Chapter Text
Regulus stepped out of the fireplace, crossed the two steps separating him from the divan and collapsed on it, almost squashing Satisfaction. (The cat shared his affinity for the furniture. Curiosity preferred to stay on the ground, with Meteor’s dog bed being her absolute favourite.) Regulus rubbed the tomcat behind his ears. “Sorry, my lovely. Daddy’s had a long day.”
Networking was exhausting. The light bunch was suspicious of him because of his history as a Death Eater, Voldemort’s supporters outright hated him for deflecting, and he was repeating his political allegiance like a broken recorder since he stepped into the limelight two months ago.
“I have realised the Dark Lord stood not for the ideals of blood purity and cared not for those who swore their allegiance to him. His only goal was to harvest power for his own ends. His supporters were nothing but pawns on his chessboard, expendable tools. Remember, you who once knelt before him, you who are now walking free with heads held high: was there ever a time you did not fear his temper? Was there ever a time you did not fear for the lives of your loved ones? He was not leading us to better tomorrows. He was leading us to early graves.”
“Loyalty is a two-way street. I owe Voldemort nothing, and I owe even less to Tom Marvollo Riddle.”
He seemed to be getting through to some. Cleodora Nott, Isabella Zabini, dear cousin Narcissa were all wives (or ex-wives or relatives) of Death Eaters. They had seen and felt the toll of the war and the Dark Lord firsthand. They knew something was brewing. They wanted their children to be safe. And they were ready to burn the world down to ensure that safety.
Regulus’ allies were predominantly from the female demographic, come to think of it. Helen Granger, Matylda the Tea Room Owner, Amelia Bones, Emmaline Vance, Penelope Fawley, Levina Monkstanley, his former Quidditch team mate Lucinda Talkalot, Calliope Greengrass… even Augusta Longbottom was coldly accepting of him just now. She probably trusted Grace Bones to not invite a Death Eater to her benefit ball.
Sprawled dramatically over the divan with his eyes closed, he did not bother moving when he heard Sirius’ footsteps nearing him. He was not surprised that his brother was still up even at such a late hour. While Regulus’ sleeping schedule regained some semblance of order during the last months, Sirius’ remained erratic. “I saw Augusta Longbottom. She expressed support for my pro-werewolf agenda. And said she hoped that the Ministry stops ‘fidding about’ and gets on your case. I think it might be her way of saying she’s giving you the benefit of doubt,” he said in stead of greetings.
“I’m touched,” Sirius’ voice came from directly above him, “but we have a problem.” Regulus opened one eye. Sirius was upside down and holding a letter. “Harry is a Triwizard Champion.”
“What.” Regulus sat up so fast it made him dizzy. “What do you - of course he is,” he leaned his elbows on his knees and ran his fingers through his black locks in frustration. “Wasn’t there an age limit? What did Harry tell you?” he reached for the letter in Sirius' hand.
Sirius handed it over and slumped on the divan next to his better-dressed brother. “Dumbledore drew an age-line around the Goblet to prevent underage students from competing. Harry didn’t throw his name in the Goblet or ask anybody to do it for him. Mad-Eye thinks somebody is out to get Harry killed. The Minister said it was a magically binding contract and Harry must compete, like it or not,” he summarised.
Regulus thought of the Death Eater raid at the Quidditch Championship and the disappearance of Bertha Jenkins, the Ministry’s rumor-mill. He thought of Narcissa’s pale face, of the darkening ink on his forearm. He stared at the paper covered in Harry’s handwriting, the letters nearly illegible with the haste they were written in. Harry was turning to Sirius for help, because the adults around him failed him. Again.
Harry was in mortal peril, again, when Lily and James gave their lives to keep him alive. Regulus lost a life to keep him alive.
Dumbledore was, once again, spitting on all of their sacrifices.
“Kreacher!” he called, standing up abruptly, disrupting the napping cat again. The old house-elf appeared with a soft pop. “Prepare my formal robes - a set that means business, please. And let Mindy know to expect me. I will be leaving for Hogwarts first thing tomorrow.”
“Kreacher is happy to serve, Master Regulus. How long will Master be staying?”
Regulus considered the question. Simply barging in and out would not be enough. He’d have to stay to ensure his demands were being met. “At least three days, maybe longer. I will be taking Winky with me; you, I need here to look after the house and my lovelies. And to keep an eye on my brother dearest - I know you still haven’t given up on your crusade against heirlooms but Sirius, we need those things,” he turned to his brother to give him a pointed look.
The pillock just grinned at him.