Chapter Text
Regulus has never been very talkative. He’d learnt early on that noise meant pain. He had a mother with a quick hand and a father with a short temper. Crying got him nowhere; the words he spoke were never the right ones; if he breathed too loud it was cause for punishment.
So he learnt to be silent. Utterly forgettable, a void of noise. He spoke few words, and the few he did speak were reserved for Sirius or occasions where he was forced to. His breathing was now nearly silent. Even his footsteps are as silent as the rest of him.
All this to say, it wasn’t much of a surprise when Regulus Black stopped talking for a month.
He is in his fourth year at Hogwarts, coming back from the Winter break, and he stops speaking. Pandora is the first to find him, her hair bleached platinum blonde which makes her afro look a bit like an angel’s halo. She pays it no mind that he doesn’t reply to her, simply carrying the conversation for the both of them.
Barty questions it, needling him and tickling his stomach to try to get him to laugh. Regulus, still as a statue, watches him in complete deadpan. This, in turn, makes Evan crack into laughter so hard that Barty gets distracted watching his smile. It allows Regulus to slip away, footsteps as silent as ever.
Dorcas, too, asks him about it relentlessly after a three-day grace period. She gives up after the fourth day of insistent questions, with a threat that he must tell her why he won’t talk if he ever decides to start again. Regulus gives her a smile.
All in all, mandrake leaves could taste worse, he thinks. The taste had been a bit overwhelming for the first few days, but it has gone down. Now he just has hints of mint, honey and coriander with every meal.
He also has a structure for how he eats: Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays he eats using the right side of his mouth, keeping the left free so as to not swallow the mandrake leaf. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays he eats using his left. On Sundays he eats breakfast and lunch on his right, dinner on his left. This way he reckons he won’t get an uneven jaw from only chewing on one side.
Professor McGonagall also asks him whether he’s alright. His slight nod does not seem to put her at ease. They have a stare off, strangely, and then after five minutes (neither of them has blinked yet) she lets him go, telling him he is welcome in her office anytime.
He chooses not to speak lest somebody see the leaf in his mouth and guess what he’s doing, or (God forbid) he accidentally spits it out. So he endures one entire month not speaking.
At the end of this month, he takes the now-slimy leaf out of his mouth and delicately places it into his newly made potion. The first word he says after a month is “Ew.”
His voice sounds like the rush of a retreating wave over pebble or the crunch of gravel under shoes.
Then, he begins his daily incantations and awaits a thunderstorm.
Anytime anybody asks him about his month of silence he turns his most innocent expression on them and asks, “What do you mean?” and denies ever having done such a thing. His gaslighting is only successful on Barty and Evan, sadly, and Dorcas continues to needle him about it nearly every day.
On the 11th of March comes the very first lightning storm of the year. Regulus had been wondering if he’d have to create one artificially.
So that night, as the sheets of rain batter themselves against the windowpanes and streaks of jagged light cut through the night sky, Regulus sneaks out of the dungeons, through the corridors and past the dozing paintings, to the greenhouses.
The walk there soaks him to the bone, plasters his forehead and neck with his curls, dampens his eyelashes. He fears that using magic – a water repelling charm, or one for warmth – could mess up his project. So he braves the abrasive weather, trudging with waterlogged shoes down to the glass huts.
Once inside, he uncorks his potion, recites his incantation one last time, and knocks it back as lightning illuminates the sky.
He uses the knowledge he has acquired from all of his reading to control his mind and centre his focus. He follows the trail of cold from the potion, concentrating on his throat, his chest, his gut.
He breathes deeply, focusing only on the transformation. As thunder rumbles through the sky like an oceanic wave he pushes that thought forward, allowing it to roll through his body and channel his magic.
He shifts, a soft and smooth metamorphosis, into something small, close to the ground. His vision is clearer, too, all the dark corners of the greenhouse now visible. A shiver runs through his body – his now different body.
He looks around himself and then down, seeing for the first time his… paws? Yes, paws. He had fluffy black paws, with soft looking pads on the bottom. They splay gently as he leans to the left, then the right. He swishes something and looks back to find that it is his tail.
He wants to laugh, let out this hysterical feeling of victory, but only a quiet mewling sound comes out.
He extends one paw in front of him, then the other, testing it all out. He then tries to stand, lifting his back legs carefully. He takes one purposeful step forward and keeps going until he confuses one of his four legs and trips. He tries and tries until the movement feels natural, plodding in a little circle in a greenhouse that seems to have grown three times in size.
He patters up to the glass of the greenhouse, noting that his footsteps are silent in this form as well. He sees himself: black as ebony with grey eyes. A black cat. A Black cat. Ironic.
He inspects his new body, wondering if any human characteristics have carried over like Professor McGonagall’s glasses. He finds none. Just a black cat, with long fur and large, round eyes that reflect the stuttering flashes of light in the night sky.
Regulus hops onto a counter nimbly and hops back down just to see if he can. He lands on his feet. He wonders if he now has nine lives.
He purrs, just to see what it feels like. He extends his claws to see how sharp they are, staring intently at them.
It’s fascinating, all of it. And he’s so happy he could burst. He did it! He actually did it and didn’t die or end up as a half-human forevermore!
He transforms back easily and lets out a sigh of relief as he does. That’s it. He’s done it.
He thinks back to the day in third year when McGonagall had been teaching them about the theory of this exact transformation. He’d passed a cat lying in a sunspot later that day and thought, ‘how nice would it be to get to have no responsibilities, no social requirements and less capability for thought.’ That was when his plan had begun to unfold. His meticulous research.
And here he is, a cat, fully intending to find a nice sunspot to bathe in as soon as he can.
He had – briefly – debated the legality of what he’s doing. It hadn’t lasted long because most of the magic objects at home are illegal and he’s been playing with those since he could crawl. No reason to get nit-picky about the law now, right? He wouldn’t be a Black if he didn’t disregard magical law, at least a little.
He transforms back and makes his way all the way to his dorm as a cat, then finally collapses onto his bed as a human, exhausted and elated that his months-long project is finally complete.
Regulus roams the castle regularly in his cat form, usually to try and find the best places to bask in the sun or the quietest windowsills to sleep on. He gets mostly first and second years coming up to him, trying to pet him. He scratches the ones he knows have, at some point, annoyed him – he has a near photographic memory and a tendency towards long-standing grudges. The rest he lets stroke him if they’re gentle enough.
He also seems to bump into one upper year many times, Caradoc Dearborn. Regulus isn’t sure what year the Ravenclaw is in, either sixth or seventh. Either way, he always looks so tired that Regulus takes pity on him and lets him stroke his back and ears.
Pandora had once seen him and picked him up with a brilliant smile, then she’d seen his eyes and her mouth had made an ‘o’.
“I cannot believe you,” she’d said and then giggled, “That is so illegal. You are cuter like this though.” Regulus had pushed his paw into her face and they hadn’t talked directly about it since.
He lets her bring him around, often lying lazily over her shoulder.
Which is what brings him here, to the library, curled up sleepily on Pandora’s lap as she runs her fingers through his fur and gently reads out chapter fourteen of the History of Magic textbook. This revision method seems to benefit her more than him, honestly, but he won’t complain.
Her voice is just above a whisper, and she’s chosen a table in a far corner of the library where the bookcases and a spiral iron staircase obstruct them from view. It’s calm, isolated and quiet. He’s sure he’s never been happier.
Then one Lily Evans happens to stumble upon them.
“Oh,” she says, “hello Pandora.”
She had just rounded a corner; Regulus had recognised the sight of her shoes. They’re beat up brown boots, a combat style that look so worn and old they must be as pliable as socks. They’re not all that memorable, except he’d once seen her lift her foot and bury that boot into Dolohov’s sternum for spitting at her. It was a memorable incident; Dolohov had spent the night in the medical wing for his cracked rib.
Pandora looks up, eyes hazy and confused like the interruption has just reminded her that she is in fact a person, in a physical place, and can be spoken to. Then her eyes clear and she returns Lily’s smile in kind.
“Hello, daughter of Hera.”
“That one’s new,” Lily laughs, “what’s it mean?”
She moves to sit in the chair opposite Pandora, not noticing him. Regulus pushes his paws into Pandora’s thigh one at a time to show his displeasure.
“Hera was associated with lilies because it was said that they came from the milk of her breast.”
Regulus hopes Pandora’s lack of tact and tendency towards knowing weird and wonderful facts would scare Lily off. No such luck.
“You’re likening me to breastmilk?” she asks mirthfully.
“Yes,” Pandora says. Regulus chokes, still trying to figure out cat-laughter. Pandora looks down at him, then back up. “Is that okay?”
“So long as you don’t start calling me ‘Breastmilk’ I suppose it’s fine.”
Pandora nods, half seriously. “I promise I won’t.”
“Right, I won’t distract you from your reading any longer then,” Lily says, rising to her feet.
“You can stay if you’d like,” Pandora replies. Regulus extends his claws and presses them into her tights. No, no, no. “I’m not reading anything important.”
“Sure,” Lily says, and Regulus wants to scratch her for interrupting his quiet afternoon. He wonders when his first instincts became cat ones.
She sits back down, settling in. Regulus is too busy lamenting to realise he’s being lifted into the air until it’s too late.
“Here,” Pandora is saying, “take him from me for a minute. I’m going to go put this book back in its proper place and I’ll be right back.”
Lily takes him with two delicate hands around his middle and he truly believes he has never felt as humiliated as he does in this very moment.
He hisses at Pandora and she smiles back cheekily. This is punishment for the claws thing. Never let it be said that Pandora doesn’t take revenge seriously, he thinks.
His friend disappears around the corner and abandons him mercilessly.
Lily gets half a second into cooing before Regulus scrabbles out of her arms and hops onto the table. Lily pouts at him as he picks his way over to the other side of the table.
She reaches down, into one of the pouches attached to her belt and extracts the best smelling thing Regulus has ever known. She places it on the table and then engages him in a staring contest.
She wins, Regulus caves. He steps cautiously towards the food, curious. Catnip, he realises as he gets closer. When he looks up, he sees Lily smiling victoriously.
He begins to eat it, amazed that something could taste so good. It’s? Inexplicably addictive? Heavenly? Yes, heavenly. Regulus is in heaven. Does he still get another eight lives? He’ll waste them all on catnip if he does.
Then Lily Evans tries to pet his head. He swipes at her hand, leaving behind two light scratches. She retracts her hand, looking not offended in the least, and doesn’t try to pet him again.
When Pandora comes back Lily says, with question in her tone, “I didn’t know you had a cat.”
“I don’t,” Pandora replies.
Regulus finishes off the catnip and leaves them, not willing to be near that traitor of a friend any longer.
From that day forth, he begins to see Lily quite a lot as a cat. She recognises him in the hallways or lazing somewhere with Pandora. She tries to pet him some days and some days she doesn’t. She’s gathered quite the collection of scratches from him, though by the looks of it she probably has a cat of her own and is used to it.
Regulus finds he doesn’t mind her so much, she always leaves her space in the library clean, which he appreciates, and she’s nice to Pandora, which is good because Regulus is too busy finding sunspots to be bothered to hide a corpse.
“Regulus,” says a voice from above him. A voice he recognises.
“Dorcas,” he replies.
He’s stood by the Black Lake, skimming smooth rocks along its surface. The stones bounce gracefully, looking weightless.
“I want revenge and I want you to help me with it.”
He can’t help the smile that spreads over his face at those words. They’re just so pretty, so exciting. He’s a Black, he loves a bit of dark fun.
He nods, not looking at her, but he knows she can see the small twist of his lips.
This is what their friendship mostly looks like, schemes and plans that no one has ever linked back to them. Favours under the guise of trades, small gestures that belie the fondness they hold for one another. Dangerous smiles and laughing at people.
He is friends with her and Pandora as a sort of group, they eat together and revise together, and hurt or humiliate people together. It’s a fun dynamic. Their little trio.
His other friend group consists of Evan and Barty, his second group of three. Regulus considers them all ‘his’, meaning if something happens to them, someone is going to die.
He sometimes wonders if thinking that is a little extreme, but casts his mind back to the time when he’d thought Evan was dead because a random Hufflepuff pushed him off his broom during a quidditch match. Turns out Evan was only mildly concussed with a broken ankle, so Regulus and Barty had let the fucker go with a mysteriously broken nose and wrist and an expulsion. His mind had briefly gone to the cursed dagger in his dorm though.
In any case, the conversation with Dorcas was not all that unusual. She picks up a stone beside him and skims it too. It gets only a foot further than Regulus’ last one, sending the water rippling outwards around the sinking pebble.
“I wonder if I’ll cause ripples when I sink,” he thinks quietly.
“If you don’t, I’ll cause them for you. A whole splash.”
“Thanks Dorcas,” he says sincerely, “So, revenge, what are the details?”
“Mulciber, Dolohov and Snape are our targets,” she begins quietly. “They went after Marlene with some homophobic bullshit, called her names and grabbed her hair and shit. She gave them hell, obviously, but three to one is hardly fair. Now it’s three on three, much more even, I’d say.”
“Intellectually, I think we outweigh them rather massively.”
Dorcas snickers.
“So my plan involves boggarts, skin boils and inescapable nightmares.”
“I’m all ears.”
Dorcas tells him, for the next half hour, about her plan. They tweak it and pinpoint areas to focus on first, then they part ways like partners in a business transaction. He smiles to himself even as she leaves, excited to watch it all unfold under their careful hands.
The brilliant plan sadly involves some spying, which wouldn’t be all that bad because Regulus loves knowing other people’s secrets, except he has to spy on idiots.
Dolohov doesn’t know his left from his right and has the worst smelling feet of anyone Regulus knows; Mulciber eats like a veritable pig and couldn’t recognise a valuable thought if Regulus bludgeoned him with one; Snape’s hair has grease enough to make a classic English fry-up and his attempt at a sneer is so hideous Regulus believes he is genuinely allergic to it.
Overall, he’s miserable. Knowing their schedules is essential to the plan, but Merlin, he’s on the brink of tearing his eyes out of their sockets. He was on spying duty today, Dorcas and Pandora in the library reading up on how to make the spell they want possible.
He goes to join them, rubbing at his eyes blearily. It has been a long day indeed, but it’s progress so ‘hurray’, he supposes.
He hunts down the table his friends are sat at and plops down, gracefully of course. He casts a silencing charm around them.
“So, the idiot is easy enough: we can get his wand during practice, it’ll be in the changing room so one of you two can go in, cast the spell, and be done with it. The only problem is that since we’re taking one each, either I miss practice – which is not possible because it’ll cause suspicion – or we find a way to delay it until all three are dealt with.”
Pandora nods, “We can delay it once we know what the spell is, I’m sure.” Her smile is so sweet it’s almost funny that she’s plotting what Regulus thinks might be close to psychological torture. He turns away from her before he starts smiling back.
“So that’s Mulciber dealt with, what about the other two?” Dorcas asks.
“Dolohov should be alright too, I looked through his medical files and it says he takes sleeping draughts once every three nights, prescribed, for insomnia issues. I overheard something vague about his bedtime being eight, so I assume on those nights he sleeps early to make the most of the rest he can get. I’ll take care of that as long as you can stall his roommates should they try to come to the dorm.”
Dorcas nods, “Can do.”
Pandora claps excitedly, “Two down, one to go!”
“And the spell?” Regulus nods towards the work spread out over the table.
“Right,” says Pandora. “So what we’ve found so far is that it does exist: the boggart-semnebulosa. Its physical form lends well to what we’re trying to do, I think as long as their wands have the right cores, we can do it. Might take a potion, one of those binding ones we learnt about in second year. I’ll get it in a week, give or take.”
“Brilliant, Pandora,” Regulus says.
Dorcas nods, smiling, “Our nefarious angel. I’ve personally been looking into a few different things. To keep us out of suspicion, I thought we’d have to use different wands, but there’s no way we can get those to respond well enough to us for the intended purposes. Any ideas on how to keep people from tracing our wands?”
There’s a beat of silence, “I’ll ask Kreacher for a couple of books, I’m sure one of the ‘Hypothesis Murder’ tomes has an answer.”
The girls nod, then Dorcas continues. “Time wise, the boggarts will stay as long as they can feed, which for us means until the teachers are able to remove them. I also think they have some tendency towards addiction, so if the boggarts stay long enough with the three targets, they’d just follow them to any new wands if they try to switch to another wand.” Pandora squeals in excitement. “Lastly, we can find them in pretty much any forest in the UK, though their physicality wanes and waxes with the moon. Our best shot is on or close to the full.”
“Okay, Pandora our love affair is back on, you can cover for me on the full,” he says. Pandora nods, she’s not fond of the forest since she tripped on a root once and hurt her ankle. She’s harboured a mild hatred for it ever since because she says it tripped her up on purpose.
“I’ll come with you,” Dorcas nods, “then we’ll have the best chance of capturing three boggarts. It says in caves near water sources, do you know any or do we just go in blind?”
Pandora jumps up, “Let me try find a map.”
And on the day goes, the three of them so lost in their plotting they nearly forget dinner.