Chapter Text
The dining room at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, was unusually quiet.
Not silent—nothing in the Order ever was—but that particular strain of quiet that clings to wartime dinners. Tension simmered low under the warm clatter of cutlery and the scrape of chairs. The massive table groaned under the weight of Molly Weasley’s cooking, steaming platters of roast beef and boiled potatoes, crusty bread, buttered carrots, and Yorkshire puddings fighting for space between pumpkin juice jugs and half-empty teacups.
Everyone was there.
Harry sat near the middle of the table, flanked by Hermione and Ron, with Ginny across from him. Fred and George argued in murmurs near the end, their heads close together. Sirius lounged at the far corner, legs stretched and boots muddy. Remus sat beside him, looking pale and weathered. Tonks, hair a subdued ash-blonde today, poked at her peas. Arthur and Molly moved around the table like clockwork gears—serving, smiling, offering up second helpings like it might be the last time.
Snape sat dark and severe at the farthest end, coat still on, arms folded, eyes like blades.
It was the kind of night where nobody wanted to say anything too loud. Plans were brewing. Names had been mentioned—Dolohov, Yaxley, Macnair. There had been deaths.
And Harry, twitchy and fever-brained, had been vibrating in his chair since the bread was passed around. His eyes kept flicking to the hallway. To the staircase. To the wall with the long, dark tapestry of Black family names.
It was Ginny who caught the warning signs first. She sighed. He was chewing on his lower lip, bouncing his knee. His fork had been stabbing the same bit of potato for nearly five minutes.
Hermione noticed next. “Oh, no,” she muttered under her breath. “Harry. Don’t.”
Ron leaned in, muttering, “Don’t do it, mate. Not again.”
Fred and George had started counting down under their breath.
“Three...”
“Two...”
“One—”
“Hey—where’s Regulus’s bedroom?”
Forks clattered.
Sirius froze, the goblet halfway to his mouth. Snape made a choking noise. Molly dropped a ladle. Arthur blinked behind his glasses. Tonks sputtered into her drink.
Remus looked like he’d bitten his own tongue.
“Harry,” Hermione hissed, dragging a hand down her face. “For Merlin’s sake—”
“Oh my god,” groaned Ron. “He’s doing this again.”
“He’s literally always doing this,” said Ginny, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You don’t understand, this has been years.”
Snape’s voice was like ice cracking. “What.”
“I just—look, I’m curious!” Harry said, defensive already, eyes wide and gleaming. “I’ve always been curious! He was a Slytherin, he was Seeker, he was in his first year the same age I was when I joined, he still holds records, I’ve seen the nameplates on the school trophies, Quidditch Weekly from the 70s did whole features on him, and then there was nothing. No memorial. No body. Just—dead at seventeen.”
Sirius blinked like someone had slapped him. “Why the bloody fuck are you so obsessed with my dead little brother?”
“You’ve never talked about him!” Harry shot back. “You never told me anything. Just—he was a Death Eater. And then later you were like ‘oh yeah he died’ and that was it. But he wasn’t just that! He was your brother!”
Remus coughed into his hand. “He’s not wrong.”
Snape leaned forward slowly, black eyes glinting. “This entire time,” he said softly, “you’ve been investigating Regulus Black?”
“Since first year,” Ginny muttered.
“Actually earlier,” Hermione sighed. “It started when he saw the Seeker plaque in the trophy room.”
“Oh god,” said Ron. “He wouldn’t stop talking about the photo of him holding the cup.”
“Or the article,” Ginny added. “From that really old Witch Weekly.”
“Or when he stole that other photo from Slughorn’s office,” Hermione said tiredly.
“I didn’t steal it—”
“You stole it,” said all three in unison.
Fred burst out laughing. “Oh wait, that’s what that was? We thought it was some new phase.”
“We called it his Goth Bloke Era,” George whispered.
“I thought it was just a sexy Slytherin fixation,” Tonks offered. “No judgment. Happens to the best of us.”
Sirius was blinking rapidly. “Wait—wait—hold the fuck on—what photo?”
Harry flushed. “Okay. So. It’s from this photo wall in the old Seeker Hall at Hogwarts. I kind of... borrowed it. It’s not missing, I just... replaced it with a duplicate. Charmwork. Really easy. I left the frame.”
Sirius gawked. “You cloned a photo of my dead brother?”
Harry stood, dug into his jeans, and pulled out his wallet. From the inner pocket, between a folded receipt and a Chudley Cannons ticket stub, he extracted a faded photograph—creased at the corners, old and fraying. He slid it onto the table.
It was Regulus Black. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Holding a Quidditch trophy. Dark curls mussed from flying, robes ruffled from the wind, a crooked smirk playing on his lips. His eyes gleamed silver when he moved, shifting and rolling and blinking in the photo like he had secrets.
Snape inhaled sharply. “That was fifth year.”
Sirius stared. “That little—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Harry.”
Harry didn’t blink. “He’s holding the record for most catches in a single season. Still. Even after all these years.”
“Merlin’s balls,” Arthur whispered.
“And then,” Hermione muttered, “there was the Time-Turner incident.”
Everyone turned to her.
“What,” Sirius said.
“You WHAT?” shouted Molly.
Hermione turned red. “He tried to steal my Time-Turner in third year—”
“I didn’t steal it!” Harry cried. “I borrowed it! I was gonna give it back!”
“YOU TRIED TO TIME-TRAVEL FOR A BOY?”
Fred and George shrieked in unison.
“I knew he was in love,” said Ginny, triumphant. “I told you lot, remember? That weird thing he said during the Horcrux hunt? About the note in the locket?”
“That it didn’t sound like a Death Eater,” Ron said, nodding. “That it sounded like someone brave.”
“A hero,” Hermione said, raising an eyebrow.
“A martyr,” added Fred.
Harry flushed scarlet. “Okay, first of all, it’s not like that. And even if it was, I’m seventeen now. That’s how old he was when he died! It’s not weird anymore!”
“You say that like it makes it less weird,” said George.
Sirius stood up, hands in his hair. “You’re telling me—you’ve spent the last six years thirsting after my dead brother? My baby brother?”
“I just think he was misunderstood,” Harry mumbled.
“Oh, he was,” said Remus dryly. “He was also dramatic, stubborn, brilliant, suicidal, and unbearably posh.”
“Posh?” said Ginny.
“I’m talking Latin in detention, ribbon-wrapped quills, custom-stitched school robes, hair nets at night,” said Remus.
“And don’t forget the velvet,” Sirius muttered. “Little prick wore velvet to potions.”
Tonks was now howling into her napkin. Arthur was muttering something about Black family eccentricities. Molly looked like she was about to either cry or slap someone.
Snape glared across the table. “I will say this,” he said coldly, “he was... brilliant. Infuriating. Better than all of us. And he knew it.”
“That doesn’t help, Snape,” Sirius snapped.
“It’s not supposed to.”
Harry picked up the photo again, staring at it. “I just want to know what he was really like. I want to know what he thought. Why he did it. Why he turned on Voldemort. Why no one remembers him.”
“Because he asked us not to,” Sirius said quietly. “He made Kreacher swear. He didn’t want to be remembered. He didn’t want us risking ourselves. He thought we wouldn’t understand.”
The room fell quiet again.
Then:
“So... can I go through his room or what?”
Everyone started screaming again.
The table exploded.
Voices piled on top of voices, chairs screeching, cutlery skidding across wood as people leaned forward, shouted over one another, or straight-up recoiled like Harry had just suggested sacrificing a goat on the sideboard.
“You want to do what in his room?” Sirius bellowed.
“I want to look,” Harry shot back, undeterred, eyes bright and feverish. “I want to know what he was like. What he cared about. What books he read. What spells he worked on. If he left notebooks. Everyone leaves notebooks. Especially clever people.”
Snape let out a short, sharp laugh that sounded like a knife on glass. “He left dozens.”
Harry snapped toward him. “Dozens?”
Sirius whipped around. “You knew that and didn’t think to mention it at any point in the last fifteen years?”
“I was not in the habit of cataloguing your family’s corpses,” Snape said silkily.
“STOP TALKING,” Molly shouted, slamming a serving spoon onto the table. “Merlin help me—Harry Potter, why do you want to go rummaging through Regulus Black’s bedroom?”
Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. Then decided honesty was clearly the way forward.
“Well,” he said. “First of all, I want to see what his interests were. Second, I want to read anything he wrote. Third, I might borrow—okay, steal—some clothes. Fourth—”
“EXCUSE ME?” Sirius roared.
“—purely for research purposes—” Harry ploughed on, “—I want to see if he kept anything personal. Like hair. Or blood. Or skin.”
The table went dead silent.
“…hair,” Arthur repeated faintly.
“Or,” Harry added brightly, “I could take fabric fibres. Or maybe something enchanted. You never know. Ritual-wise. Who knows what’s possible.”
Tonks choked so hard she nearly fell off her chair. “Ritual what?”
Hermione slapped both hands over her face. “Oh my god, he’s escalated.”
Ron groaned. “This is worse than the Horcrux phase.”
Ginny leaned back, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “You’re trying to resurrect Sirius’s brother.”
“I said maybe,” Harry protested. “I’m not committed. It’s just a thought.”
Sirius stared at him, wild-eyed. “You are banished from the east wing.”
“YOU DON’T EVEN GO IN THE EAST WING,” Harry shouted back.
Remus, who had been silently staring at the tabletop like it might swallow him, finally spoke. “Harry,” he said carefully, “what exactly do you want to know about Regulus?”
Everything. Harry’s mouth almost moved on its own.
“How tall was he?”
Sirius blinked. “What.”
“How much did he weigh?”
Remus closed his eyes.
“What did he look like in person?” Harry pressed. “Not just photos. Like—how did he move? Did he slouch? Was he sharp? Graceful? Did he have a temper? Did he smile?”
Snape’s lip curled. “He sneered.”
Harry’s eyes lit up. “Oh.”
“He was short,” Sirius said flatly, still staring at Harry like he was a cursed object. “Shorter than me. Shorter than Remus. Bloody tiny.”
“Lithe,” Remus added, betraying himself.
Harry perked up like a Kneazle spotting a laser. “Lithe?”
“Yes,” Remus said, resigned. “Quick. Light on his feet. Built like a Seeker. Always was.”
Harry stood up without thinking.
He straightened his shoulders, rolled them back, flexed his arms just slightly—broad, solid, unmistakably taller than half the table. He caught his reflection in the dark window, dark hair, sharp lines, scar glinting.
“…right,” said Fred slowly. “He’s peacocking.”
“Put your arms down,” Hermione snapped.
“I’m just saying,” Harry said, gesturing to himself, “that’s kind of funny, right? Statistically. Like. Contrast.”
“DO NOT,” Sirius growled, “compare your body to my brother’s.”
“HE WAS PRETTY,” Harry burst out.
That did it.
Arthur dropped his fork. Molly gasped. Tonks whooped. Ginny clapped once, sharp and delighted. Ron slid down in his chair like he wanted the floor to eat him. Remus made a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
Snape looked… amused. Which was somehow the worst part.
“Painfully so,” he said. “Insufferably aware of it. Cold. Mean. Sharp-tongued. He liked watching people squirm.”
Harry’s smile went soft and reverent. “That’s hot.”
“OUT,” Sirius yelled, pointing at the door. “OUT OF MY HOUSE.”
“But you loved him,” Harry said quickly, turning back to Sirius, earnest now, fierce. “You did. Even if you fought. Even if he was horrible. You loved him.”
The room stilled again, just for a breath.
Sirius’s hand dropped.
“…yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I did.”
Harry nodded. “Then let me know him.”
Silence cracked.
And then—
“Oh absolutely not,” Molly said, standing.
“He’s deranged,” Ron said.
“I kind of respect it,” Tonks said.
“He’s been like this for years,” Ginny added smugly.
“If he finds a summoning circle I’m hexing him,” Hermione muttered.
Snape smirked.
And Sirius—Sirius laughed. Once. Sharp and broken and helpless.
“You’re going to ruin my life,” he told Harry.
Harry grinned.
The screaming did not stop.
If anything, it evolved—mutating into something louder, sharper, threaded with disbelief and hysteria as Harry kept talking.
“And he preferred silver over gold,” Harry was saying, ticking things off on his fingers like this was a revision session. “Hated loud colours. Had a thing about symmetry. Wrote left-handed even though he was ambidextrous. Stopped eating meat in fifth year. Used to charm his boots so they never squeaked on stone floors—”
“HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT,” Sirius yelled.
“Because I paid attention,” Harry snapped back, affronted. “Because Hogwarts is basically a museum of him if you know where to look.”
The kids groaned in unison.
“Here we go again,” Ron muttered.
“He once made me listen to a forty-minute rant about Regulus Black’s handwriting,” Ginny said flatly.
“Looped. Tight. Controlled. Tiny margins,” Harry said immediately. “You can tell a lot about a person from that.”
Hermione slammed her head lightly against the table. “I can’t believe I helped you research this.”
“You loved it,” Harry accused.
“I loved the academic mystery,” Hermione protested. “Not—whatever this is.”
Snape’s eyes were narrowed now, sharp with something like unease. “You know more about him than most of the people who knew him.”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
A pause.
Then Harry straightened, like he’d been waiting for a cue.
“Okay,” he said. “So. About the ritual.”
“Oh no,” Molly said immediately.
“I knew it,” Remus murmured.
Harry reached into his bag—bottomless, battered, overstuffed—and pulled out a thick, cracked leather-bound book. The Black family crest was stamped into the cover, worn smooth by time.
“I found this in the library,” Harry said. “Restricted section. Blood-locked. Took me three weeks to get past the wards.”
Sirius stared. “There is no—”
“There is,” Harry said. “Behind the west wall. You just never bothered to look.”
Snape went very still.
Harry flipped the book open, pages yellowed, ink dark and crawling like it was still alive.
“It’s a resurrection ritual,” Harry said, far too calmly. “Necromantic. Old. Black magic—literally. It only works on members of the Black family. Uses familial blood, generational power, and the house itself as an anchor.”
Arthur whispered, “Merlin’s bones.”
“Arcturus Black was the last living necromancer,” Harry went on. “Before he died. That’s documented. This is his work.”
Sirius’s breath hitched.
“It brings them back,” Harry said. “Fully healed. Same age they died. Body restored. Mind intact. And it doesn’t matter where they died, because the house acts like a beacon. Grimmauld Place pulls them home.”
Silence fell like a dropped body.
Tonks whispered, “You’re saying… alive?”
“Yes,” Harry said. “Alive.”
Molly surged to her feet. “Absolutely not—this is dark magic—this is unnatural—”
“But if it works,” Arthur said slowly, conflicted, “and if Regulus chose to fight Voldemort—”
“No,” Remus said sharply. “We don’t get to decide that for him.”
“He died alone,” Harry shot back. “He deserves a choice.”
Snape’s jaw tightened. “This kind of magic has a cost.”
“It already paid it,” Harry said. “In blood. Generations of it.”
The room split.
Voices overlapped—arguments, fear, wonder, outrage.
“This is madness!”
“This could change everything!”
“He was a child!”
“He was a hero!”
“We don’t know what comes back!”
“We do—the spell is explicit!”
Sirius hadn’t spoken.
He stood there, rigid, staring at the open book like it might reach out and bite him.
Then he laughed. Once. Sharp and broken.
“You’re all arguing like you get a vote,” he said.
Every head snapped toward him.
He lifted his chin. Eyes blazing. Voice steady.
“We’re doing it.”
Molly gasped. Remus swore. Snape’s eyes widened just a fraction.
Harry screamed.
“Yes—YES—” He vaulted out of his chair, whooping, knocking it over, already running. “I’LL GET EVERYTHING—I’VE BEEN PREPARING—”
“YOU’VE BEEN WHAT,” Sirius roared after him.
Harry was already gone.
They heard cupboards slam. Glass clink. The unmistakable sound of someone hauling far too much stuff.
Seconds later he came tearing back through the hall, arms stacked with jars, boxes, bundles of cloth, vials corked with wax, old jewellery, cracked photo frames, bits of parchment spilling everywhere.
“MOVE—MOVE—MOVE—”
He barrelled straight into the tapestry room.
“Harry—wait—” Remus called.
Too late.
They chased him.
The Black family tapestry loomed, names burned into fabric like scars. Harry dropped to the floor, already working—candles placed in precise geometry, runes chalked with shaking hands, blood wards activating as the house itself hummed.
Magic thickened the air. Old. Heavy. Hungry.
“This is insane,” Tonks whispered.
“No,” Sirius said softly, watching Harry draw the final circle. “This is family.”
The candles flared.
The house answered.
And somewhere deep in Grimmauld Place, something long-buried stirred—
—and began to come home.
The Black family tapestry room had never seen this much traffic.
Or this much magic.
Or this much insanity.
Everyone was watching—clustered around the walls like awkward party guests at a ritual-themed rave. Fred and George were whispering bets to each other in the corner. Molly kept wringing her hands like she was seconds from throwing herself across the chalked runes. Snape looked half-appalled, half-riveted. Tonks was grinning and murmuring, “This is sick,” under her breath every ten seconds.
And in the centre of it all was Harry.
Kneeling on the floor, forehead damp, sleeves rolled up, eyes shining with that special kind of feral glee. The glow from the runes danced across his glasses. He looked possessed.
He moved fast—dragging chalk across the wooden floor in exacting patterns, connecting runes to lines to symbols, weaving the outer circle into the inner, every mark tied to one central branch of the tapestry:
Regulus Arcturus Black.
Harry had jabbed a pin through the embroidered name, binding it with blood—his and Sirius’s—and then fused that with preserved DNA he’d spent months confirming: old hair strands from a pillow, a monogrammed handkerchief with dried blood, a cracked toothbrush from the third floor bathroom he’d tested for lingering saliva traces—
“That’s disgusting,” said Ron.
“Disturbing,” Hermione muttered.
“Dedication,” said Harry, not even looking up.
He dropped a jar of grave dirt into the final quadrant and held out a hand without looking. Sirius, ghost-pale, passed him a vial of his own blood. The moment it touched the circle, the house began to hum.
Like the bricks had started remembering.
Magic bled into the floorboards. The chandelier began to rattle. Books flew off the shelves. The walls glowed with ancient runes no one had ever seen before. Candles flared with black and blue fire.
And then—
Whirring. Thrumming. Floating.
Furniture lifted off the ground. Paintings yelped and bolted from their frames. Something in the walls howled.
“OH MY GOD IT’S WORKING,” Tonks shouted over the rising noise.
Everyone was screaming.
In the golden-glowing centre of the circle, the air ripped. Shapes formed—shimmering, silver, shifting like glass underwater. Limbs, spine, breath.
Then—
THUD.
THUD.
Two booted feet slammed to the ground.
And there he was.
Standing. Alive. Whole.
Regulus Black.
He looked exactly as he had in the photos. Same stormcloud curls, same pale skin and high cheekbones, same elegant hands and stormy eyes. His robes were crumpled and dark—what he’d died in, presumably—but they shimmered clean and intact, like he’d just walked out of a portrait.
Except—
He looked young.
Not just young. Sixteen.
Smaller than expected. Barely reaching Sirius’s collarbone. Lithe and slim like a Seeker still in training.
The adults froze.
“...he’s a kid,” Molly whispered.
Regulus looked around, blinking.
He frowned.
Then scrunched up his nose.
“Ugh,” he said immediately, voice hoarse and unimpressed. “Why does it smell like dust and poor people in here?”
Sirius made a choked sobbing sound and launched himself forward like a missile.
“REG—”
“EWW—” Regulus yelped, flailing backwards as Sirius grabbed him in a weepy, crushing hug. “Get off me you disgusting mongrel, you’re all sweaty and gross, ugh, no—absolutely not—”
Sirius was full-on crying. “You’re alive—you’re—you’re—”
“Why are your teeth so yellow?” Regulus demanded, shoving at him. “*Did your hairline recede? You look FORTY, what the hell—”
“Because I am!” Sirius sobbed. “It’s been—oh, Reg, it’s been so long—”
Regulus shoved harder. “EW. EW. LET GO. Nobody likes you. You have the emotional maturity of a dead puffskein.”
Remus blinked. “That’s him.”
“That’s so him,” Snape confirmed, arms crossed. “Brat.”
Tonks whispered, “Oh my god he’s exactly like I imagined.”
Regulus was already storming away from Sirius and peering around the room with full aristocratic disgust. “Why are there so many people in my house? Who are all these children? What the hell is that?” He pointed at a lamp. “That wasn’t here before. It’s ugly.”
Ginny stepped forward, mouth opening—
—and was immediately cut off.
“Who even are you?” Regulus said, looking her up and down.
Ginny blinked. “...Ginny?”
Regulus narrowed his eyes. “That’s not a real name.”
“It’s short for Ginevra—”
“Worse.”
Ron said, “He’s kind of a dick.”
Harry was vibrating.
He was circling the edge of the room slowly, grinning so wide it hurt, beaming at the sight of Regulus like he was the sun.
Every now and then he motioned silently at the others, waving his hands above Regulus’s head—look how short he is!—then gestured to himself—look how tall and broad I am!—then flexed. Behind Regulus.
George whispered, “He’s gonna explode.”
Fred nodded solemnly. “We’re witnessing the slow unravelling of Harry James Potter.”
Harry finally couldn’t help himself and sidled up next to Regulus—grinning, tan, glowing with adrenaline—and stood there, chest puffed.
Regulus hadn’t noticed.
Too busy poking the edge of a magical circle and muttering, “This chalk is low-grade. Who even summoned me, this is embarrassing.”
Then he glanced up.
Saw Harry.
Froze.
And blinked.
Then blinked again.
“...James?”
The room imploded.
“WHAT?!” shrieked Sirius.
“EXCUSE ME?!” Hermione gasped.
Regulus tilted his head. “No… wait. You’re not James. You’re… wrong.”
Harry laughed, breathless. “No, I’m—he was my dad.”
Regulus blinked again. Then frowned. Then cocked his head.
“Oh,” he said. “I shagged your dad once.”
Absolute silence.
Followed by absolute chaos.
Molly screamed. Arthur dropped a candlestick. Hermione squeaked. Ron fainted. Ginny shrieked “WHAT THE FUCK—”. Fred and George howled. Sirius collapsed. Tonks laughed so hard she slid down the wall. Remus just buried his face in both hands.
Harry?
Harry was glowing.
“That,” he said brightly, “was the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Regulus raised an eyebrow. “I think I hate you.”
“I know I love you,” Harry whispered reverently.
Regulus rolled his eyes. “Fantastic. My life is ruined.”
Sirius, sobbing into Remus’s shoulder: “He’s perfect.”
The room was still reverberating from the “I shagged your dad” bomb when Regulus let out an exasperated whine and flopped dramatically onto the tapestry room chaise like he was staging his own fainting couch revival.
“Why is everyone staring at me like that?” he snapped, tugging at the hem of his robe like it had personally betrayed him. “You all look like you’ve been hexed in the face. Multiple times.”
Sirius, still hovering ten steps behind like a weepy dog desperate for scraps, sniffled, “Because we missed you, Reg—”
“Oh, my god, stop crying,” Regulus groaned. “You’re like a haunted doily. Go stand in a corner and rethink your existence.”
Sirius audibly gasped and whimpered. Regulus rolled onto his side and glared at the rest of the room.
“And what happened to you?” he said, pointing to Remus. “Why do you look like an accountant who lost his will to live?”
Remus blinked. “Well, I—”
“And you!” Reg’s eyes narrowed at Snape. “You look exactly the same. You’re like a bad dream that refuses to end.”
Snape’s mouth twitched. “Charming as ever, Black.”
“And Arthur,” Regulus continued, squinting now. “Weren’t you that Ministry intern who used to get stuck in the revolving fireplaces?”
Arthur coughed. “Yes, well, I’ve… moved up since then—”
“Aged,” Reg said brutally. “Horribly. And Molly, you’re—oh wow, yeah, no, I remember you. You used to make those pathetic little lemon muffins and cry in the Prefect bathroom when someone called you a Muggle-hugger.”
Molly’s jaw dropped open. Ginny, behind her, looked delighted.
Tonks waved. “He doesn’t know me yet, does he?”
“Who are you?” Reg asked bluntly. “And why is your hair like that? You look like you lost a fight with a Pixie Stick.”
“She’s your cousin,” Harry offered.
“My cousin? Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have cousins. Except Narcissa and Bellatrix and the other one—Andromeda—oh. OH. Wait.” He stared at her. “Are you the spawn? The Tonks child?”
“Present,” Tonks said, grinning.
“Ugh.” Regulus turned his head into the cushions. “I’m surrounded by bastards.”
Sirius, trailing after him again, sniffed, “Come on, Reg, it’s not that bad—”
“You aged like milk,” Regulus snapped, standing up and circling Sirius like he was examining an art project gone wrong. “Your face is all crinkly. What are those lines? Did you fall down the stairs repeatedly for two decades? Merlin, your knees probably creak when you walk. You smell like divorce.”
“I’ve never even been married—”
“Exactly.”
Sirius clutched his chest like he’d been hexed.
Meanwhile, Reg had fully begun pacing in tight little circles, tugging his curls, muttering under his breath, confused and twitchy.
“Okay, so—hold on, wait. You’re all… old. Like, old. Why are you old? Why does the house look like this? Who are all these teenagers? Why are there so many redheads in my house?”
Fred and George did a synchronized wave.
“Who are you?” Regulus asked, eyes narrowing.
“I’m Fred.”
“I’m George.”
“We’re three years older than you.”
“You’re children,” Regulus said, horrified. “Why are children in my ancestral home?”
Hermione stepped forward carefully. “Regulus, I don’t think you know how long it’s been—”
“I don’t know anything!” Regulus snapped, throwing his hands up. “I was minding my business, existing beautifully, and then I woke up surrounded by geriatrics and orphans.”
“Well, technically,” Hermione said gently, “it’s—1997.”
Regulus went still.
“…No, it’s not.”
“Yes,” Harry said, stepping forward, “it is.”
“No.” Regulus shook his head, curls bouncing. “No. It’s 1978. It’s October. I have a N.E.W.T. prep session on Monday. Mulciber and Rosier are planning something idiotic. And I have a date with that Ravenclaw boy—there’s no way it’s nineteen-fucking-ninety-seven.”
Harry winced. “You… died in ‘78.”
“I what?”
“You died,” Remus said quietly.
“No I didn’t,” Regulus said, baffled. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m here. I feel amazing. I just had a nap, apparently. I’m in my own house. You’re all just hallucinations. Or—OH MY GOD, is this a prank? Did Evan put you up to this?”
“It’s not a prank,” Hermione said carefully. “You’ve been gone for nearly twenty years.”
Regulus processed this for all of three seconds before fully spiraling.
“TWENTY YEARS? I was dead for TWO DECADES and you’re all treating it like I just got back from a trip to France?!”
Sirius was crying again.
Regulus screamed. “I AM SIXTEEN! I’M GINNY’S AGE! THIS IS ILLEGAL!”
Ginny, now behind Hermione, raised a hand. “Hi.”
“WHAT IS HAPPENING,” Reg wailed.
“Um,” Ron said hesitantly, “does anyone else feel like this is... escalating?”
“THIS IS A CRISIS,” Reg shouted. “YOU’RE ALL FREAKS. I’M CALLING MY ELF.”
And then, with perfect old-Black arrogance, Regulus stood in the middle of the chaos and snapped:
“KREACHER!”
The air shimmered.
There was a pop. And then—
“MASTER REGULUS!”
Kreacher screeched as he appeared, dropping the silver tray he was holding as he flung himself at Regulus’s knees.
Everyone flinched.
“Kreacher?!” Harry gasped.
“Kreacher!” Molly whispered in shock.
“My boy,” Kreacher sobbed, clutching Reg’s legs like a toddler, wrinkled face twisted in a grotesque, tearful grin. “Kreacher knew! Kreacher knew Master Regulus would return! Kreacher told the others! They called Kreacher mad! But Kreacher knew!”
“Oh my god,” Reg said faintly. “I missed you.”
“Master Regulus is Kreacher’s favourite, always,” Kreacher moaned, nuzzling his leg. “Kreacher missed your voice, your commands, your beautiful insults—”
“I was dead,” Regulus said blankly.
Kreacher nodded furiously. “And now you are alive!”
Regulus stared at everyone again.
“I hate this,” he declared. “I’m going back to bed. Tell me when it’s 1979.”
And with that, he stormed off—Kreacher clinging to his robe hem—leaving behind a room full of screaming, stunned, traumatised people.
Harry just sighed dreamily.
“I’m gonna marry him.”
The screaming started again.
Loud. Piercing. Dramatic. Utterly Regulus.
They all froze mid-argument in the tapestry room, jolted like cats in a thunderstorm.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Sirius groaned, already running.
They thundered out into the hallway—everybody, all at once, like some deranged parade of chaos—and nearly slammed into each other when they found him.
Regulus Black. Sixteen. Newly resurrected. And currently splayed like a starfish against the opposite wall of the entrance hall, one hand gripping a dusty umbrella stand, the other clawed into the wallpaper like he was trying to fuse with it.
His eyes were wide and glassy, lip curled in pure horror.
And in front of him, large and looming, was the cursed portrait of Walburga Black.
His mother.
“MY PRECIOUS LITTLE DARLING!” she shrieked, louder than they’d ever heard her. The frame shook with glee. “MY PERFECT BOY! MY LOST STAR! REGULUS, MY LOVE, MY BRILLIANT, BRAVE LITTLE BLACK!”
Regulus made a strangled, choked sound. “No—”
“My BABY who vanished, my ANGEL who never came home, I KNEW you’d return, I KNEW, your blood is strong, you are so BEAUTIFUL—”
Reg’s whole body spasmed like she’d physically slapped him with emotion.
“STOP!” he screamed. “Ew, gross, shut up! You’re being WEIRD!”
“You’re mine!” the portrait cooed. “Not like that disgraceful brother of yours—oh look at you, still so pale, so regal, so pure—”
Regulus made eye contact with Sirius for one desperate second, eyes wide and betrayed. Then immediately looked away in disgust.
“She was never like this with you lot, was she,” he croaked.
“No,” Sirius deadpanned. “She threw a vase at me the day I left.”
“Lucky bastard,” Reg muttered, shuddering violently. “She’s being NICE. I hate it.”
He whimpered as the portrait launched into another declaration of eternal motherly love, full of possessive poetry and high-society eugenics.
Regulus scrambled to his feet like he’d been electrocuted and ran.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!” he shouted over his shoulder as the horde followed. “You’re all CREEPY and LOUD and I need to SANITISE MY BRAIN!”
He stormed upstairs like a scandalised gremlin, everyone thundering behind him up the narrow staircase.
“Regulus—wait—”
“Where are you going—”
“Are you okay—”
“Why did she call you her precious bleeding snowflake—”
“REG—”
He made a sharp left, shoved a door open, and slammed it behind him.
Sirius pushed it open without knocking. “Oi!”
Regulus was in his room.
His room. Preserved perfectly. Not a thing out of place. The velvet drapes. The green trim. The immaculate bed. Books still stacked beside the four-poster like they were waiting for him to return from Charms class.
“No one touched my shit,” Reg said in awe, turning in a slow circle. “I love that for me.”
And then: “Ugh. But this outfit is VILE.”
He immediately began digging through his drawers, tossing robes and shirts and dress pants over his shoulder like a Victorian debutante in crisis.
“Do you have to get naked in front of everyone?” Hermione yelped, turning away.
“Why not?” Reg said. “You lot resurrected me, you can deal with the results.”
Within seconds, he’d yanked off the death-robes and pulled on a massive Slytherin-green hoodie and a pair of absolutely obscene shorts—tight little things that barely made it to mid-thigh. His pale legs were smooth and splayed as he flopped down backwards onto the bed, arms spread, looking like a cursed pin-up.
Harry made a noise like a dying animal.
“Oh my god.”
Fred shrieked. “Why is he wearing that?”
“Why does he look hot,” said George.
“WHY DOES HE LOOK HOT?!” shouted Ron, flailing.
Regulus yawned. “Better. This is much better. My thighs deserve to breathe.”
And then the floodgates opened.
“Did you actually shag James?” Hermione demanded.
“YES,” Molly shrieked.
“HOW? WHEN?” Sirius roared.
“What did he say?” Ginny asked.
“Was it good?” Tonks grinned.
Regulus groaned. “Merlin’s arse, why is everyone obsessed with my sex life?” He flopped dramatically again. “Yes. I shagged James Potter. Once. He was hot and annoying and had great arms and I was bored. I was sixteen. Get over it.”
Molly gasped. “Sixteen?!”
“He was seventeen, relax, it was after a match.” Reg grinned. “I may or may not have hexed his broom mid-air to force a collision. One thing led to another. It was very sweaty.”
“STOP SPEAKING,” Sirius begged.
“Oh, and that was just one of them,” Reg said, now fully on a roll, kicking his legs a little. “Barty and I used to sneak out after curfew constantly. He liked the Astronomy Tower. Very bendy. Very unhinged. Cried after, like, a lot.”
Snape looked murderous. “Crouch was a child.”
“So was I, Severus.”
“WHO ELSE,” Fred demanded, clearly against his better judgment.
“Oh, so many,” Reg said, counting on his fingers. “Benjy Fenwick, actually. Gorgeous jawline. Called me princess. Bit too into candle wax. Oh, Kingsley Shacklebolt—divine voice, could make me come just by whispering. Oh, and Fabian and Gideon.”
The room imploded.
“MY BROTHERS?!” Molly screamed.
“THEY’RE OUR UNCLES,” yelled Ron.
“You’re lying,” Fred croaked.
Regulus grinned wickedly. “Not at the same time, though I did consider asking.”
Sirius was face down on the rug. Remus was wheezing. Hermione was on the floor, emotionally wrecked. Ginny was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. Kreacher was just standing by the door, beaming proudly.
Reg giggled. “Also there was Evan Rosier, Caradoc Dearborn, Bertram Aubrey, Rabastan Lestrange, Edgar Bones, Dirk Cresswell, Mulciber—surprisingly good with his mouth—Laurence Shunpike, Gideon again, Eddie Carmichael, a very flexible Hufflepuff named Malcolm, and one time I made out with Slughorn’s nephew to get out of a detention.”
“Oh my god,” Harry muttered, clutching the bedpost like it was the last thing tethering him to reality. “I want to ruin you.”
Reg blinked. “Sorry?”
Harry did not apologise. He was staring like he’d been in love with a painting for years and it just stepped off the canvas and spread its legs on a four-poster bed. His pupils were blown, his jaw tight, hands flexing.
“I want a turn,” Harry said under his breath. “No—I want the last turn. I want to end the game.”
“Jesus CHRIST,” Ron howled.
“I’m going to throw up!” Molly sobbed.
Sirius raised his head, face streaked with tears. “Harry, that’s my baby brother.”
“He’s mine now,” Harry muttered darkly.
Regulus raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a slow, wicked smirk. “Oh?”
And chaos reigned again.
Regulus rolled onto his stomach with a lazy stretch, bare calves swinging upward like he hadn’t just resurrected twenty years late into absolute bedlam. He crossed his ankles in the air and tilted his head toward Harry, chin resting on the backs of his folded hands, and gave him a look so sweetly venomous it practically sparkled.
“Well,” he purred, voice all syrup and sin. “Are you going to keep staring, or are you going to bark and hump a pillow?”
Harry made a strangled sound in his throat—half-growl, half-moan—and visibly twitched forward like he had to stop himself from pouncing. His hands dug into the bedsheets at his sides, white-knuckled, breath coming in ragged pulls through clenched teeth. His eyes raked down Regulus’s body like they were dragging claws—slow, possessive, animal.
They traced over every line: the slope of Regulus’s spine, the dimples at the base of his back, the perfect curve of his arse in those tight, thigh-baring shorts. The sharp line of his waist, his lean legs, his smooth pale skin stretched over compact muscle like a fucking invitation. Regulus wiggled a little—just a little—and Harry nearly howled.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Regulus cooed, batting his lashes. “Is it hard, having a crush?”
Harry’s entire chest heaved. He leaned forward onto his knees, every inch of him taut and trembling with restraint. “You don’t get it,” he growled. “You have no fucking clue—”
“Oh, darling,” Reg said, dragging the word out like a knife across velvet. “I have so many clues. I just think it’s funny.”
“You—” Harry was panting now. “I’ve thought about this for years. What I’d do to you. What I’d make you say. What you’d look like—wrecked and writhing under me—”
“Ruin me, is that it?” Regulus simpered. “Mark me up so all your little friends know I’m taken?”
“You don’t even know,” Harry hissed. “I’d fuck you so good they’d have to invent a new name for it. I’d keep you right here, screaming on these sheets, until your voice gave out. Until you forgot how to spell. Until you forgot the names of every bastard you’ve ever fucked except mine.”
Regulus made a delighted little giggle and twirled one bare leg lazily in the air. “Mm. Possessive, aren’t we?”
“I want you,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “I want you permanently. You think you’re a brat now—imagine how bad I’ll let you get once you’re mine. Once you know you can’t leave.”
Reg sat up—graceful, smug—and spread his legs wide with casual elegance, leaning back on his elbows like he knew what he was doing. Harry’s breath caught. His eyes snapped straight to the vee of Reg’s thighs, pupils blown, lips parted, hands shaking like he was holding himself back by sheer force of will.
“Oh, fuck—” he gasped, voice half-strangled.
Regulus tilted his head sweetly. “See something you like, Potter?”
Harry lunged.
Ron, Fred, and George had to tackle him flat against the bed with a yelp, arms locked tight around his chest and shoulders. Harry screamed, thrashing beneath them like a man possessed, trying to claw his way forward, growling so deep in his throat it shook the mattress.
“Let me GO—fuck—he’s right there!”
“You’re foaming at the mouth, mate!” George gasped, struggling to keep him pinned.
Fred was laughing so hard he couldn’t speak.
“Let him go,” Ginny yelled. “I want to see if he’ll actually crawl up between his legs like a feral dog!”
“DON’T YOU DARE,” Molly bellowed from the hallway.
Regulus just kicked his legs in the air and cackled, delight glittering in his eyes like broken glass. He looked like a prince watching peasants fight in the mud for his favor.
“Oh, I knew that would happen,” he crooned, stretching luxuriously. “You’re so predictable, Potter. Big and growly and tragically easy to wind up.”
Harry was snarling now, sweat-slick and wide-eyed, trying to throw the twins off with a wild buck of his hips. “I’m gonna break you, you smug little—”
“Oh no,” Regulus whispered, mock-dramatic. “He’s gone feral. Someone get a leash.”
Tonks had collapsed onto the floor, shrieking with laughter. Hermione was face-down in a throw pillow, mumbling, “This isn’t real. This can’t be real.” Remus was howling. Sirius was red in the face from a combination of laughter and horror and possible cardiac distress.
“This is deranged!” Ron yelled, still wrestling Harry’s left arm. “He’s gonna eat him like a steak!”
“I hope he does,” Regulus smirked. “I’d be delicious.”
“FUCK,” Harry bellowed, thrashing again.
Sirius shrieked, “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE.”
No one moved.
Harry growled into the mattress, face flushed, breathing like he’d run a marathon, teeth bared. Regulus winked at him and stretched his legs a little wider.
Absolute pandemonium.