulus nods in confirmation. “Thought so. That’s how I kept myself sane believing you were still out there. I figured, if that was still intact, you had to be alive.”
Regulus hums in acknowledgment. He suspected something like this might happen, so he’s glad he took the extra precautions to secure his assets before disappearing. The Ministry would no doubt take great pleasure in descending on the Black fortune like a flock of vultures if he left it exposed. Obviously, he’d never be that foolish, though. Gringotts, of course, is another matter entirely. He’ll need to check that the arrangements he made there have held true. So far, he’s been surviving off a series of Muggle accounts—honestly, it’s a bit concerning how far a wizard can make it in the Muggle world undetected with the aid of magic.
However, if Regulus is going to remain here for a bit—which he still isn’t totally thrilled about, but he’s not comfortable leaving Barty and Evan to fend for themselves either—then he’s going to need to straighten a few things out without announcing his return to the world. If anyone outside of this circle finds out the Black heir is alive and well, it’ll bring a media storm down on him, and that’s a headache he’d like to avoid for as long as possible.
Then there’s also the matter of visiting the Lovegood residency for -
Regulus’ chest constrics.
“Alright. I’ll meet you at Grimmauld, then.”
“You’re not just going to disappear again, right?” Evan checks, and though his voice is hardened, there’s a vulnerability packed into the way he clutches at his arms, the way he’s still flushed from crying, the way his green hair is plastered to his scalp like a drowned puffskein. He looks a bit pathetic really, and it’s pulling at strings inside of Regulus. It’s making him want to feed the man soup or something, and isn’t that just a fucking bizarre notion?
“Do I need to make an unbreakable to convince you?” Regulus asks flatly, and Evan huffs something halfway towards a mirthless laugh, shaking his head faintly. “Good. Give me an hour to collect my belongings and tie up a few loose ends. I’d say make yourself at home in the meantime, but It appears you both already have. If anything in my room is missing or out of place by the time I get there, I will be taking fingers as compensation. I know you both have questions. I don’t promise to answer them, but we will talk later. Now get out of here before I’m inclined to report you to the Aurors myself. You shouldn’t have come to begin with.”
“Now, now, Reg. No need to be an arse. We’re already leaving.”
“You broke into my house and I’m graciously allowing you to remain there. This is my nice.”
“ Graciously ,” Barty mouths, delighted. “Is it really classified as a break-in if you left the door open?”
“Yes. Go.”
“I’ve missed this,” Barty decides. “Your particular brand of twattyness is so refreshing. There’s really nothing else like it.”
“ Go .”
Barty raises his hands in mock surrender before reaching out for Evan and apparating the pair of them away. As soon as they’re gone, Regulus exhales forcefully through his nose, shoulders sagging. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have come. He knew it was a bad idea, he knew he’d somehow get roped into staying, and now look what’s happened; he’s staying. Not indefinitely. He’ll help Barty and Evan get back on their feet, but afterwards he’s got to go.
Well , a traitorous little voice at the back of his mind argues. Does he? Does he really? The Dark Lord is gone. Maybe. Probably. At the very least, he’s been temporarily indisposed of. Regulus is going to need to investigate the circumstances of that further to get a better picture of how much leeway he’s working with here - if any at all.
And that starts with Pandora.
Maybe it ended with her too.
There’s only one real way to find out.
Regulus turns towards the gate, the one leading to a path that will eventually take him to the Lovegood residency, only to pause. A flash of white hair once again seizes his attention, freezes the blood in his veins. Luna is stepping up to the grave, glossy black shoes paired with stockings, a rose in her hand bigger than her entire arm, and he’s suddenly eleven years old again. He’s eleven years old, and there’s a girl with white hair and grey eyes stepping up in front of the great hall to be sorted into Ravenclaw. He’s twelve, and there’s a girl with white hair and grey eyes cheering his name from the quidditch stands for his very first match. He’s thirteen, and there’s a girl with white hair and grey eyes grinning maniacally at a potion that’s about to explode in the third-floor bathroom. He’s fourteen, and there’s a girl with white hair and grey eyes shrieking with laughter as Barty races towards Hogsmead carrying her on his back. He’s fifteen, and there’s a girl with white hair and grey eyes telling him that he’s allowed to be angry at his brother for leaving. He’s sixteen, and there’s a girl with white hair and grey eyes begging him not to accept it. He’s seventeen -
Eighteen -
Nineteen -
He’s twenty, and there’s a little girl with white hair and grey eyes standing over her mothers grave.
We’ll fix it.
How does something like this get fixed? What’s done is done. There isn’t a spell capable of reversing death. Regulus checked. He checked, and he checked, and he checked until he screamed. He exhausted every possibility, every scrap of forbidden knowledge at his disposal, and still there was nothing. No solution, no miracle, just the cold, hard reality of death. Inevitable and final.
Pandora is gone, and there’s nothing he can do about that. He can’t even do anything to help her daughter. The thought makes something curdle in his stomach, a dark, ugly feeling that spits venom whenever he feels useless, backed into a corner, and incapable of solving a problem. It’s impulse, really, that makes him flick his wand. He knows he shouldn’t, that it won’t change anything, but between one blink and the next, the deep crimson petals of the rose in Luna’s hand curl and sprout anew, transforming into a rich, royal purple—a different flower altogether. Pandora did hate roses. That’s true. For the same reason as Evan; they’re the emblem of the Rosier family crest.
Regulus refuses to let her be buried with them.
Luna eyes widen in wonderment as the rose transforms into a hyacinth, leaning in closer, to watch the petals shift in colour, blooming with vibrant shades of renewal and change. She isn’t even slightly perturbed by the display of unknown magic, lifting a finger to hover over the flower’s new form, entranced. The sight loosens something in Regulus. He can’t do much. He couldn’t be there when it mattered. But he can do this.
Nobody else seems to notice, which is probably for the best. Mr. and Mrs. Rosier are too occupied in their own hushed conversation, all stern faces and valleys of wrinkles, talking as though they have someplace better to be right now. Luna looks up, slowly peering across the orderly rows of graves until her eyes lock with Regulus’. It admittedly catches him off guard. She shouldn't be able to see him.
And then, without warning, every single rose in the nearby vicinity bursts into flames.
The director yelps in alarm and drops the burning flowers. The rain doses them fairly quickly, but the damage is already done, leaving the lot a charred disaster. Mrs. Rosier starts squawking loudly, yelling something about control at Luna, grabbing her arm in a bone-crushing grip and physically dragging her away from the grave, hyacinth no longer in hand.
Luna just keeps staring at Regulus.
He stares back.
And then he walks away.
It's for the best, really. If he sticks around any longer he might just follow through on Barty’s threat to murder the Rosier’s. Leaving Luna behind feels wrong. She’s lost more than any child should ever endure, and now she’s condemned to an upbringing that left scars beneath Regulus’ skin. But he knows he has to go. There’s nothing he can do for her that wouldn’t make her situation worse. And besides, the task he originally returned for is too critical to postpone any longer.
So, Regulus leaves Ottery St. Mary Parish Church, feeling hornets buzzing in his chest, ears, and fingertips, one thought playing on a torturous loop:
He should never have agreed to give Pandora that Horcrux.