Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When Regulus Black was eighteen years old, he went to Heaven for the first time.

They had been using The Embassy on Old Bold Street for meetings when he’d first heard about it, because while the Ministry didn’t yet care much for muggle police, muggle gangs remained foreign territory. Integration was a way off, of course, but even Regulus had known well enough that a gun, or a well-concealed pocketknife, were just as well versed in the art of killing as even the most skilled of wand-work.

Besides, the people weren’t bad, really. It was all paranoia. Pandora had once worriedly informed him that the dark-haired bloke in the pin-striped suit he had spent the better half of their meeting necking off with was one of the Kray twins. He’d never even heard of them.

‘Oh, right,’ he’d said, wiping the spittle from his chin. ‘All right. Which one?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Not enormously. I’m just asking.’

‘Well,’ she’d spluttered over the music, red in the face. ‘Just, the—the queer one. Obviously. Merlin.’

It hadn’t actually been Ronnie Kray, of course. Regulus had checked him out, his curiosity piqued. He’d been locked up for over ten years, and he needn’t have read much further than that. He wasn’t much keen on older men. Too romantic for it, would you believe.

He’d gone with Barty in the end. It had been opened by the same queens that owned The Embassy, and Barty really had loved them—had followed them with all the loyalty of even Voldemort’s finest. Now there was a fellow who didn’t mind an older man. Regulus found it difficult not to blame Crouch Sr. for that one, but then he was no Sigmund Freud. And anyway, Barty was adamant he just had an honest affinity for entrepreneurship.

‘It’s going to be massive,’ he was saying as they queued up beneath the yellow streetlamps, shrouded in a brisk chill. He had taken up cigars from one of the old johns at the Embassy, had even started growing out a moustache that, try as he might, Regulus never did manage to convince him was terribly lop-sided. It was an ugly thing, one of the parts of him Regulus never brought himself to truly miss.

‘Hm.’

‘Liven up,’ Barty hissed, elbowing him. ‘You’ll love it. Jeremy says—’

‘Here we go,’ Regulus sighed. ‘Jeremy says. Derek says. You know we’re not on holiday, don’t you? There’s a—what’s it called again?’

‘Not a,’ Barty corrected him, smiling excitedly. ‘Singular. Two, Regulus. Two real-life cage dancers. In the air. In leather, and… oil, and stuff.’

‘And stuff? Merlin, I dread to think.’

‘Piss off home if you’re going to be like this,’ Barty grumbled then, crossing his arms. ‘I’ll ask Evan next time.’

‘Crouch,’ Regulus whispered, a little urgently. ‘There’s a war on. You can’t be caught dead doing these things alone. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I’m bent, Regulus, not thick.’

‘You had me fooled,’ he snickered, earning a tentative smirk from him. ‘Merlin, aren’t they cold? It’s December.’

‘Oh, my,’ Barty gasped, rosy eyed as two grown men swaggered past the line—one at least six foot five and shaved, the other stout and hairy, both clad in nothing but leather straps on their chests and suffocating chastity belts over their cocks. ‘Oh, me, oh, my.’

‘You’re vile. Is that a testicle?’

‘Gods, but I hope so.’

Regulus hit him, then, over the back of his head. It was hard not to laugh in those days. It came so easy, foot-soldiers that they were. There was little use for them outside of the odd jobs that Regulus secured from Lucius and, less preferably, Bella. It had all been a front for a while by that point, but increasingly Regulus found himself forgetting which version of him was the truth.

He had become less of a boy, certainly, but not so much a man yet, either. He felt amorphous most days. Sometimes he caught sight of someone from their school years and he really would think it. Mudblood. He was never fond of Snape to begin with, but it was all too easy to undermine him using only his half-blood status whenever they were paired up, so long as the Dark Lord wasn’t present to hear it. It was easier yet to do his bidding for him, to close yourself off to the people at the end of your wand like they were less than cattle—less than sheep.

He hadn’t killed anyone himself. Still doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the stomach to.

That would change soon, he’d supposed.

He laughed to himself as the bouncers let them through, the largest of the group eyeing Regulus hungrily as they passed beneath the entrance.

Heaven tonight, Hell tomorrow, he smirked. He very much doubted the alternative would provide him with half as warm a welcome as this.

It was late when it all went to Hell a little later than anticipated.

He was chatting to a blonde who had only just approached him, a bit behind schedule. Regulus never usually went for the fair of hair, but he was sweet looking. Had arms like a Beater. A few drinks in and Regulus had had to refrain from asking him if he played, which of course he shouldn’t have. Everyone there was supposed to be muggle.

‘Oi,’ Barty hissed, dragging him harshly away by his robes. The true beauty of queer folk, Regulus found, is that they can’t tell wizard fashion apart from most forms of drag. They were invisible. ‘I’ve been looking for you for ages. We need to go.’

‘Probably,’ Regulus slurred, chuckling. ‘Probably. But the world ends tomorrow, and don’t we deserve a decent send-off?’

‘What are you on about?’ Barty grumbled, tugging him away from the man. He sighed, drowned out by the sound of hundreds of low voices, all singing what he now recognised as Village People. Oh, I’ll miss the Seventies, he remembers thinking. I’ll miss all this.

‘There’s a raid,’ Barty explained, throwing Regulus into a toilet cubicle, slamming it shut. Someone next door was begging for toilet paper. Too many poppers, Regulus sympathised, turning to tug some from the roll and passing it to desperate, clutching fingers beneath the wall. ‘Black, fuck, are you hearing me?’

‘Yeah, yes, I am, course,’ Regulus said, leaning against the back of the toilet, swaying. ‘But I’m not sure how that affects us. We’ll just disapparate, no rush. Although a night in muggle jail sounds…’ he thought for a second. ‘Unlikely. Fascinating. Camp, maybe. One for your grandchildren. Crouch Jr and Jr and Jr ad infinitum.’

‘Prick! It isn’t muggles, it’s the fucking Order.’

‘No it isn’t,’ Regulus scoffed. ‘What’ve they given you? Not the one with the smiley face on it? The one—’

‘I’m not high, Black, I’m telling you, they’re here. I saw him, the fucking specky git. And the lanky one with the—’ he gestured vaguely toward his own face. ‘You know.’

Regulus did start listening at that. Boy, did he listen.

‘Potter?’ he gasped, and then: ‘Are you talking about Lupin? Remus Lupin?’

'Yes.’

‘Fuck. Even I fancied him in school. Potter, though? You’re sure?’

'Yes, fucking—we need to go!’

Regulus frowned, contemplating, his blood still warm with the shots the blonde had bought him.

‘What if,’ he started, making Barty groan loudly. ‘No, listen. What if… they’re here for the same reason we are.’

‘Are you mad?’ he was shouting, which made Regulus’s head throb.

‘Shush. They might just be… here.’ He choked, scandalised. ‘Oh, my. And Potter’s married, too.’

‘I really don’t think they’re here for Village People and poppers, Regulus,’ Barty growled, jabbing him in the collar bone. ‘Seriously, it’s a wonder your Sirius isn’t bloody—’

Bang.

‘Shit.’

Barty leaned over quickly, covering Regulus’s beery breath with his palm.

‘Hello?’ a voice whispered, the bathroom now empty but for the three of them. ‘Sorry. Hello?’

Don’t, Barty mouthed at him. Be quiet.

Regulus bit his finger, the crunch audible, forcing him to jump quickly away.

‘Hello,’ he said, easily, smiling. It was the blonde, of course, from earlier. His hair dishevelled, his wand aloft, a silver flask in his hand and a pink feather boa around his shoulders. ‘Who gave you that?’

He didn’t smile, but he blushed brightly, jaw tensed. ‘Some—girl,’ he bit out, plucking a loose feather from the front of his shirt. ‘Leave off.’

‘Suits you,’ Regulus said, looking briefly back at Barty and mouthing, Go. Now, before closing the door. ‘Or should I say it suits…’ he gestured towards the body before him, inspecting it. ‘I’m very sorry. I don’t believe we’re acquainted.’

‘I don’t know. Plucked it on the tube.’ He swallowed, blinking profusely. ‘We’re running out of time.’

‘That’s life, I suppose,’ Regulus sighed morosely, patting the door behind him. In fact he booted it with his heel as well, he recalls, because he could hear Barty still breathing in there. ‘So. Come here often, do you?’

‘I shouldn’t have bought you those shots. We’re working, you can’t just improvise like that. Your eyes are red.’

‘The Order really are a boring lot. You’ve never drank on the job before? Really?’

‘Well, some of us have real work to do. Not whatever—’ he looked around. ‘This is.’

‘This is a hobby. Surely you still have those. Or does Dumbledore keep you on too tight a leash these days?’

The blonde’s eyes flickered towards Regulus’s wrist, his eyebrows raised.

‘Not as tight as yours.’

‘It’s funny. Remember when my lot thought tattoos were unsanitary?’ he scoffed, rubbing his arm. ‘It does hurt, you know. Not to be taken lightly.’

‘Sure you gave it plenty of thought.’

‘More than you know,’ he admitted, smiling, walking over. ‘Come on then,’ he added, starting to panic somewhat. Barty’s breathing had become shallow behind him. ‘We’ve got a boat to catch.’

‘Lily—’

‘Is safe, at home, with child,’ Regulus repeated from their earlier meeting—only the one, but enough to cover the finer points. ‘I’m not a monster, Potter.’

‘Really? Because I haven’t decided.’

Crack.

Regulus, despite himself, let out a good, long breath.

‘Finally. I thought we were in for some trouble, there.’

‘You better know what you’re doing, Regulus,’ James breathed, his hair becoming dark again, sticking upright. He held out his arm, and Regulus took it. ‘I still don’t know if this is worth it.’

‘Nor me. But I’m nothing if not an opportunist.’

The next thing Regulus remembers he was in a boat, watching a shivering, bleary eyed James Potter yank at his own hair as if warmth might spread from the pain alone. If not for that he would have thought he was at home, launched backwards through the thick weight of time to the breakfast table at Grimmauld Place, the voices overlapping and increasingly hoarse.

‘Kreacher, if you don’t tell me what this is about right fucking now—’

‘Kreacher is no longer under Master Sirius’s service!’ His voice was tremoring. ‘Kreacher does not wish to upset Master Regulus!’

‘Upset him? He’s as good as dead, you little—!’

The boat lurched precariously, water breaching the sides, spray taking Regulus’s breath away.

‘Stop it,’ he croaked, but no one could hear him. He coughed once, twice, feeling numb. ‘Stop it.’

He went to try again, his lips dry and sore, but then James was looking at him, his face wiped clean of passion, fear, hate—anything that would be reasonable given the circumstances. Only his eyes wide and doe-like, his hair dripping wet.

‘Sirius,’ he spoke quietly. ‘Give it a rest. Just—stop, please.’

Regulus closed his eyes in a soundless thank you. Gulls swooped overhead, their song familiar, the air fresh and salty. In his defence, he did make a point of focusing on breathing, making sure his chest was moving sufficiently for the company to know he was alive. It was purely for their benefit. He shouldn’t have been.

A lot of time passed like that, weighted silence and Kreacher’s anxious feet tapping on the wood. He had never known his brother silenced so utterly before. It was loud. A rupture waiting to happen.

He assumed they’d touched land when the boat wobbled, the grinding of saturated sand vibrating up Regulus’s spine, making boak rise in his throat. He pretended to be nonethewiser, for a moment; he did that as a child a lot. On train rides, sometimes even on the back of his caregiver’s broom. Would lie there, limp and useless, waiting for someone to carry him home.

‘Wake him up.’

‘Kreacher does not think that—’

‘I couldn’t give a fuck what Kreacher thinks, you shit. Wake him up.’

‘Pads, it’s alright—’

‘Like hell it is!’ Sirius roared, a wet, dunking sound suggesting he had climbed overboard into the foam below. ‘I can’t even fucking look at you, so don’t—’

‘Right, alright, okay,’ James placated him. It was weird, hearing that amount of submission in his voice. ‘I’ll get him, it’s fine.’

‘Kreacher will carry Master Regulus! Kreacher will—’

‘Of course Kreacher will,’ Sirius spat. Regulus wondered why he was still there at all. ‘Kreacher to the rescue! Nothing new there.’

‘I’m the one who called for help,’ James said then, his voice rising. ‘That was me. Kreacher wasn’t even—’

‘He wouldn’t have come for you anyway,’ his brother laughed, soullessly. ‘He only serves him.’

‘Right, but you wouldn’t have found us without him. And you did, and we’re alive, so—’

‘Does Lils know you’re here, James? Does she know what you’ve been fucking doing?’

‘No—well, sort of. No one knows. Only…’ Regulus cringed, waiting for the word. ‘Only Remus. But that’s all, I promise.’

‘Remus.’ Sirius said, slowly, the penny dropping. ‘Remus. Fucking—’

He must have walked away, his footfall rocking the boat. Regulus grunted.

‘That went well.’

James sighed.

‘Yeah. About as well as expected.’

‘Master Regulus would like to be lifted to safety. Kreacher will—’

‘It’s alright, Kreacher,’ Regulus said. His arms felt like dead weights, but he lifted himself up to his elbows all the same. ‘I’ll walk.’

‘Kreacher thinks Master Regulus is very, gravely unwell. Kreacher does not think Mistress will be pleased.’

Regulus laughed then, for what felt like a long time, until his lungs failed him.

‘Well, that ship’s sailed.’ He said, catching his breath. ‘Or boat, I should say.’

James snorted, and Regulus looked up at him properly. His hands were on his hips, his jeans almost black with the water. They were torn around the ankles, badly; some blood dripping down his leg, into his socks.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘Me?’ James asked, frowning like it was an impossibility. ‘Oh, no. I’m fine.’ He tugged at a loose thread at his knee, the denim splintering open. A tut. ‘But these are going to be a bastard to mend.’

Regulus was smiling. Was surely delirious, by then, but still, he smiled. Meant it, at the time.

‘Do you have it?’ he asked seriously. He could see black spots in his eyes, tainting his vision.

James looked out across the horizon. The weather was awful, the waves worse. Regulus could see night creeping in across the clouds, far away but imminent, racing after them.

‘Potter. You have it.’

‘I do,’ he said.

‘Show me.’

He looked uncertain, gnawing at his bottom lip. His eyebrows were dark and low over his eyes, the skin of his nose creasing at the bridge.

‘Please.’

James nodded, walked unsteadily over to him. When he crouched beside him, Regulus caught a whiff of sweat tinged in sea-salt, and something darker beneath it all; a magic so decomposed, so tainted, that it made him feel ill. It burned against his nostrils like flesh, like Inferi clawing their way up the rocks, up his body.

James pulled at the collar of his t-shirt, still stained pink from the dye of the feather boa. Regulus might have grinned, but then there it was.

‘You know what that is.’

‘Not… really,’ James admitted, rubbing the stone with his thumb, weighing it in his palm. ‘I’m not sure I want to know, if I’m honest.’

‘Kreacher,’ Regulus spoke then. The House Elf was still stood to the side, trying hard not to listen. He smiled at him. ‘Some privacy. Go home, and—’ he closed his eyes, surprisingly hurt. ‘Don’t tell her where we’ve been, alright? Tell them nothing. At all. You be good.’

Kreacher nodded, looked a bit displeased—but still he went.

Regulus held his head as steady as possible, though the shivers had returned, making his teeth chatter painfully. Ironic, because he felt awfully hot, like a barely breathable ember.

‘That’s how you win this war, Potter. Don’t waste it.’

‘A locket is how we win the war,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Right.’

‘Destroy it.’ James’s eyes are quite nice, he remembers thinking, foolishly. Warm. ‘And kill me.’

‘What?’ he hissed, leaning back again. ‘I’m not—Sirius is—’

‘If you don’t, someone else will. Your side or mine, it could go either way.’ He gulped then, considering his options. ‘You’re as good a man as any.’

‘I won’t kill you,’ James said firmly. ‘Not if you’re telling the truth. Not—no. I can’t.’

‘I’m going to pass out now,’ Regulus cut him off, really shaking, his vision all but gone. ‘Don’t let me wake—’ he heaved as his head hit the wood beneath him, the ice of the water shocking him. ‘Don’t let … me wake up.’

‘Regulus!’ James shouted. He felt himself being lifted from the deck, arms looping beneath his knees, raising his head up to a warm chest.

But Regulus was already gone. He blinked out of the world like a light, smiling all the while.

Finally, he thought, weightless. Carry me home.

Regulus was eighteen years old, the second time he went to Heaven—but it was only a fleeting visit.

His heart stopped for just under a minute, that day on the dreich beach. The gulls crying for him, if nobody else was.

‘Do you know who brought you back?’ a voice asked, carefully.

‘Are we playing a guessing game?’ Regulus huffed. He looked around. He’d woken up for the first time a day or so ago but had been too weak to do any significant investigating. Had been in and out of suffocating, dreamless sleeps ever since. ‘I’m in the middle of the worst hangover of my life, Professor. Do give me a hand.’

Dumbledore smiled patiently, blue eyes twinkling in the bright light.

‘Your brain was cut off from your blood supply for a significant period, Mister Black. Even wizards seldom come back from that.’

‘Well. Maman got one thing right. She always said I was special.’

‘Indeed,’ the old man grinned, even laughed, which Regulus did not appreciate. ‘Still, we need to be sure there’s no lasting damage. I’m trying to glean the circumstances of your… unexpected arrival. You understand.’

‘Must have been turned away at the gates. I do vaguely recall being shoved back down the staircase by the big man Himself.’ He almost chuckled. ‘For all His talk of Forgiveness, He didn’t seem too thrilled to see me.’

Dumbledore found this less amusing, so Regulus leaned back into his pillow, drained.

‘Kreacher.’

‘Your House Elf?’

‘Yes.’ He inspected the high ceilings. They looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place them. ‘Kreacher brought me back.’

‘What makes you say so?’

‘Process of elimination.’

‘A logician,’ Dumbledore mused. Regulus imagined him stroking his long beard, from his chin down to his belly. ‘Wise guess. But no: you were brought back by your brother.’

‘I don’t take kindly to lies, sir.’

‘It’s true.’

The white curtains surrounding the bed were pulled quickly open to reveal James Potter, considerably dryer than when Regulus had seen him last but with a thick, white bandage around his left leg beneath a pair of shockingly tight red shorts.

‘Lost property,’ he grunted when Regulus didn’t take his eyes away immediately. ‘I’m—it’s all they had.’

‘Suits you.’

James sighed tiredly, shutting the curtain behind him. He glanced toward Dumbledore, who nodded his head and rose to stand, dusting his purple robes off as if Regulus’s existence alone had dirtied them.

‘I’ll give you two a moment to catch up. James,’ he said, pausing as he passed him. ‘You’ve done well.’

At this he left, not looking back. Regulus remained lying flat, only his eyes following him as he limped around the bed to the seat Dumbledore had vacated.

‘Tell me,’ he said, vexed. ‘In the Order. What’s your position?’

James shrugged, rubbing his knee below the bandage. ‘We don’t really have positions. That’s for Aurors, I suppose. We’re more… voluntary assistance.’

‘Hm. That makes sense,’ he glared. ‘You’re a downright pathetic assassin.’

‘Right.’ James nodded, not looking up. ‘Yeah. I won’t beat around the bush.’

‘I’d be grateful.’

‘Hm,’ James hummed, sort of a small, sad laugh. ‘Sirius would never have let you die. You must know that.’ When Regulus said nothing, he went on. ‘I’ve told Dumbledore everything. He thinks…’ James exhaled, and it came out shaky. ‘That locket. It’s a Horcrux?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. So we… destroy it, and we destroy him.’

‘In a manner of speaking. You destroy it, you destroy a part of him. After that somebody just has to get close enough.’

‘I don’t know why you’re doing this.’ James said, really frowning, gazing at his socks. ‘You’re one of them. You always were. Why now?’

Regulus stared at him for a long time before turning his head back up to the skies.

‘Fancied a change.’

‘Piss off. Nobody just switches sides in the middle of a war like that. What you’ve done is…’ he thought it over. ‘Terrifying. Impossible.’ He paused. ‘Brave.’

Now Regulus laughed, but it came out in a humiliating wheeze, his chest shaking and rattling like death.

‘I’d had enough,’ he explained, simply. ‘Even monsters get bored.’

‘You’re not a monster, Regulus.’

‘Oh? I thought that was still up for debate.’

‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ James whispered, shaking his head, looking genuinely remorseful. ‘What you said, what you were telling me, it seemed too good to be true. I’m sorry.’

‘You’re not forgiven,’ Regulus snapped. ‘Don’t let me wake up, I said.’

‘And I said I won’t kill you. I’ve hardly gone back on my word.’

‘My life for my soul,’ Regulus scoffed, shaking his head. ‘Never thought there was enough of it left to be worth anything.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘I’m not sure what you expect to happen now. What, recover? Go back home to mother? Nipped for a camping trip, Maman, you know how I love the ocean.’

James didn’t say anything for a long time. His arm was raised to the back of his neck, twiddling with a loose strand of hair above his spine. He looked wary of speaking, the muscles in his jaw contracting around the words.

‘Why me?’ he asked, more to his injured leg than to Regulus. ‘Anybody else. Remus was clearly willing to help. Sirius is your brother, he—if you’d have gone to him first, you’d have had all of us anyway. On your side. We’ve been desperate.’ He inhaled sharply then, making Regulus flinch. His lips were pursed tightly, eyes watery.

‘Never thought I’d see the day. James Potter, weeping over my deathbed.’

‘Shut up,’ James laughed wetly, wiping beneath his glasses. ‘He isn’t talking to me. I should have told him.’

‘No,’ Regulus interrupted quickly, shaking his head. ‘No, you shouldn’t have.’

‘But why me?’

Regulus smiled then—he aimed for bitterness, but the muscles in his cheeks were loose from days of misuse, so he supposes now he just looked soft, sad, sincere.

‘Sirius would never have let me die.’

Recovering, after that, was a struggle. He remained on his own for the most part, to his pleasure and surprise. He’d half expected armed guards, but then he was a Black. His own self-importance had been inflated since birth.

After a fortnight he could walk a bit if he was holding onto something. He must have been somewhere in Hogwarts, because his only caregiver was Madame Pomfrey. She kept reminding him, firmly, that half of the issue was in his head.

‘Hypothermia is what killed you,’ she chortled, as if it was a minor graze and hadn’t literally stopped his heart. ‘A young wizard of your talents? You should be up and out by now, and it’s certainly not my skills that are failing you.’

With so much time to himself, he did ponder it. Do I want to be here? He had been so ready to die that the prospect of living hadn’t seriously crossed his mind. Was his willingness to give it all up the same thing preventing his body doing its job now? Surely it should be pleased with him, that it wasn’t lying at the bottom of that cave, waiting for the next poor soul to come searching; ready to climb up the rocks itself.

More than that he picked apart the plan, the flaws in it. Had he not lived, would James have realised the truth of what the locket meant? It was the reason he had allowed Lupin to know bits and pieces, so that he might shine a light on the puzzle after Regulus was gone.

He had implied as much as he could, when they’d met the first time, but hadn’t explicitly said much else until after the fact. Destroy it—that came after he’d woken up, on the boat. I’m not sure I want to know, James had said, and Regulus had spoken in riddles. Would part of Voldemort’s soul have remained, gathering dust in Lily and James’s home, under their bed? In a cupboard? Their infant growing up not knowing what lurked beneath the floorboards until it was too late?

He shuddered. No, it was better this way. He was a sitting duck, of course—a hostage, if nothing else. But tentatively it was dawning on him that his plan had been lacklustre; incongruently spontaneous, given his character. He might have taken James down with him, judging by the state of his leg.

Eventually Dumbledore came back, which Regulus was initially happy about, if only because it distracted him from thinking.

Every time, it was the same: the most conversational interrogation technique Regulus could have envisioned. It was almost charming. I get it now, he remembers thinking. You’re as much a snake as I am.

‘I suspect,’ he said, after Regulus had given him unsurprisingly little to work with. ‘There are more.’

Regulus shrugged.

‘I’m asking for your thoughts, Regulus. Nothing more.’

‘Are you asking?’ he bit, temperamental.

‘Of course.’

‘By definition, asking requires some room for consent.’

‘Am I forcing you?’

‘Can I leave?’ Regulus asked, finally, the question that had been brewing on his tongue since he arrived.

‘You’re feeling better, then. I’m pleased your recovery has been so successful.’

His eyes widened and he did—Regulus was almost impressed—look genuinely happy for him; the man should’ve visited hospitals for a living, that twinkle so disarming. But Regulus noticed the way they slid over his frame—skinnier than he had been before by far, noticeable even beneath the sheets. His flesh wasting away, stuck in stasis.

‘If I stood up now,’ he bartered. ‘If I was better. Would you let me leave?’

Dumbledore smiled.

‘Very well.’ He acquiesced, and his entire demeanour shifted so quickly Regulus worried he had drifted off—it wasn’t uncommon, anymore, time meaningless—and was dreaming, slipped into an alternate plane of reality. The Headmaster sat up straight, not comfortably at all; his glasses fell down his nose of their own accord so that the blue of his eyes was sharp, abrupt, on Regulus’s face.

He barely took a breath before speaking.

‘There have been a few developments since you were brought here. The war still wages: we do not have reason to believe that the Dark Lord knows of his missing locket.’ He waited for a reaction, but Regulus stifled them all. ‘Do you know of the original owner?’

‘Slytherin.’

‘Very good. It is because of this—and the cave in which it was kept—that I suspect there are more like it; it was meticulously guarded, of course, and we’re uncertain of how they can be destroyed. But it was also sentimental. In this we see weakness. It is that, Mr Black, not the locket itself, that will win us the war.’

Regulus shifted so that he was sat more comfortably, pulled his pillow up behind him.

‘War is fascinating. It is rare there is such a thing as clean-cut as good or evil, on either side of a battlefield. The winning side must believe unwaveringly in their cause; and I believe what we do is good.’ He sighed. ‘But of course Tom believes the same thing. He was an interesting boy. A troubled child. I always wondered what he would become. What was within his heart.’ His eyes became glassy, and Regulus had to hold down a full-bodied shudder. ‘And now, I think, we know.’

‘I’m not sure what this has to do with me.’

‘Patience,’ Dumbledore breathed, making Regulus’s blood curdle. ‘As I was saying: the winning side must believe with absolute certainty that they are, for want of a better phrase, a force of good. The vast majority, at least.’ He tutted. ‘I hope you don’t think me callous, Regulus, because that is one thing I am not. But for the common soldier… this isn’t so important a factor. They are often none the wiser; they will go where the food is. The foundations of existence. Water, blood, land.’

‘And I took you for a progressive.’

‘That, I am,’ Dumbledore said, which Regulus had never doubted more. ‘But if we think of war as a triangle—there are three marks, simplified, required to win. Brutality, or a willingness to be. Resources, and or strategy. And belief. When one important enough falls—’ he dropped his handkerchief, as if a performance. ‘The others collapse with it.’

‘I’m a foot-soldier,’ Regulus said. ‘A run-around. I’m not—’

‘You are the last remaining heir to one of the most important families in the wizarding world. You are young, yes, and inexperienced. But you are a Black. And you will be a terrible loss for their cause.’

‘Of course. Except I’m not lost,’ Regulus grit through his teeth, fatigue creeping in. ‘I’m here.’

‘Ah. As I say. A few developments.’

Dumbledore rose and, with a wave of his hand, a black and white rectangle glided seamlessly through the slim gap in the curtains. It landed in Regulus’s lap, and only then did he recognise it as the Daily Prophet.

He read the headline. It was the first time he really felt the world pulled from under him, since he died.

SON OF MINISTER BARTEMIUS CROUCH SR. SENT TO HIGH SECURITY INSTITUTION FOR RUMOURED INSANITY. ANOTHER VICTIM OF HE-WHO-SHALL-NOT-BE-NAMED?

He gasped, audibly. Couldn’t quite stifle that one.

‘Ah, apologies, Regulus. I should have directed you to the correct column.’

Regulus’s eyes were still on Barty’s face, smiling but twitching, like he couldn’t control his own muscles. It was a tic he’d had from childhood; only came out when he was under duress. But there, animated and on repeat, an echo of what he was, he seemed catatonic: a time-bomb, its dials whirring.

The paper moved, the pages turning and stopping with equal abruptness. It was toward the end, hidden beneath swathes of innocuous text.

‘Last column on your left.’

Regulus hadn’t finished reading it when the Professor carried on.

‘Yes, belief. It may seem small now, but your… disenfranchisement, if you will, with Voldemort’s cause gives me something far more dangerous than a part of his soul.’

Regulus swallowed down the bile in his chest. It required a great deal of effort to look up from the page, his heart beating rapidly.

‘I wasn’t that close to him,’ Regulus said, honestly. ‘If it’s his weaknesses you want more information on, I don’t know them. He isn’t a puzzle to solve. It—’

‘No, no, that’s quite alright. I have faith, with the intelligence we have now, that myself and my colleagues will find the other Horcruxes. We will find a way to destroy them. This, we will achieve. With your help, I hope.’

‘Right,’ Regulus said, speechless. ‘Right.’

‘I hope you were pleased with the kind words,’ he went on, moving as if to leave the room. Regulus frozen in place. ‘I can only hope my own obituary is so complimentary.’

‘Wait,’ Regulus snapped. His jaw was hurting, his teeth grinding together. ‘If not the Horcrux. If—if not his blind spots. What have I given you,’ he asked, breathless. ‘What have I given you that’s so dangerous?’

‘Ah,’ the Professor stopped halfway through the curtain. That smile, again, that twinkle.

Regulus felt he waited a long time before he got his answer.

‘Hope, Regulus. You have given us hope.’

THREE MONTHS LATER

The door slammed open as if the world was caving in.

Regulus thought it might have been, briefly. Kindly—he had to tell himself this—he had been provided with some activities to keep him busy outside of his research (on the Hogwarts founders, on the Riddles and Gaunts, on damn Horcruxes). That aside, his only pastime had become a sketchbook and a fine selection of pencils. He was doodling in it, mindlessly, when it happened.

He looked up. And there he was.

His brother.

‘You’re here,’ he said, stopping still in his tracks. Regulus nodded his head.

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Really?’

He looked well; his shoulders seemed huge, but then Regulus had only had the company of Pomfrey and Dumbledore for… Merlin could say how long. The sight of him seemed almost unreal, like a hologram of how he remembered real people looked.

‘Really,’ Sirius said. He shrugged off his coat, moved quickly to Regulus’s bedside. His eyes were strained in his head, ready to pop out. ‘Where’ve you gone?’

‘Heaven and back,’ he answered, a private joke he had made with himself a handful of times. ‘Though I suppose I have you to thank for that.’

‘Shut up,’ he snapped, eyes raking over Regulus’s body like he might vanish. ‘You—what the hell have they been feeding you?’

‘Oh. They feed me plenty. It’s honestly just hard to muster up an appetite when you’re in a situation like mine.’ He flashed a smile but saw his brother flinch at the new grooves in his face, the same lines he had seen in the mirror. ‘A princess in a tower, I mean.’

‘Is it true?’

‘That I’m a princess? Depends on who you ask, really.’

‘Fucking hell, Regulus. Is it true? Everything you’ve done? James has—’ Sirius groaned, rubbing his eyes. ‘He’s filled me in. I wasn’t—I didn’t want to—I knew you were alive, but—’

Regulus let out a long breath then. Like he would never take one again; like this time, maybe, it was not a dream.

‘It’s true. I mean, everything that went on that day, and before. Ever since, I haven’t had much choice. But yes. I’ve been… working on it. However limited my options have been.’

Sirius nodded, slowly at first, and then quickly.

He fell, like a plinth collapsing in on itself. His head landed in the middle of Regulus’s chest, his hands gripping his shoulders like they were anchoring him to the core of the earth.

‘You’re coming home,’ his brother sobbed into his pyjamas, so harshly that Regulus could do nothing but hold him back, hold him close. ‘I’m taking you home.’

For the first time in a long time, Regulus actually cried.

He wound up in the flat in Diagon Alley, though Madame Pomfrey was sad to see him go. She made visits at first, because all of his progress in the two weeks after his arrival at Hogwarts—though until Sirius had carried him out, he hadn’t found much evidence to suggest it definitely was—had been lost. His appetite was poor, but what he didn’t know—but should have—is that it was his muscles that were the problem. They had simply eaten themselves up, with so little room to move.

Lupin lived there, and had seemed pleased to see him, weirdly. He put that down as one of the most awkward hugs of his life, neither of them really knowing why they were doing it, what good it could have accomplished. But still there was… patting involved, almost brotherly. After they had laughed, like old friends. Regulus wasn’t sure they’d ever actually held a conversation before.

‘You called me a miserable twat once, I think. In your second year.’

It hadn’t felt so humiliating at the time, but he was being held aloft by Levicorpus over the kitchen sink while Lupin scrubbed his hair for him, massaging his temples with surprising dexterity. They had been apparating out to a desolate patch of land in Kent for his exercise, given that he was legally dead, and a missing heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black taking the air in the middle of the high street might have raised some eyebrows. They’d not long been back, and he was knackered—but not as knackered as before.

‘Sounds like me. What did you say?’

‘Nothing,’ Lupin shrugged, calmly. ‘We snuck into the Slytherin dorms the weekend after.’ He smirked. ‘You suited red hair.’

It became marginally easier after that, though the whole time he was focused on rebuilding his strength—and his life, or afterlife, or whatever it was—he knew he was missing vital information about the war. Sirius came and went, sometimes for days on end. Remus—as Regulus quickly learned to call him—vanished just as frequently, but not for terribly long periods of time. Never both at once. It was only after a few months, when Regulus was strong enough to make his way around the flat (pour himself cereal, go to the loo, bathe in privacy, thank Merlin), that his brother knocked on his bedroom door, looking solemn.

‘I’ve a favour to ask,’ he said, and then frowned abruptly, tilting his head. ‘What’s this?’

‘Er,’ Regulus winced as he leaned over his single mattress to lift the record sleeve on the floor, reading it aloud. ‘Dusty Springfield.’

‘Fuck, we need to introduce you to new music.’

‘I know new music,’ he hissed, irritated. He’d been rather enjoying himself.

‘Like what?’

‘The Beatles?’ he tried, knowing Sirius liked them.

‘They broke up when you were still wetting the bed, mate.’

He thought for a moment, scratched his head.

‘Village People, then.’

Sirius stayed in the doorway for ages. The grin came slowly. Regulus hated it.

‘If it was a favour you were wanting you’re not going about it the right way.’

Sirius laughed, folding his arms and leaning against the plaster. He seemed ready to head out, boots tied up, hair pulled back in a bun. He confirmed it moments later. ‘Remus and I are going to have to head out together, tonight.’

‘How romantic,’ Regulus sighed, lying back into his cushions. ‘I appreciate the invitation, but really I think you’re a bit old for a chaperone.’

‘Leave the jokes to me, yeah? Yours are starting to sound sour.’

Regulus huffed. He was feeling closer to his old self, which was good for him and less so for his newfound flatmates.

‘You might feel the same in my shoes. I’ve gone from being as good as a prisoner, slaving away for your war effort. I’ve been rescued,’ he said, putting a sardonic emphasis on the word. ‘Except I’m fairly certain I’m still a prisoner. The only difference is the food isn’t so bad, I get walked on occasion like a good pup, and I get the pleasure of hearing you two shag at all hours.’

Sirius ground his teeth. Some white paint chipped off the door frame, his nails digging in.

‘I’ll take you back, if you want.’

‘Spare me,’ Regulus said, smiling and rolling onto his side. ‘You’d miss me too much.’

Before Sirius could retaliate, Remus appeared behind him, gripping his shoulder firmly. Sirius rolled his eyes, like he had experienced these gestures a million lifetimes over.

‘Good morning, Lupin. I must say you performed excellently last night. Bravo.’

Remus didn’t blush—he was a hard nut to crack, actually, which made taunting him all the more entertaining—but he did cock his head to the side, one eyebrow quirked.

‘Your Patronus. Is it a bat?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t got one.’

‘I’ll give you lessons,’ Remus offered, genuinely, and then smiled. ‘I only ask because while I was shagging your brother last night, and by all accounts my performance was stellar—would you say so, Sirius?’

Sirius shrugged his shoulder harshly so that Lupin’s hand was dislodged.

‘Nob. Don’t encourage him.’

‘I’ll take that as an affirmative. Anyway. While you’re not far off the truth, your hearing must be out of this world. We weren’t here.’

Regulus had been too focused on coming up with a sufficient enough comeback that at first the admission went over his head. When it caught up to him, he widened his eyes, snatched up his pillow and flung it toward the pair of them. Remus—a bit dramatically—waved his wand, summoning Protego, which sent the pillow flying into the far wall.

‘You left me here?’ Regulus yelled. ‘On my own?’

‘Yes,’ Remus answered, easily. ‘And you seem very well, considering.’    

‘Sirius,’ Regulus tried instead. He wasn’t really sure if he was angry or just thrown for six. ‘You can’t just do that. Anyone could have found me.’

‘No one knows you’re here, Regulus,’ Sirius said, sincerely. Even Remus’s sarcastic smirk had fallen into an almost proud looking smile, which knocked Regulus further off kilter. ‘We can’t be here with you all the time.’

‘Get me a—bloody—babysitter, then,’ Regulus shouted, saw Sirius’s baffled expression and wanted to twat him across the head. ‘I can barely wipe my own arse yet!’

‘You think I can’t hear you pacing all night?’ Sirius said, frowning.

‘Are bat ears genetic?’ Remus teased.

‘He could have turned up,’ Regulus argued, not taking the bait. ‘He could have, and he wouldn’t just have killed me.’

‘Right, yeah, sorry. You’re a bit out of the loop, aren’t you?’

‘Do I need to be in the loop? I’m dead, remember. Or is it only me who has to be reminded of that on a bi-fucking-hourly basis?’

‘I…’ Sirius took a long, deep breath, closing his eyes like he had practiced it. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.’

‘What?’

‘I. Can’t. Talk. To. You. When. You’re. Like. This.’

‘I. Can. Hear. You. Bat. Ears. Remember?’

‘Right,’ Remus interjected, sounding older than his years. ‘Sirius, go and put the kettle on.’

‘But—’

‘I’m gasping. We’re in for a long night as it is.’

Sirius actually did cave, which baffled Regulus further. The last time they’d got into such an altercation he had dangled Regulus’s sketchbook out of the window and locked him in a body-bind—particularly cruel given at the time Regulus was already bound to a wheelchair—until he’d say sorry. They stayed like that for three hours before Remus came home.

‘Please be more patient with him,’ Remus pleaded, shutting the door behind him. ‘There’s a lot going on that you don’t know about.’

‘No body-bind, then? He seemed to enjoy that last time,’ Regulus said, because it was already on his mind and he had, once again, had the rug pulled out from under him.

‘You were deadly with that wheelchair, don’t pretend like you weren’t. I regret nicking it for you, now. Or my ankles do, at least.’ He frowned. ‘And Ziggy’s tail.’

‘I didn’t mean to run over your stupid cat!’

‘Tell him that.’

‘I did—a thousand times. He was fine once I fed him. He likes me.’

Remus smiled, seeing that Regulus was clearly running out of steam, running out of shit to fling. Resorting to insulting the flat’s cat was low, even for Regulus. Especially for Regulus. He loved cats. They’re about the only animal that seem pleased to tolerate him.

‘Fag?’

‘That’s a bit below the belt, Lupin. I’m calming down now.’

 Remus laughed, moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

‘No. Do you want a cig?’

‘Oh. Sure.’ Regulus frowned. ‘Wait. Hypothermia. Is that—’

‘You’re healed, you know,’ Remus reassured him. ‘Poppy wouldn’t have stopped coming otherwise.’

‘Tell that to my limbs.’

‘You just need to build your strength up the muggle way,’ Remus shrugged. ‘Wizards don’t always have the answer to everything.’

‘Tell that to my brother, then.’

‘I do. Regularly.’ He sighed. ‘James is the worst for it.’

‘Why am I not surprised.’

‘Stop it. He’s got a hell of a lot on his plate.’

‘He left me in that castle to rot,’ Regulus snapped. It was becoming a regular thought by then, blaming all of his ills on whoever he could bring to mind. Potter had faced the brunt of it; showing him mercy by letting him live, only to leave him to waste away—perhaps forever.

‘He didn’t know you were in the castle the whole time. It was him who told Sirius that was where he’d seen you last. He never quite stopped asking to see you. But Dumbledore—’

‘What?’

Remus let out a weary exhale, then took two cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, lighting them both with the tip of his wand before passing one over.

Regulus puffed on it tentatively, feeling like a child. He only coughed the once before the smoke settled in his lungs and lifted into the air, dancing in the quaint morning light streaming through the half-opened curtains. He fell back against the bed frame, closing his eyes.

‘The smell.’

‘Rotten, isn’t it?’

‘No,’ he breathed deeply, taking a longer puff. ‘No. It reminds me of before.’

‘Before…?’

‘Just before.’ He said, not feeling the need to expand. There were countless reasons he had failed to ask—or listen, or read, or anything at all—after the war, after anyone who had been in his life. The only person he had asked Sirius to check in on was Pandora, who was on neutral territory anyway. He could still see Barty’s flickering cheek, monochrome against the paper in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to worry after Evan, how he would be coping without the two of them—without Pandora keeping them in line. She had run off, after Barty got taken away, with a Lovegood.

‘Heaven?’

‘I wasn’t allowed in. I’ve told you this.’

‘No,’ Remus said, irritated. ‘That club, where James had to meet you. That morning.’

‘Oh.’ Regulus opened his eyes, but only to watch the smoke dance. The record player on his dressing table was still spinning, but the tracks had finished; it made a single, tinny bump sound at equal intervals, where a bit of the disk had chipped in transit. ‘No. We only went the once. It was The Embassy, mostly. Sometimes just around SoHo.’

‘Sleazy. Nice.’

‘It wasn’t bad.’ Regulus admitted, leaning over to flick ash into the lid of Remus’s empty cigarette packet. ‘It was fun.’

‘Would you do it again, if you could?’

‘Go out, you mean?’

‘Sure.’

‘Maybe,’ Regulus sighed. ‘Maybe. Yes. It probably wouldn’t be the same now.’

‘No. It’s better, I’ve heard.’

‘What?’ Regulus said, genuinely shocked.

Remus was smiling, leaning against the wall that his bed had been pushed up against. ‘Heaven. It’s gone massive. There’s not a queer who hasn’t heard about it, across the country. People come down from all over for the spectacle, hoping to cop off, or find love, or whatever it is we’re all so desperately searching for.’

Regulus smiled and closed his eyes again. It’s going to be massive, Barty had told him. Jeremy says—

Now he realised Barty may never see it again—may never see the sky again. At least we’re still in it together, Crouch, Regulus thought, his chest starting to ache again. All for one and one for all.

‘Listen,’ Remus said next, breathing in. ‘You’re doing a lot better. At this point there really isn’t much more we can do for you but be honest.’

‘Have you been dishonest so far?’

‘Not at all. You haven’t seemed interested in knowing much more than… whatever crap it is you watch on telly these days.’

‘Only the news,’ Regulus shrugged. ‘It all seems petty compared to what we’ve had going on. That Thatcher’s a character, isn’t she?’

‘Oh, no, Regulus. Not Thatcher.’

‘What? I like her. She’s got the right idea.’

‘You—’ Remus started, then shook his head, grimacing. ‘We’re going to talk about that another time, because now I am concerned for you. But what I mean is, it didn’t seem worth it for a while, telling you what you were missing. You’ve had a rough go of it, and Sirius knows that too.’

‘I so love being pitied.’

‘Judging by that ridiculous display at the thought of us leaving you on your own for a few hours, yeah, I’d say you probably do.’

‘Fuck off.’        

‘Right,’ Remus sighed and put out his cigarette. He crossed his legs, settled down as if to get comfortable. ‘Enough of this, now. It’s time to… move forward. There’s hope to be had, yet.’

Regulus flinched imperceptibly. He had become more uncertain, since his captivity under Dumbledore, which side he was truly on. Maybe he was on neither: maybe Pandora had room for him, down in Ottery St. Catchpole. But Remus had a look on his face that had Regulus, begrudgingly, enraptured. So he nodded his head.

‘Pads, love!’ Remus hollered. ‘You better bring in the teapot!’ He glanced toward the record player, cringing. ‘And Electric Warrior!’

About halfway through, Regulus started taking notes.

He supposes in hindsight he did miss being in the know; did miss hearing the truth, staring down the dark barrel of it. It gave him purpose. Gave him something, furtively, like hope.

He still has the list of events, takes it out sometimes when he’s feeling nostalgic. This is something he struggles to come to terms with—how he can feasibly long for a time that was so objectively horrific, for himself and countless others. But still he does it.

Maybe it reminds him of how far they have come. Maybe it is comforting; maybe it is a memorial to all that they came to lose, an act of pious remembrance.

Or maybe he’s just as macabre as his parents had raised him to be. He’ll never know, really.

Still. The list looks something like this.

What the fuck is Going On? A Young Man’s Taste of Freedom

28/06/1980

1. Sirius and Remus gone last night because Potter’s wife (Lils/Lily/Ginge) having complications. Baby due very soon. Everyone worried. James not taking it well (read: useless prick unprepared for fatherhood, to the shock and surprise of absolutely no one present).
   EDIT: 31/07/1980 Baby healthy. Everyone happy. SEND CARD???

2. Remus is a werewolf. Wishes to be referred to more simply—and more accurately—as Wolf Wolf on account of Moony being stupid and awful. Unsure if father had planned his attack since birth given the absurdity of such an unfortunate name. Requires further analysis. Therapy?

3. My brother is an unregistered Animagus. Dog (Padfoot). Plus James (Prongs) and Pettigrew (Wormtail? Also awful)

4. Full moon tonight. Useless prick busy panicking over pregnant ginger and unborn heir to all the lands and titles associated with being said useless prick. Wolf Wolf in need of friends so he doesn’t scratch himself open or (accidentally?) kill anyone. Worrmtail Pettigrew on night watch at Gringotts. Mutt having to go, leaving me defenceless.

5. Electric Warrior by T. Rex not bad (not good either. Also not “new”. Need to hear again).

6. Dumbledore missing since approx. 1 week before my “rescue” (finally prompting Sirius to rekindle passionate friendship with Useless Prick, allowing them to belatedly wonder, Whatever Happened to Regulus Black?). Sightings and not much else. Hopefully not done a runner as Sword of Godric Gryffindor ought to do the trick with these Horcruxes—of which 4 have been found. Being held in “secure" locations only Alastor Moody and Crouch Sr (pioneer of useless pricks unprepared for fatherhood) know of.

7. Whispers of a Prophecy for defeating T.M.R. Not a lot to work with. Coincides with Dumbledore leaving?

8. Slytherin Locket (Love, Yours Truly)

9. Rowena Ravenclaw’s Diadem (Dumbledore. Although I did put this idea forward.) & Marvolo Gaunt’s Ring (also me).

10. A Diary? (REDACTED due to Protection of Underage Witches and Wizards Act—presumably a Hogwarts student.) Chamber of Secrets/Heir of Slytherin nonsense—Sirius secretly sad it wasn’t him after all, I think. Basilisk Fangs + Horcrux = ? (find out).

11. More attacks on muggles and mud muggle-borns. Voldemort undeterred—but very much behind the scenes. Fear of more Horcruxes however Sirius & Longbottom after Hufflepuff’s Cup and Remus sworn to secrecy (Sirius doesn’t like this)

12. James out on watches often. Glorified bouncer. No one happy about this due to baby and risk of coordinated attacks.

13. Moody new Head of Order of the Phoenix

14. McGonagall Headmaster of Hogwarts

15. NEED TO FIND SLUGHORN, MIGHT KNOW MORE

16. Pandora married to Xenophilius Lovegood (??? Terrible)

17. Evan seen alive a fortnight ago. Promising.

18. No word of Barty. Hope he is well. Rumours of Cruciatus (reeks of Lestrange).

19. My heart stopped. S + R think it may have severed my connection to Dark Lord & D.E.’s. Needs testing in secure location but Ginger Potter confident (the Leader?)
    EDIT (20/07/1980): Tested in bath. Connection severed. Just an ugly tattoo.

20. I’m ‘buried’—or my wand is, for fuck’s sake—in the cemetery by Grimmauld in the family plot. Blacks fled to France. Number 12 empty. Kreacher? The cats? Hope all well.
    
    Regulus Black: Still dead. For now.