Chapter Text
Regulus woke to the hush of green-tinted shadows stretching across the ceiling, the lake water filtering the morning sun into ribbons of dim light that shimmered against the stone walls. The Slytherin dormitory was quiet save for the soft breathing of its occupants and the occasional groan of ancient pipes behind the walls. Outside, somewhere far above the dungeons, morning had begun.
He lay still for a moment, staring up at the arched ceiling. He’d dreamt of smoke again. Of endless corridors and doors that would not open. His chest ached with something slow and heavy.
He drew in a breath.
1...2...3...4...5...
Let it out.
Across the room, Barty was snoring faintly, sprawled over the edge of his bed with one leg hanging off and the other curled beneath him like a particularly chaotic cat. Evan, as always, slept like the dead—face down, arms tucked under his pillow, hair a halo of gold across the dark green sheets.
Regulus sat up slowly. His bed was perfectly made, covers drawn up with surgical precision, even after a night’s sleep. He swung his legs over the edge and reached for the slippers placed exactly where he’d left them: parallel, aligned with the edge of the bedframe. He never let them skew.
His trunk, stationed at the foot of the bed, was unlocked with a whispered charm. Alohomora.
The lid creaked open, revealing the neatly organized contents within. His school robes—freshly pressed and folded. His books stacked by subject and size. Ink bottles ordered from most to least full. Even his quills were arranged by feather type and softness of nib.
He stared at it all for a moment. The perfect control. The quiet order.
It was the only thing that didn’t feel like it was slipping.
He dressed quickly, precisely. Each movement part of a silent choreography: shirt, buttoned collar; tie, knotted tightly; robe, smoothed at the shoulders. The Slytherin crest illuminated in the low light, pinned over his chest like a warning.
He walked to Barty’s bed and nudged the edge with his toe. "Get up."
Barty groaned. "Merlin’s bollocks, what time is it?"
"Half-six," Regulus said.
"That’s criminal."
Regulus smirked faintly and turned toward the washroom.
The Slytherin dormitory bathroom was always a few degrees too cold, the stone floors icy underfoot despite the warming charms woven into the walls. Regulus lit the sconces with a flick of his wand—Lumos Sphera whispered under his breath—and the glass orbs along the ceiling flared to life with a pale, gentle glow.
He stood in front of the mirror, fingers gripping the porcelain sink. For a long moment, he just stared. His reflection stared back.
His eyes were shadowed, despite the early hour. Pale skin gone paler. A faint tension around his mouth, like he was holding something in even now.
He hated how tired he looked. How dull.
He whispered a cleansing charm—Fresco Viso —and cool water materialized against his skin, rushing over his face in a wave that left him blinking. The spell left him cleaner, more awake, but the heaviness in his limbs didn’t lift. Not really.
He brushed his teeth slowly, methodically, counting the strokes on each side. Thirty left. Thirty right. Thirty center. Not because it mattered. Because it was something to count.
His hair took longer. Always did. It was somewhere between curly and wavy, prone to tangling if he didn’t keep it tamed. He murmured a detangling charm—Liquifris—and the strands softened beneath his fingers. A comb floated beside him as he worked, brushing with slow, even strokes until it lay just the way he liked it. Not too polished. Not too disheveled.
He whispered a fixing charm. Just enough to keep it in place.
Back in the dorm, Barty had managed to sit up and was now glaring at his boots as if they’d personally insulted him. Evan remained unmoved.
"You look like a ghost," Barty said, eyes scanning Regulus. "More than usual, I mean."
Regulus shrugged. "Long night."
"Didn’t sleep?"
"I slept."
It was mostly true.
Evan stirred finally, groaning into his pillow. "Is it time for pain already?"
"Only if you count Transfiguration before breakfast," Regulus said.
"It counts," Barty muttered. "McGonagall will turn us into lamps if we show up late."
Regulus picked up his satchel, already packed the night before. Inside, everything was in place. Notebooks labeled. Timetable memorized. Wand polished.
He didn’t feel ready.
Not for the stares. Not for the whispers.
But his uniform was perfect. His magic sharp. His smile, when he needed it, could still pass for the real thing.
Regulus straightened his collar in the mirror one last time, then stepped out into the hall.
It was the first day of the term.
And already, it felt too long.
~~~~~~~
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long beams of filtered light across the Great Hall through the high windows. A soft clatter of cutlery and low murmur of conversation filled the cavernous room as students finished breakfast and trickled out in small groups. The lingering scent of toast, marmalade, and strong tea clung to the air.
Regulus sat between Barty and Pandora at the Slytherin table, his plate arranged in careful symmetry—one slice of toast, halved diagonally, a small bowl of porridge with precisely one swirl of honey, and a cup of black tea cooling beside his folded napkin. He’d barely touched the food. Periodically, he reached out to nudge his utensils back into place, perfectly aligned with the edge of the plate.
"Did you see the Charms schedule? We’ve got Flitwick right before lunch," Barty said, shoveling eggs onto a slice of toast with all the refinement of a kneazle in a bin.
Evan, sipping pumpkin juice across from him, gave an exaggerated sigh. "The man chirps like a songbird and throws sparkle hexes. I’m not prepared for Confundo Festivus before eating."
Pandora raised an eyebrow. "You mean Illuminaria Flamma. It’s not glitter, it’s a focus charm that enhances visualization by projecting radiant flecks of light from your wand tip."
"Same difference," Evan muttered. "Still ends up in my hair."
Regulus allowed a small twitch of amusement to tug at the corner of his mouth, eyes skimming over the black tea as though it might offer him a reflection clearer than what the mirror had shown him this morning.
Outside, the sky was a blue so pale it looked barely awake. A light breeze teased the edges of the enchanted ceiling, stirring the cloud wisps.
"Care of Magical Creatures is first," Pandora added. "Out near the paddocks. Kettleburn’s teaching it again."
Regulus nodded absently. That, at least, was something to look forward to.
They gathered their things, books and bags slung over shoulders in a practiced shuffle of morning routine. As they filed toward the doors leading out into the stone corridors of the castle, Regulus paused to adjust the strap of his satchel, then turned back to straighten a napkin someone had left crumpled.
They stepped into the hallway, joining the stream of students threading toward the grounds. The morning air carried a crisp promise of autumn, and the stone underfoot was cold even through thick socks.
"Kettleburn’s likely to start us off easy," Evan mused. "Flobberworms or Hippogriff etiquette."
"Don’t get your hopes up," Barty replied. "I heard he lost another finger over the summer."
"Honestly?" Pandora said. "He’s only got three left. They should start taking bets."
Regulus gave a soft hum of agreement, letting their banter wash over him. The paddocks meant fresh air. Space. Creatures who didn’t measure his worth in whispers or genealogy. He thought, unexpectedly, of Kreacher—his family’s aging house elf. There had always been a peculiar sort of fondness between them, forged in quiet companionship over long silences and carefully done tasks. Kreacher understood duty. Obedience. Loyalty twisted into something like love.
Regulus missed him.
They turned a corner toward the main stairwell when a voice called from behind them.
"Mr. Black. A word, if you please."
The group paused as Professor McGonagall approached, her tartan robes trailing behind her like a whisper of stern wind. Her expression was calm, though her eyes were typically sharp, calculating beneath the square cut of her spectacles.
Regulus looked to his friends. "Go on ahead. I’ll catch up."
Barty hesitated just for a moment, then gave a casual shrug. "Don’t let her give you lines already."
Pandora offered a brief touch to his elbow as she passed. Evan gave him a look—measured, silent, but laced with the unspoken acknowledgment that they’d wait for him by the paddocks.
As the trio continued down the corridor, Regulus turned toward McGonagall with the posture his mother had drilled into him from the time he could walk—back straight, chin level, gaze respectfully lowered but never evasive.
"Professor," he said politely.
McGonagall studied him for a moment. "Walk with me."
He followed her down a quieter corridor branching off from the main staircase. The walls here were lined with portraits of lesser-known Hogwarts founders and patrons, most dozing or feigning sleep.
"You’re in your fourth year," McGonagall began without preamble. "But your instructors have noted your academic performance is markedly ahead of your peers. Not only in your marks, but in your comprehension."
"Thank you, Professor," Regulus said, wary.
"I’ll get to the point," she continued, pausing near a narrow window where the morning sun cut a thin slice of gold across the floor. "This year, I’ve been asked to take on additional responsibilities. As a result, I’ll have less time for one-on-one tutoring with students who need supplemental support. Normally I would assign this to seventh-years, but..."
She turned to look at him. "Frankly, I don’t trust all of them to take it seriously. You, Mr. Black, I do."
Regulus blinked. "You want me to tutor?"
"Three students. From different houses. They’ve all volunteered. They want to do better. This wouldn’t be a punishment for you, nor an obligation. I’d offer extra credit. Perhaps even a recommendation for future apprenticeship placements."
He processed this silently. His fingers brushed the cuff of his sleeve, subtly realigning a button that had twisted askew. Then his thumb nudged the seam of his satchel straight, and his gaze briefly caught on a crooked corner of the window ledge.
McGonagall watched him. "I understand this may seem unusual, and I’m not pressuring you for an answer now. Consider it. You’re meticulous. Responsible. And I suspect you could use something constructive to occupy your time."
That made him glance up.
McGonagall’s face softened slightly. "I don’t presume to know what this summer was like for you, Regulus. But I know a boy carrying a weight when I see one."
The use of his first name startled him.
She straightened again. "Let me know by the end of the week."
And then she was gone, robes swishing back into the corridors, leaving him beneath the quiet scrutiny of a dozing portrait.
Regulus remained there a moment longer, gaze fixed on the window.
What was this, really? An attempt to watch him? A distraction? Or just another way to mark him as separate, even in the guise of merit?
He exhaled slowly. With a flick of his wand, he sent a minor dusting charm across the sill, brushing away the stray cobweb that had caught his attention.
It wasn’t worth the trouble.
Still, he couldn’t quite shake the strange echo of her words.
A boy carrying a weight.
He gathered himself and turned toward the paddocks, adjusting the strap of his satchel to sit evenly once more. His fingers ran down the leather to straighten a crease, then brushed a fold in his robe flat with a practiced hand.
Alone again.
~~~~~~
The sun sloped lazily toward the horizon, stretching its golden fingers across the lawns of Hogwarts, igniting the lake in molten amber. The late-afternoon air was crisp with the faint scent of clover and old stone, and scattered groups of students lounged on the grass, chasing the last warmth of the day. A few dared each other closer to the lake’s edge, laughter pealing as someone shrieked and splashed into the water.
Regulus sat cross-legged beneath a cluster of birch trees, his satchel beside him and his robes impeccably pressed despite the soft grass. His hands were clasped neatly in his lap, thumbs pressing rhythmically against one another—a quiet, contained fidget. His posture was perfect, but tension wound through his spine like a coiled charm waiting to spring.
It was only the third day of term.
And already, he'd earned an A.
Bakir Osman, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, was sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, with a disconcerting knack for isolating students with surgical precision. The first practical lesson of the year had been a defensive drill—basic, in Regulus's opinion. He’d executed every spell with careful precision, controlled to a fault, but Osman had barely glanced at the form before scrawling an A beside his name.
Acceptable.
Regulus had not earned anything less than an O since his first year. He didn’t do less than O-level work. Not in Defence, not in any subject. The hours he spent practicing alone—tightening his form, testing countercurses, pushing past the syllabus—were not for the benefit of a passing grade. They were preparation. For what exactly, he still didn’t let himself name.
His jaw tightened.
Osman watched him differently than other students. Not with the cautious reverence afforded to a Black, nor with the contempt some professors poorly disguised. It was analytical. Almost suspicious. As if the man knew precisely which mask Regulus wore—and was simply biding his time.
Regulus exhaled slowly, catching the tension creeping up his shoulders. He pulled in a deep breath through his nose and tilted his head back, letting his eyes follow a passing cloud. Another scream erupted from the lake, followed by the thunder of running feet and a second splash.
It tugged the corners of his mouth upward faintly. He didn’t laugh.
He reached for his satchel instead and tugged it into his lap with deliberate care. Unfastening the leather buckle, he slid out a folded letter—heavy parchment with a wax seal so exact it could have been printed by press rather than wand.
He’d received it at breakfast.
The seal bore the Black family crest: a serpent coiled around a star, glinting with the faint sheen of warding spells. He broke it silently.
The handwriting was his father's, neat and cold. But the tone—that was Walburga, through and through:
Regulus,
We received word regarding your academic performance. We trust this was a miscalculation or temporary lapse and will be rectified posthaste.
The expectations of your name are not suspended upon entry to school, nor are they diluted by leniency or false modesty. Do better.
O.B.
Regulus read it twice. Then a third time, eyes scanning the clipped phrases for anything else. There was no signature flourish, no inquiry after his well-being. No mention of pride.
Only surveillance.
Someone had informed them. That much was clear.
A chill seeped into his bones, distinct from the cooling grass beneath him. For a moment, he thought of Narcissa—always poised, always precise. The cousin closest in age, closest in demeanor. She had graduated only last year. And they had been allies, of a kind. But even she had obligations. If she had heard something through the grapevine of older students or house gossip...
Would she tell?
Of course she would.
Regulus folded the letter carefully and slid it back into his bag. The shadows around him stretched longer across the lawn, and the chill of approaching evening began to sink into his sleeves.
"Do better."
The words echoed like a spell.
He thought of McGonagall’s offer.
Three students. Extra credit. Constructive occupation.
He’d been skeptical. Still was. Offers like that often came with invisible strings. Manipulation wrapped in opportunity. She hadn’t pushed, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t watching. Dumbledore certainly was.
But would his parents see it as rectification? Would Osman?
Regulus stared toward the lake, where another group of students laughed, waterlogged and bright with joy he didn’t remember ever feeling. He tilted his head slightly, listening to the sounds of their merriment like it came from a different world.
He didn’t want to tutor. He didn’t want to be watched. But he couldn’t fail. Not with so much on the line. Not when the weight of his family's name pressed so heavily on every step.
And not when he had been branded.
He rose with the same grace he always used, brushing off invisible grass flecks from his robe. He adjusted the strap of his satchel with a practiced hand, then straightened the hem of his sleeve where it had creased.
The sun dipped low, brushing the treetops with fire.
Regulus turned toward the castle, casting one last glance at the lake before heading inside.
He would give McGonagall his answer tomorrow.