Chapter Text
The Floo in Dumbledore’s office flared to life, green flames licking harmlessly at Esme’s skin as she stepped out of the fireplace. The smoke and soot swirled in the air, clinging to her robes as the warmth of the magic faded behind her.
As she dusted herself off, she looked around. The office was just as it had been during her time at Hogwarts — ancient and filled with the smell of parchment and aged wood. The bookcases towered over her, crammed with oversized tomes that looked like they'd been passed down through the ages. The portraits of the past headmasters blinked lazily at her, their eyes half-closed at this late hour. As the flames cast their shadows on the stone walls, the portraits stirred slightly, shifting between frames, their murmurs fading into soft whispers.
They were such busybodies . Esme couldn't help but smile a little.
But she swallowed, trying to steady her nerves. She wasn’t nervous, really — okay, maybe a bit — but it was more the unexpectedness of it all. The war was growing darker every day, and yet, for all her participation, all the meetings she’d attended, all the time she spent watching the others take on real missions, she still felt like an outsider, like a child playing at something far bigger than her.
Dumbledore summoning her so late at night — so soon after the prophecy about Harry had come to light — set her on edge. She couldn’t imagine why he’d want to see her, of all people.
Her thoughts scattered as Dumbledore rose from his desk, the rich fabric of his midnight blue robes sweeping around him like shadows in the dim light. He offered a small smile and motioned her forward with a gentle wave of his hand .
"Come, Miss Potter," Dumbledore said, his voice low and warm. "Please, sit."
Esme nodded, almost mechanically, and lowered herself into the chair across from him. She glanced at the cluttered desk, the papers scattered across it, some neatly stacked, others half-forgotten, and then at Dumbledore, who sat down across from her with an air of contemplation.
"I apologize for the late hour, Miss Potter," he began, his voice soft, but firm, like he was carefully choosing his words. "I’m afraid matters of such importance are rarely convenient. But this cannot wait."
Esme shifted in her seat, a flutter of unease settling in her chest. "Of course, Professor. What is this regarding?" Her voice was slightly shaky, betraying the nervous energy that had been slowly building since her arrival.
Dumbledore steepled his fingers, his eyes peering at her thoughtfully over the rim of his half-moon glasses. "This war grows darker with each passing day," he said, his voice tinged with sincerity. "Many are aligning themselves with Voldemort, driven either by fear or an insatiable hunger for power. And in truth, Miss Potter, there are few things left that could turn the tide. Not in any way that matters."
Esme swallowed hard and nodded, though a strange sense of helplessness crept over her. Dumbledore’s words weighed heavy, like a stone lodged in her chest. It was well known—though rarely spoken aloud—that they were losing the war. Voldemort’s forces were growing, and too many people, gripped by fear, were choosing neutrality over resistance. But to hear Dumbledore say it so plainly, to have her fears confirmed... a flicker of hope within her shriveled and died.
"But…" Dumbledore continued, and that one word had her sitting up straighter in her chair. "There is something. Something I’ve suspected for a long time, something that has only recently been confirmed. Something that, if destroyed, could change the tide of this war. Something that could defeat Voldemort."
Esme’s eyebrows lifted, cautious curiosity knitting across her features. “Sir?”
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his fingertips still pressed lightly together, his gaze sharp yet unreadable beneath the half-moon lenses.
“Tell me, Miss Potter,” he said, voice low and almost idle, like he was asking about something far more benign, “have you ever heard of a Horcrux?”
The word landed with a strange weight. Esme blinked. Her brows drew together as she tried to sift through the dusty archives of her memory — years of lectures, textbooks, and whispered conversations. She combed mentally through her seven years at Hogwarts: Defense Against the Dark Arts, Ancient Runes, even the odd, curious questions she’d once asked the Grey Lady. But the term stirred nothing.
“No…” she said at last, slowly. “No, I haven’t.”
Her voice was quiet , hesitant — not from fear , but from the faint unease that came when she realized that whatever this was, it had been kept from even the best-educated students. And if Hogwarts hadn’t taught her the word, it was probably something the school had decided she wasn’t meant to know.
“Few have,” he admitted quietly.
There was a glint behind Dumbledore’s spectacles — not quite satisfaction, but something adjacent. A flicker of grim knowing, like a man preparing to open a door behind which nothing good waited.
“I thought not,” he murmured. “It is not the sort of knowledge found in textbooks or tucked between the pages of school curricula. You see, Miss Potter, a Horcrux is not merely dark — it is profoundly unnatural. A creation born not of necessity, but of deliberate evil.”
Esme sat very still. The name alone had set her on edge, but the tone in his voice now made her skin crawl.
“A Horcrux,” Dumbledore continued, his voice now carrying the weight of something older than the war itself, “is made when a witch or wizard commits an act so horrific, so violently against nature, that it tears the soul. Not metaphorically, but literally . Murder, Miss Potter — true, cold-blooded murder — is the catalyst. The act of taking a life rips the soul apart. And if the murderer chooses, they may encase that torn fragment in an object… trapping it there, hiding it. Guarding it.”
He paused a moment, allowing the silence to fill in the horror.
“As long as that object, the Horcrux, remains intact, so too does the life tethered to it. The creator becomes… not invincible, but something more dangerous. Untethered from death. A kind of immortality.”
Esme’s throat had gone dry. The idea settled in her bones with a sick, unnatural chill. Then, she felt a sickening realization settle in her gut. The implications unfurled slowly, like ink spreading through water — dreadful, irreversible.
“Immortal?” she echoed, the word fragile on her tongue. It barely rose above a whisper, but the meaning thundered in her skull. She leaned forward slightly, eyes searching Dumbledore’s face. “Professor… please tell me you’re not implying that Voldemort is—”
She swallowed hard.
“— immortal? ”
There was a flicker of something in his expression — not satisfaction, not exactly, but recognition. Approval, perhaps, that she had followed the path of his words to their terrifying end.
Dumbledore inclined his head ever so slightly, his voice calm but solemn. “Yes, Miss Potter. That is precisely what I am implying. He is, at least, untethered from death as we understand it. You’ve always had a sharp mind — far too sharp to ignore the truth when it’s placed before you. Perhaps that is why I’ve chosen you for this particular task.”
Esme’s heart gave a hard, uncertain thud. The words sat oddly in her chest — not flattering, not comforting. Chosen . For something important. Finally. And yet…
She suddenly felt very young.
For months now she had attended meetings and patrols, sitting quietly at the edge of rooms where others — seasoned witches and wizards, her brother included — were given missions, responsibilities, real work. She’d taken it in stride, waiting her turn. She told herself it was fine, that she was still learning, still proving herself.
And now, just like that, her name had been pulled from the pile — not for guard duty, or watch rotation, but for this .
She’d wanted to be useful. She hadn’t wanted it to feel like this, so hopeless.
"You see," Dumbledore continued, his voice low and serious, "I’ve long suspected that Voldemort created Horcruxes, but it wasn’t until recently that I became certain. Someone has come to me with an object they believe to be one of his Horcruxes."
“Somebody brought you one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes?” she repeated, the words tumbling out before she could temper them. “Just gave it to you?”
Her mind scrambled to connect the dots. The very idea of holding such a thing — an object pulsing with a torn soul — turned her stomach. “Who? Who would even have access to something like that?”
Dumbledore didn’t flinch. He simply folded his hands again, the lines of his face cast in flickering candlelight.
His eyes, ancient and ageless all at once, held hers without wavering.
“There has been a defection,” he said, his voice soft, and so terribly grave. “From within Voldemort’s inner circle.”
Esme felt her mouth go dry.
The only name that came to mind was already known to the Order.
“I know Snape’s working with you, but—”
“Not Severus,” Dumbledore interrupted, not unkindly, but with finality.
A beat of silence followed. Esme’s thoughts stalled. And then—
“Regulus Black.”
She blinked.
She actually laughed, once — sharp and stunned — because what?
“That’s not funny,” she said, but Dumbledore didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile.
Esme’s stomach twisted.
Her voice, when it came, was faint. “Regulus Black is dead. ”
“The Order believes he is,” Dumbledore said. “As does the rest of the wizarding world.”
Esme sank back into her chair, arms folded tightly across her chest, as if bracing herself against a world that had suddenly shifted beneath her feet.
She remembered Regulus Black in fragments — sharp features, quiet steps, the way he moved through corridors like he didn’t want to be seen. She remembered the few times he’d spoken in class, his voice clipped and precise, like he was always watching himself from the outside. He’d always been a bit of a mystery, even then.
But dead?
He had felt dead. Sirius had mourned him without saying the word . There was anger, sure, but underneath it all, there had been grief.
And now Dumbledore was telling her Regulus was alive?
And that he had stolen a Horcrux?
“Where has he been, then?” she asked, voice low. “All this time?”
“Hiding,” Dumbledore said simply . “Watching. And searching.”
The way he said the last word made the hairs rise on the back of her neck.
Searching for a Horcrux. Hunting a piece of Voldemort.
And he’d found it.
"But… I thought he was dead," she whispered, her mind spinning. "Sirius said he was dead."
"Not dead," Dumbledore replied calmly, his voice steady. "He has been hunting a Horcrux, and he was successful in finding one."
Her voice cracked slightly as she asked, “But… why? Why tell me this? Why not the Order?”
Surely this wasn’t meant for her. Not her . She didn’t go on missions. She barely spoke in meetings. She was the one who took notes and stayed out of the way while everyone else planned how to save the world.
Dumbledore’s expression shifted — softer now, though his words were no less leaden.
“Because Regulus Black is in a most… delicate position,” he said gently. “His death, while tragic to some and convenient to others, has kept him safe. It is a shield Voldemort has not yet thought to test. Were he to learn the truth — that Regulus not only defected but stole a piece of his soul — the reprisal would be swift. And final.”
The silence between them thickened like storm clouds. The candlelight flickered.
“The leak within our ranks has made things… complicated,” Dumbledore continued, his gaze sharpening just slightly. “Even our most trusted inner circle is not exempt from suspicion. Certain truths must be kept... among very few.”
Esme almost laughed — sharp and bitter at the edges. It came out more like a scoff. “Me? ” she said incredulously, shaking her head, a lock of hair falling into her face. She pushed it back, hand trembling slightly. “Surely there are others more qualified. Older. Wiser. I mean, I haven’t even—”
She stopped herself before the words done anything could slip free.
She didn’t need to say it. They both knew.
Dumbledore’s eyes held hers, unwavering. “I trust you, Miss Potter,” he said, simply and without fanfare. “I know your heart. And I know this war weighs heavily on your shoulders, even if no one has yet asked you to carry it.”
That struck a nerve.
“I also know,” he continued, his voice gentler now, “that while your brother and his wife prepare to go into hiding… you would never, under any circumstance, endanger them. Not by word, not by silence. Not even by accident.”
Esme stared at him, suddenly unsure if she wanted to cry or scream.
So this was it. Not a mission. Not a test. Not even a promotion.
It was trust . A burden disguised as a gift.
Esme looked away, her gaze catching on the soft glow of the candlelight reflecting off a brass instrument behind Dumbledore’s desk — one of many strange, whirring things that had always unsettled her as a student. They seemed to listen even when no one spoke.
Trust. That word clung to her ribs like a bruise. It should’ve felt like a compliment. Instead, it felt like being backed into a corner with no door.
Dumbledore let the silence stretch — not unkindly, but purposefully. He knew she was weighing it. Knew she was turning over every possible meaning.
At last, Esme found her voice. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, brows knitting. “What exactly am I supposed to do with it?”
Dumbledore regarded her over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, hands steepled, his gaze steady. “I’m asking you to take him in.”
Her head jerked up, eyes wide. For a second, she just stared at him, waiting for the punchline.
Then a breathless, incredulous laugh slipped out. “I’m sorry—what?”
She blinked, certain she’d misheard. That couldn’t be what he meant. Surely not.
“Regulus,” he said simply . “He cannot return to his family — they would sooner hand him back to the Dark Lord than shelter a traitor. So he cannot stay at Grimmauld Place. Sirius… would not take his presence kindly.”
Esme's stomach turned, her mind reeling. Sirius had spent years pretending to despise his brother — that much was clear to anyone who had spent even a few moments with him. He cursed Regulus at every opportunity, raged about his betrayal, about what he’d become. But Esme knew better than most that those feelings were a mask, a defense mechanism to protect himself from the deep, gnawing pain of loving someone who had chosen a darker path.
Sirius might hate what Regulus had done , but the truth was far more complicated.
“And the Order’s safehouses are too exposed,” Dumbledore continued. “Too many comings and goings. Too many eyes.”
Her throat tightened.
“You want me to live with him?”
“I want you to protect him,” he said. “Hide him. Guard him. Learn from him, if you can. He has information we need — names, locations, signs Voldemort has cloaked from the rest of us. But he is vulnerable now, Miss Potter. And someone must ensure that vulnerability does not get him killed before he can be of use.”
Of use . The words stung — not because they were cruel, but because they were true. That’s what everyone was now , wasn’t it? Pieces on a board. Useful or expendable.
Esme shifted in her seat, arms crossed tight over her chest. “Why not Remus? Or—hell, Peter? He’s been doing nothing but skulking around with his mum.”
Dumbledore shook his head. “Remus is already stretched thin, mediating the werewolf enclaves — a task only he can do. And Peter...”
His voice trailed off with a vague gesture. Esme didn’t push. She didn’t need to. Whatever reason Dumbledore had for excluding Peter, it was enough. She liked him well enough — he was sweet, in that anxious, eager-to-please way — but this? This wasn’t something you handed off to someone who flinched at shadows.
“And what about James?” she asked suddenly, the edge in her voice sharper than she meant it to be. “Did you even tell him?”
Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it softened again — but not with apology . With certainty.
“I did not,” he said quietly. “And I will leave it to your judgment whether you choose to.”
Her chest ached with the implication. Because she knew James . He would say no. He would fight this. Because for all his recklessness, he was nothing if not overprotective. She was his little sister — the last person he’d want anywhere near a former Death Eater.
But she wasn’t a child anymore. Not a student dragged behind him in the corridors. She was in the Order. She’d asked to fight.
And here the war was — knocking at her door.
But this wasn’t fighting — it wasn’t duels or strategy or slipping into shadows with a wand at the ready. This was living with a former Death Eater. One who’d supposedly defected, sure, but from what Sirius had said… Regulus Black wasn’t exactly the type to knit you a jumper and ask how your day went.
She blinked, then laughed — not because it was funny, but because her brain had short-circuited and apparently decided humor was the coping method of choice .
“I’m sorry, you want me to live with him?” she said, voice pitching up slightly. “What’s next, tea with Fenrir Greyback? Movie night with Bellatrix? Should I draw up a chore wheel for the Dark Mark alumni?”
Dumbledore didn’t so much as twitch a smile—just watched her in that contemplative way of his, blue eyes quietly alight with something unreadable.
Right. Not a joke.
Esme settled and swallowed hard. “And if I say no?”
Dumbledore didn’t threaten. He didn’t plead. He simply looked at her with something that resembled sadness. Or understanding. Or both.
“Then I will find another way,” he said softly. “But I believe you are the right one, Esme. Not simply because you are capable — though you are — but because you are kind. Because you understand things not everyone does — grief, loyalty, what it means to be seen as a shadow of someone else’s name.”
Esme felt her stomach hollow out, like the floor beneath her had dropped. A slow flush crept up the back of her neck, blooming hot across her cheeks. She looked away, suddenly very interested in the worn edge of the armrest beneath her fingers.
It was one thing to be trusted. It was another thing entirely to be seen — really seen — by someone like Dumbledore. And in this moment, under the weight of his steady gaze, she felt about as transparent as glass.
His gaze deepened, quiet and unwavering. “There are those who would sooner see him dead than see this war end. Who cannot separate the boy from the mark on his arm. But you… you might look at him and see a person instead of a past. That may make all the difference.”
The office fell silent.
Outside, wind howled through the turrets like a whispering omen. The portraits, once murmuring among themselves, had gone still — as if even the dead were holding their breath.
Esme closed her eyes, just for a moment.
She saw James and Lily, young and already worn thin by the weight of prophecy. She saw Harry — soft, small, unknowing — caught in the jaws of a war he couldn’t yet comprehend. She saw firelight and war and shadow. She saw herself, always on the edge of the fight, waiting for someone to tell her where to stand.
She opened her eyes.
And nodded.
“Fine,” she said, voice steady, if quiet. “I’ll do it.”