Something Worth Staying For

by Skyeholloway

Summary:

“History likes its villains simple and its traitors forgotten.”

 

Harry Potter wasn’t meant to find anyone alive in that lake. He wasn’t meant to drag Regulus Black, former Death Eater, long presumed dead, back to the surface. But Regulus is alive, and nothing about the war is simple anymore. And somewhere in the ruins of everything they were supposed to be, they start to save each other.

Notes:

The story is basically finished; I am just making the final tweaks and will post about three times a week.

I own nothing, but that's okay; it means less property taxes.

 

Thanks for reading, and please leave reviews!

Chapter 1: Prologue

As much as the great stories would have you believe, the villain of any tale is not a grotesque figure in black, training to be an evil mastermind since childhood, devoid of emotion, backstory, or anything that made them human.

Villains, you see, are not so different from us. The same hopes and dreams drive them. The same pain and loss haunt them. The same choices face them.

Indeed—how many villains truly see themselves as such? The answer is none. We all believe we are right. We may not be good, but we are certainly justified.

That is the most terrifying philosophy of all: that a person can commit atrocities with a clear conscience. That as the sky falls and the world screams into silence, the one behind it all can stand among the ruins... and smile.

None of us are the villains of our own story.

And perhaps that is when a villain is most dangerous.

Chapter 2: The Lake

Notes:

Since the prologue was so short, I'm posting the first chapter as well today.

Dumbledore was shaking, hunched over the stone basin like he might vomit, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

“I need... water,” he rasped.

Harry’s heart was pounding. He could barely hear over the blood rushing in his ears, over the echo of Dumbledore’s scream from minutes before. He grabbed the goblet and ran to the lake's edge, cursing the boat that wouldn’t carry him back across. No other choice.

He plunged a goblet into the water, and the lake rippled.

The goblet came up empty.

Another try. Empty again.

Harry muttered, “Come on,” and leaned forward--

That was when the hand grabbed his wrist.

The chill was immediate, numbing. Another hand caught his shoulder. Then his leg. Then too many hands to count, dragging him down into the water like gravity had tripled in an instant.

He gasped, and the lake filled his mouth. Cold, choking, all-encompassing.

Panic surged, but somewhere inside him, beneath the fear, fury, and instinct to fight, there was something else.

Save.

He kicked and struggled, wandless, disoriented. Shapes moved in the murk. Dozens of them. Hollow-eyed, pale-skinned, not alive and yet not entirely dead either. Inferi.

Then… something different.

A shape, still and unresisting, drifting beside him like a sleeping ghost. It wasn’t attacking. Wasn’t grabbing at him.

He collided with it as he twisted in the water, and something about the face, even distorted by motion and bubbles, made Harry freeze.

It looked like Sirius.

No, not Sirius. Not quite. Too young. Too... clean.

Still breathing water, Harry did the stupidest thing he could have done in that moment: he reached for the body and pulled.

The Inferi closed in. Fingers like broken twigs reached for his throat. One scraped along his jaw, another clutched his ankle. Harry thrashed upward with everything he had, the weight of the limp figure in his arms making each kick slower, heavier.

The light changed above.

Suddenly, heat. A wall of fire erupted across the surface of the lake, searing golden light that sent the Inferi shrieking and retreating into the depths.

Dumbledore.

Harry broke the surface with a gasp, coughing and heaving the soaked stranger into the boat first before scrambling in after.

His lungs ached. His eyes stung. The boat rocked hard under their weight but stayed afloat.

The body didn’t move.

Harry leaned over, pressing his ear to the man's chest. No breath. No heartbeat.

He swore and dropped to his knees, locking his hands and beginning compressions. “Come on, come on,” he muttered. “Don’t make me do this for nothing—just—fucking breathe already—”

He tilted his head back and gave a breath. Another round of compressions. Another breath.

Then, a choking sound, a wet cough that shook the stranger’s whole body. He rolled onto his side and vomited lake water into the bottom of the boat.

Harry froze, his hands still hovering mid-air. The man, boy really, was breathing.

And blinking.

His eyes were sharp and gray. Familiar in a way that twisted something in Harry’s chest.

Then the boy’s gaze found him. Took him in, slowly.

He smiled faintly.

“Nice of you to come, James,” he croaked.

Harry blinked. “...What?”

The boy frowned. Then blinked again.

“No,” he whispered, the color draining from his face. “You’re not James. You’re just—bloody hell, you look like him.”

Harry stared.

Who the fuck was this?

Chapter 3: The Tower

Notes:

I couldn't wait til next week to post so y'all get this chapter early.

Hope you like it!

Harry’s breath caught in his throat as the cold crept under the cloak, still soaked from the lake. His shirt clung to his chest. Beside him, the boy, Regulus , sat still, wrapped in a conjured blanket Harry had transfigured from his own jumper. Neither of them spoke.

 

Above, the tower rumbled with spellfire and shouts.

 

Then: footsteps. Voices. Panic.

 

Harry tightened his grip on his wand. He dared a glance up the winding staircase where the shadows stretched long.

 

And then he saw them.

 

Draco.

 

Snape.

 

Bellatrix.

 

Others he didn’t recognize.

 

Dumbledore stood hunched against the railing. Draco’s hand trembled as he pointed his wand directly at him.

 

“I’ve got to do this,” Draco said, voice cracking. “They said they’d kill her. My mother. I don’t have a choice.”

 

Harry's stomach twisted.

 

Draco raised his wand.

 

Dumbledore didn’t lift his own. Instead, he gave a slight nod. “I understand.”

 

There was a sharp flick -- and Dumbledore’s wand flew from his hand, clattering to the floor behind him.

 

Before the others arrived, Harry barely had time to register what had just happened. Draco had disarmed Dumbledore-- the greatest wizard ever to live. 

 

Snape pushed through the crowd.

 

Dumbledore looked at him.

 

“Severus… please.”

 

And then, green light. 

 

Dumbledore’s body fell.

 

Harry didn’t move. Couldn’t. His wand felt heavy and useless in his hand.

 

The Death Eaters fled into the night, laughter trailing behind them like smoke.

 

He stayed hidden.

 

It went against everything he was supposed to be: brave, noble, Gryffindor.

 

But something in him whispered: Not yet. Stay alive.

 

The whisper had always been there. Soft and silvery, buried under years of pushing too hard and jumping too fast. He remembered it now, that voice from the Sorting Hat, the one he’d shut down before it could finish its sentence.

 

You’d do well in Slytherin, you know. You could be great--

 

Not Slytherin, not Slytherin--

 

But right now, greatness meant nothing if he was dead.

 

When the tower was silent again, Harry peeled back the cloak. The stone floor stretched out like an open grave.

 

Regulus looked like he hadn’t breathed once the entire time.

 

“You knew him?” Harry asked, voice rough.

 

“Snape?” Regulus replied. “Yeah.”

 

Harry waited. Regulus didn’t elaborate.

 

“You think I should’ve stopped him?”

 

“No,” Regulus said. “You wouldn’t have made it out alive.”

 

Harry exhaled sharply. “So that’s it? We just watch?”

 

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He stared at the place where Dumbledore had fallen. “This wasn’t like Sev.”

 

Harry tensed. “He killed Dumbledore.”

 

“I know,” Regulus said. “And it still wasn’t like him.”

 

“What, so you think he had a reason?”

 

“I think he always has a reason,” Regulus said quietly. “The question is whether anyone else will live long enough to understand it.”

 

Harry blinked at him, unsure whether that was wisdom or manipulation.

 

But then he thought of Draco.

 

The bathroom. Sectumsempra. Blood everywhere, Draco crumpled on the tiles, sobbing. That was the first time Harry realized Draco wasn’t built for this war.

 

And now here he was, disarming Dumbledore, not killing him. Barely holding himself together. 

 

Saying he didn’t have a choice.

 

Harry believed him.

 

He remembered what it was like to feel cornered. To be a weapon that other people were holding.

 

One thing was suddenly, painfully clear: saying what really happened tonight would cause a storm he couldn’t control. He was running out of people to trust. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to give everything away to be good.

 

“I’ll tell them it wasn’t Draco,” Harry said. “That’s all I’m saying for now.”

 

Regulus nodded once. “Smart.”

 

It didn’t feel smart. It felt like a betrayal of something he’d clung to for years.

 

But maybe Slytherin self-preservation wasn’t cowardice. Perhaps it was survival.

 

Perhaps it was time Harry stopped dying for people and started living for something.

Notes:

Just an FYI

Regulus birthday - June 25, 1961
Regulus Deathday - June 28, 1979
Regulus Rebirth - June 30, 1997
Harry birthday - July 31, 1980

So Harry is 16 and Regulus is 18
Go math!

Chapter 4: Orders

The hospital wing was buzzing -- too many voices, too much heat, too much everything. Dumbledore's absence hung over the room like a silence no one dared name yet.

 

Bill Weasley lay unconscious on the nearest cot, his face clawed beyond recognition. Fleur sat beside him, dabbing his brow with trembling hands, whispering in French. Molly hovered near, her face blotchy with tears.

 

“My poor boy,” she said, brushing the curls from his temple. “Who--who’s going to love him now?”

 

“I love 'im,” Fleur said fiercely. “Not for 'is face. Not for 'is name. For 'im. And I will not stop because of a scar.”

 

Molly blinked in stunned silence.

 

Tonks turned, eyes sharp. “Funny. I seem to remember saying the same thing.”

 

Remus, halfway to the exit, froze.

 

“Don’t,” he said under his breath.

 

Tonks didn’t stop. “Because I also don’t care that you’re a werewolf, Remus John Lupin. And if you’d stop hiding behind your noble misery for five goddamn minutes, you’d see that I love you!”

 

That shut the room up.

 

For about ten seconds.

 

Then all hell broke loose.

 

“--what do we do now--”

 “Where’s McGonagall--”

 “Did anyone see who--”

 “Harry, what happened? Where is Dumbledore ?”

 

Harry closed his eyes. Then opened them.

 

“He’s dead,” he said.

 

The room froze.

 

That one word collapsed the last of their hope like a lung punctured mid-breath.

 

More shouting followed. Desperate, accusatory. Questions fired like spells.

 

“Who killed him?”

“Did you see?”

“Was it Malfoy--was it--was it Snape ?”

 

“SHUT UP!” Harry roared.

 

And they did.

 

“I’m not going to stand here and explain it over screaming,” he said. “So listen.”

 

He took a breath. His voice didn’t shake.

 

“I saw Malfoy. He was supposed to do it, but he chickened out.”

 

That earned a few gasps.

 

“I saw others -- Death Eaters. Faces I didn’t recognize. I don’t-- know who cast the curse.” He let that sit. “I was hiding and I couldn’t stop it. I’m sorry.”

 

They stared at him like he’d grown another head.

 

Then McGonagall stepped forward.

 

“Mr. Potter--”

 

“Professor,” he interrupted. “I need you to reinforce the wards. As the new Headmistress, you have the capability. Voldemort didn’t take the school tonight, but with Dumbledore gone, there’s nothing stopping him from trying again. And you need to get the Muggleborn staff out before that happens.”

 

She blinked. “Mr. Potter, I hardly think now is--”

 

“Please,” he said. “Do it. Don’t wait.”

 

Her mouth tightened. She nodded once.

 

“Mrs. Weasley,” Harry turned. “The Fidelius Charm on Grimmauld is broken now with Dumbledore’s death. We need somewhere safe. Reinforce the Burrow’s protections. Get Bill once he’s feeling up to it and Fleur to help.”

 

Molly looked stunned, but nodded slowly.

 

“Fred, George -- check the Marauder entrances. Block them all, no exceptions. Get Professor Flitwick’s help if needed.”

 

“On it,” Fred said grimly.

 

“Kingsley,” Harry said, locking eyes with him. “Start an official investigation. I know it won’t go anywhere, but we need appearances. Make them ask questions.”

 

Kingsley gave a tight nod. “Consider it done.”

 

Harry turned last to Arthur, Hermione, and Ron.

 

“The rest of you -- keep the students away from Dumbledore’s body until the Aurors arrive.”

 

Ron flinched like he’d been slapped.

 

Hermione reached for his hand, but Harry pulled away. 

 

“I’m fine.”

 

He wasn’t.

 

But no one pushed him. No one questioned anything he’d just said.

 

And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

 

Silence returned, sharp and brittle.

 

Then the whisper came again, this time from deeper in the room.

 

“Who is that?”

 

All eyes turned to the stranger slouched on the far cot. Regulus didn’t flinch, didn’t move, didn’t explain. He just looked at the floor like it had insulted him.

 

“He was with me,” Harry said simply. “He helped.”

 

“But who--” someone started again.

 

“Not your business right now,” Harry cut in, voice colder than before. “He’s not a threat.”

 

He said it like a fact. Like an order. Like someone who expected not to be argued with anymore.

 

They obeyed.

 

And that was terrifying, too.

 

~*~

 

The hospital wing emptied in cautious waves, people checking over their shoulders as they went. A few Order members lingered in corners. Madam Pomfrey summoned house elves to scrub the blood from the floor tiles.

 

Harry waited.

 

Then turned to Tonks and Remus.

 

“I need a word.”

 

The three of them moved toward the far end of the room. Regulus followed without being asked. Harry cast a quick privacy charm around them, muting the world outside.

 

Remus studied the young man with narrowed eyes. “You going to tell us who he is?”

 

Harry hesitated for a moment.

 

Then: “Regulus Black.”

 

Tonks raised her brows. “Seriously?”

 

Regulus rolled his eyes. “No, Siriusly. ” Then, deadpan: “Yes.”

 

Remus stared, breath caught in his throat. “That’s impossible.”

 

“I’ve been dead for twenty years,” Regulus said flatly. “I’m aware it doesn’t make sense.”

 

“Do you know how ?” Tonks asked, leaning in.

 

Harry shook his head. “No. I just… I found him. He’s alive. I don’t have more than that.”

 

Remus crossed his arms. “He was a Death Eater.”

 

Regulus didn’t deny it. “And you were a prefect. People change.”

 

Remus frowned, but looked away.

 

Tonks blinked a few times, still absorbing. “So I’ve got another cousin. Great. The family tree just keeps getting weirder.”

 

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t bring him back to make things complicated. I just… didn’t think he should die again.”

 

Regulus didn’t say thank you. He didn’t say anything.

 

Tonks broke the silence. “So, what now?”

 

Harry sighed. “We figure that out tomorrow. For tonight, he stays under the radar. No names. No questions. Agreed?”

 

Remus still looked uneasy, but he gave a single nod.

 

“Fine,” he said. “But if we’re keeping a former Death Eater in the castle, you’d better pray you’re right about him.”

 

Harry didn’t say anything.

 

He was praying already.

Chapter 5: The Room of Requirement

Notes:

I'm going on vacation, so I won't be able to post the next chapter until I get back on the 12th. Sorry and I hope you enjoy this one in the meantime.

The Room of Requirement looked different now. Not like a battlefield. Not like a training ground.

 

Tonight, it looked like safety.

 

There were two mismatched armchairs. A cot. A fire crackling softly in the grate. A stack of blankets folded neatly on a trunk. Someone, maybe the castle itself, knew Harry didn’t have the energy for more.

 

He led Regulus inside and let the door seal behind them.

 

Regulus didn’t speak. He walked the perimeter of the room like he didn’t trust it, like he expected it to vanish beneath his feet.

 

Harry sat on the edge of the cot and rubbed his face with both hands.

 

“I figured you wouldn’t want to stay in the hospital wing,” he said.

 

“I figured I wouldn’t be welcome,” Regulus replied.

 

Harry glanced up. “You’re not wrong.”

 

Regulus turned to face him, one brow raised. “You’re not afraid I’ll kill you in your sleep?”

 

Harry snorted. “No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because if you were going to kill me, you’d have let me drown.”

 

Regulus blinked.

 

He didn’t smile, but he sat down.

 

~*~

 

They sat in silence for a while, firelight flickering across tired skin.

 

Harry broke it first.

 

“So. Regulus Black.”

 

Regulus looked at him, guarded.

 

“Sirius’s brother. Death Eater. Presumed dead. And now… here.”

 

“That about sums it up.”

 

Harry studied him.

 

“You don’t look forty.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Right. You were… frozen? Dead? What?”

 

Regulus shook his head. “I don’t remember. Not really. Just pain, then nothing. And then you.”

 

Harry didn’t like the way that sentence landed. He moved on.

 

“You were a Death Eater.”

 

Regulus met his eyes. “So was your professor.”

 

“Yeah. I’m aware.”

 

They watched each other a moment longer.

 

“Why did you change sides?” Harry finally asked.

 

Regulus looked into the fire. “Because it stopped being about power and started being about pain. Once you see the difference, you can’t unsee it.”

 

Harry sat with that.

 

Then: “And you tried to destroy the locket.”

 

Regulus nodded slowly. “Didn’t work.”

 

Harry reached into his jacket and pulled out the fake Horcrux. The one with the note.

 

Regulus’s face twitched.

 

“I wrote that.”

 

“I figured,” Harry said.

 

He set it on the table between them like an offering.

 

~*~

 

For a while, neither of them said anything. The fire popped once. Somewhere in the castle, a door closed far away.

 

Then Regulus asked, “Why did you bring me back?”

 

Harry looked over. “Because I don’t leave people behind.”

 

“You didn’t even know who I was.”

 

“I didn’t have to.”

 

Regulus went still.

 

“I’ve killed for less,” he said quietly.

 

Harry nodded. “Me too.”

 

Another silence, this one heavier.

 

Then Regulus laughed, low and bitter. “We’re going to be a fucking mess, aren’t we?”

 

Harry leaned back against the wall.

 

“Already are.”

Chapter 6: You’re Not Thinking Straight

Notes:

I'm baaaack!

Ron was the first to speak.

 

Of course he was.

 

“What the hell , Harry?”

 

Harry didn’t look up from where he was stoking the fire. Regulus was asleep--or pretending to be--on the cot behind him, face half-shadowed in the low firelight. The Room had sealed itself quiet and dim, like it could feel the way the night had scraped them all raw.

 

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” Harry said, low.

 

“Right,” Ron snapped. “You just forgot to mention that the dead Death Eater you dragged out of the lake was Regulus bloody Black?”

 

Hermione didn’t interrupt him. That was the worst part. She stood near the door, arms crossed tightly over her chest, lips pressed into a thin line.

 

Harry sat back on his heels. “I didn’t know who he was. Not at first.”

 

“And when you did ?” Ron asked.

 

Harry glanced over his shoulder at the cot. Regulus hadn’t moved.

 

“When I did,” Harry said, “he was already breathing. Already helping.”

 

“That doesn’t mean we trust him!” Ron nearly shouted. “Harry, he’s a Black. He’s a Death Eater. And you’ve got him sleeping in the same room as you, like it's no big deal.”

 

“He’s not a threat,” Harry said calmly.

 

“Do you hear yourself?” Ron snapped. “This isn’t noble. This is--this is reckless .”

 

Hermione finally spoke, voice soft. “Harry… we’re not saying you were wrong to save him. But what’s your plan? Are we supposed to keep him hidden forever? What if someone finds out? What if he’s still--”

 

“He’s not,” Harry said, sharper than he meant to.

 

“ How do you know? ” Hermione asked, eyes glinting. “You don’t even know him, Harry.”

 

“No,” he said. “But I’ve seen what he did. That locket--he tried to destroy it. Before anyone else even knew what a Horcrux was .”

 

They were both quiet.

 

Harry stood and stepped away from the fire, facing them now. “He tried to stop Voldemort. He almost died doing it. And then he stayed dead for twenty years, and no one noticed.”

 

Ron’s jaw clenched. “That doesn’t make him a hero.”

 

“I’m not asking you to call him one.”

 

“Then what are you asking?” Hermione said quietly.

 

Harry exhaled. “I’m asking you to trust me. ”

 

Hermione closed her eyes. Her voice, when it came, was tired. “You’ve been through hell, Harry. And you’ve lost… so much. I think you want to believe he’s different because if he’s not--if Regulus Black isn’t different--then what’s the point of any of this?”

 

Harry swallowed.

 

He didn’t have a reply for that.

 

Ron looked between them, then muttered, “This is going to blow up in our faces.”

 

“Maybe,” Harry said. “But so will everything else.”

 

~*~

 

The door clicked shut behind Ron and Hermione. The quiet that followed wasn’t peaceful -- it was the kind that settled into your bones and made you feel like you’d just lost something you hadn’t realized you were still clinging to.

 

Harry sat back down by the fire and stared into it.

 

Behind him, the cot creaked softly.

 

He didn’t turn around.

 

“I wasn’t asleep,” Regulus said.

 

Harry exhaled, rubbed his eyes. “Didn’t think you were.”

 

Regulus shifted, the blankets rustling. “They don’t trust me.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“They shouldn’t.”

 

Harry looked at him then. Regulus sat up slowly, eyes shadowed, hair a mess, pale as ever. He didn’t look like a Death Eater. He looked like a ghost still trying to figure out if he belonged here.

 

“Do you trust you?” Harry asked.

 

Regulus shrugged. “Depends on the day.”

 

Harry snorted. “That’s honest.”

 

Regulus looked at the fire. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t expect you to lie for me.”

 

“I didn’t.”

 

Regulus’s brow rose.

 

“I told them the truth,” Harry said. “That I don’t know what you are. Just that you haven’t given me a reason to treat you like the enemy.”

 

Regulus studied him. “That might not be enough.”

 

“It’ll have to be.”

 

A long silence stretched between them.

 

Regulus spoke first this time. “You shouldn’t put this much on your friends.”

 

Harry glanced sideways.

 

“They’re not soldiers,” Regulus said. “Not really. They’re children playing war because someone told them they had to.”

 

“So were you,” Harry said.

 

Regulus smiled thinly. “Exactly.”

 

Harry stood, grabbed one of the spare blankets, and tossed it onto the cot.

 

“Get some sleep,” he said. “We’re going to Grimmauld Place tomorrow.”

 

Regulus blinked. “That still exists?”

 

“Yeah. And I’m guessing it’s going to hate having you back.”

 

Regulus gave a faint huff of amusement. “It always did.”

Chapter 7: Old Walls, New Names

Notes:

Since I missed a week, you get a double update today!!

The Burrow smelled like cinnamon and smoke. Someone had put a kettle on, though no one seemed to remember doing it.

 

Molly Weasley was pacing.

 

“You should all stay here,” she said for the fifth time in as many minutes. “It’s not safe out there, not now. I know it’s cramped, but we’ll make do. You can all double up, and I’ll put the twins on rotation--”

 

“We’re not children,” Ron muttered.

 

Molly turned, lips pinched. “You’re my child , and that doesn’t stop just because You-Know-Who’s making headlines again.”

 

Harry didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy.

 

Fleur sat beside Bill, who still hadn’t fully regained consciousness. She was brushing hair back from his scarred forehead, whispering something only he could hear.

 

Across the room, Hermione was murmuring to Kingsley, who was drafting something official-looking on a spare bit of parchment.

 

And beside Harry--awkward, quiet, stiff as the table leg--stood Regulus Black.

 

Molly’s eyes flicked to him and then quickly away.

 

“I understand your concern, Molly,” Harry said carefully. “But Grimmauld Place is still protected.”

 

“No one knows who the Secret Keeper is anymore,” she snapped. “Dumbledore took it to his grave. That place could be compromised .”

 

“Not if the house recognizes its heir,” Regulus said, finally speaking. His voice was smooth, matter-of-fact. “Sirius never had the chance to claim lordship of the Black estate. He was disowned. And a fugitive. But I…” He looked around. “I was the last heir acknowledged by the family magic. I can take control of the wards.”

 

Molly blinked. “That’s not possible. You--”

 

“Died,” Regulus finished. “Yes. I get that a lot.”

 

Arthur stepped forward gently. “Are you saying you can... reclaim the house ?”

 

Regulus nodded. “I can make it safe again. Safer than the Fidelius, actually--Black wards are blood-forged. It’ll respond to me more than any spell would.”

 

Harry spoke before Molly could protest again. “We’ll still need Bill to check them over once he’s well. But if Regulus is right, Grimmauld is our best shot.”

 

Fleur looked up, her voice quiet but certain. “He is right. I felt it, even when I passed through the threshold last time. The house was waiting. For someone.”

 

Molly looked like she wanted to cry--or scream.

 

But after a long pause, she just said, “Fine. But you let me put some food together first.”

 

~*~

 

The door opened with a groan, like it hadn’t been touched in months. Maybe it hadn’t.

 

Regulus stepped in first.

 

The house shuddered . Not violently--more like a cat stretching after a long nap. The dust in the air stirred. Something ancient and watchful settled into place.

 

Regulus tilted his head.

 

“Welcome home,” the house whispered through the walls.

 

Harry didn’t hear it. But Regulus did.

 

He stepped forward, and for the first time since he came back from the dead, he looked like he belonged somewhere.

 

~*~

 

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place had never been warm, even with a fire lit. It felt like a room built to survive arguments, not family dinners.

 

Hermione stood at the long stone sink, pouring hot water into mugs. She had memorized the kitchen by now--the cupboards that stuck, the crack in the floor that tripped you up if you weren’t careful. She didn’t turn when Regulus walked in.

 

“Can’t sleep either?” she asked, polite but cool.

 

Regulus raised a brow as he took a seat at the table. “Does anyone here actually sleep?”

 

Hermione handed him a mug. No milk, no sugar. He didn’t ask for either.

 

“I don’t trust you,” she said finally.

 

Regulus sipped the tea. “Noted.”

 

“I trust Harry,” she added. “But not you.”

 

He tilted his head. “Then why are you giving me tea?”

 

“Because you’re alive,” Hermione said. “And I don’t believe in treating people like they aren’t, no matter who they used to be.”

 

That, surprisingly, made Regulus smile.

 

“I read about you,” she went on. “Your name is barely mentioned. Just a footnote. A warning.”

 

Regulus set the mug down. “History likes its villains simple and its traitors forgotten.”

 

Hermione met his eyes, sharp and steady. “Did you really try to destroy the locket?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

Regulus leaned back in the chair, folding his arms. “Because I realized what I’d helped create. And I didn’t want to die serving a man who couldn’t love, couldn’t lead, and didn’t care if we all burned, as long as he was the one standing on the ashes.”

 

Hermione didn’t speak for a while.

 

“You sound like you’ve thought about this a lot,” she said finally.

 

“I had twenty years,” Regulus said. “Even if I wasn’t exactly conscious, it’s hard to come back from the dead and not do some mental housekeeping.”

 

Hermione gave a short, surprised laugh. “That’s fair.”

 

Regulus looked at her. “You’re the clever one.”

 

Hermione blinked. “Excuse me?”

 

“In the trio,” he said. “You’re the one who actually knows how to think. Not just react. You read the fine print.”

 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Is that supposed to flatter me?”

 

“It’s supposed to say,” Regulus replied, “that you and I probably read the same books. Just not in the same order.”

 

She held his gaze. Then finally nodded, once.

 

“I’ll be watching you.”

 

Regulus lifted his mug in a mock-toast. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Chapter 8: Pieces of Him

The locket looked duller than it had in the cave. Harry had left it on the table like it might bite him if he touched it again.

 

Hermione reached for it first. “This isn’t Slytherin’s locket,” she said quietly, turning it over. “It’s a fake.”

 

“There’s a note inside,” Harry said. “Dumbledore never read it. I only opened it after.”

 

He didn’t finish the sentence.

 

Ron leaned in. “Let’s see it, then.”

 

Hermione slipped a folded piece of parchment from inside. It was yellowed, the ink faded but legible.

 

She read it aloud.

To the Dark Lord,
I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know it was I who discovered your secret.
I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.
I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.
-- R.A.B.

 

A long silence followed.

 

Ron let out a slow breath. “R.A.B. Regulus Arcturus Black.”

 

Regulus, standing near the wall, didn’t respond.

 

Hermione turned toward him. “That’s you.”

 

“Yes,” he said.

 

“You wrote this,” she pressed. “You knew. ”

 

“I figured it out,” Regulus said. “Not all of it. Just enough. The locket was… wrong. The Dark Lord wouldn’t hide something that well unless it mattered.”

 

“You tried to destroy it?” Harry asked.

 

Regulus’s jaw tightened. “I told Kreacher to take it and destroy it. However he could. I didn’t know… that it wouldn’t be that easy.”

 

Hermione stared at him. “It came back.”

 

Regulus nodded. “Eventually.”

 

Harry sat back in his chair, mind racing. “Dumbledore knew what it was. But he never told me about the rest. He barely told me anything. ”

 

“Typical,” Regulus muttered.

 

Ron looked confused. “So wait--how many of these things are there?”

 

“We don’t know,” Hermione said, fingers tapping the table. “But if You-Know-Who split his soul… he wouldn’t stop at one.”

 

“No,” Regulus agreed. “He never did anything halfway.”

 

Hermione stared down at the parchment. “He wanted to make himself immortal.”

 

“He wanted to make himself unreachable, ” Harry said. “Deathless.”

 

He glanced at Regulus.

 

“You said the locket was real. That’s one. The diary--Tom Riddle’s--that’s another. Dumbledore destroyed something too. A ring.”

 

Hermione nodded. “Three.”

 

“And he’s still alive.”

 

“Which means…” Ron trailed off.

 

“There’s more,” Hermione finished.

 

~*~

 

Regulus stood in the center of the room, back straight, eyes hard.

 

“Kreacher,” he said, low but firm. “Come.”

 

There was a pop like the crack of a whip.

 

Kreacher appeared in the corner of the room, hunched and blinking.

 

And then he saw him.

 

The house-elf froze. His eyes widened so far they looked painful. His breath hitched.

 

Regulus didn’t move.

 

“Kreacher,” he said again, more gently.

 

The elf dropped to his knees with a keening wail.

 

“Master Regulus,” Kreacher sobbed. “Master Regulus is home --you came back--you came--Kreacher failed--Kreacher--”

 

“You didn’t fail,” Regulus said. He was pale. He looked like he’d been punched in the ribs. “You did exactly what I told you.”

 

“But the locket came back ,” Kreacher wailed. “It would not break . Kreacher tried--he tried everything--and it would not--”

 

“I know,” Regulus said. “I didn’t give you what you needed. That’s on me.”

 

Harry stepped forward. “You can still help.”

 

Kreacher blinked up at him, sniffling. “Master Harry?”

 

“We know what it is now,” Harry said. “And how to destroy it.”

 

Hermione laid the locket on the hearthstone like it was something toxic. Everyone took a step back.

 

Harry crouched beside Kreacher.

 

“There’s a fang still down there, isn’t there?” he asked. “In the Chamber of Secrets.”

 

Kreacher nodded, trembling. “Yes, Master Harry. Many. Sharp as ever.”

 

“Can you get one?”

 

Another nod. “Yes, yes--Kreacher can.”

 

“Then go,” Harry said. “Bring back something sharp enough to finish this.”

 

With another crack, Kreacher vanished.

 

~*~

 

It took less than half an hour.

 

When Kreacher returned, he held the fang in both hands like it was something sacred.

 

“This,” he whispered, “is for Master Regulus.”

 

Regulus flinched but said nothing.

 

Harry stepped forward.

 

“No,” Regulus said quietly. “Let me.”

 

He took the fang in both hands and stared down at the locket.

 

“I died for this,” he murmured. “Let’s see if it was worth it.”

 

He stabbed it.

 

The scream that erupted wasn’t human. It shattered a nearby glass. The locket writhed, pulsing with black light, shaking on the floor like it was alive.

 

Ron backed up instinctively. Hermione covered her ears.

 

The air in the room twisted, heavy and sharp.

 

Harry stepped toward Regulus, but Regulus didn’t move. He drove the fang in deeper.

 

The locket split open with a jagged crack--and went still.

 

Just like that, it was over.

 

Kreacher was crying again, but silent now.

 

Regulus dropped the fang and stepped back.

 

Harry met his eyes. “One down.”

 

Regulus didn’t say anything.

 

But he looked like, for the first time in twenty years, he could breathe.

 

~*~

 

Ron found Harry in the hallway outside the drawing room, arms folded across his chest like he was holding himself together by sheer muscle.

 

“He’s not sleeping,” Ron said.

 

Harry didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the door.

 

“I didn’t expect him to,” he said eventually.

 

Hermione joined them, barefoot, a jumper thrown over her pajamas. She looked exhausted but alert, as always.

 

“That was a Horcrux,” she said softly. “There’s no question now.”

 

“I know,” Harry said.

 

“I’ve read about soul-bound objects before,” she went on. “There’s nothing else it could’ve been. The magic, the reaction--it was exactly what the books described. Even the way it screamed.”

 

Ron shuddered.

 

“And he…” Hermione hesitated. “He destroyed it.”

 

Harry turned to face her. “He earned that.”

 

“I’m not saying he didn’t,” Hermione said quickly. “It’s just--it’s jarring. That’s all.”

 

Ron scoffed. “Jarring? It was mental. He just--stabbed it. Like it was nothing.”

 

“It wasn’t nothing,” Harry said.

 

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “That’s exactly my point.”

 

They stood in silence for a while, the weight of what they’d seen still pressing on their ribs.

 

Hermione spoke first. “It felt like something closed. Like a door shutting.”

 

Ron nodded. “Yeah. And now there’s six more open.”

 

Harry didn’t say anything.

 

“You trust him,” Ron said.

 

Harry looked over. “I do.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “Because he didn’t run. Because he could have--but he didn’t. Because he had a reason to die, and it wasn’t power.”

 

Hermione folded her arms. “Because he reminds you of Sirius.”

 

That one landed.

 

Harry didn’t deny it.

 

Ron sighed. “You think this’ll end with us thanking him, don’t you?”

 

“I think,” Harry said, “this ends with us still alive. And right now, he’s helping us get there.”

 

Ron ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Just… don’t forget who he was, Harry.”

 

“I’m not,” Harry said quietly. “But I’m also not forgetting who he is now.”

Chapter 9: What Comes Next

The locket was gone.

 

But the kitchen felt heavier than ever.

 

Hermione had a scroll unrolled across the table, ink blotches smudged along the edges from too much thinking and not enough sleep. Ron nursed a lukewarm tea. Harry stood near the window, watching rain streak down the glass like falling ash.

 

Regulus lingered by the doorway, as if he wasn’t sure if he was part of this or just observing it.

 

“So,” Hermione began, voice clipped, “we know of three destroyed objects.”

 

She ticked them off on her fingers. “The diary, the ring, and the locket.”

 

“Three,” Ron echoed. “Which means three left?”

 

“Probably,” Hermione said. “If he split his soul six times and kept a seventh piece in himself.”

 

“That’s what he told Slughorn,” Harry added. “Seven is… important to him.”

 

“Seven is important to Arithmancy,” Hermione said quickly. “It’s considered the most powerful magical number. It represents completeness. Unity. Protection. Creation.”

 

“And irony,” Regulus muttered. “He tried to make himself whole by tearing himself apart.”

 

Hermione blinked at him, surprised--but didn’t disagree.

 

“So,” Harry said. “Three down. Three to go.”

 

Ron leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You think they’re all from Hogwarts founders?”

 

“Probably not,” Hermione said. “He would’ve wanted that, but he may not have found all of them. He was obsessed with power, yes, but also symbolism. Things that mattered to him.”

 

“His history,” Regulus added. “His origin. Hogwarts. His first kill. His bloodlines. He romanticized everything. Even murder.”

 

That last sentence hung uncomfortably in the air.

 

“Okay,” Harry said. “So we need to look for what mattered to Voldemort--not just what’s powerful.”

 

Hermione nodded. “The diary was personal. The ring was ancestral. The locket was both.”

 

“So the next ones…” Ron started, then frowned. “What would be worse than a cursed diary?”

 

Regulus gave a dry smile. “A cursed legacy.”

 

~*~

 

The table was buried in books.

 

Some had cracked spines and pages that whispered when turned. Others were newer--Ministry reference guides and school texts, marked up by Hermione in three colors. Candles burned low in a row of floating sconces, flickering over diagrams of magical heirlooms and old family trees.

 

Hermione flipped a page with unnecessary force.

 

“This is impossible,” she muttered. “Everything we have is speculation. The only concrete link we had-- the locket --is already destroyed.”

 

Ron looked up from where he was slouched on the rug. “Well, we’re not putting it back together.”

 

Regulus, from the window seat, offered, “You’re not wrong, Weasley.”

 

Hermione rubbed at her temple. “He wouldn’t have picked anything random. Everything You-Know-Who did was calculated--”

 

“Egotistical,” Regulus said.

 

Hermione gave a tight nod. “Exactly. So he wouldn’t choose something just because it was old or magical. It would have to mean something to him. ”

 

Harry looked over from the armchair. “You said symbolism mattered.”

 

“Right,” Hermione said. “We know he used Slytherin’s locket. And the diary was tied to his time at Hogwarts.”

 

Regulus added, “The ring belonged to the Gaunts. His mother’s side.”

 

“So what about the other founders?” Harry asked. “Did he go for them too?”

 

Hermione flipped to another page. “There are rumors about Helga Hufflepuff’s cup. It was part of a private collection--one that was broken into.”

 

Harry sat forward. “When?”

 

“About a decade ago. Around the time the Dark Lord vanished.”

 

“Coincidence,” Ron said.

 

Regulus shook his head. “He doesn’t do coincidences.”

 

Hermione continued, “And there’s talk of something tied to Rowena Ravenclaw. A diadem. Lost for centuries. Supposedly cursed.”

 

Ron groaned. “How are we supposed to find a thing no one else has found in a thousand years ?”

 

Hermione didn’t answer. Her brow furrowed.

 

Regulus spoke instead. “He’d hide them somewhere important to him. Or somewhere untouchable.”

 

Hermione frowned. “Like Hogwarts?”

 

Harry’s stomach turned. “No place is sacred to him.”

 

Regulus said nothing.

 

Hours passed in half-silence: pages turning, notes scrawled, Ron half-asleep on the floor, Harry staring into the fire.

 

Hermione finally looked up, eyes bloodshot but clear.

 

“He collected things he didn’t deserve,” she said softly. “Things tied to names he’d never earn. Slytherin. Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw.”

 

“Not Gryffindor,” Ron said.

 

“No,” Hermione agreed. “He’d never go near it. Not unless he thought he could corrupt it.”

 

Harry looked down at his hands.

“He doesn’t want to be a founder,” he said quietly. “He wants to be the end of the story. The one who outlived them all.”

Chapter 10: The Last Word

The Burrow felt different now.

 

Less like home, more like a memory. Too many people had died for it to feel safe. Too many  truths had surfaced to pretend things were simple anymore.

 

Harry stood stiffly in the sitting room, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

 

Across from him, Rufus Scrimgeour adjusted his robes like he owned the room.

 

“We’re simply asking for cooperation, Potter. That’s all. A statement. A few appearances. The public needs to see the Chosen One standing with the Ministry.”

 

Harry’s silence was its own refusal.

 

Scrimgeour smiled like he expected it.

 

“I’ll remind you, of course,” he said, “that Dumbledore left you something.”

 

He withdrew a scroll of parchment and a velvet-wrapped bundle from his satchel. Hermione and Ron flanked Harry on either side. Regulus stood just behind them, arms folded, gaze flat.

 

“The last will and testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.”

 

Harry hated how formal it sounded. Like a transaction. Like closure.

 

Scrimgeour began to read.

 

“To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave the Deluminator… so that he may always find his way back to those who love him.”

 

Ron blinked. “That’s… weirdly specific.”

 

Hermione squeezed his arm.

 

“To Hermione Jean Granger, I leave a copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard … with the hope that she finds in its pages the truth behind what we often call children’s stories.”

 

Hermione accepted it without a word, eyes already scanning the spine.

 

“And to Harry James Potter…”

 

Scrimgeour unwrapped a small golden ball, no bigger than a walnut.

 

“…I leave the first Snitch he ever caught, in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts. A reminder of where he began--and what he must eventually return to.”

 

Harry stared at it.

 

He didn’t take it.

 

Scrimgeour’s voice sharpened. “Dumbledore also attempted to leave you the Sword of Godric Gryffindor. That, of course, cannot be done. The Ministry has ruled it a historical artifact, not personal property.”

 

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Of course you have.”

 

Scrimgeour ignored him. “We don’t know what Dumbledore entrusted you three with, but we do know this--he believed in you. The Ministry does too. You could do a great deal of good by working with us. You could unite people.”

 

Harry’s hands clenched at his sides.

 

“I think Dumbledore would rather have rolled over in his grave than see me become your poster boy.”

 

Ron let out a half-laugh, half-snort.

 

Scrimgeour’s mouth tightened. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Potter.”

 

“I’m not playing anything,” Harry said. “You are.”

 

The will was read. The gifts, whatever they were truly meant to be, felt more like riddles than comforts. 

 

Harry left the room with a hollow kind of anger that didn’t burn--it just echoed.

 

~*~

 

Regulus found Harry leaning against the side of the shed, watching the stars like they might give him better answers than people ever had.

 

“You should sleep,” Regulus said.

 

Harry didn’t look at him. “I should do a lot of things.”

 

Regulus came to stand beside him. Neither spoke for a while.

 

Then Harry said, “He left us riddles.”

 

Regulus tilted his head. “You sound surprised.”

 

“I’m not,” Harry muttered. “Just… tired of being handed puzzles instead of truths.”

 

Regulus folded his arms. “He trained you like a weapon. He just didn’t think you’d point yourself somewhere he didn’t choose.”

 

Harry gave a bitter laugh. “He didn’t even trust me enough to tell me what I was fighting.”

 

“He trusted you to do what he couldn’t, ” Regulus said. “That’s the problem with people like Dumbledore. They think the world turns on sacrifice, not consent.”

 

Harry looked over sharply.

 

Regulus shrugged. “Don’t let him hand you a legacy you didn’t ask for. Not even in death.”

 

“I’m not sure I can put it down.”

 

“Maybe not,” Regulus said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s yours to carry alone.”

Chapter 11: Eye of the Storm

The garden looked like it had been magicked out of another life.

 

Candles floated between tree branches, flickering gold against soft white flowers. Dozens of chairs--mismatched, hand-painted--sat in crooked rows under a bright blue sky. The smell of rosewater and fresh-cut grass drifted through the air. Fleur was radiant. Bill was upright, scarred, proud.

 

It was perfect.

 

Which made Harry uneasy.

 

The world was breaking, but here--just for today--it had stitched itself back together with ribbons and tablecloths. And love.

 

Harry stood near the back, just out of the path of the crowd, scanning the perimeter like someone expecting an ambush instead of vows.

 

Regulus stood beside him.

 

He wore simple black dress robes, elegant but severe. He hadn’t spoken much since the will. No one knew how to look at him. Some people didn’t even know who he was--just that Harry had brought someone sharp-eyed and ghost-paled into their midst, and he didn’t blink when they stared too long.

 

Molly had tried not to fuss.

 

She hadn’t quite succeeded.

 

The ceremony passed like a spell cast to hold back grief. Laughter came easier than expected. Fleur kissed Bill with enough force to remind everyone she was half-veela, and the applause that followed shook the garden like thunder.

 

The reception began at twilight. Tables filled with food and music and dancing guests.

 

Harry didn’t join them.

 

He stayed on the edge of it all, one hand resting against the pocket that now held the Snitch.

 

It hadn’t opened.

 

It hadn’t done anything.

 

But it pulsed in his hand sometimes, like it was waiting for something.

 

Regulus appeared beside him again as the sun dipped lower, casting the entire scene in gold.

 

“Beautiful,” he said.

 

Harry glanced at him. “You sound surprised.”

 

Regulus shrugged. “I never liked weddings. But I always liked Fleur.”

 

“You know her?”

 

“No,” Regulus said, smirking faintly. “But I like her.”

 

They watched the crowd together--Ron spinning Ginny in a circle, Hermione trying to teach George a waltz, Molly crying into Arthur’s shoulder.

 

Regulus tilted his head. “They don’t know how to mourn properly.”

 

Harry raised a brow. “You think this is disrespectful?”

 

“No. I think it’s brave.” He paused. “Stupid. But brave.”

 

Harry let out a dry laugh. “Everything we do is both.”

 

Regulus looked sideways at him. “So why aren’t you out there?”

 

“I don’t know how to dance,” Harry said.

 

Regulus’s voice was quieter. “I think that’s the least of what you don’t know.”

 

Harry met his eyes.

 

Regulus didn’t look away.

 

“I’m working on it,” Harry said.

 

Regulus nodded once. “Good.”

 

~*~

 

The candles were still glowing overhead when Kingsley’s Patronus tore through the sky like a blade of blue lightning.

 

“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

 

It didn’t fade.

 

It exploded.

 

Screams erupted. Wands were drawn. Someone knocked over a table in panic. The music crashed into silence.

 

Harry didn’t need anyone to explain.

 

He grabbed Ron and Hermione by the shoulders. “We have to go. Now. ”

 

“Where?” Ron gasped.

 

“Anywhere but here,” Hermione said, eyes already scanning the chaos.

 

Regulus appeared beside them, wand in hand. “They’ll track you if you Apparate. They own the Ministry now.”

 

Harry turned to him. “We’re out of options.”

 

Regulus didn’t argue.

 

The first curses hit the wards seconds later.

 

Green and red and purple fire lit up the garden. Death Eaters surged through every gap. The air filled with smoke and shouting.

 

Molly shouted spells with shaking hands. Arthur was shielding Fleur. Charlie was already bleeding.

 

Harry looked back once.

 

And then he made the choice.

 

“GO!”

 

They Apparated in a blur of motion and heat--

 

--only to land hard in the middle of a wooded hillside. They didn’t even have time to speak before the next pop hit.

 

They’d been tracked.

 

Three figures appeared, black-cloaked and wand-tipped.

 

“Split!” Harry shouted.

 

They scattered. Regulus was already casting shields. Hermione disarmed one of them with a burst of orange light. Ron took a hit to the shoulder but stayed standing.

 

“Back to Grimmauld!” Harry yelled, grabbing Regulus’s wrist.

 

They vanished again--

 

--and slammed into the stone hallway of Number Twelve, the sound of the front door seals crashing into place behind them.

 

Safe.

 

Barely.

 

No one spoke for a moment. The silence rang louder than the fighting.

 

Then Ron exploded.

 

“We left them. My family was right there, and we left!”

 

“We didn’t have a choice,” Harry snapped. “You saw what happened.”

 

Ron shoved past him. “We could’ve fought. We could’ve-- sent something-- ”

 

“If we try to contact them now, we lead them straight here!” Hermione shouted. “Don’t you get it? The Ministry fell. The Floos, the owls, the Trace--they’re all theirs now.”

 

Ron’s face crumpled in fury and fear. He didn’t say another word. He stormed down the hall and slammed the kitchen door.

 

Harry leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

 

Regulus stood beside him, silent.

 

“You okay?” Harry asked, voice thin.

 

Regulus looked at him, expression unreadable.

 

“I’ve always hated weddings,” he said.

 

~*~

 

Harry found Regulus in the drawing room, sitting in the dark.

 

No fire. No candle. Just moonlight through a half-drawn curtain and the faint hum of old magic in the air.

 

“You’re going to give yourself eye strain,” Harry muttered.

 

Regulus didn’t look up. “I’m dead, remember? I think I can manage.”

 

Harry sat down across from him anyway.

 

For a while, they didn’t say anything.

 

The silence didn’t feel awkward.

 

It felt earned.

 

Finally, Harry said, “You didn’t have to come with us.”

 

Regulus’s gaze shifted. “You didn’t have to pull me out of the lake.”

 

Harry huffed. “Right. Because letting someone drown is great character development.”

 

“You’d be surprised how often it’s the smarter choice.”

 

Harry looked at him. “You weren’t surprised we were tracked.”

 

Regulus shook his head. “I used to be the one tracking people. It’s not hard if you know where they’re most likely to run.”

 

“Grimmauld,” Harry said.

 

Regulus raised a brow. “It’s your safe house.”

 

“It’s your house,” Harry countered.

 

“Is that what this is?” Regulus asked. “A conversation about ownership?”

 

Harry leaned back. “It’s a conversation about why you’re still here.”

 

Regulus looked at him. Really looked. “I don’t know yet.”

 

Harry nodded slowly.

 

“Me neither.”

 

The quiet stretched again. Not heavy. Just present.

 

“I get it, you know,” Regulus said eventually. “Why Weasley’s angry.”

 

Harry glanced toward the closed kitchen door.

 

“He’s not wrong,” Harry murmured. “We did leave them.”

 

Regulus didn’t argue. “And if you’d stayed, you’d be dead.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Another pause.

 

Then Regulus said, “They raised you to be a sword.”

 

Harry’s throat went tight.

 

“They kept sharpening you,” Regulus continued. “And now they’re surprised when you cut.”

 

Harry stared at the floor.

 

“They called me a weapon once,” he said. “Right before they used me.”

 

Regulus’s voice was low. “Sharp edges don’t rust. They break.”

 

Harry looked up.

 

Their eyes met.

 

No softness there. Just understanding.

 

It was enough.

Chapter 12: Half Alive

Notes:

Regulus POV

The walls still remembered him.

 

He could feel it in the floorboards -- the way they didn’t creak when he passed, the way the shadows held a breath for him and let it out slowly.

 

Number Twelve had always known how to recognize its masters.

 

It just hadn’t expected one to come back from the dead.

 

~*~

 

Regulus stood in the hallway outside the drawing room, one hand pressed against the wood-paneled wall.

 

He didn’t know what he was waiting for.

 

He never had, really.

 

~*~

 

They all looked at him like a ghost. Not the angry kind -- the kind that made you nervous to turn your back.

 

Fair.

 

He was useful now, which was almost worse. He knew that tone in Harry’s voice -- the edge, the need, the way the boy shifted from fury to command without even noticing. Regulus had sounded like that, too, once. Back when he thought purpose and personhood were the same thing.

 

Now Harry was doing what Regulus had died trying to do. Finish it. Clean up someone else's legacy with blood and cleverness and no plan for what came next.

 

He hated how familiar it felt.

 

~*~

 

The others were still asleep or avoiding him. Probably both.

 

Hermione didn’t trust him. That made sense.

 

Ron didn’t like him. That was expected.

 

Harry--

 

Harry was different.

 

Harry looked at him like a blade he wasn’t sure how to hold.

 

Which meant he’d try to use him anyway.

 

~*~

 

Regulus moved through the house like something unfinished.

 

He found the library, still dusty. The books hadn’t shifted much. He trailed a finger along the edge of one old Arithmancy volume and pulled it off the shelf.

 

He didn’t open it.

 

Didn’t need to.

 

He could still hear his mother’s voice: A Black must always be educated. You will not shame this house.

 

He’d done worse than shame it.

 

~*~

 

In the reflection of the library window, Regulus caught a glimpse of himself.

 

He looked older than he remembered. Not by age -- just by weight. By gravity. Like something brittle held together by a thread.

 

He turned away from the mirror.

 

If he looked too long, he might wonder whether he’d actually made it out of that lake. Or if this was just what purgatory looked like -- endless hallways and second chances no one wanted him to take.

 

~*~

 

He sank into the library chair and let the silence wrap around him.

 

He didn’t know what he was anymore.

 

But whatever it was… Harry trusted it.

 

And that terrified him more than dying ever had.

Chapter 13: What He Didn't Say

Notes:

Since the last chapter was so short, you get another one today. Enjoy!

Harry found Hermione already awake when he came downstairs.

 

She had a steaming mug of tea in front of her and at least three books opened at varying angles. Her eyes flicked up as he entered.

 

“You sleep?” she asked.

 

“Did you?”

 

Hermione didn’t answer.

 

Ron came in a few minutes later, hair still damp, his expression stiff. He didn’t look at either of them as he poured himself a cup of tea.

 

No one mentioned the shouting from the night before.

 

After a long silence, Hermione said, “We need to talk.”

 

Harry didn’t look up. “Thought we were.”

 

“Not about tea,” she said. “About Dumbledore. About the Horcruxes. About the Snitch. And about Regulus. ”

 

Harry met her eyes then. Ron looked up, frowning.

 

“I know you’re trying to protect us,” Hermione said. “But we can’t help if you keep leaving out pieces of the puzzle.”

 

“I’m not--” Harry started.

 

Hermione raised a brow. “You knew the locket wasn’t the only one. You knew Dumbledore was hunting them. You didn’t tell us how much you already suspected.”

 

Ron blinked. “You knew ?”

 

“I didn’t have all the pieces,” Harry said. “I still don’t. I just… I knew there were more. I knew we’d have to keep going.”

 

“You also knew something was wrong with that Snitch,” Hermione said softly. “You haven’t stopped touching it.”

 

Harry’s hand curled instinctively around it in his pocket.

 

Ron leaned forward. “What is it, then?”

 

“I don’t know yet,” Harry muttered.

 

“But you will,” Hermione said. “And you’re going to try to open it.”

 

Harry didn’t deny it.

 

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made them all fall silent.

 

Regulus entered the kitchen, barefoot, hair mussed, looking like sleep hadn’t touched him in days.

 

Ron tensed immediately. Hermione’s expression shuttered.

 

Regulus looked at them, then at Harry.

 

“I can come back.”

 

“No,” Harry said quickly. “Stay.”

 

Regulus sat. He didn’t ask what they were talking about.

 

Didn’t need to.

 

Hermione was the first to speak again.

 

“Why didn’t Dumbledore tell you more?”

 

Harry hesitated.

 

“Because he didn’t think I needed to know. Or maybe he thought I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Or maybe he just didn’t trust me.”

 

He looked down at the table, jaw tight.

 

“I think,” he said slowly, “that because Voldemort’s killing curse didn’t work on me, everyone just sort of assumed I’d keep surviving things. Like I’ve got nine lives. Like I’ve got some secret stash of ancient magic no one else gets. But I don’t.”

 

Hermione’s mouth opened, but he kept going.

“No one ever showed me how to fight him. No one told me how to do any of this. They just… expected it. Because I didn’t have anyone to step in for me. No parents. No guardian who could say, ‘He’s a kid. He doesn’t owe you this.’ So I became the answer.”

 

He looked up, his voice quieter now.

 

“And I think Dumbledore liked having an answer too much ever to stop and ask the question.”

 

The silence after that was thick.

 

Regulus broke it first.

 

“He trusted you to die for it,” he said.

 

The words landed like a crack through the floor.

 

Harry didn’t flinch. “Yeah. He did.”

 

Hermione rubbed at her temple. “Then we figure it out ourselves.”

 

“Figure what out?” Ron asked. “We don’t even know what we’re looking for next.”

 

“Maybe not yet,” Hermione said. “But we know where to start.”

 

She pulled the locket note from her bag -- R.A.B., faded ink, the parchment still creased and frayed.

 

“We look at what You-Know-Who valued. We use that. And this time--” she looked sharply at Harry-- “no secrets. Agreed?”

 

Harry met her gaze.

 

“Agreed.”

 

Regulus sipped his tea. “Finally,” he muttered. “An honest Gryffindor.”

Chapter 14: The Badger's Cup

Hermione slammed the book shut with a gasp.

 

Harry and Ron looked up immediately. Regulus, who was half-dozing with a newspaper in his lap, opened one eye.

 

“I think I found it,” Hermione said.

 

Harry stood. “Found what?”

 

She turned the book toward them. It was a reproduction of magical artifacts tied to historical wizarding families. Near the bottom of the page was an engraving: a small, shallow cup with finely worked gold handles and a badger carved into the side.

 

Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup.

 

“Property of Hepzibah Smith,” Hermione read, breathless. “Last documented owner. Pure-blood collector. Obsessed with lineage. Murdered shortly after Tom Riddle paid her a visit as a Ministry intern.”

 

Ron swore under his breath.

 

“She was poisoned,” Hermione continued. “Her house-elf was blamed. But the wand record was sealed. Quiet investigation. No follow-up.”

 

Harry felt something cold settle in his chest. “He killed her for it.”

 

“Because it was hers,” Regulus said quietly. “Because it meant something.”

 

Harry looked at him.

 

Regulus nodded. “He wanted the founders. Slytherin’s locket wasn’t enough. The cup would have been irresistible.”

 

“Where would he have put it?” Ron asked. “You can’t just leave something like that lying around.”

 

Hermione was already flipping to the index.

 

But Kreacher answered first.

 

“Bellatrix,” he croaked from the doorway.

 

They all turned.

 

Kreacher’s eyes were wide, shining with something sharp.

 

“Master Regulus told Kreacher about the cup,” he said. “He said the Dark Lord trusted very few with his treasures. But Kreacher remembers... he mentioned the Lestrange vault. At Gringotts.”

 

Hermione sat back in her chair like she’d been hit with a spell.

 

“Of course,” she whispered. “It’s untraceable. Untouchable. Perfect. ”

 

Harry looked at her. “How do we get in?”

 

“We don’t,” Ron said flatly. “No one breaks into Gringotts. Not unless they want to get liquefied.”

 

“Then we’ll do what no one does,” Regulus said, voice steady. “Isn’t that the point of this?”

 

Harry didn’t smile.

 

But something in him felt sharper than it had in days.

 

~*~

 

“You want to break into Gringotts ,” Ron said flatly. “Sure. Right after we overthrow the Ministry and snog a Dementor.”

 

“No snogging,” Regulus said. “And no Ministry just yet. But yes. Gringotts.”

 

Hermione’s quill scratched over parchment in frantic arcs. “There are six documented fail-safes in place per high-security vault: blood wards, goblin-encoded track charms, anti-Disapparition fields, heat enchantments, object duplicators, and a perimeter flame curse.”

 

Harry looked at Regulus. “How do we beat all that?”

 

Regulus gave a thin smile. “We don’t. We make them think we belong there.”

 

“That’s a vault, not a club,” Ron muttered.

 

“But Bellatrix trusts You-Know-Who,” Hermione said slowly. “She might have been given a key. Or… authorization.”

 

“She’d never share it,” Harry said.

 

“She wouldn’t have to,” Regulus said. “What if we’re not looking for permission? What if we’re looking for replication ?”

 

Hermione’s eyes lit up. “Polyjuice.”

 

Ron grimaced. “Do not make me pretend to be Bellatrix.”

 

“I’ll do it,” Hermione said, too quickly.

 

Harry blinked at her.

 

“She’s paranoid,” Hermione explained. “If we do it right, she wouldn’t expect anyone else to impersonate her.”

 

“Won’t get us past goblins,” Ron added. “They know their clients.”

 

“Which is why we need something else,” Regulus said. “Something Bellatrix would have. A wand signature. A vault phrase. Something only her vault would recognize.”

 

Kreacher stepped forward from the corner, where he'd been quietly sweeping ash from the hearth.

 

“Her wand was replaced recently,” he said. “Broken. She has a new one. If we can get the old one…”

 

Hermione scribbled furiously.

 

“Where would it be?” Harry asked.

 

“Malfoy Manor,” Regulus said.

 

Another silence followed.

 

Ron looked at Hermione. “Please tell me that’s not where we’re going.”

 

“I’m not sure we have a choice.”

 

The planning continued for another hour: diagrams, escape routes, backup spells, the impossible laid out like a checklist.

 

Harry sat back in his chair at one point and watched them all -- Hermione’s eyes glowing with the thrill of strategy, Ron muttering about probabilities and death traps, Regulus sketching out patterns of Lestrange behavior like he was describing ghosts.

 

They were building something that might kill them.

 

And it was the most alive Harry had felt in weeks.

Chapter 15: Almost Human

When Remus Lupin walked through the door, he looked older than he had a week ago.

 

He greeted Kreacher with a nod, stepped past the threshold, and found Harry in the war room, still surrounded by maps, half-written plans, and the smell of too much tea and not enough food.

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Harry said.

 

Remus gave a tired smile. “And yet.”

 

Hermione looked up from her notes and quietly excused herself. Ron followed a moment later, leaving Harry and Remus alone.

 

Regulus remained in the hallway, half-shadowed.

 

“I came to talk,” Remus said, settling in across from Harry.

 

“About what?”

 

Remus reached into his pocket and set a small envelope on the table.

 

Harry stared at it.

 

“Dora’s pregnant,” Remus said.

 

Harry looked up sharply.

 

“She’s due in spring. And… we’ve decided…” He swallowed. “You’re the godfather.”

 

The words landed like a weight in Harry’s chest. “Me?”

 

Remus nodded.

 

Harry was still staring at the envelope.

 

“You’re going to be a father,” he said quietly.

 

Remus nodded again, slower this time.

 

“And you’re here,” Harry added, voice tightening.

 

“I want to come with you,” Remus said. “Help you finish this.”

 

Harry blinked. “You want to leave ?”

 

“I don’t know how to do this,” Remus admitted, his voice fraying. “I don’t want to be--what I am-- around a child. I don’t want them to grow up afraid. Of me. Of the world. I thought--if I could help end it--”

 

“No,” Harry said flatly.

 

Remus flinched. “Harry--”

 

“You don’t get to run.”

 

“It’s not--”

 

“You think you’re being noble?” Harry stood. “You think leaving your kid before they’re even born is some kind of sacrifice? That’s not protecting them. That’s just leaving. ”

 

Remus looked stunned.

 

Harry kept going, fury spilling like floodwater.

 

“My parents died to protect me. Tonks is fighting beside you. And you want to run off and play martyr because you’re afraid of being a bad dad ?”

 

Remus stood too, face pale. “You don’t understand--”

 

“No,” Harry said. “But I understand what it means to be left. So if you really want to protect that kid--go home. Be better than what you’re afraid of.”

 

Remus stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he picked up the envelope.

 

He didn’t say another word.

 

He just walked out the way he came in.

 

Regulus stepped into the room a moment later.

 

Harry was shaking.

 

“I’m fine,” Harry said, turning away.

 

Regulus didn’t reply.

 

Harry grabbed a bottle of something half-dusty from the sideboard and stalked past him.

 

“Don’t follow me.”

 

Regulus stayed in the hall for a minute.

 

Then followed anyway.

 

~*~

Regulus found him in the drawing room, sprawled in one of the ancient armchairs with a bottle of firewhisky clutched in his hand and the Snitch rolling between his fingers.

 

Harry didn’t look up when Regulus entered.

 

“You ever think the war was just an elaborate excuse to teach us how to be alone?” Harry muttered.

 

Regulus leaned against the doorframe. “No.”

 

Harry took a long drink. “You’re smarter than me.”

 

Regulus didn’t answer.

 

~*~

“I killed a professor when I was eleven,” Harry said suddenly. “Held onto his face while it disintegrated under my hands. And then I got house points for it.”

 

Regulus blinked.

 

Harry laughed--sharp and humorless.

 

“Dumbledore said Voldemort killed Quirrell. Said it to spare me, I guess. But I knew . I knew exactly what I was doing. I didn’t run. I didn’t even hesitate.”

 

Regulus didn’t move.

 

“I’m expected to survive everything,” Harry said, looking down at the floor like it had betrayed him. “Basilisks. Dementors. Death Eaters. Because the killing curse didn’t work once. And that apparently means I’ve got some mythical god-tier power no one wants to actually explain.”

 

He took another drink.

 

“I don’t have a vault full of spells. I don’t have some lost relic of Merlin’s bloodline. I don’t even have a proper education. Just trauma and a really good aim.”

 

The bottle thunked against the floor.

 

~*~

“I think,” Harry said slowly, “that the reason I’m expected to do this--kill him, end it--is because I don’t have anyone who’d say no.”

 

Regulus watched him in silence.

 

“No family. No guardian. No one with the legal authority to stop Dumbledore from turning me into a prophecy.”

 

He laughed again, and it cracked somewhere in his chest.

 

“People who aren’t told things,” he said, “are meant to be pawns. And I refuse to be one.”

~*~

Regulus stepped into the room, crossed to the table, and poured himself a drink from what remained.

 

He didn’t sit.

 

He didn’t offer comfort.

 

He just said: “I understand.”

 

Harry looked up. “Yeah?”

 

Regulus met his eyes. “They called me a legacy. Then made me a weapon. You’re just what happens when they skip the flattery.”

 

Harry snorted. “Nice.”

 

They stood in silence for a long time.

 

Then Harry whispered, “I trust you.”

 

Regulus looked at the Snitch, still turning in Harry’s fingers.

 

“But that doesn’t mean,” Harry said slowly, “I want to shove temptation down your throat and see how long it takes before you choke on it.”

 

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “That’s poetic.”

 

“I’m pissed,” Harry muttered. “It makes me lyrical.”

 

~*~

 

Harry fell asleep in the chair with the Snitch still clutched in his hand.

 

Regulus watched him for a while.

 

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let the moment stretch thin and quiet around them, like a bubble waiting to pop.

 

The boy had emptied half a bottle of firewhisky and somehow hadn’t slurred a word. Just spat them out, one by one, like knives dulled by grief.

 

I killed a professor.

No one taught me anything.

I don’t have anyone who would stop me.

 

Every sentence felt like watching someone bleed out in slow motion.

 

Regulus knew that kind of honesty. The kind that didn’t want fixing. Only space.

 

He knew how to give space.

 

He’d been doing it all his life.

 

He stood and walked quietly to the mantle, fingers tracing the edge of a cracked Black family crest. The dust didn’t settle around him. The house still thought he was part of it.

 

He supposed he still was.

 

But he wasn’t sure how much of him had come back from the lake.

 

Not really.

 

Regulus looked back at Harry.

 

It was eerie, how still he looked when he wasn’t performing survival. He’d spent the whole day planning a vault break-in like it was a group project, barking orders, making quips. Carrying the war like a backpack he’d been handed in first year and never put down.

 

Now?

 

He looked like a boy. Just a boy. Sleeping in his dead godfather’s chair, fingers curled around a piece of metal that wouldn’t open because it wasn’t time.

 

Regulus wondered if it ever would be.

 

He poured a fresh glass of water and set it on the table beside Harry.

 

He didn’t wake him.

 

Didn’t tuck in the blanket.

 

Didn’t touch the Snitch.

 

He just stood for one more moment, watching the rise and fall of the boy’s chest, the slow and stubborn rhythm of someone still breathing through everything he’d been made to carry.

 

Regulus turned toward the stairs, footsteps silent.

 

For the first time in two decades, he felt almost--

 

Almost human.

Chapter 16: Gringotts, or the Grave

The light in the kitchen was cold and gray, the kind of morning that didn’t feel earned.

 

Harry sat at the end of the long table with a half-full glass of water and a hangover trying to beat its way out of his skull. The Snitch was still in his pocket. Still quiet. Still waiting.

 

Ron stumbled in first, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He didn’t say anything--just grabbed a mug and poured tea that Hermione had left steeping on the stove.

 

Hermione followed a moment later, already dressed, already focused, a quill tucked behind her ear and a folder under one arm.

 

“Morning,” she said, setting the folder down and looking very deliberately not at Harry.

 

“Sort of,” Ron muttered.

 

Harry nodded.

 

That was it.

 

Regulus entered a few minutes later.

 

He was barefoot again. Crisp black shirt. Looked like he hadn’t slept, but didn’t care if anyone noticed.

 

No one said anything to him.

 

He poured a cup of black coffee, took the seat furthest from the sunlight, and watched them all with that unreadable gaze.

 

Hermione finally broke the quiet.

 

“I’ve been working through what we’ll need to make Polyjuice work,” she said, opening the folder. “It’s not impossible, but the brewing time is a problem. We’ll need to accelerate the infusion or steal someone’s prep kit.”

 

Ron glanced up. “Still on the Bellatrix idea?”

 

“She’s our best bet for a vault signature,” Hermione said. “Unless Regulus has another suggestion.”

 

Everyone looked at him.

 

Regulus raised a brow. “You’d trust my suggestion?”

 

Hermione blinked. “I didn’t say that.”

 

Regulus smiled, small and sharp. “Then yes. Polyjuice is your best bet.”

 

Harry leaned back in his chair, letting the sound of plans wash over him. The pressure in his chest hadn’t faded.

 

He could still hear himself, from last night: I didn’t even hesitate.

 

Still feel the glass in his hand.

 

Still see the way Regulus didn’t flinch.

 

“We’ll need disguises,” Hermione continued. “Backup wands. Something to track the goblins’ patrol routes. I’m not ruling out an inside source.”

 

Harry nodded slowly. “We’re going to do this.”

 

Regulus met his eyes.

 

Harry didn’t look away.

 

~*~

 

Day 1

 

Hermione cleared the basement workroom of cursed cabinets and exploded cauldrons. She laid out her ingredients like a ritual: lacewing flies, powdered horn, knotgrass, fluxweed, leeches. 

The air filled with the scent of boiled steel and something faintly acidic.

 

Polyjuice took a month to brew properly.

 

She didn’t have a month.

 

“We’ll speed it,” she said, holding open a book with one hand and stirring with the other. “That or we risk dying well-dressed.”

 

Day 2

 

Ron and Kreacher began watching Gringotts from a hidden alley. Kreacher, disguised by layers of filth and a glamour charm, slipped past the front steps and returned with whispered reports.

 

“Three shifts,” he muttered. “Six goblins each. No human guards anymore.”

 

Ron started drawing a rotating map of where the goblins stood every half hour.

 

“Not sure what we’ll do with it,” he told Harry. “But it feels less like suicide if we’ve got a timetable.”

 

Day 3

 

Harry and Regulus stood in front of the upstairs mirror.

 

“Again,” Regulus said. “You walk like you’re ready for a fight.”

 

Harry scowled. “That’s because I usually am.”

 

Regulus straightened his shoulders, took a slow, deliberate step forward, and looked every inch the pure-blood heir he’d once been.

 

“You want them to believe you belong in their world? You have to act like they’re beneath you.”

 

Harry practiced, again and again, until Regulus gave the smallest nod.

 

“You could pass.”

 

“For Bellatrix’s nephew?” Harry asked.

 

“For someone she wouldn’t question,” Regulus said. “And in her world, that’s much rarer.”

 

Day 4

 

Hermione worked late into the night, hair wild, robes stained with ink and potion residue.

 

Ron fell asleep at the kitchen table beside a half-eaten sandwich and a chart of Gringotts ventilation charms.

 

Harry paced the hallway, running through incantations in his head.

 

And Regulus?

 

Regulus went into the drawing room and sat with a piece of parchment he hadn’t touched in decades.

 

He didn’t write a will.

 

But he folded the parchment neatly and left it on the mantle, just in case someone came looking for answers he wouldn’t be alive to give.

Chapter 17: Said it Anyway

The library was too quiet.

Dust hung in the air like static. Books lay open and forgotten on every surface. The Polyjuice potion sat untouched in the corner, stalled mid-brew, because no one had Bellatrix’s hair and they didn’t know when—or if—they ever would.

No one said it, but they all knew: nothing was moving.

Harry stood at the window, watching the gray light bleed across the street. Hermione sat cross-legged on the floor with three reference books and a blank scroll in her lap. Ron leaned against the hearth, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Regulus lay sprawled on the sofa, a book balanced on his chest. He hadn’t turned a page in half an hour. His expression was carefully blank, like if he let any crack show, the whole room would spill apart.

“It’s been two weeks,” Ron muttered. “We’ve done nothing.”

Hermione didn’t look up. “We’re doing research.”

“Yeah, and research isn’t getting us any closer to breaking into Gringotts.”

“We can’t break into Gringotts until we have a way in!”

“I know that,” Ron snapped. “I just—I’m tired of sitting here waiting for a miracle. We don’t have leads. We don’t have allies. We don’t even have a real plan.”

Harry turned slowly. “We do. We just can’t execute it yet.”

Ron’s mouth twisted. “Yeah? And what if we never can? What if we sit here rotting while the rest of the world gets taken apart?”

Hermione stood now too, her voice tight. “Ron, we’re all frustrated—”

“No, Hermione. You’re fine. You always have a book to bury yourself in. And Harry—Harry doesn’t talk unless he’s snapping at someone.”

Harry flinched.

Regulus finally lifted his head. “And me?” His voice was soft, but it cut. “What am I, Weasley? Dead weight? Or just the reminder you don’t want to look at—that even when you do move, you may not survive it?”

Ron’s face hardened, but he said nothing.

“We’re all on edge,” Hermione said quickly. “Don’t turn it into something else.”

Ron threw up his hands. “Then someone say it! Someone admit we’re stuck!”

“I know we’re stuck!” Harry shouted. “But what do you want me to do? Summon the vault key out of Voldemort’s pocket?”

The word hit the room like a thunderclap.

Everyone froze.

A sudden crack, sharp and unnatural, echoed in the walls.

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “Harry—”

“I—I didn’t mean—”

The lights flickered.

Then the whole house screamed.

The air shimmered, warped, split. The ceiling groaned. The wards—those old, stubborn Black family wards—shattered like glass hit with a curse.

Regulus shot to his feet. “The Taboo,” he breathed. “It’s active.”

Ron’s face went pale. “We have to go. Now.”

~*~

They didn’t stop to pack.

There wasn’t time.

Harry grabbed the Invisibility Cloak, Hermione snatched the beaded bag from the library table, and Ron was already casting protective spells over the stairwell behind them.

The walls of Grimmauld groaned and pulsed, like something ancient and angry had been woken up by the name that should not have been said.

“Go!” Hermione shouted.

Harry threw one last glance at the kitchen where they’d planned a war, where Regulus had spoken in riddles and Kreacher had made tea like it was 1979.

Regulus paused too, his face briefly unreadable as the air around them cracked with the sound of breaking wards—his house, his family’s last relic, coming apart in pieces. Then he followed them into the crushing pull of Apparition.

They landed hard in a forest clearing. Cold air. Wet leaves. Silence that felt wrong.

Harry spun on the spot, wand drawn.

Nothing followed them.

Yet.

Hermione dropped to her knees and unfastened her beaded bag. She whispered a charm and drew out a small canvas roll—the tent. Compact, but layered in protective enchantments. Her voice shook as she spoke the incantation to expand it.

“I put it together a few weeks ago,” she murmured. “Just in case. It has clothes, a few books, and some food. Not much, but…”

“It’s perfect,” Harry said.

Ron didn’t speak. He just dropped onto a tree stump and stared into the woods like he was expecting them to light on fire.

Regulus lingered at the tree line, shoulders tight, face pale in the moonlight. His eyes were fixed in the direction they’d come from, as though he could still hear the stones of Grimmauld cracking open.

The tent rose slowly, as if reluctant to exist again.

Inside, it was cramped. Cold. Home, for now.

The war had found them.

And this time, they weren’t sure where to run next.