in love and war

by strawberrybrat

Summary:

Esme Potter is caught in the shadows of a war she can’t escape, but when Dumbledore asks her to shelter Regulus Black—a presumed-dead Death Eater turned defector—everything she thought she knew begins to unravel, and the lines between right and wrong blur. But in love and war, nothing is ever fair.

Chapter 1: presumed dead

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.”

Chapter 2: home sweet home

Notes:

Note: I’m not sticking to the usual canon timeline, but oh well!

Perhaps it was ridiculous—well, slightly ridiculous—but in the days following her conversation with Dumbledore, Esme had launched herself into a deep, relentless cleaning spree. Every square inch of her cottage came under scrutiny as she prepared, with equal parts dread and determination, for the arrival of her new reformed Death Eater roommate.

 

She scrubbed the kitchen floor on her hands and knees, wand clutched tight, until every tile shone and the oven gleamed like new. The spice cabinet was reorganized with near-religious fervor — first by usage, then by color, and finally by some intuitive system only she understood.

 

In the spare bedroom—the one that would no longer be  spare—she washed the sheets twice over until they held the softest trace of lavender, then stood over the bed, fidgeting with the blanket for long minutes until it draped with a kind of false effortlessness. The pillows were fluffed, defluffed, and refluffed, far too many times for her pride to tolerate in hindsight.

 

It was part nerves, part pride, and maybe — just maybe — a sprinkle of madness. But Esme was determined. If she was going to live with a Death Eater, then by Merlin, he was going to live with her. On her turf. With clean counters, symmetrical towel folds, and absolutely no dust bunnies.

 

And perhaps it  was  silly. But Esme needed something to do — something that kept her hands moving and her thoughts from circling back to that conversation with Dumbledore, to what she’d agreed to. So she cleaned. She dusted every surface, she threw open the windows, letting in the sharp, green scent of petrichor after a brief rain, mingled with the grounding warmth of cedar from the tree just outside. It made the cottage feel a little less stifling, a little more like it belonged to her and not to the fear creeping in at the edges of her resolve.

 

The cleaning steadied her. Reminded her that the world was still out there, still breathing. Still worth fighting for.

 

Maybe it was too much. Or it wasn’t enough. She didn’t know. It wasn’t really about the room. It wasn’t about cleanliness.

 

It was about fear.

 

Because anything — anything — was better than sitting still long enough to think about the truth: that Voldemort, the darkest wizard the world had ever known, was now effectively  immortal . And she was one of the few people who knew it. One of the even fewer who might be able to help do something about it.

 

Dumbledore had told her she could tell someone.  Someone she trusted implicitly. Which, of course, meant James.

 

She had thought about it a dozen times. Had nearly said the words. Had ached to say them. Desperately.

 

But when she visited him — tucked away safely under the newly-cast Fidelius Charm — when they Flooed into the cramped, fire-warmed sitting room of that hidden little house, it was clear he was barely keeping it together. The exhaustion clung to him like shadows, and the weight on his shoulders had settled into something immovable. If he found out his  little sister  was willingly sharing a home with a Death Eater...

 

James would lose it.

 

He’d pace. Throw his hands in the air. Shout. Fingers raking through his hair until it stood on end, wild and defiant, just like him. He’d absolutely refuse to let it happen, and he’d rage at Dumbledore for even  thinking  of such a thing — let alone suggesting it. And that weight he carried? It would only get heavier. Esme knew it. And she wouldn’t be the one to make it worse.

 

She wouldn’t be the reason it finally broke him.

 

So she said nothing.

 

She smiled, made tea, talked about inconsequential things. And when she left, she cried on the way back home and scrubbed the bathroom tiles until her fingers were raw.

 

Because Harry  was  at risk. Because that prophecy might be right. Because he might truly be the child destined to stand against Voldemort. And if there was anything— anything—she could do to help bring that monster down, then she would. Without flinching. Without looking back.

For Harry. For James. For all the people who didn’t know just how close they were to losing everything.

 

She’d do it in a heartbeat.

 

By the time Friday afternoon finally arrived — the hour Dumbledore had told her to expect him, and her new roommate — there was nothing left to clean. Nothing to scrub or straighten or obsessively reorganize. The cottage was spotless, the sheets lavender-scented, and her nerves left with nowhere to go. She stood in the kitchen, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, fidgeting with the sleeve of her open witch’s robes.

 

Beneath them she wore Muggle jeans and an old t-shirt, casual by design, though the way her fingers kept pulling at the hem suggested she wasn’t feeling casual at all. She ran a hand through her hair, leaned her hip against the counter, and tried — unsuccessfully — to still her racing thoughts.

 

Then, without warning, a sharp crack split the quiet, followed immediately by the low, shuddering rumble of the wards parting, and the sound shook her out of her reverie. Her heart leapt to her throat. Swallowing hard, she smoothed her robes once, twice, then crossed the room and paused with her hand on the door. Just a second. Just to breathe. Then she pulled it open — and there was Dumbledore, smiling gently as if he hadn’t just turned her entire life inside out.

 

Her gaze skittered to the right before she could stop it. He was taller than she remembered — taller than Sirius, even — and broader in the shoulders, though lean in a way that spoke more to wear than strength. His face still held that aristocratic, carved-from-marble elegance, all sharp lines and high cheekbones, but it was more angular now, more hollowed out. His skin was pale, his features sharpened by exhaustion, and there were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there before — at least not when she’d seen him from across the Great Hall. His hair was darker, longer, brushing the collar of his sleek robes in messy waves that looked like they hadn't been cut in months.

 

He looked tired. Gaunt. Not at all like the boy he’d been at Hogwarts. He looked like someone who'd seen too much. He looked haunted.

 

Just behind them stood Alastor Moody, his electric blue eye whirring in its socket, twitching erratically as it scanned the space around them. The grizzled Auror was muttering to himself under his breath, words sharp and clipped, half-conversation, half-paranoia. Then, with a grunt, he stepped forward.

 

“Right,” he growled, voice like gravel, “let’s get this over with.”

 

In her haste, Esme nearly stumbled backward, catching herself just in time as she stepped aside, motioning for Dumbledore to enter. Regulus followed silently, his expression unreadable, and Moody trailed last, stomping across the threshold like he was expecting the floorboards to bite. No sooner had he crossed into the flat than he began a slow circuit of the room, boots heavy on the floorboards, spinning in short jerks to inspect corners and doorways. His magical eye zipped about, no doubt assessing every inch of the house for weaknesses, traps, or threats only he could see.

 

Esme resisted the urge to tidy something—anything—as he poked at the edge of a window frame with the tip of his wand and muttered something about “reinforcing the north perimeter.”

 

She forced her eyes past Regulus and fixed them on her old headmaster instead. “Can I get you some tea, Professor?” she asked, voice a shade too bright, too practiced.

 

“Ah, that would be delightful,” Dumbledore replied, smiling with the same serene ease he always wore—as if there weren’t a former Death Eater standing quietly at his side. “A most lovely offer. Thank you, Miss Potter.”

 

She turned toward the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to move, to do something. With a flick of her hand, two teacups zipped from the cupboard and landed softly on the counter with a gentle clink. The kettle switched on with a quiet hum, and two tea bags soared from a cabinet, floating neatly into their respective mugs. The routine steadied her—the small, practiced flicks of her wand, the familiar sounds of boiling water.

When the kettle whistled, it lifted itself, pouring in smooth arcs into the waiting cups.

 

She offered Dumbledore his with a polite smile, then wrapped both hands around her own like it was a lifeline, letting the warmth soak into her skin, anchor her.

 

But when she looked up, Regulus was already watching her.

 

His gaze slid over her, slow and calculating—scrutinizing in a way that made her skin prickle. And when his eyes finally met hers, they were cold. Distant. Like he was looking through her, not at her. Gray and sharp, they pinned her in place, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe.

 

It felt like his eyes could swallow her whole.

 

The moment lingered, thick and suffocating, before a sharp, grating voice broke through.

 

Moody appeared in the doorway with a heavy thud, his wooden leg scraping against the floor as he entered, his electric eye whirring madly in its socket. He didn’t waste a second.

 

“Right, let’s get down to business,” he growled, voice gruff. “The boy has no access to a wand, so don’t leave yours out or be careless with it, understood? He’s taken an Unbreakable Vow that he won’t harm you, nor will he betray the Order, but constant vigilance regardless!”

 

Esme’s stomach churned, and for a moment, she felt an odd tightness in her chest. They were talking about Regulus as if he wasn’t standing right next to them. As if he wasn’t there, in the room with them, breathing the same air.

 

She glanced at him—at the sharp lines of his face, his posture rigid, cold—and a pang of sympathy shot through her. She couldn’t explain the sudden ache, but the tension clinging to him was palpable, almost claustrophobic. She could feel the weight of his past, of what he’d given up and it gnawed at her insides.

 

Still, she could only nod, feeling suddenly very small, very much on the spot. His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften, and she realized that he was used to this: used to being the subject of talk instead of a participant in it.

 

Maybe Regulus was more like Sirius than anyone cared to admit. The difference was, Sirius  left — he turned his back on it all. But maybe Regulus had no such escape. No second family waiting with open arms. No one to catch him if he fell. He’d been sorted into Slytherin, surrounded by the cold machinery of pureblood tradition, and buried beneath the weight of expectations he’d never agreed to.

 

Sirius had burned the bridge. Regulus had to stand on it.

 

So maybe it wasn’t a matter of choosing darkness. Maybe it was survival.

 

And then, he defected. He made that choice, didn’t he? He turned his back on everything he had been raised to believe. That has to count for something, right? There had to be a reason he ended up here, on the side of what was right, even if it came far too late.

 

"He might not be in Azkaban, but that doesn't mean he's free!" Alastor barked, his tone sharp. "You don’t owe him comfort, and you sure as hell don’t need to take care of him."

 

Esme swallowed and nodded, though a faint, incredulous laugh threatened to rise in her throat. The absurdity of his words clung to her like static. If only Moody knew the hours she'd spent scrubbing floors, enchanting linens, and rearranging furniture until the spare bedroom looked like it belonged in a bloody Ministry inspection.

 

Ha.

 

"I'm sure she understands, Alastor," Dumbledore said, his voice smooth and knowing. "Once the Fidelius Charm is in place, this location will remain hidden from all but the Secret Keeper. And as the Secret Keeper, only I hold the key to revealing it."

 

Esme nodded, her mind drifting back to the moment her brother's house was hidden. She had been there, had witnessed the charm being cast over James and Lily's house in Godric's Hollow. It had vanished right before her eyes, hidden from the world, only to reappear when the secret was revealed to her. The memory still sent a shiver down her spine, the power of it, the weight of the trust, The desperation that made it necessary.

 

A baby being hunted…

 

She forced the thought away, swallowing hard against the chill it brought.

 

She followed Dumbledore and Moody outside, the night air sharp against her skin. Standing just beyond the threshold, she watched as they raised their wands, their voices low and precise as the charm took shape—an invisible veil settling over the house like a final, silent lock.

 

Moody, of course, couldn’t let it end there. He launched into another lecture, eyes narrowed beneath his mismatched gaze, hammering home the importance of constant vigilance—never letting her guard down, not for a moment. Esme nodded through it, trying not to bristle.

 

Dumbledore, ever smooth, cut in before Moody could spiral further. “Alastor will check in periodically,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “You’ll be well looked after.”

 

Moody grunted but said no more, and the quiet that followed felt heavier than before.

 

After they were finished, Esme stood frozen, watching as Moody and Dumbledore made their way to the boundary line. With a sharp twin crack, they disappeared from view, leaving the late summer afternoon still and heavy in their wake. For a moment, she lingered in the quiet, feeling the weight of the spell settle around her like a fog.

 

When she returned to the kitchen, Regulus remained standing in the same spot. It wasn’t until she positioned herself beside him and cleared her throat that he finally turned his gaze toward her. But even then, his eyes seemed distant, as if lost in another world — cold and detached. She had witnessed this same emptiness before, in his brother. The detachment, the withdrawal. It became clear to her then: he must be occluding himself, shutting everything out.

 

Then, his eyes flickered, as if a fog had lifted just enough for him to realize where he was and who stood before him. For the briefest moment, there was a flicker of recognition, a subtle shift in his gaze, though it was quickly masked by the cold distance that still lingered beneath.

 

“Potter,” he drawled, her name rolling off his tongue with lazy amusement, like it was a private joke only he understood. A faint smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, more shadow than smile. “Dumbledore must be getting desperate.”

 

Any sympathy she’d felt for him evaporated in an instant, replaced by a sharp, flickering irritation. Her gaze hardened, and she lifted her chin, the defensive stance as natural as breathing.

 

"Funny," she shot back, her voice edged with coolness. "I was just thinking the same thing about you."

 

His smile barely grazed his lips, a fleeting thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still sharp-tongued, I see. No wonder they stuck me with you.”

 

Esme folded her arms, her gaze cool as she leveled him with a withering look. “Please— I’m the one stuck with you, Black.”

 

That earned her the faintest flicker of amusement — his version of a laugh, she suspected. Detached, ironic, and thoroughly unimpressed.

 

She let out a quiet sigh. This wasn’t how she’d imagined it would go. She’d assumed he’d be quiet — like he’d been at school, shadowed and silent — but the truth was, she didn’t really know him at all. Not his voice, not his manner, noteven the shape of his scorn. She couldn’t recall ever having exchanged a single word with him before now.

 

"Come on," she muttered, already turning from the kitchen and heading down the hall. "I’ll show you your room."

 

He didn’t follow right away. Typical. Esme didn’t bother looking back—she just kept walking, her pace slow and steady, letting the silence stretch between them like an invisible tug of war.

 

She was halfway down the hall before she finally heard his footsteps behind her: unhurried, quiet, as though he was floating rather than walking. Like he didn’t want to touch the ground more than absolutely necessary.

 

“It’s not much,” she said, glancing over her shoulder as she came to a stop in front of a narrow door near the end of the hall. “But it has a bed, and a door that locks. I figure that meets your standards.”

 

Nothing.

 

She lingered at the threshold, her fingers brushing the doorframe, and glanced back at him. His eyes flickered briefly into the space, taking it in, but his face betrayed nothing. No distaste, no approval. Just that same unreadable stillness.

 

"Bathroom's down the hall," she said, her voice a bit firmer than she actually felt.

 

She stood there for a moment, the awkwardness creeping in now that the essentials were out of the way. Her gaze flickered around the room, as though she could find something to distract herself with.

 

“I, uh… got you some stuff,” she muttered, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Toothbrush, toothpaste, shower gel... It’s all in there.”

 

For a moment, she thought he might ignore her entirely. But then his eyes flicked to hers—brief, unreadable—and just as quickly, they dropped away again.

 

Esme exhaled through her nose, irritation bubbling up. So much for easy company.

 

“You’re a real conversationalist, you know that?”

 

Still nothing. Not even a twitch of his mouth, not a blink too long. Just that same maddening silence.

 

"Okay," she said, dragging the word out with a forced lightness, trying to shake off the tension. "I’ll let you settle in, then. Um... holler if you need anything."

 

She paused, half-expecting some kind of response, but when none came, she gave a tight, half-hearted smile and turned away and made her way down the hall. Her footsteps echoed in the stillness, a stark contrast to the quiet that seemed to cling to him.

 

If not for the soft click of the door closing behind her, she might’ve sworn he’d turned into a fixture—standing there like some forgotten relic, gathering dust until the end of time.

 

She sighed, pressing her back against the kitchen wall, letting the cool surface ground her for a moment. Eyes squeezed shut, she couldn't quite shake the frustration bubbling in her chest. She hadn’t known what to expect, but this—this endless, suffocating silence—was something else entirely.

 

Merlin, she thought, rubbing her temples. What in the bloody hell have I gotten myself into?

Chapter 3: dark mark

He didn’t come out of his room for dinner.

 

Esme had knocked softly, her knuckles tapping the wood with an air of practiced politeness. “Dinner’s ready,” she called, voice pitched a little higher than usual, forced cheer creeping in as she added a faint lilt at the end, as if her tone alone might somehow coax a response from the sullen ghost behind the door.

 

Nothing.

 

No footsteps. No sarcastic comment. Not even the low grumble of a muttered curse. Just silence.

 

Maybe he was sleeping, she told herself, as she sat alone at the kitchen table, pushing roast potatoes around her plate. He’d looked exhausted when he arrived—hollow-eyed, shoulders slouched like he hadn’t felt sleep in weeks.

 

Maybe it was the freshly washed sheets, the cozy room—too inviting to resist—and he succumbed to a deep sleep, she thought with a small flicker of satisfaction. At least her hard work cleaning and prepping hadn’t gone unrewarded.

 

After clearing her plate, she summoned another and plated his portion with quiet care, sealing it with a warmth-preserving charm before floating it gently through the hallway to his door. It paused, hovered for a breath, then disappeared inside with a faint shimmer.

 

She didn’t wait for a thank you.

 

Didn’t expect one either.

 

But still, she listened—for the soft creak of floorboards, the clink of cutlery. Anything.

 

The silence stayed.

 

As she readied for bed, her hand hovered over her bedroom lock, hesitation curling inside her. After a long moment, she whispered the locking charm and slipped beneath the covers, the warmth of the bed surrounding her. But sleep didn’t come. Instead, her mind buzzed, racing through thoughts she couldn’t quite grasp, refusing to settle.

 

She knew he didn’t have a wand, and she trusted the Unbreakable Vow he’d sworn not to harm her. But the thought of a Death Eater—reformed or not—only a few feet away tugged at every self-preservation instinct in her. Her brain screamed  danger, danger, danger . She clung to a mantra, whispering it under her breath like a fragile shield:  I’m safe, I’m safe, I'm safe .

 

But still, the image of that tattoo—branded into his skin, twisting and pulsing as if it were alive—kept her wide awake, its sinister presence lurking in the dark corners of her mind, refusing to let her rest.

 

She pulled the covers tighter around her, trying to shake the unease.

 

For a fleeting moment, she wished James knew about her predicament. But Dumbledore and Moody—at least they knew. They had promised to check in, assured her that he was safe. And yet, the nagging doubt refused to fade.

 

Maybe Dumbledore had been wrong.

 

Maybe she couldn't look past the mark burned into his skin — the permanent brand of who he’d been, the dark master he had served without question, the vile company he’d once kept.

 

Maybe, in the end, she was no better than the rest of them, too quick to judge, too scared to see anything beyond the surface.

 

And if that was the truth...

 

Then maybe, just maybe, she'd made a far worse mistake than she realized.

 

---

 

She didn’t see him the entire next day.

 

Not a footstep. Not a creak of the floorboards. Not even the subtle weight of a presence drifting through the hallway. The door to the guest room remained closed, silent as the grave.

 

Esme told herself it wasn’t that strange. Maybe he was the sort who liked to sleep in. Or maybe he was just avoiding her — which, honestly, suited her just fine. She wasn’t exactly yearning for a cozy chat over tea and scones.

 

Still.

 

By midday, the silence had started to gnaw at her.

 

Surely he wasn’t still sleeping. That was ridiculous. No one slept that long unless they were enchanted or dead. And she definitely didn’t remember signing up to house a corpse.

 

He had to be awake. Doing… what? There wasn’t a single thing in that room besides a bed, a dresser, and a stack of fresh towels. No books. No wireless. No wand. Just him and the quiet. And the serpentine mark on his arm, of course — always that.

 

The thought made her skin crawl.

 

She tried to distract herself, to fill her time as if he weren’t there. She flipped through Witch Weekly on the sofa, eyes skimming an article about summer potion trends, but the words barely registered. She kept glancing up at the hallway, half-expecting him to slink into view like some sullen bat.

 

He didn’t.

 

The house felt too still. Like it was holding its breath.

 

So, she painted her toes. Ruby polish, three coats. It was something to do with her hands — something light and pointless and aggressively normal.

She perched on the arm of the couch with one foot propped on a conjured cushion and tried not to imagine him standing silently just behind his door, listening. Watching through the cracks like some lurking phantom.

 

She hated how her stomach turned every time she thought about that room.

 

How her heart beat just a touch too fast when a floorboard creaked (it was her, she reminded herself—her own foot).

 

She hated even more the little flicker of guilt that rose up with the fear. He hasn’t done anything, that reasonable voice in her head reminded her. He’s a war refugee now. Just a tired man trying to survive.

 

But that man had once stood beside monsters. Had worn the serpent proudly. Had let himself be claimed.

 

And now he was here. In her home.

 

Unseen. Silent.

 

Like a warning she couldn’t quite decipher, but felt deep in her bones.

 

But no matter how hard she tried to focus on anything else — her red-colored toes, the silly horoscopes in Witch Weekly , the hum of the clock on the mantel, the birds chirping just beyond the living room window — her thoughts kept circlingback to him. To the quiet behind that door. To the Mark she knew was there, inked into his skin like a permanent oath.

 

What it meant.

 

What he’d chosen.

 

It was impossible not to think about it —the way he’d branded himself to a cause built on hate. The way people like him had torn the world apart. Made her afraid to leave the sanctaty of her home. Had taken people she knew.

 

She swallowed hard, her chest tightening with the thought.

 

She couldn't help but wonder — if it had been her in Regulus's position, if the Dark Lord had stretched out his hand and offered her the Mark — would she have rather died? She liked to think so. She would have fled. Fought. Thrown herself off a cliff before letting that thing be carved into her skin. Surely, anything would’ve been better than pledging herself to that kind of darkness.

 

But she couldn’t say, could she?

 

Because she hadn’t been raised in that kind of house.

 

She’d grown up in a sunlit kitchen with a mum who hummed when she cooked and a dad who kissed her forehead before bed every night. A brother who taught her how to charm chocolate frogs to sing. There’d been love, not fear. Acceptance, not purity. Home.

 

There was no blood mania. No fanatical whispering portraits. No legacy of silence and control.

 

She had been allowed to be herself.

 

And when she thought of that—of what she’d had, of what had been stolen—her throat tightened. That hollow ache opened in her chest like it always did, sharp and familiar.

 

Her parents.

 

Gone.

 

Her breath caught. She looked down at her lap, her hand curling slightly over the seam of the couch cushion, anchoring herself in the moment.

 

Don’t go there.

 

She shook her head, chasing the thought away before it could fully form, before grief could claw up her throat again and leave her useless for the rest of the day.

 

Still, the silence from down the hall lingered like smoke. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t pity him. Not exactly. But there was something inside her that couldn’t stop trying to unravel him. To understand the choice. That choice.

 

The one he’d carved into his flesh.

 

And the one he had to live with, now, under her roof.

 

By a quarter to seven, Esme snapped.

 

It had been over twenty-four hours. He hadn’t come out for breakfast. He hadn’t come out for lunch. And now dinner was simmering on the stove while the hallway outside his door remained silent and still, as if the room beyond had been swallowed whole.

 

She crossed her arms tightly, pacing the length of the narrow hallway, chewing her lip. It was starting to itch at her nerves, this stillness.

 

It wasn’t like she cared — really. If he wanted to hole up in that tiny room and stew in self-loathing or guilt or whatever cocktail of existential angst he preferred, that was his prerogative. But he wasn’t just some troubled guest. He had information. He had answers. And she had a mission. Dumbledore had sent him here for her. To talk. To share what he knew. To maybe—possibly—tip the scale.

 

But how exactly was she supposed to do that when he was locked away like some sullen Victorian ghost, surviving on spite and stale air?

 

With one last irritated breath, she lifted her hand and knocked.

 

Hard.

 

Nothing.

 

She knocked again, harder this time. “Hello?” she called, immediately hating how hopeful her voice sounded. Still, silence.

 

Her frustration flared like a match to dry parchment.

 

How dare he ignore her? In her house? The one she'd opened to him, against better judgment and certainly against comfort? She’d welcomed him in, made room for him—mentally defended his presence, even—and he couldn’t be bothered to answer the door?

 

Childish. Infuriating. Rude.

 

She grabbed the handle. Locked.

 

Esme froze, her fingers still resting on the doorknob. A pang of hesitation cut through her temper. This was her home, yes, but bursting into someone’s room—especially  his —felt… intrusive . Even if he was being impossible. Even if he  wasn’t eating. Even if every second of his silence was wasted time in a war they were rapidly losing.

 

She chewed the inside of her cheek, conflicted for the span of a breath.

Then — screw it .

 

With a swift motion, she reached into her pocket, and drew out her wand. One sharp flick.

 

“Alohomora.”

 

The lock clicked.

 

Her hand curled around the knob again, more resolute now. She pushed the door open.

 

She hadn’t known what to expect — hadn’t let herself imagine anything at all. But she certainly hadn’t expected this .

 

He was in nothing but a pair of dark boxers, his robes and clothes folded neatly on the chair beside the window, as if laid out with care the night before. His eyes were closed, lashes resting against pale cheeks, his mouth slightly parted in sleep. He looked... young, somehow. Vulnerable.

Almost peaceful, if not for the furrow between his brows.

 

Her gaze drifted to the bedside table.

 

The plate of food she’d left sat there untouched, exactly where it'd been placed hours ago.

 

But it was the scars— the scars —that made her freeze, her breath catching in her throat. Angry red welts, slashes, and jagged lines marred his pale skin, as though something had shredded at him, leaving deep, painful reminders across his torso and arms. The sight made her stomach turn, and for a moment, she simply stood there, too stunned to move.

 

Her pulse quickened as a wave of guilt washed over her, the faint, uncomfortable feeling of being an unwelcome intruder creeping in.  What the hell had happened to him?

 

She swallowed heavily. Surely, he shouldn't still be asleep. Could he be ill? Weak? Or worse— dead?

 

She stepped forward, but the floorboard beneath her groaned under her weight.

 

In an instant, his eyes snapped open, the pupils dilating as his gaze found hers. Cold, calculating, yet there was something deeper — something almost  haunted — beneath the surface. A quiet stillness hung in the air, only broken by the tension between them.

 

And then, with a shift of his body, he sat up, the movement sharp and deliberate.

 

Her eyes, despite herself, were drawn to the way the sinew beneath his skin shifted with each small movement, the bruises and lacerations painting his frame in violent shades. But then her gaze caught on the mark— that  mark—and her breath hitched.

 

It was inflamed, the skin around it red and swollen, as if the Dark Mark itself was alive, still seething. She could've sworn it pulsed faintly.

 

She gasped, a quiet, involuntary sound—equal parts fear and revulsion.

 

Her eyes had surely gone wide, and that alone was enough to make Regulus tense. In one smooth, almost instinctive motion, he shifted his arm, angling it just enough to put the mark out of sight. Not hurried, not obvious—but deliberate.

 

Her gaze snapped upward, catching the flicker of tension in his jaw, the way his eyes had gone cold—guarded, distant. Like a door slamming shut behind glass.

 

"Was there a particular reason you decided to break into my room?" he asked, his voice cold and clipped, each word edged like a blade.

 

Esme swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place she was. She shifted on her feet, the weight of his stare pinning her where she stood.

 

“I—” she started, then faltered. The anger in his voice was earned. It wasn’t her place. Merlin knew what he’d been through—his body bore the proof, every bruise and scar a chapter in some hellish story. He probably hadn’t had a restful night’s sleep in weeks, maybe months.

 

And here she was, barging in like he was a threat. She’d let fear drive her, let the silence and the mark on his arm twist into something monstrous in her mind.

 

And all the while, he’d simply been sleeping.

 

“You missed breakfast,” she said, her voice softer than she meant it to be. “And lunch. It’s dinner time… I thought…”

 

Her words trailed off, flimsy and uncertain in the space between them. She hadn’t meant to intrude, only to check—only to make sure. But now, under his gaze, the excuse felt thin, almost ridiculous.

 

Regulus didn’t respond right away. He just stared at her, expression unreadable, like he was weighing her words, or trying to decide whether they deserved a response at all.

 

Esme shifted again, her fingers curling into her sleeves. “I thought something might’ve happened,” she said more quietly. “You’ve been sleeping all day.”

 

His eyes flicked away, jaw tightening. "So naturally you decided to watch me as I sleep."

 

Esme flinched, her throat tightening. “That’s not—I wasn’t— watching  you,” she said quickly, color rising to her cheeks. “I came to check if you were alive, not to... stare at you like some creep.”

 

“Of course. A Gryffindor to the core,” he said coolly, cutting through her guilt like a blade. "Charge in, assume the worst, play the savior. How very noble of you, Potter.”

 

“I thought you might be  dead , Black,” she snapped, heat rising in her chest now. “You looked half-dead when you got here. Forgive me for checking.”

 

For a second, something flickered in his expression. Not quite remorse. Not quite softness. Just... a pause. A hesitation. Surprise maybe. Then it was gone.

 

“I’m fine,” he muttered, turning his back. “I don’t need you checking in on me like I’m your charity project.”

 

Esme exhaled sharply, irritation bleeding into exhaustion. This wasn’t a battle worth picking—not with a much larger war looming.

 

“Well, my mother did teach me to be a proper hostess,” she said, her tone a mix of dry humor and subtle challenge. “And part of that means not letting you starve to death under my roof.”

 

She snatched up the plate of leftover dinner, her movements brisk, purposeful. “Dinner’s ready. I expect you in the kitchen."

 

With a huff, she turned on her heel and headed for the door, not bothering to check if he followed.

 

As she ladled the rich beef stew into two bowls, the quiet sound of footsteps on the floor reached her ears. Regulus appeared in the kitchen, his eyes fixed straight ahead, as though he were deliberately avoiding any sort ofacknowledgment.

 

Esme raised a brow at him, noticing he had put his robes back on, shoes polished and neatly in place, like he was preparing for some formal occasion instead of sitting down to dinner in her humble kitchen.

 

She didn’t say anything, just levitated the bowls to the table with a practiced flick of her wand, then carried over the rolls fresh from the oven—golden and glistening with butter. The warm, comforting scent filled the space, an odd contrast to the cool detachment that still clung to him.

 

“No need to get all dressed up on my account,” Esme said, a faint smile playing at her lips as she set the rolls down with a slight flourish.

 

His gaze snapped to hers as she slid into a seat, and Esme resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she gestured toward the empty chair across from her with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Well, come on. Sit down."

 

It took him a few moments, but he finally relented, sliding into the chair across from her. He unfolded the napkin with meticulous care, draping it over his lap.

 

Pureblood habits die hard, Esme mused quietly, watching him with a flicker of mild amusement.

 

The only sound breaking the silence was the soft clink of utensils, and Esme fought to suppress a smile at Regulus’s unmistakable etiquette, as if he’d just stepped out of a formal lesson. The way he held his spoon, the precision in his posture as he brought the silverware to his lips—it was all so ingrained in him. Bruised and bandaged as he was, he remained that aristocratic pureblood at his core.

 

Esme took a spoonful of stew, her gaze drifting to the crisp white button-up Regulus had chosen to wear beneath his robes, knowing all too well what lay beneath it: the scars, the marks of a struggle that had nearly cost him his life.

 

Dumbledore had mentioned he’d been hunting down a Horcrux, and that he’d found one. But Esme hadn’t paused to think about the  how . Where had it been hidden? What had the one who sought it out endured, hunting down such a dark relic? The questions tangled in her mind like vines, each one more pressing than the last, but she stifled them. She had only just managed to get him out of his room. The last thing she needed was for Regulus to bolt back into the shadows.

 

No, it was better to treat him like a wounded creature, one who needed trust and care to heal. After all, that’s what he was now, wasn’t he? It had to be a constant struggle, wearing that mark and still choosing to fight on the other side.

 

Finally, after a long, tense pause, her voice broke the silence—soft, hesitant. “You know, your… um, injuries.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, fingers twisting together in her lap. “I have salve, if you… if you want it.”

 

Regulus stilled, the only sign he'd heard her at all a slight hesitation before he lifted the spoon to his lips. He sipped slowly, eyes fixed on some distant point across the room, as if retreating somewhere far from her reach.

 

Then, after a long, tense silence, he spoke—his voice soft but utterly devoid of emotion. "I'm fine."

 

Dismissive. Final. A statement meant to end the conversation, not invite further care.

 

But maybe Esme was a glutton for punishment, or just too stubborn to back down. Her voice stayed level, but there was a flinty undercurrent to it.

 

“I just don’t see the point in choosing to suffer when there’s something that can help,” Esme said quietly. “Pain for the sake of pain doesn’t make you stronger. It just makes you tired.”

 

He scoffed quietly to himself, like she’d said something that struck some private, bitter nerve—an inside joke she wasn’t privy to. Then his expression shifted, lips tugging downward, eyes hardening slightly as he set the spoon back in the bowl with a soft clink.

 

His gaze flicked to her then, just for a beat, cool and unreadable.

 

“Thank you for the philosophy lecture, Potter,” he said, voice quiet but sharp-edged, almost clinical. “I’ll be sure to keep it in mind next time I’m bleeding out in a cave.”

 

She felt herself flinch, the words slicing through the air like a sudden chill. Cave? Bleeding out? The questions piled up in her mind, but she kept them to herself. The look on his face was enough to tell her he wouldn’t answer—wouldn’t even entertain the idea of opening up. The walls around him were thick, and from the way he spoke, they were carefully constructed.

 

Esme swallowed her frustration. She needed him to talk. She needed him to crack, to let something slip—anything about the damned horcruxes. She could push past any lingering reservations about him being here, but only if he gave her something, anything.  

 

Another few tense moments stretched between them before Esme broke the silence, her tone casual. "I didn’t realize you were quite so... reserved," she said, arching an eyebrow as she leaned back in her chair. "Guess you don’t have that particular trait in common with Sirius, huh?"

 

The mention of his brother hit its mark. Regulus’s gray eyes widened, just for a fraction of a second, before snapping back to that carefully crafted mask—utterly shuttered. Esme bit back a sigh, watching the shift, like a door slamming shut between them.

 

"Not much I have in common with him," he bit out, the words sharp and brittle, like glass on the edge of breaking.

 

She leaned in, just enough to toe the edge of his patience, "More now than you think," she said quietly. "If he knew you were here—"

 

Regulus looked at her then—really looked at her—and something in his expression cracked, not with emotion, but with something sharper. Colder.

 

“If he knew I was here,” he said, voice like a curse, “I’d already be dead."

 

Esme couldn’t stop the flinch that jolted through her, sharp and involuntary.

 

Sirius might be reckless, might carry the kind of anger that scorched everything in its path—but he would  never  willingly let his little brother walk into danger. Not death. Not  that.

 

He’d thought Regulus was dead. She  knew  that. He’d mourned him, drunk himself sick over it, talked about him only when the firewhisky was too strong to resist and the past too loud to ignore. If he knew Regulus was alive—really alive—and had switched sides...

 

He wouldn’t rage. He’d  run.

 

He’d come storming through whatever walls he had to tear down just to get to him.

 

Esme opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat. She stared at him, trying to make sense of what he’d said.  Dead.

 

Esme swallowed hard, the words spilling out before she could stop them, her voice tinged with something she couldn’t quite place—frustration, maybe, or guilt.  It wasn’t her place,  but the thought of Sirius...

 

She shook her head, refusing to back down. “You have no idea what kind of wreck he was when it was assumed you had... died.”

 

Regulus didn't move, didn't respond right away—he just stared at her, his face an unreadable mask.

 

Then, finally, he spoke. His voice was cold, almost bored. “I’m sure he’s fine now.”

 

He glanced away, his posture stiffening, as though shutting the door on the conversation entirely.

 

Esme’s mouth went dry, but before she could say another word, Regulus stood, gaving a faint nod toward the empty bowl on the table. “Dinner was...,” he muttered, his tone flat. "Thank you."

 

Without waiting for her reply, he turned on his heel, disappearing down the hallway without a second glance.

 

Esme sat there in silence for several long moments, the weight of what had just passed between them pressing down on her chest like a stone. A cold pit of hopelessness twisted in her stomach. The brothers were so at odds, so violently estranged, that they didn’t even realize how deeply they still  cared  for each other.

 

How much Sirius  loved  Regulus, even now.

 

But Regulus didn’t see it. He thought Sirius would wish him dead. He thought Sirius would gladly turn him in, betray him to the very people who had torn their family apart, and let them do whatever they wanted to him. He believed his brother would watch him die and feel nothing but relief.

 

The thought twisted in her gut. How had they come to this? To such bitter, unreachable places, where love was buried so deep beneath layers of resentment that neither could even recognize it anymore?

 

Esme sat back in her chair, her mind turning over the vast chasm between the two brothers. How different they were now, how irrevocably changed.

One of them, Sirius, wore his pain like armor. He masked his childhood trauma with loudness, with recklessness, with a false sense of joy that never quite reached his eyes. He wore the façade of freedom, of defiance—but underneath, Esme knew the cracks were there, deep and wide, where the hurt of their past had carved through him like a wound that never fully healed.

 

And Regulus...

 

The contrast was almost painful to consider. Regulus had retreated so far into himself that Esme wasn't sure he’d ever come back. The boy who had once been a brother—who had once been someone Sirius could have trusted—was gone. What stood in his place was a shadow, a figure who seemed to have buried everything inside, locked it away so deeply that no one could reach him.

 

Esme closed her eyes, fighting the rising frustration. Maybe it was foolish to expect anything different. But surely,  surely ,Regulus wasn’t that far gone. He couldn't be.

 

---

 

Despite his insistence that he was fine, Esme couldn’t shake the pull to help. She couldn’t stand the thought of someone suffering when she had the power to ease it, even if they never asked.

 

It didn’t matter that she didn’t like him, or that he was a reformed Death Eater. If she could ease someone’s suffering, she would. It was the woman her parents had raised her to be—compassionate, no matter who the person was. Even if it meant helping Regulus Black, someone she couldn’t trust, someone whose past haunted her. It was about doing what was right.

 

Esme carefully set the salve on the bathroom sink, her fingers lingering on the glass bottle for a moment longer than necessary. Sending it directly into his room felt too... forward. Too much like she was trying to force something on him. And the last thing she wanted was to come across as pushy or desperate.

 

Instead, she left it there—neatly placed, but not in-your-face. If he needed it, he’d see it. If not, well, she wouldn’t be the one to make it an issue. Her gaze lingered on the bottle a second longer before she straightened, her shoulders stiffening as she turned to leave.

 

He didn’t have to use it, she reminded herself. He probably wouldn’t. He didn’t want her pity, didn’t want anyone’s help.

 

But just knowing it was there, waiting, felt like a small reassurance. It was a small thing, a fleeting comfort—but it was enough.

 

Later that night, as she sat cross-legged in front of the telly, the flickering light casting shadows across the room, she heard it—the soft click of his bedroom door, followed by the quiet padding of footsteps on the wooden floor. Then, the bathroom door clicked shut.

 

Esme froze, stiff as a board, her heart suddenly racing. She was  waiting —but for what? It was foolish. Of course, he’d have to leave his room to go to the bathroom. Obviously.

 

She couldn’t focus on the show in front of her, her mind too caught on the sound of his door opening again, the soft pad of his footsteps retreating down the hall, and then the quiet thud of his door closing behind him.

Her body, tense and wound tight, finally softened as the tension slipped away.

 

It was foolish, really. There was no reason to feel this way—no reason to be so...  aware  of his movements. But she couldn’t help it. 

 

Later that night, as she prepared for bed, Esme tiptoed into the bathroom, her heart thudding softly in her chest. She glanced at the counter, eyes scanning the space—then, a tiny breath of surprise.

 

The salve was gone.

 

A strange warmth unfurled in her chest as she crawled under the covers, the soft weight of satisfaction pulling at her lips. She hadn’t expected it, hadn’t really thought he would—yet there it was.

 

It was small, maybe even insignificant, but still... a win. A tiny, quiet victory. And for once, it was enough.

Chapter 4: godric's hollow

Godric’s Hollow was a peaceful, sleepy town. Willow trees swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves dancing over the weathered cobblestone streets. A quaint little church stood at the heart of the village, and the whole place had an air of cozy charm.

 

But none of that tranquil charm could be felt within the walls of the Potter residence.

 

The Potter house was a whirlwind of noise and laughter, a constant hum of warmth and life, even amidst the dark times of war. Esme found herself grateful for it. It was a sanctuary, a welcome escape from the stifling silence of her own home.

 

It had been two days since that tension-filled dinner. Two nights since he’d quietly taken the salve. If not for the second toothbrush in the bathroom holder, the sound of the shower running behind a closed door, or the soft, infrequent pad of footsteps down the hall, Esme might have convinced herself she still lived alone.

 

Regulus moved like a ghost—present, but barely.

 

“Es!” James beamed as she stepped through the front door, though the dark circles under his eyes betrayed the stress he carried. He pulled her into a hug—bone-crushing and all-consuming—as if every time she left, he feared it might be the last time he’d see her.

 

Esme hugged him back without hesitation, burying her face briefly in the worn fabric of his jumper. He smelled like woodsmoke and buttered toast—comforting, familiar, the scent of a home that had always welcomed her without question.

 

When he finally let go, he held her at arm’s length, giving her a once-over like he was checking for injuries. “You look like you haven’t slept,” he said, frowning slightly. “Which is rich, considering I’m the one with a newborn.”

 

Esme smiled to herself. He had the newborn, and she had the reformed Death Eater. What a pair they made.

 

James didn’t wait for a response—just turned and started toward the kitchen, already mid-stride. “Come on, Lily’s making pie,” he called over his shoulder, then leaned closer as she followed. “It’s like she never stops baking now. I think it’s how she’s coping. That, or she’s trying to fatten me up for winter.”

 

Esme snorted softly. “Maybe both.”

 

The warm scent of sugar and spice drifted down the hall, curling around her like a blanket. It felt impossibly distant from the cold tension of her own home, and for the first time in days, Esme let herself relax—just a little.

 

Lily’s bright smile was like a balm as Esme stepped into the kitchen, the warmth of it easing something tight in her chest.The redhead brushed her flour-dusted hands on her apron before pulling Esme into a warm, slightly powdered hug.

 

“It’s so good to see you!” Lily said, the sincerity in her voice unmistakable. Then, leaning back just enough to look her in the eye, her brow pinched with concern. “You’ve had James worried, you know. You haven’t been answering your Floo.”

 

Esme winced slightly, guilt prickling behind her smile. “I’ve been… distracted.”

 

She hadn’t answered the Floo because she couldn’t risk it—not with James, not with his sharp ears and sharper instincts. She didn’t trust that he wouldn’t hear something—footsteps in the background, the creak of the bathroom door, anything that might give Regulus away.

 

She hadn’t lied, not exactly. But silence was its own kind of deceit.

 

Lily snorted and turned back toward the counter, where pie crusts and sliced apples waited. “Well, you're here now. Which means you’re not leaving without tea and pie."

 

Esme smiled gratefully, letting Lily’s warmth soak in for a moment before turning toward her brother with a teasing glint in her eye.

 

“And where is my baby nephew?” she asked, folding her arms in mock impatience. “I don’t come all this way for your charming company, you know.”

 

James grinned. “Sleeping—miraculously. I think he takes after me. Rambunctious little thing."

 

Esme arched a brow. “So… a menace, then?”

 

“Exactly,” he said proudly, like it was a badge of honor. “A tiny, screaming menace with my hair and Lily’s glare. Merlin help us all.”

 

Esme laughed, the sound light and unguarded as she slid into a seat at the tiny circular kitchen table. Already, she felt more alive—warmer, like the static that had been clinging to her since Regulus arrived was finally beginning to ease.

 

She’d debated whether she should leave him alone , however briefly . He wasn’t exactly a picture of stability, but a short trip wouldn’t kill him—or her. And truthfully, the thought of James showing up unannounced, only to find her wards locked down and no cottage in sight was far more dangerous. That would send him into a tailspin.

 

This, at least, was controlled. Measured. Safe enough.

 

And Regulus had taken the vow. That mattered. Esme didn’t fully trust him —not yet, maybe not ever —but she trusted the magic. An Unbreakable Vow wasn’t something anyone walked away from. If he broke it, he’d die.

 

There was a cold kind of reassurance in that. Not comforting, exactly, but solid. Dependable in a way he wasn’t.

 

“Have you talked to the boys?” Esme asked, gratefully accepting the steaming mug of tea Lily set in front of her. The warmth from the cup spread through her fingers, a small comfort in the midst of everything. “How are they doing?”

 

James’s smile dimmed slightly as he exchanged a quiet look with Lily, a silent conversation passing between them before he shifted in his seat. “They’re... fine,” he said, the words heavier than they should’ve been, swallowed down with a large gulp of his tea.

 

“Sirius stops by a lot,” he continued, voice lowering a bit. “I think he spends most of his time alone at his flat, but—” He shrugged, brow furrowing. “But he won’t move in with Remus. Says it’s too risky with him being our secret keeper, and with the possibility he’s being hunted. Can’t say I blame him, but...” James’s voice trailed off, and he leaned back, clearly bothered.

 

“Remus is... well, you know how he is. Duty to the Order comes first for him, even if it’s killing him inside.” There was a touch of bitterness in his tone, but it wasn’t directed at Remus. It was something deeper.

 

Esme’s heart twisted at the mention of Remus. She could only imagine how the weight of the war was taking its toll on him.

 

“And Peter…” He hesitated before speaking again, his voice lower. “Peter’s scared. Honestly, I can’t blame him. But it’s hard to watch him fold under pressure.”

 

James ran a hand through his messy hair, sending it sticking up in every direction. He let out a frustrated sigh, as though shaking off the heavier thoughts of the conversation.

 

"But enough about us. What about you?” His gaze softened, an edge of concern creeping into his voice. “I don’t like the thought of you living alone. It worries me.”

 

He leaned forward, earnestness in his eyes. “You can move in with us, you know. Just until the war ends... we’ve got space, and you shouldn’t be by yourself right now.”

 

Esme sighed, hearing the same sentiment for what felt like the thousandth time. The familiar weight of guilt crept up on her , but she pushed it down. She couldn’t tell him the truth—not yet. Not in the way that would make him understand everything. But there was a version of the truth she could offer, one that might at least ease his worry, even if it wasn’t the whole story.

 

"Dumbledore actually put me under the Fidelius," Esme said casually, taking another sip of her tea.

 

James nearly choked, his eyes wide with shock. "What? Why? Did something happen?"

 

"No, no!" Esme quickly reassured him, her voice a little too fast. "It’s nothing like that. Just... figured, since I’m your sister and Harry’s... well, you know." She swallowed hard, her eyes flickering away from his gaze. "Just a safety precaution."

 

James released a large sigh, his shoulders slumping in relief. "Thank Merlin for that," he muttered, running a hand through his hair again. "I’ve been worried sick over you. Lily had to keep me from dragging you here, kicking and screaming. I was giving it a week—max."

 

Lily let out a lighthearted laugh, glancing over her shoulder at Esme. "You should've heard him, Es. 'Esme this, and Esme that.' I almost went to fetch you just to put an end to all his worrying. And the toll it's taken on his hair..." she teased, her smile full of mischief.

 

James immediately swiveled in his seat, spilling tea over the edge of his cup in his rush, his eyes widening in mock offense. He quickly wiped at the mess, then ran a hand through his hair self-consciously.

 

"Lily, it has  not!  My hair is perfect!" he insisted, his voice defensive as he tried to smooth it back into place.

 

Esme burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the kitchen. “Sure, James. Perfectly  perfect ,” she said, leaning back in her chair with a smirk. “Can’t imagine it looking any better than that.”

 

James shot her an exaggerated, offended look. “I’m telling you, it’s a crime for anyone to not appreciate this level of natural perfection ,” he said, running a hand through it again as though making a point.

 

Lily snorted, clearly delighted by the banter. “Oh, I’m sure it’s exquisite, darling,” she said dramatically, leaning down to plant a playful kiss on his cheek. “How do we ever survive without it?”

 

James groaned, sinking into his chair, defeated. “You two are impossible.”

 

Esme smiled softly, accepting the freshly baked scone Lily placed in front of her, the warmth of the kitchen seeping into her bones. It was the kind of comfort that wrapped around her like a blanket, familiar and soothing. She let the moment settle into her, feeling a quiet peace she hadn’t realized she craved.

 

It was clear to Esme that Lily had shifted the conversation, subtly redirecting James’s focus with the playful joke, trying to ease his mind from the weight of the war. It was a small thing, but it spoke volumes. The thoughtfulness, the quiet effort to protect him from the relentless stress—Esme couldn’t help but feel a twinge of admiration.

 

Esme couldn’t help but watch Lily and James, their soft smiles and stolen glances like bits of a secret language only they understood. There was a quiet magic in the way they moved around each other—so effortless, so natural, like they’d been made from the same stardust.

 

They fit together perfectly. She was sunlight—warm, bright, impossible to ignore—and he was the steady pull of gravity that kept her grounded. It was beautiful. Bittersweet.

 

Watching them made something in Esme’s chest tighten—not with jealousy, but with longing. She’d seen love like that once, in the way her parents looked at each other across crowded rooms, speaking without words. And now again, in her brother and Lily.

 

She ached for it. Hoped for it. But some days, she wasn’t sure if a love like that would ever find  her .

 

Later on, as the fire crackled softly, Esme pushed herself up from the couch, stretching slightly after a satisfying evening of laughter and full bellies.

 

"I’d better get going," she said, smoothing down the hem of her sundress as she straightened.

 

James frowned, sitting up straighter. "Are you sure? Harry hasn’t even woken up yet..."

 

Esme gave a casual shrug, "Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve got to get back. Things to do, you know."

 

Like ensuring a Death Eater isn’t wreaking havoc over her cottage at this very moment .

 

Reformed,  she reminded herself.  He’s a reformed Death Eater.

 

But the doubt lingered, low and sour, gnawing at the edges of her trust like a wound that hadn’t quite healed.

 

James stood and pulled her into another tight hug, his familiar scent wrapping around them like a comforting shield. "I won’t be able to visit if you’re under the Fidelius, but I can ask Dumbledore at the next meeting to give me—"

 

Esme pulled back slightly, giving him a reassuring smile, though it was more for his sake than her own. "It's fine, James. I’m fine," she said, though the uncertainty still lingered in her eyes. "You're only supposed to leave for emergencies or Order meetings. I can come to you."

 

James frowned, the concern still evident in his eyes, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he gave a reluctant nod, as if accepting that this was one battle he couldn’t win.

 

Lily appeared at the bottom of the stairs just as Esme was about to leave, her eyebrows arching in surprise. "Oh, you're heading out already?"

 

Before Esme could answer, Lily was already darting toward the kitchen. "Hold on, let me pack you a goodie bag!" Her voice trailed off as she disappeared behind the door.

 

Esme and James exchanged a fond look. Lily's baking to cope was no joke. Throughout her visit, it seemed like every time Esme turned around, Lily would magically produce another dessert, offering it with a smile.

 

Once Lily was finished fussing, she handed Esme an oversized goodie bag, stuffed to the brim with leftover treats and enough snacks to last a week. With farewells and a final smile, Esme stepped outside and, with a soft  crack , apparated back to her quaint little cottage.

 

---

 

When Esme walked through the front door, a sudden prickling sensation crawled up the back of her neck. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. There, sitting on the living room couch with his back straight and his posture rigid, was Regulus. The stillness of his presence startled her, and for a moment, she couldn’t move.

 

As soon as she entered, his head snapped toward her, and Esme caught the brief flicker of Occlumency behind his eyes—a swift, practiced shuttering of his emotions.

 

After a tense pause, she took a step forward, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest. "Hello," she said, her tone neutral but laced with an underlying wariness.

 

She could see the shift in him—his jaw tensed just slightly, his eyes flickering to the small bag in her hand. But it was gone in a flash, the mask of indifference falling back into place.

 

"You left," he said, his voice low and even, but there was a quiet edge beneath it.

 

Esme blinked, caught off guard. "Oh." She shifted from one foot to the other, fiddling with the handles of the goodie bag like it might shield her from his gaze. "Yeah."

 

She faltered, her words thinning into the air. She hadn’t thought he’d notice—hadn’t thought he’d care. And she certainly hadn’t expected to find him sitting there, upright on the couch like he’d been waiting.

 

He stood abruptly, the motion sharp enough to jolt her. He wasn’t wearing his robes—just the same shirt and black trousers, shoes still on. The first button of his collar was undone, revealing a glimpse of pale, pink scars curling up his neck. They didn’t look as raw as before. The salve had helped.

 

“You are aware the Dark Lord is hunting your family?” he asked, his voice clipped and cool, that aristocratic drawl curling around each word like smoke.

 

Regulus tilted his head, expression unreadable. “Then why leave the warded house? Alone? For hours?” His tone wasn’t accusatory—no, that would’ve implied emotion. This was something else.

 

"I wasn’t alone, Black," she shot back, her voice sharper than she intended. The words almost slipped out —I was with James— but she caught herself. She didn’t trust him enough to say anything about her brother aloud, not yet. "I was with... someone," she trailed off, her voice faltering slightly.

 

Regulus’s back stiffened, his posture suddenly rigid. "Ah. I see," he murmured, his jaw tightening. You’re far too confident in your protections.”

 

Esme let out a breath, trying to keep her temper in check. “I went to see... a friend. To remind him I’m alive. Forgive me for not sitting here babysitting you.”

 

His gaze flickered, eyes narrowing, a brief flash of something—offense? guilt ?—before it vanished again behind that stoic wall.

 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he said, almost too quietly.

 

“Good,” she replied, setting the bag down on the nearest table with a soft thud. “Because I’m not one.”

 

It was the most he’d spoken since he’d arrived—the most emotion he’d let slip, even if it was wrapped in cold logic and that brittle, aristocratic disdain. But Esme shouldn’t have been surprised.

 

Of course he noticed she was gone. Of course he cared—not about her, but about what she might risk. If she were captured, interrogated, if they cracked open her mind like an egg and spilled its contents... they’d know . That he was alive. That he’d defected. That he was here.

 

He wasn’t worried about her. He was worried about his own survival.

 

As she turned away, fingers fussing with the ribbon on the goodie bag just to give herself something to do, she glanced over her shoulder.

 

He hadn’t moved. Regulus stood there, silent and strangely still, watching her with a look she couldn’t quite decipher. Not cold, not sharp—just... waiting

 

She raised an eyebrow, suspicion and curiosity flickering behind her eyes. “Yes?”

 

She caught the subtle bob of his throat as he swallowed—like the words tasted wrong in his mouth.

 

“I have a... favor to ask of you,” he said, the phrase brittle and reluctant, like it physically pained him to give it shape.

 

Esme turned to face him fully, arms crossing in a quiet show of guardedness. She didn’t speak—just lifted her chin a little, waiting. Let him ask.

 

He didn’t meet her eyes. His stare fixed somewhere past her shoulder, voice low and rigid.

 

“My trunk,” he said, like the words tasted sour. “It’s been shrunk. I don’t have a wand to restore it.”

 

The realization settled over Esme all at once—why he kept wearing the same clothes each day . His whole life was crammed into a shrunken trunk, unreachable. And he’d just been... enduring it . In silence.

 

That now-familiar pang of sympathy bloomed in her chest, warm and unwelcome.

 

She took a slow step toward him, arms still folded, her voice softer now—less confrontational, more curious.

 

“Why didn’t you just say something?”

 

He shrugged, the motion subtle and strangely at odds with the rigid set of his shoulders. “I didn’t know…” He trailed off, jaw working slightly as if he had to sift through too many thoughts just to find the right ones.

 

“I didn’t know how you’d react to me being here,” he said finally . “And I’d rather not add to the ledger.”

 

Esme studied him for a moment, her arms still crossed but the hard edge of her stance softening. The vulnerability in his words surprised her, a small crack in the armor he’d built around himself. 

 

"What?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "You thought I was going to set fire to your trunk or something?"

 

He didn’t meet her eyes, but she could see the tension in his jaw. “I wasn’t sure what kind of welcome I’d receive.”

 

Esme exhaled slowly, a quiet understanding washing over her. Of course, he'd expect nothing less than suspicion and rejection. It wasn’t just his past—he carried that weight as much as his own bitterness about it.

 

He expected the worst of people—probably because that’s all he’d ever known. Esme figured it made sense, in a sad sort of way. If you grew up surrounded by manipulation and cruelty, closing yourself off was probably the only way to survive. Stay guarded. Don’t trust. Don’t feel.

 

She wasn’t an expert in psychology or anything, but she’d bet her entire Gringotts vault that Regulus Black had some seriously messed-up attachment styles... and enough trust issues to keep a therapist in business for years.

 

Esme’s gaze softened, and she stepped closer, then turned to the side.

 

“You’d have been fine,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “If Dumbledore believes you’ve changed, then…” She hesitated for a moment , her throat tight, but she pushed through. “I have no reason to doubt that.”

 

He swallowed, then nodded, the movement small but deliberate, as if accepting the unspoken shift between them . A tentative truce, fragile but there.

 

Esme nodded towards the hallway, her voice soft but firm. “Come on.” She gestured toward his room, the invitation clear, yet unforced.

 

She started down the hallway, the soft sound of her footsteps echoing in the stillness. A brief hesitation, and then she heard his follow behind her.

 

The door to his room was closed, and Esme paused in the hallway, her hand hovering above the handle just slightly. She glanced back, hesitating—not out of fear, but courtesy. Just to be polite, she waited, seeking permission.

 

Without a word, he nodded, and with that, she pushed the door open and entered. His room was neat but plainly functional, no frills. And there, sitting innocently on his bedside table, was the shrunken trunk—barely the size of a lime.

 

She grabbed it with an almost absent motion, setting it carefully on the floor. Then, with a flick of her wrist and a murmured charm, she watched as the trunk slowly expanded.

 

She hummed in satisfaction, giving him a sideways glance. "Anything else you’ve been too proud to ask for help with?"

 

He opened his mouth, then stopped, lips parting only to press back into a tight line.

 

Esme took a small step back, arms still crossed, her tone softer than before but still laced with curiosity. “You don’t have to be so stubborn. You’re here now, whether you like it or not."

 

When he didn’t respond, Esme moved toward the hallway, but paused just before stepping out of the room. She glanced over her shoulder, her voice softer than before. “I got some sweets while I was out. There’s too many for just me…”

 

He seemed to catch on to her invitation, and for a brief moment, mild surprise flickered across his features.

 

She didn’t want him to stay locked away in his room. It wasn’t just about breaking the silence; she had a goal. She wanted him to talk about the Horcruxes—how they were going to find them, what he knew, how they could stop it all.

 

She wasn’t about to abandon her own search just because he’d agreed to help Dumbledore. That changed nothing. The old wizard himself had said it—more knowledge could only help. And Esme intended to find every scrap of it she could.

 

He might help Dumbledore track down and destroy the Horcruxes, but Esme needed the information too—not just for Harry, though he was part of it, but for her own tangled, slightly selfish reasons. She  wanted  to know.

 

She  had  to know.

 

Voldemort’s weaknesses weren’t just pieces of a puzzle—they were a path to protection. For her family. For the people she loved. And maybe, in some way, for the part of herself that still believed knowledge could be power—and power could keep them safe.

 

Esme turned back toward the door with a sigh and shrugged. “Scone and tea?” she asked.

 

It was a weak attempt, she knew. But it might be enough to break through, to make him talk.

 

Just as Esme thought he might completely ignore her, maybe even shut the door in her face, Regulus gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Without another word, he moved to follow her.

 

She was surprised by how quickly he did so, but didn’t dwell on it.

 

Instead, she pivoted on her heel, leading the way to the kitchen with a purpose, the quiet shuffle of his footsteps close behind. As she fiddled with the tea kettle, her mind wandered—she couldn’t quite understand him, not yet. But maybe, just maybe, friendliness couldn’t hurt. After all, they were going to be living under the same roof for who knew how long. They might as well figure out how to coexist.

 

As she poured the boiling water into the teacups, Esme glanced over at him, a hint of curiosity in her voice. “What have you been doing in your room?” She quickly backstepped, realizing how invasive the question might sound. “Not to pry, I just... well, I know there’s not much to occupy yourself with, and if even your trunk was shrunken...”

 

After a long pause, he said, “Thinking. And resting, I suppose.”

 

His voice dropped lower, almost an afterthought.

 

“My body’s still... recovering.”

 

He didn’t look at her when he said it, but the admission hung in the air—soft, brittle, honest.

 

She nodded silently, pressing the warm mug into his hands. He gave her a faint nod in return—his version of thanks, she supposed.

 

Turning away, she dug through the goodie bag Lily had handed her before she left. It was overflowing with sugar and comfort: muffins, shortbread, scones, and enough carbs to feed a small army. Classic Lily—worried hearts soothed best with carbs and butter.

 

She selected a blueberry scone and a strawberry muffin, arranging them neatly on a small plate before setting it on the table between them—an unspoken offering, neutral ground carved out in pastries and politeness.

 

Esme wondered if Regulus would have refused the sweets had he known Lily baked them—with flour-dusted fingers and Muggleborn hands. Would that matter to him? Did he still believe in all that blood purity rubbish his parents clung to like gospel?

 

Maybe that’s why he defected. Maybe the ideals cracked under the weight of their own cruelty.

 

Or maybe… maybe it had nothing to do with right or wrong, with blood or cause. Maybe he left for reasons entirely his own—quiet, personal ones he kept locked away.

 

Regulus glanced down at the plate, jaw shifting like he was working through a thought. His mouth opened slightly—then closed again, whatever he meant to say swallowed down.

 

Esme didn’t press. She just sipped her tea, pretending not to notice.

 

She wasn’t what he was used to—she knew that. Her company was too quiet, too loose at the edges. There was no script here, no performance. And Regulus Black had lived in a world where every word was a test, every silence a trap. Around Death Eaters, she imagined , one wrong phrase might cost more than dignity. It might cost blood.

 

Was that why he second-guessed every sentence? Why he moved like he was waiting for a blow?

 

Esme looked at him sideways, something quiet and bitter blooming in her chest.

 

“Your… um, injuries,” she began carefully, her voice tentative as she glanced at him, worried he might pull away. “The salve helped?”

 

He stilled, his posture straightening as if some invisible force pulled him upright. Esme caught herself wondering, for a fleeting moment, if he was even allowed to be seen as vulnerable—allowed to show weakness. Was that why he had resisted the salve in the first place?

 

He nodded once, sharply. "It..." He trailed off, his gaze flickering as he found the right words. "It was useful." The way he said it—hesitant, almost reluctant—made it sound like an admission

 

She didn’t necessarily like him, and she certainly didn’t agree with the choices he’d made. His past was a mark she couldn’t easily overlook. Yet, despite everything, there was something in her that couldn’t turn away from someone in pain—not when the war demanded all the help it could get. She’d allowed him here for the cause, and for that reason, she’d offer the bare minimum of civility, even if she wasn’t sure she could ever fully trust him.

 

"I—I have books here," Esme said, gesturing toward the living room where her overstuffed bookshelf leaned like it was clinging to life. "I don’t know what you packed in that trunk of yours , if you brought anything for... entertainment. But I imagine sitting alone in a bedroom all day isn’t exactly thrilling."

 

Regulus’s eyes flickered as he broke the scone in two, his fingers pressing the soft bread with an absent intensity. “I thought Moody said it’s not your responsibility to take care of me.”

 

It seemed like a hint of humor, the barest flicker of a joke.

 

Esme’s lips twitched, a hint of amusement in her eyes as she raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were too busy perfecting your occlumency to actually hear him.”

 

Regulus paused, the edge of his scone halting mid-air as he looked at her, the faintest flicker of something passing across his face.

 

It was clear he was still occluding, always guarding himself, but there were moments when it wasn’t as intense—moments when the walls weren’t so tightly drawn. Yet, every time she saw him since he arrived, he had been closed off, a door locked shut behind a careful, guarded mask.

 

He remained silent, so Esme leaned forward, breaking the stillness. “Has Dumbledore given you any indication of when you’ll be needed for... the mission?”

 

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she thought he might evade the question altogether. But then, he exhaled slowly, the sound a bit too quiet, too deliberate.

 

He glanced back at her, his eyes colder than she’d expected. “No.” His voice was flat, but there was something in the tension around his jaw, the subtle tightening of his posture, that told her the answer wasn’t as simple as it sounded.

 

Esme raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in her chair. "Not yet?" she asked, almost skeptically. "Or are you just not telling me?"

 

A slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head was the only answer she received. He picked up his cup, the porcelain clinking faintly in his hand, and took a long sip. It didn’t escape her that he was avoiding the topic, and though she wasn’t entirely surprised, the fact that he was shutting her out again still left her frusturated.

 

"Staying behind that mask isn’t going to help you, you know," she said, her voice steady, almost amused. "Dumbledore told me what you’ve been up to, how you earned those scars. He said we actually have a real chance with you."

 

Regulus inhaled sharply, his eyes hardening, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “How lovely of him to speak so highly of me.”

 

Esme let out a long, weary sigh. He was too distant, too closed off. She wondered how long he’d been this way—how long he'd been living behind that wall he’d built around himself. Did he even know how to lower the shield? Did he want to? Or was he afraid that if he let it down, he’d have to face everything he’d been hiding from, and it would hurt too much?

 

Once they finished their tea, he gave her a clipped "thanks," his voice almost mechanical, and without another word, disappeared behind his door once again—leaving the silence to swallow the space between them.

 

Esme placed the teacups in the sink, then retreated to the living room. As she turned on the stereo, soft music began to croon from the speakers. She nudged the volume up just a little, letting the sound float down the hallway, hoping it might coax him out of the shell he’d tucked himself into, if only for a moment—away from the dark thoughts he kept buried so deep.

Notes:

If you enjoyed, leave a comment and kudos! They’re my drug of choice. :)

Chapter 5: tea, please

Regulus had been living with Esme for a week and a half, long enough for something resembling a routine to take shape. It wasn’t smooth or easy, not exactly, but it was something.

 

They shared dinner most evenings, the occasional lunch when she managed to coax him out of his self-imposed exile. More often than not, she’d leave a plate for him in the fridge, neatly wrapped with a little handwritten note sent to his room:  Help yourself, don’t let it go to waste. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t.

 

One day, she wandered into the kitchen and found him staring curiously at the refrigerator. But the moment he noticed her in the doorway, his back straightened, and whatever thought he’d been entertaining vanished behind the familiar blank mask he wore so well.

 

He didn’t say anything, and neither did she.

 

Every now and then, during one of his rare wanderings out of his room, she’d spot him and casually ask if he wanted to join her for tea. He never outright said no, but the hesitation was always there — a pause, a blink, the slight narrowing of his eyes like he was trying to decide whether it was safe to accept. She insisted anyway. He eventually obliged.

 

Still, his room remained his primary domain.

 

Though he joined her for dinner in the kitchen, their conversations, if they could be called that, were hesitant, short-lived things — words hovering in the air like dust motes, never quite settling. Yet she got the sense he was listening. Watching.

 

Tonight, it seemed he was set on repeating the same quiet ritual — dinner eaten in near-silence, eyes occasionally flicking to her as if half-listening, half-measuring the distance between them. As soon as he’d finished, he stood, chair scraping softly against the wood floor, and began the familiar retreat toward the hallway. Back to the solitude of his room. His sanctuary. His cave.

 

But this time, Esme didn’t let him vanish so easily.

 

“That’s no way to live, you know.”

 

He stopped mid-step. Slowly, he turned, looking back at her over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable — surprised, perhaps, or simply guarded.

 

“Pardon?”

 

Esme dried her hands on a dish towel and turned to face him fully, planting her hands on her hips with all the theatrical flair she could muster. “I’m holding an intervention.”

 

That earned her a blink.

 

She pointed vaguely toward the hallway. "You spend all your time in your room like a brooding teenager. It’s not healthy. Have you even been outside since you arrived?”

 

He hesitated, clearly torn about whether to lie. The pause dragged on just a moment too long, and his silence betrayed him.

 

She clucked her tongue in mock disapproval and spun on her heel, already heading toward the shoe rack by the door. “Right. That’s it. I’m dragging your vampire ass into the daylight.”

 

When he didn’t respond right away , she glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting he’d slipped out while her back was turned. But he was still there.

 

“Why?” he asked, blinking at her, genuinely perplexed.

 

The question caught her off guard, not because she didn’t expect resistance, but because he sounded  sincere . Like the simple concept of wanting him to go outdoors needed an actual justification.

 

Yes, why? Her rational brain chimed in, arms metaphorically folded and eyebrow arched in that familiar, judgmental way.

 

Why not? she shot back internally, jaw tightening. It wasn’t healthy, that was reason enough. And more than that, it was strange. Strange, and a little sad, knowing he was just down the hall, sealed off like a ghost, barely a sound, barely a presence.

 

She wasn’t running a prison. Whatever he’d done in his time as a Death Eater, exile wasn’t meant to be permanent. Not under her roof, at least.

 

“It’s not healthy,” she said, out loud this time, though her tone had softened slightly. “You stay cooped up in that room all day. It’s weird. And awkward. You’re down the hall, but I barely see you, and when I do, you look like someone’s holding you hostage.”

 

He said nothing.

 

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Look, I’m not saying we need to go frolic in a meadow. But sunlight. Air. The vague illusion of normalcy. It won’t kill you.”

 

Esme glanced at him, noting the unhealthy pallor of his skin.

 

She paused, then added dryly, “Well. Probably.”

 

When he still didn’t move, she exhaled and added, softer, "You don’t have to give me a speech about boundaries or whatever. I’m not trying to fix you. I just…” She trailed off, then tried again. “You’ve been here a week, and I still don’t know what your voice sounds like for more than ten words at a time. That’s weird. Come outside. You don’t have to say anything. Just… come.”

 

There was a pause — a long one — and she didn’t fill it. She let the silence stretch, let it settle around them like the evening light filtering through the kitchen windows.

 

She turned, shooting him a look over her shoulder. “ And you’re living like a ghost. And frankly, you’re so pale, Dumbledore’s going to start asking if I’ve locked you away in my dungeon.”

 

Still no movement. But then:

 

“You have a dungeon?”

 

Her eyebrows lifted, pleasantly surprised. Was that… an attempt at humor?

 

"Yes, and if you weren’t already so hell-bent on hiding yourself away, I’d have half a mind to lock you up myself," she said, narrowing her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips despite herself. “Come on.”

 

To her surprise, he did. Slowly, and with the air of someone being marched to a firing squad, but he moved.

 

As he followed her into the garden, he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear, “I  did  spend seven years living in a dungeon.”

 

Esme snorted. “Yes. And it  shows . I honestly don’t know how you Slytherins survived down there . Like little Victorian ghosts. It was always so cold . No windows, no light, like some medieval prison. The Gryffindor common room was…” she paused, eyes distant for a moment , “...cozy. Like home.”

 

Regulus made a low sound in his throat — part scoff, part contemplative hum. “We weren’t exactly there for the ambiance, Potter.”

 

It was the first time he'd said her name since that biting remark — the one where he said Dumbledore must be desperate if he sent Regulus to live with her. And, well... he hadn’t exactly been wrong. But still, this was progress. Slow, awkward, hard-won, but progress all the same.

 

“But still,” Esme cast him a sidelong glance as they walked down the garden path, gravel crunching softly beneath their feet. “ no sunshine? No warmth?”

 

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. Not withdrawn, exactly—just… dulled . Like something filed down at the edges.

 

“Warmth wasn’t exactly encouraged.”

 

Esme slowed instinctively, her footsteps faltering against the grassy path. It wasn’t what he said, it was  how  he said it. Flat. Detached. Like he wasn’t offering up a piece of himself so much as stating a known fact. Like telling her the sky was blue, or that the sun set in the west.

 

But it still made her heart ache a little.

 

She knelt to inspect her flowerbeds, and Regulus, without a word, stopped beside her. There were a few herbs she had been growing—rosemary, thyme, and lavender—but a handful of weeds had begun to creep in. With a small flourish of her wand, the flowers and herbs straightened up, the weeds vanishing in an instant . The flowerbed looked perfect again, vibrant and alive.

 

Regulus didn’t say anything. Just watched, eyes tracking her hands with quiet, impassive curiosity.

 

Esme didn’t comment either. She stood slowly, brushing the dirt from her palms onto the hem of her sweater, and resumed walking. Regulus followed without a word, his footsteps light behind hers. The air had cooled with the sunset, but it wasn’t cold. Just soft. Hushed.

 

They walked like that for a while — shoulders apart, thoughts their own — until Regulus spoke.

 

“I’m surprised your brother lets you live alone.”

 

Esme blinked, surprised, not just by the sound of his voice, but by the subject . She turned her head slightly to look at him.

 

“If he had his way, I’d be living with him,” she said, shrugging as she glanced back at him. She let out a soft, amused laugh. “He’d probably try to tuck me in every night, make sure I had a nightlight. I definitely needed my own space.”

 

“Hm,” was his only response.

 

She paused, almost as if considering whether she wanted to share more. There was something about the way he’d said it — so casually probing — that made her wonder how much he was  really paying attention.

 

They walked a few more paces in silence, the earth crunching lightly beneath their feet, the wind tugging lazily at her hair. The sky was beginning to shift — soft oranges and purples settling on the horizon, the kind of evening light that made everything look a little gentler.

 

She adored it here — this patch of earth that was entirely hers. It was her little oasis, where the world slowed down. Tall, graceful willows stood sentinel over the property, their branches draped in lanterns that glimmered softly in the evening breeze. The cottage itself , painted a pale blue, sat nestled among the sprawling landscape.

 

Around it, the land bloomed with life — flowers in soft pinks, purples, yellows, and reds spread across the ground like a patchwork quilt, their scent drifting on the air, filling every corner with color and life. A quiet stretch of land dotted with citrus trees, their branches heavy with lemons and oranges. The scent of orange blossoms drifted on the breeze, sweet and sharp.

 

Birds danced through the trees, their songs blending with the rustling leaves. A white picket fence framed the property, simple yet perfect, and everything — every leaf, every petal, every breeze — felt like it belonged.

 

They began making their way back toward the cottage, the quiet crunch of earth trailing behind them. Esme couldn’t help the flicker of satisfaction that warmed her chest — she’d gotten him out of the house, even if only for a little while. Fresh air, a change of scenery. That was something.

 

She stole a glance at him as they walked. The scars — faint, but unmistakable — stood out more in the soft light. They weren’t just reminders of pain, but of what he’d done, what he’d given up. Seeing them stirred something in her . A quiet unraveling of the rigid narrative she’d carried for so long.

 

Maybe he wasn’t the monster the world had made him out to be. Maybe he was just a boy once, caught in the wrong family, at the wrong time, trying to survive a war he hadn’t asked for .

 

"How long have you lived here?" he asked, his voice quiet, almost casual — but not quite.

 

Esme tucked her hands into her pockets, concealing her surprise at him breaking the silence for the second time.  “A year or so now,” she replied. “Um… my parents — when they passed, I moved in here.”

 

She saw it then — the way he stopped walking, the way something in him stiffened. She turned to face him, and for the first time, the wall behind his eyes seemed thinner. Not gone, but cracked enough for the softness to show through. The pale grey of his eyes caught the last of the evening light, and his hair curled slightly at the edges, framing his face in a way that made him look almost ethereal.

 

Merlin, she thought. She’d been so fixated on the damage — the inflamed mark on his arm, the injuries carved into his body — that she’d nearly forgotten. He was beautiful in a way that didn’t seem entirely human. Haunted, yes, but still beautiful .

 

She had thought so in school — she remembered now, like a dusty memory shaken loose. It had been buried, tucked away somewhere beneath everything else. But yes, she remembered paying more attention in fifth year, after Sirius had run away and come to live with her family. That was when she’d started noticing Regulus more. How could she not? She couldn’t imagine leaving James, not having him there, and Regulus… Regulus had looked so isolated back then. Withdrawn. Quiet. But then again, he always had.

 

At first glance, he had looked so much like Sirius — the same sharp cheekbones, the dark hair, the gray eyes. But if you really looked, if you let yourself see past the name and the bloodline… he was different. Quieter. Sadder.

 

She’d thought he was gorgeous, even then. A beautiful boy born into a rotten family.

 

She hadn’t let herself admit it at the time, not fully. But now… now it was impossible to ignore.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.

 

The sound of his voice pulled her from the memory, and she caught the movement of his throat as he swallowed — nervous, maybe. Sincere.

 

She blinked, her reverie shattered by the soft earnestness of his words. Merlin, he was beautiful, she thought again, and silently cursed herself for it.

 

“About your parents,” he added, quieter now. “I didn’t know.”

 

Esme nodded, swallowing hard. The question came slowly after, like he was still debating whether he had the right to ask.

 

“How did they…” he hesitated, voice barely above a murmur. “The war—it wasn’t…?”

 

He didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to.

 

Esme turned her gaze to the horizon, the last streaks of gold fading into dusk. “Not directly,” she said, giving a small shrug, just one shoulder lifting.

 

“They…” Her voice caught. She swallowed, then turned to meet his gaze. It surprised her — how soft it was. How  tender .

 

“They were older when they had James and me,” she said finally . “They’d both had health issues before. Nothing too serious, just… signs of time catching up."

 

His gaze was intense, and she could feel him absorbing every word she said.

 

She drew in a breath, steadying herself. "And the war… it put extra strain on them, I guess. My mum got sick first. And my dad—” she paused, her throat tightening, “I think he was so heartbroken, his body just… shut down.”

 

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the sting behind them to fade. “But,” she breathed in, the inhale shaky, like it scraped on the way down, “they wouldn’t have wanted to live without the other.”

 

Her voice was quieter now, almost fragile. “Their love was… special. The kind that doesn’t know how to keep going when the other half disappears.”

 

When her gaze slid back to him, he was already watching her.

Not just watching — looking , like he was memorizing something. His eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, had softened, gone quiet in a way that made her chest ache a little. It wasn’t the way people usually looked at her.

 

It wasn’t the way  he usually looked at anyone.

 

It felt like standing too close to a flame — warm, but dangerous if she lingered.

 

Finding him attractive was one thing, but the warmth that bloomed in her chest, the desire to know what he was going to say next... that was something else. It was one thing to wish him well while he stayed with her, to not want him to suffer. But anything beyond that… She shook the thought from her mind.

 

His lips parted, just barely, like there was something right there on the edge of his tongue. Something real. For a second, she forgot to breathe.

Then she moved — stepped back, almost like it burned.

 

“Anyway,” she said, her voice too casual, too quick. “We should probably head back.”

 

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, slowly, his gaze still on her like he hadn’t quite come back from wherever he’d gone.

 

The walk back to the cottage was silent, the only sound the soft hoot of owls in the distance.

 

---

 

The whole next morning, she couldn’t stop thinking about the look in his eyes — how unexpectedly soft it had been, how startlingly  human .

And she hated what it did to her.

 

She hated the way it lingered, the way it tugged at something inside her she wasn’t ready to name. She didn’t like noticing him, not like this. Not beyond the label. Not beyond the history. But now that she had, it was like she couldn’t  stop . He wasn’t just a former Death Eater anymore.

He was a man. And worse, he was devastatingly beautiful.

 

He came out of his room in the morning, a first in itself, his hair messy from sleep and eyes still heavy with sleepiness. Esme glanced over her shoulder from where she sat on the couch, the  Daily Prophet  in hand.

 

He lingered next to her until her gaze met his, a hint of surprise in her eyes.

 

" Morning," she said, her tone a bit incredulous.

 

"Good morning," he said, and she could almost roll her eyes at the posh drawl of his accent. He shifted on his feet, looking a little unsure. "When you’re finished with the  Prophet , may I have a look?"

 

She blinked at him. Then realized — of course. He was completely cut off from the wizarding world . No owls, no letters, no contact. The newspaper was his only window to the world he used to belong to.

 

“Oh. Yes,” Esme said quickly. “I’m sorry—I hadn’t thought—”

 

"It’s fine," he said quickly, then shifted again, looking away, avoiding her gaze. "Also..."

 

Esme raised an eyebrow, the curiosity creeping in. "Also...?"

 

He straightened, his shoulders a little less tense as he stood taller, almost a little more formal. "Would you... like some tea?"

 

Esme hoped her mouth hadn’t dropped open in shock, but she wasn’t so sure.

 

"Tea?" she echoed, her voice filled with bewilderment. "You want to make  me  tea?"

 

He seemed to freeze for a second , like he hadn’t expected her reaction. His eyes flicked to hers, a little guarded, a little uncertain.

 

"Yeah," he said, his tone shifting, almost awkward. "I—well, I figured... I mean, it’s what you do in the mornings, right? Tea." He shrugged, as though it were the most casual thing in the world.

 

She blinked, trying to process. Regulus Black, the quiet, brooding former Death Eater, was standing there offering to make her tea? It didn’t seem to fit. But there was something about the way he said it — genuine, even if a bit stiff — that made her heart do a funny little skip.

 

"Sure," she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "I’d like that."

 

He nodded once, turning toward the kitchen, but then her voice stopped him in his tracks .

 

"Wait," she called after him, her brow furrowing. "You don’t have your wand. How do you know how to use the kettle...?"

 

He paused, standing in the doorway, and glanced back at her, a flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossing his features.

 

"It’s not exactly magic, you know," he said dryly, though there was a lightness in his voice now. "Anyone can make tea without a wand."

 

Esme stared at him, her cheeks warming with an involuntary flush. It was still hard to reconcile — him, of all people, doing something so ordinary. He'd been raised a proper pureblood, steeped in tradition and privilege. She wouldn't have imagined he'd ever so much as lift a spoon for himself, let alone—

 

"Besides," he said casually, interrupting her thoughts with a shrug, you’ve managed it without a wand before. It seems easy enough."

 

And with that, he turned and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving her sitting there, caught somewhere between surprise and something softer she couldn't quite name.

 

Esme couldn’t even pretend to fall back into reading the newspaper — her eyes skimmed the words, but none of them landed. She was too stunned by the sudden change in his behavior. Just days ago, he’d been practically a ghost in the house, surfacing only for meals and retreating back to his room without a word. And now?

 

Now he was coming out early . Making conversation .  Offering tea.

Was he on some kind of potion? Had he hit his head?

 

She narrowed her eyes slightly, more curious than concerned now. This wasn’t just odd — it was unnerving. But also... oddly endearing. And that was the most unsettling part of all.

 

Her thoughts only stopped spiraling when he returned a few moments later, two teacups balanced carefully in his hands. Wordlessly, he passed one to her—and, oh Merlin— sat down . In the living room chair. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

Esme blinked. Then blinked again. She stared a few seconds too long, trying to recalibrate reality.

 

And then she smelled it. Honey.

 

She glanced down, lifted the cup to her lips, took a cautious sip... and nearly dropped it.

 

Honey. And just the lightest dash of milk. Exactly how she took it.

 

Okay.  Maybe  she was the one who’d taken a potion.

 

He knew her tea preference.

 

Which meant he’d watched her. Not just in passing, either — he  noticed . He remembered. He’d said he’d seen her make tea before, hadn’t he? And now he was using the kettle the Muggle way, just like she did. That wasn't something you picked up by accident.

 

It was clear now that she’d been right in her assumptions. He’d been watching, paying far more attention than she’d thought.

 

Esme narrowed her eyes slightly and gave the tea a cautious sniff, just in case.

 

Because this? This was  suspiciously  thoughtful.

 

She caught the faintest scoff, and her eyes snapped up — straight into storm-gray. He was lounged in the chair, watching her intently, like he’d been waiting for her to notice.

 

“Merlin, Potter,” he said dryly, “do you really think I poisoned it?”

 

"With  you , I’m not ruling anything out,” she said, straightening, taking another sip. “You’ve been acting suspiciously... civil. It’s unsettling.”

 

He said nothing, just took a slow sip of his tea, his eyes never leaving her.

 

Her eyes narrowed, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her with a faint, mischievous smirk. “If I start reciting love ballads or hallucinating,” she quipped, eyes still locked on his, “I’ll know exactly who to blame.”

 

The only thing she could think of that might explain this change was the soft gray of his eyes the night before — the walls lowering ever so slightly when she mentioned her parents. It had been subtle, almost imperceptible, but she’d noticed.

 

Why had that caused him to become more...  talkative ? More  open ?

 

It didn’t make sense.

 

He lifted an eyebrow, utterly unbothered. "Please, if you start reciting love ballads, I’ll be the one hallucinating ."

 

Esme huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head as she brought the teacup to her lips.

 

Who was this person in her living room, and what had they done with Regulus Black? This was the most he’d spoken since... well, since ever. For a while, she’d half convinced herself that maybe he was mute, and Sirius had just never bothered to mention it. Or maybe he only spoke in five words or less, like some kind of cryptic riddle. But apparently not.

 

They sat in companionable silence, each sipping their tea. Esme set hers down with a soft  clink  on the coffee table, her gaze drifting to the front page of the  Daily Prophet . A picture danced across the page — smoke billowing from the wreckage of a town, buildings reduced to rubble. The headline read, "Seven Dead in Hogsmeade Attack."

 

She couldn’t believe how close the war was to Hogwarts. If the attack had happened on a weekend, students could have been killed. What she’d always believed was the safest place for children was now perilously close to disaster. Nowhere was safe. Voldemort’s forces were growing, his power getting stronger — he was practically immortal, for Merlin’s sake.

 

A knot tightened in her stomach as the reality of it all settled over her.

 

The war seemed so hopeless at times — unbelievably distant, like something far beyond her reach. The Order was small, its forces nowhere near the scale of the army Voldemort had amassed.

 

But… Regulus might be the key to turning the tide. If they could destroy the Horcruxes— his  Horcruxes—it would weaken him. Strip away the false immortality Voldemort had built for himself. Make him vulnerable. Easier to finish when the time came.

 

And Esme hoped, with every bit of conviction she had left, that the time would come soon.

 

She tossed the paper onto the table, sending it sliding closer to Regulus.

 

"I'm finished with it. It’s all yours."

 

His gaze flickered to the paper, and Esme saw his expression harden, his jaw clenching at the headline.

 

She didn’t consider herself a bitter person, but the questions crept in, uninvited and impossible to ignore. The Death Eaters behind this — did he know them? Were they once his friends? Her stomach tightened at the thought, but she didn’t voice it.

 

Had he been involved in things like this when he was on the other side? Killing innocents? Torturing them? The idea clawed at her mind, sharper than she cared to admit. Was that the look in his eyes — the flicker of something cruel, something violent buried deep beneath the surface? The haunting shadow of his past, gnawing at him like a constant ache?

 

It wasn’t the sort of thing you just  asked , especially not when the answer could be worse than she imagined.

 

She had tolerated the idea of him coming here because he hadn’t just defected — he’d defected with the bloody key to killing Voldemort. For her family, for her friends, and most of all, for her innocent baby nephew, who was being hunted like some sacrificial lamb.  That  was enough to overlook his past, at least for now.

 

But as much as she might have treated Regulus like some kind of project — coaxing him out of his room like a terrified stray cat — she couldn't forget who he was. She wasn’t that naive. He had been a Death Eater. He had  allowed  himself to be marked, branded by the very monster they were fighting.

 

Sirius had run, but Esme was  sure — with every ounce of her being — that even if Sirius hadn’t had James to run to, he wouldn’t have taken the mark.

 

Regulus had made a choice. And no amount of tea, gentle coaxing, or playing housemaid to a tortured soul would erase that.

 

He had probably killed . Probably tortured. And yes, he had defected — risked his life, even — but some sins didn’t get washed clean just because you switched sides. Not when the blood was still fresh on the hands of the sinner.

 

Esme wasn’t a fool. She knew remorse didn’t undo a damn thing. Regret didn’t raise the dead.

 

Whatever softness she might've let herself feel — the stray flickers of pity when she saw him hollow-eyed and haunted — it didn’t erase what he’d been . What he’d done. The mark on his arm wasn’t just ink; it was a choice. And she refused to forget that.

 

She stood abruptly, her shin catching the edge of the coffee table. “Bloody—” she hissed under her breath, wincing as pain flared through her leg.

 

With a sharp flick of her wand, the half-empty teacup soared to the kitchen sink, landing with a clatter that echoed too loudly in the stillness of the room.

 

"Thanks for the tea," she said, tone flat, polished to something brittle. Clipped.

 

His eyes snapped to hers — sharp, searching. But if he noticed the shift in her, the drop in warmth, the way her posture had pulled taut like a drawn bowstring, he didn’t comment. And she didn’t give him the chance.

 

She felt the heavy burn of his gaze on her back all the way to her bedroom door.

 

---

 

She busied herself for the rest of the day — cleaning what didn’t need cleaning, fussing over the garden, anything to keep her thoughts quiet. Eventually, she ended up lounging in the sun, stretched across a blanket with one of her well-worn favorites:  Moonlight & Mandrakes .

 

A thoroughly ridiculous, utterly charming novel about a wayward herbologist who falls in love with a cursed ghost haunting the greenhouse of a crumbling Scottish estate.

 

But even that couldn’t silence her thoughts completely. She hadn’t realized how much space he took up in her mind until she was actively trying not to think about him. She thought about him far more often than she actually saw him — and that was saying something.

 

He was impossible to figure out. A knot she couldn’t untangle, no matter how she turned it over in her head. So different from Sirius — quieter, sharper, colder — but somehow more  serious than his older brother. Ironic , really .

 

She closed the book across her chest and stared up at the sky, sighing. This war had taken too much from too many.

 

And Esme could feel it — how easily her thoughts softened around Regulus, how the edges of who he’d been were starting to blur in her mind. It unsettled her. Because no matter what he was doing now — no matter how valuable his intel, how carefully he stepped around the Order — there had been a  before .

 

People had died in that before. He might not have cast every curse himself, but he’d worn the mark. He'd chosen that side. He’d played a part.

 

And she couldn’t just forget that. Not yet. Not when there were still families mourning, not when the cost was still being paid in blood.

 

Maybe one day, when the war was over and the smoke had finally cleared, she could let herself forgive. Maybe. But for now, she held on to the memory of her parents — how their hair had gone grey almost overnight, how the fear for her and James had etched itself into their faces. How the worry had worn them down until there was nothing left.

 

No — she couldn’t let herself forget who Regulus  was . Not just because of who he might be becoming.

 

Rolling up her blanket, she moved toward the cottage door, her steps slow, almost reluctant. She half-expected to find him lounging on the couch, lost in thought or drowning in some kind of silence. But when she rounded the corner, the space was empty. He was hidden away in his room, a door closed firmly between them.

 

Good. It was almost a relief. She couldn’t pity him if she didn’t see the haunted look in his eyes. Couldn’t feel that familiar wave of sympathy clawing at her chest, begging her to believe he was more than the choices he’d made.

 

Distance made it easier. Safer.

 

Because the moment she let herself look too closely, she started to forget. And forgetting was dangerous.

 

It was easier with him locked away. The world outside felt more certain — clear. The lines were sharp: right was right, wrong was wrong. No room for gray, no space for confusion.

 

But somehow, despite it all, Regulus still walked that line.

 

He existed in the in-between, unsettling in his contradictions. One day, he was a shadow of who he’d once been—a quiet, guarded boy who had stood on the wrong side of everything. The next, he was in her kitchen, preparing tea.

 

She prepared dinner—a fragrant, lemony rosemary dish, the kind that reminded her of quieter days. The herbs were freshly picked, the lemons still warm from the sun in her garden.

 

There was something grounding in the ritual: slicing, stirring, tasting. A small act of control in a world that offered so little of it. The scent filled the cottage, bright and sharp, but it didn’t quite clear her thoughts.

 

Not when Regulus was still lingering in the back of her mind—like a splinter she couldn’t quite reach.

 

The aroma must have drifted down the hallway, because as soon as the plates were set, the sound of his door creaked open, followed by the soft padding of his footsteps.

 

When he stepped into the kitchen, Esme didn’t look up. She kept her focus on the dish, her movements stiff as she set the utensils down. “I’m going to eat in front of the telly,” she said flatly, the words almost mechanical.

 

She stole a glance in his direction, but only briefly. He nodded once, his gaze skimming over her before quickly looking away. His expression was unreadable — distant.

 

Whatever warmth had existed between them the day before — whatever fleeting ease or lightheartedness they had shared earlier — it was gone. Vanished, like it had never been there at all.

 

She hated that she felt let down. Hated that she noticed.

Chapter 6: the order

Esme sat curled into the porch swing, her legs tucked beneath her, the afternoon sun casting golden, honeyed streaks across the weathered wood. A bowl of strawberries rested beside her, one half-eaten and held loosely in her hand, its ruby juice trickling down her fingers. The air was warm, heavy with the sticky summer heat, and fragrant with the scent of lavender, honeysuckle, and citrus from the nearby fruit trees.

 

She felt soft, enveloped wholly in the calm of the moment. She closed her eyes, letting the sun warm her skin, her face, everything inside of her.

 

It had been two days since she’d had to remind herself who Regulus was, and she found herself doing it constantly since. Her mother had always said she had a soft heart — that she forgave easily, even when others couldn’t. She spoke of it lik e it w as a blessing, that Esme was tender and sweet. And for a long time, Esme believed her. She took pride in it, in being someone who could see the good in others, even when it was buried deep.

 

But now, she saw it differently. It wasn’t a gift, it was a weakness. It wasn’t a strength in a war, it was a liability. What kind of person welcomed a Death Eater into her home and offered him tea?

 

She was exhausted, drained by the constant back and forth, the endless complexity of it all. If she had just said no to Dumbledore's proposition, none of this would be happening. She wouldn’t be sitting here, berating herself for the quality her mother had always considered a gift. 

 

The shimmering air broke her from her thoughts, and in a sudden rush of silver light, a phoenix exploded into being before her, its wings unfurling in a blaze of pearlescent flame. She startled, the strawberry slipping from her fingers and thudding softly onto the porch floor.

 

From within the glowing bird, Dumbledore’s calm, sonorous voice echoed.

 

"Good afternoon, Miss Potter," he said. "Forgive me for the intrusion, but Mr. Black’s presence is required tonight ahead of the Order meeting. Matters of a delicate and pressing nature demand it. A representative will arrive before dusk to escort him."

 

The phoenix tilted its head, the flames along its wings flickering softly as the message finished. Then, with a soundless cry, it stretched its wings wide, dissolving into a swirl of smoke and light.

 

Esme blinked at the space the phoenix had vacated, the fading silver lingering in her vision. Slowly, she looked down at her hand. The juice had stained her fingertips a deep red, trailing down to the porch like spilled blood.

 

She wiped her stained fingers on the hem of her dress, her heart drumming faster than the situation warranted. But still, something about Dumbledore’s words — delicate and pressing — made her stomach twist.

 

Regulus had been living with her for nearly three weeks, and in all that time, they hadn’t spoken once about the Horcruxes or his mission. There had been no mention of when he would continue his search to find and destroy Voldemort’s Horcruxes.

 

Inside, the house was quiet. The old floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she moved down the narrow hallway. His door, as usual, was shut — the same door she had flung open three weeks ago, finding him half-starved and broken. Now, the space between them felt more complicated, softer in ways that unsettled her.

 

She rasped her knuckles gently against the door. "Regulus?"

 

A pause.

 

She still didn’t know what he did when he was locked away in his room. Whether there were things in his trunk that kept him occupied . She was curious, sure, but frankly, she didn’t care all that much.

 

She shouldn’t care.

 

The door opened a sliver. He looked at her, all sharp lines and shadowed eyes, lips parted as though she had interrupted something. She swallowed at the sight of his hair, slightly damp, as if he had just showered, the ends curling ever so slightly. It was much longer than he ever allowed it in school, and it made him look even more like Sirius, whose hair had always been notoriously wild and long, like a Muggle rockstar.

 

"There’s a message," she said. "From Dumbledore."

 

His posture shifted — subtle, but noticeable. He stood taller, and the door creaked open just a fraction more, though his tall frame still filled the doorway. She took a step back, instinctively.

 

"He said your presence is required tonight, before the Order meets. He’s sending someone to fetch you."

 

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His eyes scanned her face, unreadable.

 

His gaze made her want to squirm, but she fought the urge, forcing herself to stand still. Merlin, what was wrong with her? He was just a person, wasn’t he? So why did he make her feel so... unnerved, like her skin was too tight, her thoughts tangled in ways she couldn’t untangle?

 

"Did he say anything else?" His voice was smooth, almost too smooth, but there was something coiled beneath it — something sharp, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

 

"He didn’t say. Just that it was delicate." She hesitated, then added, "And pressing."

 

Another beat of silence hung between them.

 

"When?" His voice was still level, but now there was an edge to it.

 

"Before dusk."

 

He didn’t nod, didn’t thank her. He simply blinked slowly, then stepped back. "I’ll be ready."

 

She should have turned then , left him to his own devices. But her feet didn’t move.

 

Instead, her eyes drifted to his hands — long, pale fingers, both delicate and deceptively strong. It was then she noticed the ring on his pinky, the gleam of it catching the light. She hadn’t seen it before, but now she recognized it — the same ring Sirius sometimes wore. She had always wondered why Sirius kept the family signet ring after he ran away, but now, she supposed, it made sense. He was still a Black, after all, whether he liked it or not.

 

What would Sirius say if he knew Regulus was here? Alive, when everyone had presumed him dead? A wave of guilt hit her — was she a bad friend for keeping this hidden? Should she have said something sooner? Her mind raced, turning over the possibilities. What if Regulus died on one of his missions, and Sirius would never have had the chance to see his brother again? To know that he was still breathing, still... there ? The thought twisted her stomach into knots.

 

"Will it be dangerous?" she asked suddenly, before she could stop herself.

 

The question startled something in him. He tilted his head slightly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. It felt almost rehearsed, like he was playing a part. "Since when do you worry about my safety, Potter?"

 

She flushed, but quickly crossed her arms, trying to adopt a contrary stance. "I worry about everyone under my roof."

 

He looked at her then, really looked, and something in his expression softened, almost imperceptibly.

 

"I'll be fine."

 

And it was absurd, how much those words felt like a promise, as if they were meant to reassure her, even when she knew better.

 

Even though she knew he presumably detested her — saw her as nothing more than a nuisance, a blood traitor.

 

She swallowed, nodded once, and then retreated down the hallway.

 

---

 

A knock echoed through the cottage just after the sun had slipped beyond the horizon, casting long golden shadows across the floorboards. She opened the door and found Fabian Prewett on her stoop, smiling lopsidedly, one hand braced against the doorframe.

 

"Evening, trouble," he said, his eyes bright as he looked down at her.

 

Esme laughed, stepping aside. "You're early."

 

He sauntered in, casting a quick glance around. "Moody suggested I not be late." He shrugged nonchalantly, turning to face her. "Though 'suggest' is a strong word — more like a vague threat wrapped in a command."

 

Esme shot a glance down the hall before meeting his eyes again. "Well, he should be out soon."

 

Fabian pulled a face. “Imagine my surprise when Dumbledore told me  Esme Potter  was harboring a Death Eater. Quite the shock, I must say. I thought,  surely  not my Esme. She has taste. Standards.”

 

"Reformed." Esme corrected, shifting on her feet with a sly smile. "And no, not your Esme."

 

"Ouch." Fabian gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. "That stings, love." He leaned against the kitchen counter, looking far too comfortable. "But still," he added with a wink, "you always did have a thing for fixing the broken. Guess some habits die hard."

 

Esme didn’t know what to say to that.

 

She’d told Regulus she wasn’t trying to fix him — had said it plainly, like she meant it. And yet, she was the one who nudged him out into the sunlight, who insisted he breathe fresh air, who made tea like it could somehow soften the sharp edges of everything he'd done.

 

She shook the thought from her head, hard.

 

She had to remember: he wasn’t sunshine and second chances. He wasn’t some broken boy waiting to be redeemed with scones and clean sheets. He had likely committed  atrocities . Helped ruin lives. Maybe even ended them.

 

No amount of sunlight could scrub that kind of blood off.

 

"You look good," he said after a moment. "Happier than I expected."

 

Esme tried to look annoyed, but the grin tugging at her lips betrayed her.

 

She nudged him with her elbow, rolling her eyes. "You saw me a few weeks ago, Fab," she joked. "Did you expect me to be miserable or something?"

 

Fabian raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

 

"Well, after breaking my heart? I thought you'd be a wreck." He winked.

 

Just as she went to respond, a clearing of a throat cut through the air, snapping both of their heads toward the hallway. Regulus stood there, his posture casual but his gaze sharp.

 

Esme blushed, standing a little taller and smoothing her hands down the skirt of her dress. She hadn’t heard him leave his room.

 

His eyes flickered from Esme to Fabian, lingering briefly before he spoke, his tone flat. "Prewett."

 

"Black," Fabian replied, his voice more cheerful now, though not quite as much as before. Esme could tell it was more for show than anything. "You ready for our date?" he added, flashing a grin.

 

Regulus scoffed, but Fabian only turned to Esme, a grin spreading across his face. "A kiss for good luck?"

 

Esme swatted at him lightly, but her eyes softened. "Try not to kill each other."

 

Fabian leaned down, pressing a gentle, familiar kiss to her cheek, his voice low and teasing. "You know where to find me if he tries."

 

Esme blushed, snorting softly. Her eyes flickered to Regulus, who stood cold and distant — behind his walls, as usual.

 

Regulus said nothing, but his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned toward the door. As they walked toward the boundary in the soft dusk, Esme stayed on the porch, watching. Regulus, begrudgingly, offered his arm for Fabian to take. With a final glance in her direction, they disappeared with a crack, leaving Esme alone in the fading light.

 

---

 

Hours had slipped by, and still no sign of Fabian or Regulus.

 

Esme glanced at the clock again, even though she already knew she’d be late if she didn’t leave now. Whatever Fabian had taken Regulus off to do — or confess — clearly wasn’t something that could be wrapped up in time for the Order meeting.

 

She dressed quickly, tugging on a pair of worn-in Muggle jeans and an old band t-shirt she'd stolen from Sirius ages ago. The hem was jagged where she’d cut it to fit her smaller frame, sleeves nearly falling off her shoulders. She slung her wizarding robes over the top.

 

Her eyes flicked to the kitchen table. For a moment, she thought about scribbling a note. Something simple. At the meeting. Back later. But the idea felt strange, too intentional — like acknowledging him was some kind of admission. Too familiar. Too soft.

 

She hovered a second longer, then shook her head.

 

He’d survive.

 

She bounded to the boundary line and, with a sharp crack, Apparated to the remote location of tonight’s Order meeting.

 

The safe house stood half-swallowed by trees, its windows dark, the only sign of life a faint flicker of light behind thick curtains. Esme strode up the uneven stone path, glancing both ways over her shoulder. The silence here was heavy, the kind that made your heart beat louder in your chest.

 

At the door, she pulled out her wand and tapped it against the wood in the specific rhythm of their security code. Security had to be airtight. If even one Order member was captured and tortured for information, the entire operation could unravel. The last thing they needed was a Death Eater slipping through the cracks and attending a meeting.

 

Once the door clicked open and she stepped inside, she barely made it past the threshold before—

 

“Esme!”

 

Her name rang out in a familiar bark of joy. Before she could blink, arms wrapped tightly around her, sweeping her clean off her feet and spinning her through the air like she weighed nothing.

 

The scent hit her instantly — leather and cheap cigarettes. She let out a breathless laugh, surprised but not displeased, clutching instinctively at his shoulders until he set her gently back on solid ground. Sirius grinned down at her, all gray eyes and wild hair. Merlin, he and Regulus looked so similar, especially now that Regulus had allowed his hair to grow long.

 

His hands settled on her upper arms as he took half a step back to look her over.

 

"You've had Prongs crawling the walls," he said, tilting his head, the mischief in his eyes tempered by a flicker of concern. "Floo calls going unanswered? Thought you'd been spirited away."

 

Esme scoffed, amused, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "Yes, yes, I've already had the lecture from James and Lily, thank you very much."

 

"Still doesn’t mean you’re off the hook." He gave her a pointed look, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "You’d gone full recluse. And here I thought I was the family disgrace."

 

She smirked. “Give me time.”'

 

His smile faltered slightly. “You doing alright out there? Living alone? Prongs said you're under the Fidelius, but still…”

 

“I’m fine,” she said lightly. “Promise.”

 

He studied her for another moment, like he wasn’t fully convinced, but nodded, letting it go.

 

She loved these boys. Sirius, Remus, Peter. When James had introduced her to them her first year, they’d taken to her right away, and she to them. They were chaos and loyalty and endless laughter. They were her family.

 

And the thought that she was keeping something so big from Sirius — Sirius — tore her apart. But she didn’t have time to dwell on it now.

 

Sirius let his hands drop from her arms and opened his leather jacket, revealing a small bottle of firewhiskey tucked into the inside pocket. 

 

“Come on. Marlene and Remus are already inside. I’ll make you a drink before the meeting starts.”

 

Esme grinned, her eyes lighting up. “This is why I love you.”

 

Sirius grinned back and slung an arm around her shoulders, warm and familiar. “Good. Because I’m not enduring another meeting with Alastor Moody sober, and I’ll be damned if I do it alone.”

 

She stepped into the living room, where firelight danced across worn wood and shadows, wrapping the space in a flickering warmth. The low murmur of conversation rose and fell, a quiet hum of familiar voices.

 

Esme spotted Remus sitting near the hearth, a book half-forgotten in his lap, his eyes lighting with a tender but pleased smile when he saw her.

 

“Esme,” he said, standing slowly. He pulled her into a gentle hug, warm and unhurried.

 

She leaned into the scratchy knit of his sweater, the scent of old books and something herbal clinging to him. “You too,” she murmured. “You look like you haven’t slept in a month.”

 

He huffed a quiet laugh near her temple. “That’s because I haven’t.”

 

Esme frowned, concern knitting her brow. "You doing okay?"

 

Remus gave a small shrug, his eyes flicking away. That said enough .

 

She knew the dangerous work the Order had him involved in — tracking werewolf packs, attempting to win them over. The reception was rarely warm, and with each passing year, the full moon seemed to wear on him more. It tore at her to see sweet, kind-hearted Remus shouldering such a burden.

 

Before she could say anything, a familiar voice rang out from behind her.

“Look , it’s two of my favorite people—”

 

“Oi!” Sirius called out, already turning. “What about me?”

 

James laughed, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

 

“I said two of my favorite people, Pads. Not my top two.”

 

Sirius scoffed, over-dramatic. “I see how it is. Years of friendship, and I’m cast aside like last week’s Prophet.”

 

James clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Exactly. You’re yesterday’s news.”

 

Esme grinned, shaking her head. "You two are insufferable together."

 

Sirius opened his mouth to protest while James ruffled her hair, when a flash of blonde caught her eye, and before she could contain herself, yelled , "Marls!"

 

Marlene’s head whipped toward her, a wide smile spreading across her face as she crossed the room in quick strides . "Essie!" she called back, her voice bright. She pulled Esme into a hug. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in… Merlin, it feels like ages.”

 

“Over a month, I think,” Esme answered.

 

But a month was a lifetime in war. People vanished in days — names crossed off lists, bodies never found. Every reunion felt like waking from a nightmare you weren't sure you'd survive. You learned to grip your joy tightly, because it might be grief by morning. Seeing a familiar face wasn’t just relief, it was a small miracle.

 

The scent hit Esme the second Marlene stepped close — firewhiskey, unmistakable. Sirius had gotten to her too , then. Typical. She almost laughed, but it came out as a crooked smile instead.

 

Marlene had been her best friend back at Hogwarts, before the world tilted off its axis. Before Order meetings replaced Hogsmeade weekends, and watching your back became more instinct than habit. Back when things were stupidly, wonderfully simple — sharing beds in the dorms , whispering about crushes, sneaking sweets into the library.

 

Now they reeked of smoke and liquor, wore exhaustion like armor, and saw each other in fragments between missions. But even like this — bloodshot eyes, melancholic smile — Marlene was here. Alive. And that was enough for Esme to let the smile linger.

 

“You staying out of trouble?” Esme asked, a small smirk playing on her lips, though concern lingered in her eyes. “I worry about you, writing those articles.”

 

Marlene reported the truth about the war, cutting through the propaganda spread by Voldemort’s followers. It was a rare relief to see honesty in print, even though speaking out put her life at risk.

 

Esme leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “I’m sure Voldemort’s caught wind of you by now.”

 

Marlene shrugged, completely unfazed. “Good. Fuck him. Someone has to say what no one else will.”

 

It grounded Esme, seeing Marlene still so unapologetically herself. 

 

“I know what you mean,” Esme said, her tone even but threaded with quiet frustration. "Everyone treats him like some untouchable legend, like saying his name will summon him. But I say it. Voldemort . He’s not a god, he’s just an asshole with too many followers.”

 

Marlene looked at her for a beat, then broke into a grin, equal parts pride and something that looked a little like awe.“Merlin, I missed you,” she said, eyes a bit shinier than before. “Still the only person I know who can curse out Voldemort and make it sound poetic.”

 

Esme gave a lopsided smile, but her jaw stayed set. The anger wasn’t loud, but it was deep. Worn-in. “I just—” she started, then stopped, searching for the words. “I hate how we’re all supposed to pretend he’s bigger than he is. Like just saying his name will make him show up and strike us down. That’s how he wins, by making us too afraid to speak, too scared to fight.”

 

"Well, I'm not afraid," Marlene said, lifting her chin, eyes glinting. She turned toward Sirius. "Oi, Black — you still got the liquor?"

 

Sirius blinked, then grinned as he fished the firewhiskey from his jacket. "You got a plan, McKinnon?"

 

" In fact, I do." Marlene marched to the couch, yanked off a few throw pillows, and with a sharp flick of her wand, transfigured the fabric into solid glass shot glasses — neat, symmetrical, and gleaming.

 

James let out a low whistle. "McGonagall would be horrified. And impressed."

 

Sirius chuckled, pouring firewhiskey into each glass. He handed them out with dramatic flair.

 

Marlene lifted her glass with a wicked grin. “To Voldemort going and fucking himself.”

 

Esme snorted, warmth curling in her chest. She raised hers too . “And to fear dying before we do.”

 

For a heartbeat, the room went still — just a flash of surprise — and then laughter burst out of all of them, loud and unfiltered.

 

They chorused, and the shots went down in one.

 

“Well, damn,” came a familiar voice from behind the boys. Fabian Prewett stepped into the room, eyebrows raised and a lopsided grin on his face . “Last time I'm late for an Order meeting.”

 

Esme’s eyes widened slightly. Apparently, whatever little rendezvous Regulus and Fabian were wrapped up in was over.

 

“You’re here!” Esme blurted, and then, just as quickly, realized how obvious it was that he should be here — he was an Order member, after all. Unless he’d been caught up with Auror business, he was almost always present.

 

But sweet, sweet Fabian quickly covered for her slip. “Of course. Moody said only the most attractive members were allowed tonight. Couldn't miss it,” he said with a mischievous wink before turning to James. “I’m surprised they let you in with that mop on your head.”

 

James gave him an exaggerated, mock-offended look. "Oi, watch it, Prewett. I’m still not over what you did."

 

Fabian raised his hands in defense, clearly bewildered. "Mate, she dumped me ! Why are you still harping on about this?"

 

James arched an eyebrow. "Well, you must've done something to make her dump you."

 

Esme didn’t have time to step in before Moody stormed in, his voice a low growl. "Chop chop! War doesn’t wait just because you lot want to chit-chat."

 

Instantly, the room fell silent. They all gathered around the large table in the dining room, which was seamlessly attached to the living room.

 

Moody’s piercing gaze swept over them as he spoke. "To start, there’s been a defection," he announced, his voice gruff. Moody wasn't one for wasting time. "And they’ve got crucial information — information that’s allowing us to uncover Voldemort’s weaknesses."

 

A sudden, uneasy shift passed through the room, a rustle of discomfort spreading through the gathering. 

 

“Who? ” asked a wizard sharply. Esme recognized him at once — Benji Fenwick.

 

Moody let out a low, guttural grunt, his scarred face set like stone. His magical eye spun fiercely in its socket, locking on each person in turn like a predator surveying prey.

 

“Top secret,” he growled, the words clipped and cold. “But I’m telling you because you need to understand — something’s changing. There’s movement in the dark. The tide of this war might finally be turning. And if we’re smart, we use it.”

 

A murmur of protests rippled through the room.

 

“Top secret?” Fenwick’s voice rang out again, incredulous now. “You expect us to place blind trust in someone from his ranks? What if this is just another one of You-Know-Who’s games, feeding us lies wrapped in truth?”

 

“This is madness, Moody!” called another voice, younger, sharper — Meredith Finch, the hot-headed witch from the Department of Mysteries. “How are we to know this isn’t a trap? We deserve to know who this informant is. At the very least, we should take a vote!”

 

“Enough!” Moody snapped, his voice like cracked stone. “We’re bleeding out in this war, and every second wasted on doubt puts more names on headstones. If you want your families to have a future, any future, you’ll trust the plan. No more debate.”

 

He swept the room with a hard glare, then turned brusquely. “Now, onto the next order of business.”

 

Moody turned his attention to a stack of papers on the table, his expression darkening further as he dug through the pile. "We’ve got fresh intel on the Death Eater movement near Hogsmeade," he growled. “It’s a bloody mess. And I don’t need to remind anyone what happens if we let them slip through again. Get your heads out of the sand.”

 

Esme’s attention drifted, her thoughts a thousand miles away from the heated discussion at the table. Regulus. It was a relief his true identity was still under wraps — at least for now . The fewer who knew, the better. But even so, the weight of the situation gnawed at her.

 

She could feel the eyes on Sirius — always on Sirius . The whispers, the doubts. Even now, some in the Order looked at him as if they expected him to turn tail at any moment and run back to his blood purist family. It was sickening, but she understood. In their eyes, he was just one step away from the enemy. It didn’t matter that he had proven himself time and time again.

 

And then there was Regulus. They would never trust him. Not after everything he’d been — a Black, a Slytherin, a Death Eater. To them, the line between Regulus and Sirius was a chasm. No matter the truth, no matter what had happened after, the Order would never see Regulus as anything but a traitor. The Order would never fully trust a man born to that name.

 

When the meeting finally wound down , assignments were handed out with the usual flurry of activity.

 

"I can't believe there's another defector," Sirius muttered, arms crossed, eyes flicking toward the now-empty hallway. "Makes you wonder what's happening in their ranks — if they're really turning. If we can even trust it."

 

James frowned. "I don’t. Whoever they are, something feels off. You really believe they'd risk everything for us? Especially with Voldemort hunting anyone who dares to defy him?

 

Esme chewed on her lip, exchanging a glance with Fabian. As far as she knew, only four people were aware of Regulus: herself, Dumbledore, Moody, and Fabian. Fabian only knew because , apparently, he’d been assigned to help with the Horcrux hunt — he was an Auror, after all.

 

But hearing her brother say he didn’t trust the defector — what would he do when he found out Regulus had been under Esme’s roof this entire time?

 

Esme lingered by the door, catching James on his way out. He was already halfway into his coat, moving with the kind of urgency that came from knowing someone was waiting on the other side. He and Lily took turns attending these gatherings — one always with Harry, hidden under the Fidelius, safe for now.

 

"Give Lil a hug for me," she said softly, pulling him into a tight embrace.

 

"I will," he replied, his voice a little strained. "But you promise you'll come by again soon?"

 

She pulled back slightly, her hands lingering on his shoulders, her gaze soft but insistent. "I will."

 

James wrapped up his goodbyes and left, the door clicking shut behind him. Esme turned to Marlene and Remus, exchanging quick farewells before her gaze shifted to Sirius.

 

"Hey," she began, her voice quieter now, "did Peter ever show up?"

 

Sirius glanced around the room, his eyes briefly scanning. When he found nothing, he shrugged, his shoulders stiff. "You know how he is," he replied, "Poor bloke, this war's got him twitchy. More than usual, even."

 

Esme frowned, the worry creeping in. It wasn’t like Peter to miss an Order meeting. He was always here, usually front and center, listening to every word.

 

When Esme noticed Fabian lingering by the door, she leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Sirius' cheek. "I’ll see you later, yeah?" she said, her eyes flicking back to Fabian.

 

Sirius glanced behind him, noticing what had caught Esme’s attention. When he saw Fabian loitering, his eyes quickly swung back to Esme, his eyebrows raised in silent question.

 

Esme rolled her eyes with a small smile, clearly unimpressed by the scrutiny. “Relax,” she said lightly, brushing past him and heading toward Fabian.“Hey.”

 

Fabian’s grin was instant. “Didn’t think I was lucky enough to be on your radar again.”

 

Esme gave a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Still laying it on thick, I see.”

 

“Only for you.”

 

She nudged him playfully with her shoulder, lowering her voice. "How'd it go?"

 

The charm in Fabian’s expression didn’t disappear, but something more serious flickered underneath. “Merlin, Esme… I don’t know how you live with the lad. He’s…”

 

Fabian trailed off, searching for the right word, but Esme was already frowning.

 

Regulus wasn’t exactly easy to read, sure — quiet, maybe a little brooding — but he hadn’t been outright difficult. Not with her, at least. After his week of near-complete silence, he’d been… surprisingly decent. Even polite. The other day, he’d been almost cordial, offering to make her tea and casually asking for the newspaper.

 

Esme deliberately ignored the fact that Regulus knew exactly how she took her tea.

 

“I mean, I’ve seen walls with more warmth,” Fabian added, softer this time, like he wasn’t trying to be cruel — just honest.

 

Esme smiled faintly, her voice laced with a thread of hope “But he… he helped, right? I mean, you’re getting closer to figuring out the things, aren’t you?”

 

She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening — just the usual low murmur of conversations among the other Order members, too absorbed in their own business to notice her.

 

Turning back to Fabian, she lowered her voice. “You two… have a plan?”

 

Fabian’s expression shifted — still light, but there was a subtle wariness behind his eyes now . “Calling it a plan might be generous,” he muttered. “More like… a temporary truce, where we try not to kill each other while we figure it out.”

 

Esme tilted her head, waiting him out.

 

Fabian sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Look, he’s giving us real information. That much I’ll admit. But talking to him is like trying to negotiate with a locked door. Smart, sure. Cold as bloody January. It’s like he’s helping because he’s already decided how it ends, and it’s not with him sticking around.”

 

Esme frowned. That didn’t sound quite right. Regulus had been reserved, yes — but he wasn’t distant in the same way anymore . Not with her. He had started asking questions. Saying thank you. Making tea, once. Small things, but they’d stuck.

 

“He’s not so cold,” she said quietly. “Not always.”

 

Fabian studied her for a second, one brow lifting. “You’re seeing something the rest of us don’t, then.”

 

Esme didn’t answer right away.

 

She watched a bit of dust float in the shaft of light cutting across the corridor, thinking. Regulus wasn’t warm — notexactly — but there had been a gentleness there, quiet and unspoken. She’d felt it in the way he moved around her, the way he listened. The small hesitations. The effort.

 

Until she shut him out, she supposed.

 

Until she saw that newspaper headline.

 

Until she let herself really wonder about what he’d done before he defected.

 

The images in print were stark — names, faces, wreckage. Headlines blurred together, but the weight of it all settled like stone in her chest. Her parents’ gravestones flickered through her mind.

 

He had been a Death Eater for four years. Four years he could have walked away. Four years he could have chosen differently. She needed to remember that. Needed to remember his sins.

 

She drew a slow breath, steadying herself.

 

“How’d you get wrapped up in this, anyway?” she asked, then glanced over her shoulder again, just to be sure no one was listening. Her voice lowered. “I didn’t think you’d be the type to know much about… dark objects.”

 

Fabian gave a crooked grin, leaning against the wall with a shrug. “I’ve encountered a few here and there during Auror missions. And Moody trusts me because of the Order.” He added with a hint of amusement, “Besides, you’d be amazed what you learn when you’re forced to deal with dark magic all the time.”

 

Esme raised an eyebrow, her tone dripping with playful teasing. “Moody trusts you?”

 

Fabian’s grin widened, though it was a little self-aware. “It’s a miracle , really . I’m not exactly the poster child for responsible behavior. But when it comes to the job... well, I’m good at getting results.”

 

Then, as if the thought struck him again, he gave a slight, dismissive shake of the head . “Still don’t get how Black suddenly decided to be useful. The whole thing smells funny to me.”

 

Esme’s expression softened, just a little. “Maybe he’s just... trying to make up for it.”

 

Fabian scoffed lightly, a trace of cynicism in his voice. “Or maybe he’s just trying to get himself in with the right crowd before the whole thing blows up in his face.”

 

Esme tried to hide her frown, her thoughts flickering quickly. The last thing she needed was for anyone to think she was a Death Eater sympathizer — even though she knew Fabian would never think badly of her. Not after… well, never mind.

 

She straightened up, forcing her expression to stay neutral. “Yeah, maybe.”

 

As she walked outside, past the boundary of the Order’s temporary headquarters, Esme’s mind lingered on Fabian’s words about Regulus switching sides — maybe just to secure some insurance when the war was over.

 

But that didn’t sit right with her. He had to have known that the Order never would’ve had a chance if they didn’t learn about the Horcruxes. The knowledge he’d provided had been crucial. So that couldn’t have been his real motive, could it?

 

And the scars… they told their own story. Retrieving the Horcrux had cost him something — physically, visibly. A quiet kind of suffering etched into skin and silence.

 

If Voldemort had found out what he’d done… he wouldn’t have just killed him. He would have made an example of him.

 

That mattered. She knew it did. But still — scars didn’t erase sins. And sacrifice didn’t equal redemption. Not yet.

 

She furrowed her brow, the cool night air brushing against her face as she walked. Fabian’s cynicism echoed in her mind, a sharp counterpoint to the hesitant trust she’d started to place in Regulus. But the more she thought about it, the more she wondered — could he really be helping for something as cold and calculating as insurance?

 

Esme sighed, frustration creeping in. The truth seemed just out of reach, like a fog she couldn’t quite clear away.

 

With a flick of her wrist, she raised her wand, and the familiar sensation of magic enveloped her as she prepared to Apparate. But even as the world around her began to spin, her thoughts remained tangled in uncertainty.

Chapter 7: accusations

The next several days slipped by in a golden blur, warm summer days melting into cricket-filled nights. July faded, and August arrived, heavy with heat and humming with the quiet pulse of a war waiting to be won.

 

Seeing her friends again had loosened something in Esme. It filled her with a kind of conviction, a quiet urgency: they had to end this. Soon.

 

She couldn’t go on like this, haunted by the dread that each goodbye might be the last. That the war might sweep through her circle of friends, leaving nothing but death in its wake.

 

Fabian had stopped by once in the past four days to collect Regulus. It was strange, watching them together, like two sides of a coin that had no business sharing the same pocket. Fabian, tall, bright-eyed, a little reckless. All charm and easy smiles, handsome in a golden, familiar way.

 

And Regulus, also tall, but in contrast, dark and sharp-edged. Brooding. Serious. When he spoke, it was deliberate, and his words carried weight. Beautifully handsome, in a way that still made Esme’s chest ache, an ache she'd grown used to, though she tried not to let it.

 

The two men were opposites in every imaginable way.

 

And yet, Esme found herself almost unwillingly drawn to Regulus, that quiet, haunting kind of beauty that lingered. There was something in the way he carried himself, like he was always bracing for the world to turn on him. It drew the eye. Hers, at least.

 

Inconvenient, idiotic hormones. And the war, always the war, acted as a catalyst for loneliness. Regulus was near, and he was handsome. Of course she felt a certain pull. That was what war did, wasn’t it? It made people reach for whatever connection they could find, anything to hold the fear at bay.

 

Merlin, it had been nearly a year since her relationship with Fabian ended, and she certainly hadn’t entertained any sort of male attention since.

 

She was twenty. This was fine. Hormones were normal. Entirely out of her control, really.

 

And yet… she caught herself watching him sometimes.

 

Not on purpose, of course. Just… in passing. When he moved through the kitchen in the quiet hours of morning, hair tousled, sleeves pushed up, The Prophet in one hand. He always looked so serious then, brow drawn in thought, older than his twenty-one years. It wasn’t intentional, the way her eyes lingered, but it happened all the same.

 

It wasn’t infatuation. It was curiosity, perhaps even war-warped loneliness. She was allowed that, wasn’t she?

 

Besides, he hardly looked at her. Not in any way that counted. Their conversations were brief, functional, exchanges of information, polite acknowledgments, the occasional nod across the room. Whatever flicker might’ve once existed between them had long since gone cold.

 

And that was for the best.

 

Because no matter how careful he was now, no matter how composed or quietly helpful or impossibly, heartbreakingly beautiful he might be, he was still Regulus Black.

 

---

 

Esme lay stretched out on a towel beneath the sun, a wide, floppy hat resting over her face. Dappled shadows from the lemon tree flickered across her skin as a warm breeze drifted lazily through the garden. It was properly warm, the kind of comforting, golden heat that felt rare these days, and she had no intention of wasting it.

 

She might’ve dozed off if not for the sudden, strange choking sound that shattered the stillness.

 

Esme sat up abruptly, pushing the hat back and squinting against the sunlight. Her gaze snapped to the porch.

 

Regulus stood there, frozen, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, the picture of utter horror.

 

Her heart stumbled. “What?” she asked, pulse quickening. “Has something happened?”

 

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her a beat too long before finally managing, his voice strained. “You’re… I—what… what are you wearing?”

 

Then, dramatically, he slapped a hand over his eyes, though not before peeking once. Then again.

 

Esme looked down and promptly felt a full-body blush rise hot and fast, creeping up her neck and settling in her cheeks like fire.

 

Merlin.

 

After so much time spent with Lily, she’d almost forgotten what pureblood boys like Regulus weren’t used to. Definitelynot bikinis. Not even remotely.

 

To him, she probably looked like she was lounging in her bra and knickers in broad daylight, under a lemon tree, no less.

 

Her voice came out sharper than intended, mostly to cover the heat in her face. “It’s a swimsuit , Regulus. Not a scandal.”

 

He didn’t uncover his eyes fully, just peeked again, fingers parted slightly. “It’s barely a swimsuit,” he muttered. “You could’ve warned me.”

 

She let out a breath, half laugh, half exasperation. “Warned you? I didn’t think I needed to! You never come outside. I figured you’d be safely brooding in your room, like usual, you absolute prat!”

 

Regulus lowered his hand just enough to give her a withering look, though the tips of his ears were unmistakably red.

 

“I don’t brood,” he said, stiffly. “I think.”

 

Esme snorted, dropping back onto her towel with a dramatic sigh. “You think so hard you’ve nearly worn a path into the floorboards. I’m surprised the porch didn’t collapse under the weight of all that deep thought.”

 

He hesitated at the edge of the steps, clearly unsure if he should retreat or stay, and equally unsure of where to look.

 

Finally, he said, “You didn’t answer the question.”

 

“What question?”

 

“What you’re wearing.”

 

“I told you. It’s a swimsuit.” She lifted her sunglasses with one finger and raised an eyebrow at him. “People wear them in summer. Shocking, I know.”

 

Regulus muttered something that sounded suspiciously like barbaric custom and looked pointedly at the lemon tree.

 

She grinned, despite herself. “You know, for someone who’s been through hell, you’re surprisingly delicate.”

 

He glanced back at her then, something flickering behind his expression, wry, but not unkind.

 

“I’m not delicate,” he said, though she caught the slight hesitation in his eyes “I just… well, you’re a pureblood.”

 

“Tread carefully, Black,” Esme warned, her voice low and sharp.

 

He sighed with exaggerated drama and stepped down from the porch.

 

“Relax,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not having a go at Muggles, though I didn’t realize you were quite so invested in their fashion sense.”

 

Esme bit her lip, giving a casual shrug.

 

“My sister-in-law is Muggle-born,” she said. “And some pureblood fashion? It’s hopelessly outdated.”

 

A soft rustling signaled his approach, and the air around her seemed to still.

 

Opening her eyes just enough to peer over her sunglasses, she saw him standing there, his posture rigid. He was staring at the ground, hands shoved in his pockets, but his presence was heavier than usual, more uncertain.

 

Regulus walked toward the orange tree, his movements deliberate as he selected the ripest fruit. After a moment’s consideration, he plucked it from the branch with a practiced hand, the skin giving way with a soft snap . He began peeling it, slowly, almost meditative, the fresh citrus scent filling the air.

 

There was no mistaking it. His eyes swept over her, from the exposed skin of her legs, to the curve of her waist, lingering on her bare shoulders before he finally shifted his focus back to the fruit in his hands. It wasn’t crude, nothing about Regulus was ever that obvious, but the way his eyes held a quiet, appraising intensity made her pulse quicken for a moment.

 

Her skin prickled, her body humming in response, and she almost cursed herself for it. Hormones, she reminded herself sharply, trying to keep her mind in check.

 

She cursed herself inwardly, not for the first time, for letting her thoughts wander like this.

 

It wasn’t until he spoke that she snapped back to reality.

 

"Here."

 

Esme looked up, startled, and found him standing just a few feet away, offering her half of the orange. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but there was a subtle softness in his gesture that caught her off guard.

 

"Uh," she hesitated, trying to suppress a smile. "You’re offering me your fruit now?"

 

Regulus didn’t say anything for a moment, just held it there. Finally, his lips twitched into the smallest of smirks. "You’re not that hard up, are you?"

 

She rolled her eyes but took the offered fruit anyway, juice from its ripe flesh running down her fingers.

 

“What happened?” Esme asked, raising a brow. “You barely said a word when you got here and now you’re making me tea and handing me fruit like we’re old friends?”

 

Regulus was silent for a long moment, eyes on the horizon. Then he shrugged, slow and almost reluctant.

 

“It was an adjustment,” he said at last. “Coming here after…” He trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish. She knew what he meant. After the Death Eaters. After him .

 

He looked up toward the sky, letting the sunlight wash over his face. It caught on his cheekbones and softened the ever-present shadows beneath his eyes. The sight struck her in a way she hadn’t expected, something about it was oddly endearing.

 

No, she warned herself. No. Bad girl. Do not romanticize the haunted ex–Death Eater.

 

But the warmth in her chest lingered stubbornly.

 

She recalled what Sirius and James had said, their distrust of his defection. Fabian’s quiet warnings echoed in her mind. Doubt gnawed at her. Was she a fool for falling for these subtle kindnesses, allowing them to fluster her? Was he toying with her, treating this like a game? What was the purpose, was he simply bored... or cruel?

 

She popped another segment of orange into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully, the taste suddenly a bit too sweet. “I’m surprised you’d bother sharing fruit with a blood traitor,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

 

Regulus froze.

 

His whole body stilled, tension rippling through his frame like a drawn bowstring. Esme’s stomach dropped. She hadn’t meant to say it, not really. But the thought had lingered at the edge of her mind since he arrived. Had his beliefs truly changed or was this just insurance? Was he playing her, softening her up with tea and fruit?

 

She opened her mouth to backtrack, to defuse it with a joke, but he spoke before she could.

 

“I don’t think you’re a blood traitor,” he said, quietly. Carefully. Like he knew how precarious the words were between them.

 

Well, his friends certainly did back in school, the Slytherins with their tilted chins and air of superiority. How could he not have absorbed some of that? He had spent enough time around them, how could he not think the same?

 

“No?” Esme asked, voice soft but pointed. “When did that change?”

 

His jaw tightened, the muscles there clenching as if to hold something back. “I… I’m not sure what Sirius has told you about me, but—”

 

“He said you were like your parents,” she cut in. “That you believed in all that pure-blood superiority. That you practically worshipped the idea of it.”

 

Gods, why couldn’t she just stop? She cursed herself, but it was the truth and it gnawed at her. She’d always believed him to be a blood purist. When had that changed? Had it changed?

 

Regulus shut his eyes briefly, as if the words stung more than he wanted to admit. “I didn’t—” He stopped, then inhaled sharply, grounding himself. “It was easier to play along,” he said finally, each word sounding like it had been pulled from somewhere deep and reluctant.

 

Her body rejected the explanation before it even formed. Her mind raced through memories of the cruelty, the sneering Slytherins, the ruthless Death Eaters. Mary after Mulciber had gone after her viciously...

 

The thought stabbed sharp, igniting a cold fury deep inside.

 

Esme scoffed, sharp and incredulous. “Play along?” Her voice rose just enough to make him flinch. “What, does your tattoo wash off? Because I don’t think ‘playing along’ gets you branded with that .”

 

Regulus’s jaw flexed, a muscle ticking at the side of his face. His eyes cut down to hers, hard and unflinching. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he said, low, almost a growl.

 

Her head jerked back slightly. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, sitting up fully now. He was standing over her, and for the first time since this strange arrangement had begun, she felt the smallest flash of worry. He didn’t have his wand — thank Merlin — but the way he loomed, the anger barely held in check… It made something cold slip down her spine.

 

For a heartbeat, she saw him not as the quiet houseguest who made tea and peeled oranges, but as someone who could have belonged to that side. Who had. And not just on paper.

 

His expression darkened. “It means,” he said slowly, voice brittle with control, “that when you grow up in that world,when you survive in it, you learn to say what they want to hear. You learn to keep your mouth shut. You become what they expect. Or you end up dead before you’re seventeen.”

 

That was just a fucking excuse, Esme thought bitterly. A weak attempt to shield himself from the truth.

 

“Yeah? Well Sirius isn’t dead, is he?” Esme snapped, rising to her feet now, the forgotten orange slipping from her fingers. The air between them crackled. “He ran away. He left . He was brave. ”

 

“ Sirius was stupid, ” Regulus shot back, eyes blazing. “They let him go because he didn’t matter. He ran and got to be the golden fucking rebel while I was still trapped in that goddamn mausoleum of a house alone. If he had been the only son, they would’ve dragged him back by the throat. You think they would’ve let me leave?”

 

He laughed — sharp, bitter, humorless.

 

“I was the heir. The last hope. There was no way out for me. Not really. Not unless I pretended. Not unless I waited. You think I wanted the fucking Mark? You think I didn’t know what it meant?”

 

He took a step forward, not threatening, but furious. “I found my own way out. One that might actually change something. One that matters. And all anyone ever sees is him. Sirius, the brave one. Playing house with you Potters while I was crawling through hell with a target on my back. But sure. Let’s talk about how he was brave.”

 

His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. He was shaking now, breathing hard, fury practically radiating off him.

 

Esme had never seen him so open, so vulnerable. But Fabian’s words cut through the fog, how he’d only left the Death Eaters to secure an escape when it was all over. He didn't defect for the cause. He was looking for insurance.

 

She didn’t know how to feel, her mind and body at war. One part of her aching to understand him, to reach out and make sense of the pain he carried. The other part bristling with anger, ready to hurl accusations and blame.

 

“He was in the same house as you,” Esme said, her voice steady but sharp. “He didn’t just leave to escape your parents. He left because he despised it all, because he would have rather died than fight for Voldemort’s cause.”

 

“And you think I had a choice ?” he spat.

 

“I think you had time. Four years, Regulus. Four. How many people died while you were playing double agent for no one? Waiting for what — inspiration? ”

 

He snarled , stepping in close, teeth bared.

 

“Do you think it was easy figuring out those Horcruxes?” he spat. “They’re not just cursed objects, they’re dark fucking magic. I was trying to piece together the sickest magic the world’s ever seen while pretending I was loyal to him. While staying invisible to the most paranoid, violent monster alive.”

 

His voice was ragged now, furious and frayed.

 

“I watched people I knew get tortured. People I grew up with. Do you have any idea what that does to you?” He laughed, bitter and broken. “Voldemort didn’t just hand out secrets at the door, Potter. It took years to find even a clue. Just to guess where that locket was. And when I finally went after it—” His breath caught. “I almost died.”

 

He stepped back, shaking with the force of it, as if his own anger was too much to contain.

 

“You know, it’s real fucking convenient to talk about choices when you’re sitting on the outside,” he said coldly. “When you’re a pampered little princess with your friends and your brother and your Order safehouses. ”

Her face twisted, but he didn’t stop.

 

“It’s easy to judge from there. It’s easy to say you’d run, or fight, or be brave when you weren’t there. When he wasn’t there. So maybe think about that before you believe every lie Sirius feeds you like a fucking bedtime story.”

 

She couldn’t bring herself to turn around. Couldn’t watch as he stormed back into the house, footsteps hard against the wood, the screen door slamming behind him with a violent crack that made her flinch.

 

Silence fell heavy in the garden.

 

Esme stood there, frozen, the sun suddenly too warm on her skin, her breath caught somewhere in her chest. She felt… small . Small, and strangely hollow. But the anger was still there too, hot and simmering beneath the sting of his words.

 

Because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

 

She hadn’t been in that house. She didn’t know what it was like to grow up under that kind of pressure, to wear expectation like a noose. She’d admitted that before — to herself, in quiet moments when Regulus wasn’t looking. That she didn’t know. Not really.

 

And yet… she’d still believed she’d have made a different choice. That she would’ve rather died than take the Mark. That it would have been that simple.

 

But now… now she didn’t know.

 

Regulus hadn’t defected on a whim. He hadn’t switched sides in some dramatic last-minute redemption arc. He had been planning — slowly, carefully — for years. He had stayed behind enemy lines, trying to find a way not just out, but a way to end Voldemort altogether. And he’d nearly died for it.

 

Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. She didn’t want to feel sympathy. Didn’t want to understand.

 

But it was creeping in anyway.

 

And gods, that made her even angrier.

 

It was easy to see him in a certain light.

 

He was staying here after his defection. He had been a Death Eater. He had done terrible things. That part was simple — clean lines, black and white. It made her feel better, safer, to keep him in that box.

 

But it was harder to see him in other lights.

 

Harder to admit that maybe he wasn’t as awful as she had believed. That maybe someone could participate in horrible acts and not be entirely… lost. That one person could be both coward and survivor, both monster and something like a martyr.

 

That Regulus Black, with all his silence and scars and coldness, might not be altogether evil.

 

And maybe that was what scared her most.

 

Because if he wasn't just a villain… if he was something in between … what did that make her for still wanting to understand him?

 

Why did she even care?

 

What did forgiving him mean? What did it cost ?

 

Would understanding him be a betrayal of everyone who had died?

 

Regulus had defected, yes. And that mattered. It meant something. But what sins had he committed before that? What had he done in those years when he wore the Mark, when he was one of them ?

 

She didn’t know.

 

And worse, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

 

Because no matter what he said now, no matter how many times he insisted that he never believed in blood purity, that he had been planning his way out for years, none of that changed the fact that he had still participated.

 

Maybe not always willingly. Maybe under pressure. But he had worn the mask. He had stood among them. And if he had tortured… if he had killed …

 

Then what were his words, really?

 

Clever excuses? Shiny regret?

 

Or just a story he told himself to live with what he’d done?

 

Esme wrapped her arms around herself, her chest tight. He wasn’t asking for forgiveness, not outright. But he was here, in her home. Living in her space. Eating her food. Making her tea.

 

She didn’t know what to believe.

 

Didn’t know what to do .

 

She wished, more than anything, that she could go to her brother. Talk to him the way they used to, when things were simpler and right and there was no war to muddy it all. But she already knew what he would say. Knew the sound of his voice, certain and sharp: Regulus Black was a Death Eater. Their parents’ perfect puppet. A lost cause.

 

And in his mind, Regulus was dead .

 

The whole Order thought so. They had celebrated his death.

 

They’d raised glasses to it in safehouses and whispered relief behind closed doors when a Death Eater fell. One less snake to watch. One more link in Voldemort’s inner circle severed.

 

But he wasn’t dead.

 

He was here .

 

She didn’t know what part of Regulus’s words was truth, or who he really was at his core, but one thing was clear, she was starting to feel incredibly, painfully alone in it.

 

---

 

Esme was exhausted.

 

Her body ached with the kind of tired that settled deep, bone-tired, soul-tired, heart-tired. The night after their altercation, she hadn’t so much slept as existed in a state of restless half-consciousness, staring up at the ceiling as Regulus’s voice circled her thoughts like smoke: bitter, hurt, trembling with the weight of everything he had said.

 

And by morning, as the grey light bled through the curtains and the real world crept back in, she came to a conclusion, quiet, unsettling, and wholly uninvited:

 

She’d been wrong.

 

Not about  everything . But enough.

 

When he first came to live with her, she’d expected the worst of him. And why wouldn’t she? He bore the Mark. He camefrom that house. Sirius had painted him in the same colors as their parents, black and white and rigid, all cruel smiles and colder loyalties. What else could she possibly believe?

 

But now… now she couldn’t  unhear  the strain in his voice. The way anger had barely masked something rawer, something more fragile. Like fear. Like guilt. Like the kind of pain that came from being broken long before he’d even had a say in the matter.

 

He’d spoken like someone who hadn’t been offered a choice.

 

That’s what he’d been, probably. Trapped in a house with parents who would’ve rather buried him than see him turn his back on their twisted beliefs. He hadn’t been brave like Sirius, loud and defiant and impossible to ignore. No, Regulus had been something else.

 

Like he said, he hadn’t had a choice. If he’d stayed, they would’ve dragged him back in. So he found another way out. A way that just happened to bring down the darkest wizard the world had ever known.

 

And gods, that realization sat heavy in her chest.

 

He was just trying to escape. Abandoned. Alone.

 

And maybe that’s all he was. Not a monster. Not a martyr. Just a scared boy who’d been trapped long before he could ever escape.

 

Because she'd been so determined to keep her distance. To keep him at arm’s length and throw up walls of her own. It wasn’t vengeance, exactly, but something more personal. Like she was punishing him for who he  used  to be. For every cruel, arrogant, prejudiced boy she’d ever met who had once worn the same badge on his sleeve that Regulus had burned into his skin.

 

She’d convinced herself it was about accountability. That he needed to  feel  the weight of the past pressing down on him just like the rest of them. That he hadn’t earned kindness.

 

But deep down, she hadn’t really acknowledged that he  was  trying. That he’d already started.

 

Yes, he’d made mistakes. Unforgivable ones, maybe. But he was clawing his way back from them, step by brutal step.

 

So why couldn’t she let that count for something?

 

One thing was painfully clear: he was alone.

 

Isolated. Wandering the line between both sides, fully trusted by neither. And yet, he was  vital, a key to destroying Voldemort, and no one outside their tight circle even knew he was still alive.

 

And if the Order found out?

 

They wouldn’t thank him. They wouldn’t see the boy who tried to undo the damage, who risked everything to leave.

 

No. They’d burn him alive for ever being part of it in the first place.

 

And maybe, Esme thought bitterly, they wouldn't be entirely wrong.

 

But it didn’t make it fair .

 

She’d seen him. For a moment, she’d seen who he really was beneath all the masks and bitterness. And now she couldn’t unsee it.

 

No matter how much she might’ve wanted to.

 

She’d spent half the morning wrestling with whether or not she should apologize.

 

For Merlin’s sake, he’d offered her fruit, and she’d gone for his throat like some wild animal.

 

Definitely not her finest moment.

 

The truth was, he probably deserved a hell of a lot worse. But he also deserved something else — compassion .  And it was becoming painfully clear that no one else was going to offer it.

 

So maybe she would.

 

She realized how harshly she’d judged him, how she’d never taken the time to hear his side of the story. She’d condemned him for things she didn’t understand, accused him of cruelty without knowing if he’d ever truly had a choice. How he’d been trapped all along, caught in a cage she’d never imagined.

 

Now that he’d finally opened up, revealing the truth, a heavy wave of guilt washed over her. The weight of her assumptions settled deep in her chest, squeezing tight.

 

She felt awful, ashamed for the coldness in her heart.

 

She’d tried knocking on his door the next day. No answer. No movement. Not even the creak of floorboards or the rustle of fabric, just silence pressing in on the other side like a wall.

 

It felt like all the fragile progress they’d made had snapped clean in half, curling back in on itself. Like they were right back at the beginning, when he barely spoke and she barely cared.

 

Except now, he’d been here nearly a month.

 

And she  did  care. That was the problem.

 

The quiet behind the door wasn’t just avoidance. It felt like retreat. Like whatever flicker of trust had sparked between them had burned out overnight.

 

And maybe, Esme thought bitterly, that was her fault, too.

 

She hadn’t exactly expected him to be prancing about, skipping through the bloody kitchen whistling show tunes, but still, the silence felt like a slap after their argument. She’d hoped for something. A door creaking open. A look. The tiniest crack in the walls he always kept so tightly sealed.

 

Because she’d asked herself: what kind of person lets a Death Eater into their home and makes them tea? What kind of person accepts someone who risks everything to escape a cause they were trapped in, only to throw it back in their face? Who refuses to look past their mistakes? She’d tried, at first, but the questions kept bubbling up, the accusations Sirius had made. She’d been shocked when he’d asked her questions about her life, even more so when he offered to make tea.

 

She’d been judging him, expecting him to conform to the image she’d already created of him. She hadn’t seen him as a person, she’d been walking a tightrope, waiting for him to slip, to confirm her doubts. He’d turned his back on Voldemort, for Merlin’s sake, and yet here she was, accusing him of being just like his parents.

 

And yet, despite this newfound understanding, she couldn’t push away the nagging thought of what he might have done as a Death Eater. Had he inflicted unspeakable cruelty on innocent families? Because, in the end, there had been a choice. Esme would rather die than harm an innocent or torture them.

 

Could Regulus say the same?

Chapter 8: truce

Notes:

Sorry for the long break! Here's a longer chapter to make up for it!

Esme perched on a worn chair in the garden, her gaze soft but focused as the world around her came alive. Magic was a quiet companion, coaxing the summer sun to warm rather than scorch, helping her plants thrive in their wild, unruly beauty.

 

A small easel sat in front of her, the brush in her hand moving with the rhythm of the garden. She painted the peach tree, its branches heavy with plump, sun-kissed fruit, the grass swaying lazily in the breeze, and the butterflies that flitted between flowers like fleeting thoughts.

 

As she made the final strokes on her parchment, Esme leaned back on her elbows, eyeing the painting with a tilted head. The colors bled together in soft, watery swirls... purples melting into golds, blues bleeding into smoky greens. It wasn’t perfect, not by any means, but there was something comforting about the way the hues blurred into each other. Like they weren’t trying so hard to stay within the lines anymore.

 

She smiled faintly, memory drifting in like a warm breeze. When she was seven, she’d received a tiny enchanted painting kit for her birthday, little glass vials of self-mixing pigment, brushes that cleaned themselves with a flick. She’d spent that whole summer barefoot and sun-kissed, prancing through the garden with paint in her hair, capturing anything that would sit still long enough. The gnomes, mid-scowl. Her mother’s flowerbeds, full of humming bees. Their old Kneazle, curled up in a patch of sunlight, ears twitching at her chatter.

 

It had been simple then. Happy. She hadn’t needed her paintings to  mean anything, hadn’t needed them to be good, or expressive, or symbolic. They’d just been hers.

 

She swallowed hard, thoughts drifting to her nephew, tiny and perfect, blissfully unaware of the world he’d been born into. She prayed he’d get the childhood she and James had once known: soft, sun-dappled days filled with laughter, grass-stained knees, and magical stories before bed. A boy made of light, born in the shadow of war. What a thing that was.

 

She’d always wondered what her own children might be like someday. Imagined their faces... would they have her light eyes? Her inherited wild hair? Her stubborn streak? The idea had once seemed far-off, almost imaginary. Especially when she’d been with Fabian. They were too young, too reckless. Back then, children had felt like a distant maybe, tucked somewhere behind the chaos of rebellion and the thrill of simply being in love.

 

Still, she remembered watching Molly Weasley’s boys tearing through the garden, red hair flying like sparks, their laughter bright and boisterous. It had made something ache quietly in her chest. Not envy exactly, but longing. A yearning for something soft and steady.

 

And now… now everything felt different. War aged people quickly. Dreams she’d once shelved for later were starting to whisper louder, more urgently.

 

She might never get the chance.

 

To fall in love the way she’d always hoped to. To get married beneath a canopy of stars or in some moon-speckled garden. To have children of her own, soft and sleepy in her arms, their futures wide open and untouched by war.

 

And gods, how she wanted that. But wanting it felt dangerous.

 

Dreaming of it felt worse.

 

Like reaching for something only to have it torn away, fingers closing on smoke. It didn’t feel safe to dream about those things anymore, not when the world could end on any given Tuesday. Not when love was something people whispered about like a ghost story. She couldn’t afford to hope for a quiet future when everything she loved was always at risk of burning.

 

So she tucked those dreams away, neat and quiet. Stored them in the back of her mind like precious things she wasn’t sure she was allowed to keep.

 

She sighed, rising to her feet with a soft groan as her knees cracked beneath her. The watercolor could dry in the sun. It was already beginning to curl at the edges, soft blues and golds bleeding into each other like a dream half-remembered.

 

She glanced down at her hands, fingertips smudged with pigment, little streaks of dried color painting her skin like a canvas. It made her smile faintly. Messy, but hers.

 

She headed toward the house, pausing just long enough to pluck a few ripe lemons from the tree. The day was warm, perfect for fresh lemonade, and she found herself craving something simple. Something sweet. Something that felt normal.

 

But the second she stepped through the doorway, the lemons tumbled from her hands and thudded softly against the wooden floor.

 

Regulus turned at the sound.

 

“Oh… sorry—” she mumbled, ducking her head as she dropped to her knees to gather the fallen citrus.

 

She startled when he knelt beside her without a word, his hands brushing against hers as he helped collect the fruit. They stood at the same time, and he placed the lemons gently into the colander resting on the circular kitchen table.

 

She opened her mouth, desperate for something, anything, to say. But the words tangled in her throat, and he was already turning away.

 

“Regulus, wait!”

 

He froze mid-step, shoulders rigid. But he didn’t turn.

 

“I, um… well…” She floundered, her mind suddenly blank. The speech she’d rehearsed in her head all morning... gone. Just scraps left now, tangled and useless.

 

“About yesterday,” she tried again, quieter this time. “I was…”

 

“It’s fine, Potter.” His voice was sharp. Clipped. The kind of “fine” that was anything but.

 

She winced, eyes dropping to the floor.

 

“It’s not fine,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

 

Because it wasn’t. It wasn’t fine at all.

 

He was a guest in her home, and she’d torn into him, words sharp and cruel, aimed straight at his worst fears. She’d called him things she couldn’t take back, accused him of things he was trying so hard to change. He was helping them now, risking everything. And if they even survived this war, he'd still have to answer to the Wizengamot. He didn’t need  her , of all people, acting as judge, jury, and executioner.

 

He turned, just slightly, enough for her to catch the edge of his face, the curve of his mouth twisted in something too tired to be called a sneer.

 

“Why should I expect you to think any differently of me?”

 

It wasn’t a question. Just a statement, flat and final. A cold truth he’d already made peace with.

 

And gods, it cut.

 

Esme’s breath hitched in her throat. That tone... quiet, resigned, hollow, it gnawed at her. She hated it. Hated the way it made him sound like he’d already made peace with being the villain in everyone’s story. Like he didn’t expect to be forgiven, or even understood. Like he thought he  deserved  it.

 

“That’s not true,” she said, her voice gentling. “I don’t think that. Not really. I just…” Her words faltered, too tangled in guilt to come out clean. “I was angry. And scared. And you were—” Her voice cracked, brittle and breaking. “You were easy to aim it at.”

 

He didn’t move. Still half-turned. Still not meeting her eyes.

 

“I know I said things I shouldn’t have,” she went on, quieter now. “I wanted to see you like them. Like the version everyone warned me about. Because it was easier that way. Simpler. But it wasn’t fair.”

 

Her voice trembled on the last word, thick with the weight of what she hadn’t said:  And you didn’t deserve it.

 

She took a steadying breath. “And I’m sorry.”

 

The words settled between them like dust in a sunbeam... quiet, gentle, and real.

 

A bitter, almost amused smile tugged at her lips. If her younger self could hear her now, apologizing to Regulus Black of all people, she’d have laughed outright. Tossed her head, defiant, claiming pride was everything. That she’d never back down. But war had a way of changing things. Of wearing down the sharp edges until they softened, reshaped into something new.

 

That, finally, made him turn. His eyes met hers, tired, guarded, but beneath it all, something raw flickered: pain. And disbelief.

 

“You don’t get it,” he said, voice low and heavy. “Trying to make amends doesn’t erase what I’ve done.”

 

She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat tightening. He knew, deep down, he’d done terrible things. But he was trying. He was here, in her home, standing before her. And holding onto anger every single hour, every single day... it was wearing her down, too. Exhausting.

 

What he’d done, what he’d been made to do, hung in the air like smoke. They circled it without touching it, skirting the edges of a past too heavy to name. But it was there, between them. Always there.

 

And yet... he was alone now. Haunted, probably. Carrying pain in that quiet, inward way he did, like a wound he refused to show, like guilt woven into the seams of his silence. And despite everything, he was still  trying .

 

That counted for something.

 

Maybe not to the world. Maybe not to the Order. But to her?

 

It was enough.

 

He didn’t need forgiveness, not right now. What he needed was something softer. Compassion. A place where he could finally let his guard down, even just a little. A quiet reminder that the choices he made now could mean more than the ones forced on him before.

 

Esme could be that. She  would be that.

 

Not for who he’d been.

 

But for who he was choosing to become.

 

“No,” she agreed. “But it has to count for something.”

 

A long silence stretched between them, thick as fog.

 

He glanced away, voice low and rough. “I don’t need your pity.”

 

She lifted an eyebrow, a gentle warmth flickering in her chest. “ Please . It’s not pity, Black. It’s compassion. There’s a difference.”

 

Regulus swallowed, throat bobbing. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Whatever he wanted to say, he couldn’t. Not yet.

 

And maybe that was okay.

 

After a moment, he nodded, barely perceptible, and turned away again. But slower this time. Less like retreat. More like… pause.

 

As the door clicked softly behind him, Esme let herself breathe.

 

No forgiveness. No perfect resolution. But maybe the smallest crack in the ice.

 

Maybe that was enough for now.

 

---

 

In the week that followed, he didn’t vanish behind closed doors the way he used to.

 

He still kept to himself, spoke little, avoided unnecessary contact, but something had shifted. The silence between them had grown… gentler. Delicate. Less like a wall and more like a pause.

 

He started making tea again. Always in the early morning, before the sun had quite finished rising. She’d hear the soft clink of china, the hiss of the kettle, the occasional creak of the old floorboards. Without fail, he’d leave a second cup of tea steaming on the table... for her.   He never asked if she wanted any, never said a word. But it was always there, waiting.

 

A quiet offering. The smallest olive branch.

 

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

 

And she noticed other things too.

 

He started venturing outside, too. Never far... just to the edge of the property, where the trees grew dense and the air shifted, cooler somehow, quieter. She’d glimpse him through the windows, his silhouette blurred by morning mist or fading twilight, framed in soft light and shadow. He always stood at the edge, like he was waiting for something. Orremembering.

 

Sometimes he’d stay perfectly still, as if carved from stone, eyes fixed on the treeline, the world beyond that he couldn’t quite step into.

 

A prisoner without shackles. A ghost in his own life.

 

She tried not to watch too closely, tried to give him space. But it was hard not to notice the change in his eyes, how they looked farther away now, as if part of him was already gone.

 

In the mornings, he sat at the kitchen table with  The Prophet , a quiet ritual. The soft morning light spilling across the pages, catching in his hair as he bent over the pages, and for those few quiet minutes, it was as if the whole house breathed around him. The pages turned slowly, his eyes scanning each line, searching for something only he could understand.

 

Esme had begun to notice these small, inconsequential things. Not on purpose, not all at once. Just in the slow, creeping way you come to know someone by the shape they leave in your space.

 

He showered twice a day... once before bed, and again just after waking. She never asked why, and he never offered an explanation. But she could hear the water through the pipes, steady and private, a rhythm she’d grown used to. Comforting, somehow.

 

The way he took his tea... black and bitter. Funny, she thought, considering his surname. She couldn’t help but smile at the irony.

 

It was the little things that stood out. The quiet habits. The oddities that had crept into her days without warning, without permission, until suddenly, they felt like part of her own rhythm too.

 

It was weird, almost domestic, like something out of a life she never expected to share with him .

 

Sometimes late at night, she’d hear him moving around in his room, the soft creak of floorboards, the faint click of something sliding shut. She never asked what he was doing. None of the books on her shelves disappeared, even though she’d offered to share. Never loud enough to be bothersome, but enough to remind her he was there. Still, he wasn’t a ghost anymore. She could hear him. He was here .

 

Living, breathing, weirdly real.

 

And honestly? It was throwing her off. She found herself caught between feeling sorry for him and wanting to throttle him. Compassion and frustration in a messy, exhausting tug-of-war.

 

Things between them had shifted. Their fight had settled into the walls, left a kind of pause between them. So they moved around each other more carefully now. A little quieter. A little less.

 

Still, she started leaving a glass of lemonade in the fridge. It would be gone by evening. She’d bake a batch of muffins,and set a few aside on a plate near the edge of the counter. By morning, they’d be missing. No note. No thanks. Just... gone.

 

A quiet coexistence.

 

Still, he wasn’t a ghost anymore.

 

She could hear him.

 

The creak of the floorboards. The click of the kettle.

 

It was strange, this coexistence with him. Strange how normal it had started to feel.

 

She felt hot and cold about him. Compassion, then frustration, then compassion again. It looped endlessly, as if her heart hadn’t made up its mind, but her body had already decided it forgave him.

 

There were moments she caught herself watching for him. Not on purpose, just little flickers of awareness. The sound of the bathroom door closing. The hollow clink of a mug being set down. Proof that he was still there, still sharing this quiet orbit around her.

 

She had never thought it would be possible, living with him like this. Not after everything. Not in this silence that wasn't quite peace. But somehow, here they were. A little bruised. A little careful.

 

Still moving around each other.

 

Still here.

 

---

 

Esme felt the faint rumble of the wards beneath her feet as she dried her hands on a worn dish towel. Just then, the front door swung open, and Fabian’s head popped in, that trademark roguish grin plastered across his face.

 

“Everyone decent?” he drawled, eyes sparkling with mischief, and maybe something more.

 

Esme rolled her eyes, a teasing smile curling on her lips. “As decent as you’ll ever find us. But then again, I doubt that stops you.”

 

He chuckled darkly, but the suspicion didn’t leave his gaze. “Call it what you want. Just don’t expect me to be thrilled about you living under the same roof as someone who used to answer to Voldemort.”

 

Esme’s smile tightened, losing some of its warmth. “Regulus isn’t Voldemort’s lackey anymore. He’s trying, whether you want to see it or not.”

 

Fabian’s brows lifted, something unreadable flickering through his eyes as he stepped further into the room, his tone softening just a touch.

“Trying to make peace, then?”

 

Her smile held, quiet and a little worn around the edges. “If we’re going to live under the same roof, we might as well stop treating each other like enemies.”

 

His eyes lingered on her, slowly tracing the contours of her face as if searching for something hidden beneath the surface. After a long moment, he gave a subtle nod and let his gaze drop to the floor.

 

“He’s not…” His voice faltered, words left hanging as uncertainty flickered across his expression. Then, he looked up again, stepping forward with a careful tenderness. “You’re safe, Es?” His voice was low, edged with genuine concern.

 

Esme swallowed hard, fighting back the surprise his question stirred within her. It was unexpected, but not unearned.

 

Was he really asking if Regulus had been harming her? Manipulating her? The irony wasn’t lost on Esme, she’d wrestled with those very doubts herself, time and again. A faint, bitter smile threatened to rise, but she pushed it down.

 

She glanced at him, at the familiar crease between his brows, the way he studied her like he still knew her better than most. Maybe he did. They hadn’t been together in many months, but that didn’t erase everything.

 

“Yes, Fabian,” she promised, meeting his eyes. “I’m okay.”

 

To Fabian, it probably looked completely insane... her letting Regulus dwell under the same roof. If they were still together, there was no way Fabian would’ve agreed to it. But they weren’t . And somewhere deep down, Fabian had to trust Regulus enough to tolerate it... otherwise, Esme was certain he would have hauled her out by now.

 

Still, from the outside, it must have seemed strange. Especially knowing how fiercely Esme had hated certain Slytherins back in their Hogwarts days. Fabian knew that better than anyone. So for her to defend Regulus now, to stand by him, it probably looked like she’d lost her mind.

 

She hesitated, then added, a touch softer, “I know how it looks. I’ve thought about it too. But he’s not... it’s not like that. I wouldn’t let him stay if it were.”

 

Fabian let out a slow, measured sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing as if he’d been holding his breath since he asked. Something in him settled, and with it, the air between them shifted, less guarded, more familiar. They slipped into the ease that always seemed to find them, even now, even after everything.

 

They sidestepped the obvious, the fact that they weren’t  them  anymore, and instead let the conversation drift into safer waters. Gideon and Molly. The chaos of a full house. How Molly was pregnant again, quietly hoping this one might be a girl.

 

Their words danced along the surface, light and easy, a fragile thread of normalcy stretched between them.

 

After several moments, Regulus appeared, cloaked in sleek, dark wizard’s robes that hugged his tall, lean frame, every step fluid, deliberate. He moved like he belonged to shadows, all quiet elegance and coiled precision. His black hair curled just at the ends, brushing the edges of his strong jaw, artfully unruly in a way that made her fingers twitch with the urge to smooth it back.

 

Then there were his eyes, those piercing grey eyes that always saw more than they let on. They burned with that quiet, unreadable fire, sharp and magnetic, impossible to look away from even when she knew she should.

 

Since arriving, he’d begun to change, fill out. The harsh lines of his face were softening, his once-pale skin now touched with color, a healthy flush from hours in the sun. It made him look startlingly alive. Striking. Maybe even dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with the family name he carried.

 

Esme’s heart did a ridiculous little flip, traitorous thing, damn those pureblood genes and whatever ancient curse made Black men look like fallen gods. She forced the feeling down, burying it beneath layers of practiced composure.

 

He stood impossibly tall, broad shoulders squared, posture etched with the kind of quiet authority that didn’t need announcing. Power clung to him like a second skin, dark and effortless. There was a magnetic heat in the way he moved, something raw and coiled just beneath the surface... danger wrapped in elegance, allure sharpened into a weapon.

 

He looked like something out of myth: beautiful, untouchable, and entirely too real. A true heir of the House of Black, not just born to command, but born to  tempt . Not just feared, but wanted.

 

It was moments like this, when they weren’t alone, that she noticed it most. The shift.

 

Not in how he looked, but in how he was.

 

Around others, something in him sharpened. His presence stretched larger, darker, like a blade being drawn just far enough to remind you it was there. The quiet softness he sometimes allowed with her was tucked neatly away, replaced by something colder, more composed. He stood a little straighter, spoke a little less, eyes calculating just beneath their burnished grey surface.

 

It wasn’t overt. Most wouldn’t even catch it. But she knew him well enough now to see the difference.

 

She could see, then, how he’d been marked as a Death Eater. Why they would’ve seen potential in him, not just in his name, but in the simmering control, the deadly calm, the effortless command. There was danger in him, yes. But it wasn’t chaos. It was precision.

 

And in a world built on bloodlines and legacy, that made him even more dangerous.

 

Esme forced her gaze away, dragging her eyes from Regulus with more effort than she’d ever admit. She turned to Fabian instead... gods , he was such a stark contrast. Where Regulus was carved shadow and quiet fire, Fabian radiated something else entirely. Warmth. Light. The kind of presence that filled a room without demanding it, like sunlight spilling through cracked shutters.

 

She clung to that familiarity like a lifeline.

 

“So,” she said, lifting her chin and forcing a teasing lilt into her voice, “what reckless mission are you two throwing yourselves into this time?”

 

Fabian grinned, the kind of grin that used to get them both into trouble.

 

“Reckless?” he echoed, resting an elbow on the back of the chair beside him, his eyes dancing. “Darling, I’m offended. I prefer the term heroically impulsive. ”

 

He shot her a look, half challenge, half charm, and for a second, it was like they were nineteen again, sniping at each other over half-burned maps and midnight plans.

 

“We’re just doing a little scouting,” he added, far too casually. “In and out. No dramatic Horcrux rescues planned this time, I swear on my good looks.”

 

Esme narrowed her eyes, trying not to let the word Horcrux make her stomach twist.

 

They were definitely not just scouting. Fabian had always had a knack for dressing danger up as something dashing.

 

Esme arched a brow. “So... definitely dramatic rescues, then.”

 

Fabian leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something more familiar, more intimate. “You know me. I live to impress you.”

 

Esme smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. It faltered, just slightly, before she caught it, her throat tightening around the weight of what they were really talking about.

 

Horcrux hunting.

 

Hunting the very things that kept Voldemort tethered to this world... unkillable, unnatural. The darkest magic imaginable, laced with traps and curses designed to break even the strongest minds.

 

If they were caught, they wouldn’t be given the mercy of death. They’d be tortured. Shattered. Used.

 

She swallowed hard, her gaze drifting down for the briefest second. That familiar flicker of fear, quiet but sharp, passed through her like a shadow.

 

Fabian saw it. Of course he did.

 

The playful light in his face dimmed, softening into something quieter, more real. He stepped just a little closer, his voice low and steady, meant only for her.

 

“Don’t worry, darling,” he said gently. “I’ll come back.”

 

Regulus scoffed, the sound low and dismissive. Both their eyes snapped to him.

 

“How utterly endearing,” he said, voice laced with a sharp, almost bitter edge.

 

Without waiting for a response, he stepped forward, his gaze lingering briefly on Esme, intense, unreadable, before he strode out through the front door with an air of controlled frustration.

 

Esme raised an eyebrow, watching the door close behind him.

 

Regulus always carried a harder edge when Fabian was around, something fierce, almost territorial. It wasn’t just rivalry. It was something deeper, something unspoken that simmered beneath every glance and every word.

 

And tonight, she could feel it sharper than ever.

 

Fabian ran a hand through his tousled hair, smirking with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Always a pleasure… and an absolute pain in the arse, dealing with him.”

 

Esme gave him a small, knowing smile. “Well, try not to get yourself killed this time, yeah?”

 

He shot her a cocky wink as he headed toward the door. “Safe’s my middle name, love.”

 

Her laugh followed him, light and teasing. “Funny, I always thought danger was your middle name.”

 

As she followed behind, she called out softly, “Don’t go getting yourself killed, Black. I’d hate to fail my first Order assignment because of you.”

 

Regulus halted and turned, eyes glinting with something too smug to be innocent, his smirk thin and sharp as a blade.

 

“As long as Prewett here doesn’t get us both killed,” he drawled. His gaze slid to Esme, lingering a moment too long. “Though if he does, try not to miss me  too  much. I’d hate to think you’d be lonely without me here."

 

A beat. Then, quieter, just for her, mocking, pointed:

 

“Don’t wait up.”

 

Fabian’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at his sides, clearly struggling to hold back an angry retort. He shot a glare at Regulus, teeth gritted, but said nothing, knowing full well that any response would just feed into Black’s game.

 

She watched as Fabian marched stiffly to Regulus’s side, jaw still tight, every step sharp with restrained annoyance. Regulus didn’t so much as glance back, just kept walking toward the boundary line, calm and unbothered.

 

And then, with a sharp crack, the two of them Disapparated into the fading evening light.

 

---

 

It was strange. Regulus hadn’t been living with her for long, barely a month and a handful of days, but already, the house felt emptier when he wasn’t there.

 

No familiar creak of the floorboards announcing his slow, lazy wander from his room. No reason for her ears to prick up at the subtle shuffle of his footsteps somewhere nearby. No soft, comforting click of the kettle or the gentle thud of doors opening and closing.

 

It caught her off guard how quickly his presence had become a part of the background noise she didn’t even realize she’d been craving. She found herself almost... waiting for those small, everyday sounds, a quiet reassurance that she wasn’t truly alone.

 

And honestly? That was nice.

 

Because she’d spent so long wrapped in silence and shadows, feeling hollow and utterly, achingly lonely.

 

Regulus being here didn’t just fill the space, it filled the loneliness.

 

Sure, she had her friends. And family too, once. But after her parents died… everything shifted, like the world had tilted just slightly off its axis.

James had Lily now and a baby, with a prophecy hanging over their heads like dark storm clouds. His life wasn’t hers anymore. It was full, complicated, demanding. There were new priorities to protect, new battles to fight. No room left for lazy afternoons or aimless nights at the pub.

 

And even if she never dared say it out loud, there was always that quiet truth gnawing at her... Sirius and Remus had been James’s first, before they were hers. Their loyalty ran deeper, woven through a year and memories she couldn’t reach.

 

She was part of their circle now, but always felt a step outside it, like she was watching from the edges of a fire she longed to sit beside.

 

She had Marlene, in theory. But lately, their worlds barely brushed. Fabian had dropped the news casually, awkward, like he wasn’t sure how she’d take it, that Marlene and Gideon might be “sort of becoming a thing.” She wasn’t surprised. Not really. Just another quiet thread unraveling in the tapestry of her life.

 

And then there was Fabian.

 

She saw it in his eyes, the unspoken, hesitant question that hovered between them like a fragile ghost: Do we still have a chance? Can we ever find our way back?

 

But she was the one who’d asked for the break.

 

What started as a pause had stretched out, unnoticed at first, until it wasn’t a break anymore but a growing distance. A soft, silent goodbye neither of them had dared to say.

 

But the truth, the quiet, ugly truth, was that she’d felt lonely even when she was with him. Her parents had just died, and she’d been drowning in a grief so vast it swallowed everything whole, too much for either of them to carry.

 

He’d tried. Merlin, he really had. She saw it in the way he stayed up late with her, no matter how exhausted he was after a long day chasing leads for the Aurors and the Order, his arms around her while she shook from nightmares she couldn’t explain. In the way he never asked questions when she couldn’t speak, just sat there in the dark with her, steady and quiet.

 

She saw it in the small kindnesses that didn’t quite reach far enough. But still, it hadn’t been enough.

 

Or maybe… maybe  she  hadn’t been enough. Not for him. Not for herself. Not yet.

 

And now, in those still, stretched-out moments, when the house grew quiet and shadows crept like slow secrets across the walls, she missed something she couldn’t quite name.

 

Not just love. Not even comfort. It was something simpler, harder to pin down. She missed... just not being alone.

 

And now there was Regulus, her traitorous little mind whispered.

 

So handsome, in that sharp, haunted way. Quiet, deliberate, always holding something back. But she saw it... that loneliness. It clung to him like a second skin.

 

He was alone too. Maybe even more alone than she was.

 

No friends checking in. No family worth mentioning. The world, his own blood, everyone who’d ever mattered to him, believed him dead. Just him, and the silence he carried around like armor. She recognized it, that stillness, that tired kind of solitude. It mirrored something in her.

 

And maybe that was why she didn’t mind having him around. Why the house felt a little less cold with his presence tucked into its corners. Why she caught herself listening for the creak of his door, the low sound of the kettle, the brush of his footsteps across the floorboards.

 

---

 

Hours later, after she’d soaked in a bath filled with bubbles and salts, and sat quietly on the porch swing cradling a warm cup of tea, her mind still wouldn’t settle.

 

She couldn’t stop wondering what Regulus and Fabian were up to when they went away, if they were truly in harm’s way, or if there was something else lurking beneath the surface.

 

Slowly, almost without realizing it, her concern for Fabian’s safety had shifted and expanded into a quiet, growing worry for both him and Regulus.

 

The weight of it pressed on her chest, making it hard to breathe.

She stood abruptly, desperate for a distraction, anything to pull her out of the spiraling thoughts.

 

She’d worked out that Regulus was preoccupied, off doing whatever it was he did when he vanished for hours at a time, and decided it was safe to Floo James.

 

Kneeling before the hearth, she tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the flames. They roared emerald-green, and without hesitation, she leaned forward, bracing herself on her hands as she lowered her face into the fire. The strange, comforting coolness of the enchanted flames licked at her skin.

 

When she opened her eyes, James’s living room was staring back at her.

 

Sprawled on the couch, glasses askew, James looked utterly spent, but content. A small bundle of blankets rested on his chest: baby Harry, fast asleep, one tiny fist curled against his father’s collarbone.

 

Esme couldn’t help but grin at the sight, the rare calm of her usually kinetic brother, stilled by fatherhood and the quiet weight of a sleeping newborn.

 

She called out gently, “James!”

 

He jolted upright, instantly alert. One arm tightened protectively around Harry while the other darted for his wand. His eyes darted to the fireplace, and then he exhaled, laughing under his breath when he saw her face in the flames.

 

“Esme!” he said, smiling as he crouched down in front of the hearth, careful not to jostle the sleeping baby. “Merlin, you gave me a heart attack.”

 

“Sorry,” she said, ducking her head sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

James gave a tired chuckle, brushing a hand through his hair. “You didn’t wake  me, he did,” he nodded down at the peacefully snoring baby. “You just interrupted the rare moment where he let me pretend I was asleep.”

 

He rubbed at one eye with the heel of his hand, then shifted Harry slightly to keep him nestled close.

 

She tilted her head, giving him a once-over. “You look like you haven’t slept since the Goblin Rebellion.”

 

“Cheers,” he muttered dryly. “Fatherhood suits me, don’t you think? This one’s decided nighttime is exclusively for dramatic crying and existential dread. Clearly inherited from Sirius.”

 

Esme snorted. “Obviously.”

 

It felt good, so warm, to see her brother happy, so content with a family of his own. She could almost forget the gnawing ache in her chest, the desperate longing that was always there, beating quietly against her ribcage. Almost.

 

“I just wanted to check in,” she said, her voice softer now. “How’s Lily?”

 

“Good, good,” he replied, his voice tight, like he was forcing the words out. He swallowed, hard, then his tone dropped just a fraction, as if he were weighing his next words. “She’s... well, she’s fine. The war’s been tough on her. She’s worried about her family.”

 

He paused, a hesitant breath escaping him. “We reached out a few weeks ago, told them what we could, offeredprotection. But... you know how her sister is. Basically told us to bugger off.”

 

A shadow passed over his face, deepening the lines around his eyes. “It’s been weighing on Lily more than she lets on.”

 

Esme’s heart clenched. Petunia was a wretched excuse for a sister, there was no other way to put it. It hurt to think that Lily, of all people, had to carry that burden. She was everything Petunia wasn’t: kind, gentle, full of grace, and infinitely deserving of peace. But Petunia... bitter, spiteful, consumed by her own envy, resented everything Lily was. Resented her for simply existing as someone magical. It was a cruelty Esme couldn’t fathom, let alone forgive.

 

Honestly, if there were a championship for being a pain, Petunia would’ve had the trophy for years running.

 

Lily, on the other hand, was basically the human version of a warm hug.

 

And yet, despite all the hurt, despite the endless rejection, Lily remained unbroken. She didn’t shut the door on Petunia, didn’t respond with anger or resentment. No, instead, she reached out—again, and again, always hoping for something that was never returned. It wasn’t weakness that drove her, but a deep, empathetic strength. A quiet resilience that refused to give up on someone, even when that someone didn’t deserve it.

 

It made Esme’s chest ache with admiration, and a kind of painful envy. Because as much as she hated to admit it, she wasn’t sure she could ever be that selfless.

 

Her sister had once dreamed of being a witch, or so the story went. And if Lily could find it in herself to hold sympathy for someone who’d treated her with such cruelty, then maybe Esme could learn something from that example. Maybe she could find a way to be kinder, more patient, more understanding with Regulus, with herself.

 

The faint, rhythmic hum of the wards around the house buzzed softly, pulling Esme back. She startled, catching James’s wide, concerned eyes.

 

“I think the oven beeped,” she said quickly, forcing a smile to hide the knot tightening in her chest. “I made muffins. I’d better go check on them.”

 

James’s eyes brightened at the mention of treats, but Esme was already pulling away, offering a hasty, “Bye.”

 

As she pushed herself away from the fireplace, her eyes drifted toward the window, and what she saw made her chest tighten, her breath catch.

 

At the far edge of the sprawling grounds, Fabian steadied Regulus, who swayed precariously. Fabian’s arm was locked firmly around Regulus’s waist, anchoring him with quiet urgency.

 

Regulus’s pristine white shirt was marred, dark crimson blooming across the fabric like a brutal, bleeding flower. The sight was jarring, an unwelcome scar against the calm of the evening.

 

Esme’s heart hammered in her ribs. Something had gone terribly wrong.

Chapter 9: siren call

As Esme rose from the fireplace, the crackling warmth fading behind her and the rumble of the wards dying beneath her feet, her eyes darted instinctively to the window. What she saw made her heart stumble in her chest.

 

At the far edge of the property, she spotted them. Fabian standing rigidly, his arm braced around Regulus, who was clearly struggling to stay upright. Regulus wasn’t holding his own weight; he was slumped against Fabian, head dipped low, legs unsteady. His white shirt, or what used to be white, was soaked through with a deep, too-familiar crimson, the blood blooming across the fabric in a way that made her stomach twist.

Without thinking, Esme’s feet were already in motion, her hand slamming the door open with a force that made it rattle in the frame. She dashed toward them, but as she neared, her body skidded to a stop, breath caught in her throat.

 

“What happened?” she demanded, voice sharp but shaking.

 

At the sound of her voice, Regulus’s head lifted sluggishly, like a wounded animal too tired to fight. His eyes were unfocused, glassy, distant, as though the pain was too much, or maybe it was the slow, steady pull of blood loss clouding his thoughts.

 

Something low and awful twisted in her gut.

 

Esme’s gaze locked with his for a moment, then dropped downward. Her stomach twisted painfully at the sight of dark blood soaking his shirt, the unnatural paleness of his skin, and the faint, sickening blue tint creeping into his lips.

 

“Bloody idiot went off on his own,” Fabian bit out, voice sharp with fury. His jaw was tight, but the panic behind his eyes betrayed him.

 

Esme didn’t answer. She was already moving.

 

She stepped in without hesitation, sliding under Regulus’s other arm, her hand pressing firm against his back as if sheer will alone might hold him together. His body slumped into hers without protest... limp, too quiet, terrifyingly cold.

 

Together, she and Fabian half-dragged him across the uneven ground, the weight of him awkward and heavy between them.

 

Esme didn’t waste a second. With a quick flick of her hand, the front door swung wide open, almost impatiently, as if it knew the urgency in her stride. They crossed the threshold, every step urgent but careful, until they reached the living room. Gently, they eased Regulus down onto the couch, his body limp, too heavy with injury to respond.

 

Regulus’s eyelids fluttered closed, and Esme muttered a curse under her breath. Instinctively, her hand shot up, summoning the healing supplies she kept stashed beneath her sink. With a swift flick of her wand, she tore open Regulus’s blood-soaked shirt, the dark stains blotting out any clear sign of where the bleeding came from.

 

She waved her wand, siphoning the excess blood away with a sharp flick. Her hands trembled as she unscrewed the cap of the summoned Dittany bottle, pouring the shimmering potion over the expanse of his chest and stomach. The hot, tingling sensation seeped in, gradually staunching the flow of blood.

 

She glanced up at his face just in time to see his eyes roll back, lids fluttering shut. His skin had gone even paler, the color draining fast, lips edged with that same sickening blue. Panic clawed at her chest.

 

He couldn’t pass out. Not now. Not yet. Because passing out wasn’t just passing out, not when he’d already lost this much blood. It could be the difference between life and death.

 

She smacked his cheek until his eyes fluttered open, and when they locked onto hers, a strange relief fluttered in her chest. She swallowed hard, her throat tight. She didn’t want to feel this, didn’t want the panic that had surged the moment she saw him bleeding and injured. She didn’t want to care. Not about him. Not about anyone. Not when the war had already hollowed out so much of her heart.

 

“It would be terribly rude of you to die on my couch while I’m busy trying to save your sorry life,” she said shakily, her voice catching as she glanced down at the blood steadily soaking his abdomen.

 

She conjured a towel and pressed it to his side, wincing at the warmth of the blood, the tang of metallic filling the air. With steady hands, she began mopping up the excess, watching closely as the wounds beneath slowly began to knit themselves together under the hiss and shimmer of the dittany.

 

Regulus’s eyes stayed locked on her, tracking every movement. There was a haze to them... pain, exhaustion, maybe something more, but they were soft, clear grey now, unguarded for once. No walls, no sharp retorts. Just him.

 

Even like this, pale, bleeding, barely conscious... he was beautiful.

 

“My apologies,” he gritted out, voice barely above a whisper.

 

Esme’s eyes snapped to his, her heart leaping in her chest at the sound, not just the pain in his voice, but the fact that he was still talking. Still here. Relief surged through her so violently that it made her dizzy.

 

“What happened?” she demanded, her voice rough with worry, the words barely steady.

 

Fabian stepped forward, his frustration obvious, eyes dark with incredulity. “Black thought it’d be a brilliant idea to go after a Horcrux guarded by a bloody Chimaera. Alone.”

 

Esme froze, the blood draining from her face. “You fought a Chimaera... by yourself?”

 

Regulus, pale and trembling, managed the ghost of a smirk. “And without a wand, might I add.”

 

Esme blinked at him, stunned and more than a little exasperated. If he wasn’t already halfway to death’s door, she would’ve slapped him senseless.

 

A Chimaera. One of the most deadly magical creatures in existence. Massive, winged, with the body of a lion, the tail of a venomous serpent, and a goat’s head rising grotesquely from its back. Nearly impossible to kill. Wildly unpredictable. Bloodthirsty to the core.

 

Even the most skilled Aurors wouldn’t face one without a full squad at their backs.

 

Merlin, even trained dragon handlers gave them a wide berth. Entire teams of curse-breakers flat-out refused to set foot near any site rumored to harbor a Chimaera.

 

And he had gone in alone. Wandless.

 

Her voice shook. “Are you trying to die, Regulus?”

 

He rolled his eyes, as if she were the one being dramatic, as if he weren’t currently bleeding half to death on her couch.

 

“I saw no reason to involve anyone else,” he muttered, as though that made reckless heroics sound like some kind of noble sacrifice.

 

“Oh, how noble,” she snapped, voice sharp enough to cut. It was easier to lash out in anger than to face the gnawing panic tightening in her chest.

 

She filed that awkward new feeling under ‘deal with later.’

 

Regulus blinked at her, still dazed, his expression hovering somewhere between genuine bewilderment and the faintest trace of smug satisfaction.

 

“You’re angry,” he observed, as if the idea both surprised and vaguely amused him.

 

“I’m furious,” she hissed, grabbing a fresh towel and pressing it to his wound with a bit more force than strictly necessary. “You do realize your sorry arse might be the only thing keeping the rest of our sorry arses alive, right?”

 

Regulus hissed softly at the pressure but didn’t pull away. Instead, a faint, maddeningly lazy smile curled at the corner of his mouth, half-lidded, half-smug.

 

“You know,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes half-lidded as they dragged over her face, “you’re a bit terrifying when you’re angry.” A pause, just long enough to make her pulse skip. “Can’t say I mind it, though.”

 

Esme blinked. For a moment, her brain simply refused to compute the words.

 

“I... what?” she stammered, caught between outrage and disbelief. “Are you flirting with me right now?”

 

Regulus gave her a slow, crooked grin, utterly unrepentant and far too pleased with himself for someone actively bleeding onto her throw pillows.

 

“I must say,” he drawled, voice low and just a little slurred, “I rather enjoy it when you’re yelling at me.”

 

She gawked at him.

 

He went on, unbothered. “Might be the highlight of my otherwise miserable week. Dead sexy, if I’m honest.”

 

Esme froze, towel still pressed to his side, staring down at him like he’d well and truly lost every last scrap of sense.

 

“Right,” she muttered, deadpan. “You’ve gone completely mad. Merlin, you’re delirious.” More to herself than to him, really, like saying it out loud might undo the heat crawling up her neck.

 

But it didn’t.

 

Because, unfortunately, her body was faster than her common sense.

 

Regulus’s eyes fluttered open again... dark-lashed, heavy-lidded, and maddeningly calm despite the blood and chaos. He looked at her like he had all the time in the world.

 

“I’m injured,” he murmured, voice low and unmistakably pleased, “not blind.”

 

She looked away quickly, cheeks warming as she refocused on his wound

 

“What you are is insufferable,” she muttered, trying for steady and sharp, but her voice wobbled traitorously.

 

Her eyes flicked toward Fabian, clinging to practicality. “Can you check the bathroom for pain potions? And maybe grab another towel?”

 

Fabian hesitated, clearly sensing the something lingering thick in the air, but one sharp look from her sent him moving. She needed him gone. Needed air. Space. Anything to breathe past the ridiculous, infuriating thing simmering between her and Regulus Black.

 

“Like when you were at school,” he hissed as she probed gently at his healing wound, Fabian slipping quietly out of the room. “You’d tear into my housemates... with that razor-sharp tongue of yours... By Merlin... you were a bloody handful then...”

 

Her hands trembled, breath quickening and shallow, as if the air itself had grown too thin. Her skin felt stretched too tight over bone, cheeks flushed with a heat she couldn’t name, couldn’t fight.

 

His crooked grin was unlike anything she’d ever seen, reminding her of Sirius’s reckless charm, but darker, sharper. Proper dangerous, really. Like the tantalising call of a siren, and she wasn’t entirely sure she had the will to resist.

 

She didn’t understand why her body betrayed her, why his quiet admission, that he’d noticed her back in school, that she had stood out, sent a ridiculous flutter through her chest.

 

Merlin, get a grip.

 

He was delirious. Bleeding. Barely lucid. And yet…

 

Her heart skipped a beat as his fingers, warm and surprisingly gentle despite their shakiness, reached up to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. She should have pulled away. Should have snapped at him for crossing a line. Should have felt nothing at all.

 

But she did.

 

“I always liked your hair,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and something that sounded dangerously close to affection. “Used to watch you twist it around your quill in Charms. Drove me absolutely mad.”

 

He sounded almost... fond.

 

Esme blinked, stunned. Her brain struggled to reboot.

 

“You watched me?” she said, her voice embarrassingly high-pitched, torn between the urge to swoon and the overwhelming desire to smack him.

 

His lips curved into that maddening, lopsided smile, too smug for someone bleeding onto her throw pillows. “Watched, stared… call it what you like. You were hard to ignore. Still are.”

 

Her heart did something entirely unfortunate. Something fluttery. Her ears burned.

 

She opened her mouth, closed it again. Her thoughts were spiraling, tangled in memory and heat and confusion.

 

This meant nothing. He was injured. Delirious.

 

Still… he watched her? In Charms?

 

Merlin help her.

 

“Well,” she muttered, grasping for the safety of sarcasm, “sorry to have offended your delicate concentration.”

 

Regulus let out a soft, breathy laugh, half amusement, half pain, as he shifted slightly on the couch.

 

But Esme knew the truth. He was delirious, lost in the haze of blood loss, his words muddled by exhaustion and pain. He didn’t mean any of it. This was just the cruel trick of injury, warping his thoughts and twisting her own emotions along with it.

 

Still, a part of her wanted to believe him. Wanted to feel what he was saying, to bask in the warmth of it. To let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, someone like him could see her.

 

And even through the haze of delirium, one thing was clear... he did find her attractive. That much was impossible to miss. But he was still delirious. The rest of his words were nothing but fog, twisted and half-formed. He’d been attacked by a cursed magical creature. That was all. Nothing more than the wild ramblings of someone near death.

 

But the flutter in her chest wouldn’t settle. His gaze, even half-closed, lingered on her like a whisper, like a secret he wasn’t ready to let go of.

 

And Merlin, it was maddening.

 

When Fabian returned, she quickly ran a diagnostic, scanning for poison or curses. There was still poison coursing through his veins, likely from the Chimera’s claws or its venomous tail. He was fighting it, but not enough. Without hesitation, she summoned a vial of venom antidote from the shelf, her fingers quick and precise. 

 

He was fighting it, bless him, but not nearly well enough.

 

It was probably the poison still in his system, something insidious from the Chimera’s tail or claws, that was clouding his mind, dulling his strength. That had to be it.

 

Maybe that’s why he’d been so… forward. His delirium, his odd compliments, the way he’d touched her hair and made her heart race.

She shook her head, biting her lip as she focused on the task at hand. It was the poison. It had to be. The Chimera’s venom was no joke, it clouded the mind, twisted thoughts, and dulled the senses.

 

And yet…

 

A small voice, soft, persistent, and utterly unhelpful, whispered at the back of Esme’s mind: Maybe it wasn’t just the poison.

 

But she couldn’t, wouldn’t, let herself think that. Not now. Not when he was so clearly on the edge of life and death.

 

Fabian stepped in closer, watching her carefully as she worked.

 

“Any improvement?” he asked quietly.

 

“Not yet,” she muttered, her voice tense. “But the antidote should start taking effect soon.”

 

She unscrewed the lid of both potions, her fingers trembling slightly as she brought the first bottle to his lips. Her other hand slid behind his neck, steadying his head, and for a heartbeat, her fingers brushed against the softness of his hair, silky, unexpectedly warm beneath her touch.

 

Their eyes met as he swallowed the bitter liquid, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.

 

She swallowed hard and broke the gaze, forcing herself to look away as she spoke to Fabian. “We need to get him to his bed. He’ll rest better there.”

 

Fabian’s eyes darted between them, catching the tension that hung in the air. He gave a slight, knowing furrow of his brow but nodded and moved forward, helping her lift him.

 

Once he was settled in his bed, Esme carefully removed his shoes, setting them neatly at the foot of the bed. She uncorked a small vial and tipped a few drops of dreamless sleep potion onto his tongue.

 

Her fingers lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary, but she quickly pulled away, her eyes meeting his for a moment.

 

“I’ll check on you throughout the night,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “Can’t have you dying on my watch.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he muttered, his voice rough from the strain. His eyelids fluttered, the sleepiness creeping in, but his smile never wavered. Slow, teasing, and just a little too knowing. “I had no idea Esme Potter would be so invested in keeping me alive.”

 

He gave a soft, shaky laugh, and it did something awful to her heart.

 

Esme felt a strange flutter in her chest, but she masked it quickly with her usual bite. “Well,” she said, her voice low, but with that familiar edge, “you are the key to ending this war. So... it’s a bit selfish, really.”

 

Regulus’s lips twitched into a tired smile, his eyes fluttering shut as sleep began to pull him under.

 

“Selfishness has its charms,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper, but still carrying that unmistakable trace of smugness.

 

Esme rolled her eyes, but the small, reluctant smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. “Goodnight, Regulus,” she murmured, her tone softening just enough that only he could hear it.

 

She stepped to the doorway, casting one last glance at him, pale, still, quiet, and finally asleep. The flickering light from the bedside lamp cast shadows on his features, making him look almost fragile, despite everything. For a moment, she lingered, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. And then, with a quiet exhale, she gently pulled the door shut behind her.

 

Somewhere along the way, this room had stopped being just a guest room. It had become his room. She didn’t know exactly when that shift had happened, maybe it had been gradual, or maybe it was the way he’d looked at her, or spoken to her, or even just… existed here. But it was different now. He was different.

 

She wasn’t sure when that change had taken place. Only that it had.

And it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

 

She wasn’t sure when her chest had softened for him, when the shift had happened, when she’d started feeling that pull, that flicker of something more than indifference. When she began to care, truly care, whether he lived or died.

 

Maybe it had always been there, buried beneath the surface because she knew Sirius would care, and that stirred something she hadn’t expected.

 

Maybe it was the way she’d always thought him a bit handsome, even back in school... an undeniable slice of that typical Black charm.

 

Or maybe it was the small moments... the quiet cups of tea, the way he’d admitted to feeling so utterly alone as a child that had, piece by piece, chipped away at her walls.

 

Whatever it was, it had softened her.

 

And, foolishly, she found herself believing that maybe, just maybe, she and Regulus Black, of all people, could be friends.

 

Esme found Fabian in the kitchen, standing by the window with his arms crossed, staring out into the dark night like he was searching for answers in the blackness. The silence between them felt heavy, thick with unsaid things.

 

Fabian exhaled sharply as she approached, his eyes narrowing in that way he had when he was trying to figure something out. “What the hell was that, Es?”

 

Her first instinct was to brush it off, to roll her eyes and change the subject. But her throat tightened, and she found herself clinging to the control she had left. She shrugged, though it felt more like a defense mechanism than anything else. “He was delirious.”

 

Fabian studied her for a long, unnerving moment, his gaze piercing, weighing, and then he nodded slowly, a quiet understanding settling between them.

 

“Delirious…” he echoed, clearly unconvinced, but not pushing her further.

 

Esme’s stomach tightened, but she kept her face neutral, pretending the rush of emotions wasn’t twisting inside her.

 

Delirious. She could use that excuse. For now.

 

“So… what actually happened?”

 

Fabian dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly, betraying the strain he was clearly trying to hide. His face was pale, taut with exhaustion, and something darker. Disbelief, maybe guilt. Whatever it was, it made him seem a little smaller, a little more fragile than usual.

 

“We’ve been tracking the Horcrux for weeks,” he began quietly, his eyes fixed on the distant night. “But tonight… we finally went after it.”

 

His voice faltered for a moment, like the words were caught in his throat, but he pressed on, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. “We thought we had the upper hand. The Chimera was… unexpected.

 

“Black... he had intel. A lot of it. He knew what the Horcrux was, where it was, how it was protected. We were just working through the wards, layer by layer. But you can only prepare so much. When we reached the location…”

 

He let out a humorless breath. “Regulus has hunted Horcruxes before. He knew what to expect. It was buried in a maze... cursed, shifting, designed to trap you in your own mind. But Regulus didn’t hesitate. He went in ahead of me. Didn’t wait. He knew what to expect. But he cut through it like he’d done it a dozen times.”

 

Fabian looked down, and when he finally looked back up at her, his eyes were wide, haunted.

 

“And then the Chimera hit. Some kind of guardian, magically bound to the Horcrux. Fully grown, ravenous. Should’ve torn him apart." He laughed once, short and bitter. "Esme… he faced a Chimera. Alone. Wandless. Do you know what that means? I think only one person’s ever survived a Chimera attack, and they had a wand. But Regulus…” He trailed off, almost unable to believe his own words.

 

“He’s brilliant. And I hate admitting that, because... Merlin, I’ve never trusted him. But his magic... it’s not just wandless. It’s something else. Something dark. Powerful.” He exhaled, his face tightening with a combination of admiration and fear. “I’ve never seen anything like it, not even from the best Aurors.”

 

His eyes locked onto hers now, his pupils dilated, wide with something that wasn’t just fear... it was awe, awe laced with dread. It was clear: what Regulus had done, what he was capable of, had shaken Fabian to his core.

 

“He killed the Chimera with that magic. Some kind of dark curse I’ve never even encountered, let alone anything the Ministry would recognize. It was old. Hungry. The Chimera didn’t just die, it dissolved, like it never existed. One moment it was there, roaring, charging… and the next, it was just gone.”

 

Fabian's eyes locked onto hers, sharp and serious.

 

“He’s dangerous, Esme. I don’t like the idea of him being here alone with you. Wand or not, he doesn’t need one. He killed a Chimera with raw, dark, wandless magic. Ancient, destructive. Merlin only knows what else he’s capable of.”

 

Fabian’s breath caught, and when he spoke again, it was barely audible.

“I’ve seen dark wizards. I’ve fought them. But Regulus? He’s something else. He’s a force. And he’s here... with you. Alone.”

 

His stare was sharp, unblinking. “I don’t care what side he claims to be on. No one should have that kind of power. No one should be that calm wielding it.”

 

Her feet felt rooted to the spot, the floor beneath her suddenly cold, like ice was creeping up from the cracks in the wood. Fabian’s warning echoed through her mind, hollow and terrifying, reverberating in her skull. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

 

Her mouth was dry, and her thoughts felt tangled, a chaotic knot she couldn’t untie. She had to say something, anything to push back the rising tide of dread, but all she could manage was a whisper.

 

“But… the Chimera swiped at him? That's how he got injured?”

 

Fabian shrugged. The motion was slow, distant. His eyes didn’t meet hers, they stared through her, blank and dark.

 

“I guess,” he said. “I hadn’t gotten there yet. I only came in at the end… just in time to see him kill it. And take the Horcrux.”

 

There was no triumph in his words. No relief or pride. Just emptiness. The kind of hollow void that settled deep in your bones and made it hard to breathe.

 

Fabian rubbed a hand over his mouth, his fingers pressing hard into the flesh, as if trying to wipe away the image of what he’d witnessed. Then he let his hand fall, curling his fingers at his side in an almost absent motion.

 

“The maze…” He spoke quietly, and for a moment, Esme could hear the weariness in his voice. It wasn’t just the exhaustion of a long battle, it was something more. Something darker. “It was getting into my head. It was designed to break you, Esme. Twist your thoughts, make you relive your worst nightmares, the shit that haunts you when you’re alone in the dark…”

 

He trailed off, the silence between words pressing like a weight.

 

“But Regulus… he didn’t waver. Not once. It was like it didn’t touch him. Like he’d already seen everything it had to offer... and worse.”

 

His gaze finally met hers, and for the first time, there was something in his eyes that made Esme’s heart stutter. It wasn’t just fear, it was real fear. Not of the Horcrux, not of the danger, but of something far more immediate.

 

Of Regulus.

 

Fabian’s voice shook slightly, though he didn’t try to hide it. “He didn’t just survive that maze, Esme. He… mastered it.”