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Harry Potter stared out of the window in an all-too-familiar compartment of the Hogwarts Express. Unlike every other journey he had taken on this train before, today he wasn’t accompanied by the usual comforting presence of Ron droning on about Quidditch into his right ear, or Hermione, already immersed in a thick book across from him. In fact, if Harry had to guess, he would have wagered that there wasn’t a single other living soul on this train.
Including himself.
So, when Harry finally turned away from the window and set his gaze on the figure sitting across from him, he wasn’t entirely surprised to find himself staring into the face of the late Regulus Arcturus Black. Or it was someone at least who he assumed to be Regulus Black, since he had never actually seen the man in person before.
His resemblance to Harry’s godfather was uncanny, and his portrait had not done him any justice. Regulus had the same aristocratic features that seemed to be the birthright of every member of the Black family. A sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and a strikingly symmetrical elegance. His short, wavy black hair framed his pale face, complementing the silver sheen of his eyes.
Despite all these familiar features staring back at him, the person in front of Harry right now was undeniably not Sirius Black. That was without a doubt the most painful part of this all. The silence between them stretched on long and heavy. Harry wondered if it would continue forever, this strange, timeless void between them and death.
Finally, Regulus broke the silence by speaking first.
“So, you’re finally dead.”
Harry blinked. The older man was unexpectedly blunt.
He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting him to say exactly, but it certainly wasn’t that. Yes, Harry supposed that he was dead now. But why would that matter to Regulus Black of all people? In the end had he, too, been one of the many ‘champions of light’ waiting for Harry’s inevitable demise at the hands of Voldemort?
“I guess I am,” Harry said at last. The words felt strange on his tongue. He tilted his head slightly, studying the other man before him. “But how do you even know who I am?” If Harry’s mental math is still somewhat correct then Regulus should have already been dead by the time Harry was born.
Regulus’s lips curled into something that was not quite a smile, but not quite a grimace.
“I’ve been forced to watch your wretched existence for the last seventeen years,” he replied, his tone laced with an indecipherable emotion that almost sounded like frustration.
“Oh.” Because really, what was someone supposed to say to that?
Harry hesitated, then shrugged. “So, you didn’t enjoy the show, I take it?”
“No, not in the slightest,” Regulus said, unamused. “But the good news is, we’re getting a chance to fix it.”
That made Harry pause. He frowned. “Why?”
Because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He had died in battle, like everyone always knew he would, and now it was time for him to move on. To accept his fate as nothing more than a martyr for the wizarding world, who had walked willing towards his own death at every turn.
He was tired.
So, so, incredibly tired of all of this.
He had no desire to go back in time, to relive it all over again. He didn’t want another war, another prophecy, another bloody dark lord. He just wanted to see Sirius again.
He wanted his parents.
Regulus, as if sensing his thoughts, sighed. “We were both deeply touched by the most vile type of Soul Magic. Magic that makes our souls… malleable, susceptible to alterations.”
Harry stiffened. That wasn’t something he wanted to hear.
“Additionally,” Regulus continued, his voice quieter now, almost bordering on sympathetic. “Our lives were rather unfair.”
Unfair. What an understatement.
Harry swallowed hard as the weight of those words settled in. He had spent seventeen years struggling through a life he had never asked for, never wanted. From his childhood of neglect and abuse to his teenage years of war and loss, he had fought and bled for a world that had never given him the choice to be anything other than its savior.
And now, after everything, after finally reaching the end…
They wanted him to do it all over again?
No.
He didn’t want another battle. He didn’t want to be the Boy Who Lived. He didn’t want to be Harry Potter.
He just wanted to rest. To forget.
To finally, finally let go.
“When I died all those years ago, I met Death on the platform.” Regulus’s voice was even, almost detached, but there was an underlying weight to his words. “It was fitting really, that I would meet him instead of anyone else. I never had anyone to guide me while I was still alive. Unlike you.” At the word ‘you’ His silver-gray eyes flickered with something unreadable as he studied Harry.
“Death told me that both of our chosen fates were eroded away by the exposure to foul Soul Magic so young. This is why we will be granted a second chance. To finally experience a fate we choose for ourselves.”
Harry let out a slow breath. “And how exactly is he going to do that?” he asked, feeling a familiar frustration bubbling up. Even in death, he couldn’t escape riddles.
Regulus tilted his head slightly, as if considering his words carefully. “We restart our lives,” he said simply. “The moment we are born, we will merge with our younger selves. Our minds will be that of children, but we will still retain memories of our previous lives.”
Harry stiffened.
“And the catch?” he asked, his voice laced with suspicion.
For the first time, something like amusement flickered across Regulus’s face. Nothing more than a twitch of his lips. “Is it ever really that easy?” he mused. “No, of course not. Fate can be altered, but it cannot be rewritten without effort. Every change we make will create ripples, and in response, something else will shift to maintain the balance.”
Harry frowned. “What does that mean?”
Regulus leaned forward slightly, his posture still controlled, but there was something more intent in his gaze now. “For example, if we were to save your parents—”
“When.”
Harry’s voice was firm as he spoke. The very idea of it—of saving them—was too important to phrase as a possibility.
Regulus sighed but nodded in acknowledgment. “When we save your parents,” he corrected, “in some way or another, fate will still ensure that you end up with the Dursleys.”
Harry’s expression darkened immediately, his features closing off, his defenses slamming back into place. Again? Even if his parents lived, even if they were there, he would still be forced back into that house? That hell? His hands clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.
Regulus, watching his reaction carefully, said something utterly unexpected.
“Can I adopt you?”
The words left his mouth before he fully processed what he was saying. He stiffened slightly, mentally cursing himself for how abrupt it sounded, but he refused to take it back.
Harry’s head snapped up, his breath hitching. He stared wide-eyed at the man sitting across from him. Shock plain on his face.
Regulus, for his part, did not waver.
Harry didn’t—couldn’t—fully grasp the depth of Regulus’s attachment to him. For seventeen years, Regulus had watched him. Had lived his life through unwilling eyes. He had seen every moment of Harry’s suffering, every lonely night, every desperate and painful sacrifice. And the more he had watched, the more he had understood. Regulus had never been close to anyone in life, never truly allowed himself to form deep lasting bonds. Yet here and now, he knew one thing with absolute certainty.
He would not let Harry go through it again.
He would not let him return to the Dursleys.
He would not let him suffer.
Harry remained frozen, his body rigid, but inside his mind was a whirlwind of emotions, thoughts crashing into each other, all pulling him in different directions.
This man… wanted him.
Not because he was the famous Boy Who Lived. Not because he was some heralded symbol of hope.
But simply because he was Harry.
For as long as he could remember, Harry had been good at reading people. It wasn’t just a keen eye for observations. Hermione had dubbed the strange phenomenon empathy. It was like he had a sixth sense for other people’s emotions. Whatever it was, it was screaming at him now.
This man in front of him meant it.
This wasn’t the same as Sirius, who had been half-mad and grieving, always seeing James whenever he looked at Harry. This wasn’t even like Mr. Weasley, who had welcomed him in but still treated him as another child to care for alongside his own.
This was different.
Regulus cared about him. Not just James Potter’s son. Not the Chosen One. Just him. Just Harry.
And perhaps that was the most terrifying part of all.
Why anyone would need acceptance from him, Harry didn’t quite understand. But, in that moment, the weight of Regulus’s sincerity pressed against his chest, heavy and undeniable. Perhaps it was for that reason alone that he didn’t hesitate to let a simple “Yes” slip past his lips without much thought for his other choices.
The effect was immediate.
For the first time, Harry witnessed his new parent’s face shift. Raw emotion breaking through the carefully controlled mask Regulus had worn up until now. Shock, and disbelief, was accompanied by a flicker of something that looked close to hope.
“A-Are you sure?”
Harry blinked. He hadn’t thought this posh, put-together man was even capable of stuttering until now.
“Yes,” he repeated, this time with more certainty.
Regulus let out a breath, something in his posture loosening ever so slightly. Then, for the first time since they had met, he smiled.
Not a smirk. Not a calculated, careful expression.
A real smile.
And just like that, Harry was hit with the sudden, absurd urge to call him Dad—just to see what the older man’s reaction would be.
Before he could dwell on the thought, a deafening SCREECH filled the air as the train’s brakes shrieked against the tracks, and with a lurch, the Hogwarts Express came to a halt.
They had arrived.
~
In 1961, Regulus Arcturus Black was born, the second son of Walburga and Orion Black.
From the moment he could walk, it was clear he was different. He wasn’t loud like his older brother. He wasn’t rebellious, reckless, or prone to defiance. He was quiet, observant, and most importantly, he was the perfect Black heir. The other Black heir, the one expected to uphold the family name.
And yet, for all their differences, Regulus was unusually close to Sirius.
It baffled the rest of the family. Most assumed that he, like the others, would turn his nose up at the so-called black sheep of the Black family. That he would sneer at Sirius’s defiance, at his refusal to conform.
Instead, Regulus adored him for it.
Where others saw disobedience, Regulus saw freedom.
So when Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor at eleven, he braced himself for the fallout. He expected the howlers, the screams, the harsh words flung at him over dinner. He expected disownment.
What he didn’t expect was the letter that arrived the very next morning.
I figured something like this would happen. Still proud of you.
Sirius had never cried in front of anyone before that moment. He had never allowed himself to because Black's blood doesn’t cry, as his mother so often reminded him.
But the moment he read that letter in the Great Hall, surrounded by hordes of students who barely knew him, he broke. James Potter, his brand-new best friend, could only watch in stunned confusion as Sirius Black—grinning, reckless Sirius Black—silently wept into his breakfast.
A year later, it was Regulus’s turn, and when the Sorting Hat barely touched his head before calling out Slytherin, the world remained exactly the same.
Mostly.
For the next year, Hogwarts buzzed with two major topics of gossip.
First, was how the Black brothers had seemingly defied all house prejudices by continuing to communicate openly, exchanging letters and meeting in corridors like nothing had changed in their relationship despite the animosity between their houses.
Second, was how the infamous Gryffindor pranksters, known for their merciless torment of Severus Snape, had somehow, miraculously, absorbed their self-proclaimed nemesis into their ranks.
Although many speculated, no one quite knew how it happened.
As far as anyone could tell, at the beginning of second year they were at each other’s throats like always. Then suddenly by the end of the week, all five of them were attached at the hip.
Regulus never quite understood how his brother’s ragtag group functioned, but he could see the shift. How Sirius no longer seemed so alone. How Snape, usually so wary and bitter, always found himself pulled into their chaos against his will. How James, despite being the ringleader, actually kept the whole group from perpetually going off the deep end.
The years passed in a blur of laughter, late-night plotting, and whispered conversations in hidden alcoves under the cover of darkness.
And yet, despite all the moments they shared, despite the love that still tethered them together, Regulus and Sirius started to drift apart.
Sirius could never understand why Regulus stayed.
Why, if he truly didn’t share the Black family’s twisted ideals, he refused to leave with him.
“Come with me,” Sirius had pleaded over and over again. “You don’t have to be them. You don’t have to do this.”
Regulus had only looked at him then, his expression unreadable.
“I have to do this for my family. You’ll understand someday,” he had simply said.
But Sirius never did.
~
When Regulus Black graduated from Hogwarts and immediately joined Voldemort’s ranks, Sirius Black felt a burning mixture of fury and betrayal. His younger brother—the boy who had once clung to him as a child, who had written him letters of encouragement when the world turned its back on him—had chosen them. Had chosen that.
Sirius swore never to forgive him.
Fate however, had other plans for him. In the winter of 1979, Regulus Black mysteriously disappeared. His death was neither grand nor unremarkable, just another casualty in an increasingly bloody war.
And Sirius… Sirius no longer felt angry.
He only felt devastated.
But grief, it seemed, would not be a luxury he could afford.
Because soon after that fateful night, something far stranger happened.
Regulus Black wasn’t just dead.
He was erased.
From memories, from records, from existence itself.
No one—not Sirius, not their parents, not even Voldemort—could recall that Regulus had ever even been born.
It was as if he had never truly existed at all.
~
In the summer of 1980, twin sons were born to James and Lily Potter.
Harry and Arthur Potter.
They were inseparable from the moment they entered the world. Two bright, cheerful souls who brought warmth and laughter into the Potter household, even in their darkest hours.
Then, one faithful Halloween night in 1981, their safe haven was betrayed.
It happened so quickly.
The Potters had been enjoying a rare quiet evening in the living room, the twins playing on a soft rug by the fireplace, when Lily excused herself to the kitchen to heat up milk for the boys.
A sudden yelp of pain rang through the house when a minute later she accidentally burned herself on the stove.
A concerned James, left the twins for only a moment to check on her.
And it was then, in the brief span of time where no one was watching, that the Dark Lord arrived.
The wards shattered.
Footsteps echoed through the house.
A whisper of death filled the air.
James and Lily felt the intrusion the moment it happened—an unnatural, gut-wrenching pull in their magic– but they were completely unprepared to confront it. They ran, desperation in every step, bursting back into the living room just in time to see a wand raised toward their children—
Green light erupted.
And then—white.
Blinding, burning white.
James and Lily didn’t remember what happened clearly. The world blurred, and when they awoke, their children were still there, alive, but something was wrong.
When Dumbledore arrived an hour later, he found the Potters curled around their boys, trembling, their closest friends gathered around them in solemn silence.
He knew, immediately, that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.
~
They tested Harry for magic the next day.
And the results were undeniable.
He had none.
Not even a small flicker like that of a squib. Nothing remained.
So the Killing Curse hadn’t killed him. Just his magic.
Dumbledore was insistent.
Harry could not stay.
A Potter helpless Potter child would be an easy target in times as dangerous as these.
For his own protection, he had to be sent away.
James and Lily resisted. They fought. They wept.
But in the end, the world conspired against them.
Because sometimes the cruelest things were the most inevitable.
And so, before dawn had a chance to break, before they could come to their senses and fight for their son once more—
Harry Potter was left on the doorstep of Number 4, Privet Drive.
Alone.
And by the time the sun rose that morning, James and Lily Potter could no longer remember they had ever had a second son to begin with.
~
The Dursleys, to their credit, lasted two months.
Two whole months before the weight of raising a boy they neither wanted nor understood became too much.
In the end, they did what cowards do best.
They ran.
A sudden, extended vacation overseas was planned. Something to “clear their heads” after the stress of taking in such a burdensome child.
They packed their bags. Boarded a plane.
And once they reached the Mediterranean coast, under the guise of an innocent sightseeing trip, they found themselves standing at the edge of a high, jagged cliff—
Holding a small, unsuspecting child in their arms.
No one would know.
No one would miss him.
And so, with no hesitation, they tried to let go.
But the key word here was tried to.
Because as soon as Harry was tossed from their grasp, as soon as his tiny body should have started plummeted toward the unforgiving waves below—
He floated up instead.
For a second, he hovered weightlessly in the air.
And then, before their very eyes, he flew.
Right over their heads.
Right into the arms of a man who should by all accounts, not have existed.
A man with familiar silver eyes, looking at Harry with something between disbelief and quiet joy—
Unsure how to proceed from here.
Harry, of course, had no such hesitations.
“Daddy!”
Regulus Black gawped
And as the words settled around him, along with the tiny arms wrapped secure around his neck, clinging to him without a shred of doubt—
A slow, steady smile spread across his lips.
He held Harry close, letting his warmth seep into him, and whispered words into his son’s hair that he had been desperate to say from before the moment he was even born.
“Hello, Harry.”
A pause.
Then—
“Are you ready to go home?”