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Mother and Father were already seated at table when Regulus slipped inside, sketched Mother a little bow, and settled into his chair.

"Keeping busy?" Father said, though not as if he cared. He didn't even exert himself to glance up from the letter in his hand. Post owls had been hard at work carrying correspondence amongst the heads of other old families in an effort to persuade Sirius to attend various luncheons and events where he could meet girls his own age and station.

Regulus didn't answer, instead waiting until Orion looked up. "Spent the afternoon reading ahead in preparation for this year's classes," he said, staring into his father's eyes to stop him from drifting back to the letter. Father always looked at Sirius when he spoke—a hard look, sometimes even an enraged look, but at least acknowledging his existence—and Regulus was tired of no one ever looking at him that way. Sirius wasn't the only son worthy of attention.

Anyway, he wasn't lying. He had been reading. He hoped his face didn't betray that it had all been about sex magic, mostly involving acts that technically weren't illegal but were probably perversions of one sort or another, especially for a boy his age.

He wouldn't have thought of it himself. But just before school let out, Severus had beckoned him aside and suggested, rather red in the face, that he do some research over the summer since he had access at home to the kinds of books old Pince kept in the Restricted Section. Wilkes and Rosier had lately taken to tormenting Severus about his inexperience, so he probably wanted to shock them next term by demonstrating his mastery of the finer points of sex magic. The next time Regulus saw him, he planned to drag Severus into an empty classroom and share some of the rituals he'd copied out. If there was anyone he reckoned wouldn't mind experimenting with him—and who was probably as hopeless at this as he was—it was Severus.

He tried not to dwell on the fact that, not so long ago, he would have shared his discovery with Sirius first. Now, though, Sirius would just make sarcastic remarks about filthy-minded Slytherins, then take the best books and run off to pore over their secrets with his hangers-on. They'd probably all wank together. Or Sirius would smuggle the whole lot out and stash them at Potter's house.

Regulus sighed. He wished Sirius would come back. His Sirius. But if he wasn't coming back, then he wished this Sirius would go away.

Father muttered a few patronising syllables and went back to frowning at his letter. Mother smiled, but her eyes kept returning restlessly to the door, watching for Sirius. Sirius, who was always late.

This summer Regulus had discovered an absolutely smashing place to hide when he was in no mood to have his day monopolised by a self-centred older brother: the dusty old library. Instead of letting Sirius bully him into sitting cooped up in his bedroom, forced to listen while he went on and on about his best mate James Potter and how boring it was to be stuck at Grimmauld Place and how much he hated the kinds of snobbish pastimes Father considered de rigueur for the eldest son, Regulus had a bookish haven he could escape to. Today, for example. Today had been brilliant. Between the smothering heat not even the heavy velvet curtains and multiple cooling charms could hold off and the more personal heat inspired by his reading material, the afternoon had passed in a rich, dark, timeless daydream. He hadn't thought about Sirius once. Sirius had probably looked for him—now that James wasn't around, Sirius seemed to remember he used to enjoy his brother's company—but Regulus would much rather sit by himself than have to huddle under the brazen, bewildering posters of Muggle women laughing and strutting on Sirius' bedroom walls.

Only Kreacher's reminder had saved him from being late to dinner. He'd had to stay back for a few minutes even so, because he'd rather have Wilkes hex cactus spines all over his bum than face his mother and father with damp underpants.

In deference to the sweltering temperature, dinner had more an air of picnic about it. It was nice. It meant Mother was willing to try.

"Scone?" Politely, he held out the platter.

"Wait for your brother, Regulus," she said, raising her kerchief to pat her impeccable hairline. He flushed and set the plate down. If everybody had their way, that was how he would spend his life, apparently: waiting for Sirius.

Kreacher appeared, bringing watercress sandwiches and clotted cream and a carafe of ice water. There was already a pot of blackcurrant tea, and Father—who clearly didn't feel the need to wait for Sirius—was sipping his favourite Turkish coffee from a demitasse cup. The heady, dark fragrance made Regulus want to swoon and reminded him for some reason of the library. He wondered if Severus had ever tasted Turkish coffee. Mother smiled again, this time at nothing in particular, and there was a slight convulsive twitch at the corners of her mouth. She kept swallowing, and Regulus turned his face away in despair. His family had once been happy, hadn't they? Why couldn't his family be happy?

He glanced at Father, but Orion had produced a quill and was annotating the letter, brows rising and falling as he admired his own rhetorical skill. Regulus could risk interrupting him or he could take matters into his own hands. Feeling reckless, he cast a cooling charm. Mother hated perspiring, but she deemed it terrible manners for a lady to sit at table and flick spells at herself. But the longer this heat wave went on, the more disoriented she became. Regulus had been thrilled to see her sitting up and joining them this evening, but now it looked as if the attempt to have dinner together like a normal family was courting disaster.

Last summer, Mother's headaches had been a 'nuisance.' This summer they incapacitated her, and led to frightening rampages that really did change her into the 'screaming Harpy' Sirius had described for Potter's amusement. Regulus wished he hadn't overheard that. He still hadn't forgiven Sirius for making fun of Mother just to get a smile out of some utter berk who didn't belong to the family. When Sirius actually performed a rendition of her shrieks and Potter started clucking like a chicken, Regulus had slipped away down the corridor, cursing mad and ready to hex out Sirius' tongue. He hadn't stopped pacing around until he'd found Severus. Severus was always up for skiving off to the lake and discussing revenge.

The sight of Mother's involuntary swallowing had wrecked his appetite. It meant the screaming couldn't be far behind, and then Mother would be sent to bed and not allowed to leave her room for days.

Sirius, the new, cruel Sirius who wanted nothing to do with them, would probably say it served her right.

In the quiet part of his mind where his fantasies got all mixed up together and spread out into one long tapestry of how he wished life could be, Regulus wondered what it would have been like if he'd been born first. If he and Sirius had switched places. Or if he'd been born an only child, like Severus. Not that Severus seemed better off, and no one in their right mind would call him a cheerful bloke, and there was that time he'd almost hexed Regulus for asking a harmless question about his parents, but Regulus put that down to how much Severus hated living like a Muggle.

They all sat there, waiting for Sirius. The sandwich edges had dried out, and the mayonnaise was starting to look like snot.

Just as Regulus was thinking he'd have to get up from his chair or explode, his brother swaggered in. Swaggered, as if he'd known they wouldn't start without him. Even so, he radiated annoyance at having to be there. Regulus clenched his hands under the table. Once upon a time, he would have liked nothing better than to spend summer hols with his brother, but he was fed up with Sirius acting like an entitled prat. The squabbling and Slytherin-baiting at school had carried over to home. It was one thing to be disrespectful to Severus, but it was just not on to treat their mother with the same disdain he inflicted on a penniless half-blood.

"So kind of you to join us," Father drawled, his empty cup clicking ominously in the saucer.

"Like I had a choice, right?" Sirius flung himself into a chair and crossed his arms. He eyed the food sitting untouched on the table with scorn. "What's this? You summon me to dinner, and then fob me off with leftovers from tea?" He leaned forward and snatched up a scone. "I could do with a pork pie, at least. Kreacher— "

"I can't believe a son of mine has worse manners than an attic ghoul," Father snapped as the elf appeared. "Thank you, Kreacher, but Master Sirius spoke out of turn."

Bowing, Kreacher caught Regulus' eye before he vanished. Usually it helped, but today Regulus' stomach just sank further. He didn't remember Father ever reprimanding his heir in front of a house elf before.

Sirius pulled a grumpy face, and it was all Regulus could do not to snarl at his brother to stop sulking. The fates must have heard his prayer, because Sirius sighed dramatically and shoved the scone into his mouth, the signal that they could all to set to. Regulus winkled out a scone baked with bits of lavender and white chocolate—he knew Kreacher had made it expressly for him—but even though he could tell in an abstract way that it tasted delicious, his jaws moved in a mechanical, munching rhythm and the flour dried out his mouth.

The silence around the table would have depressed the bubbliest spirits, and no one would ever accuse a Black of being bubbly in the first place. Regulus tried revising in his head the naughtiest bits of the spells he'd found in the sombre, leatherbound books, but he couldn't concentrate. Sirius flopped back and rained crumbs on his lap. Mother seemed to be in another world; she ignored her steaming tea and let her single sandwich sit uneaten. The skin around her eyes had a faint purplish tinge, and she held herself ramrod straight, her lips compressed, her nostrils occasionally flaring.

If Sirius hadn't been there, his sullen presence demanding he choose sides, Regulus would have hitched his chair closer and put a hand on Mother's arm. Sometimes if he touched her soothingly and told her aimless stories about Hogwarts—she once said her happiest days had been at Hogwarts—he could coax her out of her trance. He often went to sit by her bed in the darkened room when the bad spells took her, reading softly from silk-bound volumes of old poetry marked with her family crest. Sometimes Father joined them, retiring to a chair in a shadowy corner where Regulus couldn't see his expression. He never said anything. He refrained from smoking, and he didn't sit rustling The Daily Prophet. He listened. It was perhaps the closest Regulus ever felt to Father, this silent fear and sense of futility they shared over Mother's bouts of erratic behaviour and her increasing complaints of head pains.

Sirius never came near her. Regulus wasn't sure he was even aware of Mother's condition and couldn't help wondering, a little bitterly, if he'd even care. He certainly didn't seem to notice how often his scorn and determination to argue with everything his parents said drove Mother raging from the room. Or rather, he seemed to delight in his effect on her, apparently convinced that turning Mother into a screeching Harpy was all the proof he needed that his cause was noble and his means justified, so he resorted to it whenever he wanted to win an argument.

In his heart, Regulus blamed James Potter. Sirius was fast becoming Potter's lapdog. He copied his mannerisms and got into trouble for him and surpassed him in arrogance. Sometimes Regulus would swear he hated Potter as much as Severus did.

Father hadn't rebuked Sirius for coming to table dressed in tight Muggle jeans and an outrageous, ragged t-shirt with sweat stains in the armpits. He raised a disgusted eyebrow but didn't waste his breath pointing out the obvious, that Sirius was slouching in his chair and playing with his food like a bratty three-year-old. If Regulus had dared to show up looking like a homeless Mudblood, he would have been sent straight to his room to change. But then, Regulus wasn’t the firstborn. His parents always indulged Sirius as much as they punished him, whether Sirius saw it that way or not.

"So, boys," Father began, his tone forbidding. Father had never mastered the art of sounding casual. "What do you plan to do with yourselves after you leave school?"

Oh, Salazar. Regulus was tempted to put his face in his plate and groan. Of all the ways to bait the dragon! In any other family, it would have been a perfectly ordinary if somewhat patronising question, more what you'd expect from a visiting uncle than from the father who'd watched you grow up, watched you stand in your brother's shadow, watched your brother seize upon and discard new passions year after year. The father who fought with Sirius, punished him, promised him control of the family; who treated him first as a wayward crup and then as a prince in waiting. Father should have spotted the signs that Sirius needed something, each failed distraction a symptom of growing restlessness and discontent. Regulus had once admired that mercurial, almost vagabond quality in his brother, if only because he himself was so much the opposite, fond of expensive clothes and quiet study sessions and the tempestuous, magic-filled dramas of their family history. Sirius condemned that history as a chronicle of lawless tyrants and bloodthirsty madmen, never realising how perfectly his own crazy antics fit the family profile.

Then, of course, there was the matter of magic. Sirius had plenty of foul things to say about wizards whose talents lay in the Dark Arts. He pretended it was why he and James had it in for Snape. Well, Regulus had discovered an aptitude for them; it was something he could do that Sirius couldn't. That was due to Severus, of course. He might never have bothered if Severus hadn't been willing—reluctantly at first, swearing him to secrecy, threatening to hex his tongue out and give him a case of Ballooning Bollocks (which Regulus had researched anxiously, learning to his relief that no such thing existed) if he ever dared breathe a word of it to Sirius—to show him the fascinating new spells he'd created.

He knew Severus was a half-blood, but Regulus' study sessions with him stirred an excitement he'd never felt about magic before. At home, it was formal and ritualised and awfully political. At school, he'd caught on fast, but it had still been a lot of drudgery and homework, a lot of proving himself and measuring up. With Severus, he'd started noticing a difference. He could feel the other boy's power now when Severus entered a room, when before he hadn't been conscious of it at all. Surely that meant the Dark Arts intensified the magic you were born with? This afternoon in the library had felt that way, too. He'd squirmed on his belly amidst a dusk of dreaming books, giving himself over to feelings that were a little disturbing but also utterly fantastic, as if there was a whole undiscovered world within his body.

He shouldn't be thinking of Severus or the library while sitting elbow to elbow with his brother. If Sirius got wind of either, he'd make Regulus' life a hexed, jinxed, humiliated hell.

"I want to be an Auror."

Mother almost knocked over her glass of ice water. "Over my dead body, young man. There's no reason on earth why anyone in our family should demean himself that way."

Oh Merlin, that tore it. A shadow of supercilious amusement crept over Father's face as he waited for Sirius to say something unforgivable. Regulus had seen that very same look on his brother at school. It always gave him the shivers to realise how much Sirius took after their father.

He fixed Sirius with a pleading look begging him to leave it. The shrug he got in return was as dismissive as a pat on the head. Stupid bugger. Sirius liked a good fight, be it with Slytherins at school or at home with parents who couldn't fathom why their heir relished every opportunity to spit in their faces.

Mother started off calmly enough, explaining with great good sense why law enforcement wasn't an acceptable profession for a Black. To Regulus, the tension behind her lecturing tone was transparent. What she really meant was: it's not safe. The Auror corps was beneath them, even Sirius couldn't deny that, but what had Mother all worked up was the certainty that Sirius would get himself killed. Because he would, and everyone at table knew it. Everyone except Sirius, the stupid toerag. Regulus certainly did.

It didn't matter that he was brave. It didn't matter that he was brilliant. All it would take was getting cornered by a ruthless enemy, and Sirius would throw it all away and step in front of a Killing Curse to save James Potter's life. In fact, he'd tell you so himself, and then to prove he wasn't a sentimental idiot, he'd have to make up for it by pushing your head down a toilet.

"Sirius, are you listening to me?" In six words, Mother's voice climbed an octave up the scale.

"Walburga," Father said, then lit his pipe as though they had all the time in the world. He pointed the pipe stem at Sirius. "Why should a son of the House of Black want to pursue such a shoddy career? Come on, boy. Explain that to me."

Father always made the mistake of thinking Sirius would respect authority when of course the opposite was true. Mother's hands trembled in her lap, her eyes glittering with oncoming delirium. She muttered bits and pieces of invective under her breath, and Regulus wanted to jump up and run from the room. They didn't have much time before her private commentary broke forth in a rant, and then Sirius would laugh at her, and Regulus would want to kill him.

With no forewarning, Sirius shouted, "I want to help rid the world of murderers and dark wizards, just like every other normal person does!"

For a moment, Regulus stared at his brother. Sirius looked flushed and furious and dishevelled, at his most dashing and unstoppable. He was always particularly breathtaking when he was consciously crossing a line. His belief that he was breaking rules and smiting bastards inspired a reckless heroism that poured out of him like a charismatic spell, dazzling hapless bystanders.

Only in this case he was talking about their family. He was talking gaily and gloriously to his parents' faces about ridding the world of them and their friends.

A shudder wracked Regulus, and he wondered if he was about to burst out with accidental magic. He couldn't stand it. This couldn't go on. Sirius had always been the heir, the troublemaker, the one who demanded their parents' attention, the one who needed help, discipline, threats, the one their eyes followed, the one who sent Mother to bed with throbbing headaches, the one who had Father sitting up all night in the study, smoking. Regulus had always finished second, and for the longest time he'd believed that was the way it should be. Merlin, he'd been as besotted as everyone else. He'd craved Sirius' teasing and insults. He would have given up his robes with the embroidered edges and silver buttons, his favourite books, Mother's absentminded tokens of love, Father's casual approval. He would have given them to Sirius and suffered in silence.

But not at this price. Not if Sirius wanted to destroy them and everything they stood for.

Sod James Potter. And sod Sirius too, while he was at it. Sod him for clutching the hem of Potter's robes and letting himself be led about like a dog on a leash. If Sirius had only talked to Father man to man—if he hadn't taken so much pleasure in tormenting Mother—

But no, he would rather kiss James Potter's arse and imitate whatever Potter did, ambush Severus in the halls, lock Regulus in the girls' loo, join the bloody Aurors when he was the last wizard in Britain who should be faffing about stalking criminals.

When Mother lurched to her feet, Regulus almost shouted Stop it! They were one of the oldest families in wizarding Britain. Why couldn't they control their son? Now Sirius would flounce off in a huff, leaving Father and Regulus to deal with Mother's shrieking spells.

This last year at school, sucked into the feud between Severus and the sodding Marauders, it had dawned on Regulus that Sirius was probably never coming back. He had no desire to be part of the family. He was having too much fun striking a rebel pose to realise Mother was sick. He couldn't stop making Regulus' life miserable by challenging Father and flaunting his Gryffindor principles and all but coming out and accusing his parents of being no better than raving murderers.

Well, then, let him go. Regulus stood up, his mind speeding coldly through all the outcomes. Yes, it would be best for everyone involved if Sirius got this over with and ran off to Potter's house. After all, their parents had another son. One who, if nothing else, was obedient and loyal. One who wanted the family to survive.

Sirius had pushed to his feet, too, scattering crumbs, his smile manic. His wand was in his hand, an insult so unthinkable that Regulus wondered for a moment if his brother had gone 'round the twist.

"No skin off my nose if you don't want to face the truth," Sirius said, with an odd barking harshness to his voice. "You're always going to side with your prejudices, so why should I even bother? If it's a contest between me and your fantasies of pureblood rule, I'm out on my arse. But I have friends who appreciate me for who I am, not for the purity of the blood in my veins." He tossed the hair out of his face the better to let everyone see he was laughing. "That's it. I'm through. I'm done with this shite. When the walls of reality come tumbling down, I don't want to be one of those crushed by your stupidity." He turned on his heel. "If you want to contact me, address your letters to Hogwarts."

"Get out!" Mother wailed. "Out, you viper! You terrible child! Get out of my sight!"

Sirius grinned harder, although he was sweating horribly. "Thanks, Mum, but I wasn't asking your permission." He summoned a farewell scone because it sorted well with his sense of making a scene, then turned his back with smug dignity and sauntered toward the door.

Mother screamed. Her wrath had turned to terror that she was about to lose her favourite son.

Father's voice thundered across the table. "Walburga, don't interfere. The boy has made his choice."

Regulus slipped out of his seat and followed Sirius. Despite the heat, his hands were cold. In the past, he'd always been the one to go after Sirius when he stormed away, the one to placate him, laugh at his rudeness, convince him to return to his place in the family. This was the moment he was supposed to play the role of the bond that would not break between his parents and his brother. He was supposed to be strong enough to hold them together.

But bonds can be broken.

When he said, "I'm coming with you," that's when he broke. He said it on purpose, to be sure Sirius made good on his threat to leave and not come back. Sirius, who accused Severus of fawning after rich and powerful wizards. Well, at least Severus had plans for the future. Sirius was a fool who was content to ride on James Potter's coat tails. If Potter was trying out for the Aurors, so was Sirius, whether it suited him or not. If Potter thought all Dark wizards were evil, so did Sirius, even if it meant disowning his whole family. Sirius was as broomless as he'd ever been, flying on sheer stubbornness and heading for a fall.

When Sirius nudged him and said, "James will have room for both of us," Regulus almost shouted, "What the bleeding hell am I supposed to do at Potter's? What sort of life is that, trailing after him like an infatuated halfwit?"

Instead, he smiled and nodded as if the very idea didn't give him visions of Cruciating the entire house of Gryffindor. Mother and Father watched them go, obviously expecting Regulus to coax Sirius back into the fold. But none of them got it. There was no way back. When he summoned his belongings—and if Sirius truly believed that one piece of luggage constituted all his worldly goods, then he evidently considered Regulus a fool—he broke again. He broke with every step, dragging after Sirius in the sweltering darkness and counting the seconds until the Knight Bus arrived, breaking over and over until the bus pulled up with a massive grinding of gears.

Sirius smacked him cheerfully on the back of the head. "Won't James be surprised?"

Regulus shoved his brother toward the bus, one last intimacy between them, one decisive final snap. "Sod James. I have a surprise for you." For one terrifying moment, he thought he wasn't enough of a Black to do what needed to be done. Sirius stood at the top of the steps, grasping the pole as if he intended to climb back down. Regulus pulled his wand. "No, Sirius. Don't come back."

As the Knight Bus doors crashed shut and the vehicle jerked and roared off at breakneck speed, Regulus stood for a moment, so hot and overwhelmed by what he'd done he almost couldn't breathe. His chest was stiff and dry with the memory of Sirius' face. He coughed, and it hurt. He'd never seen Sirius look so stunned, so … orphaned. As if it was real to him for the first time. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe somewhere, deep down, Sirius did care. But that just made things worse. Because it meant he cared and he still treated them like shite. He still went ahead and walked out the door.

Regulus exhaled shakily and reminded himself not to be a Snivellus. Mistake or not, it was too late now. Everything he'd believed and everything he held dear was broken beyond repair, broken for good, the price he hadn't known he was expected to pay to save his family. It wouldn't change things for Sirius to come back. Sirius was no longer family. After all, wasn't this what he'd wanted? Hadn't Regulus just helped him escape? Regulus cradled this broken knowledge, its cutting edges and shattered pieces, all the way home, all the way up the front steps, in through the door, surprised at how empty it felt now to be the only son.

He hoped Sirius didn't hate him.

He hoped Sirius never came back.

Most of all, he prayed he never had to do anything this terrible ever again.

At the threshold to the dining room, he stood straight and watched his father hold a potion bottle to Mother's lips. When she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, Orion made sure she was comfortably settled before he looked up.

Regulus kept his hands loose at his sides, his chin high. "He's gone." Strangely, his voice didn't sound broken. In fact, it was steady and slightly ominous. It sounded the way Severus had that time he'd told Regulus to sod off and stop badgering him with questions about his mum and dad.

His father carefully stroked Mother's brow, then walked over to Regulus with a heavy, imposing tread. They stared at each other without pleasure but with complete understanding. Orion held out a hand.

Regulus took it. The serenity he'd enjoyed in the library earlier that afternoon no longer seemed real. That had been a boy's daydream. He wondered if he'd ever have the courage to daydream again. "Father."

He felt no love, only responsibility, which he supposed was simply another sort of love. The dreary sort.

"You have the makings of a true Black," his father said, with an oddly cynical smile that made Regulus suspect it wasn't a compliment. He released Regulus' hand. "Tomorrow you'll Apparate with me to the solicitor's office, where I'll initiate the process of changing my will. I'll need you there as witness." They stared at each other, and Father licked his lips before adding with a visible effort, "Son."

Regulus said nothing. There was nothing to say. After all, he'd chosen this. Sirius didn't have to do it anymore because Regulus had decided to do it for him. Regulus was going to be Sirius. No, he was going to be better than Sirius. Father didn't know that yet, but at least he understood what Regulus had done.

With the same deliberation, Father went back to sit with Mother and page through the letter he'd been working on. He betrayed no signs of grief, and Regulus would never get to see that control slip; Father kept his feelings private. He didn't even seem angry, merely irritated. Regulus continued watching long past the point it was clear there would be no further acknowledgement of Sirius' departure. He knew Father expected him to go to his room, so he levitated his bag and made slowly for the stairs. He was the son now. This was the son's life. As he climbed past the magically preserved heads of house elves lining the balustrade—the ones Sirius had callously dubbed Winken, Blinken, and Nod—each step creaked as if the burden of his mother's sanity and his father's pride rode on his shoulders, as if every male child who'd ever shouldered the weight of family history trudged beside him through the halls of a house as old as blood.

He glanced at the door to Sirius' bedroom as he passed but didn't go in. For a terrible moment, his throat closed, and a hot, prickling wave of misery rose behind his eyes. It wasn't fair. Sirius had never had to do this alone. Regulus was the one who had to live here, the one who would always remember that two boys had grown up under this roof, two brothers, and one was never coming back. Already, Grimmauld Place felt more like an obligation than a home. It was only a legacy now, a family monument.

Safe behind his own locked door, he sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. He was the son. There would never again be a day when he wasn't the son.

He sat up and blew his nose and then pulled out his wand. He was the one his family depended on now. Sirius had done them a favour, really. He'd proved there were wizards in the world who believed the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was populated entirely by murderers and lunatics. Worse, he'd demonstrated in the most insulting way possible that those you trusted most and loved the best could be brainwashed and turned against you; that one didn't need magic or law to deprive a family of its legitimate heir. Father was counting on Regulus now in a way he never had before. Mother… He'd talk to Mother tomorrow. He'd have to stop thinking of himself first and take into account how to keep the Potters of the world from destroying what was left of his family.

Summoning parchment, he decided the first step involved writing to Severus. Severus knew about power, and Regulus was in need of it. It was time to start making plans.