Chapter Text
Regulus himself is not sure how it happens. There’s no warning– and who would it come from? Nobody knows he’s here. He’s made sure of that.
Where here is, well, that again is a sticky question. He’s designed himself a somewhat unconventional house, one that exists both in and out of physical reality. It took decades worth of charms and potions to perfect, but he did. In the end.
Then, to define where he resided as a house would have been generous. It was, in the physical sense, a house, but it was more of an amalgamation of things he’d picked up over the years. In the beginning it had been barely a rug, an indulgence he’d allowed himself when he shed his skin. When he ran, shedding youth and name and, for all intents and purposes, life, he had destroyed Regulus Black in his entirety. Left with nothing but the ragged ruins of himself, he began to build from the ground up. Creation in its purest form.
And here he is. The middle bit is never all that interesting, he’s found. Life is only really about the start and the end. And, despite (or maybe because of) the grey in his once-Black hair, his hasn’t ended quite yet.
These days, he spends most of his time muttering to himself. Busywork. Even the thought of it still makes him sneer some mornings. He’s had to reimagine his ambitions– scale them down to fit inside a gardening patch.
Which is why the letter was so strange. It arrived in his post box, but he could tell immediately from the ink quality that it had not been written by a muggle. More alarmingly, the address read ‘Mr Regulus Black.’ Anybody who knew him these days– few and far between, mind you– called him Roman Blanc. A french writer; retired, reclusive, but he’d buy the local groceries and chat to the postman if he saw him. Indulgent, he’d admit, but he liked his initials how they were, and it was somebody he could have been, maybe. In another time. Quiet and peaceful.
The letter, after being thoroughly checked for magic, burnt and unburnt, boiled and dried, was very plain.
“Mr Black,
You are not an easy man to find. I’m sure you’ll keep it that way.
I will be sending someone to you shortly. He needs a haven in this time.
Dumbledore.”
Upon reading it, Regulus scoffed and pulled out his wand. With a curl of his lip, the paper went up in flames.
Bastard.
All these years, and he still wasn’t allowed to be free. No matter what he did, he was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the past.
Regulus allowed himself a moment to ‘process,’ as that funny muggle woman with the floaty voice had described it once. He imagined himself shattering the glass cabinet in the corner, putting his fist through the window, ripping the curtains into burnable little shreds.
Regulus took a breath. And then another.
He unclenched his hands and went inside. He had defensive spells to weave.
***
The boy showed up on his doorstep confused. Much like Regulus himself.
It was evening, there was a knock, and Regulus went to answer it, expecting the funny religious man down the road. He always came by on the first sunday of every third month, asking if he’d ‘be seeing Roman in church tomorrow.’ Regulus had been so suspicious he’d nearly killed the man at first. It turned out he was only an odd muggle, intent on ‘saving a foreigner’s soul.’ Whatever that meant. Only more suspicious, if you asked Regulus.
When he opened the door, he thought he was dreaming. One of those lucid, unsettling dreams that dredged up the past and left his heart pounding.
Next, he thought he was hallucinating. The madness always nipping at his heels had finally caught up to him. Settled in behind his mind and taken control of his eyes.
Idly, he wondered what Sirius would do in this situation. It happened sometimes, the unbidden wander of his mind to his older brother, a childish want for someone to guide him.
He’d made his peace with it. Was leaning into it, on certain occasions.
“Uh,” the image of James Potter said, “I was told to find you? I’m–”
“You’re a mean hallucination,” Regulus hissed. “Send me someone nicer.” He slammed the door.
Not ten minutes later the worn trunk and snowy owl appeared in his living room.
***
After a night of frenzied pacing, facing memories he didn’t want to face, Regulus managed to fall into a few hours of fitful sleep.
In the morning, he combed his hair into something respectable, put on a shirt and tie, and composed himself.
No matter what he threw at the items in the living room, they did not budge. Whether the boy had been a hallucinataion or not (and Regulus was still not convinced), he had kicked him out into the cold without a thought. He at least owed him a cursory glance around town, to see if he’d found some semi-dry bridge to huddle under.
After checking the only bridge in the village, Regulus reluctantly turned his sights towards the inn.
The door jingled as he walked in, Gregory the Barkeep looking up from wiping down the counters. That’s all the man ever seemed to do. How mundane these muggle tasks were.
“Roman!” he greeted, “Surprised to see you in so early.”
Regulus adopted his french accent. “I’m looking for somebody. Have you had any guests for the night?”
“Young fella arrived just around dusk. Very polite.” He tipped his head thoughtfully. “Was asking about you, actually.”
Regulus raised his eyebrows. “What did he say?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just general curiosity. What were you like, did you have any family, who were you, y’know the like.”
“And what did you tell him?”
Greg smiled apologetically. “Well, we don’t really know all that much about you. Couldn’t really help him. Plus,” he added, “a man’s entitled to his privacy, ain’t he?”
Regulus nodded. “Thank you, Greg. Is he here?”
“Nah, went out for breakfast, I think.”
Regulus let out a small sigh. While he appreciated the confirmation that he was not hallucinating, he did not appreciate the wild goose chase.
As he left the inn, he turned back towards the river. There really was only one place to get breakfast here.
The cafe was sleepy when he entered, the woman working offering him a wave. Her name was Martha, maybe, and she always gave him an extra biscuit with his coffee when he entered.
Sure enough, the boy was in the corner, wedged into the wall as he scarfed down a pastry. He was looking around as if waiting for somebody to come and kick him out at any minute.
Regulus took a moment to observe him, his familiar dark curls and quiet smirk as he read something funny in the newspaper in front of him.
When Regulus pulled out the chair across from him, he jumped and reached for his back pocket before remembering himself and awkwardly holding out his hand to shake.
He quickly pulled it back and looked around again, a faint look of consternation on his face. Something about it warmed Regulus to see. This boy was young, couldn’t be older than twenty, and still suffering through his teenage years.
“So, you were sent to find me,” Regulus said, not bothering with pleasantries.
“Yes, um, Dumbledore said he’d called ahead?”
“Hm.” Regulus glanced up at Martha bustling over to their table. “Just a coffee, please.” Deciding something, he glanced over to the boy. “And…?”
He looked up like he was surprised Regulus had even asked. “Oh, nothing for me, thanks.” Gesturing to his plate, he added, “It was really lovely, thank you.”
“A coffee and another caramel square, then,” Martha said with a wink at the boy. He tried to interrupt with an, “Oh, no–” but she gathered up his plate and mug with a “Need more weight on those bones, pet.”
The boy looked helplessly to Regulus, who just shrugged at him. He was quite skinny.
After Martha had bustled away again, Regulus leant forward. “If you were sent here, who sent you and who are you looking for?”
“Dumbledore called you Regulus, but the innkeeper called you Roman, so I must have found the wrong person.” He paused for a moment, as if he didn’t really believe it himself, but continued with, “Sorry about that.”
“No, you found the right person.” Regulus left a pause, slowing the conversation down after the boy’s embarrassed speed. “I was Regulus once.”
“Oh,” the boy said, seeming to understand. Regulus had expected more questions, in all honesty.
“And you are…?”
“Harry.” He stuck out his hand again. Regulus shook it and the boy added, “Potter.”
Ah, Potter. So his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, only Fate was. His sanity lives to see another day.
“Nice to meet you,” he told Harry, despite the instinctual emotional flinch at the name. It was like poking a long faded scar at this point, more a memory of pain than any real sting.
There was silence again as Martha brought their orders.
“I really am sorry for showing up unannounced,” Harry apologised again. “If it helps, it caught me by surprise too. I was staying in a hotel in London when he showed up and brought me here.”
“And your parents allowed that?” Regulus asked. It was a hazy impression, but from what he could recall even Potter was never that naive. Nobody allows their child to be whisked away my an eccentric madman. Harry was growing up, clearly, but he wasn’t quite old enough to be on his own yet.
For a moment, he looked baffled. “My parents are dead?” he said, voice lilting up at the end. It felt like a question, but Regulus knew it wasn’t. He blinked at Harry, and felt the faintest crash of emotions at the edge of his conciousness. Shutting it down, he focused on the boy in front of him.
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Has it been long?” he said, politely.
Again, Harry looked at him as if he’d spoken french. “No, it was– I was a baby when it happened. Do you not…?”
Regulus shrugged. “I don’t know anything about you. Should I?” His eyes narrowed.
“It was– all the newspapers wrote about it.”
Regulus tipped his head. “I’m afraid I don’t stay up to date with wizard news. I’ve carved my peace, I see no point in ruining that.”
Harry nodded. “Alright. Is that why Dumbledore sent me here?”
“You mean, you don’t know why he sent you here?”
“Should I? He doesn’t really tell me why, I just do things.”
Regulus sighed. Just as daft as he’d always been then. “Well, I don’t know why you’re here. Dumbledore sent you to the wrong place.”
Harry looked resigned for a moment before he offered Regulus a smile. “Sorry about that. I’ll pass it on.”
“Stop apologising,” Regulus found himself saying, “Only apologise for things that were your fault. Even then, do it rarely.”
Harry, inexplicably, nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind, sir. Thanks.”
Something about being called ‘sir’ by this skinny James Potter lookalike unsettled Regulus deeply. It reminded him too much of his own youthful days now long, long gone.
Regulus stood up to leave and paused. Turning back to Harry, he said, “Come back and collect your things from my living room. Then you can catch the train.”
Harry nodded, standing up almost delicately, as if he was trying to take up as little space as possible. Regulus waited, and then followed him out of the cafe, tipping Martha generously on the way out. It would keep him in good spirits with the locals.
They walked in silence. Harry seemed content to look around, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and Regulus tried to watch him out of the corner of his eye. Once you got over the initial appearance of James, this boy was nothing like him. Regulus didn’t let himself dwell much on the long-dead past, but James had never been this reserved, this small, this polite. He had been full of a buoyancy. Harry just seemed tired, bags under his eyes and a ticking gaze. He reminded Regulus of a rabbit.
As they approached the house, Regulus considered asking him questions. Was he a student? Did he not have aunts or uncles? Why, of all places, was he here? And, most importantly, why was he so relaxed? He didn’t know Regulus from Adam, and the general jumpiness would lend itself to a general air of mistrust. Instead, Harry seemed content to follow him in silence, wand tucked away. What was wrong with this boy? He was going to get himself killed.
Harry politely wiped his shoes on the mat and stepped into the living room, smiling a little bit at the owl. “Hedwig,” he muttered fondly as he hoisted his trunk onto his back, “Did you miss me?”
Regulus watched him gather his things and then followed him to the door.
“Thank you very much, sir. I’m sorry to bother you here, it seems so lovely. I’ll tell Dumbledore he got it wrong.”
Regulus waved him off, irritated again that he was apologising. “Not your fault. He’s a daft bastard.” Harry smiled tentatively, and Regulus felt a faint pride at evoking it. His mouth moved without his permission. “Why don’t I walk you to the train station? I’ll get you a ticket back to London.”
Harry started turning away. “Oh, no, thank you, that’s alright. I’ll find my own way there, no need.”
Not bothering with a response, Regulus turned around and locked the door behind him. Harry was only a kid, all sharp and gangly with those bags hanging off of him. He looked so young, standing there and trying to disappear out the front gate. It would only be right of Regulus to bring him to the station. It was a small town, but he should make sure the kid got on the train. Made it to London safe enough. “Here, I’ll take that bag.”
“Oh, it’s not heavy.”
“Well, that’s good for me, isn’t it? And I’m not touching the bird.” Again, Regulus saw a faint smile, something of James’ smirk lurking around the edges.
After a half hour of silence, Regulus decided to break it. “Are you working, then?”
Harry shrugged, readjusting the owl’s cage. “Tried to get a job for the sumer but I don’t have the muggle paperwork for it.”
“Just for the summer? No long term career?”
“I’m going back to Hogwarts in September, wouldn’t be any point finding something long term.”
Regulus cut him a glance. He was still in school? He thought this was a recently-graduated-no-place-to-stay thing. “Why not a job in Diagon Alley?”
“Tried that too,” Harry sighed. “Didn’t want to take me on since I brought too much attention with me. Everybody’s trying to lay low.” He shrugged.
Well, that was interesting. Trying to lay low? Regulus had never regretted cutting himself off from wizarding news, but perhaps he’d missed something.
At some point along the walk, Regulus noticed Harry eyeing him, too. Perhaps the boy wasn’t as trusting as he’d thought.
Good. He’d have a better chance of making it. Especially if Dumbledore was leading him. God knows you needed self-preservation if that fool was ‘guiding’ you.
When they reached the train station, after having lapsed into another round of silence, Regulus strode to the ticket window before Harry could. “One ticket to London, please.”
The very old ticketmaster looked up at him with tired eyes. “Five pound sixty, that’ll be.” Regulus counted out the funny little muggle notes and handed them through. “Train’s in an hour.”
Regulus turned to Harry and stuck out his hand for a handshake. “Good luck with your studies.”
“Thank you. Sorry about the mix up.”
Regulus gave him a cheery smile before leaning close, out of sight of the ticketmaster. “If you tell a single soul about this, about me, I will hunt you down and you will have a very, very short career ahead of you.”
Blinking, Harry nodded. “Understood, sir.”
Regulus wrinkled his nose. “And stop calling me ‘sir.’”
With a wave as Regulus walked away, Harry sat down on a little bench and gazed out over the tracks.
He looked very small sitting there, Regulus thought. And worryingly unfazed by the threat. Still, he couldn’t get the image of James Potter out of his head. Vibrant, loud, confident James Potter. He even thought of Lily, stern and soft in equal measure, from what he could recall. This boy seemed neither– almost tucked in on himself.
Regulus spent what felt like an age in the doorway of the train station, warring with himself. Harry paid him no notice, but Regulus had a sneaking suspicion he knew he was there. Finally, his feet started to move.
Harry looked up at him, hand straying to his back pocket. Good. He had some form of self defense.
“How about you stay with me for a little bit?” Regulus found himself saying. “I can keep an eye on you and you can–” he waved a hand around, “--study, or whatever it is you do.”
Harry looked at him, silent for a minute or two. Eventually, he said, “Alright,” and picked up his trunk.
Regulus led him back to the house and wondered if he’d just made a terrible mistake.