Chapter Text
Regulus Black loped up the grassy hill in front of Hogwarts School, his dark robes snapping in the wind on a blustery spring day.
His eyes scanned the spires of the great building as he approached, tracing the outline of the castle with his eyes, as clouds drifted across the grey spring sky, and birds took off from the owlery with letters clutched in their talons.
There were a few students spread about the grounds on this chilly day, gathered in clumps, revising for their impending exams, or else avoiding their revising by goofing off near the lake. It was a Friday afternoon, and most of them were just happy to have a glorious weekend stretching before them.
The bowtruckle on Regulus’ shoulder chittered and pointed away as they approached the wide double doors at the front of the castle.
“Yes, that’s the Whomping Willow,” Regulus responded, following the little creature’s gesture towards the gnarled tree that sat down the slope aways, arms swaying easily in the breeze. “I know it looks cozy, but it’s got a bite.”
Chip the bowtruckle chirped with disappointment.
The castle doorway was open to welcome in the fresh air, and Regulus stepped through it, crossing into the entryway for the first time in almost fourteen years. He couldn’t help but run his gaze along the sloping walls of the beautiful castle, remembering.
It was a strange feeling, being back here, and not an entirely pleasant one; his last few years at this school had not held very much joy, and he’d left it on the final day of his sixth year knowing he was unlikely to return.
Since then he’d been back to the castle only once, and that was in secret and under cover of darkness, as he’d flown his broom up to Ravenclaw Tower without passing through the front doors.
“Merlin, is that Regulus Black?” He heard a Ravenclaw whisper as she and her friend passed him, glancing over their shoulders with wide eyes.
Regulus noticed the glances of several more students that were heading through the entryway on their way to the Great Hall—dinner was probably starting soon.
Regulus was used to the glances and the whispers, and they didn’t really bother him anymore. He received them anywhere he went in the Wizarding World, and to a lesser degree in the Muggle world.
Wizards whispered about him because he was Regulus Black, the former Death Eater who’d brought about the death of the Dark Lord almost single-handedly. It was almost single-handed, because he hadn’t actually been the one to fire the killing curse that night–the person responsible for that had been either James or Lily Potter, though which of their curses had been the fatal blow they didn’t know for certain, and didn’t care to know.
The Wizarding community, however, didn’t care to parse such details, and had mostly accepted the narrative that Regulus Black was responsible for Voldemort’s death, with James and Lily playing a minor role in the saga, meaning they were less stared-at when out and about in public.
The Potter’s anonymity was due also to the fact that Regulus was much more recognizable than them–he was missing half his left arm and had an unsightly burn on the side of his head, and people tended to remember those kinds of things. His wounds were the reason Muggles stared at him sometimes, thinking only that he’d been in some terrible accident, and having no idea that he’d spent three years hunting down the fragmented soul of the most powerful dark wizard of all time.
He was used to being noticed in public, though he’d never been a fan of it, and so he didn’t let the whispering of the Hogwarts students bother him as he made his way towards the Headmaster’s office, where he had an appointment.
Minerva McGongall had sent him an owl the previous week requesting a meeting with him at his earliest convenience. He’d immediately taken the letter up to Remus Lupin, who was at their house for the weekend of the full moon.
“What’s this?” Regulus had asked, after Lupin beckoned him in. Remus had been sitting in an armchair with a book open in his lap and a mug of tea on the table. He was recovering from the moon the previous night, and would likely be in his room all day.
“...looks like a letter,” Remus had responded innocently.
“Yes, from Minerva McGonagall.”
“Alright, seems you know what it is then,” Remus had said, a slight curve in his lips.
“I mean what’s it for, what’s she want to see me for?” Regulus said, half rolling his eyes. Remus shrugged with false innocence.
“I supposed the letter might tell you,” He had offered unhelpfully. Regulus gave him a blank glare, and Remus smiled.
“Did you put her up to this?” Regulus asked.
“Up to what?”
“Up to… is she…” Regulus had huffed. “Look if you told her to try and rope me into some position–”
“I did nothing of the sort,” Remus retorted, “And I don’t see why you’d come to that conclusion.”
“Because you work for her, and you’ve been at me about applying to the school for the past five years.”
Remus had shrugged, and Regulus put his hand on his hip.
“Did you ask her to ask me? Because I don’t need charity from–”
“No, Regulus,” Remus had said, finally turning serious, “I didn’t ask Minerva to extend an offer of employment to you.”
Remus had sighed, and set his tea aside.
“ She approached me , and asked if I thought you’d be open to considering a job at the school. I said there was no harm in asking, and that you had my highest recommendation.”
“For what? For teaching? I’d be a shit teacher, I don’t know the first thing about children.”
“You would not be a shit teacher, Regulus, and you’re excellent with children. Harry and his friends love you–and he and the Weasley boy and Frank’s son are all starting next year–Luna the year after. It’d be perfect!”
“What in Merlin does she want me to teach, anyway? Divination ?”
Remus had paused.
“I believe she was considering you for Defense Against the Dark Arts,” He said softly.
“Mad-Eye’s chosen to retire at the end of term and do some sight-seeing—no pun meant. He’d always intended to step down once Dumbledore left.”
Remus shrugged.
“You’re an obvious choice, Reg.”
“An obvious choice,” Regulus had retorted flatly.
“Yes,” Remus had smiled at his friend’s obtuseness, “I think it’s safe to say there’s no wizard alive who's done more single-handed defending against the Dark Arts than you. Apart from Dumbledore, maybe .”
Regulus frowned, and Remus had looked warmly pleading.
“Come on, tell her you’ll meet. Just hear what she has to say and see if it suits you. I don’t deny I’m not unbiased—I’d love to have a friend join me at school–but you can always tell her no.”
Regulus had paused, tapping the letter against his thigh, unsure.
“You like her, don’t you?” Remus prompted, and Regulus sighed.
“A sight more than I liked Dumbledore, though that isn’t saying much.”
Remus gave an apologetic shrug.
“Well, she’s been mixing things up, now she’s Headmistress. I think you might like what she’s been doing with the school; might be interesting to be a part of it.”
Regulus had twisted his mouth in thought as Chip popped out of the pocket on his shirt, peering down at Lupin.
“Alright,” Regulus had consented, “I’ll… take her meeting.”
Remus had beamed.
“But I’m not making promises,” Regulus had pointed with the letter in hand, “I still think it’s a rubbish idea; but I respect her, so I’ll hear what she has to say.”
Remus had nodded.
“Fair enough.”
And so Regulus was winding through the large corridors of Hogwarts castle, on his way to the Headmistresses office–a room which he had been in only once before, when he’d sat before Albus Dumbledore as a fifteen-year-old, and begged for the Headmaster’s help in escaping the terrible fate of becoming a Death Eater.
Albus had been unable or unwilling to offer him the escape he sought, and had instead suggested he become a spy for the Order, so as to make it to the other side of the war without ending up in Azkaban– if he’d survived that long.
Regulus had refused the offer, and taken the Mark that summer, unable to see a way out that didn’t end in either his death, or his brother’s, or both. He’d squashed every soft part of himself, and poured his energy into being the best Death Eater he could be, unapologetic and heartless, drinking in the power and refusing to let himself feel helpless again–to feel anything again. He had become exactly what everyone had always expected him to be.
But it hadn’t lasted.
In the summer after their sixth year at Hogwarts, Evan Rosier and Barty Crouch–his two best friends and fellow Death Eaters–had been sent on a suicide mission by Voldemort and the Carrows, sacrificed to a coven of vampires just to win a handful of them as allies. Barty had fought his way out and survived; Evan hadn’t. And while Barty had poured himself into gaining more power so that he could exact revenge on the vampires who’d tried to kill him, Regulus had turned his attention to the people truly responsible—the Carrow twins, and Voldemort himself.
After losing Evan, Regulus knew he could no longer carry the banner for the Dark Lord. He saw through Voldemort’s lies about the value of magical blood, and the purity of wizardkind. Voldemort had not hesitated to sacrifice two young purebloods for the sake of his own gain, and Regulus could not forget that.
So it had begun, and Regulus had become his own spy–beholden to no one and telling nothing, but gathering information bit by bit, until he had the knowledge he needed to dismantle the Dark Lord’s carefully constructed shields.
He had tried to convince Barty of what he knew to be true–that the cause they were fighting for was a hollow one, and that Tom Riddle was a hypocrite and a liar–set only on amassing power and immortality for himself. But Barty was in too deep, and had given too much of himself to now walk away.
So Regulus had walked away instead, disappearing off the face of the earth, and leaving behind just enough evidence that everyone would come to the conclusion that he was dead. His disappearance meant very little to the Dark Lord or any of his followers, and Barty Crouch was probably the only Death Eater who even tried to look.
Regulus often thought back to that day in Dumbledore’s office, when he’d thrown himself at the Headmaster’s mercy and been rejected. He wondered how things might have gone, if Dumbledore had taken action and tried to protect him.
On the one hand he might’ve been spared some of the worst experiences of his life–he might’ve been able to avoid the guilt of the lives he’d taken in Voldemort’s service and the horrors he’d experienced before and after his betrayal.
On the other hand, if Dumbledore had kept him from becoming a Death Eater, then he never would have had the opportunity to discover the Dark Lord’s secrets and use them against him. If Regulus had gone to live with the Potters and Sirius after his fifth year, like he’d asked, then Voldemort may very well have won the war, and all the people he loved and had grown to love would have died in the battle against darkness.
Regulus had hated Dumbledore at first, had relished the idea of meeting him in battle, of looking him in the eyes, Dark Mark emblazoned on his arm, and casting the killing curse as the old man realized the mistake he’d made by turning Regulus away. He’d imagined watching the bearded wizard quiver in fear, and saying,
“See? You should’ve listened to me. You should’ve helped me when you had the chance.”
It had been a daydream that gave him the fuel of hatred he needed during the days he’d worked for Voldemort. But after turning against The Dark Lord and bringing about his downfall, the sharp sting of Regulus’ resentment had lessened, and over time he began to let go of his hatred.
He didn’t like Albus Dumbledore–the man was a user and a manipulator, and he was overly-proud, trusting no one fully but himself. But Regulus had also used people and manipulated them. He was also proud and he also didn’t trust anyone. He had been a liar and he had been a killer, and he had been ruthless, and after a few years he found he really didn’t have the energy to hate Albus Dumbledore.
Instead he left the old man alone, feeling neither admiration nor contempt, but just a cool neutrality towards him, acknowledging the work he’d done in trying to protect muggles and half-bloods and the unity of the Wizarding World, but also aware of the man’s shortcomings and failures.
When Dumbledore had retired as Hogwarts Headmaster two years previous–apparently intending to travel with his brother Aberforth–Regulus had been asked to speak at the ceremony being held in his honor. This was not because he knew the man–he’d personally spoken to him no more than thrice in his life–but because he was Regulus Black, hero of the Wizarding War.
He had declined, of course–as he declined most offers to speak and be interviewed and tell his story and make appearances–and had made sure to be busy on the night of the gala, when the rest of his friends had gotten out their dress robes and made the trip to Hogwarts together.
James had said some words for Dumbledore that evening. He and Lily sometimes gave interviews or made speeches–mostly when it was necessary to quell some sort of anti-muggle sentiment, or when a new wave of blood-purity apologists had been making noise in the Ministry. Lily started working in the Muggle Relations department a few years after the war, and had become a staunch voice against the remnants of the blood-purists that had been in power when Voldemort was around.
Regulus left the speech-making to them, though, and had lived as quietly as possible the past ten years, finding what work he could and keeping mostly to himself. He’d lived with his brother in James’ parents’ old house for the first few years after the war, along with Remus Lupin, James and Lily, and their son Harry.
It had been nice, to be among people and to stay in one place after spending so much time traveling on his own. He’d begun to see the Potters and Lupin as good friends, and had spent a long time repairing his relationship with his brother, as well as visiting Pandora Lovegood and her family.
All of them had sort of walked through those first few years in a bit of a haze, trying to heal from wounds of various kinds and rebuild their lives after the war. It was common, any given night, for one of them or the other to wake up from a nightmare, or spend the dark hours sitting in the kitchen with a mug of cold tea, talking softly about whatever phantoms had plagued them. They each had their own demons.
Regulus and Sirius had shared a room for the first few months, but Sirius kept turning into a dog while he slept and Regulus had finally had enough, so he’d moved himself to the room next to Lupin. He was never very far from his brother, though, and sometimes Regulus would wake up to the dark shape of Sirius coming to curl up next to him, shivering from an old fear. Or else Regulus would jolt awake with a sudden scream, his skin tingling and his heart pounding, and Sirius would be there instantly, holding onto his trembling hand and reminding him where he was.
Lupin was a night owl, and any time Regulus couldn’t sleep he would spend a few hours in the living room reading, or listening to Lupin tell him interesting muggle facts, or else they’d sit on the front stoop together and have a smoke.
Regulus had curbed his smoking habit over the years, and now only occasionally had a cigarette, but in the first year or so after the war, the smoking was the best way he knew to calm his racing heart when the dark memories swelled over him like a great wave. It also tended to help him curb his urges to deprive himself of food, which was strange, considering the cigarettes made food taste worse and not better.
Still, as months turned into years, there had been fewer nightmares and more quiet sleep, and Regulus had tried to occupy himself with things besides smoking and feeling miserable. It was easy to do, in the Potter house, where something was always going on and he was hardly ever alone. It was sometimes overwhelming–all the people and noise and busyness suddenly in his life–but it had been exactly the sort of place he needed at the time.
However, after James and Lily had welcomed their daughter Marlenia, the house began to be a bit cramped, and he considered a change. The final straw for Regulus was when he’d walked out of the fireplace floo one evening to find James and his wife in quite a compromising position on the couch. It was not the first of that kind of incident, and Regulus decided that it was time for the Potter family to have their own space.
So he had told Remus and Sirius that he was going to move out, and suggested very strongly that they do the same. Remus agreed with him, and offered to remain roommates, but they’d had to drag Sirius with them, as he was–as Lily liked to joke–James’s second wife.
In the end they hadn’t moved very far; the Potters’ old muggle neighbor had put his house up for sale to move in with his children, and Remus had helped Regulus and Sirius figure out how to make a purchase though the muggle housing authority. So, on a fine fall day, with leaves crunching underneath and Marlenia toddling between their legs, they’d moved all their belongings next door to James and Lily’s, and set up shop there.
They’d ended up spending almost as much time with each other as they had before, all of them going back and forth between the two houses with regularity. Sirius and James had knocked down the fence that separated the houses, cast muggle-repelling charms over the back yard, and built a fully-functioning, half-scale Quidditch pitch—for “business purposes”, they claimed.
They had begun a Quidditch supply business together, and were starting to design their own brooms and equipment. James had got work as an assistant coach with the Chudley Cannons, so he had the connections to get their little endeavor off the ground–so to speak–and between their designing and building and testing and finding clients, they were kept quite busy.
Regulus enjoyed having his own space, and he liked to visit the muggle town pretty regularly, buying things in the little shops, and sitting in the cafe on quiet summer afternoons, and checking out muggle books from the library. Remus had had to help him with that part, and with exchanging his galleons for muggle money, but once he’d got the hang of it, he liked the change of pace to the constant notoriety he experienced when amongst wizards.
People in the muggle town would stare at first, but after a while the locals began to get used to the sight of the thin, black-haired young man with the burns and the missing arm, and though he didn’t tend to strike up conversation with any of them—he wasn’t sure what one was supposed to talk to a muggle about—they would be friendly, and he would give a polite hello when he passed anyone in the street.
He liked the library the most, because it was quiet, and smelled of warm paper, and the sunlight filtered through the leaves of an old tree that hung its branches just outside the front windows, dappling the whole room in a dreamy half-light.
He liked to read muggle books, because they always surprised him, and sometimes he found them funny because the muggles in the stories would have such silly problems that could easily have been solved if they’d only used their wands–but of course they didn’t have wands, which Regulus had to remind himself whenever he started a new book. Sometimes the muggle books were sad, though, and sometimes their problems weren’t silly, and somehow they reminded Regulus of wizard problems, and it made him sad to think that Muggles could be just as cruel and mean and selfish as wizards were.
In between his trips to the muggle town and his time spent with his friends, Regulus found what work he could in the years after the war, but it wasn’t easy to get something that stuck. At first he’d worked in a little bookshop in Diagon Alley–one that Remus had recommended him to—but once wizards discovered that the famous Regulus Black could be found at Barlimia’s Books and Oddities , the shop began to get crowded with curious onlookers who never actually spent any money there. Regulus didn’t want his presence to cause the shop any trouble, so he’d apologized to the old witch Barlimia, and gone his way.
After that he’d looked into ministry positions, possibly as a curse breaker or as an agent in the Investigation of Unknown Magical Objects department, but he’d quickly discovered that all ministry positions required one to have a certificate of graduation from a place like Hogwarts, or Durmstrang or Ilvermorny, and Regulus had never finished his time at Hogwarts. There was an appeals process, but when Lily had helped him look into it, they’d found that the head of Office of Employment Inquiries was none other than his cousin’s husband–Lucius Malfoy–former Death Eater.
As far as Regulus was concerned, Lucius was dead to him, and he knew for a fact that the sneering man would never push through any sort of application on his behalf, so he didn’t bother trying. The Malfoys had escaped Azkaban by the skin of their teeth and the skillful lies they told, and it boiled Regulus’ blood to think that Lucius could have a nice safe job at the ministry while he was turned away at the door.
For a while then, he’d worked at a sweets manufacturer, setting charms on chocolate frogs and licorice snaps, before they were packaged up to be sold in places like Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. He enjoyed the work well-enough, and liked the idea that it made people happy to open the little packages he’d charmed, but he soon grew bored with the repetitive nature of his job, and his seizures sometimes caused problems in the shop’s workflow, so he began looking elsewhere.
He’d thought about looking for work at St. Mungo’s Hospital, training to become a healer’s aid or something of the like, but St. Mungo’s had the same problem as the Ministry, in that they required a completed education. For first few years he had not considered the hospital at all, as his mother was a permanent resident there after having suffered a brain infection during the years of his absence.
He saw Walburga Black exactly once after his disappearance at seventeen years old, and that visit—taken mostly for the sake of Sirius, who’d felt like he needed to confront his mother in order to let go of some of the things in his past—had gone disastrously.
Walburga was unrepentantly cruel, even from her hospital chair–too proud, despite her piteous state, to look her sons in the eye and apologize for what she’d done.
She hadn’t even looked at Sirius when they’d walked onto the ward, and when she’d first seen Regulus, she looked as though she’d seen as spiritous apparition. But then her face had lit up with wonder, calling him her beautiful heir, her perfect son, the pride of her blood, as she’d stroked his hair and clutched to his arm. Regulus had been frozen–with what emotion he could not tell–as she rasped her words to him. She’d said he was her hope, the one who would help the Dark Lord rid the world of the filth that had infested it; her eyes were wild and desperate, and Regulus had been shaking.
“Our time is here, my boy,” She’d hissed fervently, her bony hands gripping onto his wrist as he’d grimaced, hating to be so close to her after all this time.
“This war will bring an end to the vermin, and pure wizards will once again have our rightful place. Be strong, my son, and you will stand at the Dark Lord’s side when he raises our people to glory!”
Sirius had quickly stepped in and pried her fingers off of Regulus’ wrist, reminding her that the Dark Lord was dead, and Regulus responsible for it. Her coal-like eyes had changed, then, and she’d flung obscenities at Sirius–calling him a bloodtraitor and a muggle lover and no son of hers.
When Regulus had finally got his voice back, and had told her that Sirius was right and that he had cut all ties with the pureblood fanatics, she’d turned her wrath upon him, cursing him for betraying the cause and the Dark Lord and his family, and ruining the name of Black forever.
She’d tried to pull out her wand and curse him in earnest, but due to her unstable mental state, the St. Mungo healers had replaced her wand with a plain wooden stick, so she had futilely pointed it at Regulus while she’d shrieked, the young healer’s aid attempting to calm her.
When Sirius had finally dragged Regulus back out from the hospital, he’d been angry with his brother for forcing him to go on the visit, screaming at him on the muggle London street.
“I bloody told you I didn’t want to see her!” He’d shouted, his heart slamming against his chest as a hundred memories and a thousand emotions tried to fight for their place in his mind.
“You’re fucking selfish, you never listen!”
Regulus had turned away sharply and stormed down the cobblestone sidewalk as Sirius followed after, apologizing feebly and looking drained and sorrowful. He clearly had not accomplished whatever catharsis he’d been looking for.
After they’d apparated home, Regulus had gone up to his room and not come down for the rest of that day and the next, refusing to speak to anyone in the house, just lying in the bed or pacing his room, feeling like something had cracked inside him, feeling gutted.
When he’d gone almost two full days without eating, however, Remus and James had stepped in firmly to put an end to it and forced him to come downstairs for dinner.
Eventually Regulus had been able to apologize to his brother for screaming at him, and Sirius had apologized in return for pushing Regulus to visit their mother when he really hadn’t wanted to.
“I just thought…” Sirius had swallowed painfully, “Just wanted her to know she hadn’t won.”
Regulus had sighed.
“She’s sick, and dying, and half out of her mind, Sirius,” He’d said tiredly, hating the fact that his heart still ached for his mother’s pain. “You’ve won, alright? You don’t have to prove anything to her anymore.”
Sirius had nodded, and the two of them hadn’t said anymore on the subject, until several years later, when the tenth page of The Daily Prophet had published a single paragraph saying that Walburga Irma Black of Number 12 Grimmauld Place had died, aged sixty, of complications arising from a mumblemumps infection, preceded in death by her husband Orion Regulus Black.
The article had made no mention of her two sons, and they had not attended the funeral that Narcissa and Lucius had held for her, gathering what was left of the extended Black family–those who weren’t dead or in Azkaban–in a dreary, cold graveyard on a dreary, cold day. It was the perfect resting place for a dreary, cold woman.
Sirius and Regulus had, however, inherited Number 12 Grimmauld Place, along with the Black family fortune, because Walburga–in her senility–had not gotten around to burning Regulus’ name from the family tapestry and disowning him.
“It belongs to both of us,” Regulus had insisted after receiving the will, the deed, and the key to the family vault.
“Reg you don’t have to–”
“It’s both of ours,” Regulus repeated, holding his brother’s gaze sternly.
So they’d made a second vault key, and they’d gone to the ministry to split the deed between them, and they’d returned reluctantly to the home they’d grown up in, walking through the dusty rooms and taking what little things they cared for.
Neither of them mentioned moving in–it wasn’t even a question–but they salvaged what was important to them, and spent several weeks that summer going through the vast collection of historical artifacts, magical items, and fine furniture spread throughout the Black family home.
Some pieces they donated to historical societies or charity homes for elderly wizards, or else they gave the items back to the descendents of the people who’d owned them originally. Some goblin-made antique weaponry was returned to the hands of the goblins, and they received much praise for that, including a plaque in Gringott’s Bank with their names on it. Sirius also thought it would be a fitting tribute to give Walburga’s fine silver to a muggle second-hand shop, so some muggle family might enjoy it for many years to come.
“As she would have wanted,” Sirius had said solemnly, his eyes dancing with mischief. They’d had to make jokes like this, because the work was hard.
It was difficult, not only because the house was dusty and pest-infested, but also because it contained decades-worth of memories for the both of them–memories that were unpleasant to recall, but somehow also aching with nostalgia and a sense of things long-lost.
It had taken Regulus some days to work up the courage to open the little door that led to the cabinet where Kreacher had slept. His heart had felt pinched as he’d stared down at the small cushion, surrounded by trinkets and oddments that Kreacher had collected over the years.
He stood remembering the dear house elf, who’d helped him rescue his brother the night Sirius had run away, and who had later saved Regulus from the inferi in the cave, sacrificing his own life in the process. Regulus had let himself cry then, alone in the dusty house, and he’d whispered thanks to his loyal friend, and an aching apology that he had not been able to do better by him.
“We did it, Kreacher,” Regulus had whispered, “It wasn’t in vain.”
From Kreacher’s little room Regulus had taken nothing, except a dried flower that was hanging from a peg on the wall. He remembered giving the wildflower to Kreacher when he was maybe eight or nine, as a thanks for the house elf helping him fix a broken broom. He was amazed to discover that the elf had preserved his gift all those years, and the wizard held it with something approaching reverence.
When he’d returned home, he’d used his wand to shape a glass sphere around the fragile flower, and had set it on the windowsill in his bedroom, where it caught the sunlight and sent chips of color onto the floor, reminding him every morning of Kreacher’s love for him.
When Regulus and his brother had finished removing all the items they cared to keep from Grimmauld Place, they’d stood in the street looking up at the old building, as muggles passed by them on the sidewalk, unawares.
“It’s awfully old…” Sirius had said, hands in his pockets as they both stood under the looming building.
“Yeah,” Regulus responded, squinting upwards.
“Lots of history there.”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Family heirlooms, and all that…”
Regulus nodded.
Sirius gave a little comical grimace, as though he were choosing between two fudge flavors at the candy shop.
“Lots of portraits of important people, too…” He said.
“Sure,” Regulus had agreed.
They stood quietly for a moment, and Sirius gazed down the street, as a dog barked in the distance and muggle music drifted out from one of the windows.
“Well,” He’d sighed.
Then Sirius lifted his wand towards Number 12 Grimmauld Place and casually said,
“ Incendio.”
Immediately flames had burst to life behind the windows of the first floor. Regulus tilted his head as though he were watching a mildly interesting bird at an aviary. Then he, too, had lifted his own wand and silently added flames to the conflagration.
The two wizards had held their wands aloft for a few long seconds, until every floor of the building was flickering with orange light. Then they’d lowered their arms, and stood silently again, watching the flames in the same casual way one would watch a sunset over the ocean.
Muggles had continued to walk past without alarm, except a few of them that would frown and sniff the air, unsure where the faint burning smell was coming from. The calm sounds of the surrounding neighborhood had been uninterrupted by the crackling, snapping noises emanating from Number 12, and the enraged shouting of Walburga Black’s portrait as she escaped to another of her frames in some dreary relative’s mansion.
“Well,” Sirius said again, when smoke had begun billowing up from the chimneys.
He took a breath, and let it out sharply.
“Lupin said there was a good muggle fish n’ chips place a few streets over,” He scanned the street appraisingly, ignoring the crumbling building in front of him, “Fancy taking a look?”
Regulus had shrugged.
“Never been to one.”
Sirius grinned.
“Then it’s decided.”
The brothers had turned on the sidewalk and casually strolled away from Number 12 Grimmauld Place, as the magical barriers around the building had disintegrated, and the house had crumbled to ashes.
After his mother’s death, Regulus had considered trying for St. Mungo’s again–perhaps one of the lower positions that didn’t require a certificate or anything–but the place always sort of smelled of Walburga for him, and he never got around to it.
He didn’t like visiting the hospital, even when it was a good idea for his own health, but after an incident where he’d fallen down the stairs during one of his episodes, Sirius had convinced him to let a healer take a look at him, to see if something could be done to lessen the frequency or severity of the seizures.
In the end there hadn’t been much to do except take a potion that might keep the seizures short when they happened, which Regulus accepted. His companion Chip was still his best defense against hurting himself during an episode.
The healer at St. Mungo’s had also offered a way for him to cover up his burns with a long-lasting glamour potion if he wanted, but Regulus had spent time hiding behind the mask of glamours, preventing a false face to the world. He didn’t want to do that for the rest of his life, and he felt it would be a disrespect to Kreacher for him to hide the evidence of what had happened that night in the cave, so he left them be.
He wasn’t embarrassed by his scars.
After they’d emptied Grimmauld Place and received their inheritance, Sirius had offered for Regulus to be a part of his and James’s growing Quidditch supply business–not that the younger Black brother was any longer desperate for money, but for the enjoyment of the work.
Regulus, however, had kindly declined the offer; he spent enough time with Sirius and James at home, and he didn’t want to add the strain of running a business together to his already-complicated relationship with his brother.
So for the past few years, Regulus had worked freelance as a Magical Nuisance Control Specialist—heading to various wizard’s houses to rid them of pixie infestations or bothersome poltergeists, or any other such pests. He was quite good at it, and it gave him the variety he desired, while allowing him privacy and freedom.
The privacy was good because, while most of the Wizarding World saw him as a heroic figure of the war–more of a folk hero, than an actual person–there were still some who hated him for having been among Voldemort’s followers, and would see him imprisoned if they could.
Every so often he received threatening howlers, or cursed objects in the mail, and occasionally when he was in public someone would shout at him or give him angry glares rather than curious staring.
Once in Diagon Alley he’d been hit in the back of the head with a particularly strong stinging jinx—normally harmless, but in this case it had triggered one of his seizures and James had had to kneel over him in the street to keep him from being trampled. Sirius had immediately turned to hunt down the offending witch or wizard who’d cast the jinx–seething with fury as he’d gripped his wand–but they’d disappeared into the crowd, and when Regulus had recovered from the episode he’d told his brother to just let it go.
So it was best, he’d discovered, for him to work a job that did not leave him highly-visible or in crowded places, and where he could simply leave, if any of the wizards he did work for didn’t want him around.
The freedom of his work was good as well, because he had to remain available every month on the full moon, to join Lupin and the others in his animagus form. Remus had always said it was okay if one of them ever needed to miss a full moon, but for the ten years since the war had ended, all of them had been the Wolf’s faithful companions, with the single exception of the night Marlenia was born, when James had stayed with Lily.
As he approached his thirtieth birthday, Regulus had been content with the idea of continuing as he was for the foreseeable future—doing life alongside his brother and friends, and having work that, if not deeply meaningful, was at least enjoyable. This was the case until he received a letter from Headmistress McGonagall in the spring of 1991, asking him to come to Hogwarts School for a meeting.
Dumbledore had recruited Lupin five years previous–as soon as he’d turned twenty-six, which was the minimum age requirement for working at the school–and Remus had had the honor of being the first professor to teach an entirely new subject: Magic & Ethics.
It was the first new subject at Hogwarts for nearly 500 years, and its introduction had been debated by the Ministry’s Department of Education for nearly five years, since the end of the war. James and Lily had spoken publicly in favor of introducing the class to new generations of Hogwarts students, and even Regulus had consented to write a letter to the Head of the Department detailing why the course was a vital change to the current curriculum.
He’d thought about how it might have helped him and his friends–if there had been someone in their lives teaching them to think about the people at the other end of their wands; teaching them to consider what using their magic in certain ways meant for their families and friends and the world.
Regulus did not doubt that he and Barty Crouch would have rolled their eyes at the class–as they had with Muggle Studies–but still, if Regulus had understood back then even a little bit of what he understood now–about the humanity of wizards and muggles alike–it might’ve saved a lot of people a lot of hurt.
Since the moment he first boarded The Hogwarts Express, Remus had loved being a professor, and Regulus remembered thinking that there was probably no one more well-suited to such a profession than Remus Lupin. Now he himself was being faced with the same opportunity, and he was sure he wouldn’t measure up.
For the past five years, when school was in session, Regulus and Sirius had lived by themselves, but Remus visited more weekends than not, and he always came home for the full moon so the four of them could find a secluded woods to safely pass the night: Wolf, Dog, Stag and Cat, part of one strange pack.
As Regulus made his way to McGonagall’s office, he considered how things might change, if he accepted a teaching position at Hogwarts. Would Sirius feel abandoned? Would it cause their little family to become distant? Would James and Lily be okay with Regulus teaching their son? Would Lupin be disappointed if Regulus didn’t last long at Hogwarts?
He tried not to tell himself that he’d be a rubbish teacher and the kids would riot to have him removed—Pandora had been cracking down on his negative self-talk for years, and he’d learned to curb it a bit—but he found he was nervous to see McGonagall; more nervous than he’d been about anything in quite awhile. Perhaps this was because he found he cared about the opportunity; perhaps because he found himself really wanting it.
McGonagall’s office had the same bones as Dumbledore’s–the same traditional portraits and school heirlooms and magical items that belonged to whatever Headmaster currently held the position–but the room was much softer, with her in it. There were more gentle tapestries, more curtains, a significant number of plants, and soft glowing lights that made for a calming atmosphere.
“Mr. Black, good to see you,” McGongall said when Regulus entered, after riding the Gryphon staircase up to the door.
McGonagall rose from her desk and offered Regulus a handshake, her eyes warm as she smiled at him.
“Tea?” She said as she walked to a small set of two armchairs that faced each other.
This was another change from Dumbledore’s office—she was not hiding behind the enormous Headmaster’s desk, and instead sat across from Regulus on the velvet-upholstered chairs, and summoned a tea set onto a side table that sat between them.
“Thank you,” Regulus accepted, knowing it was the polite thing to do.
McGonagall poured as she spoke, exchanging pleasantries before saying,
“I suspect you already have an idea of why I wanted to speak with you?”
Regulus nodded.
“Remus mentioned you were looking for a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” He acknowledged, and Minerva inclined her head.
“Indeed. Professor Moody is stepping down and I’d like to hire a replacement that is well-respected, well-qualified, and young enough to conceivably remain in the position for some time, after all the turnover we’ve had the past few decades.”
Minerva gave him a knowing look.
“Naturally, I thought of you.”
Regulus raised an eyebrow. Well-respected? She wanted well-respected and the first person she’d thought of was him ? A part time pest-controller who’d dropped out of school and hadn’t held down a job for more than two years in a row? He was her paragon of academic achievement?
“Well, I’m… it’s very kind of you,” He managed, not knowing what he was supposed to say. Minerva’s inscrutable gaze did not waver.
“And what are your thoughts on the matter? Is this something you would be interested in?”
Regulus blinked, still surprised that he was having this conversation with the woman whom he’d quite literally attempted to poison during his sixth year—an order from the Death Eaters to make her ill so she was out of the way during a certain ministry attack they had planned. It hadn’t worked, and he sort of felt bad for not letting her know about it, but he wasn’t sure how you went about telling someone that sort of thing.
“Well I just don’t… I feel like there’s better candidates than me, Professor,” He offered. “James Potter, for example. Alice Longbottom, Frank Longbottom, Ted Tonks, Pandora Lovegood…” Regulus shrugged, feeling like he could name just about every witch or wizard under forty that he knew, and they’d all be a more likely choice than him—a one-armed former Death Eater with a penchant for falling unconscious in the middle of conversations.
Despite his insistence, McGonagall’s face was dubious.
“Are you finished?” She asked patiently.
Regulus put up his hands, still baffled.
“All the people you’ve named are fine wizards and witches, likely capable–if they should have the desire–of performing the duties of a defense professor. And yet none of them are the person I’ve decided to offer the position to.”
McGongall gave him a smile that was somehow still stern.
“ You are my first choice, Mr. Black. You are experienced in the practical use of defensive spells, you have proven yourself innovative and capable, you are an excellent legilimens, a top-notch charm worker, have a working understanding of various dark creatures, and are generally speaking, quite a powerful wizard. You have faced evil, alone, and lived to tell the tale, and you have an extensive knowledge of the dark areas of magic—”
“Yes, because I was a Death Eater,” Regulus pointed out, needing Minerva to understand how ridiculous she sounded.
“Severus Snape was a Death Eater,” McGonagall pointed out crisply, “And he has been our Potions Master for four years.”
Regulus blinked. He hadn’t thought of that; he’d been vaguely aware that Snape worked at Hogwarts, and knew that he had been Dumbledore’s spy during the last year of the war, but it hadn’t crossed his mind to wonder if he’d had any trouble getting work after Voldemort’s fall.
No doubt Dumbledore rewarded his little puppet for his cooperation, Regulus’ darker side thought bitterly.
“I am asking you, Mr. Black, because I believe you’ll be the best for the position. And it is because of your history, that I know you’ll do right by our students. Do you respect my opinion as an educator?”
Regulus shifted, feeling like he had a scrolling list of reasons why she was wrong, but also reluctant to share them, as he found himself maybe wanting her to be right. Maybe he should let her deceive herself into thinking he was somehow good enough to take this job. He was afraid of it, but he also found himself really, really wanting it. He thought he might want it more than he’d wanted anything in a while.
But there were hurdles.
“I don’t… I didn’t finish school.”
“And?”
“And–and Hogwarts professors have to have a certificate of graduation. I never finished school.”
The corner of McGonagall’s mouth twitched.
“Well. Thankfully I am personal friends with the Headmistress of Hogwarts, and I think we can convince her to confer an honorary degree on you, for your services to the wizarding community.”
Regulus blinked, his eyebrows raising in surprise, and a strange feeling blossoming in his chest. Minerva smiled with understanding.
“It’s a shame that this oversight has not been corrected sooner. Of course you should not be hindered from pursuing your goals because you missed your last year. You sacrificed more than anyone for the good of wizards everywhere; a certificate of graduation is the least we could do.”
“I didn’t.”
“Sorry?”
“I didn’t sacrifice more than anyone,” Regulus corrected tightly, feeling defensive and wound up, like he always did when people started to praise his deeds and speak of how self-sacrificial and brave he’d been.
“I didn’t lose my life. Others did,” He said in a clipped tone.
McGonagall ducked her head.
“Of course. You’re right. I ought to have said—you risked much, for this community, and you lost much. And giving you your certificate is much less thanks than you deserve. Regardless of whether you accept the teaching position or not, I will see to it that you receive your degree.”
Regulus felt both warm and pained by that, and had to shift his weight on the seat, to blink away a heat behind his eyes.
There was another hurdle, though,
“You are aware,” He began matter-of-factly, “That I have a condition? I can’t control it, and it would likely interrupt my teaching at times.”
Minerva nodded.
“Indeed. And I will be happy to make whatever accommodations you should need to help you do your best in the classroom.”
She smiled softly, as Chip slid down Regulus’ arm, sniffing curiously at his teacup.
“You would not be the only teacher with a condition that required accommodating.”
She gave him a significant look, and Regulus nodded; he supposed Lupin had had his own hurdles to get where he was. Regulus sighed, as Minerva waited patiently for his response, stirring her spoon in her tea, and sipping calmly.
“Some of the parents might give you trouble,” Regulus said.
“I am not afraid of parents,” She responded, unflappable.
“And I don’t know the first thing about kids,” He offered, trying to give her one last way out–to cut the cord and let him go before he made a mess of things.
Minerva smiled knowingly.
“You’ll learn.”
***
On August 31st, the backyard of the Potter family home was filled with light and laughter, a beautiful table spread on the lawn with enchanted lanterns hanging above it and fireflies sparkling in the fading sky.
Piles of food lined the white cloth, with wildflower petals spread down the center, and candles sticking out at odd intervals. All of them were together for one last evening: Regulus, Sirius, James and Lily, Remus, Harry (who was buzzing with the excitement of boarding the Hogwarts Express for the first time the following day) and Marlenia (who was buzzing equally with jealousy of her big brother.)
They had all pitched in to cook the magnificent feast, using the kitchens in both houses, and Regulus tried to eat a little of everything, even though he knew there would be another feast at Hogwarts the following evening. Lily had enchanted a fiddle to float over their heads and play lively tunes, and she danced in the grass with Marlenia as James served dessert.
When night had fallen and the stars were starting to flicker above, Sirius stood up and tapped his fork against his glass, saying in a posh tone,
“Attention, dear friends, esteemed witches and wizards, gentlemen and gentlewomen and gentlegoblins,” He gestured to Marlenia, who shrieked laughter and said,
“I’m not a goblin, I’m a girl , Uncle Padfoot!”
“Ah,” Sirius put his hand on his chest in mock surprise, “My sincerest apologies madam.”
He bowed to Marlenia, before saying,
“I’d like to make a special bequeathing this evening, to a very special person who shall, in one day’s time, officially begin his tenure as a professor at Hogwarts School… of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
There was applause around the table, and Sirius nodded gravely in acknowledgement. Regulus just sat at the foot of the table, shaking his head with a smile and waiting for his brother to finish his antics.
“Our own dear Lupin, who has himself been in the employ of our esteemed alma matter these past five years–”
“Here here!” James called, and Marlenia laughed with bubbly excitement and clapped her hands in agreement.
“–did receive, upon his own commencement, a briefcase of special magnificence, in which he might hold all his… professorial… ac–accoutrement…” Sirius’ improvisational skills were faltering as he tried to contain his laughter.
“I keep it empty,” Remus said dryly, “Like your head.”
Harry laughed, in between mouthfuls of pudding, as Sirius acknowledged the slight with a raise of his glass and James again said,
“Here, here!”
“Would you get on with it?” Lily begged, “Regulus is going to have tenure by the time you’re finished.”
“Yes–yes–” Sirius said, raising his hands to quiet the chatter, “It is now my pleasure to offer, with our sincerest well-wishes–” He looked at Regulus with deep sincerity for a moment and said quietly:
“–and with utmost pride…another satchel of special magnificence, to Professor Regulus Arcturus Black.”
With that, Sirius reached down to an apparently-empty spot on the table, and whipped off James’ invisibility cloak, revealing a lovely, dark leather messenger bag with a fine silver clasp. Emblazoned above the clasp in curling silver thread was the insignia:
Professor R. A. B.
Despite knowing what to expect, Regulus felt his throat tighten as he reached his hand down and picked up the simple satchel. It had a beautiful, long strap with a cushion for resting against the shoulder, and was pleated so as to expand when items were placed inside. It wasn’t the most expensive thing he’d ever owned, but it was instantly the most precious.
“Thank you,” He said with a quiet smile, glancing up at his friends, who were now sitting around the table gazing at him with warm expressions.
“Try it on!” Harry exclaimed.
So Regulus stood up, balancing the strap on the stump of his left arm, and using his right to pull it over his shoulder, so that it rested comfortably. He did not miss the fact that his friends had made him a bag of a different nature than Lupin’s briefcase–so he could carry it and still keep his one hand open to hold other things. This acknowledgement caused a little heat to spark behind his eyes.
When he looked up again, Sirius was still gazing at him, his eyes glistening and a soft smile on his lips. He raised his glass to Regulus.
“To Professor Black.”
“To Professor Black,” Everyone at the table agreed–even the kids–and Chip gave a chirp on Regulus’ shoulder, as he poked around at the strap of the bag.
Regulus ran his thumb over the inscription…
Professor R. A. B.
…and he loved the way that sounded.