Chapter Text
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London, December 1977
***
For the first time in his life, Regulus had done something truly brave.
Today, Regulus had run.
Deep down, Regulus had always known Sirius had been right to flee their family home. It had been a subconscious awareness, buried deep beneath layers of denial and misplaced hope, because to admit his brother had been right to escape meant admitting their parents did not love them, and never would.
But the awareness had always been there, and by the time it had forced itself into his conscious mind, it had been too late for Regulus to run as well.
His brother had been long gone. He had a new family, a chosen family, and Regulus had become a ghost of the one he’d left behind.
A relic in the attic of his mind.
For a while, Regulus had been all right with that.
Unlike Sirius, Regulus had always been able to play the role their parents demanded of their children: to be unseen and unheard. He was the one who produced flawless reports, who never stepped so much as a toe out of line. Regulus had accepted the role, had memorised the script, and spoken every line to perfection.
Sirius, though… Sirius had always liked to improvise. He threw scripts in the bin and wrote his own story with whatever set and props he was handed. And when he had been sorted into Gryffindor, that set had finally offered him the happy ending he’d been aiming for.
Sirius had met James Potter, and he’d run.
And Regulus had stayed, rehearsing his lines into the silent darkness of his room, hoping no one would notice that he was only playing a part. That his whole life had been a performance staged for an audience he did not love.
But he had always followed under the assumption he would survive until the curtain fell. Under the assumption he would outlive his parents and be free to pen his own story then. Yet from the moment his parents had introduced him to the Dark Lord, Regulus had realised the script had changed.
He would die in the middle of the play, his role never more than a footnote. A tragic figure, never granted the space to grow and develop.
The day he accepted the Dark Mark on his arm would mark the beginning of his end.
So, Regulus knew he needed a change of set, a new prop, a spin-off that, for once, centred around him.
But he didn’t have James Potter. He belonged to Sirius
Potter, Regulus had come to realise, was the surest escape from the Black curse. James Potter was daylight to the Black brothers’ night. He brought happiness, security, family, and, above all, hope.
James Potter had saved Sirius. But no one would step forward to fill Potter’s role in Regulus’s story. He wouldn’t allow it. No, Regulus would save himself.
And today, Regulus had done just that.
Sixteen years old, and he had grabbed the essentials—and enough money to make even a king weep—and had run from that house and all the darkness it carried.
Well, not entirely alone. He was omitting the finer details. He had help. Even he had someone on his side.
Kreacher had been an extraordinary ally this past year. While Regulus had been trapped at Hogwarts, Kreacher had made monthly trips to Gringotts, exchanging Regulus’s allowance for Muggle pounds. He had then carefully stacked the money, pile after pile, into a leather messenger bag, discreetly charmed with an extension charm.
But Kreacher hadn’t stopped there. He’d gone above and beyond the original order to make Regulus ‘escape ready’. Somewhere along the line, the elf had even gone to the Ministry, of all places, and come back with proper muggle documents. Real ones. Apparently, Regulus now officially existed in the muggle world. He had a birth certificate, some mysterious National Insurance paperwork Regulus had no use for and no interest in deciphering, and a thing called a passport. A little blue booklet with his name inside, a photograph of him looking faintly annoyed, and an official-looking stamp.
He hadn’t known any of it existed. Still didn’t know how Kreacher knew either, but there was something eerie and brilliant in the way house-elf magic interpreted orders.
Kreacher had hidden those papers in the bag with the money and protected it with the strongest charms and wards he could manage. That same leather bag was now slung over Regulus’s shoulder.
If Regulus survived this, if he made it out the other side of this damned war, it would be thanks to Kreacher.
Hah. Kreacher was Regulus’s James Potter.
There was, however, one rather pressing problem: Regulus was sixteen. And being sixteen meant carrying the trace on his wand.
He had hurled himself into a world he barely knew, with no one to guide him, no one to fall back on. No Potter family. No Remus Lupin. Not even a Peter Pettigrew. And there was a trace on his wand that would lead straight to him should he so much as lift a book the wrong way.
Until he turned seventeen, magic was deadly.
So here he was: on the run, in the muggle world, and, for all intents and purposes, a muggle himself. An underage boy in possession of little more than a useless wand, a handful of barely passable muggle garments, and a bag bursting with money.
That would work. Surely.
He’d come out of this… adventure with his reputation maintained. Regulus might be a runaway, but he would remain a dignified runaway.
And that brought him here, wearing a green cashmere jumper and a pair of black slacks that were supposed to be part of his school uniform. He was also wearing dragon hide boots, the only type of shoe he owned. According to his mother, anything less would have been beneath the dignity of a Black.
Over it all, he wore a floor-length black wool coat, which was a year-old wizard fashion trend that had temporarily replaced the heavy (obviously magical) outdoor cloaks. But walking along the muggle streets, having had the chance to observe a few passersby, he’d realised his coat was still a bit much.
As he stared at the entrance of a building with a large ‘HOTEL’ sign above the door, he could feel the stares of muggles prickling at the back of his neck. They made him uncomfortable. Not because they were muggles, Regulus had already forced himself to accept that he would live among them now, but because stares had always meant something bad. Punishment. Humiliation. Correction. He didn’t know if they still did now.
Even the air here stank of muggles. Cigarette smoke and petrol. The sort of dense urban filth that clung to your skin and settled into your clothes. Regulus wrinkled his nose slightly and pulled his scarf tighter, more out of habit than actual cold.
“Oi, Eton, you going in or what?”
Regulus looked up at the sudden voice, finding a muggle boy—about eighteen or nineteen, if he had to guess—standing in front of him. The boy was dressed in a black leather jacket that seemed several sizes too large, trousers made of that thick denim fabric Sirius had taken to wearing on weekends.
Regulus raised a single eyebrow at the boy, pointing to himself in silent question.
“Yeah, you!” the boy laughed. It was an ugly sound, cackling and wild, yet somehow oddly contagious. “Who else?”
“My name is not Eton,” Regulus said. He had never actually spoken to a muggle before. Were they always this stupid, just guessing names at strangers?
“No shit,” the boy barked another laugh. “I meant your clothes, mate. You look like a bloody Eton boy.”
“What’s an Eton boy?” Regulus asked carefully. This was the first muggle who had spoken to him, and Regulus knew he wouldn’t survive long if he couldn’t navigate this unfamiliar world. Better to swallow his pride and ask the stupid questions now, rather than embarrass himself in front of someone who could actually deny him a roof over his head.
The boy raised his eyebrows. “Eton College?”
“I assume that’s a well-known school?”
“You really don’t know Eton College? With that accent?” He laughed again. “Fuck, mate. It’s only the poshest of posh schools out there. Breeding ground for rich bastards who’ll run the country into the ground and still never touch a mop.”
“So, you were insulting me?” Regulus said dryly, unable to stop the faint upward tug at the corner of his mouth.
The muggle grinned. “Guess I was. You mind?”
Regulus, who had spent the last sixteen years insulting muggles, decided that karmic retribution was overdue. He shook his head. “I’m Regulus.”
“Regulus? Your name’s Regulus? Christ, I think Eton’s actually better,” the boy said, still grinning. “But I’m Barty.”
He extended a hand.
Regulus hesitated for the briefest moment, centuries of indoctrination wound tight around his instincts, and then reached out and shook it. The contact was brief but electric, leaving a strange warmth in his palm. It felt… irreversible.
“So, Regulus—oh, fuck no, that’s not gonna work, you’re Eton now—what were you doing, staring so intently at the,” Barty turned to read the sign above the door, “‘Redford Hotel’?”
“Debating if going in is worth it.”
Barty turned as well, joining him in his silent standoff with the peeling red paint of the doors. After a minute of exaggeratedly thoughtful observation, he chuckled. “Probably not, mate. Floors’ll be sticky, chance you might get bedbugs, hairs in the sink… probably some questionable stains on the walls.”
Regulus raised his eyebrows so high they practically disappeared into his hairline. “In a hotel?” he hissed. “What’s wrong with muggle hygiene standards?!”
He should consider lying down in the gutter instead. It couldn’t possibly be much worse.
“Muggle?”
“Family specific slang,” Regulus said quickly.
“For us plebs?” Barty grinned, gesturing vaguely at himself and the run-down street around them. But there was no offence in his voice, only that constant undercurrent of mischief.
“Sort of,” Regulus said. He’d already accidentally established himself as a lost posh boy, he might as well lean into the role.
“At least you’re honest,” Barty laughed. “But I gather you need a place to stay tonight?”
“I do. I have the money for a hotel while I search for a more permanent residence, but I’m lost as to which hotel would be suitable.”
“Suitable, eh?” Barty repeated. “You look like the type suited for the Ritz.”
Regulus filed that information away. He had no other frame of reference, and any advice, even from a possibly insane muggle, was welcome. As long as it meant not freezing to death or waking up with a rare muggle disease, the Ritz sounded fine.
“Sounds good,” he shrugged. “Could you point me the way?”
Barty coughed, a choking sound like he’d inhaled his own spit. Regulus raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.
“Fuck, Eton. I was joking. You’ve never heard of the Ritz, have you?”
This muggle cursed at a rate that would have earned Regulus a mouth hexed shut for a week. He wasn’t opposed to swearing himself, at least internally, but years of pureblood etiquette had drilled the habit of self-censorship deep. Every word was supposed to reflect the ‘dignity of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black’.
“I’m unfamiliar with all establishments in London,” he replied. It wasn’t technically a lie, he was just referring to this boy’s version of London.
“Where’d you even crawl out of?” Barty shook his head in disbelief. “You’re the weirdest rich boy I’ve ever met, Eton. But don’t worry. I’ll save you from a life of champagne and polo matches. Follow me!”
Without warning, Barty cackled and grabbed him firmly by the arm, pulling him along down the pavement. Regulus thought, not without irony, that he might currently be in the early stages of a muggle kidnapping. Whether that was standard behaviour here, he had no idea. It sounded like the sort of nonsense his mother would have told him during a bedtime story.
Never trust muggles, darling, they’ll kidnap you, steal your magic, and make you eat tinned food.
But honestly? Being kidnapped by a muggle couldn’t possibly be worse than a future in service of the Dark Lord. And besides, wand or no wand, trace or no trace, Regulus could cast a hundred lethal curses in the time it took this muggle to blink.
So, he let himself be dragged along, glancing down at the hand on his bicep. That’s the second time in his life being touched by a muggle. He should probably stop keeping count like that… it wasn’t exactly the mindset Sirius had tried to drill into him that summer after first year.
“Where exactly are you taking me?” Regulus asked as they crossed a busy street, weaving between the speeding death-traps muggles used for transportation. Brilliant. He was going to die today.
“My place!” Barty called cheerfully.
“You’re taking a stranger to your home?”
It was mad! This boy didn’t even have magic to protect himself.
“Oi, I have roommates. You’re the one letting a stranger drag you off the street.”
“I can protect myself.”
“You do realise I’m holding your arm, right? I can feel your muscles, or lack thereof,” Barty said, flashing him a feral grin as they jogged across another street.
Unfair. Regulus had a Seeker’s build. Lithe, sure, but he was not some delicate flower, thank you very much.
Then, from one of the approaching metal cages, a deafening screech split the air.
“What the fuck was that?!” Regulus shouted, instinctively ducking.
“Eton, you can curse!”
“No, Barty, what was that dreadful noise?”
“The wanker honked at us,” Barty said casually, flipping a two-fingered salute at the driver.
“Honked?”
“Christ, Eton, did you grow up in a bloody cave?”
“I grew up in a mansion, actually,” Regulus muttered, slightly petulant.
“In the 1820s?”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”
“But the highest form of intelligence,” Barty shot back without missing a beat, grin splitting his face.
That silenced Regulus.
He’d quoted Wilde dozens of times at Hogwarts, usually to blank stares or disdainful sneers. No one had ever finished the quote before. Mostly because no self-respecting pureblood Slytherin would dare read a muggle playwright.
But Regulus had cherished Wilde’s words, hidden his books under floorboards and behind tapestry panels, treating them like precious contraband. And this boy, this ridiculous muggle, had thrown the line back at him without hesitation.
“Don’t try to quote Oscar Wilde at me,” Barty continued, oblivious to his shock. “My flatmate is a theatre nerd.”
“I’d like to meet your flatmate,” Regulus said, surprising even himself with the sincerity in his voice.
“You will.”
That’s when their wild dash came to a halt, stopping in front of a paint-chipped door. Barty fished around in his pockets for a set of keys, whistling tunelessly. Meanwhile, Regulus stared at the dilapidated building, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m starting to regret my decision. Are you going to kill me?”
“Careful, Eton, your rich side’s showing again,” Barty teased, kicking the door open to reveal a dingy entryway that reeked of old cigarettes, fried onions, and something indefinably moist. “Besides,” Barty added as they stepped inside, “I couldn’t kill you even if I wanted to. You see, I’m currently in a pacifist phase. My dad complained about the hippies last month, so naturally I had to become one out of spite.”
Regulus couldn’t help it, he laughed. A real laugh, sharp and startled. It sounded like something Sirius would have done.
Barty led the way up a dimly lit staircase. Every step creaked like it might collapse, but after Regulus made the mistake of touching the sticky handrail once, he resigned himself to taking his chances unaided.
They climbed two flights, before Barty stopped in front of a battered door missing its number plate.
The lock resisted for a moment as he jammed the key in, but with a practiced shove of his hip, the door swung inward.
Inside was one long room, divided in the most makeshift way imaginable. Four mattresses, no bedframes, were scattered around the walls, each one separated from the others by a patchwork of hanging curtains, tacked-up sheets, and what looked suspiciously like an old, threadbare carpet hung sideways.
The floors were buried under layers of worn, overlapping rugs, none matching in colour or pattern. Some were so frayed they were practically threads, others clashed violently in red, orange, and mustard yellow.
The walls had probably once been a soft, buttery yellow, but it was impossible to tell anymore; every inch was plastered with posters, all sorts of muggles, bands, protests, etc. It reminded him a bit of Sirius’s room.
But then there were the countless unmoving photographs hung everywhere, stuck even over parts of the windows.
It was a bit overwhelming, actually. Regulus diverted his eyes.
In the centre of the room sagged a brown and orange sofa, slumped in the middle, stuffing leaking out from the arms like some wounded beast. A bright green coffee table was placed in front of it, littered with empty tea mugs, muggle cameras, cigarette butts, and dog-eared books.
The so-called ‘kitchen’ was just a two-burner cooker, a rusted sink the size of a basin, and a buzzing mini-fridge that whined louder than the apparition point at the Ministry.
It was a mess.
It stank like dust and old cigarettes and the unmistakable scent of an overworked radiator.
It looked so muggle that it was almost offensive.
And yet… it was colourful, thanks to the mismatched furniture, the bright sheets, the ocean of posters. It was warm. It was lived-in. It looked more like a home than Grimmauld Place ever would.
Behind them, Barty kicked the door closed, flashing Regulus a crooked smile. “I know it’s a bit shit,” he said, “but rent’s dead cheap. If you don’t mind having absolutely no privacy, you’ll fit right in.”
“I went to a boarding school where I had to share a room with four others,” Regulus said absently, still drinking in the room. “I’m used to no privacy.”
His eyes drifted back toward the walls, drawn to the photos again. They were different somehow. Wizard photographs froze moments for memory or education. These… these were trying to tell stories
Regulus wanted to study them. Wanted to learn what secrets they promised to impart.
“What d’you think?” a new voice said behind him.
Regulus turned, finding a boy leaning lazily against the back of the couch, a cigarette burning between his fingers as he pointed at the photo Regulus had been inspecting. He had blond hair, a strong, square build, and wore a black turtleneck paired with jeans tighter at the hip and flaring wider at the ankles.
“Evan!” Barty cried, bouncing over and kissing the boy full on the mouth without a hint of hesitation.
Regulus averted his gaze, giving them a moment of privacy, and wandered further along the wall, staring at a poster of a woman playing the guitar.
“Interesting response,” Barty said from behind him.
Regulus turned back, finding both boys watching him with amusement. “Huh?”
Evan stubbed out his cigarette in a battered tin tray on the table, hiding a laugh behind his hand.
“We’re used to either shock, disgust, anger, sometimes even relief or happiness,” Barty explained, “but you… you just act like it’s the weather.”
“What exactly are we talking about?” Regulus asked cautiously, glancing from Barty to Evan in the hopes one of them would be more coherent.
“Us being poufs,” Barty said cheerfully.
That didn’t help. “What?”
“Fairies,” Barty added.
Regulus frowned, genuinely confused. “What? The magical kind?”
A bark of laughter escaped Evan, and Barty wheezed like he’d just heard the funniest thing in the world.
“No, Eton. Homosexuals.”
“Oh,” Regulus said simply, raising one eyebrow. “I assume Evan is your boyfriend, based on your greeting. Is that wrong?”
“That’s it?!” Barty cried, scandalised.
Evan chuckled. “Barty, where the hell did you find this one?”
“I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You’re supposed to be shocked,” Barty said, throwing his arms up in theatrical despair. “Or at least mildly unsettled by two blokes snogging.”
“Why?”
“WHY?!”
“Yes. I don’t understand why it would warrant a special response. Are you recently betrothed or something?”
Barty made a sound like he was physically choking, while Evan repeated “betrothed” under his breath, half-horrified, half-amused.
That’s when, somewhere in the back of his mind, a dusty fact forced its way to the surface. In first year, Regulus had skimmed a book on muggles that had mentioned—briefly, and rather poorly in Regulus’s opinion—something about muggles being very odd regarding same-sex relationships. Illegal? Frowned upon? Something in that direction.
It had sounded like nonsense, especially when the next paragraph went on to talk about an all-powerful sky-man who apparently cared deeply about what individuals did with their genitals. Needless to say, Regulus had taken the rest of the book with a grain of salt.
“No, it’s really fucking normal,” Barty said fiercely, jabbing a finger toward him. “The masses just haven’t realised it yet.” A bright, wicked grin spread across his face as he looked Regulus over. “I like you, Eton,” he said. “You might be some sort of magical creature that just popped out of another dimension, but I really fucking like you.”
This time it was Regulus’s turn to choke. Because Barty had no idea how close to the truth he actually was.
Barty, luckily unable to read Regulus’s thoughts, turned to Evan. “Evan, dear, love of my life, this is my friend. His parents committed the atrocity of naming him Regulus, so we’re calling him Eton. Eton, meet Evan.”
Evan laughed, tipping an imaginary hat. “He does look like an Eton boy. Those trousers with the jumper. Except the coat,” he gestured to Regulus’s floor-length one. “That’s different. I dig it.”
“Right, almost forgot,” Barty said suddenly. He spun to Regulus and bowed low, adopting a scarily accurate imitation of Regulus’s accent. “May I take your coat, good sir?”
Regulus hesitated. It felt a bit odd, one of the hosts bowing to a guest, especially since Regulus was the one dependent on their charity. But muggles kept surprising him. And without house-elves, someone had to fulfil the role of servant, right?
It seemed… they did it themselves.
He slid the heavy coat off his shoulders and handed it carefully to Barty, giving a small nod of thanks.
A beat of silence followed.
Barty stared at the coat in his arms, then at Regulus, then sideways at Evan.
Regulus raised an eyebrow, expecting the coat to be hung neatly on the wonky, overloaded coatrack by the door.
Instead, Barty burst into cackling laughter. “Bloody hell, Eton! I was taking the piss! Don’t tell me you’re actually used to having servants!” He, then, ran a hand over the coat’s material, whistling low. “This thing’s soft as fuck,” he said, tossing it onto the rack with a careless flick. “You’re crazy rich, aren’t you?”
“My parents are,” Regulus said, slightly uncomfortable now. Without the long coat, he suddenly felt exposed, small. In the wizarding world, he was never without layers: robes, cloaks, etc. It was his armour, made of velvet and silk, making him look distant and unapproachable. His shield between himself and the world.
Here, in this messy, colourful muggle flat, he just felt… bare.
He clutched his bag tighter against his body.
“Generational wealth,” he explained, trying to remain indifferent.
He glanced at the two strange boys. Evan was watching him properly now, taking him in as if assessing whether he really fit here after all. He hoped that his muggle outfit passed the test.
“Hey, Regulus,” Evan said carefully. “How old are you?”
Barty looked up sharply at the question, his grin faltering, eyes narrowing as he studied Regulus anew. “Oh, shit. You look crazy young without the coat.”
Regulus straightened, lifting his chin in defiance. He was one year away from being considered an adult in the wizarding world. He would not be treated like a child.
“I’m sixteen,” he said firmly.
“Sixteen?!” Barty repeated, voice five octaves higher. He turned to Evan, wide-eyed. “Shit. I didn’t know, Ev! I found him outside a hotel!”
“And you just brought him here?” Evan asked incredulously. “Without asking any questions? His family might be looking for him!”
“I’m not some lost pet!” Regulus snapped. “And you two can’t be much older!”
“I’m eighteen,” Barty said, with a tone that suggested this somehow gave him the moral high-ground.
“That’s a mere two-year difference!”
“Yeah, but Evan here is nineteen!” Barty said triumphantly.
“That’s one more year!”
“We’re adults!”
Regulus scoffed. “Barely.”
“Will both of you shut up for a second?” Evan interrupted, voice sharp but calm. He stepped between them slightly, putting a steadying hand on Barty’s shoulder. And, remarkably, Barty actually went quiet, as if Evan had cast a non-verbal calming charm.
“Regulus,” Evan said gently. “Are you alright? Are you lost? On holiday? Why do you need a place to stay?”
Regulus didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes found a black-and-white photograph on the wall. It was an image of Barty, laughing, head thrown back. He stared at it intently, noticing the love that radiated from every corner of the picture, and he knew immediately who had taken it.
“I ran away,” he said, voice flat.
Barty’s eyes widened. “Oh, bugger. Fuck. Shitty the shit.”
“Barty, breathe,” Evan said. He shot Regulus a careful look. “Why’d you run?”
Regulus hesitated, fingers twitching to grab his coat and disappear. “I can’t say,” he said, voice low, almost pleading. “But I can’t go back, okay? I won’t survive if I do. I’m not exaggerating.” He swallowed. “But if you’re uncomfortable with me here, I’ll go. I’ll find a hotel.”
He turned, already moving for the door.
“No, stop!” Barty protested. “You’re not staying in some strange hotel on your own. You’re staying here, where we can help”
“I don’t need minders.”
Evan ignored him. “Your parents, they’re abusive?”
“Oh,” Regulus laughed, a small, hollow sound. “That’s the least of their issues. I wish they were only abusive. I could have endured that a little longer.”
Barty groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “Oh, this is so much worse than I thought.” He looked up at Evan. “He’s so clueless, Ev. Like, even with the most basic things. He didn’t even know what a honking car was! It was funny at first, but now it’s just so fucking concerning.”
“I’m not helpless,” Regulus hissed. He would not be seen as a scared victim; he was Regulus Black.
“Are you running from some sort of crazy cult?” Barty asked. For once, there was no teasing in his voice.
Regulus looked away, gripping his bag like a lifeline, not denying it.
It might not be the full truth, but it was the closest he would get without breaking the Statute of Secrecy. Close enough that maybe they would stop asking questions. Close enough that maybe they would keep helping him, like they had so far.
Because the truth was: Regulus was scared.
Terrified, actually.
He hadn’t thought the muggle world would feel so alien. He hadn’t thought everything would be different. But it was. So fucking different. Every sound, every gesture, every bloody thing. Living here without help, without support… it would be impossible. He didn’t even know where to start. Didn’t even know what their money was worth, how it compared to galleons and sickles. He was a walking sign screaming: Please, take advantage of me!
Evan seemed to see all of it. See him. He placed a steady hand on Regulus’s shoulder, a soft squeeze of reassurance. Regulus barely flinched. He must be truly falling apart, if strangers could read him this easily.
“Okay, Reg… can I call you that?” Evan asked. Regulus pulled a face at the nickname, but after a moment, he gave a stiff little nod. “Our roommate Sarah moved out last month to live with her boyfriend, so we’ve got a free mattress. You’d be living here with Barty and me, and our friend Pandora. It’s not much, but it’s something. Are you able to chip in for rent, or do you need a few weeks to figure it out? We could give you a little time before things get tight.”
“I can help,” Regulus said immediately. “I’ve got money. I didn’t leave my home empty-handed. I prepared for a long time.”
“Good,” Evan nodded. “That’s a relief. Just… don’t shout it from the rooftops, yeah? Not while dressing like that.”
He steered Regulus towards the couch, and it wasn’t until then that Regulus realised how utterly drained he was. The stress had been coiled inside him all day, and now his body was giving out beneath him. His knees buckled without warning, and he dropped heavily onto the cushions.
“Barty, grab us a cuppa, would you?”
“Sure, sure,” Barty grumbled, but there was a teasing smile tugging at his mouth, gentler than before. “I’m already playing servant today, accepting coats and shit. Might as well serve some tea too.”
Regulus watched through tired eyes as Barty filled a large metal pot with water. He pressed a button, and the pot came alive, rattling and rumbling furiously.
Even making tea was different here.
The thought hit him sideways. And he laughed. A breathless, incredulous sound at first. And then louder, until it tumbled out of him in great gasping waves, his hands burying themselves in his curls.
He laughed and laughed, until he could barely breathe.
He had gotten out.
He was free.