Chapter Text
Fleamont Potter absolutely loved muggle newspapers.
It wasn’t so much the paper itself—half of the news stories he didn’t really understand, and the pictures were a bit dull, being still and all. But he enjoyed the funny words, and it was a great way to learn about fascinating muggle pastimes.
Most of all, though, Fleamont loved how the muggles delivered their newspapers; instead of using Owls like a sensible person might, the muggles employed little muggle children to get on their little muggle bicycles and bicycle around the neighborhood before sunup, tossing their muggle newspapers towards the all the muggle houses, and—when Fleamont had begged Euphemia to help him subscribe to the muggle post—his house.
It was like a game to him, coming outside in the morning, wondering where the newspaper would be. If the muggle child was talented, he learned, then the paper would be neatly on his front porch, or perhaps on the top step or two. If the child was just learning, or didn’t have a good throwing arm, it might be in the grass, or by the curb, or in the bushes, or one time—and this had delighted Fleamont to no end—-up on the roof!
Every morning Fleamont would get his cup of tea and go to the door, and open it to see where the muggle newspaper had landed that day. If he was really lucky, he would be up early enough to catch the little muggle children bicycling around and throwing them; that would make his whole day.
Today was a Thursday morning, and it was no different from any other morning in their quiet town. Fleamont rose early—the first one up, since James and Sirius had just come back from Hogwarts and were enjoying a summer lie-in, and Euphemia had had a long day at St. Mungo’s and needed her rest.
Fleamont made his tea and took a sip, just to test that it was how he liked it. Then he made his way to the front door for his daily ritual of looking for the muggle newspaper; he would’ve whistled, except he couldn’t whistle, so he just hummed to himself—the old Hogwarts school song.
When Fleamont opened his front door with tea in hand, though, he did not find a muggle newspaper lying at the bottom of his porch steps.
Instead, he found a boy.
“Merlin’s beard!” Fleamont exclaimed, seeing the crumpled form of a thin, pale boy about fifteen or sixteen, lying unconscious, halfway in the street.
Fleamont burned his hand in his rush to put down his cup of tea, but the pain didn’t register in his mind as he rushed out the door, looking left and right for anything that might explain the sudden appearance of a boy on his sidewalk.
At first he thought the unconscious boy might be a muggle newspaper courier, who’d perhaps fallen off his bike. But there was no bike to be seen, and no newspaper either—it must have been too early—and though he was thin and small, the boy seemed too old to be one of the little ones who rode their bikes around.
“You alright, lad?” Fleamont said, kneeling in front of the black-haired boy and shaking his shoulder a bit, “Can you hear me? You alright?”
The child was lying on his side, his head lolled on the ground and his limbs crumpled like a rag doll’s. He was terribly thin and had a gaunt-looking face, like he hadn’t had enough sun in his life.
Fleamont quickly did everything he’d learned from Euphemia, for how to treat a person if you happen to find them unconscious on your front lawn. He made sure the boy was breathing, and that was alright, and he listened for a heartbeat, and that seemed fine too, and he checked that there was no blood on his clothes.
The young man might’ve been sleeping, except for it was quite cold, and he was wearing formal clothes—almost like a school uniform, but tattered and wrinkled and dirty. That made Fleamont uneasy, though he couldn’t articulate why.
He had a dozen questions hurrying through his mind rapid-fire, like bludgers shooting out of the Quidditch box—but he knew firstly he had to get the boy inside. Fleamont didn’t know how long he’d been lying here, but his arms were cold to the touch—though his forehead was sheened with sweat—and it had been an unseasonably chilly night for early July.
When Fleamont went to reach his burly arms around the child’s slight frame, he felt something stiff and sharp inside the boy’s sleeve, and he stopped. He lay the boy’s head gently back down on the grass and quickly reached into the sleeve, pulling out a wand.
Not a muggle child at all, Fleamont realized, and he looked down at the boy’s sweat-plastered face, wondering why he seemed so familiar.
Fleamont lifted the child hurriedly and gently, and scurried back into his house, his tea forgotten as he nudged the door shut with his foot and deposited the unconscious boy on the couch.
After checking again that the black-haired wizard was breathing properly, Fleamont hurried up his stairs two at a time, and shuffled into the bedroom he shared with his wife, moving quickly and quietly.
“Darling, Emie, wake up,” He whispered, shaking Euphemia in a way he normally would not have done; he liked to wake her up gently, with kisses and soft words, but this was urgent.
“Darling, we’ve an emergency, I need you downstairs.”
“Wh–what is—what is it, the boys?” Euphemia sat up quickly once she registered Fleamont’s words. She blinked away her sleep and hurried to throw her legs over the side of the bed as Fleamont grabbed her robe and handed it to her.
“The boys are fine, they’re asleep, just come,” He urged, hurrying out of the room and trusting her to follow.
“Went out for the newspaper, and just found him,” He whispered urgently as they slipped down the stairs, “He’s a wizard—or he’s got a wand, at least, but he can’t be older than fifteen or sixteen; don’t know what in Merlin happened…”
Fleamont gestured for his wife to go into the living room, and he could see that she was fully awake now, already going through a list of possibilities in her mind as she registered his words.
“...Can’t think of any wizard families who live close enough to—”
“Oh Godric,” Euphemia gasped, stopping short as she stepped into the room, her hand flying to her chest.
“It’s Regulus Black.”
***
Euphemia flew into action as Fleamont blinked through his confusion.
Of course—bloody looked familiar; it’s Sirius; he’s Sirius .
Fleamont immediately started kicking himself for not realizing it; how could he not recognize those features? Sirius was like a son to him, he should’ve seen. He’d only ever glimpsed the younger Black sibling from afar, though, on Platform 9 ¾ or at a Quidditch match—the Potters were not invited to Black Family social events, like other Purebloods would be. Something about Regulus had always made Fleamont feel melancholy, even from afar—the boy seemed to radiate defeat somehow, and that made Fleamont sad.
“Get blankets, Monty, and my potions kit,” Euphemia was commanding as she knelt next to the boy—Regulus Black, their son’s younger brother—and began casting detection charms over him, looking for injuries with practiced skill.
Fleamont scurried to follow her orders as his mind worked through a hundred possibilities, the newspaper and his tea totally forgotten.
Regulus Black had fallen unconscious on his front stoop. Why? Why their house? Why today? And how? How did he get there? Did someone bring him or had he brought himself? Had he walked? Had he apparated? Had someone brought him here and dumped him?
He tried to think back, not quite two weeks ago, to the train station when they had picked up James and Sirius from their sixth year at Hogwarts. Had Regulus been there? Had Fleamont noticed him among the crowd? How had he seemed? Was he healthy? Had his parents been there? Had they taken him home?
Fleamont couldn’t remember; he hadn’t been paying attention to anyone but his own two sons, happy to see their smiling faces through the crowd after so many months, but sensing in Sirius a sort of strain that he was familiar with. A forced happiness.
Fleamont had assumed it wasn’t anything beyond the normal melancholy. Sirius, he knew, sometimes keenly felt the weight of all that had happened to him—especially on big days like the end of term or the Christmas holiday; it was like those milestones brought back the echoes of years before. But Sirius’ usual habit was to smile through it, and so Monty hadn’t thought anything out of the ordinary, knowing that Euphemia would have a quiet talk with their son later, if she thought he needed it..
Perhaps, though, Sirius’ guardedness on the platform had been something worse. Perhaps something was going on with his brother that Fleamont did not know. He wasn’t sure if Sirius would tell him that sort of thing; Regulus had always seemed a bit off-limits.
Fleamont handed Euphemia her supplies and stared for a moment at the thin, pale features that he now recognized so clearly, feeling something painfully similar to the heaviness he’d felt the night that Sirius had shown up at their doorstep—-so weak he could hardly knock, falling into Fleamont’s arms as soon as he’d opened the door.
That night Fleamont had felt an anger he did not know he had, and as he looked down at the small shape of the younger Black brother, he could feel its stirrings within him again.
“Send a patronus to Albus, tell him what’s happened,” Euphemia said crisply.
“Albus?” Fleamont questioned, a bit blurry in his mind.
Euphemia looked up from her work—casting a warming spell over Regulus’ bony frame—and her eyes held a warning.
“Regulus Black was abandoned on our doorstep,” She said in a low voice, glancing up the stairs, “Which means either his parents have… given him up…” She looked pained.
“...or someone took him from them. If it’s the latter, then we need to make sure there is an Auror present, when they come knocking.”
Fleamont felt a sick sort of swooping in his usually calm stomach. He understood: one of the Black children had run away to their home, so if Regulus had suddenly disappeared from his parents’ house, it would not be a huge leap for Walburga and Orion to assume that he had followed his brother.
The Potters absolutely could not get into a wizards’ duel with Walburga and Orion Black—but there was no way in hades they were going to hand Regulus back to his parents, if they came for him.
Fleamont hurried to the back door—stifling the growing rage in his chest—and sent the patronus message to Dumbledore immediately; then he cast a silent alarm spell on James’ and Sirius’ doors, so that he would know if they were about to come downstairs.
He didn’t want Sirius to walk in and see his brother like this, without some warning.
While Fleamont paced, Euphemia hurried to make sure that Regulus was not hypothermic, or suffering any life-threatening injuries. She checked his head for a concussion and his bones for any breakage, and though he seemed frail and weak—with a low fever and a few bruises—none of Euphemia’s detection spells revealed a severe wound.
For some reason this did not comfort Fleamont, it only made him more uneasy.
He knew that sometimes the worst wounds were inward.
And he knew what had happened to Sirius.
Euphemia cast a charm to hopefully reduce the fever, and quickly mixed up a calming potion that would help him recover faster, but when she tilted the small vial towards the pale boy’s lips, he breathed in sharply, and woke up with a start, pushing weakly with his hands and letting out a terrified cry.
“Darling—”
“No!” Regulus shouted, his voice cracking and his face panicked. He flailed against Euphemia’s hold, eyes wandering wildly as Euphemia tried to calm him.
“Re–”
“Get her—s—I don’t want it—make her stop please! Please!”
Regulus’ thrashing arms hit against Euphemia, and she winced, pulling away to see if he would calm down.
But he didn’t; Regulus tumbled off the couch in a panic and tried to stand, but his legs gave out from under him before he’d straightened up, and Fleamont jumped to catch him as he fell.
“Regulus, darling, it’s Mrs. Potter,” Euphemia said, hurrying up to the panicked boy.
“No! S–pl–I ca–I can’t—please!”
Regulus wrestled against Fleamont’s firm embrace, shouting incoherently, and still trying to flee—though to where and for what purpose Fleamont couldn’t say. The boy didn’t seem to know where he was, his eyes were unfocused and his head turning every-which-way, as if searching the room.
“I’m James’ mother,” Euphemia tried, almost shouting over the sounds Regulus was making, “You’re in my house, you’re alright–you’re safe.”
“D–I don’t—Kreacher!” Regulus screamed then, pulling his arms from Fleamont’s grasp and falling again, half onto the couch.
“Go get Sirius,” Euphemia ordered her husband urgently, kneeling before Regulus and trying to contain his unsteady limbs as the boy started to rock his body from side to side, his breath wheezing as he desperately shouted.
“Kreacher help! Don’t ma–please stop her–h–help, Kreacher!”
Fleamont turned immediately and bounded up the stairs, as Euphemia tried again to calm the panicked boy in her living room, while he screamed for help from his house elf.
Fleamont knocked only once on Sirius’ door before pushing it open and saying,
“Sirius, get up now, we need you downstairs.”
Fleamont’s adopted son shuffled under his many layers—the boy never slept with fewer than four blankets—and groggily squinted through his disheveled black hair.
“Hmmph, ‘s it?” He muttered.
Fleamont hurried forward and picked one of Sirius’ muggle t-shirts from the floor.
“I’m sorry, my boy, you have to get up and come downstairs,” He handed Sirius a shirt, and heard another shout from the livingroom, which seemed to startle Sirius from his grogginess.
“It’s your brother,” Fleamont said, knowing there was no way to ease into it, “He’s very scared and we need you to help him calm down.”
“Regulus?” Sirius’ voice was sharp and high, and suddenly all sleep was gone from him.
Fleamont nodded
“He’s alive; he’s not hurt, but he’s frightened and he’s confused.”
Sirius’ wide eyes had something terrible in them, but immediately he threw the shirt over his head and ran for the door. Fleamont hurried after him, and as they passed James’ door it opened, and James peeked his head out, his own hair a giant mess as he said.
“‘Something the matter, dad?”
“It’s alright,” Fleamont managed as he hurried past, putting up a placating hand, unable to explain as Sirius nearly tumbled down the stairs in his hurry to get to his brother.
“Reg?” Sirius’ strained voice said as Fleamont tried to keep up with his much faster son.
“Don’t, liar! Liar I know–I se–I see you! I know, in my head, in my head—” Regulus was hunched against the couch, scooting himself away from Euphemia with unfocused eyes, but pointing an accusing finger towards her as she tried to placate him.
“In my head–you’re in my head!! It isn’t! Liar!” He screamed, beating the heel of his hand against his head.
“Darling, don’t do that–” Euphemia tried to reach for his wrists.
“No!!” Regulus pushed himself off the ground with great effort and stumbled almost immediately, before Sirius caught him.
“Reg, it’s me, it’s Sirius,” Sirius breathed, gripping his shoulders, half holding him up.
“No, liar!” Regulus thrashed.
“It’s Sirius—it’s me; I’m here. I’m real. I’m me.” Sirius pressed his forehead in until it was touching his brothers’, hugging Regulus so that he couldn’t escape.
“It’s me, you know me, you know who I am,” Sirius said, and Fleamont could see that his expression was fearful, but he was trying to contain it as he coaxed his bewildered brother to a measure of calm.
“Come sit, let’s sit,” Sirius breathed, ushering Regulus back to the couch as he twitched and shuddered, seemingly realizing who he was looking at.
His eyes came into focus then, like Sirius was a compass pointing him back to reality.
But the moment Regulus seemed to recognize his brother, a new kind of fear took over his features.
“I can’t be—no—she’ll kill you–I–I–she’ll kill you–I can’t be here—” Regulus tried to protest as Sirius sat them both down.
“You’re safe here,” Sirius tried to assure.
“Sh–can’t—I can’t s—no!” Regulus gasped, while Sirius held onto him tightly, his own lip quivering as he fought to keep it together.
Euphemia took the moment to hurry to her potions kit and grab out another small vial; the first had been dumped all over the floor after Regulus knocked it out of her hand.
“Sirius, love, he needs to drink this,” Euphemia murmured as Sirius sat with his delirious brother, who seemed to be trying to pull away from him, his whole body shuddering and his eyes roving again, like he couldn’t see the walls of the room he was in.
“Reg, have a drink,” Sirius said quietly, taking the vial from Euphemia without looking—trusting her implicitly.
“D–no–no I can’t be here!” Regulus pulled away, but Sirius gripped him firmly and drew him back.
“You’re alright. You’re okay, I’m here, just drink this for me,” Sirius put the vial up to his lips and Fleamont thought the boy might knock it away again, but even though Regulus’ eyes weren’t looking at Sirius, he opened his mouth and let his brother pour the contents down his throat.
He swallowed tightly, and looked at Sirius with wide, deranged eyes.
“She—she’ll h–she’ll kill…y…I didn’t…”
Sirius held one arm firmly around Regulus’ torso, pinning his limbs into place as Regulus shuddered and twitched, muttering under his breath and occasionally groaning, his eyes unfocused.
Fleamont felt something in his chest clenching painfully as he stood by, unable to help.
In the course of about a minute, the muttering lessened and the twitching stilled, and Regulus slumped back against the couch and against his brother, his eyes rolling back and his lids fluttering closed.
When he was finally still—his sweat-drenched hair against his brother’s shoulder—Sirius looked up at Euphemia and Fleamont with terrified eyes, looking as young as he had been the first time Fleamont had met him—when he’d come to their house, meek and unsure and disturbingly polite, his eyes silently pleading for something that Fleamont hadn’t known how to give at the time.
Now Sirius looked at Fleamont and his wife with the same pleading expression, holding his brother’s deathly-thin body against his own, like he was afraid Regulus would crumble into nothing.
In a broken voice, Sirius whispered a question that Fleamont would forever dread learning the answer to;
“What did they do to him?”