Chapter 1: Intro
Notes:
Title from Bob Dylan’s Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door
A short story following Regulus through the years he spent raising Harry told through a shifting timeline, based very loosely on the quote - “Have you ever gotten everything you ever wanted?”
“No, but once I got very close.”
Chapter Text
There’s a burst of green wand light behind closed eyelids. Screams, devastated and desperate, echo through waterlogged ears. Then there is silence, deafening, as if the world itself is holding its breath.
Finally, the sound of a sharp, heaving inhale.
Regulus jolts awake.
His heart pounds in his chest as that first breath catches in his throat. His lungs are tight like they’ve never drawn air before. It’s a foreign feeling, it shouldn’t be. Panic is immediate, visceral.
Something isn’t right.
Something is wrong.
The air clings to him, thick and damp. Regulus shivers violently and tries to push himself up off the wet ground beneath him. His curls are plastered to his face, drenched. He’s soaked through to the bone, like he’s just crawled from a watery grave. He blinks. Blurred shapes dance across his vision, everything tinged with a ghostly green glow. Then, slowly, the word sharpens, slick stone, wet earth, the slow ebb and flow of the water at his ankles.
No.
With recognition comes a trickle of dark, icy fear. This lonely speck of land, surrounded by dark, motionless waters is impossible to forget. It had been the last thing Regulus had seen and he knows that not even an Obliviate could scrub this sight from his soul. Cold dread coils around him. Regulus scrambles backwards towards the centre of the island, tries to catch his breath, winded by his desperation. He knows what those hands feel like, he knows if they grab him he won’t escape them again. He collapses beside a familiar basin and only then does he risk a glance at the water below him. The surface of the lake remains calm, undisturbed.
But something’s shifted.
Slowly, Regulus comes to a somber realisation. Time has passed. He knows it, can feel it in his aching bones.
I died, he thinks, his stomach in knots. I was gone and now…I’m not.
There was no way he could have survived the fate that had waited him at the bottom of the lake. There was no rescue. No saviour. No funeral. A bleak realisation to come to but an unsurprising one. Regulus looks down at his arm, where the ragged sleeve of his robe has fallen away, revealing the Dark Mark.
Or what’s left of it.
The ink is so faded that it’s hardly visible, the shape no longer distinct or recognisable. It’s not unreasonable to think that in time, it will fade completely. The sight of it catches in his throat. A smudge of ink, the once permanent brand now nothing more than the ghost of a skull and snake on his forearm…was it possible, that the power it represented had weakened? Had the monster behind that terrible, unspeakable power truly been wiped from existence, the dark stain he’d left on the world, finally lifting, like the tattoo on Regulus’ arm?
Salt stings his eyes. He doesn’t blink it away.
Instead, he studies the mark with a brutal intensity, searing every blurred, indistinct line of the mark into memory. Because if it’s fading, then maybe…maybe he succeeded. His lips twitch into a parody of a smile, a wry, bitter twist of the mouth, because if this second chance at life is his penance, he accepts it.
Finally, Regulus Black rises.
His limbs ache, his pockets are empty and his wand is gone. The cursed boat, the one that had ferried him to death, frustratingly, waits silently at the opposite end of the cave for a summon that without a wand, cannot come. He stares at it for a long time.
And then, with a voice long buried but born anew, he speaks. A single word.
The name of someone he hadn’t forgotten.
The name of someone, who he’s certain despite the passage of time, wouldn’t have forgotten him either.
Chapter 2: It’s getting dark-
Chapter Text
The elf appears in a snap of magic, his wizened face raw, cracked open with wild hope. Regulus watches as his frantic gaze rakes the cave, searching for something, someone.
Finally, he spins on his heel and turns to face him.
Time stands still for a moment.
And then Kreacher breaks.
At the sight of his young master, Kreacher falls to his knees with a sound between a sob and a gasp catching in his throat. He reaches forward, claws at the damp, torn fabric of Regulus’ trouser leg as if the water surrounding them might try to take his master back again.
Regulus, reeling and barely standing steady on his feet, lowers himself down. The whole time, Kreacher clings to Regulus like a lifeline, showcasing a desperation that Regulus had never before witnessed from his elf. He peels his hands away gently but doesn’t let them go, instead cradling them between his own.
A warmth stirs somewhere deep in his chest and he finds himself smiling, a real one.
“Hello, Kreacher,” he says softly, voice threadbare from disuse.
The elf stares at him, his lips trembling as words fail him but at the sound of Regulus’ voice, he pulls away, only to reach into the folds of his tattered rags and pull out a wand.
His wand.
Regulus feels his breath catch in his throat.
“How long has it been, Kreacher?” He reaches out a trembling hand to take his wand, feeling his magic rise deep from within him. He pauses for a moment, hand still outstretched, and lowers his voice although there’s nobody else around to hear them. “Is it true? Is he gone?”
Kreacher doesn’t speak for a moment, instead he does something that takes Regulus by surprise. He presses his wand into his palm, gently closing Regulus’ fingers around it, and then holds his cold hand between his own calloused ones.
A fleeting touch, a quick squeeze, and then he nods.
Regulus lets out a ragged breath, followed quickly by a bark of laughter that teeters somewhere between grateful disbelief and hysteria.
Tears glisten in Kreacher’s eyes as he finally lets go. “It’s been two years, Master Regulus. Two years, two months and nine days.”
Over two years, he’d been gone.
The war had dragged on for two more years before the Dark Lord fell, and for those who had survived, he’s certain those years had been agonising and relentless. But it had also taken just two years for the world to forget him, in the vast sweep of history, barely a breath.
In quiet contemplation, Regulus rolls his wand between his fingers and tries to reacquaint himself to the weight and feel of it, the quiet hum of magic.
This place had tried to bury him but Kreacher had remembered, faith stretched thin over lonely years. He’d waited and he’d hoped, against reason, against magic itself.
And then Regulus had called him, and he’d come. And when Regulus had needed it most, he’d reached out a hand.
Regulus decides in that moment, to do something he probably should’ve done many years ago, because he did not want to be Kreacher’s master, if he was going to be gifted a second chance at life, then he wanted to be his friend.
“I’m not sure if this will work.” Regulus begins, pulling off one of his Oxfords, wincing at the water that tips out of the leather shoe. “As you are technically in my mother’s service, not mine, but I’d like you to have this.”
He holds out a hand, containing a soggy sock and cringes remorsefully at the sad, crumpled sight of it. “Sorry, this is the best I could do considering the circumstances.”
The elf looks at him, already wary from his choice of words but recoils in horror once his gaze drops to Regulus’ hand. “No,” he whispers, voice cracking with disbelief. “Master must not-“
Regulus reaches forward, still holding the sock, he tries to soften his face, tries to convey all the things he wants to say but can’t.
“I’m not giving this to free you,” he says carefully, understanding Kreacher’s panic, “I’m giving it to honour you.”
Kreacher stares, dumbfounded as Regulus presses the sock into his hand.
“Not as your master, but as someone who owes you a great deal.” He hesitates, watching Kreacher carefully. “I don’t want you to go anywhere,” Then he winces sheepishly, realising his mistake, “Though I suppose…that’s not technically my decision to make. But I’ll speak to my mother, I’ll try to convince her to formally release you and if you’d like to stay with me,” He pauses, voice warm, eyes gentler still. “It will be as my friend.”
Kreacher does not look at him for a long moment. Slowly, tremulously, he hugs the scrap of clothing to his chest as he lowers his head. It takes him a moment, to lift his face towards Regulus and when he does so, his eyes are sad. “That will not be necessary, Master Regulus.”
Regulus raises a brow. “Why?”
Kreacher once more looks at the sock, holds it carefully, like it’s precious. “Because,” he says quietly, “Kreacher is already free.”
His parents are dead, both of them, gone.
Regulus doesn’t know how he’s meant to feel about it.
He should feel pain, he should feel something.
But when he does, the first ripple of emotion that passes through him is not sorrow, it’s relief. A bitter, biting kind of release, a loosening in his chest he hadn’t known he’d needed or wanted.
Kreacher watches quietly, still holds the sock between fisted hands.
Regulus eventually swallows, his gaze drifting upwards. “This changes things.” And certainly makes things easier, though he refrains from saying that last part out loud. He turns to Kreacher. “We’ll discuss this later. Right now, I need to know whether Sirius claimed the house as the only surviving heir.”
A complicated expression crosses Kreacher’s face but he seems to understand what Regulus is asking and shakes his head. “The house is empty and answers to you.”
“Then we’ll head there.” Regulus says, eager for a change of surroundings. “So you can tell me what I’ve missed.”
Regulus raises his wand towards the boat and despite how strange it feels to cast a spell after all this time, summons it.
The boat does not move.
It seems his wand does not want to welcome him back as quickly as Kreacher had.
Regulus exhales sharply, frustration prickling under his skin, gaze drifting over the still surface of the lake. It’s been years since he last cast a spell but this feels deeper than the rust of disuse. “Maybe Riddle enchanted this place, including the boat, to prevent escape. Would you try to Apparate us instead? Together?”
Kreacher stiffens and Regulus realises why only a moment later. He is no longer bound. No command holds him.
Regulus sees the hesitation, feels it in the quiet between them. So he tries something different, something real.
“Please?” he asks, voice soft. His reaches out a hand, watches as Kreacher studies it. Slowly, with a heavy sigh, like he doesn’t expect this to work, he takes it.
They are there one moment and gone the next.
The sensation is just as disconcerting as it had been two years ago. The wards let him through with a low groan, like the house itself hadn’t decided yet whether it still recognised him.
It takes Regulus a moment to gather himself and when he does, he notes the look that Kreacher sends him from the entryway of Grimmauld Place is strange, almost wary. “That shouldn’t have worked.”
Regulus only laughs, finding a strange sort of amusement in Kreacher’s words. “I think the rule book went out the window when I clawed my way back out of that water.”
He pauses however, as he takes in the sight of the house. The Black family home had once stood proud, ostentatious in its decor and furnishings.
Now, dust blooms in the air as he slowly walks down the hallway, each step disturbing it. He notes the peeling wallpaper and the cobwebs clinging to empty picture frames. He runs a finger across a side table, inspects the dust that coats it, years of it, years that he’d missed.
Regulus turns to Kreacher, still stood where he left him.
“Tell me everything.”
Kreacher whispered things that Regulus had never wanted, not expected, to hear, names followed by silences too deep to fill.
James and Lily, dead.
Pandora…missing, presumed dead.
Barty and Evan, gone too.
Dorcas and Marlene…the list went on and on.
Regulus grits his teeth, his jaw aches with the force of it.
They’re all dead.
He feels the warning sting in his eyes and forcefully presses the heels of his hands against them to hold back his tears. Hopelessly trying to hold back the flood that he knows once released, will never be able to be contained again.
James is gone, the world wrecked and rewritten without him. Lily, too. Their little boy now an orphan.
Regulus had never expected things to go back to the way they once were between him and James, he was too old for fantasy, too hollow for hope. He respected Lily far too much to ever speak on all the things he’d been holding onto in his heart.
He had longed however, to try and make amends with the boy he’d loved, to be part of his life again.
The boy he’d now lost twice but this time, it was permanent.
They were all gone.
His oldest friends, the people he’d loved above all else.
Why was he here, if they were not?
“Who survived?” Regulus eventually asks as he stares down at the street below, at the wizards still out celebrating, despite the early hour. He feels disconnected from them, an outsider to their happiness, an emotion he doesn’t think he’ll be capable of experiencing again. He tries to swallow down his nausea at his next words. “If any?”
Kreacher doesn’t say anything, his silence is telling.
Regulus turns, a warning in his voice as he raises an eyebrow. “Who, Kreacher?”
Kreacher lowers his head, a sharp glint in his eyes. “Sirius Black, sir.”
He cannot contain his anger, or his grief.
Regulus, over the next few days, swings wildly between the two.
He feels carved out, hollow and empty one moment and then wild with impossible fury the next.
For Regulus, time passes slow and staggered, whilst the world seems to move on without him, forgetting those who are now gone.
Most days, Regulus sits, barely moves as he stares at nothing and cries for a future lost. He wishes he’d stayed dead, wishes anyone but him had survived.
Other times, he’s so angry, so full of rage that he struggles to contain it, doesn’t try to.
One instance of this burning anger had resulted in him hurling a bottle of his father’s whiskey against the wall, the stench of alcohol rising, thick and sharp. For one breathless moment, it had taken everything in him not to draw his wand and ignite it.
To let the flame lick up the walls, across the floorboards and consume him too.
Let it all burn.
There is no meaning to his life, not anymore.
What is the point of life, if he cannot experience the joy of seeing James look at him again, like he was staring straight into his soul? What is the point if he cannot hear Barty’s laughter, wild and reckless and free, and cannot witness the way it softens Evan, in a way nothing else could or ever will again?
His heart aches for Pandora, for Dorcas, for Marlene. For three girls who were bright, brilliant…gone.
War stole them from him.
His friends are gone, he has no family. If anyone were to ask him, not that anyone would because Regulus Black is a boy forgotten to time, he would tell them that he is brotherless. Regulus refuses to acknowledge the man who betrayed them, betrayed him.
Regulus is unmoored, untethered. With no anchor, he continues to drift.
It takes Regulus weeks but eventually he finds purpose.
He cannot stand this house. Every room he enters, he finds himself staring aimlessly at places where he knew Voldemort had once stood. Every hallway he wanders down serves as a reminder of his rotten family. This house is a graveyard and he no longer wants to haunt it.
So he begins to tear it all down, vanishes everything archaic about the house until all that’s left are bare walls and old floorboards.
Regulus purges his world of magic, room by room and piece by piece. Every artefact he stumbles upon, each family heirloom he discovers tucked away in a dusty cabinet, tightens his gut with silent dread. These weren’t just objects. They were relics of the life he had once pledged himself to, the loyalty he once stupidly gave. Magic, the thing Voldemort had coveted and worshipped above all else, now stands as a brutal testament to the price Regulus had paid for what he once believed in.
Yet one room remains untouched.
His room.
Regulus had stood outside it more times than he’d care to admit, hand hovering over a handle rusted with time and heartbreak, his chest carved out and empty.
He couldn’t go in.
He often pressed his face against the panes and whispered to the wood about the brother he’d loved, the brother he’d lost, the brother he now hates.
Countless times, he sat with his back against the door and told the hallway that he was trying, that he wanted to heal, that he wasn’t sure if he could.
So the room remains locked and Regulus prays that one day he will find the strength to come to terms with his betrayal and enter his room.
Until then, he continues to change the house and in turn, let it change him.
Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him.
It had taken him weeks to strip the house bare and rebuild it, it was a tiresome task that kept him mercifully occupied but one that couldn’t last forever.
And with nothing to occupy him, his thoughts begin to drift towards James once more.
Harry, his son is out there, somewhere. Does he have his father’s eyes? His mother’s face? Is his hair dark and curly or a brilliant auburn?
Regulus realises that he is desperate to see James in his features, a testament that a little bit of him lives on somewhere in this world.
He toys with stepping foot outside the house and immediately vetoes the idea. Kreacher has been his only link to the outside world these past few weeks, fetching paint and supplies for him. At first, Regulus had been too grief-stricken to leave the confines of his self-imposed prison, but then he had come to his senses and realised that people wouldn’t take too kindly to not only a presumed dead man but a alleged Death Eater walking about London.
The same rings true now, he knows he could cloak himself in a disguise and chase down the answers that he seeks but he finds that when it comes to actually doing it, he falters.
Kreacher, begrudgingly brings him a variety of newspapers each morning which he painstakingly pores over in hopes of glimpsing any new information about Harry but news regarding the infant had trickled out weeks ago, his whereabouts are currently unknown.
And with no new information to occupy him, then the shame hits. What right does he have to seek answers about a child whose parents died defending everything Regulus once betrayed, people he had tried to protect but had ultimately failed, until it was too late? He has no right to seek Harry out, wherever he is now, he is probably well-cared for and will be raised knowing how wonderful his parents were. Harry will never know his name and if he did, he would only hear how he was tied to the wrong side of history.
But at night, desperation wins out. He wakes from a dream of James, face damp and with a heavy heart. He wants to tether himself to what’s left of James, to a young boy who embodies everything he couldn’t save. Most of all, he clings to the quiet hope that somewhere, hidden away, a little boy with James’ eyes will grow up and will see the world with the same reckless, radiant wonder that his father once had. That somewhere, a little piece of James lived on.
The following morning, after a night of little sleep and reckless decisions, Regulus sends Kreacher to visit Harry. He warns him, not to make himself known, just to get a glimpse of the boy. Regulus suspects that Harry is in Remus’ care and knows that no matter how much time has passed, he would recognise the elf. He wonders how painful that must be for the man, raising the son of two people whose love once anchored him, whose absence would now echo louder than ever. Worse still, Remus must look into those eyes and remember not just James and Lily, but the godfather turned traitor who had betrayed not only Harry, but Remus too.
Regulus sits at the kitchen table nursing a cup of black coffee and waits.
He doesn’t have to wait long.
Kreacher returns and the look on his face has Regulus pushing away from his seat at the table, his chest tight.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, heart pounding at the wary expression his friend sends his way.
“Harry Potter was not where Kreacher expected him to be.”
“What?” Regulus blinks for a moment, confused. “Remus doesn’t have him?”
A slow shake of the head.
“Where is he?”
Slowly, Kreacher begins to speak, painting a picture that sets Regulus’ world alight once more but this time, for different reasons entirely.
The saviour of the wizarding world.
With muggles.
In a rickety, old crib, hidden away in a dark cupboard under a flight of stairs.
Rage is a familiar feeling. At this point, it’s an old companion, ever lurking beneath the surface. But this? This is something else entirely. Urgency ignites him, sets him moving, pulling on his shoes before reason can catch up.
His movements are clipped, breath shallow, purpose crashing through him louder than caution.
Kreacher watches him with widening eyes, his expression turning into one of alarm as he watches Regulus begin to lace up his shoes. “Where are you going?”
Regulus’ voice is sharp, dangerous. “To Dumbledore.”
Fear hits Regulus the moment he realises what he’s done.
He’s outside and in his haste, had forgotten to pull on a coat. The full force of the cold wind hits him and the sensation is both freeing and frightening because he’s outside.
He’s outside. For the first time in weeks, arguably, the first time in years, he’s outside.
It’s snowing in Hogsmeade, much like it always is, but the feeling of snow falling thick and fast on his face, on his hair, on his bare arms has him throwing his head back and laughing. The fear of being recognised, of reintegrating himself into this world disappears, blown away by the wind tousling his hair and caressing his face. He’d forgotten what it felt like, to breathe in the crisp air, to feel the wind on his skin and catch the flakes of snow as they fell.
He’s alive.
Merlin, he’s alive.
In his grief, he hadn’t had time to process it but now, it hits him and he feels a rare kernel of joy blossom in his chest.
Regulus lifts his face and lets the winter sun kiss his face for the first time in a long time.
Slowly, the smile that had started to grow, falls from his face.
This wasn’t what he’d come here for.
Reality drowns him once more. He is alive, at the detriment of all those he’s lost. He will never be fourteen again, standing in Hogsmeade, ducking as Barty tries to lob a snowball over his head to hit Evan. He will never be fifteen again, standing in this very spot, as a boy with hazel eyes and wild curls had wrapped his scarf round his neck, only to pull him in with the frayed edges of it. He will never be sixteen again, watching James Potter do the exact same thing with his scarf that he’d done a year prior but this time to Lily Evans, surrounded by their friends while Regulus stood watching, alone.
By some miracle or some curse, he is seventeen again, standing in this town watching as unfamiliar faces blur past him, replacing the ghosts of people who will never have the chance to walk these streets again.
The walk to Hogwarts is lonely.
The gates, unsurprisingly, do not let him in. However, he knows they will alert someone to his presence.
Twenty minutes could have passed, maybe even an hour. Eventually, he sees a black clad figure making their way down the path toward him.
He does not expect that person to be Severus Snape.
It is clear that Snape does not expect him to be standing there either.
“Regulus.” Real surprise blooms on his face, quickly replaced by a narrow-eyed discernment. He lifts his wand.
“Someone cursed me back in sixth-year, you punched them for it, who was on the receiving end of that poorly planted punch?”
A small smile tugs at the corner of Regulus’ mouth at the memory, it was a rubbish punch but he’d gotten lucky. Barty had never let him hear the end of it though.
“Sirius Black.” Both of them go silent at his name, any humour found in the memory quickly disappearing.
Snape lets out a shaky breath. “It is good to see you, old friend.”
Regulus dips his chin in acknowledgement and when he raises his head, he sees the same grief he knows that line his eyes, reflected in Snape’s. Regulus always knew he’d end up fighting for Lily, a tragedy that his decision must have come too late.
“I’m glad to see you survived the war and managed to find your way back to the right side of it.”
Snape looks at him and Regulus takes a moment to do the same, he looks older, his face lined in a way it hadn’t been only a few short years ago. At first glance, the professor’s robes are a surprise but on deeper reflection, not really. Hogwarts had been Snape’s first real home, his only home. He’s not surprised that he’s returned to it.
“I’m assuming you managed to find yourself on the right side of the war too.” Comes Snape’s softly spoken reply. The gate still stands between them and Snape makes no move to open it. “Did you run away?”
This is a deciding moment for them and Regulus knows it, Snape had known he was up to something two years ago and had never breathed a word of it to Voldemort. This is a test, did he succeed or did he run? He doesn’t think Snape would judge him either way but he finds himself unable to lie.
“I died trying to stop him. I don’t know how or why but…I’ve only been back a short while, that night-“ Regulus falters, hates the vulnerability that cracks his voice and cuts his sentence short.
Snape seems to understand what night he’s referring to and freezes. “They said you were dead, I’d always hoped you’d gotten away. How is it possible…?”
Regulus shakes his head. “I don’t understand why I’m back but I’m here. I’ve wasted this second chance so far but I’m going to try and change that now, do the right thing.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m here to see Dumbledore, about Harry.”
Snape shakes his head, whether in pity or resigned understanding, Regulus isn’t sure.
“Very well.” He says eventually, seeming to come to a decision. Snape lifts a hand to open the gates. “You better come in.”
“Mr Black.” There is no surprise in Dumbledore’s face or in his tone, only a slight bemusement as his half-moon spectacled gaze fixes upon Regulus standing in the doorway to his office. “I thought you were dead.”
“I was.” Regulus’ tone is uninviting and does not offer up the chance for follow up questions. He thought his conversation with Snape had softened him but he finds that now he’s in front of the man who he’s certain sent Harry away, the anger is back tenfold. “Where is Harry Potter?”
Dumbledore pauses behind his desk and the corner of his mouth twitches into a small, lopsided smile. “An interesting question, considering who your master was. Why should I relay the location of young Harry to someone who up until recently, I understood to be a Death Eater?”
Regulus smiles, a cold thing that suggests he is quickly running out of patience. “I’m sure your spy waiting outside would have told you when he switched sides that I betrayed Voldemort and died for it.”
Regulus doesn’t hesitate saying his name out loud, he doesn’t fear him anymore, the worst thing that could happen to him, already has.
“It is brave to say his name when so many wouldn’t dare.” Dumbledore says quietly, he rests his chin on his steepled fingers and nods towards the chair in front of him. “Please sit, Mr Black.”
Regulus looks at the proffered chair and instead chooses to perch on the end of his desk. He refuses to sit small and meek in front of his old headmaster and judging by the aggrieved look Dumbledore sends him, it was the right choice to make as Regulus has managed to retain some power in this interaction.
“Much as I loathe to admit it, I find myself curious, why are you here, asking after Harry’s whereabouts?”
“I want him. I want to take care of him.” Regulus says fiercely, the words are out in the open before he realises what he’s said. They shock him as much as they shock the headmaster.
It’s silent between them for a moment, the air charged. There’s something in Dumbledore’s gaze, something unreadable.
“You have no claim to him, Mr Black. Better yet, do you think James and Lily Potter would entrust their son in your care, if they had the choice?”
Something smarts painfully in his chest at the mention of James.
“I don’t know.” He says quietly but he can’t hide the heat in his voice. “They’re dead so we can’t ask them.”
Dumbledore leans back but doesn’t speak, almost as if he’s waiting on Regulus.
“I loved him.” The words, despite the meaning behind them, are angry, but when he ducks his head, his voice softens to almost a whisper. “I love him still.”
Something flashes across Dumbledore’s face, it looks a lot like understanding.
This time, Regulus does not bother to soften his tone, each word that falls out of his mouth is sharp, lined with the jagged edges of grief. “It is an indescribable loss.”
“I can understand how losing Mr Potter may-“
“And Lily.” Regulus says, and is surprised by the anger in his tone, he hadn’t meant to cut in but the easy dismissal of a woman whose strength and sacrifice brought down Voldemort infuriates him.
It seems it was the right thing to say because Dumbledore nods thoughtfully. “And now you wish to care for her son…you must understand, Mr Black, that Harry is important, he must be protected. I cannot hand him to you on a whim.”
“He must be protected,” Regulus parrots mockingly, lifting his fingers in quotation marks, “Yet the muggles who you trusted to care for him have him locked in a cupboard under the stairs!” He breathes heavily through his nose, tries to tame his temper. “I died stealing something important to Voldemort, I would do the same to protect James and Lily’s son.” He hadn’t known it was true until the words had left his mouth but now with conviction blooming in their wake, he knew he would.
Dumbledore does not seem affected by Regulus’ realisation. Instead, he chooses to focus on something else, something that better suits his interests. “And what was that, Mr Black, that you stole.”
Regulus remains silent. This is not a secret he’s sure he’s ready to share, he died for it, he won’t give it away so easily, especially to someone like Dumbledore, who he’s never trusted. But if Harry’s safety relies on it...he hesitates.
As his silence stretches, he feels it, a powerful force of magic in his mind. It’s gentle, almost courteous but invasive all the same. With a low snarl, Regulus forces Dumbledore out with a hard shove.
“You’ll have to try harder than that, old man.” He says with a biting edge to his voice. “I spent the last few years of my life in the presence of the darkest wizard of perhaps all time, I learnt to block magic much more malevolent than yours.”
Now he’s caught Dumbledore’s attention, can tell by the glint behind those half-moon spectacles. If Dumbledore was intrigued by him before, his next words hold his attention entirely.
“I’m willing to swear an unbreakable vow with you. I will share any information that I previously gathered, and any new information I come across that ensures that no one like Voldemort risks the safety of our world again. In exchange you will entrust Harry’s care to me and I will swear to protect him with my life, by any means possible.”
Surprise blooms on Dumbledore’s face but then, something quiet and unmistakable surfaces, tucked away in the depths of those fathomless blue eyes, something satisfied and pleased.
The old man lifts a hand, offers it to Regulus who takes it without hesitation, his grip firm.
“Mr Black, we have a deal.”
It is not Snape who walks him back down but Hagrid.
They don’t speak, the only sound that passes between them is the sound of their footsteps crunching on fallen leaves and frost bitten grass. Hagrid’s eyes had welled with tears the moment his gaze had fallen on Regulus, undoubtedly struck by the painful resemblance to the man who both of them had known and cared for and ultimately been betrayed by. He’s been silent ever since.
Regulus, meanwhile was quiet for a different reason entirely. Shock had begun to set in and he was taunt with the weight of what’d he just done. He doesn’t know if the decision he’d made was right, only that it’s done and that he must carry it forward, past those gates.
Once the wrought-iron gates are in sight, Regulus slows, a little uncertainly. He knows why Hagrid is upset, he’d been fond of James and particularly Lily during their time here and he assumes that their bond would have been solidified by their shared time in the Order.
“Hagrid.” Regulus says, breaking the silence between them. “You’re welcome to visit him, any time, all I ask is that you owl ahead.”
Hagrid’s eyes glisten with unshed tears and Regulus is worried for a moment that he’s going to try and hug him, instead he only claps a large hand on his shoulder, nearly sending him flying.
“Oh, you don’t know how much that means to me.” Hagrid says, scrubbing at his eyes. “I couldn’t believe it, when I heard the news. When I picked up little Harry.”
“Lily and James Potter were the best of us.” Regulus says quietly, his meets Hagrid’s gaze and his voice is firm and resolute. “I promise Harry will know how brave they were, what wonderful parents they’d have been. I’ll make sure of it.”
Hagrid pulls something out of his pocket, a book bound in fine leather, shiny and new. “I was saving this for Harry, once he was older and all. Now, I think I’d like you to hang onto it for him instead.”
He hands Regulus it gently, like the contents are precious and when Regulus opens the first page, he understands why.
It’s a picture of James and Lily Potter.
It’s the first time Regulus has seen James, even a picture of him, in years. He tries to swallow past the lump in his throat, tracing the picture in front of him, reverently, gently. They’re older here than when he knew them but only by a couple of years. Forever young and in love, dancing in front of a fountain. James is exactly how Regulus imagined he’d be once he grew up, he looks so much like Fleamont it makes his heart ache. He wonders if when Harry is the same age as James in this photo, whether Regulus will be able to see a little bit of them both in him.
When Regulus looks up at Hagrid, his eyes are wet again but now Regulus’ are too. “Thank you,” He says tightly, “I’ll cherish this, as will Harry.”
Hagrid smiles and it’s warm and it’s real.
When Regulus returns home, he places the photo on the newly empty mantlepiece in pride of place in the very centre.
His mother would’ve hated having pictures above the fireplace and scattered around the house, would have called it incredibly common.
So Regulus goes to gather more.
With a smile, he digs under his bed for a box of photos. There’s some of Marlene and Dorcas, heaps of Barty, Evan and Pandora and right at the bottom, hidden with a clever charm Barty had helped him devise back in fourth year, there are a couple of Regulus and James. He flits through them before taking a selection of them downstairs, procuring frames and arranging them around the picture of Lily and James.
The memories hurt, but he doesn’t turn away. Regulus let them rise, one by one, picture by picture, and when they pass, his eyes are wet, but his smile is bright.
Chapter 3: -too dark to see
Summary:
Just a quick reminder that this fic covers an extensive timeline and so a lot is about to happen in this chapter, buckle in and happy reading!
Chapter Text
“Good afternoon.” Regulus says, peering round the thin, pointy looking woman who is blocking the doorway. “My name is Regulus Black, Professor Dumbledore should have called ahead? I’m here for Harry.”
“Petunia, who is it?” Comes a thundering voice from within the confines of the house, Regulus doesn’t attempt to hide his wince at the sheer volume of it.
“Finally.” The woman says with a put out sigh. “He’s been screaming non-stop since he was abandoned by your lot on our doorstep.” She leans back around the door, muttering something unsavoury to the man who Regulus presumes is her loudmouth husband before turning to face him expectantly once more.
“Right…” Regulus murmurs, trying to rein his temper in. Dumbledore had warned him that Petunia Dursley did not share her sister’s temperament nor her values, that she might come across as prickly and disdainful. However, she is still Lily’s sister, and that has to count for something. Petunia has just lost the last bit of her family too, her and Regulus are alike in that regard. So he swallows his anger, tamps down his irritation the best that he can for Lily, who is gone, and for Petunia, who lost her.
What makes this difficult however, is knowing how they’ve treated Lily’s son. That knowledge burns. Regulus fears he is only moments away from casting something awful and hightailing it with Harry out of there.
In the fractured silence, Petunia seems to appraise him for a moment, almost as if she can sense the war that is raging within him. “Who are you anyway?”
It takes everything in him not to roll his eyes. “I told you already, Regulus Black. My brother was Harry’s godfather.” He realises his slip up almost immediately, the damming use of the past tense and tucks his hands behind his back so that she can’t see the way his fists are clenched, knuckles white, nails carving crescents into his palms. Regulus quickly tries to recover, sending her a polite, if not distant, smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, meant to deflect rather than invite. Before she can speak, he pivots, voice steady, already steering the conversation back toward safer territory. “He’s not in the country,” He lies smoothly, “I’m here to look after him in the meantime.”
“Rather irresponsible,” Petunia sniffs haughtily, “considering the circumstances surrounding his godson.” She pauses for a beat, seems to finally take him in, despite the fact he’s been on the doorstep for a handful of moments already. “And how old are you, anyway? You look very young.”
The incessant questions are starting to grate on Regulus.
“Old enough. Now where’s Harry, still under the stairs?” Though his words drip with a practised sweetness, Regulus’ tone is as sharp as a razor’s edge. Petunia hears it immediately, her spine stiffening at the warning cloaked in civility.
At first, Petunia remains quiet, before she says very quickly, her face lowered towards the floor in what doesn’t appear to be in shame but in cowering fear. “Yes.” Upon seeing a muscle feather in Regulus’ jaw she adds meekly, “I’ll get him now.”
Regulus hears the click of a lock, the squeak of a rickety old door and it takes everything in him not to follow her in and confront her and her useless husband. His fingers twitch, aching for his wand, desperate to lash out, but he cages the instinct, barely, for Harry’s sake. Petunia appears only moments later with a small bundle which with no warning, she dumps into Regulus’ outstretched arms.
He gazes down at the boy and everything changes for him in that moment, the scope of his whole world narrowing to only include the baby in his arms. Harry smiles up at him, a gummy little thing and something must break on his face because Petunia’s face softens.
“You will look after him, won’t you?”
Regulus looks up and when he responds, he surprises himself by how gentle his reply is. “Of course.”
A single tear falls down Petunia’s face which she scrubs away immediately. Regulus notes the frightened glance she throws over her shoulder, almost as if she’s worried her brute of a husband might have seen her mask slip. “I loved my sister.” She says quietly, a small admission to the stranger on her doorstep.
Regulus lowers his head in acknowledgement, he can’t find it in himself to feel sorry for this woman and the way she’d treated the boy, her nephew, but he still musters up enough composure to offer her a quiet, measured, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
There’s something sharp and knowing in Petunia’s gaze as she appraises him, the broken picture he must paint as he clutches a tiny Harry to his chest. As she pulls the door shut he hears her murmur, “I’m sorry for yours too.”
“Hello.” Regulus says gently, looking down at the small bundle in his arms.
Harry reaches out a tiny hand and grabs one of Regulus’ curls, exhibiting no fear for the stranger who now holds him, and tugs it. When he lets go, the dark curl bounces and Harry lets out a delighted peal of laughter.
Oh.
Regulus’ heart thumps painfully in his chest.
Harry pauses, looking a little unsure at whatever expression he finds on Regulus’ face. Regulus does his best to soften his features, and in the same breath, he reaches down and places one of his curls in Harry’s small fist.
“It’s okay.” He says quietly, the beginning of a small smile growing on his face. “I’ve got you. I’ll look after you.”
Harry tugs on the curl again, laughing with abject delight and this time, Regulus laughs with him. When Harry looks up at Regulus it’s with a trust so pure, it stings.
He is a stranger to this small boy, a child shaped by hardship, who has every reason to distrust the world that has treated him so unkindly. Instead, the little boy looks up at him, like he can sense this is a new beginning for both of them, and that he trusts Regulus to make this chapter a happy one. Regulus makes a silent vow, to himself, and to Harry, that he will never betray the trust that Harry has just given him. He will earn it, day after day, through childhood and into adulthood, until it’s no longer a promise but a truth Harry can lean on.
I think this is why I was brought back, Regulus thinks to himself. I don’t know why it was me and not James or Lily, Marlene or Dorcas, or even Pandora but this is why I’m here.
For Harry.
Harry quietly restores what Regulus thought was lost to him, a sense of belonging, of hope, of meaning that grows stronger with every moment that they share together.
It is a struggle, those early days of turning an empty house into a home, learning how to care for a little boy who not only inherited his father’s penchant for mischief but also his mother’s innocent smile. But as time passes, weeks folding into months, months stretching into years, Regulus begins to realise that somewhere along the way, the ache in his chest has started to fade. In its place, something soft, warm and quietly hopeful begins to grow.
He is older now, time has helped to soothe some of the wounds that the war had inflicted. Regulus, for the first time in a very long time, learns to live and to enjoy life, both the mundane and the exciting.
Regulus loves watching Harry grow up, treasures every milestone, every birthday, but he wishes that time would slow, just a little, so he could make the most of every moment that passed. It’s a stark difference to how painstakingly slow life had seemed before Harry.
This life is a gift and Regulus learns to treat it as such, intends to give back to the universe with the same grace it had offered him upon his return.
So, Regulus makes it his mission to give Harry the childhood he deserves. He tries his hardest to immerse himself in the world of Muggles, as a tribute to Lily and the world she’d inhabited before she’d joined theirs. Regulus is certain she would have wanted her son to experience the quiet magic that Muggles crafted for themselves, the kind found at fun fairs and the cinema and in the hum of a Saturday morning cartoon. The same magic she once knew and loved. The magic that she had once grown up with, not the kind she’d later learn at Hogwarts, but just as important. Their world, despite lacking corporeal magic, is full of wonder too.
Regulus, perching on one of the outdoor sofas he’d bought when Harry hit that age where he always wanted to play outside, watches Harry chase bubbles across the garden, his laughter a beautiful, bright sound on such an overcast day. He closes his eyes, tilting his head upwards, trying to catch the few weak rays of sun that are attempting to peek through the clouds. He enjoys the warmth he feels on his face.
Regulus thinks summer might be Harry’s favourite season, he’s like James in that regard. Soon, the two of them will set off on their yearly tradition, one they’ve honoured every summer since Harry was a baby, one that Regulus hopes will continue for a long time to come. Every year, around Harry’s birthday, Regulus books a little seaside cottage where they go to chase both the sun and the salt air. He drifts into memory, those early summers spent navigating long train rides to picturesque coastal towns, where Harry’s laughter often tangled with the cry of the gulls, flying in the sea air above them. Afternoons that melted into golden hours with sand between their toes. Regulus had poured everything into making those trips magical for Harry. And somewhere between building crumbling sandcastles and chasing the waves, Harry’s tiny feet resting on Regulus’, their hands clasped together as the water came crashing towards them, he’d found himself swept up in the joy too, rediscovering a kind of happiness he hadn’t felt since… him.
Perhaps that’s why Regulus fills their days so deliberately, because time, while generous with healing, is cruel with its reminders. The wounds may have closed but the scars still ache when pressed.
When Harry was just a small bundle in his arms, all soft limbs and sleepy sighs, Regulus had been endlessly busy, constantly fussing over him, attending to every need. But now, with Harry growing up and beginning to stretch into his own independence, Regulus finds himself scrambling to fill their days. If he’s honest, it’s not just for Harry’s sake, it’s also for his own.
It’s complicated. The impulse comes from love, from a deep desire for Harry to experience everything the world has to offer while he’s still young enough to marvel at it. But in the quiet hours, when sleep won’t come and the house feels too still and silent, Regulus admits there’s a selfishness to it too. He’s not ready to let go of Harry’s childhood or the version of him that exists as the sole gravitational pull in Harry’s orbit.
But time is a thief and it waits for no man.
It happens on a Tuesday morning. Harry, now wearing glasses, just like his dad, insists on dressing himself, mismatched socks and all. Regulus watches from the doorway, heart aching. He’s growing up. And as much as Regulus wants to stretch these days into forever, he knows that it’s time. Time for nursery. Time for Harry to begin stepping into the world without him always at his side.
He doesn’t want to do it and Harry, on his first day, doesn’t want to go. Regulus is very nearly swayed by the tears and the iron-clad grip that Harry has on his shirt. But Harry is brave, he is his father’s son after all, and eventually Regulus watches the little boy toddle in. Harry sends him a watery smile over his shoulder and then he is gone, disappearing where Regulus can’t follow.
For so long it had just been the two of them. Of course there was Kreacher, who had been begrudging caught in the crosshairs of affection since Harry was only a baby. Harry adored him, which Kreacher had pretended to be put out by at first, claiming to be long past his child-rearing days, only to find himself once more wrapped around the finger of a dark-haired infant and dragged back into the chaos that comes with raising the youth.
Snape visited often too, more to speak with Regulus than to entertain Harry but Regulus had caught him a handful of times staring at Harry in a manner that was so soft and private that Regulus didn’t have the heart to pull him up on it.
Hagrid had also become a familiar presence in their home. At first, it was Harry he came for, his laughter booming in the living room as he watched Harry play with whatever toy he’d made for him in his hut. But over time, Regulus found something steady in him as well, a friendship that surprising reminded him of the one he’d shared with Pandora.
Harry was adored, no question about it. The adults in his life gave him safety, stories and a softness that reminded him he was never short of love. It was time, however, for him to build bonds with children his own age who could offer him a childlike innocence that adults who were still plagued by war could never give him.
So, despite Harry’s tears and Regulus’ heartache, they persevere with nursery.
Harry, by the end of the first week, loves being there and Regulus? Well, it takes some time for him to combat the feeling of indescribable sadness that forms in the pit of his stomach every time he leaves Harry at the door but eventually, he learns to love it too. He saves every finger painting picture that Harry brings home (and secretly delights in committing another Black family cardinal sin by sticking them on the fridge with fun little magnets he’d brought from a muggle shop in town). He looks forward to watching Harry in the nativity when Christmas rolls around and makes sure that no one in the crowd claps or cheers louder than him. Who cares if he’d looked stupid, or if his parents were cursing at him from beyond the grave, it was worth it when Harry beamed at him from the stage, love shining in his eyes.
They’ve begun to stitch new traditions into the fabric of their days, too. Every Friday, after nursery, they stop for ice cream. Harry always chooses the messiest flavour and Regulus pretends not to mind the sticky fingers. And every Sunday, without fail, they head to the park for football. It doesn’t matter if the sky threatens rain or if Regulus is tired from a long week, the ritual stands. These moments, simple and repetitive, become sacred. Not grand gestures, but the kind of quiet consistency that children need, that tells them that they are safe, they are loved and they are worth showing up for. The kind of childhood Regulus had wanted, the kind of childhood he knows James and Lily would’ve given Harry if they were still here.
This particular Sunday, Regulus watches as Harry, sweaty and grinning after kicking a ball about all morning, races over to the other children playing by the slide. He joins the fray and chatters away to his newfound friends, a million miles an hour with the same infectious energy his dad used to greet his own friends with in those early years at Hogwarts.
Shortly, an argument over who can go down the slide next breaks out between the children and Harry is the first to offer a solution. Regulus is so proud of him. He shares with no hesitation, is the first to invite a lonely child into his game, he is truly Lily’s child.
“Is that your son?” A soft, sweet voice asks from behind him. Regulus smiles to himself. He guesses, in a way, he kind of is. He turns to face the woman, just about to nod an affirmative when he sees her and the smile dies on his face.
She’s pretty but her stand out feature is her red head, hair that is almost the exact same shade as Lily’s. The guilt hits him and it’s all consuming. It takes him a moment to note that her eyes are a pale shade of blue, not green and that other than her heart shaped face, she bears no real resemblance to Lily.
He realises he’s been staring at her silently and quickly tries to conjure up a smile to match her own. What must she think, his face dropping the way it had, at her arrival? The woman is undeterred however, her own smile not slipping from her face despite his rudeness.
“Um, kind of.” He says awkwardly, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Well, his parents, my friends,” if he could even call them that, Regulus’ mind inserts unhelpfully, “They passed away. I’m all he’s got left really.”
The girl’s smile turns sorrowful, a sad twist of her mouth. “I’m sorry. That can’t be easy for you or for him,” she says patting his shoulder, “but you’re doing a good job. Harry’s a great kid, my daughter talks about him all the time.”
Regulus soon learns her name is Sasha.
One morning, whilst dropping off her daughter, Selene, she offers him a coffee. He almost says no. But there’s something in her eyes, something gentle and unassuming, that makes him nod, something about her that makes him walk her back to her flat, the conversation easy, flowing naturally between them.
Regulus doesn’t expect connection. Not after everything. He’s resigned himself to quiet routines, packed lunches and bedtime stories for Harry. He’s good at love in small, steady doses, but he’s still learning how to let it reach him.
But that cup becomes a ritual. Somehow, it opens a doorway, one that had always been there, but up until now, had remained locked to him.
Slowly, he starts to speak more. Not much, just fragments. A memory here. A worry there. And each time, Sasha listens like it matters. Like he matters.
And slowly, the doorway widens.
They start walking together to the park on Sundays, they talk about parenting, grief, and the strange ache of trying to be better than the past you came from.
Sasha lost her partner to cancer a few months after Selene was born, she’s never quite recovered from it, she admits to him one day. Despite sharing her past with him, she never asks for his history, but she listens freely, without judgement, when he offers a redacted version of it. When he tells her about James and Lily, about the ‘car accident’, the way that grief had settled into his bones like winter and had never thawed, and through it all, she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t offer pity or platitudes, she listens and in that silence, she doesn’t look at him like he’s broken. She looks at him like she sees him. All of him. The sorrow, the solitude, the soft edges he long thought he’d buried.
When he finishes speaking, when the words finally tumble out, raw and unguarded, he feels like he’s cracked himself open. Telling her that sometimes, it feels like he’s having to learn how to live all over again, how accurate that statement is however, she’ll never know.
She watches him with that steady, unflinching gaze, deep in thought, a furrow between her auburn brows. Eventually she blows out a breath, “Then you learn how to live. And you learn to love it, despite the hard times, despite the struggles.” She seems to come back to herself in that moment, her gaze flicking to Regulus, her expression earnest. “Because the good times will be worth it.” She looks off to the distance and Regulus knows whatever she’s seeing, it’s somewhere faraway. “Choosing to live, to survive despite everything, it will always be worth it.”
And in that quiet confession, Regulus realises it wasn't just Harry who needed this. He did too.
Harry grows up surrounded by love. It is not the love that he should have had, that of his parents, of their friends and family but it is full of love all the same. Regulus does his best to give him a blended little family to call his own.
Sasha is a steady presence for Harry, through nursery, then reception, and finally school.
Sometimes, though, she just comes to spend time with Regulus. They sit together, on the sofa that Regulus had originally bought because it was soft and comfortable, but now he likes how it has become a quiet sanctuary, a place where people come together. It doesn’t look particularly nice in the living room, in fact the sofa seems to sag a bit these days, from playing with Harry and from nights sat with Sasha watching the muggle soaps that she’s obsessed with. There’s an indent at one end, where Sasha curls up with her legs tucked beneath her, a mug balancing precariously on the armrest. The cushions are most uneven in the centre of the sofa, where Harry often sprawls between them, the fabric there slightly marked with pen from Harry’s colouring book. Where Regulus sits, there’s a threadbare knitted blanket, Sasha’s Christmas gift from a few years back. It’s objectively awful. The yarn is scratchy, the colours clash, and you’re more likely to catch a chill from the holes than find any real warmth in it. But he keeps it there anyway, because it’s a gift, because it’s proof that he has people in his life who care about him enough to make him something to remember them by. The living room, just like the rest of the house, holds stories now. It holds laughter, and quiet grief and evidence of the lives he’s touched. Comfort, he’d once believed, came with a price tag. That’s why he’d bought the sofa in the first place. Now he knows that it’s something you create for yourself because somehow, over time, the sofa, though worn and a little untidy, is more comfortable now than it ever was back then.
Regulus never thought he’d find friendship like he had with Barty and Evan, Dorcas and Pandora ever again. That kind of bond felt like something the war had burned away for good, something that had died with him in that cave all those years ago, something that died when they did.
But Sasha proves him wrong. It’s different now, he’s an adult, no longer a teenager on the brink of war, and life has become softer and slower because of it. He thinks he likes it. There’s people missing of course, who should be here with him, maybe even instead of him but he likes to think he carries a little bit of them with him these days. His eyes come to rest on the mantlepiece, an ever growing collection of photos, friends and loved ones, forever frozen in time. Evidence that they were once here, that they haven’t been forgotten.
It’s Friday night. Harry’s at a sleepover, Selene’s with her grandparents. The house is quiet in a way that feels earned. Regulus and Sasha sit side by side on the sofa, a half-empty bottle of vodka resting between them, a very rare reprieve from parenthood.
“You’re so posh.” Sasha laughs, delighted at the way Regulus holds a glass. “It’s cheap vodka, Reg, it doesn’t need any silly airs or graces, get it down you!”
Reg. He hasn’t been called that in a long time. He expects it to hurt but instead something warm fills his chest at the sound of an old nickname, it reminds him of all the wonderful people who had called him it before, how it had sounded falling from their lips. Instead of being painful, he finds he welcomes the reminder. His gaze flits to the mantlepiece and hovers there for only a moment before he tips back the glass, downs the sharp spirit in one long swallow.
Sasha watches him, as she always does when he loses himself in moments like this and waits patiently for him to come back to her. When he does, she shoots him a soft little smile, like she knows that whatever train of thought he’d just had, it hadn’t hurt, it had helped him heal.
She lifts her glass to his, knocks them against each other.
“Cheers.”
He lifts his gaze and finds hers already waiting. A small smile tugs at his lips, quiet, instinctive and real.
The night winds down sooner than expected and Regulus is glad he only had the one drink when his phone rings, Chris’ mum’s number blinking on the screen.
“Hi, Anne, everything okay?” he says the moment the call connects, voice tight with unease. The late hour doesn’t help.
It had taken a lot for Regulus to agree to this sleepover in the first place, despite Chris only living five minutes away. That overprotective streak of his isn’t going anywhere, certainly not after what they’ve both been through.
Anne’s voice is calm but there’s a softness to it that makes his chest tighten. “Hi, Regulus. Harry’s so upset, bless him. Had a nightmare and I just can’t settle him. I’m so sorry, but…do you think you could come get him? He keeps asking for you.”
Regulus is already on his feet and reaching for his coat before Sasha can ask what’s wrong. The bottle of vodka, still balancing on the cushion of the sofa, long forgotten.
“Yeah, Anne, of course. I’m sorry, I’ll be there in five.”
Sasha watches him with quiet understanding as he cuts off the call and reaches for his keys. When it comes to their children, some things don’t need explaining.
“Go crash in my room,” Regulus says softly, already pulling the blanket off the arm of the sofa. “Once I get back with Harry and get him settled, I’ll stay down here.” He smiles at her apologetically. “We’ll get breakfast in the morning, it’ll be my treat, to make up for cutting the night short.”
Sasha rolls her eyes playfully. “Yeah, yeah like you have to make it up to me, you know I’d do the same thing if I were in your shoes.” She hesitates, her eyes flicking to the hallway, to the ornate spiral staircase that he’d painstakingly restored upon moving back in, then back to him. “You sure it’s okay for me to stay?”
He nods. “Of course it is.”
She smiles, tired but grateful, and disappears to take their glasses into the kitchen. Regulus assumes she’ll hide the vodka somewhere safe, too. If not, he’ll make sure it’s put away upon his return.
Chris’ house is quiet when he arrives, porch light casting a soft glow over the garden. Anne meets him at the door, her expression apologetic but relieved.
“He’s in the living room,” she whispers, voice purposely pitched low. “Didn’t want to go back to Chris’ room. Just kept asking for you.”
Regulus follows her in, the door clicking softly shut behind him. The house smells faintly of chamomile and wood polish, a comforting, homely smell. Unlike Grimmauld Place, it feels like a home where nothing bad has ever happened.
He finds Harry curled up on a leather armchair, small and rumpled, his knees tucked under him like a cat. The blanket draped around his shoulders is unmistakable, thick, uneven in places, but impossibly soft. Scarlet with a crooked yellow stag stitched into the corner. Hagrid’s handiwork.
Regulus watches the anxious way that Harry’s fingers curl around the edge of the blanket, clutching it like a lifeline. His eyes are puffy, but they light up the moment he sees Regulus.
“You came,” he says, voice thick with sleep and what Regulus suspects might also be tears.
“Of course I did,” Regulus murmurs, crouching down. He brushes back Harry’s untidy hair, his hand pausing as his forehead becomes visible. His scar is inflamed, red and angry looking. Regulus swallows fear that he’d long thought he’d buried. “I always will. Let’s get you home.”
They walk back slowly, the night cool and quiet. Harry clings to Regulus’s back, arms wrapped around his neck, legs dangling against his sides. He’s heavier than he used to be, but Regulus doesn’t mind. There’s something grounding in the weight of him, in the soft rhythm of his breathing against his shoulder. It distracts him from the problem that he’s just uncovered. The weight of it presses against the back of his mind, demanding attention, but he clings to the distraction of Harry curled around him. It’s easier than facing the truth he’s beginning to piece together, one that could unravel everything he thought he understood.
By the time they reach the house, Harry is asleep. Regulus shifts him gently into his arms, careful not to wake him and carries him inside, past the sofa where Sasha has left a pillow and an extra blanket folded on the arm and up the stairs to the familiar sanctuary of his bedroom.
There’s the sound of socked feet padding along the hallway and blearily, Regulus opens his eyes. It feels like he’s only been asleep for a small scrap of time, the way the exhaustion clings to him.
“Reg?” Comes a quiet voice from the doorway. Harry is stood there, in rumpled pyjama’s, his blanket like a cape over his shoulders. He looks tired and worn down but most of all, he looks on edge. It’s an expression a child his age shouldn’t wear.
“Hey, kiddo.” Regulus says, trying to stifle a yawn. He does his best to smooth the worry from his face, patting the spot beside him. “Come here.”
Harry doesn’t need to be told twice, he’s there in an instant, climbing up the cushion of the sofa to settle beside Regulus.
“What’s wrong?” Regulus asks gently, the TV is still on in the background, he finds the soft glow of the screen strangely comforting, knows that Harry does too so leaves it on.
“Bad dream.” Harry mumbles, leaning against Regulus. He pulls his blanket from around his shoulders and pats it until it’s half covering them both. Regulus, despite his hammering heart, can’t help the fond smile that crosses his face at the gesture. He wraps an arm around Harry, pulls him closer and presses a kiss to his head, mindful to not press his lips to the swollen skin surrounding his scar.
“Want to talk about it?”
Harry shakes his head, sleep coming to claim him already. “Not really, it was the same one as earlier, about the bad man. Can I stay here with you?”
Regulus freezes, hopes and prays that it was just a bad dream about Harry’s past. Although he doesn’t want Harry to relive his trauma, he doesn’t want to have to face the alternative of a new, present-day threat. He pulls Harry impossibly tighter to him. “Of course you can. I’ve got you. It’s okay, you’re safe.”
Regulus would usually carry him to bed once he’s fallen asleep on the sofa but tonight, they stay there, the soft buzz of the TV in the background and the crackling fire warming the room.
Regulus stays awake, listens to the soft rhythm of Harry’s breathing. Harry doesn’t have another nightmare that night.
Regulus stands in the dim hallway, shadows stretching long across the floorboards. Upstairs, Harry’s bedroom door creaks softly as he settles in his room. Regulus waits for the sound of the muffled thump of his feet hitting the floor above, when he hears it, he breathes a sigh of relief, certain that Harry will remain upstairs for the time being. As a precaution, he raises his wand and flicks it toward the ceiling. “Muffliato.” The spell shimmers briefly in the air, sealing the room in a cocoon of silence. No sound will escape. Harry will not hear what he was about to voice.
He turns towards the fireplace, paces in front of the flames, fraught with anxiety. When he speaks, his voice is low but firm. “Kreacher.”
With a crack, his friend materialises, hunched and trembling. There’s a flicker in his eyes, something wary, that suggests he understands why he’s been summoned and the gravity of what Regulus is about to ask of him.
Regulus doesn’t speak right away, at war in his own head. He almost doesn’t want to ask, because that would make this real. Eventually, he looks at Kreacher, really looks at him and voices the concern that has plagued him since last night, “You did destroy the locket, didn’t you?”
The question hangs in the air like smoke. A question that has come ten years too late, ten years of grief, of assuming, of never checking. Kreacher’s eyes widen, then drop to the floor. His silence is answer enough but imperceptibly, he shakes his head.
Regulus feels the blood drain from his face. His wand lowers slowly, fingers slack with disbelief.
He hadn’t.
The locket, the Horcrux, still exists. Somewhere, out there, a scrap of Voldemort’s soul remains, the locket a tether to the monster who was never truly gone, only waiting for the right moment to come back and destroy them all.
“Where is it?” His voice is cold, detached but inside he is screaming.
Kreacher bows his head, in sorrow or shame, Regulus isn’t sure. “In Sirius’ room.”
This whole time, it’s been in this house…it’s been near Harry, this whole time.
“Inform, Dumbledore. Immediately.”
Regulus turns away, doesn’t watch as Kreacher disappears, pressing his wand hand to his mouth and the other to the wall, as if the house itself might steady him. He had failed. Not just in dying, but in assuming. In trusting Kreacher in his grief to finish what Regulus couldn’t.
It was a price he would pay for the next eight years.
Life continues, quiet and unremarkable, as if untouched by the undercurrent of tension that has weaved its way into Regulus’ mind.
There are still school pick-ups and drop-offs to work around, a house to look after, a young boy to care for. Through it all, Regulus frets. He paces the house when he thinks Harry isn’t watching, his footsteps light but persistent. He visits Dumbledore often while the boy is at school, each meeting threaded with quiet desperation. And again, inevitably, he finds himself drawn back to that forbidden field of study, poring over texts with the same frenzied urgency that had once defined his past life. The hunger for answers hasn’t changed. Neither has the restlessness.
He doesn’t mean to pull away, but he does. The distance creeps in quietly, an unintended side effect of the fear he can’t name and the guilt he doesn’t speak. This was meant to be over, the locket destroyed and Harry’s future secure. Regulus worries that it’s all in jeopardy now, that the fragile sense of normality he’d painstakingly cultivated is beginning to fracture at the edges. He’s haunted by the idea that despite his efforts, despite trying to be the kind of man that Harry can rely on, the shadows of his past are creeping in again. Because of him, a doorway has been left ajar, just wide enough for the darkness to slip through. He knows it, feels it, dreads it. Voldemort is not gone, merely waiting, and Regulus is certain that when the Dark Lord returns, his vengeance will be swift and focused. The child who defied him, who shattered centuries of fear in a single, defining moment, is marked. That same boy who Regulus now cares for and loves like his own. It gnaws at him, this thought that his own actions, or inactions, may have paved a path for Voldemort’s return. And Harry, bright and perceptive, begins to notice.
One Wednesday afternoon, Harry walks through the school gates, visibly unhappy. His shoulders are hunched, his school bag dragging slightly behind him and there’s a heaviness in his eyes that unsettles Regulus the moment he sees it.
Regulus picks up on his mood the minute Harry climbs into the car, the way he slams the door just a bit too hard and stares ahead with a wounded look. A man on the pavement next to them starts at the noise, a man with long, black hair and eyes so blue they almost look grey. It hits Regulus instantly, that something’s wrong, and just as quickly, another thought intrudes.
Because that man looks like someone he used to know. Someone who would lose his mind if he saw Regulus in the driver’s seat of this sleek, gleaming, thing. The thought stings but Regulus stifles it almost immediately. That person will never see this car. Will never see him drive it. He’s locked away, because he betrayed James and Lily and their son.
Regulus tightens his grip on the wheel, risking a glance at Harry out the corner of his eye. He’s folded into his seat, looking out the window, legs angled away from him. The distance feels pointed and a sharp voice in the back of his mind whispers that he’s failing again.
Instead of letting that voice win, Regulus keeps his eyes on the road, jaw taunt, willing himself not to speak until he knows what to say. He is a parent now, responsible not only to himself but the boy beside him, he can’t rush into things head first anymore.
Instead, he fills the car with idle chatter, nothing demanding, nothing that asks more of Harry than simply being there. Slowly, inch by inch, Harry relaxes back into his seat, no longer braced like he’s waiting for impact. So Regulus continues to speak, just enough to keep the atmosphere warm and inviting, a safe space. He waits for Harry to come to him instead.
His patience is soon rewarded. Regulus is slicing carrots with practised ease, the rhythmic sound of blade against board filling the kitchen, when Harry drifts in. He sits at he table, elbows planted, hands loosely folded, the soft shuffle of trainers on tile from swinging legs the only indication that Harry is nervous, that he’s been building up to this moment all afternoon.
Regulus glances over, notes the tension in Harry’s shoulders, the faint furrow of his brow, not of anger but uncertainty, then turns back to the chopping board. “Hope you’re hungry,” he says casually, as though the undercurrent between them hasn’t been tugging at him for the past few hours.
Harry doesn’t answer right away. He watches Regulus instead.
“I don’t call you dad.”
Regulus pauses for a beat but quickly recovers. He sets the knife aside, meets Harry’s gaze with a fleeting look of his own.
“No.” He comments idly, he turns to the pot on the stove, stirs it with a feigned nonchalance. This moment isn’t his to shape, it belongs to Harry. He realises, with sudden clarity, that he’s been waiting for this conversation. The stab of guilt however, is sharp, immediate. Regulus knows, deep down, that his worry these past few weeks has not gone unnoticed, the unintentional distance he’s placed between them has most likely brought this on and he curses himself for it.
“Chris at school said something today.”
Regulus can feel trepidation crawling down his spine. “Oh,” he says, voice low. What other questions might this line of enquiry dredge up? He flicks his wand at the pot, it begins to stir itself with a lazy swirl, steam curling upward. He turns, finally, to properly face Harry. “What did he say?”
A dozen complicated emotions cross Harry’s face. Eventually, he just looks sad. “That it was weird, that I call you Reg.”
Something loosens in Regulus’ chest, he feels a strange flicker of relief. This, he can manage but the relief is fleeting. As Harry looks up at him, his eyes full of a raw, unfiltered pain, his bottom lip trembling, Regulus feels a sickening twist of guilt deep from within him. It’s clear that this conversation is costing him something and Regulus, selfishly, almost missed it while thanking the stars it wasn’t his burden laid bare.
To Regulus, who has been grappling with the knowledge of Voldemort potentially returning for the past few weeks, this topic feels laughably manageable in comparison. But for Harry, who has never known the true horrors of the world, and if Regulus has it his way, never will, this is huge and has rocked his worldview in a way that nothing else has before. The disparity is difficult to swallow, the least he can attempt to do is honour it.
“Do you think it’s weird?” Regulus says coming to sit beside Harry at the table. He braces his elbows on antique wood, places his hands in front of him, in reach of Harry’s own clasped ones, if he wants to take them.
“No.” Harry says shortly. “But I wish you were my dad. I wish I had someone to call dad, like all my friends do.”
Regulus’ heart thumps painfully in his chest. Harry’s words hang in the air, they devastate him in a way he never anticipated. His throat tightens, the urge to respond, ‘I’ll be that for you’ flares instinctively, but behind it, guilt swells, suffocating. He’s not James Potter, and he can never take his place. Regulus is a man built from ruin and regret, stitched together by years of dark choices and the desperation to undo them all. He wants to be better, he’s trying but he isn’t sure he’ll ever be worthy of the title ‘dad’.
“Oh, Harry.” He says, voice breaking on his name. He reaches forward, tucks an untidy strand of jet black hair behind Harry’s ear. He leans into the gesture, presses his cheek against Regulus’ hand, his face vulnerable and so, so sad. “I love you. You know that right?”
Harry nods, tucking his face into the palm of Regulus’ hand and closing his eyes. Regulus can see the tears building beneath his closed lids and collect on his lashes.
There’s a lump in Regulus’ throat when he speaks, his voice low and thick. “You had a dad, a gentle, brilliant man who saw the world for what it could be…not what it was. Just because he’s gone doesn’t mean he stopped being yours. Your mum, she loved you, so much. Wherever she is now, she loves you still.” He swallows, the words come harder now. “I can’t take their place. I would never want to take that away from them, or from you. I can only love you and take care of you in their absence.” He looks at Harry, eyes shadowed and soft. “But if there’s space in your heart, not to replace them, but to let someone else in too…I would give everything to be part of that.”
Harry stares at Regulus, eyes wide and wet, his voice is small and wavering when he speaks. “I don’t remember them,” his voice trembles imperceptibly, “I wish I did.”
Regulus rises slowly, then, without a word, he pulls Harry into a hug. Harry doesn’t flinch, he leans in, wraps his arms around Regulus too.
Quietly, from the circle of his arms, a fragile voice, wise beyond his years, whispers, “There’s space, Reg, if you want to be my family…I’d like that.”
Harry’s words settle in the air between them, soft and irrevocable. And for a long moment, all Regulus can do is continue to hold him, heart loud in his chest.
‘They should be here.’ Regulus thinks, resting his chin on Harry’s head. ‘To see this. To see him become everything they dreamed of, everything they fought for.’ The grief is familiar, a shadow he’s learnt will follow him everywhere he goes. But beneath it, something else stirs, quiet wonder, despite the locket that resides in a fortified room upstairs. ‘Somehow, I’m here. I get to witness him still choosing love, still carrying them with him. I couldn’t save James. I couldn’t save Lily. But I won’t fail him. No one will touch him, not while I still breathe.’
“I could talk about them?” Regulus asks, voice low, hesitant. Harry remains silent and Regulus shoots him a nervous glance. “If you’d like?” he adds hesitantly, the words barely above a whisper. After a pause, Harry nods, pulling away just enough to look up at him.
Regulus pushes past a lifetime of painful memories and smiles, a soft, fragile thing. He owes it to Harry, and to Hagrid who he’d made a promise to what feels like a lifetime ago now.
Where else to begin, if not at the start?
“Your dad,” Regulus says, breath catching with a flicker of remembered amusement, “was a terrible show off, used to drive me mad when I was playing quidditch against him, one day…”
Together, they walk down memory lane. It doesn’t hurt so much, now that there’s two of them.
Harry has just turned eleven, and they are no closer to destroying the locket.
While Regulus is preparing a breakfast fit for the birthday boy, an owl arrives, wings stretched wide and feathers flecked with a tawny gold. It drops Harry’s Hogwarts letter onto the breakfast table with a proud flourish, and Harry, already knowing what is inside, beams, joy radiating from him like sunlight. He clutches the crisp parchment in shaking hands, eyes alight with possibility as he reads and re-reads the letter.
But for Regulus, that joy curls inward and crumbles. The letter is a beginning, but beginnings can also be thresholds and it feels as if he’s sending Harry across one without being able to follow. He doesn’t show the fear, not to Harry. Not when the boy turns to him with excitement in his voice, asking what Hogsmeade looks like in the snow, or how the Sorting Hat works and what house Regulus thinks he’ll be sorted into. He’s desperate for Gryffindor, has been ever since he learnt that was the house his parent’s were sorted into. Regulus only smiles, answers gently, holds back the ache in his chest.
He trusts Dumbledore. That’s the only reason he forces himself to breathe, deep calming breaths, to push back the panic.
But trust is not the same as peace. As long as Voldemort’s shadow edges back into their world, Regulus is certain he will never know peace.
So he lingers in the doorway to Harry’s bedroom, measures the time they have left together in heartbeats and watches him read his letter for the fifteenth time that morning, mouthing the words like an incantation.
And he whispers to himself, fierce and trembling: Just a little longer. Let me protect him just a little longer.
Sasha arrives after lunch, her arms full of presents, Selene beside her, cheeks flushed with joy. Regulus is grateful for their presence, it’s a welcome distraction from the emptiness Harry’s letter has left him with.
Sasha corners him in the kitchen not long after Harry has opened his presents, her movements tense beneath a casual façade.
“So, Harry’s heading off to Scotland, then?” she asks, voice deceptively light. He can’t see what expression she wears on her face, not from this angle. Sasha stands with her back to him, fingers lovingly brushing the edges of paper that hang on the fridge. Harry’s masterpieces, some are paint, some are pen, all of them colourful and radiant with the joy of childhood. Her hand stills on the crooked family portrait that Harry drew when he was six, the one where he’d drawn the four of them, their arms too long, their smiles wide, taking up the majority of their crayon faces. Sasha lifts that drawing slightly, as if tempted to take it, then lets it falls back into place.
Regulus smiles, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Yes. The same school his mum and dad went to.”
“Ah,” Sasha murmurs, turning to face him. “The boarding school, right?”
“That’s the one.”
“The one you also went to?”
Regulus hesitates, it takes him a moment to confirm this and when he does it’s only with a sharp nod, nothing more than a quick jut of his chin, really.
She winces. “Bad memories?”
Regulus laughs and it’s a pained noise, it comes out sounding brittle. “Some. Mostly good ones.”
There is an unspoken understanding, between them in that moment.
“You’re going to miss him,” Sasha murmurs, her voice uneven, for in that moment, they carry a shared heaviness. “And he’s going to miss you, even when he doesn’t say it. But he’s growing up, Regulus. That’s what children do, they slip through our fingers, no matter how tightly we hold on. I know it’s hard, because you’ve had to do it too many times already. But this kind of letting go? It’s different. It doesn’t mean you stop loving. It just means you learn to love despite the distance.” There’s a deeper meaning in her words, Regulus doesn’t understand what she’s trying to say yet but he will in a moment. Instead, Regulus hears the message she’s trying to impart on him about Harry, but the words scrape against him. Growing up. Letting go. It’s a cruel rhythm, this unfolding. One he’s had to navigate so many times before. The boy he loves is stepping into a new world and he can’t follow.
Silence stretches.
Harry and Selene shriek from the living room, their joy palpable. It only makes the moment heavier.
Then Sasha speaks again. “I’m leaving, Reg.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes are full of unshed tears. “Selene and I… we’re going to move to Spain. Georgie’s parents are there.” She exhales, and something inside him collapses inward at the sound. “When she’s older, I’d like to travel. See the world.” Her next words cut through him like a knife. “I don’t think I’ll be back.”
He’s frozen. Not just Harry. Now Sasha, too. Selene. It’s happening again, people slipping through his fingers.
His best friend.
The pain deep in his chest catches him off guard, an old wound he thought was closed, ripped open once more. He leans against the counter, fingers curling around the edge like he needs it to keep him upright. “So,” he says, carefully, trying to hold back the preemptive grief that threatens to drown him. “Spain.”
Sasha nods, tears lining her eyes, but there’s resolve in her posture, in the way she carries herself. “It’s peaceful. Sunny. Her grandparents have a pool. She’ll love it there.”
“You’ll write?” he asks.
Sasha smiles and there’s a promise shining in her eyes. “Of course.”
He nods, turns away, rinses his tea cup with quiet precision, anything to hide the tears in his eyes. Behind them, the living room erupts again in laughter.
“Reg,” Sasha says, tugging his sleeve.
He turns, meets her eyes. She holds his gaze, her voice wavering with emotion as she speaks. “You’re a good person, Regulus. Even if you don’t think you are. You saved Harry, just as much as he saved you.”
Regulus exhales. The ache is sharp, twisting. “I just hope it’s enough.”
“It will be,” she says. “Because he’s strong. Because you are.”
Without warning, Regulus pulls her towards him. Their embrace is tight as they cling desperately to one another. It is only when Regulus presses his face against her neck, breathes in the smell of her perfume, chases the warmth of her, does he allow the tears to fall.
But deep inside his chest, something shifts. He doesn’t know it yet, but later, when he’s alone with the candlelight and the house feels too still, her words will replay, again and again. Years later, they will stick with him, anchoring him during moments of fear, giving him strength when he needs it most.
Harry is brave but so is he.
Regulus waits with bated breath.
When Hedwig arrives, he can’t help but grin at the final word at the bottom of Harry’s letter, in bold letters and underlined a dozen times.
GRYFFINDOR!!!!
It’s dark in the kitchen tonight, and the house feels large in it’s emptiness, unmistakably lonely. Regulus stands by the countertop, one hand still gripping Harry’s letter, the other gripping the counter like it might steady more than just his weight. Eventually, the ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, he picks up the mug of lukewarm tea that he’d abandoned by his elbow when the letter had arrived and draws it to his chest, a half-hearted gesture of comfort. He finds he doesn’t need it. Not the tea, not even the grip on the counter. Because somewhere deep in his chest, tucked behind ribs long used to aching, a small kernel of joy begins to bloom.
Gryffindor.
Regulus closes his eyes. He knows somewhere up there, far beyond the ceiling and the stars, James is cheering, loud and boyish, full of glee. Lily is there too, shaking her head at her husband, fond and exasperated, eyes shining as she lovingly rolls them at him.
Regulus lets it loop again and again. That picture in his mind, a snapshot not from memory, but from longing.
All night, it flickers behind closed eyelids. And when sleep finally pulls him under, his last thought is of James and Lily Potter.
Voldemort’s return marks the beginning of the end, but it is during Harry’s second year that Regulus feels the full depth of his fear. It is early afternoon and Harry is asleep in the hospital wing, exhausted after the incident with Riddle’s diary and his confrontation with the basilisk. Despite the events of the day and the truths he’d been forced to face, the rise and fall of his chest is calm and even, his face peaceful, untroubled as he dreams.
Regulus beside his bed, cries silently, a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.
There are more Horcruxes out there, how many, they do not know. The revelation undoes him, cracks him open, breaks him apart. He struggles to put himself back together again.
He is old beyond his years and tired, most of his life has been spent trying to navigate a war that killed him once and might do so again. For the first time, Voldemort feels unbeatable, a dark force that is inevitable.
Poppy lets him stay the night, but the following morning, she pulls him to one side, her face firm. “Mr Black, you need to go home and rest. Harry is fine and he will recover.” Her face softens, only slightly. “He is in good hands, I promise.”
And so Regulus leaves the infirmary but he does not leave the castle.
Instead, he sinks into the armchair across from the Headmaster of Hogwarts, watches as a cup of piping hot tea appears at his elbow, a matching cup appearing next to Dumbledore, on a little wooden side table, beside a bowl of lemon sherbet sweets.
He does not apologise for the intrusion and Dumbledore does not seem put out by his arrival. They have reached an understanding, over the years, one might even say that they are friends now.
They sit together in silence but eventually Dumbledore speaks, “We will find them, Regulus.” despite the grave expression on his face, his eyes are full of a calm, steadfast conviction as they rest upon him but it is not enough.
There is a small whisper of hope, in the fact that they know the basilisk’s venom destroys the corrupted objects but the search for the rest, however many there might be, crushes that glimmer of hope, before it can grow.
Regulus crumples, with devastation and exhaustion. He leans forward, face in his hands and tries to bury the choked sob that is rising within him.
He lifts his face, finds the headmaster watching him, his face lined with sorrow. Dumbledore does not interrupt, he lets Regulus cry and is a steadfast presence whilst he attempts to pull himself together again.
“I thought…” Regulus trails off, his voice hollow. “I thought we could end it. Destroy the locket and ensure Harry’s survival. But it’s not over. It’s far from being over.”
There are no words that Dumbledore can offer, nothing he can say to heal the fractured glass of Regulus’ soul. All he can offer is his company, and the knowledge that whatever happens, they will face it together.
Regulus hopes that, together, the two of them will be enough.
Regulus keeps expecting to find premature grey hairs from Harry’s time at Hogwarts, by some miracle or blessing he never does. Merlin forbid he starts sprouting strands of white hairs and end up looking like his cousin, Cissa.
He sees her, for the first time in years, at the end of Harry’s second year. He’s on his way to Dumbledore’s office, clutching a note from the headmaster in his fisted hand, the words on the creased parchment are brief, urgent, Harry has freed Lucius Malfoy’s elf.
‘Good’, Regulus thinks to himself, his lip twitching into something that very nearly resembles a smile. He thinks Lily would be pleased that, that particular trait of Regulus’ had rubbed off on her son.
What stopped that tentative smile from blooming was the rest of Dumbledore’s note, however, where slightly below the first line, a second line, added like an afterthought reads, It appears this matter has become a family affair.
Wonderful. He hopes Dumbledore knows what he’s getting himself into, calling a family reunion.
He’s about to make his way up the stairs to the headmaster’s office when he’d hears a familiar voice, beautiful, with a musical lilt to it.
Regulus turns sharply, surprised to find Narcissa standing with Draco, who thanks to Harry’s strong dislike of the boy, Regulus had heard many, many stories about.
“Cousin.” Despite her stiff tone, her eyes were wide and there was nothing Narcissa hated more than being caught by surprise. “You look much the same as I last saw you.” Neither of them seem keen to mention that the last time they’d seen one another, they’d both been in a meeting with Voldemort only for Regulus to supposedly die a few short weeks later.
He shrugs, a careless gesture that holds no airs or graces, something that seems to surprise his cousin.
Her eyes narrow as they inspect him from head to toe, all the way from his tousled curls, longer now than he’d ever let them get in his youth to the black trainers on his feet. “But there is something different about you.”
He grins, he’s surprised by how easy it is to do so but then again, he’d always had a soft spot for Narcissa, shame about her choice in husband though. “Times change, Cissa. Anyway, I must be off, apparently I have a meeting with your husband to try and get through. Nice meeting you, Draco.”
Draco’s eyes turn to slits, a perfect copy of his mother beside him. They look startlingly alike, unlike Regulus, who looks like all the Black family do, dark haired and fine-boned with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw, Narcissa is softer in her beauty, ethereal looking. The only difference between her and her son is that Draco is blonde, whereas Narcissa’s hair still holds the telltale sign of her heritage, dark strands intercepting the blonde.
As soon as his mother’s back turns, Draco sticks his tongue out at Regulus. Not one to be outdone, Regulus surprises them both by sticking his tongue out back, startling a laugh out of Draco. It wipes the severe, haughty look off his face, and suddenly, he looks less like the pureblood heir he’s destined to be and more like the young boy he should be.
When Draco looks over his shoulder, not the one that Narcissa has a firm hand on steering him away, a shadow of uncertainty crosses his face, there is something reconsidering in the way he looks at Regulus.
When Regulus smiles, Draco hesitantly smiles back.
He thinks Lily would also be proud that her son’s warmth, his easy-going nature, hadn’t just survived despite everything that had threatened to steal it from him, but that it had rubbed off on Regulus too.
What was shaping up to be a blissful summer, with Regulus considering a trip to Spain to visit Sasha and Selena, is promptly ruined by the headline of the Daily Prophet one morning in August. The newspaper arrives, like it does every morning, to little fanfare. It drops, still folded in half, on the kitchen table where it waits to be read. At first, Regulus pays it no mind, until his attention is caught by the familiar face plastered on the front page.
He inches closer, his whole world turning upside down as he stares at the headline, the ink seemingly screaming at him in bold, capital letters. The world around him seems to lurch and he desperately grips the edge of the table as he tries to make sense of the words emblazoned in front of him, what they mean for him, what they mean for Harry.
“MASS-MURDERER SIRIUS BLACK HAS ESCAPED AZKABAN”
Chapter 4: That long black cloud is comin’ down
Notes:
I can’t believe the first draft of this fic originally started out as a 10,000 word one shot and now we’re out here posting 18,000+ word chapters (I’m now anxiously looking at the short story tag and wondering at what point do I remove it haha)
I’m sorry this is so long, if you make it to the end, thank you for reading <3
Chapter Text
Regulus does not want Harry to return to Hogwarts. It’s an argument they rehash nearly every day of summer break. By the time they reach those final few weeks of August, September a shadow gradually creeping in, Regulus finds that he is worn thin from circling the same conversation with no end in sight. A tug of war with both of them pulling as hard as they can, yet the knot still holds somewhere in the middle. They are at a stalemate.
He sits, stares at the wall where his family tapestry used to be. If he closes his eyes, he can almost see the skull above his name, the scorched blackness over his brother’s. The Black Family Tapestry has been gone for many years. Even if it still existed, Harry’s name would never have been on it but Regulus feels it, etched into the very bones of him, a bond that runs deeper than blood. He will not risk Harry’s safety, he will not lose him because of his wretched family.
So Regulus breathes, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow, measured breaths meant to prepare him to have the same conversation, again.
“Harry, he is dangerous and I will not put you in harms way. When he is caught, you can return but it is not safe to send you back there while he is still at large.”
Harry’s jaw tightens, lips pressed into a thin, angry line. He forcibly sets down the mug he’d been holding, the sound of the ceramic hitting the side table too loud in the otherwise quiet room. When he speaks, his voice is taut with frustration. “Hogwarts is safe!”
“It is not safe!” Regulus says desperately, willing Harry to see things from his point of view. He knows his brother. What concerns him about Harry’s potential return to Hogwarts is that Black knows that castle like the back of his hand. Not to mention, that stupid map is still out there somewhere, unaccounted for. Regulus wouldn’t be surprised if it had been hidden away for an occasion such as this. “I have never asked anything of you but I’m asking you to trust me on this.” He swallows, his mouth inexplicably dry. “You forget that he’s my brother, Harry. I wish that he wasn’t but he is and I know him, I know what he’s capable of.”
Something in that admission seems to resonate with Harry. The tension that had been building between them draining away just as quickly as it had rose. Harry turns, so his back is to Regulus. “Do you know why?” He asks, voice small. “Why he…did it?”
A question that Regulus has pondered for nearly twelve years. He shakes his head, reaching out an arm to pull Harry to his chest. The boy crumbles in his arms and Regulus, in response, holds him impossibly tighter. “No. I’ve never been able to figure out why. I don’t think I ever will.”
“I’m sorry.” Harry whispers against his chest. “I’ll stay here.”
In response, Regulus presses a kiss to the crown of his head. Harry’s getting so tall that Regulus barely has to lean down to reach him. After weeks of worrying, relief finally loosens the knot in his chest. “Thank you.” He breathes, grateful beyond measure that Harry will be safe here with him.
However, in the end, Regulus does not get a say in the matter. Harry will end up going back to Hogwarts whether he likes it or not.
The start of the school year is mere days away when Dumbledore stops-by. It is the first time he’s ever visited Grimmauld Place and it sets Regulus on edge. A personal visit from Dumbledore could only mean one thing, news regarding Black’s whereabouts. Regulus watches as the older man stands by the fireplace, inspecting each photo there with a small smile, his warm demeanour does nothing to soothe the ache of his concerns.
“Albus?” Regulus can hear the question in his voice, Dumbledore must hear it too because he turns to face him, shaking his head. No, he seems to say wordlessly, we haven’t found him yet.
Disappointment courses through him, Dumbledore must see it in his face because he tilts his head. “Regulus-” he begins but he hesitates, gaze shifting to focus on a point over Regulus’ shoulder. Dumbledore smiles and it’s fond. “Hello, Harry, nice summer?”
Regulus looks over his shoulder to Harry who is stood in the doorway, looking between the two of them suspiciously. Eventually, he shrugs, his expression woeful. “It’s been okay. We were supposed to go Spain but we couldn’t because someone’s trying to kill me,” he pauses thoughtfully, then adds “again.”
Regulus rolls his eyes heavenwards. He’s pleased that Harry’s biggest concern is the holiday he didn’t get to go on and not the mass-murderer on the loose but honestly, it’s such a James thing to say that Regulus has to pause for a moment and pray to the boy’s father.
“Harry, can you go upstairs for a minute, please?” It’s worded as a question but both Harry and Regulus know it’s an order.
“But Reg-“ Harry’s face falls, he attempts to plead his case but is stopped short by the warning look Regulus sends his way. With a scowl, Harry disappears round the corner, to hopefully head up the stairs.
When Regulus pivots on his heel to give Dumbledore the weight of his full attention once more, he finds that the older man is watching him, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “You know he’s probably listening on the stairs, don’t you?”
Regulus raises a brow before wandlessly casting a silencing spell. “Not anymore he isn’t.”
Dumbledore laughs softly to himself, accepting Regulus’ silent offer to sit as he does so. Regulus waits for him to settle into the armchair before he lowers himself onto the sofa, bracing his elbows on his knees.
Without preamble, Regulus gets straight to the point. “It’s about him, isn’t it?”
Dumbledore nods, his expression grim. “Yes but it’s also about your decision to keep Harry here. Harry must return to Hogwarts this year.”
Regulus stares at him with an air of disbelief and wonders if he heard that right. “What?”
The Headmaster, well attuned to Regulus’ moods after all these years, raises a hand. It is a gentle gesture asking him to wait, to hear him out. “Sirius is the rightful heir to the Black house and its fortune. Although he cannot legally claim either, as both were given to you upon his incarceration, the house still recognises him as the heir.”
“How can the blood magic of the house recognise him?” Regulus squares his jaw, prepares himself to say his brother’s name for the first time in a very long time, it burns like acid in his throat. “Sirius was disinherited.”
There is a deep anguish in Dumbledore’s eyes as he shakes his head. “Walburga Black reinstated him upon his arrest.”
Regulus laughs and it is a cold, disbelieving sound. “Of course she did.” He bows his head, runs his hands through his hair and gives himself a moment to process that information before his anger consumes him. When he feels slightly steadier, but not necessarily calmer, he turns back to his friend. “He can bypass the wards?”
Dumbledore nods.
Regulus’ hard fought control on his temper snaps. He rises angrily and begins to pace the length of the rug. It takes a few moments for him to grapple with the truth. Eventually, he grits his teeth, presses the heel of his hands to his eyes and tries to swallow his rage.
“Harry must return to Hogwarts.”
It’s not a question but Dumbledore nods again, face grim. “Harry must return to Hogwarts.”
The silence stretches between them as Regulus mindlessly stares at the flames in the grate, watching them rise and fall. Although he stares at the fireplace, he does not see the way it burns brighter, the house in tune with his mood. Instead, his mind is preoccupied with wishing his mother was alive only so he could kill her again.
A flash of movement brings him out of his reverie. Out the corner of his eye, he sees Dumbledore lean forward, towards him. “I would like you to stay at Hogwarts with him.”
Regulus smiles, sharp and dangerous. “No,” he says, his voice laced with dark amusement, “Let him come to the house, he will have to be taken out in pieces.”
Dumbledore does not argue, only sighs, a long-suffering sound. He’s spent enough time with Regulus over the years to know his stubborn streaks runs a mile wide.
“Then there is something else I must share with you.”
Regulus groans, moving back towards the sofa. He slumps back into his seat, closing his eyes as his head falls back against the cushion with a dull thump. “Of course there is, there always is when it comes to you.”
Dumbledore smiles, his eyes bright. “We have a new professor joining us this year, would you like to guess what position they’re filling? I’ll give you ten guesses, use them wisely or wildly, I won’t judge.”
Regulus cracks open an eye, he can’t help the smirk that grows on his face. “Ten guesses? Generous, when one would have sufficed. Go on, then, what poor sod is filling the Defence Against the Dark Arts position this year?”
The amusement fades from Dumbledore’s face. “Remus Lupin.”
What? Remus…
A storm rages within him at the sound of that name after not hearing it for many long years.
“Remus is alive?” He asks, Regulus doesn’t flinch but inside, something deep within him cracks. Remus had been within reach, this whole time? They’d been friends once, he’d been James and Lily’s friend until their death, why on earth wasn’t he here sooner?
“Yes.”
At Dumbledore’s confirmation, he does his best to bury his own personal feelings on the matter and instead focuses on what this could mean for Harry. Remus teaching at Hogwarts, the same year that Black escapes Azkaban? Regulus does not believe in coincidences.
“Is that wise? Having him teach at Hogwarts this year? The timing seems a bit suspicious. You knew who he was to my brother.”
Regulus watches as Dumbledore fixes his gaze on a particular picture on the mantlepiece. He’s certain, even without checking, that it’s the one of James and Lily.
“I know but I trust him.” the Headmaster sends Regulus a lingering look. “He was betrayed, just like you were.”
Regulus trusts Dumbledore’s judgement, he does, but he doesn’t have to be happy about it. When he speaks, his voice is brittle. “That may be true, but he abandoned Harry, and when it comes to Harry, my forgiveness doesn’t come easy. I’ll be sure to let him know that when I see him, too.”
“Very well. If you could do me a favour, however?”
Regulus hums noncommittally, offering neither agreement nor refusal. Dumbledore tries to hide his smile but ultimately fails. “I would very much appreciate it if you went easy on my Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, it is a cursed position after all, and difficult to fill as it is.”
After a long moment he finally speaks. “No promises.”
‘No promises’ because he’s not sure what he’ll feel when he sees that face again. ‘No promises’ because he’s not sure if anything Remus says will make up for the fact that he left when they needed him most, disappearing without a trace.
The evening before the school year officially starts, Regulus pays an old friend a visit. The castle is more familiar to him now than it ever was during his school days; it's that familiarity that guides him through the pitch-black corridors to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.
The room itself is shrouded in near darkness, the moon barely providing any light, yet he can still make out the tall frame of the man who stands at the opposite end of the classroom. Regulus doesn’t announce his presence, instead he leans against the doorway, crosses his arms and taps a tuneless pattern with his foot.
Remus Lupin turns with a start, his mouth falling open into a perfect ‘o’, a gasp escaping him before he can form words.
“Regulus.” He eventually says, surprise colouring his tone.
“Lupin,” Regulus snaps back, “I thought you were dead.”
Remus’ eyebrows shoots up to his hairline. “I thought the same of you.”
“You have some nerve, turning up now.” Regulus’ voice is cold, lacking the warmth of their childhood. He broaches the space between them, unafraid despite the fact that the other man is much taller and broader than he is. “Where have you been while I’ve been looking after Harry?!”
Remus says nothing. Just stares back at him, a dozen different emotions seeming to cross his face in a matter of seconds. He looks at Regulus like he’s just seen a ghost.
Regulus realises why, who Remus must be seeing for the first time in twelve years. They’ve always closely resembled one another, him and his brother, probably even more so since he’s grown his hair out. Suddenly, Regulus is furious. As quick as lightning, he moves forward, shoving Remus, using the momentum to try and push him over. The pair of them should go flying but Remus stands firm, a steady, solid weight against him. The other man quickly grabs his wrists, pinning him in place, a preventive measure to stop Regulus from going for him again. “Harry needed you!” Regulus’ voice breaks as he struggles against Remus’ grip on him. “I needed you.”
“I had no one, Regulus. Not after…” he trails off but quickly interjects, seeing the anger rise again on Regulus’ face. “I know,” he says, dropping Regulus’ wrists, an unwise move, in Regulus’ opinion. Remus steps back, putting space between the two of them. When Regulus tries to get in his space again, he holds out a hand, not only to maintain the distance between them but also in anticipation of Regulus’ verbal rebuttal. “I know what you’re going to say. That you were lonely too but I didn’t know you were alive, Reg. I didn’t know you made the right choice. We were all waiting on you, you know, no one more than James.” It stings but Regulus knows that it’s probably true, no one was more patient and understanding than James when it came to someone he loved.
Loved. Merlin, that word and the implications behind it, it’s the wound that never closes for Regulus.
“I couldn’t have looked after Harry.” Remus continues, Harry’s name capturing Regulus’ attention once more. “I am a werewolf. I am not a fit guardian, I couldn’t have given him the life he deserved.”
“And you think living in the house where Voldemort once stood, the man that murdered his parents, in the care of a man who served him, who allowed himself to be branded by him, was the right choice?” He chuckles but it lacks humour. “But there was no one else, Remus. If it hadn’t been for me,” Regulus shakes his head, disdain colouring his tone. “Harry would’ve ended up growing up in an abusive household. James and Lily’s son, the most deserving person of happiness, wouldn’t have known what it was like to be cared for and loved without condition.”
Remus’ next words are careful, not accusatory but there’s a pointed question there, of Regulus’ suitability to be a guardian. With his past, it’s not an unfair line of thinking. “And he’s experienced those things with you?”
Regulus drags a hand down his face, he suddenly feels exhausted and drained. “Fuck, I hope so. I really hope so.”
Something finally breaks between the two of them, with that admission. Tentatively they both stare at one another. To Regulus’ own surprise, he is the first to hold out his hand but Remus, to his credit, wastes no time in shaking it.
For a heartbeat, it feels possible, like they might just claw back a friendship buried under a decade of silence. It’ll take time, to rebuild that trust, but Regulus is prepared to try, he thinks Remus might be too. And in that sliver of hope, Regulus makes his choice. “Come with me.”
He understands Remus’ reasoning, he doesn’t necessarily like it but time has made him more sympathetic to the plight of others. Regulus thinks he understands what the past decade has felt like for Remus because if it hadn’t been for Harry, he’s certain that Remus’ fate, his loneliness combined with his loss, would’ve been his to bear too. He doesn’t think if their roles were reversed, he’d have survived it.
Regulus strides through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, his pace deliberate, his silence heavy. He leads them to Dumbledore’s office without a word, the portraits watching with quiet curiosity as they pass them by.
Harry is still at the Burrow, surrounded by warmth and noise and people who love him. Regulus is glad, he doesn’t think he’s ready for Harry to meet Remus yet, for the past it will inevitably drag up.
They come to a stop by the crackling fireplace. Dumbledore is not here, an intentional move from the Headmaster, probably. Regulus is glad as he gazes at Remus, considers whether he wants to do this. If he takes Remus to his home, he will be letting him into Harry’s life, a move he cannot take back. He traces the scars on his old friend’s face, a mixture of old and new, his gaze lingering on the salt and pepper hair, the lines by his eyes, his furrowed brow. He feels a flicker of old, buried affection for him and decides to throw caution to the wind. “Follow me.” He says and when he meets Remus’ eyes, he knows he’s made the right choice.
Regulus wonders, as he stands in his living room, what this place must look like to Remus. It’s his home, has been for a long time, but does it look like one, to someone who has never been here before?
He watches as Remus trails around the room, his mouth twitching at the muggle football under the table and the goalkeeper gloves shoved down the side of the sofa. His eyes crinkle at the TV as Regulus offers him a seat but it’s the photos on the mantelpiece that have him standing only seconds after sitting down, his eyes so achingly tender.
There is a picture, on the left hand side, closest to the TV, that seems to draw Remus in. Regulus knows which one it is, he knows them all off by heart. It’s a photo of James and Remus, lying on a blanket on the grass by the Black Lake, behind them Lily and Pandora are attempting to sneak up on them. Regulus watches as the scene plays out, the way younger Remus stills, imperceptibly elbowing James, notifying him of the girls’ presence. His gaze slips to Remus, who is watching the photo with tears in his eyes as James and his younger self spin at the last moment, the girls laughing as they’re playfully chased away by the boys.
“You can have that one, if you want.”
Remus starts, the moment broken by Regulus’ quiet interruption. He rubs at his eyes, tries to wipe the tears away but they continue to fall silently down his cheeks. “Why did you bring me here, Regulus?”
“I thought you might like to see them,” he says gently, he’s surprised by how soft his voice is, a tone he usually reserves just for Harry. “It helped me, in those early days, back when I was a slave to my grief. Sometimes, I’d stand there, watch all these different moments play out and by the time I’d looked at every one, I didn’t feel as sad anymore. They’re happy memories, they shouldn’t be tainted by sadness.”
With a shaking hand, Remus carefully picks up the framed photo. “Are you sure?” His voice wavers as he watches James laugh and the way Lily’s face blooms with joy in response. “That I can have this?”
Regulus nods, he’ll miss it, it’s one of his favourites, filled with some of the people he loves more than life itself but Remus needs it more than he does. He leans back, sinking into the comfort of the sofa and waits for Remus to join him.
While he waits, Regulus waves his wand and summons two shot glasses (tacky tourist ones that Sasha had sent over from Spain, Regulus loves them more than he’d ever admit) and a bottle of firewhiskey. He pours them both a healthy measure and watches out the corner of his eye as Remus makes his way down the mantlepiece, taking time to observe each photo in its entirety. There’s a heap of new pictures there now, so different from the early days where only a few had been dotted here and there. Now, the space is actually quite cluttered but Regulus hasn’t got the heart to take any of them down, instead he somehow always manages to make room for a new one.
Remus goes to pick up the one of James and Lily at the centre, his fingers millimetres away from the frame before his hand falls. With one last lingering look over his shoulder, he joins Regulus, who hands him one of the glasses.
“This whole time?” Remus says in wonder as he clinks his shot glass against Regulus’. “You’ve been looking after Harry since…it happened?”
Regulus takes a small slither of delight in how hard he knocks his own glass back in answer, enough for the firewhiskey to spill over both of their fingers, enough for Remus to scowl.
He ignores him, knocking back the shot with ease before replying. “Yes.” he says simply. “On my own, since he was a baby.”
Remus pauses, the glass suspended mid-air, his fingers tightening around it. The surprise flickers across his face, unguarded, as if Regulus raising Harry for all those years is incomprehensible to him.
“What?” Regulus retorts sharply, “I’ve grown up since you last saw me, I think I did a half-decent job with him.”
“I know.” Remus says, he sounds quiet, resigned. “It’s just…” He flounders for a moment, struggling to find the words to articulate all the emotions and feelings that this evening must have brought back. Eventually, he tips back the firewhiskey, lets it slide down his throat in one long swallow, like he’ll find the answers he seeks at the bottom of the glass. “You don’t seem to have aged at all. I can’t imagine you looking after a teenage boy. Looking at you…it’s like I’m back there, twelve years ago, again. You look so much like-“
Regulus cuts him off before he can elaborate on that particular train of thought. “Okay, and you look old and haggard,” that’s a lie but Regulus hopes he sells it, Remus is still as roguishly handsome as he had been at eighteen, maybe even more so now, not that the prick needs to know that. “What, are we going to lament the whole night on the passage of time and how it works?”
A corner of Remus’ mouth quirks up. “I’ve missed you, you know. I’m glad you’re not dead.”
That startles a laugh out of Regulus. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve missed you too.”
It’s true and they both know it.
“Remus.”
“Mm?”
“You have to protect him. Against my brother.” Regulus avoids meeting his gaze, looks straight down at his lap and rolls the empty glass between two hands, dreading his next words but knowing they need to be said. “I know you two had history but-“
“Regulus.” Remus’ voice is gentle, he nudges him with his shoulder, encouraging him to look at him. “I’ll protect him with my life. You have my word.”
Regulus relaxes, Remus’ word had always been law, the entire time he’d known him, Remus was a man of his word.
It turns out that Remus’ word doesn’t really mean shit.
Snape, of all people, is the one to tell him that. He appears from the fireplace in Grimmauld Place, startling Regulus who is reading one of the dusty old tomes Dumbledore lent him regarding their Horcrux problem. Without a word, he grabs Regulus by the arm and drags him through his own fireplace. When Regulus tries to question it, the response he receives is enough to put the fear of Merlin in him.
“It’s Lupin, he’s been helping your idiot of a brother.”
They arrive in Dumbledore’s empty office, Regulus breaking into a sprint the moment he’s steady on his feet. Snape chases after him but soon falls behind. Regulus has the fear of a parent coursing through him and it’s the greatest motivator he’d ever had, it propels him forward even when his lungs protest and his legs ache.
His heart beats to the drum of Harry. Harry. Harry. Harry.
Of course Black, Regulus cannot bring himself to think of him by any other name, and Lupin had chosen the night of a full moon to attack, the perfect night to stage a crime.
The castle is mercifully empty as he darts through it, no one else will suffer at their hands, Regulus will make sure of it. He’ll kill them both if he has to, with his bare hands. He races through the entryway, flies through the grounds like all of hell is at his heels.
He knows where they’ll be. His voice cuts through the eerie, creeping half-light that’s settling over the grounds as he shouts over his shoulder to Snape. He’s got no time to waste, but he’s not walking into that confrontation without backup, he won’t risk facing them alone when the moment comes to stand toe to toe.
Thanks to James, Regulus knows how to get in the Shrieking Shack, and thanks to his brother and the awful prank he’d pulled on Snape back in their fifth year, he knows the potions master will be able to find the entrance too.
When the Whomping Willow is in sight, Regulus drops low, mid-stride, momentum carrying him into a slide across the mud towards the base of the tree. So close to the knot but not close enough. A branch from the willow above him arcs down, inches from his face and he rolls, the limb catching him low in the ribs. He hears the crack more than he feels it. Regulus hisses through his teeth, rolls once more, landing on his injured side causing a sharp, stabbing pain to burn through his chest. It doesn’t matter though because he’s finally close enough to hit the knot, the tree freezing immediately and not a moment too soon as a branch pauses mid-air, hovering on the edge of impact, no more than a breath from striking Regulus.
The journey down the tunnel is not pleasant, Regulus instinctively guards his injured side as he slips down. He doesn’t have time to heal it, nor does he want to mess with a rib. Should he survive this, and he intends to, no matter the cost, he’ll seek out Poppy to have it healed the right way. But only once it’s over. Only once he’s the brother that’s left standing.
Finally, he slows, not through fatigue but in hopes his presence, and hopefully him being alive, can surprise his brother enough for Regulus to ambush him. That, is of course dependent on whether or not the dirty, fucking traitor abetting him has told him about Regulus already.
He is light on his feet as he makes his way up the old, dusty, dilapidated stairs but it is not enough, a few of the stairs creak as he steps onto them. Regulus freezes, his breathing laboured and shallow, loud in the silence. He has no doubt that his rib has punctured his lung, he prays that it’s a mild injury but worries adrenaline could be masking the severity of it. He waits for a moment, the howl of the wind through the broken slats of the shack seems to have hidden the sound of him on the stairs so he hurries on upwards, following the disturbances in the dust.
The door at the top of the stairs hangs ajar. Through the narrow gap, Regulus hears Ron’s quiet sobs, the sound of a child in pain but trying to muffle it. Something stirs in him at the sound, sharp and immediate, as if the boy’s pain has lit a fuse he didn’t know was waiting to burn. He stalks up the last few stairs, lifts his wand and pushes open the door, just enough to slip through, to stop it creaking.
Dust swirls as he steps further into the room, boots silent against the warped, rotting floorboards. What little sunlight is left tries its best to filter through the broken windows but the majority of the room is in darkness, fractured shadows stretching across the room, splintering the light like broken glass.
Regulus shifts his gaze and then he sees him.
He is almost unrecognisable. Black stands at the far end of the room, his back to Regulus. He’s unkempt and wild looking, his wand trained on the three children in front of him. He’s talking to Harry and his friends in hushed tones, a mad glint in his eye as he approaches them. Step by step, he inches closer.
The sight of him knocks Regulus sick. His heart slams against his ribs, not from fear, not even from adrenaline but from fury. He steels himself, he was prepared for this reunion, knew it had to happen sooner rather than later and he will not allow emotion to get in his way. When he raises his wand, his hand does not shake.
Hermione spots him first and clever, clever girl that she is, doesn’t breathe a word of his arrival to anyone, makes no movement to indicate that someone has joined the fray. Her face is dirty, cheeks tracked with tears but something akin to hope shines in her eyes as she turns back to Black, her chin raising in defiance.
Regulus is so distracted by the children that he nearly misses the sound of a floorboard creaking behind him.
Harry, however, upon noticing his presence, ensures that he does not lose his advantage. “Reg!” Harry cries in warning, the whites of his eyes are showing and something in Regulus turns absolutely molten at the sight. He knows, just by the fear on Harry’s face that someone is behind him. Of course the traitor has joined them. It was inevitable. Without uttering a word, without even turning round, he disarms the older man and sends him flying into the corner. The whole time he keeps his gaze trained on his brother, refuses to take his eyes off him for even a moment.
There’s the sound of someone racing up the stairs and Snape arrives in a flurry of black robes. Regulus shifts, an intentional move to keep both Lupin and Black in his sight.
Snape meets Regulus’s gaze, and for a fleeting moment, something like relief flickers there, subtle, but unmistakable. He nods once, extending a hand, his wand already trained on Lupin. Regulus exhales, tension loosening in his shoulders at his friend’s arrival. With practiced precision, he tosses Lupin’s wand to Snape, which allows him to focus back on the task at hand.
Black’s time in Azkaban must have affected him because he does not turn round at their arrival. His gaze remains fixed on Ron squirming on the bed, a vicious gash on his leg. Regulus snarls at the sight of it.
“Regulus, no!” Lupin shouts, there’s panic in his voice, it sounds real but Regulus has recently learnt he can be a very convincing liar when he wants to be.
His voice, however, is the only thing capable of catching his brother’s attention.
“Remus,” Sirius spins on the spot, his voice sounds strange, thin from disuse but also weak at the sight of Lupin. He sounds genuinely surprised. Regulus tries not to dwell on it, it is a distraction he cannot afford, one that reeks of a trap, carefully laid by both of them.
“If you so much as touch any of those children, I will kill you.” Regulus hisses, his hand tightening on his wand. His brother’s gaze snaps from Lupin to Regulus and now there’s a wildness in his eyes, as if something feral has clawed its way to the surface.
Regulus disarms him with a quick flick of his wand. He notes with a grim anger that Sirius had Ron’s wand, the coward, imagine disarming a child to try and claw back the upper hand for Merlin’s sake.
Sirius still stands taller than him, it seems Regulus was always doomed to be the shorter of the two but he seems to cower under Regulus’ glare. When he raises his hands it is in genuine shock and fear.
“Regulus?” Sirius’ voice shakes as he stumbles over his name. “No,” he whispers, voice breaking, “you’re dead.” He shakes his head, reaching for Regulus with a thin, trembling hand, it hovers in the space between them for only a moment before Sirius snatches it back almost immediately, cradling it to his chest. Sirius looks nothing like the brother Regulus remembers. He’s dirty and scarily thin, bones jutting out at odd intervals, his ribs so visible Regulus could count them all if he tried but it’s his face and his unkempt hair that unsettles Regulus the most. Sirius Black always had beautiful long hair, he was known for it, it was his pride and joy. Now it hangs limp, stringy and consists of hair of varying lengths, streaked with grey. His face, once handsome is now drained and skeletal, his eyes dominate his features, wide, unblinking and burning with a madness that’s impossible to ignore. Beneath him, on his knees, Sirius continues to babble nonsensically, “How? You died! You’re dead! Not real! Not real!”
“Oh, I’m not dead but you soon will be.” Regulus says, each word a sharp threat.
“Not real, not real.” Sirius chants. “You’re him. Before he died, an illusion, a trick,” he falters and something in his face cracks, “my little brother...you look just like he did back then.”
Regulus pointedly ignores his rambling. “Yes, it’s funny how time’s been kinder to some of us, having access to clean running water and soap usually has that effect.”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Snape and Lupin send him twin looks of disbelief. He keeps the thought to himself; the resemblance is striking, but he knows it wouldn’t be well received by either of them.
Something seems to clear in Sirius’ gaze, at that comment. When he looks at Regulus it’s with new eyes.
In response, Regulus hits him, hard. Partly to prove to him that he’s actually here and not some ghost conjured out of misplaced guilt but mostly just because he really fucking deserves it. Sirius falls, landing on his back and Regulus makes the most of the opportunity, stalking forward to press his boot to Sirius’ throat.
“It’s you. Fuck, it’s really you.” Sirius’ voice is fraught with disbelief. “How?” suddenly he begins to struggle in an attempt to get himself up. “You’re working with him!”
Regulus puts more weight onto his foot, forcing Sirius to shut up as he crushes his windpipe. “You will let these children go now, Sirius, or I swear to Merlin I will not even give you the mercy of killing you, I will ship you straight back to Azkaban where the dementors are waiting for you.”
The laugh that bursts from Sirius is jagged and broken, like it’s clawing it’s way out of his throat. It sounds more like a gasp than anything genuine. “I’m shocked you’re wasting your time with me instead of trying to finish the job, killing Harry like your master failed to all those years ago!”
Regulus goes still, eyes locked on Sirius, who is still cackling beneath him. The panic rises, sharp and unwelcome as he slowly lifts his head to look at Harry. His boy looks back at him, his face filled with worry and uncertainty. Regulus forces his own emotions down and offers him a brief, reassuring look. ‘Later’ it says, ‘Once this is over, I’ll tell you everything’.
Then he turns back to his brother and snarls, “My master? Your master, Sirius. If you don’t let them go right now then I swear on James and Lily that I will do unspeakable things to you to protect their son.”
“How dare you say their names!” Sirius howls, he twists free from beneath Regulus’ boot, lashing out with a desperate kick that lands squarely against his broken rib. Regulus lets out a low, guttural sound, half gasp, half cry, and staggers back, coughing violently. He doubles over, another pained sound escaping him as he coughs, blood blooming across his cupped palm.
“Reg!” Harry shouts, his name sounds like a sob.
Harry’s voice catches him off guard. Regulus turns to him, opening his mouth to speak, a reassurance forming but it’s ripped away before it can land, torn away by Sirius who uses Regulus’ distraction to try and lunge for him. He misses, barely. Despite Regulus’ injury, he is the physicallly stronger one out of the two of them, Sirius is thin from his time at Azkaban, delirious too. An unworthy opponent, really. Regulus regains the upper hand with ease, knocking Sirius to the floor. Still, Harry’s cry cuts through the chaos, desperate and raw, his hand outstretched, reaching for Regulus.
He is held back by Hermione, who meets Regulus’ gaze over Harry’s shoulder, pure grit and determination on her face. She understands the importance of protecting Harry and trusts Regulus to handle the situation at hand, putting all of her energy into keeping Harry out of harms way instead. Hermione Granger is already an incredible witch but Regulus has no doubt she’ll grow up to be an incredible woman too.
Sirius scrabbles onto his knees, realisation dawning on his too-thin face. “How does Harry know your name?”
Regulus’ response is curt, sharp and angry. His wand does not falter as he points it directly between Sirius’ brows, holds it there. “Harry is mine to protect, he has been for twelve years now.”
“What?” Genuine confusion twists Sirius’ features. “You’re not here to help Peter?”
Regulus can’t help it, his wand drops a few centimetres. He curses himself as Sirius tracks the movement but his brother does not attempt to use it to his advantage, instead he’s looking at Regulus like he’s waiting for him to come to the same conclusion he has.
“Peter?” Realisation dawns on Regulus, immediately he connects the dots to the only Peter he’s ever known. “Peter Pettigrew who was a rat…” he trails off, his gaze falling to the rat in Ron’s cupped hands.
“The map…” Harry mutters nonsensically, he looks at Remus, who smiles at him grimly in confirmation. “The map never lies.”
Ron, sensing everyone looking at the rat in his hands, holds him tighter against his chest. The boy tries to create a protective barrier using his arms to shield him despite the fact that he is weak from blood loss and blanched white from the pain. “No! Scabbers has been in my family for-“
Sirius is quick to interject but when he speaks, his eyes do not leave Regulus’ face. “Twelve years? A curiously long life for a common garden rat!”
Regulus had seen him once, one full moon when James had snuck him out under his cloak. He’d sat in a tree, watching the brown rat chasing after his friends, who were larger and faster in their animagus forms. He remembered pitying him, both that night and as the years went by, the boy who lingered in their shadow, always a step too slow, never quite catching up. Nausea rises within him as he focuses on the rat, his gaze narrowing to one of its feet where upon closer inspection, it is missing a tiny little toe.
Harry seems to reach the same conclusion, his eyes snapping from the rat to Regulus. Shock blooms across his face, closely followed by horror. “All that was left of Peter Pettigrew was a finger.”
“He cut it off.” Regulus says, his lips feel numb, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and throat. The world tilts, silent and cruel, as the truth crashes down around him.
Regulus turns to his brother and sees him in a very different light. “Sirius,” He says, his voice breaking, he knows his face is white, that there’s a rising fear in his eyes in the way Sirius instantly softens, moving towards his brother with a familiar warmth in his gaze.
“Sirius, Regulus, watch out!” Lupin shouts at the same time that Ron screams, terrified, clutching his now bleeding hand. The rat bolts immediately after biting him, trying to make it’s escape. Regulus watches as it heads towards one of the small nooks in the old, broken panels of the shack, and he sees red.
How dare Peter run. How dare he walk free after signing his friends’ death warrant twelve years ago. After condemning an innocent man, Regulus’ brother, to prison. After leaving Harry an orphan. How dare he live like none of it ever happened.
With no hesitation, Regulus abandons guarding his brother, throwing his borrowed wand back to him. The years seem to melt away as the pair of them move in tandem, throwing themselves into a defensive position in front of Harry, Hermione and Ron. The rat scuttles on the floor, changing direction, mercifully running in the opposite direction to the children, allowing Regulus and Sirius to raise their wands and cast curse after curse. It does not take long for Snape to do the same, offering a hand to help Lupin up, the pair of them guarding the door.
Hermione takes Regulus’ reaction in stride, seemingly trusting him for this judgement call, Ron following her lead. Regulus stands firm, shielding Harry with his body. Behind him, Harry presses close, fingers curling in his robes, breath warm and frantic, refusing to be parted again. There is pandemonium, as lines of loyalty are smudged and redrawn but it is clear now to everyone that they are all on the same side.
None of the curses are landing. As a last ditch effort, Sirius darts towards Peter, like a dog chasing a rabbit. He closes in, hands reaching out to grasp the creature that is trying desperately to get away from them.
His hands close around his tiny body just as the first light of the moon breaks through a gap in the window, illuminating the room.
Hermoine’s eyes go wide, she frantically turns to Remus who is blocking the door, a warning on her lips but it’s too late.
Regulus freezes, raising his eyebrows at Snape, a silent question hanging between them - the potion?
Minutely, his eyes full of fear, Snape shakes his head.
All hell breaks loose.
Peter escapes.
It is a night that Regulus will forever look back on in regret, that he hadn’t done more, that he hadn’t trusted his brother. His brother who loved James just as much as he did.
But there is something he’s grateful for about that night, the fact that it brought Sirius back to him.
The night air is cool and heavy with magic as Regulus stands with Hermione and Harry in the courtyard. He still can’t believe that with the help of a Time-Turner, the pair of them had managed to unpick the events of tonight, enough to save his brother.
He’d been terrified as he’d raced through the trees, stumbling over uneven ground to reach the lake. When he found them, Sirius had been unconscious, Harry barely any better off. Regulus’ only contribution to the night had been to cast the Patronus charm, convinced it wouldn’t be enough, that he was already too late. But somehow, against all odds, Harry and Hermione had made sure it was.
Regulus watches as Sirius throws a hazardous leg over Buckbeak, who stamps impatiently on the grass, wings half-spread, as if sensing the urgency of the moment. There is a wild smile on his brother’s face as he gets comfortable for the long journey ahead. Regulus was wrong, earlier. He’d told himself that Sirius no longer resembled the brother he’d once known and loved but that’s because Sirius hadn’t been smiling. He smiles now and the years seem to melt off his face, suddenly, impossibly, he seems ten years younger.
Regulus risks a glance at the sky above them, where the stars burn bright across an endless, inky black. He presses a careful hand to his ribs as he looks up, at the freedom that awaits Sirius. Regulus blinks, surprised to find that the ache there is gone. He looks down, mystified, fingers brushing over where the pain had been the sharpest- nothing, not even the twinge of a bruise. Another miracle, he tells himself, another impossible gift that this night has offered him.
The sound of hooves on cobblestone grows louder, commanding his attention. Regulus bows low before Buckbeak, maintaining a respectable distance from the creature. Once his bow is returned, he steps forward to brush his finger along the creature’s soft feathers. When he looks up, Sirius is watching him, eyes wide with wonder.
“We have…so much to catch up on, Reg.”
Regulus feels his face soften at the old nickname. “And we will. But right now you need to go, get out while you can.”
Sirius hesitates, his gaze drifting behind his brother to look at Harry. When Regulus looks over his shoulder, Harry is smiling at them both, an arm around Hermione as he watches them say goodbye. The pair of them have already spoken in private, Regulus finds himself wondering if Sirius had asked Harry if he wanted his godfather as a guardian, what Harry’s response had been.
Sirius rubs a hand through his dirty hair, wincing at the feel of it, at the tangles he encounters. “Any idea on where I should go?”
Regulus merely smiles, lifting a single shoulder in a slow, deliberate shrug as he tilts his head towards Harry. The younger boy tracks the movement and grins as he looks up at Sirius. “Oh, I have an idea all right.”
Regulus does his best not to laugh. He doesn’t know whether he’s crossing a line here but he throws caution to the wind as he reaches for his brother’s hands, still clenched tight around the reins and holds them in his own steady ones. “Head to Grimmauld Place.”
Sirius pulls a face, scrunching his nose, clearly unimpressed with that answer but he doesn’t pull away from Regulus.
Harry laughs, a bright, joyful sound. “Just you wait, I think you’ll find it very different from the last time you saw it.”
It’s true, to an extent. Regulus winces apologetically. “Apart from your room, sorry.”
A flicker of curiosity passes over Sirius’ face, he arches a brow, a silent inquiry written across his face.
“I couldn’t bear to go in there, not after everything. It’s been locked ever since that night.”
Something sorrowful passes between them but it’s quickly replaced with understanding. “I’d have probably done the same, if it had been me there, instead of you.”
Their eyes meet and in that brief exchange, something clicks. Regulus nods, releasing Sirius’ hands but not before Sirius squeezes them one last time, eyes soft.
“Don’t disappear again. Come back to Grimmauld, as soon as you can.”
Regulus’ gaze is steady, unwavering in its quiet intensity, there is a promise shared between them in this moment. “I’ll be there soon. I’m not going anywhere and neither are you.”
Sirius seems satisfied with that, he casts one last look at Regulus, who has retreated to stand with Harry and Hermione, an arm around both of them. With a final grin, he drives his heels into Buckbeak’s flank, urging him forward.
Buckbeak launches into the sky, carrying Sirius off into the night, higher and higher until the wind takes them and then for the first time in a very long time, he is free.
Harry leans into him, his voice sad as he watches Sirius become a tiny dot on the horizon before he eventually disappears. “All this time, he was on our side.”
Regulus nods, eyes still on the sky. Inside his chest, he can feel his heart breaking at that realisation too.
Regulus finds Sirius in the living room, there’s a quiet awe in the way he observes the room, fingers grazing the sofa, eyes wide as they take in the TV. Regulus lets him have this moment, doesn’t make a sound as he watches him quietly from the doorway. Sirius pauses as he comes to the mantlepiece, gaze soft as his fingers brush across the pictures of Harry at various ages, each new picture chronicling a different stage of him growing up. The photos of their own school days seem to fracture something within him, he cannot look at them for long. Regulus watches as Sirius reaches out a hand, reverently brushing his knuckles against the glass of the picture at the very centre, the one that Regulus has never moved, the one that contains James and Lily. When he turns to face Regulus, his eyes are full of unshed tears.
“Your Patronus…James-” His voice breaks on his name. “After all this time?”
Regulus dips his head. “Always.” Their eyes lock and Regulus holds his brother’s gaze, unflinching and unwavering. “There will never be anyone else.”
Sirius sinks down into the sofa and holds his head in his hands. Hesitantly, Regulus comes to sit beside him.
“I’m sorry I thought the worst of you, for all those years. I should’ve known. You loved him as much as I did.”
Sirius barks out a laugh but there is little humour in it. “If Remus thought I was guilty, no offence, Reg, but how were you to know? We hated each other. I thought you were dead and if I’d have known you were alive, I would have expected you to end up in the cell next to mine, eventually.” He gazes around the room. “I never expected this to be your life.” He turns back to Regulus, eyes sad. “How did we get each other so wrong?”
Regulus feels the faint pull of an unhappy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You might have hated me, Sirius, but I don’t think I ever hated you. Fuck, I think if anything I was grieving you, the version of you that I thought was gone.” He looks down at the floor, his sorrow threatening to choke him. “We’ve lost so much time.”
“We have.” There is grief etched into the planes of Sirius’ face. “What’s it been like…raising Harry?”
Regulus can’t help but smile at the question. “The greatest joy of my life.” He knows it was all borrowed time, really. That now Sirius has come back, as Harry’s rightful guardian, he will take over Harry’s care but he wouldn’t change it for the world. He just hopes Sirius will let him still be a part of it all moving forward.
“So, what, you were in hiding…when it happened? Then you went and got Harry?”
Regulus chooses to skirt the first question, they will cross that bridge later. The latter, however he answers. “Yes, it took me a little while to get my shit together but I went to Dumbledore and demanded he let me care for Harry.”
Sirius laughs. “Ballsy.”
Regulus tries not to smile but he can’t help the way his lip twitches. “Yeah, it was a bit ballsy, wasn’t it?” He sobers up almost instantly, “Lily’s family…they weren’t looking after him properly, when I found out I couldn’t leave him there, I would’ve done anything to make sure he was safe.”
Sirius hesitates, his mouth opens then shuts. Eventually he says, “Because of James?’
Regulus shifts uncomfortably. “At first,” he shakes his head, “but not now, not for a very long time. He might look like James but Harry is his own person, Sirius, and he’s amazing. He really is. I can’t wait for you to spend more time with him.”
“I’m proud of you.” Something flares painfully in Regulus’ chest, it feels like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear those words. “I’m proud that you’re my brother.”
Regulus’ eyes sting. “It’s so good to have you back.” And he means it. Even if it means he’ll lose Harry, he’s grateful for all of it, the time he got to spend with his boy and the brother he got back because of it. Regulus presses a hand to his face, the grief rising in his chest is jagged and painful. “Sirius…now that you’re back, I know it will take a while for us to find Peter and prove your innocence but when your name is cleared,” he breathes in and out, prepares himself to beg if necessary, “I’d still like to be part of Harry’s life, if that’s okay.“
Sirius pauses, his forehead creasing as his brows draw together, quiet concern etched into his expression. “Reg, Harry loves you, he’s spent his whole life here, you raised him.” His gaze fixes on those pictures, a lifetime of memories for Harry to one day look back on. “I should be asking you that question, not the other way around.”
His fingers knot together, quiet and tense. Hope stirs in his chest at the fact that Sirius won’t be taking him away but it is a fragile little thing, because Regulus knows that Harry might make that decision for them when he hears about Regulus’ past. “It’s Harry’s choice at the end of the day. In the meantime, will you stay here? I know it was our parent’s house and it’s probably full of bad memories but I’ve done my best to build something here, something different and I’d like you to be part of it.”
It’s quiet, the silence stretches on and eventually Regulus risks a glance up at his brother. Sirius is surveying the room, almost like he’s seeing it with new eyes.
“I think I’d like that.”
Regulus nods, relief blooming in his chest. He doesn’t think he’d have survived losing him again, he’s only just gotten him back. “Then, there’s things I need to tell you, things I’ll need your help with moving forward.”
It sounds ominous, Regulus knows that, can tell Sirius picks up on it by the wary look he shoots his way. He expects Sirius to push back, demand more information before he answers but instead, he settles back into the sofa, a patient smile on his face. “Okay.”
“It’s a long story,” Regulus warns him.
Sirius smiles, his eyes crinkling. “Well, for the first time in years, I think we both have time.”
Regulus’ face softens. “Yes,” he says gently, “I guess we do.”
Regulus knows that he owes Harry a very important conversation. It’s been on his mind, ever since that night in the Shrieking Shack. It’s been a few days since the end of the school year and the three of them have managed to find a semblance of peace together at Grimmauld Place, despite this arrangement being strange and new. Regulus does not want to be the one who brings it all crashing to the ground. His brother has been enjoying spending time with Harry, even though there is a rawness there, in their connection. A pain that both of them are familiar with, tied together by a loss that reshaped the landscape of both of their lives.
Since Sirius’ return, the two brothers have spoken at length about the Horcruxes and Regulus knows that the burden has weighed heavy on Sirius, as it had done on Regulus for the past several years. What he wants, more than anything, is for Sirius to have moments with Harry that are untouched by the looming shadow of Voldemort’s return. And then there was Harry, so full of joy just to be near Sirius, soaking up every story about his parents, every memory that Regulus couldn’t bear to ruin it for him. So, he holds his silence, afraid that dredging up his past might fracture the fragile peace that’s settled over their home.
It’s a quiet Friday night when Harry approaches him. Sirius is busy decorating his room, the last time Regulus had seen him, he’d been despairing over the Permanent Sticking Charm he’d used on some of the more…unsavoury posters he’d hung on his wall all those years ago. He’d begged Regulus for help but he had only laughed in his brother’s face and shut the door on him.
“Hey, Reg.” Harry says from the bottom of the steps.
Regulus peers over the bannister at him and smiles, “Hey kiddo, you coming up to bed?”
“Yeah,” Harry says, he pushes his glasses up his nose, an anxious habit that James had used to do. Something deep within Regulus aches at the sight, a little piece of James, passed down from father to son, surviving even death. “Can we talk?”
He knows where this conversation is going. Regulus’ stomach drops in anticipation. “Yeah, course. In your room?”
Harry nods and Regulus waits at the top of the stairs for him. When he reaches the landing, Regulus hovers a few steps behind him, letting him lead, following him to his room, just down the hall.
His room has grown with him, over the years. His broom is tucked in the corner, the handle resting against a precarious stack of books that Regulus knows Harry has probably never even opened.
There’s red and gold everywhere, Gryffindor colours, and on the chair by his wardrobe, placed with love and care is one of James’ old Quidditch shirts that Regulus had dug out for him. He makes a mental note to himself to offer to frame it for Harry, maybe they can find room for it on the walls above his bed?
Regulus hadn’t had many things of Lily’s to pass down to Harry, mostly pictures and a few letters he’d kept from her when they were both at Hogwarts, just simple notes wishing him a happy birthday or asking if he would be studying with Remus later that evening. He tried to rectify that, however, for Harry’s birthday last year by sending a letter to Petunia Dursley.
He’d kept the address he’d gotten from Dumbledore, written it down in case he ever needed to contact her. He’d taken care to send it through the muggle post, researched where to put the stamp and had posted it with little hope of hearing back.
But to his surprise, a few weeks later, he’d received a letter back, along with a brown paper parcel.
Dear Regulus,
It was quite unexpected to receive your letter after so many years, though I must say it was a pleasant surprise.
Dudley is thriving, thank you for your kind enquiry. He is growing into a confident and capable young man and I remain immensely proud of him.
I appreciate the photograph of Harry that you enclosed. It is remarkable how strongly he is beginning to resemble his father, as I knew him, as he grows. However, I am pleased to see that a piece of my sister lives on in him, his eyes are the exact same shade as Lily’s.
In response to your request, I have located a small item in our loft that once belonged to Lily during her childhood. Regrettably, I cannot help you further as I was not entrusted with many of her personal effects following her death. However, I do have her wedding ring, which I have enclosed with this parcel. I hope it may serve as a meaningful gift for Harry on his birthday.
I trust you are keeping well.
Yours sincerely,
Petunia
The parcel contained a carefully wrapped jewellery box, carved and velvet-lined, and inside it had sat Lily’s wedding ring.
The jewellery box now sits in pride of place on Harry’s bedside cabinet. He’d taken it with him to Hogwarts this year and Regulus hopes he’ll do the same next year and every year after that.
The ring, however, is a permanent fixture on a chain round Harry’s neck.
Regulus watches as Harry settles on the edge of his bed, fiddling with the chain now, drawing comfort from it, as he often does. He remains by the door, until Harry motions for him to join him.
Regulus lowers himself beside Harry, careful to leave an intentional sliver of space between them. He doesn’t want to smother Harry and he’s not sure the boy will want him so close once he hears the truth.
“Is this about what Sirius said, that night in the Shrieking Shack?”
“Yeah,” Harry looks off into the distance, at the photos that adorn his walls, something he’d inherited from Regulus.
Regulus follows his gaze and is startled to find it fixed on a picture of them both at a Quidditch game earlier this year. Harry is on his broom, Regulus, bundled in a dark coat but wearing a Gryffindor scarf is leaning over the guardrail to hug him tightly. Harry, in the picture, pulls away only enough to beam at him, his face radiant with joy. Regulus watches as he grins back, his face glowing with pride.
“Where did you get that?” He asks quietly, he wills his voice not to shake.
“Colin gave it to me, it’s a good picture, right?”
Regulus nods, suddenly unable to speak. He can’t voice, what it means to him, to find a picture of himself on Harry’s wall, amongst numerous pictures of his parents and his friends.
“It wasn’t that cold, that day.” Harry says softly.
Regulus freezes. “No.” he replies, suddenly numb, he knows where this question will lead to. He was expecting this but it still comes as a surprise. “It wasn’t.”
“But you were wearing a coat.” There is nothing accusatory in Harry’s tone but Regulus can’t help the guilt that threatens to swallow him whole.
“I was.”
Harry looks down at the white shirt Regulus is wearing, his gaze fixed on his forearm that is hidden behind his sleeve. “You only wear long sleeves.” He lifts his gaze to meet Regulus’. “Why?”
There’s a weight pressing behind his ribs, twelve years of silence, finally waiting to be broken. Regulus meets those green eyes, echoes of another life staring back at him. He doesn’t dare soften the truth. Harry deserves honesty, all of it.
“Because I’m ashamed.” Regulus says simply. “Because when I was younger I wasn’t a good person and I have a symbol on my arm that reminds me of that everyday.”
Regulus carefully pulls up his sleeve, he does not look at Harry, does not want to see the inevitable disgust he knows he will find there. Instead, he focuses on the distorted mark that is stark against his pale skin. Unfortunately, the lines haven’t faded anymore over the years but at least the mark is still indistinguishable.
“Huh,” Harry says, his brows drawing together in confusion, “Lucius Malfoy’s doesn’t look like that.”
“What?” Regulus says, his voice a tad too sharp, he sees the surprise in Harry’s face at his tone and quickly softens it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. You just took me by surprise. I didn’t expect you to have seen one of these before. What do you mean, it doesn’t look the same?” He pauses, feels the way his own brow furrows in confusion. “Wait, when did you see Lucius’ arm?”
“In the meeting we had with Professor Dumbledore about Dobby. He lifted his arm and I saw the ink there, I asked Ron about it afterwards. He was surprised I hadn’t seen it before, he asked whether you kept yours covered.”
All this time. Harry has known all this time. Perhaps not the full breadth of Regulus’ past but enough to pass judgement. Regulus feels sick.
Though he’d been officially pardoned, Regulus remained careful, almost meticulous, in keeping both of them out of the spotlight. Redemption on paper didn’t erase the weight of reputation, and he knew better than to assume the world had truly forgotten him. It is because of Dumbledore that his involvement with the Death Eaters is not well known or well publicised and never will be. But it was a foolish oversight to not have accounted for those who would have known his brother, whilst they were estranged. They’ve always been kind to him, Molly and Arthur Weasley. But that kindness came after Dumbledore’s endorsement, after they saw the man he’d become. It doesn’t mean that, before they truly knew him, behind closed doors, while the children were growing up, things weren’t said. Quiet judgments and whispered doubts that Ron had picked up on, had passed onto Harry. The worst part is that whatever was said was probably all true.
“I’m sorry.” He says. “I should’ve been the one to tell you.”
Harry nods, shifting uncomfortably where he’s sat, hands clasped in his lap. “Yeah, you should’ve.” He shoots Regulus a contemplative look. “That conversation with Ron, it got me thinking about you and your past. I was so angry at first. I couldn’t understand why you’d done it, joined him.” He looks down at his socked feet, scuffs them along the floorboards. “Hermione was the voice of reason, as she often is,” he smiles a bit at that, a proud little thing that speaks volumes for how much respect and admiration he has for his friend. “She researched the Black family, it was an…interesting topic.” He winces, looks at Regulus, “but it helped me understand you better. And recently, I spoke to Sirius about it, about his upbringing which kind of led to yours.”
If they are to discuss this, it is important to Regulus that they do so with all the facts. Sirius has always been protective of him and he worries that this may have clouded his retelling of their childhood. He wants Harry to know that he was awful, that he made all the wrong choices and he’s spent the entirety of his adult life trying to undo them. It is important to him that Harry knows that he’s trying, that after all the harm he did, he is trying to leave this world a better place than how he found it.
“Sirius was braver than me, Harry, he was placed in Gryffindor for a reason. He fought our parents every step of the way. And when it came down to it, he left and I stayed. It’s something I’ll regret for the rest of my life. It’s one of the worst choices I ever made. The damage it caused, the ripple effect it had on others…there’s no rewriting it, I own it, fully. I’m not that person anymore but I won’t pretend that version of me never existed. I carry it with me, every single day, as a reminder to myself that I refuse to be that person ever again.”
“You were sixteen,” Harry says, “and if you were so awful and irredeemable, my dad wouldn’t have loved you as much as he did.”
Regulus’ world stops. His lips part but he cannot find the right words, any words at all. Instead, a shuddering breath falls from his lips.
“Sirius didn’t know,” Harry says apologetically, “he didn’t realise you hadn’t told me but I wish you had,” Harry’s eyes are sad. “I knew you grieved him, I don’t think you realised you were doing it. Sometimes, I’d walk into the living room and you’d be stood there, holding that picture of mum and dad, your thumb hovering over his face. You were softer when it came to dad, I didn’t realise it was because you loved him, I wish I did.”
Regulus does not feel equipped for this conversation. How does he tell James’ son that his father has been the northward point of his compass for nearly all of his childhood, for the entirety of his adult life, the direction that always pointed towards home? How does he tell his child that even in death, James guides him? Even before then, when they were both alive but very much over and James no longer loved him, that when Regulus died in that cave, he did it facing north?
Harry seems to sense his inner turmoil because he continues, quieter, his tone surprisingly gentle. “I knew from the minute Ron told me, even if I was too angry to listen at the time, that whatever had happened when you were younger, you’d changed your mind, that you weren’t that person anymore. Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t have let you look after me if you didn’t regret what you did, if you hadn’t tried to fix it.” He places a hand on Regulus’ own white knuckled one that rests on the bed between them. “Before Sirius told me you betrayed him, tried to bring him down, I already knew that’s what you would’ve done, deep down. Because that’s what the man who raised me, who stood by me all these years, would have done without hesitation.”
Blessedly, it seems that Sirius hasn’t told Harry about his death, a minor reprieve in this otherwise difficult conversation. Regulus cups his forehead in his free hand, feels the clammy skin there and swallows. He is not the victim is this situation, he will not behave like one. He lifts his head, forces himself to meet Harry’s eyes. He’d expected anger, maybe even a reckoning. The guilt he’s carried for years doesn’t know what to do with this kindness, this unwavering calm. It twists inside him, whispering that he hasn’t earned this grace, that maybe Harry doesn’t know the full extent of what he’s done. He had told himself, when they first sat down, that he would be honest about his past, that he would not soften the truth.
So, Regulus clenches his jaw, tries to soften his voice but there is something fierce and angry in his tone, not targeted at Harry, never Harry, but always towards himself. “I still joined him. I still allowed myself to be branded by him. I sat by and watched people die and did nothing. I am not innocent and I understand if this changes things between us. I should’ve told you sooner and it was unfair of me not to. I’m sorry you had to hear it from someone else and I’m sorry I didn’t give you the full truth when that’s what you deserved to hear.”
“I know who you are,” Harry says, temper rising, “and you said it yourself, you’re not that person anymore! You haven’t been that person for as long as I’ve known you. You took me in when no one else would. You dropped everything to come and get me in the middle of the night when I was upset at a sleepover. You turned up at the Shrieking Shack with a broken rib and stood in front of me when you thought I was in danger, even if it meant facing the man who you thought betrayed you and the people you loved.” The fight seems to leave him as he rests his head on Regulus’ shoulder. “I accept your apology, you should’ve been the one to tell me but the rest of it? Unless you have something else to tell me, it doesn’t change anything.”
He keeps quiet. Doesn’t speak of the cave, of how his defiance had ended in silence and saltwater. He doesn’t mention the hunt for the Horcruxes either, the nights he’s spent chasing fragments of a man who ruined Harry’s life once, and if given the chance, might try to do it again. Some stories weren’t withheld out of shame but out of mercy. Instead, he thanks James and Lily for their son, the boy who hasn’t given up on him, despite hearing terrible things about him. The boy who decided that there was good in him, enough to warrant giving him a second chance. He presses a kiss to Harry’s messy dark hair. “I don’t deserve you.”
Harry doesn’t reply, just wraps his arms around him and Regulus lets himself be held. The relief he feels in Harry’s arms is short-lived, however, because tucked away, in the back of his mind, suspicion niggles at him. “Lucius’ mark, what does it look like?”
“Dark and distinct. It doesn’t look like yours.”
Because of his death or some form of retribution? Regulus hopes that it’s the latter.
Harry wiggles a little in his arms to gaze up at him, “Maybe it’s because he’s awful and you’re not.” Something lights up in his eyes. “Permission to swear?”
Regulus can’t help the surpirsed huff that escapes him. “Permission denied, Sirius is a bad influence on you, I can only imagine what he calls Lucius under his breath.”
Harry laughs, “Well, I wouldn’t say he says it under his breath, he’s really quite vocal about it.”
Regulus smiles, can’t find it in him to berate his brother for that although he should maybe tone back the language in front of Harry. He looks back at that photo of them on the wall, the corners stuck down with carefully cut Spellotape. Harry had known, had suspected that there were horrors hidden in his past and he’d still put that photo on the wall. He cannot put into words, what that means to him. What he feels for this child, it is too vast, too tender to voice. It is the biggest emotion he’s ever felt and without question, the best.
“No one’s perfect, not even Sirius.” Harry says, in that cheeky tone that Regulus loves. “You tell me that all the time.”
Regulus smiles, “No,” he agrees, “but your mum came pretty damn close.”
Something serious crosses over Harry’s face as he pulls away so he can better look at Regulus’ face. “Do you miss her?” He asks hesitantly, “Like you miss dad?”
“So much.” He says and it’s the honest truth, one that took him many years to come to terms with, he’d been jealous of Lily for a very long time but he could never ever hate her and if he could have it his way, he’d switch places with Lily in an instant. He says that last part out loud to Harry who admonishes him for it.
“If I could have it my way, I’d have all of you here with me, I’d never trade one for the other.”
Regulus loves Harry, is grateful for this life he’s been given but he will never understand why it hadn’t been Lily. It should’ve been Lily.
“Your parents loved you so much, Harry. Sirius will be able to tell you so many more stories about them now, ones that I don’t even know.”
Harry hesitates for a brief moment, “But you’ll carry on telling me stories about them too, right?” His face becomes mischievous, “as long as you leave out the parts about how dreamy my dad’s eyes were and how irresistible you found him.”
Regulus pretends to smother him with a pillow, then wrestles him for good measure too because he loves the way it makes Harry laugh uncontrollably.
When they stop, Regulus out of breath and Harry claiming victory, they lie back on the bed together, eyes towards the charmed constellations on the ceiling. “I know this might change things between us, Sirius being back but I want you to know, I don’t mind, if when the time comes you want Sirius to be your official guardian, I’d understand.” Regulus says gently, it’s going to gut him, to hand Harry’s unofficial care over to Sirius but now that he’s aware of the truth, has heard about his past, it’s only right that Regulus takes a step back. It’s what James and Lily would’ve wanted.
Regulus turns his head to look at him, watches the way Harry’s brow scrunches, it makes him look so much like James that Regulus has to blink away the resemblance for a moment. “Why would you say that?”
“He’s your godfather, Harry. Sirius was always meant to look after you, it’s what your mum and dad wanted.”
“I know, and Sirius is brilliant and funny and I love that he’s my godfather but…” he trails off, flushes and ducks his head. “you’re my dad, in every way that matters. I know you want me to call you Reg because I have a dad but I know he wouldn’t mind, that I think of you like that. I think he’d be happy knowing I had someone and that, that someone was you.” He smiles. “Anyway, our family isn’t shrinking, it’s growing, there’s always room for one more.”
Regulus’ eyes are bright with tears as he sweeps Harry’s hair off his head with one hand and cups his cheek with another, drawing him closer. He presses a kiss to the skin there, his lips hovering over the scar before he presses a kiss there too, because it’s not just a reminder of loss but of love too.
“For what it counts, you’re my son in every way that matters too.”
Harry was right, their little family does keep growing. Not just with the arrival of Sirius, but with Remus too.
The pair of them find their way back to each other, just like Regulus knew they would.
As soon as he’d heard the news of Remus’ dismissal, he had sent his old friend a letter, one that contained both an offer and a key, tucked inside an envelope.
He thinks this home could do with another person, he thinks his brother would agree with him too.
When Regulus wanders downstairs to the kitchen, long after Harry has fallen asleep, he pushes open the door only to pause on the threshold.
They’re sat, Sirius and Remus, heads pressed together, whispering to one another in the dim candlelight of the kitchen.
Regulus smiles softly to himself, envy bubbling up at the sight of their clasped hands in the middle of the table. He forces the emotion down and pulls the door shut with a gentle click.
It’s about time they figured things out.
It is strange, at first, having people there, in his space. Regulus is used to the loneliness that comes with Harry being at Hogwarts, the worry too. He isn’t used to sharing the weight of his fear, about the remaining Horcruxes, about Harry’s safety. But over time, with Sirius and Remus beside him, he learns to share the burden, takes comfort in it too.
Sometimes, it is difficult to see the two of them together. The way they look at each other…it reminds Regulus of someone else, the way they used to look at him a lifetime ago. It is hard, to see them have the future Regulus never will. He does not begrudge them their happiness, he is pleased that they found their way back to one another and Merlin knows they both deserve something good after all the bad they’ve both experienced but…there’s a part of him, small, bitter and buried, that aches. Regulus knows he won’t experience that kind of love again. He had it once, briefly, but it died with James. This life, spending time with his brother, with Remus, looking after Harry, it is enough. It is more than he ever thought he’d get to have but it catches him surprise, sometimes. How much he still misses James. He wishes he could tell James that his best friends finally got their shit together. That after all the chaos, the heartbreak, the years lost to war and betrayal, they found each other again. Properly, this time. Regulus sometimes imagines James up there, watching the four of them try and build a life together. He wonders what James would make of it all. What would he say, seeing Sirius and Remus finally trusting each other, seeing Harry growing into someone brave and stubborn and kind. Seeing Regulus, here, still trying to make him proud. Regulus wishes he could ask him, hates that he can’t.
Harry’s fourth year, Regulus spends a lot of time wondering what James would do, if he were here. How different things would be. He never voices it. Instead, it becomes a habit, this silent consultation with a ghost.
An instance of it happening is during the second task of the Triwizard Tournament, when Regulus sits curled into the corner of the sofa, legs tucked beneath him, a mug of tea cooling in his hands and watches his brother pace the length of the room. The sound of his boots along the floorboards is a repetitive rhythm that’s half panic, half impatience. Remus, ever the calm counterweight, sits with his arms folded, eyes fond as he offers quiet logic in response to Sirius’ spiralling worry.
They’re bickering, as they always do when the stakes are high, a familiar back and forth that Regulus has become accustomed to, so he doesn’t intervene. They were like this back at school, when they first got together. If anything their arguments have softened over the years.
Regulus watches them, and for a moment, he sees James.
He imagines him sat between them, legs sprawled, a grin tugging at his mouth as he interrupts them both with some ridiculous quip. James would have diffused the tension in seconds, he always did. He’d have teased Sirius until he laughed, nudged Remus until he rolled his eyes and smiled. He’d have made it feel like everything was going to be alright, even if it wasn’t.
Maybe, once Sirius and Remus started laughing, realising how ridiculous they were being, James would shoot him a private, little smile, meant just for him. Maybe he’d have given up on his friends, declared them a lost cause and come and sat with Regulus instead.
Regulus swallows hard. The image is so vivid it hurts.
He doesn’t say anything. Just sits there. The bickering continues and Regulus closes his eyes, lets himself pretend, just for a moment, that James is in the room with them too.
It is Remus who convinces him to come to the third task. It’s not that Regulus doesn’t want to be there, he wants to support Harry more than anything. But it is the fear of being amongst a crowd of witches and wizards after so long, cameras shoved in his face, reporters chasing him down eager for information about him or Harry, that unnerves him.
“You’ll regret it, if you don’t go.” Remus comments idly one morning as he reads the paper. This will be the fourth time they’ve spoken about this and Remus is still approaching the conversation with the same quiet patience he’d possessed the first time round. Regulus doesn’t know whether to admire or resent him for it.
“I don’t want my presence to ruin it for Harry.”
“You not being there would hurt him more.” He pointedly ignores the dark look Regulus sends him. “The court records were sealed, it’s been years.”
The fact that a considerable stretch of time has passed does nothing to ease his worry. He tells Remus that too. “People don’t forget, Remus, people also talk.”
“And? Everywhere I go, people talk. Be the bigger man, Regulus, be the better person.”
“Easy for you to say.” Regulus huffs, pulling out the chair beside him so that they’re sat side by side. “Every room you walk into, not only are you taller than everyone else but you’re also nicer than them.”
With a snort, Remus rolls his eyes. “Don’t change the subject. Are you going to come or not? We need to let Dumbledore know by tomorrow.”
“I want to, I just don’t know how to,” he falters, stares down at his hands clasped atop the table. “I don’t care what they say about me, Remus, but I care what Harry might think, how he might feel hearing it all.”
Remus reaches out, places a warm hand over Regulus’.“Harry loves you. Nothing anyone could say will change that.”
Regulus stares down at their hands and tentatively voices what’s really been bothering him. “I don’t want him to be ashamed of me.”
“Harry is his mother’s son, Regulus. How do you think Lily would’ve approached this?”
It’s true, he is. People often forget, when they look at Harry and see James staring back at them, that he’s not just his father’s son. Yes, he’s brave and Harry, like his dad, is a natural leader and possesses that same reckless streak, that same fire that James did.
But he’s Lily’s boy too, and he carries the same kindness that she did, the same fierce loyalty.
If she were here, Lily would want Regulus to go. She’d tell him to lift his chin and hold his head high. If Lily were here, Regulus is certain she’d have walked beside him, she would’ve done it for him the same way she would’ve done it for Snape.
And Regulus knows then, that Harry would do the same and he would not be ashamed of him.
So he will go. For her. For Harry.
Sirius, on the other hand, does not share Regulus’ hesitation about attending the final task. Instead, his brother argues with everyone and anyone who disputes his presence. Eventually, he wears all of them down and convinces them to let him attend as Padfoot.
It is strange, walking through the grounds, Sirius barking happily as he races ahead of them. It almost feels like they’ve travelled back in time. As they draw closer to the stands, Sirius barks even louder with excitement. At first, Regulus is tempted to try and admonish him for it, he is drawing attention to them, after all. But then Regulus sees Remus’ face, he’s gazing at Sirius with an indescribable fondness, his eyes so incredibly soft that Regulus decides to keep quiet.
It’s rare for any of them to look so content, these days.
Dumbledore meets them in front of what looks like a maze. The stands are slowly beginning to fill up and with the influx of people comes the frenzied whispers that ripple throughout the crowd at the sight of him.
“Is that Regulus Black?”
“No, it can’t be, I heard he died…”
“Wasn’t he a Death Eater, I heard he was part of the Dark Lord’s inner circle?”
“Well, apparently not. Dumbledore testified for him, it was a quiet affair you see, probably paid off with the Black family fortune-“
“Oh, to be a Black and have connections in high places!”
Regulus does his best to ignore them all. Instead, he greets Professor McGonagall, who is stood slightly behind Dumbledore, with a smile and a warm handshake. When Regulus turns to speak with Remus, he notices that he has stepped away to discuss something with the Headmaster in quiet tones. Sirius, sensing his unease at being left on his own, trots over from where he’d been sat beside Remus and leans against Regulus’ legs, a steady weight against him.
Just as Regulus is leaning down to ruffle Sirius’ ears, he sees Harry.
He looks so grown up as he walks through the entryway to the stands, his eyes wide as he takes in the sheer size of the maze. Then, almost instinctively, like he can feel Regulus’ eyes on him, he turns to face him and any residual worries drain away as Harry’s face lights up with a fierce grin. “Reg! I can’t believe you’re here!” He runs towards him, nearly knocking him over as he pulls him into a tight hug and Regulus laughs as he presses his face into Harry’s untidy hair. He smells like home.
“Me neither, only for you, kiddo.”
The minute that the two separate, Padfoot is jumping up, resting his paws on Harry’s shoulders as he licks him, leaving a wet stripe across his face.
Regulus is so distracted watching the pair of them that he starts at the sound of someone calling his name. It is a familiar voice but he doesn’t recognise who is speaking until he sees Mad Eye Moody stalking toward him.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Regulus Black.”
“Moody.” He greets back, albeit stiffly. There is something unwelcoming on Moody’s face as he looks at him, it is unnerving to be on the receiving end of it. The four of them stand there for a moment and it’s awkward considering Moody doesn’t take his eyes off Regulus once.
In the end, it is Dumbledore calling for Harry that shatters the moment. “Come on, lad.” Moody says gruffly to Harry, taking him by the arm. “The final task is due to start any minute now, best go join the others.”
Harry shows no sign of discomfort in his presence. He merely shrugs at Regulus, as if this were nothing out of the ordinary for an interaction with Moody, then trails after his professor, tossing a casual wave in parting.
As Remus steps back into view, coming to a stop beside Regulus, Moody glances over his shoulder, doesn’t attempt to disguise the disgust on his face. “Dirty fucking traitor.” He hisses under his breath as he storms off, one hand tight on Harry’s shoulder as he steers him towards the other champions. Regulus blinks in surprise at the animosity in his tone.
Remus sends him a startled look as they walk towards their seats. “Merlin, Moody really has it out for you.” He says under his breath as they settle into the stands. At their feet Padfoot growls, his hackles rising, ears flat against his head as he stares at Moody at the opposite end of the field.
Regulus reaches down, placing a hand on Sirius’ head, partly to placate Padfoot but also to calm himself. It works, Padfoot whines once before quietening, lying down, resting his head on Remus’ feet.
Regulus doesn’t let his plastered smile falter, as he sits up, placing both hands clasped between his knees. Too many people are watching them, it’s his first public appearance in a very long time and he is trying his hardest to keep his composure but he can feel the sharp looks directed his way. “I was friends with Evan Rosier at school, the one who…” he trails off. “Well I’m sure you’ve heard the story. He probably hates me on principle.”
“Evan Rosier,” Remus’ brows furrow as he tries to place the name, “the blonde one who was with your friend, the one who died in Azkaban?”
Their names linger on his tongue, unspoken for years, yet still capable of unraveling him. Time hasn’t dulled the ache, nor absolved the guilt. “Barty, yes.”
“Do you wish things had been different for them? Like they were for you?”
Regulus exhales, the sound brittle and splintered. “Everyday. Evan only joined because of me. Barty joined because he went wherever Evan went. Apparently he lost it after Evan’s death, I can only imagine what it done to him.” He shakes his head. “Everyday, I wish it had been different, Remus. I’ve lost so much of my life wishing things were different.”
Remus sends him a soft look, uncharacteristically gentle for the two of them. He places a large hand on his shoulder, squeezes once and then lets his hand drop. “Me too. What a pair we are.”
“A match made in heaven, really.” Regulus comments dryly, the twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying his amusement.
Remus pulls a face, an exasperated grimace in mock disapproval. Sirius, still stretched out over their feet, attempts to growl but it ends up sounding like a bark of laughter, prompting a laugh from Regulus. “I’m kidding!”
It’s kind of nice, to be spend time together out of the house. With that thought, the tension in Regulus’ shoulders loosens, just slightly. It will not fully disappear until he knows Harry is safe and this dreadful tournament has come to an end but it’s a start. Regulus forces the memories of Moody and everything that came before, into the shadows. He anchors himself firmly in the present, eyes fixed on Harry, who stands tall at the entrance to the maze. As the champions prepare to enter, the three of them settle into their seats, bracing themselves for what is certain to be a long wait ahead of them.
A sudden flash of brilliant light slices through the gloom, and the crowd, restless after hours in near-darkness with very little action, erupts into thunderous cheers almost immediately.
Finally, the Triwizard Tournament was over.
Around him, professors were clapping and Hogwarts students were grinning at the prospect of two champions from their school winning the competition. The fanfare around them was loud and jubilant, a symphony of celebration that filled the air with joy, but Regulus, still fixed to his seat, does not move.
Two figures are huddled on the ground as the light of the Portkey fades. Harry is one of them, bloodied and trembling as he clutches onto Cedric Diggory’s limp body.
Regulus’ eyes lock onto Cedric’s chest, it does not move.
His breath catches in his throat, the crowd around him is still cheering, still smiling, some even clapping him on the back at Harry’s victory but Regulus cannot see anything but the haunted look in those green eyes, the way they stare hopelessly at Cedric’s lifeless face.
Regulus moves, shoving past stunned students and startled officials, his heartbeat loud in his ears. Not even a second later and Padfoot is on his feet, racing beside him. Padfoot is quicker and he reaches the boys first. The sharp edge in his whine is a clear warning.
Regulus drops beside Harry, hands hovering in mid-air, unsure whether to touch Harry or to check on Cedric. It is worse than he thought, so much worse.
The young boy is pale and there is no life in his face, in those vacant eyes. Desperately, just to check because he cannot stand the alternative, Regulus gently rests his head on Cedric’s chest, there is no heartbeat and he is cold.
“Harry.” he whispers, raising his head to look at him, voice raw. He attempts to shield both boys with his body, to try and provide them some cover from the crowd but it does no good, people in the front rows are standing now, watching the scene unfold with uneasy eyes. Sirius beside him whines again, ears flat against his head. “Harry, are you okay?”
‘Of course he isn’t’ he thinks to himself despairingly, ‘Cedric is dead and something went terribly wrong in that maze’.
Harry doesn’t respond, even where Dumbledore appears beside Regulus, face purposely blank, wand drawn. His lips move but no sound comes. His eyes are wide, glassy, tear tracks cutting through the dirt and blood on his face.
Regulus’ gaze drops to the tattered mess of Harry’s sleeve, the slice down the interior of his arm, the exact space where the Dark Mark would be on his own.
He turns to Dumbledore, knows that the blood has drained from his face as he opens his mouth, about to voice his horror but he is interrupted by a scream.
Fleur Delacour is staring at them, eyes wide as trembling hands cover her mouth. The atmosphere shifts almost immediately, the band dying down as the crowd higher in the stands fall silent.
It is so deathly silent that when Harry does speak, his words cut through the air.
“He’s back!” He sobs as he stumbles backwards, allowing Dumbledore to pull him away from Cedric despite the fact that his fingers are still fisted in the other boy’s jersey. Regulus gently uncurls them and pulls him into his arms, cupping the back of his head and attempting to guide his face into the crook of his own neck to provide him with some cover but Harry’s next words stop him short. “He’s back! Voldemort’s back!”
Regulus cannot breathe. Reality thins and he feels himself drifting, almost as if he’s suspended above himself, watching this all unfold from a distance. There is something pounding against his ribs, he thinks numbly that it might be his heart.
“Let me through!” It is then that Amos Diggory pushes through the throng. The sound he makes as his eyes fall upon his son is not human, it is the sound of a soul shattering.
The spell breaks and the world rushes in. Regulus flinches, the scream that rips through the older man yanking him back to the present. He fights the urge to cover his ears, it is the worst sound he’s ever heard. It is a sound he will never forget.
“That’s my son!” Amos screams, racing towards the lifeless body on the grass. “That’s my boy!” He falls to his knees beside Regulus and Harry, his face crumbling at the sight of Cedric’s wide, unseeing eyes. “It’s my boy!”
Harry squeezes his eyes shut and covers his face with his hands. A touch at his back jolts him - Remus. There is an urgency in his grip as he tugs at Regulus’ coat, a firm insistence in his eyes to get up, to move. Regulus doesn’t fight it, he rises, allows himself to be pulled back from the brink. He tries to draw Harry to his feet but the boy stays on the floor, a dead weight, sobs wracking his frame.
“Remus, did you hear-“
Remus nods, his face grave, he grips Regulus by the arms, anchoring him upright. At their feet, Sirius begins to growl, low and warning. “Yes, Regulus, I heard. We need to go somewhere safe and bring Harry, maybe Dumbledore’s office…”
Regulus does not hear the rest of Remus’ frantic whispers because when he looks down, the spot where Harry was sat is empty.
He turns sharply, desperation clawing at his chest as he frantically searches the crowd but it is no use. Harry is gone.
He should’ve known.
Barty Crouch Junior had always been one of the brightest minds Regulus had ever encountered. In his youth, he had been razor-sharp, his brilliance disguised by a boyish grin and an easy charm. Most people never saw the dangerous glint in his eye but Regulus did.
If anyone could cheat death, rewrite the rules and claw his way back from the abyss with bloodied fingers and a fractured mind, it would be Barty.
He was too clever to die properly. Too stubborn to stay buried.
And now, seeing him again, eyes hollow, a parody of a smile twisting his lips, Regulus understood the terrible cost of that brilliance. Barty hadn’t escaped death. He’d outwitted it. And in doing so, he’d lost everything, including himself.
There was always something unsettling about how easily he’d grasped the forbidden, how effortlessly he’d danced along the edge of madness and mastery.
Evan had been the only thing that kept him from crossing that line.
And with him gone, Barty had plummeted off the edge.
With a shuddering breath, Regulus steps forward slowly, towards him. The Minister for Magic, Dumbledore, Snape and Harry are silent behind him, watching him. Only Harry moves with him, a shadow at his back. Barty tracks every step. Only a few footsteps away from him, does he come to a stop. Regulus stares at him, hands bound, fingers twitching against the restraints. He does not recognise him, there is nothing left of his friend in this man.
He’d mourned him, the version of him he’d known. Buried the guilt of not saving him from himself. But this…he thinks this fate is worse than death.
“Barty.” He begins but he does not know what else to say, is there anything that can be said, that encapsulates the difficult, shared history between them?
Barty laughs, interrupting him. It is not a pleasant sound. “I thought you were dead.”
Regulus does not answer at first. Cannot answer truthfully with Harry stood behind him. When he does speak, his voice is low, pained. “I’m sorry about Evan.”
It’s true. He is. Evan is one of the greatest losses of his life, one he will never recover from. He thought when he saw Barty he’d be filled with rage and he is angry but he’s also sad. This…this is what they’ve become. He can’t believe it. They were childhood best friends once, the three of them. Now he has to bare witness to the fact that one is dead and the other one is unstable, unravelling right before his eyes. Both losses are difficult to navigate for different reasons. One was final, a clean break, cruel in its finality. But the other, the other is harder to explain, even to himself. Barty was supposed to be dead, it was easier when he was dead. Now, he is sat here, breathing, walking, talking but not as himself.
“Fuck you.” Barty snaps before spitting at his feet. “I don’t want your pity or your apologies. Don’t you dare say his fucking name. You don’t deserve to.”
“No,” Regulus says quietly, “maybe I don’t.” He’d been the reason Evan had joined the Death Eaters, it is a natural conclusion to come to, that he is the reason Evan is dead. It is a weight he has carried for the past fourteen years, he finds it doesn’t get any easier with time. One friend he helped bury, the other he is now watching disappear in slow motion because of his own actions.
“Did you know-“ Barty stumbles over his words as he attempts to jump from one topic to another. He struggles, tries to speak but cannot get the words out. When he recover there are tears in those wild eyes. “Pandora had a daughter?” He laughs but it comes out sounding like a sob. “She looks like them, her mum and uncle.”
Regulus did know. He hasn’t seen Luna Lovegood in person but he knows she’s friends with Harry, a sweet, innocent girl who has spent most of her life missing her mum. So similar to Harry, in that regard.
Barty’s next words, however, take him by surprise. “I bet you didn’t know that Pandora made you Luna’s godfather.”
“What?” Regulus’ voice breaks, something cracks in his chest. “But I was presumed dead when…” he trails off, has to close his eyes to try and centre himself.
“It was never officially recognised.” Barty carries on speaking, almost as if he hadn’t heard Regulus, “But Pandora always used to say-“
“The things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end.” They speak in unison, their voices merging into one, echoing throughout the room, the sound haunting. When they finish speaking, silence falls between them, the two of them stare at one another.
Eventually, Barty speaks. “She must have known that you were still out there, maybe it was misplaced hope, maybe it was a feeling. I don’t care. Either way, now I know the truth. That you abandoned us. All that time I mourned you,” he spits at Regulus’ feet again, “and you were here, playing pretend families with Potter’s spawn.”
Regulus ignores him. Even if he tried to explain what had happened to him, he doesn’t think Barty would care, he is too far gone. But Pandora…had she known? That Regulus would come back? Did she know something was going to happen to her and wanted him to care for Luna upon his return? If so, this is another way that he has failed his friends, another burden he will have to carry.
The weight of it presses harder now. All this time, Barty had watched his friends die one by one until he’d become…this hateful, angry thing. Just like that, Regulus’ anger drains away. He cannot forgive Barty, for what he set in motion tonight, cannot forgive him for what he done to Harry but he pities him. Hatred would be easier, cleaner, a more decisive end to their journey but he cannot find it in himself to feel that way towards Barty. He has done unforgivable things, there is no doubt about that and Regulus will not make excuses for him but where there should be anger, there is only pity. Not for what was done but for who he could have been, had things been different.
“You failed her, you failed Evan,” Barty lifts his chin, anger and hatred burning in his eyes, “you failed me.”
“Enough of this nonsense.” Minister Fudge snaps from behind him. Regulus turns, almost forgetting that they were there, beside him stands Dumbledore and Snape, guarding the door. Harry stands only a hairsbreadth from his back. “Mr Black, is there a point to this? Otherwise we will have to ask you to leave.”
Frustration courses through Regulus, irritation too, directed at the Minister at his back. He narrows his eyes as he turns back to Barty. “You’re still in league with the Dark Lord.”
It’s not a question, more so a statement but one that Barty is all too happy to prove. He twists his arm in his restraints, so that his bare forearm is visible. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
The Dark Mark on his arm is no longer motionless, it moves, just like it had all those years ago. Regulus stares in horror, he hadn’t thought to check his arm, had been too distracted by the events of tonight. If Barty’s mark is operational once more does that mean…
Dumbledore steps between them, stares at Regulus with beseeching eyes, a silent request there.
Harry beats him to it, lifting the tattered remains of his jersey to reveal the jagged slash from which his blood had been used to revive the Dark Lord.
A slow, deliberate smile tugs at the corner of Barty’s mouth at the sight, eyes full of glee and barely concealed satisfaction.
Slowly, Regulus lifts his sleeve, the distorted faint mark barely visible in the dim candlelight. It does not move.
Barty’s eyes fix on Regulus’ arm, the smile dropping from his face. “Impossible.” he hisses through clenched teeth. He fights against his restraints, veins standing out stark against his forehead, “How did you…? He will punish you for that!”
“It is punishment enough, seeing what has happened to you.”
Just for a moment, a little bit of the old Barty he once knew seems to flash in the man’s eyes. “Was it worth it? Leaving us behind? Did you get everything you wanted this time, the family you always wanted?”
Regulus thinks of Harry, of Sirius, of Remus. But then his mind drifts to James, to Lily, to all their friends that they lost, to his suspicion that grows larger and louder by the day.
Regulus presses his lips together and shakes his head. “No, but just like last time, I got very close.”
The man in front of him is disappearing again, eyes clouding over, presence slipping away like smoke but his response will stick with Regulus for a long time.
“People like us don’t get to experience happy endings, Regulus. Our punishment is that we get glimpses of what we could have and then it’s gone. We suffer because we hope and we hope because we’re fools. That’s the cycle. That’s the trap. And you? You’re standing right on the edge of it, about to lose everything again.“ Barty laughs, a hopeless, tired sound, his gaze fixed on Regulus’ arm. “Soon, there will be nothing left.”
As the Ministry officials step forward, ready to take him away, Barty’s hand shoots out, grasps Regulus’ wrist. Several wands raise but Regulus lifts his free hand, orders them to stand down.
“Reg.” there is clarity there, in Barty’s eyes, likely a deception, a snare meant to pull Regulus in but he doesn’t move, he lacks the will to retreat. “Please, anything but the Dementor’s kiss.”
Regulus sends him a blank look. “You’re the reason he’s back, Barty. You’re the reason Harry was injured tonight. It’s what you deserve.”
Barty presses his forehead to their joined hands. “Please,” he whispers, “if they give me the kiss I’ll never see Evan again. I’m begging you, please. Anything but that. You owe me, Reg. You left me, this is what you turned me into, please.”
Regulus freezes at the mention of Evan. He does not pull his hand away. He looks over his shoulder at the officials who stand behind him, watching their every move. Regulus understands him in this moment better than he’s ever understood him before. Not as a follower of the Dark Lord, not even as a friend but as something more fragile, something human.
When Regulus was dead, he was nothing. There was no peace, no reunion, no flicker of light beyond the veil. He was here one moment and gone the next. He doesn’t know if it was the Horcrux or the Inferni but whatever it was, it had stolen his soul. It hadn’t let him pass over.
He looks at Barty now, and he sees the edge that he still stands on and yet, he cannot bring himself to push. Evan would not want this for him. Regulus cannot send him into that same abyss. Not willingly, not again.
Regulus lives for the hope that he might one day be reunited with James. He likes to hope that the same will happen with Barty and Evan. That Barty will find peace in his death, the same peace he could not find in this lifetime.
“Please.” He repeats Barty’s earlier sentiment, eyes still fixed on Fudge. “Anything but the kiss. Please.”
Fudge shakes his head, eyes hard. “It will be the kiss.”
“Regulus, no.” Barty’s openly sobbing now, the cloudiness in his gaze is gone, replaced by a frightened lucidity. “Please, I won’t see Evan, he’s been waiting for me! Please no, not the kiss!”
As he’s pulled away he struggles, fights harder than he’s ever fought in his life. It does no good, he is dragged away, kicking and screaming, towards the fate he cannot escape.
“Albus,” Regulus says, his voice breaking. “Please.”
Dumbledore shakes his head sadly. “There is nothing we can do for him.”
It seems there is nothing that can be done about any of this.
We are all doomed, Regulus thinks to himself, as he watches the door close behind Barty, hears his screams fade into nothingness. Soon, so will he. I don’t think any of us will survive what comes next.
bestmistake on Chapter 1 Fri 18 Jul 2025 10:27AM UTC
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slythreign on Chapter 1 Mon 21 Jul 2025 02:53PM UTC
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HY4CINTH on Chapter 2 Sat 26 Jul 2025 09:02PM UTC
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slythreign on Chapter 2 Mon 28 Jul 2025 08:50PM UTC
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bestmistake on Chapter 2 Sat 26 Jul 2025 11:28PM UTC
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slythreign on Chapter 2 Mon 28 Jul 2025 09:01PM UTC
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slythreign on Chapter 2 Mon 25 Aug 2025 11:07PM UTC
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