Chapter Text
The Dark Mark was burning.
It had been coming back for a while now, slowly fading from a pale gray shadow of a memory to a dark cloud of ink under the skin. They had all known for months: the prisoners in their cells in Azkaban, the idiots tormenting Muggles at the Quidditch World Cup, probably even Snape and Karkaroff up at the school, safe for the moment behind its magical protections but with more to fear than anyone.
“It’s coming back,” Regulus had told Narcissa over tea a few weeks ago. “He’s coming back.”
She must have seen it on her husband’s arm, but she shook her head.
“The Dark Lord is dead.”
He knew she wanted that to be the case. So did he. But the truth was impossible to deny.
The Dark Mark was burning, and Regulus knew what he had to do. He grabbed his old robes and mask from the place where they still waited in the back of his wardrobe, and - taking one last look around his bedroom at number twelve, Grimmauld Place - he disapparated.
Ordinarily, to apparate, it was necessary to fixate on one’s destination. Not so when the Death Eaters were summoned. The Mark itself took the place of the destination, pulling those who carried it to the place where their master awaited. Which, in this case, turned out to be a graveyard.
A Muggle graveyard, Regulus realized, noticing the unfamiliar surnames on the tombstones. A strange place for a reunion, but he could think of all sorts of reasons the Dark Lord might have chosen it, none of which were pleasant.
Potion ingredients.
Inferi.
No, better not to imagine any of that. Carefully, Regulus cleared his mind and sealed it off with occlumency, revealing only the most superficial and unimportant of thoughts. With his true emotions carefully locked away, he could almost be calm - pleasantly surprised, even - about the Dark Lord’s return.
Almost.
Glancing around the graveyard, Regulus saw a boy, no older than fourteen or fifteen, tied to a headstone and bleeding from his arm. He recognized the child at once; everyone knew Harry Potter. Nearby, on the ground, lay the body of another teenager, a few years older. And, sobbing and bleeding -
Wormtail.
The impulse to do something very foolish indeed was almost impossible to resist. But resist Regulus did, hanging back, watching as the other Death Eaters fell at the Dark Lord’s feet, one at a time, kissing the hem of his robes. The thought of doing that again, after all these years, was repugnant. He could almost hear his late grandfather’s disapproval even as he approached the Dark Lord himself in a display of submission, his face burning with shame beneath the mask. A moment later, he took his place in the circle that surrounded the Dark Lord, in the middle of a large gap, almost able to feel the warm, reassuring presence of Evan Rosier and Barty Crouch Jr. on either side of him despite the fact that both were long gone.
The Dark Lord began to speak. He was - as Regulus knew he must be - disappointed that so many of his followers had never sought him out, despite remaining alive and free, fully capable of doing so.
“And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise again?” the Dark Lord asked. “They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal death?”
What steps, though? Perhaps Regulus hadn’t been important enough to know, but all he remembered was the Dark Lord boasting about his own invincibility, not any specific explanation of how he had achieved it. Clearly, he had succeeded at something, but …
Oh, and there went Avery, collapsing at the Dark Lord’s feet again and begging for mercy.
“Master, forgive me! Forgive us all!”
All that got Avery was a crucio for his trouble, and Regulus felt like he was going to throw up. He hadn’t heard screams like those in years, and he hadn’t missed them one bit.
Soon after, the Dark Lord began going around the circle, addressing each Death Eater by name and speaking to them directly. That was new. In the old days, the hoods and masks had been meant to hide their identities, not only from their victims, but from each other. Regulus had known a limited selection of his comrades in arms - the peers he had trained in the Dark Arts with, the students he had personally recruited, his family members and in-laws, and whoever else it was necessary to work with on a personal basis - but there were dozens more about whom he could only have speculated.
Luckily, there were also many who could only speculate about him, Igor Karkaroff included.
Did the Dark Lord believe their covers had been blown? Or did he simply place less value on preserving their anonymity now that they had failed him so thoroughly? Regulus wasn’t sure he liked either option.
“Regulus Black,” said the Dark Lord’s silky-smooth voice.
Regulus forced himself to look at the man, biting back his disgust at the horrible, snake-like face with its slit nostrils and red eyes. Outside of his shielded mind, the Dark Lord should only be able to pick up loyalty mixed with traces of fear.
“My Lord?”
“You stand alone amid five missing Death Eaters. Two dead in my service.”
Evan. Barty. Wilkes. By Regulus’s count, that made three, not two.
“One, too cowardly to return … he will pay. One, who I believe has left me forever … he will be killed, of course.”
Karkaroff and Snape, presumably, although which was which, he couldn’t begin to guess. The words were a sharp reminder of what happened to those who dared to go back on their promises to the Dark Lord.
“… and one who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already reentered my service.”
What -?
“Endeavor to make yourself as useful to me as he has,” the Dark Lord told him.
Regulus nodded. He did not throw himself on the ground or make promises. He simply nodded, and the Dark Lord moved on, discussing this mysterious faithful servant. Which didn’t make any sense, because Regulus knew who used to stand in those places. The only one he hadn’t known at the time was Karkaroff, and he was clearly not the mysterious “most faithful servant”. Not a chance.
Nor was Snape. Regulus wasn’t sure he believed Dumbledore’s testimony, but Snape was at best no different from the rest of them, and at worst a spy for the Order. Or maybe the other way around. Either way, not what the Dark Lord was describing.
Which left … three dead people. Lovely.
There was a duel, because of course there was. And, somehow, the scrawny-looking teenager actually managed to hold off the Dark Lord long enough to grab the portkey and the other kid’s body and get away. Regulus had to admit, he was impressed. Not so impressed that he didn’t mind being surrounded by ghostly shadows of the Dark Lord’s most recent victims, but honestly, as Death Eater battles went, that was nothing.
Better yet, it was a clue. The first woman who appeared - before Lily Potter - was Bertha Jorkins. The same Bertha Jorkins who used to work in International Magical Cooperation, the Ministry department that Barty Crouch Sr. was head of.
Barty - Junior - had died in Azkaban, but Wormtail was proof that deaths could be faked, and Sirius was proof that Azkaban was not as inescapable as the Ministry liked to believe. Which meant, in a way, this was all Regulus’s fault, given that he was the one who recruited Barty into the Death Eaters to begin with.
As he walked back through the front door to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, Regulus Black’s thoughts were racing.
The day before, he had been a respectable member of wizarding society who just so happened to wear long sleeves in the summer and didn’t like to talk about the war. A law-abiding citizen, even if he hadn’t always been. A generous donor to charitable causes and a frequent customer at Flourish & Blott’s. A brother, a cousin, a single father.
Now, he was a Death Eater.
He was a Death Eater who had spent fourteen years building a life for himself that did not involve running around behind a mask terrorizing the innocent.
He was a Death Eater with a squib child, a wrongly convicted brother, and a cousin whose son was just the right age to get himself recruited in a few years.
He was a Death Eater who, as he tiptoed past his mother’s portrait into Grimmauld Place, was already scheming against his master.
“Sirius?” he called quietly.
His older brother met him in the drawing room, a look of concern on his face.
“It’s happened?” Sirius asked.
“Yeah. He’s back.”
Sirius swore and collapsed onto the sofa, burying his head in his hands. Peeking out from behind an armchair, little Lyra Black watched with big, fearful eyes.
“Who’s back, Father?” she asked timidly.
Regulus sighed.
“The Dark Lord.”
“The one who -?”
“It’s going to be okay,” he said, gently ruffling his daughter’s dark curls. “Can you go tell Kreacher I’m home and that we’re ready for dinner whenever?”
Lyra looked at him with eyes too perceptive for a ten-year-old.
“You want to talk to Uncle Sirius in private.”
Regulus smiled.
“You’re right, I do.”
Sirius was remarkably bad at taking no for an answer.
“Regulus -”
“No. I said no.”
“But -”
“Can you guarantee my safety?” Regulus demanded, leaning forward in his seat on a large, overstuffed armchair. “And, more importantly, my daughter’s? Because that’s what is on the line here, Sirius. The moment I start to openly move against the Dark Lord, he comes after my family. Including Lyra.”
“You don’t want Voldemort back.”
Sirius said it so confidently. As though it was obvious that Regulus would be displeased by what had happened that night. In no other Death Eater household in Britain could such a conversation be happening.
“Let’s see. I’m hiding you from the Aurors because I know you’re innocent, not because I’m proud of what they think you did. I’ve got a daughter who I have no intention of disowning, when the Death Eaters would expect me to do just that. I’ve not really made a secret of my views no longer aligning with theirs. And, of course, like most everyone else who could get away with it, I’ve spent more than a decade pretending I was under the Imperius Curse the first time around.”
He counted off the various offenses on his fingers, then sighed.
“No, of course I don’t want the Dark Lord back.”
“Then why not join the Order?” asked Sirius. “Dumbledore believes in second chances.”
Maybe he did. Maybe he just found people with inside information on his enemies too useful not to take advantage of. Regulus didn’t know. But regardless, it wasn’t enough.
“Is our family his priority?” Regulus demanded. “Will he put us first, no matter what?”
“Well … no, but -”
“I’m not going to be anyone’s pawn,” said Regulus. “Not his, and not the Dark Lord’s.”
Maybe there was a time when he would have accepted the former as readily as he once had the latter. But not anymore. Not after fourteen years of freedom, and not with so much more than just his own life on the line.
“Okay.” Sirius nodded. “Fine. I don't know what you think you're going to do if you're not working for one side or the other, because there's no way they're going to let you stay out of this. But if you lay a finger on my godson -”
“Didn’t I just say my first priority was this family?” asked Regulus.
Sirius nodded.
“Good. I thought I was clear about that. So no, I will not be helping the Dark Lord murder your godson. But I’m not going to be a reckless fool about this, either. If we know what he’s planning, we’ll have a better chance of making sure they don’t hurt anyone we love.”
“So you’re going to be - what?” Sirius asked. “A spy?”
“If you want to call it that.” Regulus shrugged. “I’d imagine there will come a time when it’s no longer … useful … for me to play the role of Death Eater, or when I’ll be ordered to do something I can’t in good conscience go through with. There are lines I didn’t cross the first time, and lines I did cross that I’m not interested in crossing again. We’ll need to plan for that. But for the moment, why not find out what we can? I came when he called tonight. I think he trusts me, as much as he trusts anyone who didn’t go to prison for him.”
Sirius didn’t look convinced.
“You know the whole Imperius thing is going to fall apart,” he said. “If you didn’t go back, you could probably convince people it was real. But if you do …”
“I know.” Regulus nodded solemnly. “It doesn’t matter.”
He paused for a moment, then allowed himself a slight smile.
“You and I both know Azkaban can’t hold us.”
A knock on the door interrupted whatever Sirius might have said in response. Lyra poked her head around the corner.
“Kreacher says dinner is ready.”
The two brothers exchanged a glance and silently came to an agreement: the rest of this conversation could wait until later.
Sirius Black was not having a great day. Or week, or month - or life, really, when it came down to it. But there were only two days worse than this one, and those were October 31 and November 1, 1981.
Voldemort was back.
Harry had gotten hurt.
There was going to be another war.
The Ministry still thought Sirius was a Death Eater.
He was stuck in his miserable - although now more tastefully decorated - childhood home, with his brother, who really was a Death Eater.
And, worst of all, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
He should have been there at the third task. He should have been there to comfort Harry, to talk to Dumbledore, to rejoin the Order as soon as it re-formed, as it almost certainly had by now. But Regulus had called his plans to go and watch in Animagus form reckless and foolish, and had threatened to send Kreacher after him if he went. Had Regulus known what would happen?
No. Sirius couldn’t think that badly of him. He had known the Dark Mark was returning - he had shown it to Sirius months ago - but he couldn’t have had any idea what was going to happen that day. To know that, he would have had to be involved, and - no, that didn’t make any sense. Regulus didn’t want Voldemort back. Of that much, Sirius was certain. Not that it had kept him from rushing to his side the moment that brand on his arm started to twinge, though.
Could Sirius trust his brother?
He honestly wasn’t sure. But he had a feeling he was going to have to.