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Chapter Text

I, Regulus Black, successor to the estate of the House of Black, being of sound mind and body, acting freely from duress and coercion, magical or mundane, and having attained the age of majority, do hereby declare my Last Will and Testament.  

I formally bequeath all of my property to Sirius Orion Black, including, but not limited to, the contents of my Gringotts vault; my personal property kept at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London, England; and the bond of the house-elf Kreacher, formerly in the service of Orion Arcturus Black (deceased).  

I further bequeath to Sirius Orion Black all deeds and titles currently held by myself as heir apparent to the House of Black, unless formally disputed by Arcturus Canopus Black, patriarch of the House of Black and recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class.  

I affirm that any heirs presumptive not included in this Will have been intentionally omitted.

I, the undersigned, do hereby create and magically bind this document as my Last Will, in accordance with the custom of my Noble and Most Ancient House, and in the presence of the undersigned attesting witness.

Signed by the Testator, Regulus Arcturus Black, on 9 October 1979.
Signed by the Witness, Thorkel, authorized representative of Gringotts Bank, on 9 October 1979.  

A light snow, the first of the year, had just begun to fall on Godric's Hollow as Remus Lupin approached the familiar door. He had not seen the cottage in months, but its cheerful window boxes and light brick exterior were as welcoming as they had ever been — if he could avert his eyes from the enormous gap marring the brick of the right upper floor. It gaped like a wound, torn into the side of the nursery by the same curse that had torn through the forehead of the one-year-old baby who had so recently lived there.

Or so Remus had been told. He had not been permitted to visit Harry, or even to see him from a distance, in the five days since he'd learned that James and Lily were dead.

Remus willed his face to stay composed as he opened the door. On the fateful night that Voldemort had met his end here, Remus had been half a nation away, three quarters through his ten-month stint undercover in a werewolf pack on the outskirts of a remote Muggle town. He'd been ordered to keep tabs on a hostile but still-unaffiliated pack that Dumbledore had hoped to sway away from Fenrir Greyback and, by proxy, the grasping master for whom he'd been recruiting.

Seven months of Remus's life, and none of it mattered, now. The war had been over for almost two days before anyone had remembered to recall him.

"Stop right there," a gruff voice called. Remus had barely passed the threshold before Mad-Eye Moody was in his face, wand out. Moody signaled with his other hand, and an Auror whom Remus did not know approached from across the sitting room, waving a Probity Probe in his direction. "What were you eating the last time we met?"

"A rather greasy fry-up and two black coffees," Remus returned tiredly, "on your tab, which I did appreciate." He had met up with Moody to pass information to the Order on the morning after a very long full moon.

"Good to see you, Lupin," Mad-Eye said, lowering his wand and stepping away. "Catch." He tossed a Sneakoscope.

Remus was no Chaser. A quick charm and the Sneakoscope floated to a halt, instead; Remus examined it dully as it sat silently in mid-air. "You know, Mad-Eye, I had heard that the war was over," he said, as the Probity Probe wandered dangerously close to his left nostril.

"Tell that to Frank and Alice," Mad-Eye retorted. "The moment you let your guard up is the moment your enemy will strike the hardest. Constant vigilance." Remus nodded. "Alright, let him in."

The unknown Auror stepped back, and Remus entered the Potters' sitting room. Unlike the outside of the house, this room bore unmistakable signs of a recent upheaval. But not, Remus realized bitterly, an upheaval caused by Voldemort's attack. Except for a chalk outline drawn carefully on the living room floor — Remus turned his head away; he would not think of Prongs — the sitting room did not show signs of violence. From what he'd heard, James hadn't gotten much of a chance to duel.

Instead, the room was littered with the chaotic byproducts of curiosity and celebration. While the most senior Aurors had scrambled to confirm rumors of Voldemort's defeat — had rushed to contain the fallout of vengeful counterattacks by the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange and Sirius Black — random denizens of Wizarding Britain had swarmed the Potter house, setting off fireworks, scribbling triumphant graffiti, and nabbing souvenirs. Four days had passed before the Aurors returned to enforce a perimeter around Godric's Hollow. In that time, the scene of Voldemort's defeat had become quite a proper mess, and now, it seemed like half of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was here to clean it up.

Remus looked about, dazed. No fewer than twelve Aurors were bustling about the lower floor of the cottage, waving Dark Detectors, casting revealing spells, and cataloging James and Lily's possessions (those that hadn’t been stolen by random revelers) into categories of evidence. Aside from Moody, there were no faces that Remus recognized. In the corner of the kitchen where Lily had kept her mother's floral kettle, someone had scribbled "To the Boy Who Lived!" in bright yellow ink across a cabinet. Beside it, an Auror was diligently making note of the flavor of each of Lily's teas.

Against the sitting room wall, a flimsy table had been set up containing a handful of tagged objects — a quill nib, a hand mirror, a jelly slug still in the wrapping. The contents of James Potter's pockets, Remus realized uncomfortably. He looked at the plain mirror and felt a wave of unreality crash over him, the same feeling of numbness that had submerged him since Dumbledore delivered the news five days ago. None of this was possible. None of this made sense.

Mad-Eye followed Remus's gaze. "You can start up there, Lupin," he said, jerking his head toward the staircase. "Left side of the house. We're glad of the help." Sure, they were.

Dumbledore had pushed hard on the Ministry to allow Remus to help sort through the Potter house (but only, Remus noticed, after he'd completed a thorough examination himself). He'd given the excuse that, as the only reliable witness left alive to the Potters' activities in hiding, Remus might be able to offer some valuable perspective on any clues that might be overlooked — any evidence of powerful magics that may have been afoot within the Potters' tiny cottage. Nonsense. If James or Lily had known any method of outwitting the Killing Curse, Remus had never seen a hint of it. But he'd needed to be here, needed to see the cottage for himself, and so he'd nodded and pretended that the plan was a good one. That anything existing in this ruined house could possibly explain the backwards, solitary world that Remus lived in now.

He walked upstairs. Two burly Aurors redirected him leftward the moment he made it to the landing. They would not allow him into Harry's room.

Leadenly, Remus turned and headed the opposite way. The wind was blowing into the house through the gigantic hole in the far wall of the nursery. A few dead November leaves crunched under Remus's feet as he walked down the upstairs hall.

Where to go, then? Unmoored, Remus ducked past Lily's Potions studio — another spot of interest for the Aurors, as they hunted for signs of advanced defensive magic — and into the emptiest room he could spot.

James and Lily's bedroom. Remus had only been in this room a handful of times, and he was struck by a flash of memory — the way he and his friends had teased the Potters as they planned their wedding, James's blush, Lily's saucy humor. He felt like an intruder. But only one Auror was in the room, mercifully, so here was where Remus would stay.

The Auror, waving his wand lazily, was sorting a heap of laundry into clothes by type and owner and packing them into evidence boxes for transport. Remus stared as James's Puddlemere United scarf folded itself and landed neatly on top of a pile. "What will you even use this for?" he asked, despite himself.

The Auror, a short man with a friendly face, looked up. "Honestly, probably nothing," he said with a shrug. "It's mostly the baby's stuff we're after, I reckon. But we're talking unknown magic, here, so the Unspeakables are going to want a closer look at all of it. Watch out, will you?"

The remaining contents of the closet were barreling toward Remus, still on their hangers. He dodged, and they joined the laundry pile, sorting themselves one at a time. "That's not James's," Remus said suddenly.

"Hmm?"

"The leather jacket. It's not his, someone left it here." The Auror shrugged and grabbed an evidence tag, making a note. Then he looked up at Remus in apparent realization.

"You're the friend? The bloke that Dumbledore was sending over?" Echoes in Remus's ears, like the ocean. He nodded. "Great timing," the Auror said, with a welcoming smile that made Remus feel nauseous. "Demetrius Quilby. Nice to meet you."

"Remus Lupin." Quilby held out a hand, which Remus shook.

"Charmed. I've got a question for you, actually, if you don't mind. D'you happen to know if James Potter had a pen friend?"

"If he had— what?"

"Any correspondents? Just that I found some post of his that's a bit odd." Quilby crossed over to James's bedside table and pulled open the bottom drawer.

"No one that I'm aware of," Remus told him, bemused. "It was usually Lily who kept up with the post."

James had never had the temperament for letter-writing, preferring to pop over for a quick visit whenever he wanted to talk to his friends. That was one of the main reasons why Si— Remus felt the waves lapping his ankles, pulling him under— had been so reliant on those mirrors, when he'd been stuck in his parents' house back in the day. Excepting in the past year — when James's movements had been curtailed; when the stress of hiding had left Lily too tired to write, and James had taken over the letters to give her a breather — Remus had not received more than a handful of owls from James during their entire friendship.

"Huh. Maybe hers, then." And to Remus's slight bewilderment, he tapped the empty drawer with his wand, revealing a false bottom. Quilby removed a stack of letters from the compartment beneath, handing them to Remus. "They're not made out to anybody, and the messages are pretty bland — the weather, that sort of thing — so it seemed a strange thing that they should be hidden. Some spells on them too, but I thought I'd wait for the Concealment specialists to work that out. Not my best area." He smiled in cheery self-deprecation. "Don't suppose you have any idea?"

Remus stared, shuffling through the papers. "I— yes, actually" he said, baffled. Remus recognized the handwriting, the concealment charms — with a quick incantation, the false messages melted away, and the invisible writing underneath became visible. Quilby peered over Remus's shoulder.

"Bloody hell is that supposed to say?" he asked, with a blank look at the splayed pages. Remus ignored him, sluggish mind churning. He knew how to read these letters, knew who they were from, but he didn't understand why James had kept them — why there should be so many —

He blinked. One letter was different than the rest. The remains of a wax seal clung to the back, and it was written on a heavier, more expensive parchment than the others. A second letter, this one on ordinary paper, was tucked neatly inside it. Remus walked over to James and Lily's bed and sat. Putting the rest of the stack aside, he examined the statelier letter and began to read.

His blood froze.

I formally bequeath

Remus didn't understand what he was seeing. He didn't understand why this should be here.

heir apparent to the House of Black, unless formally disputed

He read it once, twice, again. I, Regulus Black, successor to the estate

Remus felt his heart pounding like the roar of high tide, the rush of the sea. For days, waves of confusion had left him numb, had led him through this hellish week as though swimming through an incomprehensible dream. Now they ebbed, leaving rocky shores of feeling in their wake. For the first time since Dumbledore had given him the news that had shattered his life, Remus was grasping at the edges of something like understanding. Like clarity.

"What is it, mate?" Quilby asked. Remus looked up, voice sharp, hands shaking.

"Motive."

And then he fell apart.

It would be eleven days yet before the wolf would emerge to learn that he had lost his pack forever. The howl of grief and betrayal in his throat was entirely Remus's own.

Chapter Text

14 January 1973

To Sirius,  

Sorry to send it this way but Cissy caught me walking to the Owlery this morning and asked if I was writing to Mother.  

I know that you meant it as a joke but everyone is calling you a Muggle lover and worse. I said it wasn't true but no one listens.

Found a tree with four trunks on the far side of the lake behind the boathouse. Can you meet me tonight at 7? Hope classes are good and everything.  

From Reg  

A harsh January sunlight poured in through the library windows, and Sirius Black had a paper raven caught in his hair.

Across the library, Regulus stole another glance at his brother, peeking through a gap between dusty tomes on the nearest bookshelf. Around him, other Slytherin first-years did the same, nudging one another and gesturing over toward the Gryffindor tables. Someone giggled and was quickly shushed. Nobody wanted to draw the attention of Professor Sprout, lazily monitoring near the entrance to the Restricted Section — or worse, invite Madam Pince to swoop over with a loud and embarrassing reprimand.

The raven, intricately folded from a piece of yellowing parchment, lightly sank its talons into a knotty tangle at the back of Sirius's neck. It yawned, shook out its wings — and burst into flames.

Could be worse, then.

Sirius's gang of scruffy friends jumped, and a curly-haired Gryffindor girl at a nearby table let out a squeak of surprise. But before any of his friends could draw their wands, Sirius had lifted his own. He hissed a quick Aguamenti, putting out the small fire nearly as quickly as it was cast. Regulus let go of the breath he had been holding. Sirius had even managed to salvage most of his hair.

Regulus snuck a glance at Professor Sprout, but if she'd seen the incident, she had apparently decided to let it go. Sirius and his friends, however, glared openly at the Slytherin third-years packed into the far corner next to the Transfiguration bookcases. They made rude gestures at Mulciber and mouthed what Regulus assumed were threats before turning pointedly back toward their own table.

Not to study, it seemed. Sirius nudged the boy next to him, a gangly kid with a rather ghastly scar running across his left temple, and nodded toward the squeaky Gryffindor girl. With a grin, he leaned toward her and shook the water out of his hair like a puppy coming in from the rain.

Curly Hair squeaked again, lifting a book to cover her face. Her study partner, a redheaded girl — Regulus recognized her as one of the Mudbloods whom Narcissa warned him to avoid — went red with indignation and started telling him off in a rather shouty whisper. The four boys laughed richly. This, Regulus supposed, explained why Sirius had decided to conjure water instead of going in for a counter-curse. Or maybe his brother was just following the path of chaos, as usual.

"Mold! Mildew!" Madam Pince screeched, swooping down on the Gryffindor third-years. Professor Sprout started marching over as well, and the redhead immediately gestured for her attention. Around Regulus, the other Slytherins grinned excitedly at one another, evidently deciding that the teachers' wrath would provide enough of a show to make up for Mulciber's lackluster raven, which had turned out rather uncreative and had been over rather too soon. Regulus nodded along, ignoring the twist in his gut, and forced a laugh when Avery knocked him playfully on the shoulder.

On the Gryffindor side of the library, Madam Pince was wrapping up her lecture. Regulus turned back toward his own table. He reached into his bag for his copy of The Standard Book of Spells. With his eye on his tablemates, Regulus turned to Chapter 7, where a blank piece of parchment had been carefully stowed between the pages of the book.

Regulus stared at the parchment for a moment. Breathed. Then, picking up his quill, he quickly scrawled two words, in a large, ugly print that filled the entire page:

BLOOD. TRAITOR.

He put the quill down.

Hogwarts was not anything like what Regulus had expected.

Or maybe the problem wasn't the school, but everything happening outside it. Regulus hadn't missed the sharp conversations around the dinner table last spring, or the way his father's guests lingered later and later, keeping up hushed, focused conversations over their cigars and digestifs. He hadn't missed the venomous giddiness with which Mother had brought up politics, more than wealth or talent or lineage, as a point of Black family pride in conversation with her lady friends. But then, the adults in his life had always been inscrutable to Regulus. He stayed silent and thought of flying when the children were forced to join at teatime; he scampered to his room when Father dismissed him from the supper table.

Maybe there had been rumblings about Sirius, too. But there had always been a storm about his brother, great thunderclouds bemoaning his defiance and attention and aggression — especially since his Sorting into Gryffindor two years ago. Sirius's record at Hogwarts was an embarrassment, Regulus knew. A source of constant shame for his mother, who reminded her second son of the fact loudly and often; a weapon for the other children in his family's social circle, who had yearned for ages to take the Black brothers down a peg or three. But when the subject came up, during those long months when Sirius was away at school, his father had always insisted, quite firmly, that Sirius's...problems...were just minor indiscretions, youthful missteps, really. Sirius's magic was top form. His marks were excellent, and surely his disciplinary record was a fluke, unfair persecution of the Black heir by that fool headmaster and Gryffindor's biased Head of House. When Sirius could be bothered to attend summer dance lessons or the children's balls — which was almost never, anymore, but surely thirteen was too old for nursery parties anyway? — none of the other children had ever challenged him to his face.

And if Sirius had picked up some rather, well, eccentric ideas about politics...

Well. Sirius had always had a peculiar way of picking up ideas and putting them down again. He'd always loved the noisy, the provocative, the strange. Surely he was just experimenting? Playing the clown? It had all seemed rather usual to Regulus. And even his mother hadn't seemed to pay too much attention, more focused on rebuking his brother's worthless House and heedless behavior and shabby table manners.

At least, she hadn't that first summer. Regulus was only beginning to realize how many things Lord Voldemort had changed.

Regulus wasn't stupid. When his father and mother had sat him down last April and told him about Lord Voldemort, and what he had done — a downright heroic duel with some famous Mudblood Auror, a victory that had made all of Wizarding high society take notice (and the rest of British wizardry, too) — of course, he'd been quite awed. It was a historic moment. The ancient rights of pure-blood families had languished for a hundred and fifty years, and not since Grindelwald had a champion appeared so worthy of their hopes and pocketbooks. (And British, to boot!) A buzz of energy had surged through Regulus's social circle like bubbles rising through newly-poured champagne. Of course he had been proud.

And yet, Lord Voldemort's triumph had felt somewhat distant to Regulus. It had seemed a sort of abstract inevitability, the logical conclusion of everything he knew about pure-blood superiority and how the world ought to work. Grown-up stuff. Good news, he was sure, but not really something that impacted Regulus directly. But then, he had only been eleven, then, and not even in school yet. Regulus was twelve years old and a Slytherin now, and maybe it was time to see things differently.

Maybe if he'd only realized this earlier, he could have warned Sirius last summer. Maybe then he and his brother could have avoided this entire mess.

To his right, Avery snickered, looking over at Regulus's note. Regulus pulled off an answering grin. Or at least he tried. Avery generally seemed to think him odd, but at least odd was not suspicious. Regulus showed the note to Parkinson and Selwyn too, for good measure, making sure they'd seen the message, written in that hideous print instead of his practiced, flourishing script. Feeling the eager eyes of the table upon him, Regulus pinched the corners of the parchment and began to fold.

Before Sirius had gone to Hogwarts — before he'd been too old, and too mopey, and too holed up in his bedroom to accompany his brother to the mothers' teas and dance lessons and balls — Regulus and his brother had sometimes played war.

In fact, Sirius had been one of the chief organizers. This had been his favorite game to encourage whenever a big enough group was brought together —at least ten kids to make it worthwhile, plus a manor with decent grounds and a solid afternoon allowed to them, outdoors and unsupervised. Regulus had much preferred ground Quidditch. But as his brother and some of the other boys had often argued, playing at battles was a much more exciting and versatile game. Nobody needed to smuggle a Quaffle behind his back on the way to the fireplace to pull off a good try at War; the rules could change every game, with even teams not required; and besides, didn't Quidditch get right boring when they weren't allowed to bring their brooms? Even obstacles like unkempt grounds or bad weather, a sopping wet Sirius had once told Regulus eagerly, could be turned to the game's advantage: "Rosier's only bitter he didn't think of it himself, see? That's a real tactic. Camouflage!"

Regulus, freezing cold and covered in mud, had only pouted at this revelation.

Sometimes they'd played Wizards Versus Giants, or picked the ugliest names they could think of to act out rival factions in a goblin skirmish. But the most memorable scenarios were always the Wizarding Wars. It was these games which brought out the real and unmistakable edge of conflict lurking beneath their nursery play — which encouraged the dueling and Muggle tackling that Sirius, Rosier, and boys like them seemed to crave.

During one Midsummer festival that had been grumbled about for years, Sirius had been so incensed when Amycus Carrow won the vote to lead Grindelwald's army that he'd immediately volunteered himself as Dumbledore — a role they usually foisted onto one of the lesser pure-blood hangers-on or other unpopular boys who'd been drafted onto the Mudblood team. Not only had the Mudbloods won the day, but eight-year-old Sirius had pulled off such a ferocious bit of childish magic that Carrow had been left bright blue and oozing at the end of their game-winning duel. Nobody had confessed to the house-elf nannies who exactly was guilty, and Sirius had gotten his pick of captaincy on the next two Midsummers in a row. 

Hogwarts — or at least, Hogwarts in the wake of any headline featuring He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named — reminded Regulus of those competitive Midsummers, when the atmosphere of sporting play between boys had grown thinner than a worn Invisibility Cloak. Thinner than the barbed compliments exchanged by their mothers over tea. Regulus had known that Sirius got detentions in school, had understood that his brother, whatever bias the headmaster or the Gryffindors might hold, must certainly be more than a little guilty of the troublemaking for which he so often stood accused. But Regulus had envisioned...jokes. Like when Sirius made Aunt Druella's grand piano burp the alphabet, or recruited Regulus to help him smuggle Grandfather's Abraxan pony out of its stall.

He hadn’t imagined the little war that brewed behind school walls.

If Lord Voldemort was bringing a cleansing fire to England, then every student at Hogwarts seemed ready and willing to feed the flames. Slytherin and Gryffindor were the staunchest offenders, but more than a few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had made it clear that they, too, were staking out sides. Every time the Prophet whispered of a new attack, either by Lord Voldemort himself or by his mysterious proxies, it seemed to set off a tidal wave of amateur dueling in the halls. Hence, most of the student body had seen its free periods reduced to supervised study halls in the library, as Hogwarts' staff tried its best to crack down on the threatening graffiti, sabotaged homework, and increasingly aggressive corridor combat cropping up across the school.

And if it all hadn't felt real enough in the fall term, a clique of Slytherin seventh-years had intensified matters as they entered the spring: after the Christmas holiday two weeks ago, five students simply hadn't returned to school. Regulus's cousin Bellatrix was among them. She'd spent the holiday break smiling too sweetly at the season's Christmas soirees, wondering aloud to great-aunt after great-aunt what an of-age and soon-to-be-married young witch could possibly need with a roster of N.E.W.T.s. "Surely," she'd added, with a high-pitched titter of laughter, "it would be much more productive for me and Rodolphus to get a head start on our honeymoon?"

Regulus, who was far too familiar with the mocking femininity of Bellatrix's sarcasm, had not been fooled. Neither had his brother. When they'd returned to Hogwarts in January, Sirius had loudly and publicly asked sixth-year Rabastan Lestrange whether the heir to his family line wasn't delighted to be starting his married life as a cuckold to Grindelwald's ugliest great-nephew. The next day, the Slytherin breakfast table had been bombarded by owls, each bearing an elaborate wedding invitation on thick ivory paper. Every member of Slytherin house had been invited, by name, to celebrate "the blessed nuptial union of the highly eligible Bellatrix Black" and "whichever of you sorry bastards can pull off the grisliest murder between now and Walpurgisnacht."

Which was more or less why Sirius had come to find himself the target of a horde of cursed origami ravens.

If Sirius had pulled this stunt earlier in the year, he and his mates would probably have gotten jumped for their trouble. As things stood, the professors' crackdown had forced House Lestrange to be a little subtler in its revenge. The Lestrange coat of arms featured a raven, and the first bunch of elaborately folded corvid messengers had appeared the next morning, prominently painted with the Lestrange crest. At least a half a dozen had flitted across the Great Hall during breakfast, landing on Sirius's robes, in his bag, on his skin. Each seemed to carry a different curse, but the notes scribbled inside them all contained the same two hostile words:

BLOOD. TRAITOR.

Sirius's breakfast prank had made Regulus sink into his shoes, angry and embarrassed. He didn't care how cruel Bella had been when they were little — voicing such obscenities about her publicly, much less about her fiancé, had to be crossing a line, even for Sirius. But seeing that phrase applied to his brother — not only once, but over and over and over again — made him feel sick.

The professors hadn't been able to catch anyone in the act, and so the raven attacks had continued for the past two weeks. In the Slytherin common room, they had even become something of a game. Alone and miserable, Regulus tried to avoid the crowd, spying out of the corners of his eyes as the little folded ravens harassed his brother at random moments throughout the school day. Sirius was a dab hand at spellwork, and his friends seemed to be similarly adept with counter-jinxes — two of them, at least, Regulus thought, glancing askance at the shortest boy — so most of the offending letters did not seem to do lasting damage.

Still, there had been incidents. Regulus thought back to three days ago, in the corridor between the Defense, Charms and Transfiguration classrooms, when a raven had latched onto Sirius's neck and emitted a garish purple curse that spread up and across his face like a tendril of ivy. His brother had stopped dead and shrieked in a way that sent Regulus's heart plummeting into his stomach and McGonagall sprinting from around the corner and all three of Sirius's mates racing toward the nearby gaggle of Slytherin fifth-years in a jumble of wands and fists.

Moments like these had hardened Regulus's resolve. He needed to do something.

Regulus wasn't foolish enough to try and talk to Sirius in the open. It had been made very clear to him, both by his parents and by half of Slytherin house, that the consequences if he were seen "going the way of his brother" would be severe. But Sirius needed to be warned. He couldn't hear what they were saying about him, deep in the dungeons of the Slytherin common room. All of his acting out was — it was only Sirius's competitive instinct rearing its head once again, as it had during his stint as Dumbledore amid their Midsummer roughhousing. He needed to know that Slytherin house didn't see his behavior as a game.

Aiming as carefully as he could, Regulus sent his paper raven flying toward Sirius's back. He had snuck out of the dormitory last night with one of Lestrange's charmed papers, freely available for anyone in the common room to take, and spent almost the whole night modifying it, hidden in a crawl space he'd discovered behind a gargoyle on the first floor. His real message, painstakingly layered underneath the insult — that two-word phrase had never seemed so vulgar — had been written with careful penmanship in invisible ink. And in code. And in French.

And the spell? Regulus had thought very hard about this one. The raven would turn his brother's robes Slytherin green — not exactly a memorable show for the onlookers, but not suspicious, either; this was about at the limit of prank magic available in the typical first year repertoire. More importantly, Regulus had enhanced the color-changing charm with a handful of additional spells, ones that he was certain Sirius would recognize.

Many of the old pure-blood families allowed their children to experiment with wands before they came to Hogwarts, but the practice rarely gave any of them too much of an advantage upon starting school. Most children’s magic simply wasn't developed enough to accomplish much in formal training before they turned eleven, no matter how early they mastered their swish and flick. (Sirius, of course, had been a precocious exception — a fact that had fueled more than a little of the rivalry he'd developed with their fellow boys). The only intentional wizardry that Regulus had ever managed before starting at Hogwarts was the little household magics that he'd learned from Kreacher, hiding in the calm murkiness of their basement kitchen. These were the spells he had shown proudly to Sirius last summer, who had grinned and clapped him on the back — and these were the spells he'd slipped subtly into the cursed letter, hoping that his brother would see them and know him.

There was something almost peaceful in those domestic little charms. One was a decorative spell for crimping and fluting pie crusts — this would activate when Sirius opened the letter, crinkling upwards along the edges of the page — and another was a freshening spell for tidying the laundry. Kreacher usually added a lemony scent to their laundered robes, but Regulus made the letter smell strongly of anise. It perfectly mimicked the Italian liqueur that Father let Sirius and Regulus taste every year on their birthdays, just like grown-up wizards.

Sirius would notice that something was different, familiar, about this letter. He'd notice, and then he'd decode it and come and talk secretly to Regulus, and then he would understand how dire the situation was. He'd understand, and then he'd apologize to Rabastan and...well, Regulus didn't hold out hope that the Slytherin sixth-years would exactly warm up to Sirius, but at least the Black family wouldn't be their target anymore. Regulus watched the raven flit over the heads of students scattered across the library, cringing internally as Avery suppressed a giggle. It swooped down, perfectly aimed to perch on his brother's left shoulder.

Before the raven could even graze Sirius's robes, a quick hand darted out and caught it like a Snitch.

Regulus jumped. Across the room, Sirius looked over at James Potter, who had crumpled the raven in his fist. "Weak," he snorted loudly, glancing at James's arm, which was turning a rather more vibrant green than Regulus had intended. "Did you spot who that one came from?" Sirius added, with a glare back toward Mulciber. Regulus ducked his head behind The Standard Book of Spells, trying to go unnoticed, feeling the heat rise in his face.

"Oh, no one," said Potter, glancing dismissively toward their table. "Bunch of first-year nobodies." He paused and wrinkled his nose. "Weird curse, though." Regulus held his breath, willing Potter to shut up and give Sirius the letter, willing Sirius to notice the familiar scent. Instead, Potter took a second look at the ball of paper, its pie-crust edges wriggling in his fist — and pocketed it.

Sirius didn't even look over.

Not once in Regulus's life had he ever taken something from his brother without Sirius immediately stealing it back. Even if Sirius didn't want whatever the thing was, he would twist Regulus's arm and grab it away from him on principle.

Regulus did not know what to make of James Potter.

He'd been made aware by Mother's enthusiastic Howlery that Sirius had made some undesirable acquaintances at Hogwarts. But Sirius, probably wisely, was fairly tight-lipped about his Gryffindor friends during the long summers at Grimmauld Place. So Regulus had been taken by surprise when he'd discovered that the Potter boy, a briefly-mentioned friend of his brother's, had a reputation across Hogwarts as Sirius's...shadow, of sorts. (Or maybe Sirius was Potter's shadow? That seemed wildly out of character for the brother that Regulus knew, not to mention completely inappropriate for the Black heir, but it often appeared to be the case). Sometimes other Gryffindor boys hung on too, but Sirius was always, always with Potter.

And Potter was odd. Certainly, he was as loud as Sirius. Maybe, thought Regulus sullenly, he was nearly as clever as Sirius, too. But Potter darted about with irrepressible energy, gregarious and fidgety in a way that most purebloods were not. He dueled oddly too, with a boldly offensive style that featured no shortage of tricky hexes and curses but was strangely lacking in Dark Magic. (Those three things tended to go together, in Regulus's experience, and while he knew that blood traitor families took issue with the Dark Arts, he couldn't really see any reason why such an aggressive duelist would even bother. Surely the difference was just semantics at that point? Some sort of incomprehensible Gryffindor snobbery?)

Regulus might not have even noticed if Sirius hadn't been copying Potter's stupid technique. Regulus had grown up watching his brother scrap with Rosier and Carrow and the rest whenever their parents weren't watching, and he knew that Sirius was just as quick at picking up Dark Magic as any other kind. But at school, his brother dueled like a Gryffindor.

Regulus didn't even like those kinds of games. He requested Quidditch every time. But it was still annoying, somehow, to watch his brother soften his style to match this loud, bespectacled Gryffindor double. Potter laughed at something quiet that Sirius said, and Regulus felt wrong-footed again, watching from his table across the room.

It didn't matter, he thought, wrenching his gaze away to peer down at his notes again. He would go down to the lake tonight, and Sirius would be there. Regulus knew his brother. As soon as Potter let slip that there was something odd about the note — a scent that lingered, edges that crimped back and forth — Sirius would take it from him and fuss with it until he figured out its secret. Sirius couldn't resist a puzzle. Regulus flipped over to his Transfiguration notes, trying to refocus on the essay that he had to write for the following day.

Sirius would be there. He just needed to wait.

Regulus dragged his feet that night as he made his way around the lake and toward the boathouse. He spared the occasional furtive glance over his shoulder, but as he'd hoped, the grounds this far from the castle were nearly deserted on a Monday evening in January. Dusk had long since fallen, and Regulus gave the edge of the lake a wide berth. It would be just his luck to trip on a rock and fall in.

When Grindelwald had made his stand in Europe, there had been a real war. (Even the Muggles had been at war, which Regulus supposed wasn't really intimidating, except that there were rather a lot of them.) And wars didn't only need soldiers, but messengers, diplomats, spies.

Sirius would show up, Regulus repeated to himself. He could hardly fail to decipher his own code. And then they'd figure out some way to apologize to Lestrange without sullying their own Black pride, and his brother's reputation would be salvaged, and this whole stupid problem would be over with, and Mother and Father would never find out. Sirius would probably thank him, Regulus thought, walking a little faster, for alerting him to just how far this sorry mess had gone.

Regulus had just made it around the side of the boathouse when he stopped abruptly. There were voices coming from the tendril of forest that crept behind the tiny building on the lake. In exactly the spot, he realized with a sinking feeling, that he'd thought would be the perfect place for a hidden conversation with his brother. Regulus peeked his head out, trying to make out the conversation of the older students that he heard there. He was just starting to wonder if it would be worth it to wait for them to leave, when— oh.

Regulus recognized that laugh. Feeling more nervous than before, he stepped around the corner.

"7:09!" crowed a voice from the four-trunked tree. "Guess your punctuality runs in the family, mate." And James Potter knocked his brother teasingly on the shoulder.

Regulus would have bristled at what he assumed was an insult had he not been so surprised. Sirius was perched on the lowermost of the four extended oak trunks, but his Gryffindor mates lounged precariously in the gaps between the other three. Regulus and Sirius had often used the coppiced trees on Grandfather's estates as hiding spots in their childhood, crouching to whisper out-of-sight between the trunks, but the unexpected arrival of three other boys was making the whole thing seem crowded. Regulus approached cautiously, and with nowhere left for him to sit, came to stand awkwardly in front of his brother.

"James Potter," Potter called out, though nobody had asked him. He had climbed rather high into the tree, but as Regulus moved closer, swung halfway off his trunk and, upside-down, extended his hand to shake. Not knowing what else to do, Regulus tried briefly to return the gesture, but couldn't quite reach. All four of the older boys laughed this time, and Regulus felt himself flush, shoving his hand back into the pocket of his robes.

Sirius's other friends — he'd deduced it must be Lupin with the scar on his face, and another boy whom Sirius had never mentioned — looked over curiously, but didn't say anything. Sirius gave him a nod. "All right, Reg?"

"All right," he answered. Sirius was looking at him, seeming almost as wary as Regulus felt. He gestured toward his friends one at a time.

"Remus, Pete. And that's James, hanging around up there," Sirius looked up with the flash of a fond smile, "in case you hadn't heard." Potter flipped back upright and sat confidently against the tree trunk.

"Right," said Regulus, a little impatiently. Then he paused, hoping he hadn't been rude and trying to remember which rules of etiquette were supposed to apply in such mixed company. "It's nice to meet you," he added, after an awkward moment.

"You bet!" came a voice from above them. Apparently, Potter was leading this conversation. "Asked Sirius to introduce us ages ago, mate. Bloody brilliant that he has a brother, even if you do bunk with the snakes. Right, all?" Regulus couldn't see what was so remarkable about it, and noticed that Sirius was giving his friend a vaguely skeptical look. But the round-faced boy named Pete turned forward with an exasperated smile.

"He was weird about my sisters first year, too," Pete said, rolling his eyes. It seemed a friendly enough overture, but Regulus wasn't sure how to respond. Two years of Mother's moaning and vexation about the poor society in Gryffindor House hovered forebodingly on the edge of his mind. What was Pete's — Peter's? — surname? Sirius hadn't said.

But...Potter was a pureblood, wasn't he? Some type of new money hanger-on, Regulus was certain, but he was pretty sure that the bloodline itself came from older stock. And if he was clinging about Sirius, then Potter must have some standards, certainly? A beat too late, Regulus tried to think of a reciprocal joke for Peter, but found himself suddenly shy. Sirius was still watching him.

Now hanging by his legs from the nearest branch, Potter made a retort. "I was lovely to your sisters, you prat. I clearly remember one of them calling me adorable."

"Right before she shut the compartment door on us," Lupin needled.

"Pfft," Potter scoffed. "Barely a loss. Not that older sisters aren't brilliant too," he corrected himself, with a nod of fairness, "but a little brother is much better. Right, Reg?"

"Um. It's Regulus, actually." Really, Regulus felt that a surname might be more appropriate.

"That's what I said! Did you break into the boathouse for a joyride yet? That's the first thing we did after we found this spot first year. I pushed Pete into the lake and the squid tried to eat him." Sirius cracked up at this, and Peter looked faintly aggrieved.

"I think it might have been a Grindylow," said Lupin unnecessarily. Potter ignored him.

"Well?" 

"I," Regulus started. He hadn't realized that his brother's friends had known about the boathouse and his tree already. It made sense, with how much Sirius liked to explore, but Regulus found himself somewhat disappointed. "I wanted to talk to Sirius."

"Yeah, sure, after that," Potter waved his hand. "There's a loose window 'round the other side that you can climb up into, and the key to the hanging doors is hidden inside. Want me to show you?" He looked weirdly enthusiastic about the prospect.

Regulus wanted no such thing. He started to say as much, wondering how to politely refuse, but Sirius cut in. "Nah, we're keeping this short, mate."

"I solemnly swear not to feed him to the giant squid."

Sirius snorted. "Mate, piss off. Firsties have curfew in half an hour." Potter rolled his eyes, and Sirius turned his attention back to Regulus. "Well?"

"I thought," Regulus started again. "I mean, maybe we could talk privately?"

Hadn't the need for secrecy been clear from his note? Wouldn't Sirius want these humiliating incidents to be handled...discreetly, like at home? Honestly, Regulus had expected that the two of them would need to brainstorm for quite a while to figure out a solution. The sixth-years were very angry, and it was only a matter of time before Cissy overcame her embarrassment and tattled to all their relatives. She'd already pressured Regulus to do so. He didn't really feel that a frank conversation about how best to bribe or flatter Lestrange would be improved by a gang of hangers-on dangling from tree branches.

Sirius looked at him appraisingly. "What about?"

It had been clear in the letter. Regulus squirmed. "Just...things I heard in the common room. And you know, all the ravens—"

"Yeah, what gives?" Potter jumped in again, a sudden anger in his tone.

Was he stupid? Wasn't it obvious? "I think they might be angry about those wedding invitations."

"Yeah, no shit, Reg," said Potter. "They're fighting back dirty, though, singling Sirius out." Sirius scoffed, and behind them all, Lupin wrinkled his brow. "Why don't they come for all of us?"

Regulus felt bewildered. Even if Bella was his least favorite cousin, the stunt to publicly mock her engagement had been below the belt. It had been humiliating for the entire Black family, not the least member of whom was Sirius himself. Of course Lestrange was thirsting for revenge.

But why Potter thought he, Lupin or Whatshisface Pete should be anything more than an irrelevance in an interfamily plot to avenge Bellatrix Black's honor, Regulus honestly had no idea. Mother would have been incensed by the arrogance, but Regulus was just perplexed. Uncomfortable. Why was Sirius putting him through this?

He tried again. "I don't think anybody wrote home yet, but Cissy says she will. And everyone believes, I mean. They're all calling you a M—"

"Yeah, honestly Reg, I think I could figure that part out for myself," Sirius said abruptly, cutting Regulus off. His voice was tense. "Listen. It's cute and all, but I didn't actually come out here for your little pep talk."

Regulus stopped short. He was suddenly very aware that, aside from a gruff congratulations following his Sorting last September, this was the first conversation he'd ever had with his brother while at school.

"I'm here because I needed to say— Because, Reg. You need to know that this isn't a game." Sirius leaned forward. "The things those creeps say, the shit they're defending — they really mean it. This is who they are, Reg. It isn't like the prattle that you're always hearing at home."

Potter had drawn himself up on the tree trunk, mouth drawn in a stern expression that Regulus thought seemed pompous, imposing, beside his brother's tight grimace. Lupin was watching Regulus, and Whoever's gaze darted between them all nervously. Regulus listened as Sirius reflected his own worries back at him and wondered if they'd been talking about him before he arrived.

"I know that," he replied defensively. He didn't understand what Sirius was trying to say. "That's the entire reason that I wanted to talk to you." If Sirius knew, why had he made those horrible, incriminating jokes? Why wasn't he doing anything to fix it? Sirius didn't drop his gaze, but Potter butted in again.

"Good man," he said, nodding his head for reasons that Regulus couldn't comprehend. "See, Sirius, I told you." Told him what? "And it could be a boon, even, having someone on the inside, yeah?"

"You're mad," said Sirius casually. "Reg, it's nearly eight. Long way back to the dungeons." And he hopped off his tree trunk to stroll back toward the castle, passing Regulus without another word. He walked halfway to the path before turning back around.

"You coming, prats?" Sirius called to his friends. "Bloody freezing out here." The three boys scrambled down and trotted to catch up with his brother. On his way past, Potter clapped him on the back, and Regulus jumped.

When his brother and the other Gryffindors were nearly up the path, Regulus walked over to the tree and sat where the four trunks met. He watched the four boys turn into specks in the distance, and then he turned his head up and watched the stars.

Chapter Text

26 December 1975

Sirius,

They know you're at the Potters'. If you aren't back by tomorrow, Mother will burn your name off the tapestry and that is not an idle threat.

Your behavior was completely disgraceful. Everyone is furious with you and you deserve it.

R.A.B.  

28 December 1975

Sirius,  

You are acting like a child. Grandfather has written to his solicitor about removing you from the line of inheritance if you don't return before the New Year.

Father is talking about warding you out of the house, too. So good luck trying to sneak back in for any of your things.  

How long will your fake family keep you once you start begging them for charity? Do you have any pride at all? If you don't, maybe you should apologize for once instead of groveling for blood traitor scraps.  

R.A.B.  

Sirius please stop being an idiot and just come home.

Reg  

Write me please.  

ACROSS  

1. Transfigured transparently.
2. Perdurable.
3. Award-winning Bletchley balladeer...

A large eagle owl approached the window, beating its wings to keep direction as it flew through the blustery snow. Night still fell early so few days past the solstice, but the festive lights lining the street clearly illuminated the struggling bird as it perched on the empty flower box and rapped the glass.

Sirius nursed his tea and looked out, tugging on the too-short sleeve of his borrowed robes. The bird tapped the window a second time with its beak and fixed him with an imperious look, impatient at the delay. As it ruffled its feathers and glared, the familiar owl seemed in harsh contrast with the cozy street behind her. Reluctantly, Sirius put down his drink, flipped the latch and let her in.

"My ball!" called a voice to his left. A chilly gust of wind carried the owl into the sitting room, and Sirius slammed the window shut just as James Potter bounded in from the kitchen. "Fresh from the oven, mate," James said. He tossed something toward Sirius and reached for the owl with his newly-free hands, swiftly untying a scroll from her left leg.

As Sirius fumbled to catch the thing — a mince pie — and shift it, piping hot, between his hands, James considered Sirius's letter, shrugged, and opened it.

"Not cursed?" Sirius asked. "Must not be Mum this time, then."

"Nah," James replied faux-seriously. "I've been chucking hers straight into the evidence file. Important correspondence, that."

"Oh, of course," Sirius said, trying to match James's mocking tone. But it was too much: the lingering stare of the owl, the snowflakes melting on his face, the noticeable shortness of his sleeves. He picked up his teacup and returned to the sofa.

James plopped down beside him, undeterred when Sirius leaned away. "You're brooding, mate."

"Who's it from, then?"

"Try the pie. Mum's been baking them all evening." Sirius had barely known James's mum at all before this week, but already, he could not refuse her anything. He blew on the hot mince pie and took a reluctant bite. It was delicious, impeccably seasoned, and if anything, this made Sirius feel worse.

He looked back at James. "Well?"

James shrugged, jiggling his foot. "Reg, again. Which I think puts him just past Orion, but still behind Arcturus on the leaderboard."

"Charming."

"Walburga's still winning by miles, though. I might combine all your busybody aunts into one category, see if it'd give her a run for her money."

Sirius wasn't in the mood. "What's it say?"

"Oh, he's resorted to sending the crossword," said James. "All out of lectures for the time being, by the looks of things."

Sirius studied his friend. James was seated tailor-style on the couch, wearing a colorful Christmas jumper that his parents had given him a few days before. His knees bounced. The festive getup and typically coltish energy seemed totally at odds with the cynical expression on his face.

It had been a gradual thing, the advent of this cynicism.

There had been a time when James had been downright fascinated by Sirius's younger brother. Sirius had never hidden his family's Slytherin allegiance — and after his Sorting, he had never been able to hide his father's detachment, his mother's disgust — but when Regulus came to Hogwarts, James still seemed to have expected...what? A smaller Sirius, perhaps, or maybe just a blank slate, to be filled with James's idea of what a little kid ought to be like. Even after he'd been Sorted into their enemy house, James had pushed to meet him, had insisted that their full group tag along on the rare instances when Sirius had spoken with his brother face-to-face at school.

(James's mother loved him. He couldn't understand the need for distance, for differentiation.)

Of course, where James, Remus and Peter might have expected to find any number of theoretical baby brothers, they had instead found Regulus. The watchful child who'd grown up learning secrecy at his brother's desk and the need for it at his mother's knee. The waifish boy who’d been left pickling in his family's attention at the exact moment when Sirius had first begun to escape it.

An impatient hoot from Regulus's owl, surveying the two boys from the mantle as she waited for their reply, rang in Sirius's ears like an accusation.

It had been Sirius, wayward heir from birth, who'd first taught his younger brother how to lie. How to seize scant opportunities and hold tight to small rebellions; how to wield power when you held it and conceal disobedience when you did not. How to sneak out a top-floor window and catch a glimpse of the London streets. How to repair your beloved plush Puffskein after Mother decides you are too old for soft things. How to trod far too hard on your dance partner's toes and still make it look like an accident. How to sneak dittany onto rapped knuckles. How to hide notes for your brother in the margins of his notebook that no tutor will be able to read.

Before Sirius had known anything at all about the world, Regulus had been his only ally in their cold and rigid corner of it. But where Sirius had abandoned half-measures the moment he'd learned how, drawn toward bolder and more honest styles of mutiny, his meeker brother never had. In his lonelier moments, Sirius could not decide if Regulus was a turncoat or merely a coward.

"Merlin's sake," James huffed suddenly. Sirius looked up just in time to hear another sharp tap. A nearly identical eagle owl — Kreacher tended five in Grimmauld Place alone, and the other Black branches bred similar flocks — was perched outside carrying a letter, this one bleeding something green and sticky-looking from its edges. Before Sirius could react, James was already halfway to the window. He untied the letter gingerly and held it by the corner with his fingertips.

"Mister Chief Warlock, I hereby submit my evidence to the court," James said solemnly, as he whipped the letter like a frisbee into the fireplace.

He glanced over, probably to see if Sirius had cracked a smile. James had coined the evidence file in their first year as a ploy to cheer Sirius up when his family upset him: halfway an inside joke and halfway an earnest argument. "I'll file this one away with the evidence, then," he'd say whenever Sirius received some derisive screed from home in the post, before Vanishing the letter or tearing it into pieces. The evidence that Sirius was nothing like his prejudiced, cruel relatives. The evidence that the House of Black was foul to the core but, through some mistake, its foremost son was good.

(This raised Sirius's spirits mainly because it assuaged one of his secret fears: that James would one day realize it wasn't true.)

Regulus's letters had been an exception to this treatment, right up until the moment that James had figured out how to read them. Sirius had long since taught his three mates the tricks and ciphers of his childhood — how to pass invisible notes in class, to tap out coded messages on the desks — stratagems that, under the jovial leadership of James Potter, became not so much weapons in a war against authority as tools of camaraderie and mischief. (Highly valuable for first years plotting illicit Honeydukes excursions; indispensable for fifth years planning outings on the full moon). But as James, in his youth, had not endured eight hours a day of traditional aristocratic tutoring, it had taken him most of Regulus's first year to realize that his infrequent messages had also been disguised with foreign languages, typically French. One dictionary later, Regulus's letters had been next in line for Wizengamot review.

"This is what he sends you?" James had replied, incredulous. "Just whinier rewrites of the lectures your parents are always sending in the morning post?"

"Bit quieter, too, I'd reckon," Peter had joked.

Sirius had stopped replying to Regulus's letters after that. But inevitably, his brother would up the ante: digging up trickier concealment charms, finding more attention-grabbing ways to slip the notes into Sirius's path, or switching to tougher languages, trying to catch his brother's notice while outfoxing the abilities of his friends. James, whip-smart and oddly dogged on this issue, had of course kept up, picking bits of Italian and Greek and even the obnoxious dialect of medieval Latin that only the Blacks still insisted on teaching their children. (How else could a young boy practice his lettering and dictation but by reading moldered old speeches from centuries past, when his self-obsessed ancestors had actually been important?). For one particularly stupid month in fourth year, this linguistic arms race had somehow led Regulus, Sirius and James on a foray to learn the world's sorriest Gobbledegook. Which had surely been a very worthwhile use of all of their time.

Yet at his most urgent, Regulus would give up on his scolding notes entirely and start sending riddles or puzzles instead. Tonight was not the first time that Regulus had simply torn the crossword from the Daily Prophet and mailed it to Sirius directly. Reply, the newspapers always urged. Please.

And then Sirius would cave and meet with him, hearing out Regulus's flustered reprimands about this-or-that latest scandal Sirius had caused, before informing his brother, once again, that the snakes were wrong and evil and that he would not sacrifice his principles one jot. Didn't Regulus realize that there was a war on?

"Protego!" James's abrupt shield charm ripped Sirius from his reverie. Whatever substance had been dripping from that last letter had lit James's fireplace up lime green, spitting the nasty liquid — now heated — right back toward them. "Did any splatter on you?"

"Nah, mate, thanks," Sirius replied. "You?"

"Nothing on me," said James, examining the sitting room. "But I think Father Christmas over there got some straight to the face. Fairly certain he didn't have so many eyes, before."

"Your mum won't be upset, will she?"

"Nah," said James. "I bet it's an easy fix. Although," he said, considering, "maybe I'll leave it that way. Someone's got to terrify the carolers."

"Did you see who sent that one?"

"Another aunt of yours, I think? Purple seal, frilly handwriting?"

"Merlin. My mum's cousin Araminta," Sirius said, making a face. Araminta was a shut-in whose chief contribution to society had been to try and revive Muggle-hunting as a Wizarding pastime a few decades back. "The gossip must really be making the rounds."

"Good," said James fiercely. Sirius shrugged. "Sirius," James said, then started again, crossing to sit beside him once more on the couch. "Padfoot. Tell me what's wrong."

Sirius warmed a little, despite himself, as James had surely hoped. The nickname was still new, and every use of it ignited Sirius with a feeling of accomplishment, of belonging. A reminder of his friends and the magnificent secret that now bound them together.

"Are you still worried that my parents will send you back? Because they won't," James added with conviction. "Not one of us would ever send you back to them."

This had been the first fear, when Sirius had rung James's doorbell at 2 in the morning on Boxing Day and asked if he could stay for the rest of the break. In truth, he'd had nowhere else to go. The family Christmas party had ended in curses flying, not a duel so much as a brawl, because Sirius could not stand around sipping champagne while party guests whom he knew to be Death Eaters dotted their conversation with sly gloating about their heinous crimes. His father had dragged him back to Grimmauld Place by his ear in a full body-bind.

The night was a blur after that — yelling, pleading, objects flying, a door slamming behind him in the night. Sirius had run halfway across London as a dog and hitchhiked the rest of the way to Godric's Hollow, sticking out one thumb on the roadway as his stolen Muggle magazines had taught him. He'd arrived at James's with nothing except his wand, a stained set of dress robes, and the blisters on his hands, recently paws.

"Thank you," said Sirius quietly.

"You believe me?" Sirius nodded. "Then why are you still unhappy?" Sirius finished his tea and stared down into the empty cup. He hadn't taken Divination, but his brain swirled limply around the bottom of the porcelain, searching for patterns in the leaves.

"Padfoot?"

"Because I'm trapped."

"Mate?"

"And they know it, too. That's why they keep sending owls. They know I'll have to go back to them eventually."

"No," said James plainly, "You've got it backwards. They're sending the owls because they know you're free."  

The statement echoed like a gong in the cozy sitting room and struck something in Sirius's soul.

"I—" Sirius stopped. "I haven't any money. Your parents are" — angels — "generous, but they aren't going to want—"

"I wish you wouldn't read this rubbish, you know," James said casually, folding Regulus's letter in half. "It just lets them into your head. I'd try to hide the letters, but Dad’s a bit particular about the legality of stealing your mail, plus your family's owls are annoyingly determined—"

"James. I can't eat your food and wear your robes forever."

"Not with those Bowtruckle arms, you can't."

"They'll never let me get my stuff—"

"See, they've invented this great thing, right? It's called a store. We'll pick up new robes, and there's a Muggle shop nearby too, you'll love it."

"I just said I haven't any money!" A cliff that Sirius barely understood enough to even think about.

"Fortunately for you, we've got loads. Although I've read," said James, as he finished folding the letter into a paper airplane, "that it's a bit new for your mum's taste." He launched the airplane, directing with his wand so that it flew in lively circles around the room. The owls hooted resentfully as it swooped toward them.

"I can't just take your mum and dad's money."

"Why not? I do it all the time. Duck, mate." James briefly diverted the airplane's arc to dive bomb Sirius's head.

"That's different and you know it," Sirius said, dodging. "You're their son. I'm not family."

"Why not?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Why couldn't you be our family?" James left the airplane to chart its own course and looked down at his feet. He ruffled a hand through his hair. "I already think of you that way, actually. I mean. Like my family."

Sirius froze. There was a sudden twisting in his stomach. "Your parents—"

"You know my mum and dad always wanted kids? They were really torn up back when they thought they'd never be able to have any." Sirius had not known this, and was briefly stuck on the idea of being wanted by one's parents. "It was really unexpected, their even getting the one."

"But—"

"And we've got plenty of room! And Mum always overdoes the baking, you should see how many pies—"

"James, I—"

"And Dad said he would have gotten you a Christmas gift," James's face was reddening. "If we'd known you were coming. He's going to give you something on the new year, and he told me to keep it a secret, but I'm telling you anyway, because we want you here, except you're being thick and making me prove it and I don't know how."

Sirius stared. James suddenly turned to look him full in the face.

"How, actually? What should I say? Because these cretins—" James gestured toward the owls — "have treated you horribly for your entire life, and they're horrible people, besides, but you're still talking as if you have to go back and answer to them. You're still calling them your family, even though they've never treated you like it, not even once, in the five years that I've known you.

So I'm wondering, Sirius. How exactly, do you think," he said, with an embarrassed sort of laugh, "someone might go about qualifying for the job?"

Family.

Sirius was not sure that he'd ever had a true comprehension of the word. Family, for him, was a house that he dreaded going home to every summer. A tyrannical knot of obligation and coercion. A web of enemies, bound to one another by money and history, privilege and self-importance — and his own ferocious hatred of the world that those enemies conspired to create. His bone-deep revulsion at the thought of being a part of it.

But if Sirius had ever tried to think about family as a concept, an idea, as other people seemed to understand it...he would have imagined something like the Potters. Mince pies and jumpers and holiday gifts. Brothers who stood by you in the open. Parents who welcomed you in when you rang the doorbell, whose wands healed the blisters on your paws.

Sirius put his face into his hands.

"Prongs," he said slowly, trying to get a grip on his voice, on the dangerous stinging in his eyes. "I'm not — I'm always—." A very old fear was clawing its way out of his throat. "I'm not like you. I'm one of them. I'm trapped, because I'm always going to be one of them."

"Bullshit. You aren't one of them. As far as I can tell, you never have been."

"That's not true," Sirius said. It came out raspy, like a whisper. "I learned better. I try to hide it. But—"

"Padfoot, they hate you. They've always hated you. They curse you and they throw things, they send you horrid letters, they lock you up all summer, they treat your brother like a prince while they tell you that you're worthless—"

"Not always." A confession. "It used to be that Reg was no one and I was the prince. The heir. They only switched when I was Sorted into Gryffindor."

"And the fact that you were Sorted differently isn't objective evidence that I'm right?" Sirius remembered the murmur of the Sorting Hat in his ear. The forking paths it had presented him. If that one moment had gone differently, as Sirius knew well it could have, would he be any different from his family, now?

But James thought so. And James had taught Sirius every decent thing he'd ever learned.

Sirius lifted his head. James seemed to take this as encouragement, pressing his point about bravery and heart, but Sirius was not listening to the words. He was looking at his friend.

"I'll stay," Sirius cut him off. "I mean— if your parents are okay with it. Thank you. I would really love to stay."

For a moment, there was silence. Then James broke into a grin, and suddenly both boys were laughing, wiping at their eyes, looking at one another with goofy, giddy smiles.

"Well, about time you got over your stubborn arse, mate," James said, fussing with his hair, lightening the moment. "This calls for Butterbeer, I reckon. Accio." Two bottles flew in from the kitchen, with a small flock of mince pies fluttering behind. Flush with jitters, Sirius turned into a dog and caught two in his mouth.

James burst out laughing. "What a way to get us caught!" The dog looked at him smugly before turning back into a boy.

"Cheers for Christmas," said Sirius, clinking his bottle against James's.

"Cheers for the Quidditch I'm forcing you to play tomorrow."

"Cheers for your mum's baking."

"Cheers for finally being rid of these bloody owls." James jumped up and crossed the room, shooing the Black family owls toward the window.

"One second," Sirius said. He looked up at the paper airplane, floating aimlessly overhead. "I should probably reply to Reg, still."

"Why?" said James.

"You know he never sends the crossword unless he's really at the end of his rope."

"Honestly, mate, let him hang on it, then." James sounded frustrated. "All of them, as a matter of fact. They aren't going to stop harassing you if you reward them. Don't give them what they're looking for."

"That's true, but— it's different. With my brother."

"Is it? Doesn't he always argue their side?" James looked at Sirius in open disbelief. "He's so different from the rest of them that he can't ever take one bloody minute to defend you?"

Sirius shifted uncomfortably — not least because James was unknowingly echoing his own thoughts. Brothers who stood by you. But James could not understand. "I think...he is defending me. He believes that he is."

Because Regulus used all of Sirius's tricks — his childish strategies for secrecy and rebellion — to reach out to the brother he'd been forbidden to associate with. To risk being branded a traitor himself while trying to clear a path for Sirius back into their family's good graces. It was warped. It was futile. And with war flickering in the background, it was very likely immoral. But Sirius knew his brother, and he knew that this was, in its own way, a type of courage.

"Up to you, mate," James said finally, with indifference. "Quills are in the drawer."

Sirius opened the end table drawer, which contained several quills, a small inkwell, and a sheaf of parchment. He grabbed them and began scribbling onto a blank page, writing in simple English that anyone could read:

I can't do it anymore. Not coming back. Sorry.

Chapter Text

16 July 1978  

Dear Sirius,

Many congratulations on your recent graduation and distinction on your N.E.W.T. exams.  

I shared your accomplishments with the family as we summered in Bournemouth earlier this month. Our cousins pass along their best wishes as you begin what will surely be a long and illustrious career.  

Yours fondly,
R.A.B.

James ran a hand absently through a lock of Lily's hair where she sat on the floor in front of him, twisting it in a figure eight around his thumb and forefinger. He wriggled his feet, which were sprawled up and over the side of a tattered armchair that someone had squeezed into the corner of the wide room.

James had never been good at waiting. Marlene McKinnon, seated on the floor to Lily's left, glanced over at his fidgety feet and gave an audible huff.

"All right, McKinnon?" Sirius said irritably. She rolled her eyes, leaning away from James and glancing over at the long table in the center of the room. Alastor Moody was still seated there, studying a piece of parchment with Frank Longbottom and showing no signs of wrapping up anytime soon. James released Lily's hair to pick idly at a loose thread in a throw pillow.

Eight of the Order of the Phoenix's newest recruits — James and Lily, James's three best friends, fellow Gryffindor alum Marlene McKinnon, and former Hufflepuff Beater Benjy Fenwick — were stuffed into a reading nook at the far corner of the room, where Mad-Eye had asked them to wait at the end of today's meeting. (As it turned out, Dumbledore's army of vigilantes conducted its top-secret meetings in a rather frilly suburban house tucked at the end of a Muggle cul-de-sac, hidden in plain sight and warded to the hilt with protective charms. A bit brilliant and a bit mad, James thought — not unlike Dumbledore himself, who had concluded the meeting half an hour ago and promptly swept out through the fireplace.)

In the past month, the eight of them had been given a whirlwind introduction to the Order of the Phoenix by a motley bunch of Dumbledore's most experienced vigilantes — or maybe just his most patient. They’d even spent a fair amount of time with some of the Aurors in the group, like Frank Longbottom and Fabian Prewett, who drilled them daily on dueling maneuvers and reviewed the basics of battlefield Healing. But Moody, a senior Auror and one of the Order's most experienced members, had barely interacted with the new recruits so far. It had come as a total surprise to James when, at the end of this afternoon's meeting, Mad-Eye had gruffly asked for "all the kids" to stay behind, shooing them off to wait in the corner while he and his Aurors finished their discussions in low tones.

Finally, Moody and Longbottom folded up their parchment and crossed over to the crowded corner, with Frank charming two wooden dining chairs to follow as they approached. James sat up in his armchair. Moody's enchanted eye — James wondered again how he’d gotten it — lingered on each of them as he took a seat. McKinnon made a face, and Pete twisted his fingers together.

"Alright, infants," Moody barked, taking a seat and uncorking a flask. He took a quick swig. "Look alive. We have some things to talk through before we send you back to Mummy's for supper."

Next to his boss, Frank shot them a commiserating smile. "Thanks for waiting, everyone," he said. "Don't worry, we're not here to run more drills. We're putting together some information, and we think you lot might be able to help us out."

"Exactly," Moody added. "I'll get to the point. We're trying to crack Hogwarts before the start of next term, and we need you schoolkids to be our ears to the ground." 

"Hogwarts?" Lily asked. "Couldn't Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall—?"

"Minerva, or it'll get weird," Frank interrupted.

"Right. Uh, couldn't Minerva tell you anything you needed to know about—"

"What do you mean, anyway?" McKinnon spoke sharply, cutting Lily off as well. "What's You-Know-Who want with Hogwarts? Surely the school is safe as long as Dumbledore's about."

Frank and Moody exchanged a glance. "It's plenty safe from outside attack," said Frank, "but we're more concerned about what's happening on the inside." On a couch across from James's armchair, Fenwick sat straighter, looking thoughtful. Sirius slouched in his seat.

"We're trying to finally crack the Hogwarts recruitment pipeline," Moody elaborated. "Up until now it's been sealed up tight. But the Aurors have been bringing in too many fresh faces to ignore it any longer, and all signs suggest that the seaside attacks last week were yet another round of initiations. Voldemort is catching his people early, and we need better information if we're going to stem the tide."

In front of James, Lily was nodding seriously. James pressed a thumb into her tense shoulders. He took a slow breath, trying to keep his eyes trained on Moody, but cringed as he noticed Peter and Remus exchanging glances in his peripheral vision.

"So," said Moody, leaning forward with a sharklike grin. "Let's chat. What do we know about the baby Death Eaters?"

The arguing started the moment the four of them tumbled through the fire.

"Sirius," said Remus tersely, brushing soot off his robes. "You need to tell them."

"Did you hear the way he spoke to me?" Sirius fumed, ignoring Remus and turning instead toward James. "He wouldn't listen to a word I said. Even Frank was giving me a hard time, and I'd thought he and I were starting to get on."

"Sirius."

"Even with you lot backing me up," Sirius gestured around the flat. "And Evans and the rest, they still won't see past a surname—"

"It's bloody unfair, mate," James agreed. Moody and Frank had pestered Sirius for almost twenty minutes in front of the group, convinced that one of his Death Eater cousins must at some point have made overtures to recruit him. It didn't matter that Sirius had run away from home when he was barely sixteen, that he'd been legally disowned, that he hadn't spoken to his family in two and a half years — the Aurors were certain that Sirius must have at least an inkling of how Voldemort's propaganda was getting into the castle, how the Death Eaters chose their prospects, how students were expected to prove themselves.

Of course, Sirius, James thought bitterly, had no more idea than the rest of them. He may have sprung from their rotten tree, but the pure-blood brigade had marked Sirius as a traitor long before they might have scouted him as a fellow soldier.

"That was ridiculous," Peter agreed. Then he hesitated. "We should still maybe have told them about the letter, though."

"Nothing to tell," Sirius answered gruffly. He crossed from the flat's small living room into its adjoining kitchen, throwing himself down onto a dirty mattress perched neatly in the middle of the linoleum floor. "Hey Wormtail, did you transfigure this one? It's rubbish. I can still feel the corners."

"It didn't seem like nothing when you were fretting all last week," Pete retorted, though his cheeks faintly flushed, as they always did when Sirius mocked his spellwork.

"Merlin, you're sensitive." Sirius rolled his eyes and sat up, puffing up the edges of the mattress with his wand as he did so. Suddenly, he paused and reached down, only to snort as he pulled a dirty fork out from underneath his right leg. He transfigured it into a fluffy pillow and put it behind his head, reclining with a haughty ease that barely disguised the tension in his features.

Remus stood by the fire, frowning at Sirius with clear exasperation. Peter had a sour look that suggested he was deciding which of Last Week Padfoot's anxious musings to quote in Sirius's face. James decided now was the moment to intervene.

"Okay," he said, looking around at his friends. "Flatmate meeting. I'm calling it to order." Sirius didn't move, but Remus grabbed a chair from the living room and dragged it over to the kitchen. While he and Peter set up three chairs, James darted to the flat's single bedroom, grabbing the suspicious letter from the bedside drawer where Sirius had shoved it the night before.

Calling them all flatmates was a bit of an exaggeration, James supposed, because on paper, the flat belonged only to Sirius. He'd bought it with his Uncle Alphard's gold only a few days after coming of age a year and a half before. Technically, James, Remus and Peter had all been living with their parents since they'd graduated from Hogwarts a few weeks ago, although Lily had showed James a few rental listings when he'd met her for dinner last week.

In practice, though, the little Muggle flat was theirs. Sirius had made it clear from the moment he'd signed the deed that his friends were welcome to stay anytime, for as long as they wanted, no questions asked — and they'd christened the place with much fanfare during the school holidays just following, installing a fireplace and a Floo connection just in time to smuggle half of their Hogwarts class over for a housewarming party on Boxing Day. By the time James, Sirius, Remus and Peter had started Order of the Phoenix bootcamp three and a half weeks ago, the four of them had even worked out a grocery schedule.

The one-bedroom flat really wasn't big enough for four, but it suited them. The bed could fit two at a squeeze — three, if two of those were a rat and a dog — and the sofa was more than comfortable enough for a decent night's sleep. But more often than not, they'd just transfigure random pieces of furniture into extra beds, popping them back to normal whenever someone needed a chair or a spot to eat his cereal. The haphazard messiness reminded James of the dormitory that they'd shared for years, which meant, essentially, that it felt like home.

"Alright," James said, returning to the tiny kitchen with the letter in his hand. "Let's talk."

Remus jumped in almost immediately. "Sirius, we have to tell Dumbledore. I know he's your brother, but if he's joined up—" 

"He's not technically my brother anymore," Sirius said flatly, studying the drywall ceiling. "And he hasn't joined shit."

"Bournemouth, Padfoot? How do you explain that?"

James grimaced. He felt Pete shudder a little beside him. The Death Eaters had cut a grisly swath through Muggle seaside resorts on the 19th of July, with sunny Bournemouth facing some of the most appalling casualties. And as Moody had emphasized, the frightening attacks — highly coordinated, quite deadly, but unfocused, targeting helpless opponents and lacking clear strategic value for Voldemort — would certainly be a choice target to break in new recruits.

Remus pressed on when Sirius shrugged. "I don't know what Regulus was trying to accomplish by sending you a bloody announcement, but if he is a Death Eater, it might even be better to catch him out before he does too much—"

"So, first of all, he's too young." Sirius had found his counterargument. "It's almost half a year before he's of age."

"Moody said Voldemort was getting them early—"

"Even my cousin Bellatrix didn't join up as a kid! She didn't leave school until she was seventeen and nearly married," Sirius said, sitting up. "And she's in as deep with the Death Eaters as you can get."

It made sense. "The kids who leave school to join up," James said slowly, ticking through a mental roster of five years of Slytherin dropouts. "They're always in seventh year. Adults."

"So maybe the Death Eaters are expanding! Maybe Moody's right and they sign on before they leave school. Or, I don't know," Remus gestured expansively with his hands, as he always did when he was thinking. "Is it possible that Voldemort makes exceptions?"

"Why would Regulus be an exception?" James asked, before Sirius could retort.

"His surname?" Peter quoted quietly. He glanced once at Sirius, then back at James.

"I don't know about that," James replied. "The Blacks aren't the only rotten purebloods out there slobbering over their new Salazar. Wouldn't they all be signing their kids up early if they could?"

"For all we know, they have been," Remus said darkly. "At least, if Voldemort lets them."

"What would Voldemort want with Regulus?" Sirius cut in with a derisive tone. "I could see it, maybe, if he were talented at all, or ambitious like Bella. But in case you didn't realize, Moony, Reg is extremely mediocre at everything he does. Even my parents knew it, and they fawned over him in pretty much every other respect—"

"Is he?" James asked, genuinely curious. James had never known quite what to make of Regulus Black, the odd little brother of whom his best friend seemed alternately protective and ashamed. He'd flitted occasionally on the fringes of their group like Sirius's foggy shadow, as if he were on the verge of saying something but couldn't quite bring himself to speak.

Although half the time, James reflected, whatever Regulus was thinking tended to come out in some kind of smarmy, cryptic note that he thought the rest of them were too stupid to decode. Rather like the one that James was currently holding.

"Yep." Sirius popped his lips on the last consonant.

"Pretty positive they took Goyle," Peter pointed out. "Not sure You-Know-Who is really too choosy, all things considered."

"Yeah, but stupid baby Goyle? Can you imagine?" Sirius screwed up his eyes and mimed a goofily incompetent Reductor Curse, fumbling the wand movement like a first-year. James and Peter laughed at this, but Remus looked pensive.

"I don't think that he is, actually," Remus said. "Stupid, I mean."

"What, Goyle?"

"No. Regulus."

"Moony, you've literally never spoken with him," Sirius rebutted. Yeah, and whose idea was that?, James thought but didn't say. "Reg's an idiot, trust me. With our tutors he took forever to pick things up—"

"Compared with whom?" Remus gave Sirius a look. "Prefects organize the top-of-year certificates, remember?  Your brother came first for History of Magic every year that I had the badge. Top in astronomy too—"

"That's just a Black thing, he came in with a leg up—"

"Anything practical, Moony?" James cut in. Something was niggling at him, but he couldn't quite pin it down.

"At least once for Ancient Runes if I recall."

"Yeah, but he studies for ages," said Sirius dismissively. Remus looked, if possible, even more irritated, and Peter turned quite red. "Reg has never gotten anything right on his first try. Not exactly a Death Eater prodigy. Think Voldemort’s got a library someplace that needs tidying up?"

"He's decent on a broom," James said. He'd finally remembered what had been niggling at him about Sirius's brother. "Good, even. That's practical."

The sneer Sirius shot him could have withered Devil's Snare. "Right, I'll keep that in mind when we play the Death Eaters at Quidditch. Merlin, Prongs, there's a war on, are you really making this about sports?"

"People fly for other reasons," Remus noted.

"Sorry, did they tear up the seashore on their Cleansweeps?  I hadn't heard that bit—"

"That isn't what I meant." James shook his head at all of them, considering. "It keeps you fit," he said finally. "Flying. And Regulus is skinny, but he's agile around a Bludger." James looked at Sirius. "You know that's good in a duel."

Sirius stared back in surprise. "Reg isn't a duelist," he said with some fervor. "Never has been. That's why we never went after him at school."

This was decidedly not why they’d never fought Regulus at school, but James felt it unwise to press the point. It was true, he supposed, that Regulus Black had avoided all but the most house-wide skirmishes whenever political tensions had flared up at Hogwarts.

"Do you think they train their people?" Peter asked. "The way that Frank and Fabian have been training us?"

There was a pause as the four of them considered this. Of course, it was Sirius who filled it. "What, you mean, do they get murder lessons from my most sadistic cousins?" he asked gloomily. "Honestly, yeah. Probably."

Remus shook his head. "We're going in circles," he replied, "And frankly, we're chasing a distraction. Padfoot, would you even be disputing his involvement if Regulus were of age? Is there anything else that he could possibly mean by sending you a letter like this?"

"I don't suppose the Blacks really do summer in Bournemouth?" James joked weakly. Remus ignored him.

"And you're trying to say what, exactly?" Sirius accused. "That's it just so obvious that my kid brother is a Death Eater, even if he's barely past his O.W.L.s? Thinking you can prove Mad-Eye right, that we've all been rotten practically since we were born—"

"No, I'm saying that Regulus, specifically, has always been a bigot and he'd be dying to join up if he could," Remus shot back. "And clearly, you know it."

The silence was like shattered glass.

James bounced his knee, ran a hand through his hair, looked for the words to say what needed to be said — words that hadn't already been proffered and found wanting. Next to him, Peter's gaze darted nervously between their two friends, Remus flinging out his hands, Sirius pale and glaring. "Don't you think," Peter said carefully, with another glance at Sirius, "that we might be giving Regulus a little too much credit, here?"

For all of his bumbling, Pete could sometimes be quite handy when it came to defusing a fight. "What do you mean?" James asked, reaching for a lifeline that he couldn't quite see.

"I mean," Peter offered, still in the same cautious tone, "he might not have needed to be a Death Eater to have known these attacks were coming. All his cousins are joined up, right? Couldn't he have...I don't know. Overheard something?"

Remus eyed Peter thoughtfully as Sirius seemed to deflate. "I guess," Sirius said glumly, laying back down on the mattress. "Lucius and Bella used to be pretty discreet about the details, but. Maybe without a blood traitor around they don't need to bother."

This did not seem quite right to James. "He would be a traitor too, though, wouldn't he? If he heard something being planned, and the first thing he did was run and warn us about it?" For a moment, something vulnerable flashed in Sirius's face.

"Not if he's a bit of an idiot," Peter cut in, finding his stride, quoting again. James was never sure how Peter managed to wriggle all these little echoes into a conversation, but it was always persuasive, especially to Sirius. "Say he knew an attack was coming, and decided to rub it in."

"Yours fondly," Sirius said, his lips twisting. "Congratulations."

"What a bastard," James agreed.

"If only. So we think this is, what? Just Reg being snide? A boast?"

"Or a threat." Remus had rejoined the conversation, looking intently at Peter. "That tracks with some of his posturing. A long career."

"You think they know about the Order? You think they know we've joined?"

"They know, or they guess."

"Well," Sirius observed, "Shit." The conversation trailed off as the four friends pondered the implications of this. James could practically hear Frank Longbottom lecturing in his head. Absolute secrecy! Constant vigilance!

He took a breath. The four of them had made their anti-Voldemort allegiance very clear over their seven years at school. If Regulus had guessed what they were up to, well, there was nothing to be done about that. They needed to move forward.

"Alright," he said, adopting the firmer tone that Sirius sarcastically called his Quidditch Captain voice. "So we're agreed. Regulus Black is not a Death Eater."

"Probably," Remus added.

"Probably," James agreed, cutting off Sirius's objection. "So there is no need to bring this up to the Order, at present." Nods around the circle. "Alright then. I'm motioning we put this in the pact."

The pact was their euphemistic term for anything that James, Remus, Sirius and Peter agreed to keep strictly secret between the four of them. (James thought he might suggest adding Lily in, too, but hadn't quite had the mettle to bring it up yet. The pact could be a little sensitive).

It had been James's idea to adopt this framing after the shitshow with Snape in fifth year, when Sirius had stubbornly insisted — still did, if the subject came up — that he had only agreed to keep Moony a secret, not the Whomping Willow trick. This seemed like sophistry to Remus and nonsense to James, but he'd rolled with the bullshit, deciding that they'd just need to be a little more explicit about their secrets in future. List them out point-by-point, like a Chaser's plays on a chalkboard.

"I'm comfortable with that," Remus said, "With the caveat that if Regulus sends any more letters, we reassess."

"Agreed."

"Agreed. Sirius?"

"This is the first I've heard from him in two and a half years. I don't expect we're about to become pen friends."

"Is that a yes?"

"Fine." Sirius hopped up and marched to the kitchen counter, rustling around the menu drawer. "You prats talk too much. I'm going for takeaway." He crossed the flat, grabbed a leather jacket off the floor, and strode out the door.

Peter puttered over to untransfigure their kitchen table while Remus watched Sirius go. "There is no way," Remus said finally, turning to James. "That Sirius is ever showing that letter to Moody."

"We'll keep an eye on things."

"Five sickles says he burns it."

"What, like the rest of our proof that the Blacks are all gits?" James smiled, but it felt unconvincing even to him. "I'll hang onto it, Moony. You don't need to worry so much."

Remus eyed James, and something stretched between them. "You know that Padfoot would never go back to them, right?" James said. "That he isn't one of them?"

"Of course I do," Remus said defensively. He paused. "I do, but, Prongs. Moody doesn't."

James's half-baked response was cut off abruptly by a crash behind them. Peter had managed to bring back the table, but missing one of its legs; unbalanced, it had tipped over onto its side like a dizzy garden gnome. Remus chuckled and Peter flushed while James, grateful for the break in the tension, headed over to repair the damage.

10 February 1979  

Sirius,

I've inherited Father's hunting gloves and wear them often. Keep your eyes open.  

R.A.B.  

James ducked as a jet of red light shot past his ear. The car park, so frighteningly still just a few minutes before, was awash with chaos; fourteen members of the Order of the Phoenix were packed together in front of a Muggle primary school, surrounded by masked assailants on three sides, and the cloudy afternoon grew bright in a rush of dueling.

James's eyes darted from attacker to attacker, looking at their hands.

An ambush — but not an unexpected one. The tip had been too urgent, too impossible to ignore; unable to reach the Aurors with haste, Dorcas Meadowes had made the tough call, and every Order member on hand had gone in half-expecting the worst. They hadn't been disappointed. They'd arrived, not in the middle of a massacre, but in its dreadful aftermath; almost immediately, James had felt the crackle of anti-Apparition wards rising on the back of his neck. He'd pushed forward, ready to hold the formation that Frank had drilled into them — a wedge, not a line; strongest duelists in the front — and buy enough time for Podmore and Bones to get them all the hell out of there.

Surrounded, penned in, and dueling for their lives. Not for the first time, recently.

"Incarcerous!" In front of James, one of the Death Eaters went down, struggling against a mess of conjured ropes. James stole a glimpse at his bound wrists, looking for a flash of blue. No luck.

"Confringo!"

"Protego!"

The battle continued.

James fired spell after spell, dodging and twisting with practiced instincts. Despite the confusion, he was alert, looking quickly from side to side — always with his eyes on the wands, and whenever he could spare a second, the hands that gripped them — casting offensive spell after offensive spell — a shield, a curse, and — there!

Navy gloves. A twinkle on the back, like stars.

"Stupefy!" The stunner missed as the slim figure retreated, stepping back to slip behind a larger opponent. He was with the group on their right flank, hovering at the back of the crowd. James signaled Sirius, locked in combat with an attacker to his left, and then refocused. Another hex, and the bulkier Death Eater fell too.

Sirius was with him now, sending Stunner after Stunner toward the figure with the gloves. Trying to force him out of the fight. James made a sound of frustration as he missed again — Regulus was nimble, but so was James; if he could only get closer — he darted forward, intent — on his left, so did Sirius —

And then behind them, a burst of purple light. A sound like thunder.

James turned in alarm. Screaming, bodies on the ground. The other side advancing. A shield. They needed a shield.

He bolted back toward the group. A woman's voice, crying out in pain. Where was Lily? Caradoc Dearborn lay unconscious in front of him; Remus was there too, bleeding, on his knees. A shield. They needed to get a shield up. The Death Eaters in the center were pressing closer...

James regained his position at the front, muttering a complex charm as quickly as a tongue twister. Sirius, beside him, was doing the same, and a thick protective spell burst from both of their wands, covering the tangle of wounded fighters on the ground behind them. James gripped his wand, trying to focus on holding the charm. On the friend beside him, not the friends behind in who-knew-what state. Not the way they were outnumbered, not the curses, turning into jeers—

A feminine voice. "Is that the best you can do, baby cousin?"

Sirius whirled in fury. He dropped his half of the shield, and James redoubled his grip on the charm, forced to practically shout the incantation as half a dozen opponents readied to take advantage. Sirius aimed his wand into the crowd of Death Eaters, hollering a spell that James didn't recognize. The purple again, the crash of thunder — and now a pile of Death Eaters was on the ground, bleeding — on the back of his neck, James felt a buzzing abruptly recede; Bones and Podmore had punched through the wards —-

"Let's go! Let's go!" Dorcas Meadowes shouted from James's left. He turned, grabbing Dearborn's ankle in one hand and Remus's shoulder in the other — where was Lily? But there wasn't time — twisted on his heel, and Apparated.

Sirius was pacing the flat when James arrived. He looked up sharply as his friend stepped through the fireplace. "How is he?"

"They stopped the bleeding," James said, dropping onto the sofa. "He's awake."

Sirius breathed out. "Alright," he said, almost to himself. "Alright. Good."

"They're keeping him, Podmore, Dearborn and Vance at headquarters overnight, but Dumbledore didn't think we'd need St. Mungo's. We got lucky." Sirius nodded. "I'm not staying. Lily wanted me to meet her at home after I brought you the updates."

"Yeah, Prongs, no problem. Send my best."

"Sure."

James's head was pounding. He crossed to the kitchen, opened the cupboard next to the refrigerator where Sirius kept his potions, grabbed a Calming Draught, and poured a shot. Just enough to take the edge off the adrenaline still surging through his veins.

Everyone had gotten out, but it had been far too close. The frilly sitting room where the Order held meetings had become a mess of makeshift hospital beds and hasty potioneering as the survivors of the ambush made sense of the confusion and raced to try and heal their friends.

Eventually, someone had gotten a message to Dumbledore. He'd arrived with relief and started sending people home, clearing space for fresh healers to treat the wounded. Lily had been needed to restock their Blood-Replenishing Potions, and so James had been allowed to stay.

He thought of Lily's hands, steady over the cauldron, and downed his shot of Calming Draught. Even once James had seen that Lily was unhurt, the terror of her disappearance had not left him. It had been Emmeline Vance, he'd learned, whom he'd heard screaming as the curse tore through her abdomen. Lily had fallen back to defend Bones, and once the wards were down, she'd Apparated four people out at once and only Splinched an eyebrow, like a bloody hero. She'd been fine. Better than fine. And yet, James still felt sick.

Sirius started pacing again. James watched him pad the length of his flat from the door to the fireplace, once, twice, again.

"Sirius."

"Yeah?"

"Are you going to explain to me what the hell you were thinking?"

Sirius turned toward James, an open, guilty expression on his face. He nodded rapidly. "I know, Prongs. You're right. We shouldn't have fallen for it—"

"Fallen for it?"

"His trick. With the gloves." Sirius crossed the room and shoved Regulus's crumpled letter into James's hand. His words came out in an earnest rush. "I've been thinking and thinking about it — we gave Bella her opening, we were distracted — or I was distracted. I was distracted and I dragged you along—"

"Padfoot."

"And we gave them the opportunity, we moved out of the way. I bet they planned this together — Bella could have guessed that all these letters would throw me off, but this thing with the gloves? It screams Regulus." Sirius sat at the kitchen table and rubbed his temples. "I'm livid. I hate him. Prongs, I really think I hate him." James did not believe this, but it was also beside the point.

"You think I'm pissed about Regulus?"

"Pardon?"

"Padfoot," James said, gesturing with the letter in his hand. "You think I'm pissed about Regulus's bullshit note? Regulus is no one to me. I'm pissed at you."

Sirius nodded. "I know. I made the wrong call, I shouldn't have asked you to protect him—

"You shouldn't have ditched me while I was holding the shield!"

Sirius wrinkled his brow. "What?"

"You dropped the shield!" No response. "You know, the extended shield charm? That we needed? To keep our wounded friends from being cursed to bits?"

Sirius stared at him in confusion. "You had it."

"Are you kidding? I was barely holding that spell together—"

"Prongs, I know you. It was fine. You had it."

"So, what? Just because you think I've got it covered, it's okay to just drop it all on me? While we're outnumbered?"

"I was fixing that."

"While everyone's lives are on the line? You drop our defense so you can start playing around with some Dark Magic?"

Understanding came into Sirius's features, and they grew cold. "Oh, please," he said. "Just because I tossed Bella's little curse back in her face? If she thinks she's the only one who can throw some power around—"

"The Dark Arts, Sirius!"

"Barely. I cast an explosion," said Sirius scathingly. "Big deal. You could do the same amount of damage with a strong enough Reductor Curse—"

"You didn't cast a Reductor Curse —"

"There's hardly a difference! In case you hadn't noticed, James, we're in a war here. Sorry if I'm fighting to win—"

"You know as well as I do that Dark Magic isn't only defined by what it does to the victim, but what it needs," James said stonily, "from the caster. Hate. Greed. I don't want you messing around with that shit—"

"You heard that Crouch is authorizing Magical Law Enforcement to start using Unforgivables now?" Sirius interrupted. He stood up and started pacing for the third time. "It's disgusting. I would never do that. But the Aurors have been, and funny, Prongs, but I don't hear you scolding like a schoolmarm when Gideon and Fabian stop over for drinks—"

"I can't stop what the Aurors do. I don't want that shit from my best friend."

"Your best friend who's taking out the pack of Death Eaters that just slaughtered a bunch of little kids? Who's trying to push them back while they are literally attacking you?"

"You dropped the shield—"

"Because you had it! We needed offense! They're drawing us out into ambush after ambush because they feel strong. We need to push back, even out the numbers, make them see us as a threat—"

"Oh, I'd say they saw alright—"

"Good! They should know I can send the evil shit they throw at us right back at them—"

"Well, great, then! Congratulations, Padfoot, you passed your bloody audition!!!"

 Sirius whipped his head around and froze.

"What," he asked quietly. "The fuck. Is that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think it means?!"

For a moment, James thought that Sirius might hit him. He hoped that he would. This was how they'd worked out their anger as boys, and James was bursting with anger now, shot of Calming Draught or none, still hopped up on adrenaline from the chaos of the battle and its aftermath. But Sirius didn't move.

"I want to hear," he said, "exactly what you think you're suggesting."

"What do you think your brother keeps sending these letters for, Sirius? All these cryptic little overtures that keep you up at night—"

"A distraction."

"Or an offer?"

Because this, finally, was it — the fear, the nagging worry that James had been too tactful to voice, spilling out of him in a cauldronful of energy and rage. Weeks of silence always followed by an owl out of nowhere, taunting, challenging Sirius to identify his brother on the battlefield. A high collar on Regulus's robes. A missing silver button, replaced with gold. His father's navy gloves, diamonds stitched into the back, patterning out Orion the Hunter...

The summer's debate over whether Sirius's younger brother had joined the Death Eaters or not had been abruptly settled in September when Regulus didn't return to school for his sixth year. He wasn’t the only one. The society papers had preened about a pure-blood homeschooling movement, an academic protest over Dumbledore's pandering to Muggles and the alleged laxity of his curriculum — a transparent excuse that barely mattered. Everyone knew the truth: that You-Know-Who was swelling his ranks with young recruits. That the future was on his side.

And James had sat with Sirius as he'd agonized over these little notes in the months since. Talked in circles about what to do, about what Regulus might mean by them. It was heartbreaking. It was infuriating.

"How dare you?" Finally, Sirius spoke. "How dare you even imply—"

"I reckon they want to flip you. Moony does too."

Sirius's voice, if it were possible, grew even icier. "I thought we weren't telling Moony about Reg's letters anymore?"

"I didn't. It's just obvious. What does Voldemort care about some spat with your mum? An old-money pureblood is an old-money pureblood, especially if he's sharp in a duel. Especially if he's got dirt on Dumbledore."

Sirius went white. "I would die," he said, "before I held a wand for Voldemort." He was slipping into the aristocratic accent that still crept into his speech when he was drunk or upset: crisp consonants, enunciating every word. "I will be six feet in the ground before I sell out a single innocent person to that monster."

"Don't you think I know that, Padfoot?!" James shouted. He felt the blood rush to his face. "Do you think that makes it any better?!"

Sirius stared at him. James was shaking. He dragged a hand over his eyes. "We. Are. Outnumbered. You have a target" — he shook Regulus's letter — "on your back. And you're losing it around your brother, your cousins? Showing off with Dark Magic? Getting their attention?"

"Prongs—"

"There's always a risk," he said, "for all of us. I understand that. That's built in. But it's worse for you, because of your family— for Lily, because she's Muggle-born— for Remus, because—"

"Prongs, stop. I get it."

"You cannot," said James, putting his hand down at last and meeting Sirius's eyes, "make it worse. You just can't, okay? We need you."

Sirius blinked, and then nodded. "Prongs. Here." He crossed the kitchen and grabbed his bottle of Calming Draught, pouring James a full dose. He smiled weakly. "Before Evans gets on your case for making her brew in her off hours."

James took it. He felt heavy with something like fury and something like shame. "Thanks."

"'Course." Sirius put a hand on James's shoulder.

The Muggle telephone, which Sirius paid to keep in service although it was barely ever used, began to ring. "Speak of the devil," Sirius said. "You'd better go before she sends—."

"Her Patronus?"

"I was gonna say a Howler." A beat. "Teasing, of course. All my love to Mrs. Prongs."

A different stone fell into James's stomach. "You know I haven't actually asked her, yet."

"Take a joke, mate."

"Right." James shot Sirius a half-hearted smile and downed his glass. "I'll be off, then." He thought about Apparating and decided against it. Crossed halfway to the fireplace and then turned back. "Wait." James waved Regulus's letter, still in his hand. "I'm taking these."

"What, Reg's letters?" Sirius hesitated. "You mean all of them?"

"The lot. I don't want you looking at them anymore."

Sirius was watching him with concern. He shrugged. "Okay, Prongs. Whatever you want."

James crossed into Sirius's bedroom, grabbed the tiny pile of letters from his bedside drawer. "I'm going to go over later and check in on Moony and the rest," Sirius shouted from the sitting room. "I'll take the mirror. Call me if you need. Anytime."

"Sure."

"Good. Get some sleep, mate." James emerged from the bedroom, and Sirius handed him an ashtray full of Floo powder.

17 July 1979  

Sirius,

I need to talk to you.

Except for the house-elf, Grandfather's winter estate will be empty until September. Father warded you out years ago, but I've made a snag on the southeast entrance of the grounds that should admit you if you enter on foot.  

Meet me at midnight this coming Thursday. You know where to look. Come alone.

R.A.B.

20 July 1979

Sirius,

"She'll rise in size but cannot grow. She smothers while her lover glows. Who is she?"

I'd send details in a letter but it isn't safe. Monday night, same time, same place.  

R.A.B.

24 July 1979

Potter,  

I know you're reading this letter over his shoulder. Tell Sirius to show up. This isn't a game.  

R.A.B.  

The wood was ancient but well-maintained, free of old brush and generously stocked with game. Despite the clear night, an afternoon storm had left beads of water lingering upon the leaves and an earthy scent suffusing the air. A herd of deer wandered in the moonlight. No hunt would threaten them until the season changed, and the animals seemed to sense this, browsing the summer plants choosily and leaving deep tracks in the wet ground.

Suddenly, the sound of rapid hoofbeats. The herd turned many heads to look as an unfamiliar stag trotted toward them, alert and quick. It glanced about, scanning the trees closely, and then moved on, bounding further from its fellows and toward the thinning edge of the forest.

Soon, the stag reached the tree line, where manicured forest gave way to the cleared grounds of a stately manor that once had been a castle fort. Even after centuries of wizards had modified it for creature comforts, the manor somehow retained an old feeling of watchfulness, of readiness for battle. No fires were lit in its many windows. Turning back to the grounds, the stag ran once along the edge of the wood before beginning a sweep parallel to the forest paths, keen eyes focused outward.

A mile or so down the third path from the grounds, the stag slowed. About fifteen feet into the trees to its left, it had spotted a thin boy leaning against a five-trunked oak.

The stag ran past and doubled back in a wide circuit through the forest. Satisfied that the boy was alone, it came to a stop, observing him from behind. He was looking aimlessly at the sky, a wand held loosely at his side.

A few minutes passed, and the stag transformed silently into a man.

It had been at least a year since James Potter had seen Regulus Black unmasked, and much longer since he'd really looked at him. He'd gotten quite a bit taller, but remained as slight as he'd ever been, with a pinched look about his face and deep shadows under his eyes. James wondered why Regulus had chosen this seemingly random spot to wait, why he thought that Sirius would know to look here.

He cleared his throat and stepped forward, wand up. "Regulus," James called, stepping over the roots between two trees.

Regulus whirled immediately, raising his wand. Clearly, he'd been waiting for someone to walk along the path and was startled to hear a voice from the forest behind him. "Potter," he said in recognition. He regained his sure posture, but his eyes gave him away, darting through the trees around James, searching.

James waited. Eventually, Regulus looked back at him. "Sirius?"

"Not here."

James had once thought of Regulus as a nervous child, but as a teen, his demeanor had matured into the supercilious coldness so common among his relatives. "Then why are you?"

"You wrote me."

"Not really." James shrugged. Neither figure lowered his wand, but Regulus slowly leaned back against the tree, affecting nonchalance. "Go and fetch him, then."

"Not the plan. Give me your message, and I'll see if he's interested."

Regulus processed the words with an expression James found inscrutable. "He sent you in his stead?" James said nothing as Regulus studied him. "I don't believe you."

"Why else would I be here?"

"I know my brother. He'd come himself. Out of curiosity, if for no other reason."

James scoffed. He'd been trying to meet Regulus's aristocratic coolness with an intimidating calm of his own, but this didn't come naturally to James; his stillness broken, he ran his left hand through his hair and shifted from foot to foot, energized. "Why should Sirius be curious? This is only about the fiftieth time you've tried to recruit him."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, really? Not hanging around any cults lately that could use an extra wand?" Regulus glowered and James pushed. "Tell me, how's school been treating you, Reg?"

A grimace at the nickname, or perhaps only James's use of it. "Hilarious."

"Can Slytherin even field a Quidditch team these days?"

"I wouldn't know."

"No kidding."

A pause. Regulus seemed to be weighing his options. "Alright, look." Very deliberately, he lowered his wand. "I didn't write to Sirius because I wanted to recruit him."

"To lure him into an ambush, then?"

"You can see that I'm here alone."

"This time." Regulus rolled his eyes. "Come on, it wouldn't exactly be unprecedented."

"I don't" — Regulus hesitated — "I don't plan those. I don't plan anything. I just show up where I'm supposed to." James was unimpressed and must have looked it, because Regulus continued. "And Sirius isn't the target. It's your whole group, anyone who resists."

"He's the target of your little invitations, though."

"My— what?"

"The bragging, right before you joined up?"

"I—"

"Your fiddling with the uniform last winter? Tipping him off about wherever you'd be? A diversion, an offer, or a cry for help, which was it?"

"What are you, Potter, his owl-minder?"

Their voices were loud in the placid forest. "My friends and I don't keep secrets from one another. You realize, by the way, that we can read all of your codes?"

"I'd worked that out awhile ago, thanks."

"Then don't act surprised. Tell me what you're playing at."

"I'm not playing anything!"

The act of arguing seemed to crack Regulus's deliberate composure. Obviously frustrated, he scowled, shook out his hair, and twitched as if he were about to start pacing.

James would have felt some satisfaction about getting under his skin, except the sudden emotion in Regulus's manner made him too much a mirror of Sirius. James rarely noticed the likeness between the two of them, disguised as it was by Regulus's smaller frame, grimmer countenance, and gaunter features, but it was striking whenever it appeared. Something about the resemblance between Sirius and his brother made James feel bereft in a way that he could not define.

Regulus did, in fact, start pacing. "Potter," he said, he said, crossing to a birch tree and back to the many-trunked oak. "I wrote to Sirius because I need his help."

"What sort of help?"

"I'm trying to...figure something out," Regulus said. He touched each tree he passed as he stalked back and forth, as if to ground himself. "There's a...question...I'm trying to resolve."

"Very specific."

"Recently, the Dark Lord came to us with an...unusual request. And he did something, and I'm not sure...he makes strange comments sometimes, I'm trying to understand...to work out how..."

James's gut roiled with fear and suspicion. What unusual request of Voldemort's would prompt Regulus to suddenly beg parley with his brother? To open the wards on Black properties for him? To insist that Sirius come alone? A rash of recent disappearances flew through his mind. Half the time, the Order never found a body...

"Let's call it a puzzle," Regulus said, turning at last to James. "Research. A project. That's why I need Sirius. He's cleverer than I am. "

"Research. About Voldemort?"

To his credit, Regulus did not flinch. "Tell Sirius. He'll come."

James did not doubt this. "Regulus," he said, thinking of vanished friends. Thinking of the likeness between brothers and the urgency with which Sirius had once described his father's gloves. He crossed to the oak tree and sat down on the nearest branch. "If you're trying to say that you have information, we need it. The Aurors will offer you — a deal, something — they figure something out, for spies. You won't get prison." Regulus stared at him. "But this vagueness isn't going to work. I am not telling Sirius to meet you alone."

"You don't understand. The Dark Lord will suspect—"

"Or if you're just trying to run, well...I'm not sure Dumbledore would be too sympathetic, honestly, but if you want to come to Sirius, we could try and set something up for you..."

"It isn't possible to run," Regulus said, sudden coldness back in his voice. He made a convulsive movement with his left arm and then caught himself, putting his hand back against the tree bark.

"I will not send him back to you on your terms."

Regulus's eyebrows flew toward his hair. "Send him? Why should you? Honestly, Potter, can't you go off and play with one of your other lapdogs for an evening?"

Regulus could not know, so James would not react. "You have to understand why I can't trust you."

"Why should it matter if I have your trust?"

"I consider Sirius my family."

"I consider you an idiot." Regulus put his face in his hands, and then he went and told the biggest lie that James had ever heard, with an unsettling fervor in his voice. "You don't even know what family is, Potter. You have no idea. You have no comprehension of the word."

Somewhere in the forest, a herd of deer was settling down together to sleep. James suddenly needed to feel a stag's legs beneath him. He stood. "Alright. I've said my piece. We're done here."

"Potter—"

"If you want to talk, come to us. Otherwise, stay away."

"Potter, wait."

"The next post you send is going straight into the fire."

"I was trying to warn him!"

James paused. Turned back. "Excuse me?"

"With my letters, before."

James snorted. "Even the first one?"

"I was a different person then." Regulus crossed to the oak tree and perched on an adjacent, twisted trunk. He looked very tired and very young.

Reluctantly, James walked back to join him, returning to the same branch he'd sat on before. Regulus leaned toward him and lowered his voice. "Potter, listen to me. You are going to lose."

"Is that a threat?"

"No! It's just a fact. You're going to lose; we all are. Your side is more outnumbered than you realize. The Dark Lord has creatures, and spies, and...and something hidden... And I knew it, I have known it, and I was trying to give Sirius a chance."

James looked Regulus dead in the eye. "You think Voldemort would take him."

"Yes."

"You want your brother on your side."

"No, I— I don't wish this for Sirius. Or for anyone." He hesitated. "But as a last resort? Yes. Absolutely."

"That's your warning?"

Regulus shook his head, looking away. "The Dark Lord would, I think, accept my brother as his servant. But his followers, my cousins especially — they know Sirius, and they hold a grudge. Battle is messy and deaths are expected. We wear masks. I wanted Sirius to have something to look for, in case he needed...I wanted him to know where it was safe to surrender."

Regulus's hands were shaking. He might have meant to evoke pity with this confession, but James thought of the Dark Mark in the sky and bodies on the ground and could only manage disgust. "Sirius Black will never serve Voldemort."

"He might not have a choice."

"He can die. Without betraying us. That's a choice too, Regulus."

James found that voicing his nightmares aloud was suddenly very easy. He didn't feel the slightest twinge of fear. "He can die. We all can. Because our friends will keep fighting."

Regulus looked back up at him with a lost expression. James put a hand on his shoulder.

"There are worse things than sacrifice. Your brother understands that." A squeeze, and James pulled his hand away. "Listen, Regulus. Come to us. We'll try and help you. I mean it."

Regulus grabbed his left arm in his right, then wrapped both arms tightly around his torso.

"Think about it, alright?" A pause, and Regulus nodded. Then, without a word of goodbye, he stood up and stumbled away from James through the trees. He turned up the path toward the manor house, leaving James alone at the oak with diverging trunks.

A few minutes later, a lone stag was moving in the opposite direction of the boy, running toward the far corner of the forest. Its fellow creatures were startled, but not alarmed as it passed. This was not yet the season of the hunters.

Chapter Text

12 October 1979

Sirius,

Something's happened and everything's changed. I am burning just like you.

There's a thing I've got to do that I can't accomplish without help. There is no other wizard I can ask. It's urgent and I can't say more.  

This letter is a Portkey. Hours, not days.  

Reg

"What d'you think?"

Three young men hovered around Lyall Lupin's secondhand coffee table, leaning over a piece of paper as gingerly as they would a Snargaluff stump poised to attack. James shifted from foot to foot, glancing first at Remus, whose eyes were trained on the letter, and then at Peter, who met his gaze and looked away.

Peter had been just leaving the 9-5 shift at his new job — a pencil-pushing position in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes that a friend of his mother's had recommended him for (and that Dumbledore had approved of, hoping to place more ears in core Ministry departments) — when James's stag Patronus had appeared in front of him, asking to meet at Lupin's house right away. Evidently, James had invited himself, because Remus had not even been at home when Peter had arrived; he'd shown up around twenty minutes later, after Peter and James had gotten into the cupboards. Looking harried, he had muttered something about being needed at Headquarters and dumped his things onto the floor. (Probably another of the meetings that he hated telling them about. Remus took a lot of private meetings with Dumbledore these days.)

Normally, the rest of them would have taken this cue to pry details out of Remus about whatever werewolf-y task he was being asked to take on. James, in particular, was sensitive toward Remus's complex feelings about the wolf, toward his fear and self-loathing always at war with a profound desire to be useful. But today, James hadn't even bothered to ask.

"Sorry to call you lot in out of nowhere," he'd said assertively, putting down the peanut butter sandwich that Pete had just made for him and crossing over to his bag, which hung on the Lupins' battered coat rack. "But there's something that we need to figure out."

Wand in hand, James had levitated a letter out of his bag and laid it flat on the table, smoothing out the edges with characteristically precise spellwork. "Don't touch it," he'd warned. "Just read."

Peter had. He wasn't sure what to say. He now realized why James had asked to meet at the Lupins' house instead of his own flat; Remus's father was rarely home, often leaving on work trips for weeks at a time, and so they were unlikely to be interrupted. Lily, who had never quite gotten on with Sirius, would surely find this letter alarming, even without the years of context that James, Remus and Peter all shared. Regulus Black was a delicate situation. No wonder James wanted to talk privately, to present Sirius with a united front.

Remus, at last, looked up. "James," he said. "We need to tell the Order about this." James shook his head immediately. "I know that Sirius will have a pack of objections—"

"Moony, the Aurors will have a field day. They'll think that Padfoot's in with the Blacks again— or they'll take the Portkey themselves and arrest Regulus on sight, Sirius will lose it—"

"Just Dumbledore then. He needs to know."

James hesitated. "That's better, but even Dumbledore has always been tougher on Sirius than the rest of us." His uncertain expression flickered, and he looked aggrieved. "Has been for years. I respect Dumbledore as much as the next bloke, but he clearly can't get over the surname, either. It's not fair, and showing him this letter is only going to reinforce that."

Remus's expression twisted with incredulity. Peter shot him a look of understanding that James, still mulling over the letter, hopefully would not notice; Remus gave an indignant glance in return. Sure, Dumbledore was prejudiced against Sirius because of his name. His distrust had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that Sirius had once sicced a werewolf on a fellow student. James liked to conveniently forget that Dumbledore's coolness toward Sirius had only begun around the end of their fifth year.

Remus tried again. "Who, then? We need to tell someone."

"We're keeping this between us. It's in the pact."

"I did not agree to that," Remus said sharply.

Peter looked back and forth between the two, observed the forcefulness in James's manner, the hardening of Remus's face. He felt a familiar anxiety twist in his stomach as he sensed the conflict between his friends grow stronger, like a teakettle creeping toward a boil. Carefully, he extended a redirection.

"What does Sirius think?" For that matter, why wasn't he here? There was no way that Sirius Black would not want in on this conversation — unless he'd already made up his mind to ignore the letter and James was trying to persuade him otherwise? That seemed out of character, though. Sirius might feign indifference toward Regulus, but Peter did not miss the way his ears pricked up at his brother's name.

It worked: James and Remus looked at him. Then James, deflating, sighed and tossed himself onto the couch. Peter sat as well, taking advantage of the opportunity to encourage less confrontational body language while jumping for the least tattered armchair. James fiddled with a tassel on his robes. "He hasn't seen it yet, actually."

Peter studied him. Something wasn't adding up. "The owl just arrived?" A nod. "Sirius wasn't at the flat?" And James was? Not hanging around at his own place with his girlfriend?

James looked at the ceiling. "It worries me. The way Sirius reacts about his brother."

Remus finally sat, taking the last armchair with the threadbare cushion. "Of course it does."

"Yeah, no arguments there, mate," Peter said. Regulus was Padfoot's most obvious vulnerability, or at least the most accessible for the other side to exploit. Not to mention he’d always been very annoying, a skinny enigma dithering about the edge of their closed circle. A new variable to work around, irritating James and twisting Sirius into knots, upsetting the balance of big personalities that Peter tried so diligently to maintain.

"Right. So." James fidgeted for a long moment. "I've been intercepting Regulus's owls."

A beat of shock. And then Remus asked, "Why?" at the same time that Peter exclaimed, "How??" They looked at each other, taking this in, and then Remus caught up with what Peter had already realized. "Owls, plural??"

"Oh. Um. Yeah."

"And you didn't tell us?"

"Yeah, but. I honestly didn't tell anyone." Remus did not appear mollified by this. Peter tried not to flush. He was always afraid that his friends would keep things from him, but he was also not surprised whenever they did; in point of fact, if he didn't put in the work to make sure he noticed whatever was going on, Peter usually was the last to be told. Remus was not used to this and did not hide his displeasure, so James elaborated his excuses. "Not even Lily, and I'm certain that Padfoot hasn't figured it out yet either. I don't think he expects to hear from him."

"James. Are you going to answer the questions?"

"Oh, right," James looked at Peter first. "Whipped up a trick for it. Sort of a variation on a Muggle-Repelling Charm. Regulus switches up his owls, but remember how he always starts with a spell to make the real note invisible?" Remus and Peter nodded. "Any owl carrying a letter with that spell, or a couple of Reg's other usuals, gets within thirty yards of Padfoot's flat and suddenly remembers that he's actually supposed to be popping over to mine. Stroke of genius, that one, I thought."

Peter certainly agreed. He added this to the mental folder of brilliantly wicked ideas that Padfoot and Prongs would sometimes drop casually into conversation, and which often turned out quite useful later in any number of situations. Just as he had with the Animagus transformation, Peter made a point of practicing these on his own until he mastered them, or could at least produce a functional imitation. He'd started doing this back in first year in an effort to keep up with his clever-clogs friends, but had long since started learning the tricks for their own sake. It paid to be prepared.

"And you're doing this, because..?"

"Merlin, Moony, do you even need me to answer that?"

"Okay. When did Regulus start writing again?"

"Dunno," said James, with an irritated shrug that Peter took as a tell that he was obfuscating. James didn't like to lie to his friends. "Little bit ago. Recently, it's all the same basic idea as this" — he gestured toward the coffee table — "giving almost no information and then asking Sirius for a one-on-one. The Portkey thing is a big escalation, though." All three of them turned once more to look warily at the letter on the table.

"Did you ever reply?"

"Sort of. Not really." The same shrug, like a horse (a deer?) shaking off a fly. "Just tried to send the message that he could come to us, but we weren't going to him."

Well, obviously. Considering the way that things were going with the war, this really was just basic common sense. "And did he?"

"No."

"Huh."

"Yeah." The trio fell silent, gazes drifting back toward the coffee table. Everything's changed. There's a thing I've got to do. Hours, not days. With a rush of breath, James sat up. "So, this is a meeting. Let's talk this through. What does Regulus want? What are our possible plays here?"

"Slow down, Quidditch Captain," Sirius did not say, because Sirius was not in the room.

Remus considered. "The tone is...different than I'm used to, for Regulus. He's hinting that he might flip?"

Peter nodded. "That's what I thought, too."

"Death Eaters don't typically change their allegiance."

"So, a lie."

"Very possibly."  James was watching attentively as Remus and Peter bounced off of one another. He'd probably already had all of these ideas himself and was waiting to see if the two of them came around to the same conclusions that he had. "To what purpose?"

"Bait," said Peter immediately. "They're done with big skirmishes and want to pick us off individually."

"Wouldn't surprise me. Or—" Remus glanced at James, "to tempt him over to their side? I suspect they'd take him." The flawless logic of bigotry: Padfoot had publicly trampled on his family's ideals for years and years, and yet, due to an accident of blood, everyone in the Order still thought he'd be able to cut a deal, to get out alive. Peter was almost jealous. (He doubted that he was the only one. Yet, keenly aware of James's gaze upon him and Remus, he still felt the need to deflect from the subject.)

"I can see why Regulus might hope for that," Peter said.

Remus didn't take the lifeline. "Do we think—" he said, then hesitated. "Just for the sake of talking through all of the possibilities. Do we see any version of events where Regulus might...you know, have a point, there?"

And James's hackles were up again. Sometimes, Peter really felt that his labor went woefully unappreciated. "What the hell, Remus?"

Remus's answering gaze was steady. "James, you're hiding these letters from Sirius for a reason."

"Yeah, because I don't want him to get jumped by the pack of Death Eaters sending him Portkeys to Merlin-knows-where!" But there — a slight twitch of his shoulder. James could not possibly believe that Sirius would fall in with the Death Eaters, so what could be the source of this little tell?

Peter felt a strange urge to push on the point, like the compulsion to slap a mosquito bite. Itchy curiosity. Wisely, he ignored it. Better to let Remus go and dig his own grave.

"I don't...it's not that I suspect him, James. He's one of my best friends. But it pays to be cautious these days, and the Blacks — it's not like they haven't got a lot to offer..."

James was repulsed. "You're saying that he'd sell us out for what? His parents' money? Are you being an arse on purpose, Moony?" He leaned forward, gesticulating. "Sirius wouldn't serve Voldemort if he were the last Order member alive. He wouldn't turn on us for anything, and definitely not for— for Galleons, or—" James, normally quite a captivating speaker, was actually spluttering in defense of Sirius's honor. "He'd lose everything he had, first. He'd freeze on the street and eat garbage. He'd—"

James had lost track of Peter in this little rant, and he took the opportunity to toss Remus another quick glance of understanding, unnoticed. Remus returned it with exasperation.

Peter was not willing to antagonize James over this, but it was always refreshing when someone else acknowledged the hippogriff in the room. He looked at Remus on his shabby chair, glanced around Lyall Lupin's cottage with the half-empty cupboards and the water stains littering the carpet. Thought of Remus working shifts in a Muggle restaurant and losing half the value of his wage in the currency exchange. Peter did not really believe that Sirius would go back to the Blacks for their gold, but his habits of casual luxury — James's too, for that matter — had always been one of the unspoken fault lines running through their friendship. After all, someone here actually did have to worry about freezing on the street, and it wasn't James or Sirius.

Not to mention, of course, that Remus had very good reasons to be wary around Padfoot. Sirius had been the only one of them to betray Remus's most dearly-held secret — a betrayal that Sirius was still stubbornly unapologetic about, and which James apparently preferred to pretend had never happened. Even years later, Peter knew that this must sting.

And then there were basic issues of compatibility, of personality. The pushes and pulls and polarities always churning among any group of friends. Strangely, Moony and Padfoot seemed to have the closest bond of any of the four of them, but Sirius and Remus? Oil and water. Peter had long privately suspected that Remus preferred the dog. Maybe it was gratitude for making the full moons bearable; maybe Padfoot was simply less tempestuous than Sirius; or maybe, Remus felt a certain fondness in recognition — in something canine that called out to the wolf he kept so tightly caged within him.

Prongs, blissfully insensitive to all of this, was glaring at Remus as though he were the one who'd been wronged. Peter was just starting to wrack his brain for an appeasing comment when Remus took the hint and preempted him, backing down.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," Remus said to James. "No, I'm not saying that. Of course I don't believe that." Peter watched him, wondering if this were true. Probably, he supposed, but he'd keep an eye on it.

Peter was always on alert like this, cataloging the little needles of tension between his friends. Doing his best to understand them, to avoid them. Nobody else seemed to think about things in this way, but then, none of them had grown up in a big family, as Peter had. (The Blacks, despite their infamy for creepy closeness between cousins, did not really count). Peter's parents could barely carry on a civil conversation with one another; he was the youngest by years of a bunch of siblings who bickered as often as they spoke. He'd grown up understanding that a flattering word, a soothing gesture, could often be the difference between having a family and having only a feud.

Peter knew he could rely on James, Remus and Sirius a hell of a lot more than he could rely on his relatives, but even among his friends, he always felt that his position was precarious. He always felt so painfully aware of all he had to lose.

While at Hogwarts, scurrying about the castle in his Animagus form to add new rooms to the Marauder's Map, Peter had developed a philosophy of sorts around this worldview. His friends were his rock, yes, but rocks shifted. People clashed, things changed. Peter had the temperament and the experience to understand this, to creep behind walls and among fissures in stone, to map out any cracks in the foundation. To avoid being crushed in the masonry.

James was studying Remus, too. "You have something else to say. Spit it out."

Remus looked at James, considering. "When I said the Blacks have a lot to offer, I didn't mean just their money, Prongs."

"What else, then?"

Remus gestured at the letter. Peter nodded, and James shook his head. "He hates them."

"They're his family."

"We're his family."

"I know we are. But Regulus was his family first." Peter looked over at James's expression and felt it again. That itch.

James made no rebuttal. Well, that was interesting.

Interesting, but probably the moment to turn a corner. "Do we think—" Peter paused, trying to think of an ending for his own sentence. "I mean, what if— what if it's genuine? Do we think it's possible that Regulus really could be looking to switch sides?"

Peter felt the thrill of his own cleverness as Remus and James took this in, successfully distracted. Thoughtful. Remus answered first. "You're right to bring that up. I honestly have no idea. Like I said, Death Eaters typically don't change their minds...but we don't know Regulus very well."

"I feel...," James paused, weighing his next words almost...bitterly? "Believe it or not, I actually have this feeling that he might. But I've got no proof, and I don't trust him, and I just— the consequences if we're wrong..."

"Sirius will want to take that risk," said Remus. "And actually — Dumbledore might too. The way this is all going...Honestly, we could really use a spy."

A spy. Peter had only brought up the question about Regulus in an effort to smooth the conversation between his two friends, but he found himself strangely intrigued by the idea. He took a bite of his peanut butter sandwich, ruminating.

What did Peter really know about Regulus Black? Very little. Just that he'd grown up in the same upper-class milieu as Sirius, but showed none of Sirius's spine; that he'd fretted over blood purist niceties in his little notes as a child, but he'd never deigned to chastise Sirius publicly; that he'd never spoken to Peter or Remus once, in public or in private. A run-of-the-mill elitist, in Peter's (admittedly vague) impression. Convinced, to parrot Sirius's description, that to be a Black made you practically royalty.

An elitist, but a fairly mediocre Death Eater. Peter wasn't sure how Padfoot knew, considering the masks, but his friend was convinced that Regulus half-arsed most of his Death Eater skirmishes, dodging and weaving and hiding behind the crowd. Unaccomplished. Unimportant.

So Regulus Black, heir to an ancient estate and certainly proud of his pure-blood pedigree, a studier who'd had to work for all of his top marks at school, had joined the Death Eaters at sixteen and promptly become — what? Only a masked face in a large crowd. Undistinguished, even; a poor duelist, a shy murderer. He was probably no one to Voldemort. Certainly not a little prince, like he was used to. Peter himself often resented being reminded of his comparative lack of talent, his poor station among the friends he'd built his entire life around. How much more must this sting for someone like Regulus? I am burning, he had written.

But as a spy? A Death Eater turncoat, feeding breadcrumbs to the Order of the Phoenix? He'd be their most important ally. Sirius's prodigal brother: an essential resource for the side of light. The Aurors would hang on his every word. If they managed to win this war, Dumbledore would get him a bloody Order of Merlin.

Yes, Peter thought, chewing his sandwich. He could see it. He could see how turning spy might be an appealing proposition, if one happened to be a person like Regulus Black.

Except, of course, that the side of light was currently fucking losing. Dumbledore tried to deny it, to keep up the morale, but their poor odds became more obvious with every lost comrade and every lurking nightmare. With Lily's talents wasted brewing cauldron after cauldron of Dreamless Sleep. People disappeared, and Peter could never tell if their bodies had gone missing or if (not that anyone would ever acknowledge it) the Order simply had a problem with deserters.

Peter could not imagine that it would be worth it to flip on the winning side, no matter how tempting the rewards for a hypothetical spy might be. But then, he reflected, every Black he'd ever met had been at least a little bit insane.

He looked up at his friends. Thinking about losing the war — the fear that every one of kept so tightly in check — always made Peter feel just a little bit reckless, a bit vicious. He had the urge, once more, to slap. "That would be fantastic, right?" he said to James. "If Padfoot's brother joined up with us?"

"Of course," said James, rolling his shoulders, and Peter almost slipped up and smiled. A direct hit. "If he's on our side, there's always room at the table."

Remus seemed to notice nothing amiss. "We need the boon. Badly." He grimaced. "Badly enough that I'm almost tempted to walk into this very obvious trap."

A pause. Peter did not like where this was going and decided to bluff. "Maybe it will be safer if we all go?"

"Maybe the three of us go." James, of course.

"Maybe we call Dumbledore and ask him who should go." Merlin, but his friends were predictable.

"We have to talk to Sirius first, at least." A feint, this time. "He'll hate it if we don't."

"I'm...still not sure if that's a good idea," said James.

And a murmur from Remus. "Me neither, Prongs." Agreement, but not alignment. Cracks in the stone.

The letter sat innocently on the table. Dusk began to fall. If they did not come to a decision soon, Regulus's Portkey would decide for them.

"If..." James seemed to be weighing some contradictory but deeply held feelings. "If Regulus is sincere about a change of heart, we'd need a long-term commitment from him. Longer than one night or one extremely suspicious offer of a meeting." Remus and Peter nodded. "It might make sense to wait and see if he contacts us again."

"Or to try and contact him. Or to see if he comes to us."

"Yes," said James, drawing assurance from Remus's words. "Yes, exactly. Even Dumbledore probably wouldn't jump on a potential spy with only a note and an illicit Portkey as proof. And Mad-Eye might skin us alive."

"Might?" Peter joked.

"Mad-Eye would definitely find some way to murder us that was both gruesome and extremely entertaining."

Remus was chuckling, now. For the first time since James had shown them the letter, Peter truly felt his anxiety ease. He really did love his friends. "I'm convinced. We do nothing, and we keep an eye on it."

James nodded, finally confident. "We're agreed, then? Another one for the pact?"

Peter nodded, relaxed, but Remus was wary again. "Sirius is in the pact." That was putting it mildly. Sirius's loose lips had been fairly the point of the damned pact.

Not that Peter cared, particularly. He knew to tread carefully around Remus, he knew that Sirius was maybe quite dangerously mad, but deep in his heart, Peter believed that Severus Snape had had it coming. On this, Peter was just as pitiless as Sirius.

James was steady as he considered Remus's words. "I know. You're right. And we don't keep secrets from each other." A bit rich, considering his recent escapades into owl theft, but Peter supposed James had to live with himself somehow. "I made a copy of the letter before I got here. I'll show him in the morning. He'll lose it, of course, but once he calms down we can make a plan — Sirius should be the one to contact Regulus, anyway, he's the one who'll know best how."

"Right," said Remus. Then he looked cagey. "Listen, though...I might actually be heading out for a week or two." Ah, yes. The mysterious meeting with Dumbledore. Peter did not miss the fact that this meant Remus would be gone for the full moon, and probably, neither did James. "You'll fill me in on how it goes, yeah?"

"'Course we will," said James. Of course James would, Peter corrected mentally, thinking of Sirius's history of control-freak hostility on the subject of his brother. Peter had no intention of being anywhere near that conversation. James was more than welcome to fill Sirius in on the mysterious rendezvous that he had missed; Peter would prefer to keep his head, thank you very much.

"Alright then," Remus nodded. "That's settled."

"Settled." The three friends looked at each other in agreement, only to have their attention drawn by a small disruption on the coffee table. The Portkey's time was up. As if on cue, the letter lit up with a burst of blue light, and vanished.

Chapter Text

To the Dark Lord

I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.  

R.A.B.  

Regulus Black sat on a boulder as the sun went down, surrounded by the tumult of the sea. The wind howled, whipping his long hair about, and he was cold. Tall, jagged rocks cast long shadows as a stormy evening loomed.

He flipped a locket idly in one hand. Open, closed. Open, closed. In the other, he held his wand, fixed on a point above another boulder directly across from him. He trained his eyes on the same spot, ignoring the slim finger of rough water separating the two boulders — the sheer cliff face across it to his left, where a small passage beckoned, partially submerged — the ticking of the pocket watch that his father had given him for becoming a man, when they'd both been alive, less than a year ago...

"Only a few minutes, now," he said aloud. He could barely hear himself over the echoes of the ocean, but a small figure nodded from the shadows beside him. "Shall we go over the plan again?"

"If Master wishes." Regulus heard the fear, the resentment in Kreacher's voice, and tried to put it out of his mind. Kreacher would be alright. Regulus had planned for that.

"If Sirius shows up?"

"Master Sirius is a son of the House of Black. Kreacher will know if he is whom he appears to be. Kreacher will know if Master Sirius's orders are false or true, of his own will or another's. A house-elf's magic will know this." He paused. "Kreacher will confirm for Master Regulus that Master Sirius can be trusted."

"And then?"

"Master Regulus will speak with him across the boulders. Kreacher will take Master Regulus into the c-cave. Master Sirius will wait here."

"And then?"

"Kreacher will guide Master Regulus into the cave and across the water. Master Regulus will d-drink the p-p-potion. If he cannot drink it all, Kreacher will f-force him."

"And then?"

Kreacher made a sound halfway between a wheeze and a sob. The wind began to slow. "Kreacher will take the locket and l-leave Master Regulus in the c-cave. Kreacher will give the locket to Master Sirius. He will tell him that the locket is the Dark Lord's horcrux," Kreacher emphasized the unfamiliar word, "and that Master Sirius must d-destroy it."

"Thank you." Regulus paused. "If someone else shows up? One of his friends?"

"K-Kreacher will hide in the shadows and not be seen. Master will stun and Obliviate the intruder. Kreacher will bring Master Regulus into the c-cave and t-take the locket. He will hide the locket in in M-Mistress's house. Once the locket is hidden, Kreacher will return for the intruder and bring him s-somewhere s-safe."

"Safe, but confusing. Like one of the Muggle parks back in London. He won't remember how he's got there, but we don't want him to pick up any clues, just in case."

"Y-yes, Master Regulus."

"If it's someone in disguise as Sirius, or if he's under the Imperius curse, you'll do the same."

"Y-yes."

"I'm sorry about the cold. A fire would give us away." Kreacher was silent.

Regulus hesitated. He needed to say it, but he was afraid. "If," he whispered, then stopped. He started again. "If my letter was intercepted. If the Dark Lord comes?"

"Kreacher will hide. When he is able, he will escape. Kreacher will leave Master Regulus to face the Dark Lord on the boulder." Regulus screwed up his eyes, counted to ten, breathed.

"Yes, precisely," he said, in a tone that he hoped might sound matter-of-fact. "You've got it all, as always. I'm...very grateful to you, Kreacher."

"Kreacher has no choice but to obey."

"Even so."

Regulus glanced quickly at his watch and up again, rigid with readiness. He hoped the light wouldn't go before the Portkey activated. He needed to see the wizard's face. Needed to be quick with a spell, if it was the wrong face. Even the Dark Lord, perhaps, could be Stunned or killed — that is, almost killed — impeded by a curse, perhaps, if he were caught unawares, if Regulus were quick enough...

Kreacher watched him intently. A wave splashed aggressively against the cliff. "Master Sirius will not come," Kreacher said finally.

"So sure, are you?"

"Master Sirius is an ungrateful wretch who abandoned his duties and broke his brother's heart."

"Don't say that," Regulus said, surprised, losing a moment to glance over at Kreacher. "That isn't— shut up. Don't say that again. You'll just antagonize him, and we need his help."

"Kreacher does not need Master Sirius's help."

"Just follow the orders."

A tense silence settled in between them. The long shadows stretched and faded as dusk fell on the dismal place. Regulus's watch ticked. He breathed in and out. He flipped the locked open and closed. Nothing happened.

Suddenly, a flash of light on the opposite boulder.

A piece of paper appeared about three feet off the ground — about the height of a small table — and fluttered downward for a moment before being caught by the wind. It blew about in chaotic circles, hit the cliff face across the water, and fell into the crashing waves.

Regulus collapsed backward onto the hard surface of the boulder, his heart pounding with relief and disappointment. Far above him, in the night sky still obscured by early evening light, he could make out only the brightest stars.

After a long moment, he spoke. "You're allowed to say 'I told you so.'"

"Kreacher does not wish to say this."

"Anything you wish, then."

"Kreacher wishes for Master Regulus to go home."

Dimly, as if observing himself from someplace very far away, Regulus realized that he was crying.

"You're very kind to me, Kreacher."

"Master Regulus is a good wizard."

A good wizard. Regulus did not want to think of the deeds that hovered always, so close to the top of his mind. He thought of absolution. He thought of revenge. He looked at the stars.

He could hear his watch still ticking faintly over the roar of the sea. Knowing, now, that he and Kreacher were alone and would remain so, the passage of time felt like a distant thing. Regulus did not know how long he laid on his back, staring, until the feeling passed and finally he could sit up.

"Alright," he said, turning back toward Kreacher. The elf was looking at the slender mouth of the cave, almost completely visible now in the low tide. "This makes things simpler. Kreacher, once more. The plan?"

The old elf did not look at him. His voice had dulled. "Kreacher will guide Master Regulus into the cave and across the water. Master Regulus will drink the potion. If he cannot drink it all, Kreacher will force him. Kreacher will take the locket and leave Master Regulus in the cave. Kreacher will bring the locket to Mistress's house. No one must know where Kreacher has been or where Master Regulus has gone."

"Exactly. That's very good." His fear of discovery had ebbed away, and Regulus cast a small blue fire to warm his hands. Kreacher huddled closer.

When his fingers had stopped shaking, Regulus reached into the pocket of his robes. He took out a small piece of paper, folded it, put it inside the locket and shut it with a snap.

"After I've drunk all the potion," he told Kreacher, "and you've stolen the Dark Lord's locket, you must replace it with this one." The ruse wouldn't hold up under scrutiny, but if the Dark Lord didn't look too closely when he checked the cave, it might be some time before Regulus's treachery was discovered. Time, perhaps, for the Dark Lord's enemies to advance, for an opponent to gain strength and rise against him...

"As soon as the locket is hidden," Regulus said, reaching once more into his pocket. "Fetch my owl and post these to Sirius. Don't be seen." He handed two more sheets of paper to the elf, who scanned them briefly and looked up. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to obey when he summons you." Kreacher scowled, but Regulus pressed on. "When he asks about the letter, tell him the same. 'This is the Dark Lord's horcrux and you must destroy it.' You can tell him about the cave, as well, and...how we came to find it, and...everything."

Kreacher nodded sullenly, and Regulus continued. "I forbid you to tell anyone else in the family about the locket or what happened in the cave. Don't bring up the subject with anyone at all. Only tell Sirius, and only if he asks you directly, in private." Regulus had thought in circles around the matter and decided that this was the best way. "If he isn't prepared to help, and quickly, he mustn't know. The Dark Lord will be merciless, he'll steal the locket back in an instant...we'll never find it again...and anyone who knows or even suspects its power will be in terrible danger."

"Master Regulus is in terrible danger."

Regulus almost smiled. "Yes. But not for so terribly long, I hope." He looked at the elf who had raised him, who had taught him his first magic, wandless and homey and full of peace. "I'm sorry to burden you like this, Kreacher," he said. "But we don't have any choice. If you can't get in touch with Sirius, I need you to destroy the locket. I order you to destroy it."

"Yes, Master Regulus."

"Say it. Tell me you'll destroy it."

"Kreacher will destroy the locket as Master Regulus orders."

"Yes. Well. Alright, then." The moon had risen and it was night. Unable to think of anything else that he needed to do, Regulus stood. He kicked his pocket watch into the sea. Glancing down as it sunk into the dark water, Regulus was thankful that he had Kreacher with him, thankful that he would not need to swim.

Regulus took a deep breath and straightened his posture. He offered Kreacher his arm. As Kreacher took it, Regulus nodded at the elf and swallowed.

There was a loud crack as Kreacher disappeared with Regulus.

Just under an hour later, he reappeared with no one.

12 October 1979

Dear Sirius,  

"Down, up: Sun's light. Ash, sup: Take flight."

I ordered Kreacher to post this note the moment I was dead. If you've received it, please forgive the shock. You are the only one who knows, but that won't last.  

I still need your help. If you're willing, summon Kreacher at once and ask him about this letter. He will explain everything. I have enclosed a document as proof that you can trust my word, and that Kreacher will obey you sincerely.

It's alright that you didn't come to meet me tonight. It wouldn't have gone any differently. I was a bit mad when I wrote you earlier and hoped to see you before it happened, that's all. I think I understand you better than I ever have.

Be swift, or be well.  

Your brother,
Regulus

Chapter Text

Do Not Enter
Without the Express Permission of
Regulus Arcturus Black

Remus hunched awkwardly around the large cardboard box in his hands, cracking the front door of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place with his right elbow. As carefully as he could manage, he maneuvered into the hall, avoiding the umbrella stand to his left and the ominous fluttering of black curtains on the far wall. He placed the box on the ground as lightly as he could and drew his wand, closing the door slowly behind him.

The house was silent as the grave. He supposed that was an improvement over this time last month, when he'd arrived to find Sirius in a titanic row with a portrait of some hideous great-uncle or other about the acceptability of hunting Muggles for sport, but Remus was uneasy as he walked down the entrance hall and into the drawing room. Now hidden from the Muggle Londoners just outside, Remus levitated the cardboard box as he walked through the house; it trailed easily behind him. He rubbed the angry redness from his palms, glancing into each room as he passed through.

He found Sirius alone in the kitchen, nursing a mug of tea and tapping a quill on the long table. "Moony!" Sirius said, looking up in greeting. "You're early! Hang on a minute, I can put the kettle back on." He crossed to the stove and lit it with his wand. Remus approached Sirius's chair, looking at the parchment left on the table. He could only make out a few crossed-out phrases before it zoomed away from him, flying through the air and coming to land in the pocket of Sirius's robes.

"Letter to Harry," Sirius said ruefully. "Thought I'd work on one, maybe sneak him some updates. Not that I'll probably send it anyway." His expression soured, and Remus grimaced in response. "That hag they've hired has been going through his mail, did you hear?"

"Oh, I'm not at all surprised. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures has been looking for excuses to read mine for years." Remus took a cup of tea from Sirius and drank; it was scalding, and he put the cup down onto the table. "Pretty sure they've done it a few times, actually. They were rather careless sealing the envelopes up again. Knew I couldn't afford to sue."

"Arseholes," Sirius said sympathetically. He sat again, gesturing for Remus to do the same. Tilted back in his chair. "I don't even know what I'd write to Harry, anyway, if I can't tell him anything about the Order. Quidditch league rankings? What do people normally write to kids away at school?"

"My mum used to tell me about the gardening, I think. Sent gossip from the neighbors."

"Helpful," Sirius snorted. "I think James's mum would write him things like that, too. If I recall, the witches in her book club had a few fairly scandalous affairs."

Remus sipped his tea and eyed Sirius in his peripheral vision. He was trying to keep his expression casual, but truly, he was filled with relief by this offhand mention of James. Remus hadn't been sure what to expect from Sirius, as he entered the house only a few days after Halloween. He himself had spent more than a few Halloweens blithering drunk, picking fistfights in Muggle bars or, if he was shit out of luck with the calendar, locking the wolf in the smallest cage he could manage and beating himself senseless against the bars. Even this year, Remus, who had long since come to terms with the wreckage of his life, had spent nearly five hours lying in bed on October 31st, staring at his ceiling. In the remaining daylight, he'd ridden the London Underground from end to end a dozen times.

When Remus had arrived at Grimmauld Place today, he'd half-expected to find immediate, visible damage: to discover that Sirius had drunk himself to death, strangled Kreacher, torn down a wall.

Remus had considered coming over, in those hours he'd spent riding back and forth on the train. Just to check. But the thought of spending Halloween with Sirius had filled him with almost more dread than the thought of facing it alone, and in the end, Remus had stayed away.

He put his tea down, turning back to face his friend. Truly, Sirius didn't look well; his eyes were shadowed, his cheeks pale. There were patches in the stubble on his cheeks where it looked like he'd been pulling at his beard. He probably had spent Halloween raving at the portraits and drinking his way through his parents' wine cellar. But he was trying, Remus could see. He was trying not to be a liability. Sirius wanted the Order to trust him. He wanted to be sent on missions. He wanted to raise Harry, when his name was cleared. He couldn't do that if half the Order saw him as a loose cannon, if they whispered that Azkaban may not have driven him quite mad, but it certainly hadn't left him quite sane.

Sirius shook his head and tucked the quill into his ponytail. "So what's going on, Moony? Are you supposed to distract me until someone shouts 'surprise'?" Remus grinned. It would be rather like Tonks to plan something like that, he thought affectionately, and probably start a war with Walburga in the process.

"Not quite," he said, "but you've got the general idea. Here. I brought you a gift" — with this, Remus flicked his wand, floating the cardboard box into the kitchen from where it had been waiting at the foot of the stairs— "and thought you might want to open it now, before anyone else arrives."

That was one reason, anyway. The other had been damage control. This way, if he'd found Sirius unconscious in a puddle of his own vomit or digging Kreacher a shallow grave, Remus could have done his best to make him presentable before anyone else could see. Remus didn't want to hear them whispering, either.

But Sirius looked…fine, more or less, so Remus decided to go ahead with Plan A. The box on the table was quite a bit taller than either of them seated, so Sirius stood, reaching toward the flaps at the top of it. He hesitated, looking again at Remus.

"You didn't have to," Sirius said, and smiled a little. "What's in it?"

"I mentioned last summer that I might be able to pick some of these things up," Remus told him instead of answering. "And I couldn't really think of much else for a birthday gift. Unless you wanted something from the Honeydukes stash?"

"And rob you of your full moon chocolate? Remus. I could never." Sirius's humor was a little forced, but it managed to fill the space between them. Remus gave him a chuckle, and Sirius turned back to the box. He opened it.

Remus watched him closely as he peered inside. Sirius picked up the object packed closest to the top — a black leather jacket, clearly vintage, but practically unworn — and looked at it silently. A familiar, haunted look began to creep into his eyes.

"I'd forgotten this one," Sirius said quietly.

Before all their lives had gone to hell, Sirius had worn a leather jacket almost every day. Part of this was practical, because he'd gone everywhere on that motorbike he'd charmed to fly, but it had mostly been a flair of pure style. And, Remus had always believed, an embrace of an aspiration found in Muggle fashion: identity. Choice.

Sirius's favorite leather jacket, with the dragon embossed on the back and the elbows practically worn through, he had been wearing when he was arrested. It was probably rotting in an evidence locker in a Ministry basement somewhere.

His second favorite, Remus was fairly certain he remembered seeing at the Potters', and who knew where that one had gotten to by now. Everything in Godric's Hollow that hadn't gone out with the Aurors or basically been nailed to the floor had been stolen as souvenirs.

But his least favorite jacket? The one with the too-tight collar that Sirius had rarely worn? Remus had found it hanging in the closet at his old flat, not two weeks ago today. Untouched.

Sirius looked over at Remus, bringing himself back to the conversation, but the blank expression didn't leave his face. "You got in?"

"Yeah, last month," Remus said. "The Aurors definitely went through it again after you broke out; the place is trashed. But they left a lot, and Kingsley stopped over before I went by to adjust their alarm charms for me." He paused, not sure what else to say. "I tried to grab anything that you might want a look at."

Sirius nodded. Turned his eyes back to the jacket in his hands. It was obvious that the shoulders would be too broad for him after Azkaban, but Remus wasn't sure that Sirius would have wanted to wear the jacket again, even if it had happened to fit. Certainly not while he was trapped in this house. Sirius laid the jacket down on the table and looked down into rest of the box, at the eclectic jumble of objects that had been packed underneath it. Remus walked to his side and watched as he pushed things aside, rummaging cautiously.

Sirius picked up a turquoise mug with a tabby cat chasing birds around its side. Stared at it, put it back. Thumbed silently through a dozen Muggle records. Picked up an envelope that had yellowed with age.

"The letters are mostly from Lily," Remus told him. "I didn't go through them, the Aurors did, but I read a few when I was folding them back up. Some of them have photos enclosed." Sirius said nothing. "I tried to put them back in the envelopes, if they were lying near enough that I could match them up again."

Somewhere in Grimmauld Place, a clock was ticking erratically. Off-beat. It was probably infested with Doxies, or maybe just haunted to hell. The moon was waxing thickly enough that Remus's senses were acute; he could hear the ticking from down the stairs, maybe from across the house. He tried to focus on this, on the haunted clock issue, so that he could ignore the lengthening silence, Sirius's flat stare. The the quickening of his own pulse.

It didn't work.

"I was surprised, actually," Remus said, in what he hoped was a casual voice, "to see all of those letters. From Lily, I mean. After whatever the Ministry took." He pursed his lips for a moment, but the words came anyway. "I thought you two had always had some tension, before."

"Oh, yeah," Sirius said a little absently, still looking at the envelope in his hands. "Sure. I mean, you remember. We got over it, after awhile. She and I got pretty close after Harry was born."

After Harry was born. Yes. When Lily had been recovering from a difficult birth, and her husband's dreams of a family were coming true. When James had surely doted on her and his new son; when the three of them had shone with happiness. When Sirius had almost certainly been at his best, bringing dinners and gifts, helping with chores. Laughing. Making up little games for the baby.

After Harry was born. When Wormtail had been betraying them all, and the Potters had been Voldemort's most urgently sought targets. When James and Sirius had started sleeping in shifts to guard the baby. When Lily had been recovering far too slowly from a godawful birth, always on the run, rarely able to see a Healer.

When the Potters had been forced to flee no fewer than five safe houses before resorting to the Fidelius Charm. When the Order had barely able to alert them in time, relying on increasingly eleventh-hour messages from whatever spy Dumbledore had pressed into giving warning.

When Sirius had surely been risking his neck on the daily to defend the three of them, while Remus had been stuck in the middle of goddamn nowhere, helpless to do anything about the peril sniffing at his best friends' door. When he'd been stuck spying on the same werewolf who’d ripped him open as a child, wasting his breath trying to win the goodwill of a wolf pack that considered him nearly as suspect as most wizards did. When he'd been getting frostbite in the woods and getting fleas on the full moon and, apparently, back home around his friends' warm tables, getting the damned blame.

Lily and Remus had always gotten on. Always. Even at Hogwarts, she'd considered him a friend, if a somewhat distant one, back when she’d still loathed Sirius and usually avoided the four of them. Long, long before she had fallen for James. But in 1981, Lily hadn't returned even one of the few letters Remus had managed to send her.

At the time, Remus had chalked it up to the stress. James had told him as much, in a rare few owls bearing short, apologetic replies.

As he stood in the Grimmauld Place kitchen next to Sirius, Remus almost wanted to to ask. Wanted to, but couldn't.

Sirius was still sinking into himself. He seemed to barely notice the bitterness reeking like sweat from every one of Remus's pores.

Remus looked over at his only living friend (Wormtail was dead to him) and considered that some breaks might be irreparable. That maybe he and Sirius would not have stayed close anyway, even without all this wreckage between them, if the war had unfolded in some other fashion but James and Peter had still both died. That talking with this skeleton of a man standing beside him very often felt like talking to a stranger.

And they’d barely talked. Not really, not about those chasm years. Remus was not certain that Sirius would even be able to tell him about Azkaban, if Remus could ever bear to hear it. And his own secrets? Remus could not tell Sirius about all of the ways that he had wasted his life, these fourteen lonely years. Could never find a place to start. Could never find the words.

Remus felt the anger leave him, replaced with a familiar sense of gnawing futility. Sirius was still standing frozen with his hands on Lily's letter, staring at nothing, looking exactly like a man who had spent more than a decade in Azkaban.

Remus summoned his patience, softened his voice. "You don't have to go through it now, you know. I didn't really expect you to." Sirius looked up, nodded. His hands, as he replaced the letter in the box, then folded up the leather jacket and put it carefully back on top, were shaking. Remus closed the cardboard up again, levitated the box into a corner. "Do you need to get ready? I think Emmeline's shift on guard duty is wrapping up soon."

Sirius shook out his hair in a way reminiscent of Padfoot and responded to Remus's nudge. "Yeah. I should do that." He looked a bit dazed as he exited the kitchen. Left with nothing else to do, Remus returned to his chair and picked up his mug of tea. It had gone cold.

Sirius reappeared about forty-five minutes later, and despite himself, Remus was impressed.

The Azkaban look wasn't completely gone from his eyes. But Sirius had shaved, he'd done something dashing to his hair. He'd changed into robes with a slimmer cut, disguising as best as he could the lingering gauntness of his figure. Sirius smiled as he greeted Vance and Jones and didn't answer back to his mother's portrait when she was awoken by the entering Order members. It hadn't been so crowded in the house since last summer, and Sirius was practically sociable as he soaked up the energy of the room.

He really is trying, Remus thought.

Remus couldn't remember who had first suggested a party. The idea had unfolded gradually: Emmeline making an offhand mention after October's full Order meeting that she might drop by soon with a little surprise, Daedalus asking Sirius with a wink if he still liked blueberry cake, Kingsley suggesting that he'd never miss an excuse to drink some of the Black family's well-aged vintage.

Sirius and James had been boisterous about celebrating one another's birthdays, before. Remus and Peter's, too. Everyone from the first Order remembered that Sirius had been born in early November, and quite a few of them had deduced — rather guiltily — that he’d spent his 22nd birthday as a new inmate of Azkaban, innocent, convicted without trial, and abandoned by each and every one of the comrades whom he had so recently fought beside.

(Remus, of course, had realized this almost immediately at the time. He remembered thinking numbly of Sirius's 21st birthday party, exactly a year gone, as he'd sat in a hard pew at James and Lily's funeral and drowned and drowned).

Half of the new Order members had picked up the date as well. The entire Auror department had more or less memorized Sirius's biography two years ago, and one of the breathless news articles covering his escape had apparently included November 3rd, 1959, on a list of significant facts and dates.

Sirius had not asked for celebration; in fact, his growing moroseness throughout the month of October might have encouraged the opposite entirely. But most of the Order still seemed inclined to view Sirius's misery sympathetically, especially those who had known him before the dementors had changed him.

Remus wondered if Sirius ever noticed the discomfited looks exchanged around the table whenever he entered a room. Quite a few hasty decisions to drop by for a birthday toast had been announced in the wake of these shamefaced glances.

The party had fallen together pretty quickly after that. It hadn't turned out so decorative an event as last summer's party for Ron and Hermione, but this was probably to its credit. Sirius would certainly have been embarrassed by such a pointed and public effort to uplift him. Instead, about half of the Order stopped in at odd intervals throughout the evening, most bringing some food to pass around, until they'd achieved a sort of potluck dinner. Sirius played the gracious host, complimenting everyone's food and asking after their days, swapping between the livelier music channels on his mother's old-fashioned radio. And he let out a laugh of genuine delight when Daedalus Diggle arrived with a truly showstopping dessert: a birthday cake shaped like a moving, roaring Chimaera, with different flavors in its head, body, and tail.

"Homemade!" Diggle exclaimed with a little leap of satisfaction as Sirius cut the first slice, revealing a double chocolate confection. The icing was covered with strawberries, cut and arranged precisely in the shape of dragon scales.

"Ooh, cut into the lion's mane next," Tonks said with enthusiasm. "Blueberry is one of my favorites!"

By the end of the night, even Remus had managed to relax enough to enjoy the party, and the guest of honor was practically merry. "Come on, Kingsley," Sirius was cajoling, heading up the stairs with Mundungus in tow. "Stay for a nightcap, why not? Courtesy of my father's appalling alcohol budget and," Sirius affected his old drawl, "highly cultivated taste."

Kingsley glanced at his pocket watch and nodded. "When you put it that way, how could I refuse?" he said, smiling. "Just the one, though. Early shift in the morning."

The four of them made their way upstairs, waving Daedalus goodbye as they turned the corner toward the drawing room. Remus hadn't spent much time in this room since he'd moved out at the end of last summer, escaping the gloomy house and the tension with his friend practically as soon as Dumbledore allowed. It had retained a sort of sterile cleanliness, feeling empty after their thorough purge of Dark objects from the shelves.

Tonks was already there, examining the contents of Orion Black's liquor cabinet with interest. The large and ornate cabinet took up half of the near wall, and it remained well-stocked, although Remus noted some half-empty bottles with a smidgen of concern. He could not recall how many of these had been open a few months ago, or deduce how many had been opened since.

"A little bit of it's gone off," Sirius said, walking up to join Tonks. "But most of this stuff will keep for ages. Finest spirits from across the Wizarding globe, to hear Orion brag to his dinner guests." Sirius rolled his eyes while Mundungus grinned. "Kreacher!" Sirius called, "Get us a table and glasses up here."

The elf popped in with full hands and a beady-eyed glare, mumbling obscenities under his breath. He placed and set a small table while Remus, Kingsley and Dung summoned chairs from the corners of the room. Sirius looked over the table settings, snorted, and cast a quick Scourgify on the insides of the glasses.

"What can I do you for?" Sirius asked as the three of them sat down.

"How about a brandy?" Kingsley said.

"Only the finest," Sirius replied with a sarcastic wave of his hand. He selected a bottle from the bottom shelf and placed it on the table. It did, indeed, look very expensive. "Kreacher! Get that radio up here while you're at it."

Another pop, and the elf reappeared. He looked at the brandy with a doleful expression. "Half breeds and filth stealing Master's good liquor, his rotten son is a drunk and a murderer too—"

"You can go ahead and serve us, then," Sirius said levelly. Remus took this as a sign of his good mood. "And get the Hobgoblins back on, it's too quiet in here. Tonks, still looking?"

Remus held out his glass for some of the brandy while Sirius strode back to the cabinet. "I'm torn!" Tonks said with a laugh, gesturing at the sheer variety of spirits on the shelves. "What's your recommendation?"

Sirius tapped his chin in mock discernment as his gaze swept over the bottles. His eyes lit with mischief. "Oh, I've got it," he said. "Only for you, baby cousin. How about a little family tradition? Kreacher!" he called with vindictive cheer. "Two shots of sambuca for the Blacks at the table, if you please."

"Kreacher does not please," the elf declared, raising his volume to be heard over the music. Sirius crossed back to the table and sat haughtily, holding out the two remaining glasses with a smirk. "The shapeshifting mongrel is not a Black, it is a stain on the ancient bloodline, Master Sirius corrupts his noble house once again—"

"Our devoted servant," Sirius said dryly to Tonks. "Not so fast, Kreacher — we're doing this right and proper." Kreacher glared and popped away, returning a moment later with a handful of coffee beans. Sirius took them from the elf as Tonks sat beside him.

"Health, happiness, prosperity," Sirius said, dropping the beans one at a time into her glass. "Happy birthday to me," he added, dropping another three into his own. "Great work, Kreacher, much appreciated."

"Kreacher is forced to obey an unworthy master, what would my Mistress say, Master Sirius back in the house, an ungrateful wretch who broke his mother's heart—"

Sirius did not return an irritable quip, but rather his bark-like laugh. "My mother's broken heart!" he toasted, lifting his glass. He ignited the coffee beans with a wave of his wand, roasting them, and then blew the flames out quickly and downed the shot in one gulp. Kreacher scowled and vanished.

Tonks raised an eyebrow and repeated the gesture with her own drink. "Never tried this before," she said, considering. "Interesting flavor."

"That was right cute, mate," said Mundungus approvingly, bypassing Kreacher to pour himself a second brandy. Remus and Kingsley were each still sipping their first.

Sirius scoffed. "Bit of pageantry my father picked up on his Grand Tour. 'Round the time he picked up his sober living habits."

"Grand Tour?"

"Year and a half abroad with the society set, after Hogwarts but before he got married. Sort of a rite of passage for your bachelor aristocrat." Sirius looked into his empty glass a bit moodily. "He bounced around Europe from what I was told, but spent most of his time in Italy. Used to talk about sending Regulus and I when we were little, before he decided it'd be more charming to draft us into a bloody war."

It was easy, post-Azkaban, for even Remus to forget that Sirius had been once been fluent in the traditions of the pure-blood elite. "Really?" he asked, interest piqued.

"Oh, sure," said Sirius, gesturing with his glass. "That was the whole rationale behind this little tradition. He used to pour us each a shot on our birthdays and ramble on about the fun we'd have before we settled down to carry on the bloodline. Congratulations, Tonks, you've just become a man."

She promptly grew a beard. "You noticed!" Remus chuckled and she met his eyes, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. He burst out laughing. Soon, she joined him in a rash of giggles.

Dung and Kingsley chuffed, but Sirius's smile was morose. He ran a finger around the rim of his glass. "It was mostly an excuse for him to reminisce about the shit he did when he was younger. He'd get drunk and pretentious, and we couldn't leave the table until he was done blathering. I hated it after awhile, to be honest. Reg didn't, but he was always a sucker for tradition."

"Who?" Mundungus asked.

"My younger brother. Over there." Sirius pointed toward the bottom of the large tapestry on the adjacent wall. There, at the very end of the line, was his brother's name, connected by a gleaming thread to two other names and one charred burn.

Tonks looked over at the tapestry thoughtfully. Her eyes roved over to another burn, a few places over from Regulus. "Did you ever find out what happened to him?" she asked. "My mum wonders sometimes. She never heard."

"Oh, no," said Sirius absently. "Nothing certain. Word was that he defected. The Death Eaters always go after deserters — sends a message, you know? But I never found out for sure."

For a moment, Remus was watchful, wondering if the grief he'd anticipated this afternoon would suddenly rear its head. But it did not appear; Sirius remained calm, casual. Remus supposed that Sirius had had a few years to come to terms with the mysterious death of his brother, prior to his time with the dementors. Or maybe this loss had merely been subsumed by other, more potent griefs.

"Merlin's beard, he joined young," said Tonks in surprise. "He died at eighteen?"

"Seventeen. His birthday was in December."

"Merlin."

"A lot of them joined up young back then," Dung cut in, pouring a third drink. "I'd call it a right waste, but then, most of them crawled right back last June when it came to it. They don't usually change their minds."

"Nah, they don't," Sirius agreed. "Reg was just an idiot. He should never have joined in the first place." The conversation trailed off, five adults staring pensively at a dead boy's name.

Suddenly, Sirius spoke again. "You know what always gets me, though?" he said. "He knew I was on the other side, that I was in with Dumbledore. I would have thought, if he'd been planning to run, he would have gotten in touch with me. Asked for help, you know?" He paused. "It makes me wonder, sometimes, if any that was ever true. Or if it was someone on our side who got him and whoever it was just never told me."

"But he did try to contact you, didn't he?" Kingsley said, looking over. Sirius turned in his chair, facing Kingsley across the table.

"What?"

"Sent you a couple of letters right around that time, if I recall?" Sirius looked at him blankly, and Kingsley went on. "I suppose they were a little vague, but he did ask you for your help with something, yes? Did you ever take the meeting?"

Sirius furrowed his brow. "No," he said after a pause. "No, he never wrote me anything like that. We barely wrote at all, actually, after I ran away from home. It wouldn't have been allowed, even if we'd wanted to. We were estranged for a few years before he died."

Kingsley gave Sirius an odd look. "There were definitely letters," he said. "A fair number, actually. We have them, in the evidence file for your case."

Sirius shook his head, but Tonks spoke up before he could reply. "Yeah, I remember those. I'm pretty sure I've read a few of them too."

"I thought you weren't on my case?"

"I'm not, but the entire Auror department was pulling shifts on you, that first year after you broke out of Azkaban," she replied. "We each got a dossier for background reading, and a few of Regulus's letters were definitely in there. I remember being kind of intrigued by them," she said, looking embarrassed, "you know, these cryptic letters between my Death Eater cousins. Family history, you know? Mum wouldn't talk about it."

"The common interpretation," Kingsley said, "is that your brother was sending out feelers to recruit you. Maybe on Voldemort's orders. And that he put you back in the line of inheritance so that if he died, you'd have good reason to flip. It lines up, from a timing perspective, because the Order gets their spy in 1980." Kingsley paused. "Of course, knowing that you're innocent, it's easier to see the letters confirming your version of events: that Regulus did try to defect at the end of '79, and was scrambling for a safe harbor."

Tonks nodded. "That sounds right to me, too, although I guess it's hard to say. You really never met with him?"

It was a long moment before Sirius spoke. "Regulus never wrote to me."

"Maybe he wrote you some letters, but never posted them?" Mundungus chimed in. He seemed coolly speculative, unaffected by the sudden awkwardness. "Where'd you lot find the letters? Were they here?"

"I dunno," Tonks said. "I thought— Well, I would have assumed that they were at your flat?"

"Oh, no, actually," Kingsley said. "I've had to sort through all of this more times than I can count. They're in the materials collection from the Potters' cottage in Godric's Hollow. Maybe your brother posted the letters to James?"

Sirius stared at him. "The fuck would Regulus write to James for?"

"Trying to reach you?" Kingsley shrugged.

"Definitely not."

Mundungus made to pour a fourth brandy, but the bottle was empty. He laid hold of the sambuca with some interest. "Honestly, mate, maybe the Dementors ate this one? You haven't seen 'em in fifteen years. You probably just forgot."

"My memory is just fine, thanks so much, Dung." Four pairs of eyes regarded Sirius skeptically, and he retreated. "Dementors only feed on happy memories," he said, more quietly this time. "I remember the war."

Kingsley nodded. "It's certainly possible that you never saw them."

"He wouldn't have written my friends. I honestly don't think James and Regulus ever even had a conversation with one another. Moony, back me up."

Remus sipped his drink. Sirius had known all of his tells, once. "Neither of Potters ever spoke to Regulus one-on-one, as far as I know," he said mildly. "I certainly didn't track his owls, but James wasn't much for post in general. If there were any letters for Sirius in Godric's Hollow, I definitely didn't see them in 1979."

Sirius nodded vigorously. "I don't think James and Lily even lived there, then."

"The flat in London?"

"That sounds right."

Kingsley looked between the two of them, bemused. "Maybe he never showed you?"

"James wouldn't have done that," Sirius said. "He didn't keep secrets from his friends." Sirius spoke firmly, and Remus reflected — not for the first time — that Sirius had rather softened the edges off James, in the years he'd spent in Azkaban. Worn his memories smooth, like a stone turned over and over in the hand. "Look, where exactly did you find these supposed letters? Maybe, I don't know, they were planted? Forged? Wormtail did a fairly thorough job trying to frame me."

"I could look into that. Our examiners were pretty confident that they were authentic, but the evidence review in your case was certainly...rushed, to say the least." Kingsley gave Sirius a wry smile. "Someone found them stuffed in the back of a drawer, if I'm remembering correctly. It seems like a risk for Pettigrew to have gone to Godric's Hollow, but it was a chaotic time. As a rat, he very likely could have done it."

Tonks nodded. "I could see that. Creating the impression that you'd kept up the family ties, been helping out out the Death Eaters for a couple of years."

"That tracks. These letters, they were asking for my help? To meet up?"

"Or to signal you, to coordinate. Identifying markers on the battlefield, that sort of thing."

"Oh. Oh." Sirius's eyes widened for a moment, and his features suddenly cleared. "Oh, I see. Never mind. Yes. Yes, I know what this is." He relaxed, shaking his head. "Sorry, Kingsley, I shouldn't have doubted you. I can explain this one."

The rest of the table looked at him curiously, and Sirius continued. "Reg used to send me these little notes, trying to get my attention. A distraction, to throw me off. After awhile, James took a bunch of them from my flat so I'd stop ruminating over them. No idea why James would have hung onto them, but he may have just forgotten they were there." Sirius paused, thinking it over. "I suppose Reg could have been hinting at wanting out? I doubt it, though. This was closer to when he joined up. He stopped writing ages before we heard he'd disappeared."

Tonks and Kingsley still looked dubious. "I'm not sure about that," Tonks said hesitantly. "It's not that I don't believe you, Sirius, but the letter I saw was definitely asking for your help with something."

Sirius was shaking his head, confident now. "That probably isn't what he was saying. Look, this letter that you read — was it in English?" Tonks nodded. "Then I'd bet it was a mistranslation. Reg was always terrified that our family would catch him out writing to me. His letters were always in code, and in another language on top of that, to throw them off."

"That's true," Kingsley said. "I've seen the originals."

"Exactly. My brother loved puzzles; he was always very thorough with this stuff. How'd the Ministry translate them, anyway?" Sirius asked. Remus sipped his tea. "Most of those ciphers were my family's invention, and Reg and I used to customize them, besides. Unless you subpoenaed Arcturus for the index, it should have been pretty difficult to crack them independently."

"Family codes?" Tonks laughed. "The things I've missed out on."

"Oh, yeah," Sirius said, cracking a smile. "Those were fun. Right useful, too. I taught all of my friends at school. Great if you're plotting to break some rules, or making fun of your professors under their noses."

"Did you use them in the war?"

"Only a little, between the four of us. It would have taken ages to teach the whole Order, and I didn't exactly want to advertise my relations, at the time. Not to mention that Patronus messages are still more secure." Sirius returned his attention to Kingsley. "Any chance you could swipe me some of those original copies? I'd be happy to translate, let you know what they really say."

Kingsley nodded. "I could probably manage that." Remus didn't move. "Let me check the security on the Potter stuff left in storage and get back to you."

"Excellent," Sirius said. He looked back at Tonks and grinned. "Want a look at those ciphers?" She nodded, intrigued. "Hey, Kreacher!" Sirius called. "Bring me the codebook from Father's study. The purple one."

Kreacher appeared a few moments later, dragging his feet. Sirius took the book from him and opened it, murmuring a quick Revelio under his breath. Invisible ink appeared, in the elegant handwriting that Remus remembered from when Sirius was a boy. "This book is the most straightforward," Sirius said, opening a page and turning it toward his cousin. "But there are a few others in his study, as well. The notes in the margins are all modifications I made as a kid, so that Reg and I could hide things from our parents. I used to work on them under our tutor's nose and make him sneak into my room at night so I could teach him."

"That's sweet," Tonks said. "These are clever, too! You two were close?"

Sirius shrugged. "Before I went to Hogwarts."

The atmosphere was lifting as Sirius and Tonks flipped through the book of codes. Dung cracked a bottle of gin, and the five of them chatted about the merits of the different ciphers, comparing them to Auror standbys and occasionally scrawling joke messages to one another as practice. The evening was winding down, though; it wasn't too long before Mundungus was nodding off at the table, and Kingsley started checking his watch.

"I should get going," Kingsley said. "It's nearly ten. Dung, you might want to get home too," he added with amusement, tapping their drooping friend on the shoulder. Dung groaned, but took Kingsley's hand and got to his feet.

"I'll walk you out," said Remus quickly. He caught Dung, who was stumbling already, and shot an exasperated smile at the rest of them. "Good night for a Side-Along, I think."

"Have fun, Remus," said Sirius, still poring over the book of codes. Remus half-carried Dung out the door, creeping gingerly down the hall to avoid waking Walburga's portrait. Kingsley tiptoed behind. Stepping around the umbrella stand, Remus guided three of them out the door and into the brisk night.

"Wait up a moment?" Remus asked Kingsley quietly. "I'll be quick." Kingsley eyed Remus curiously and nodded in assent.

It was not the first time recently that Remus had helped Mundungus Apparate home. He was at Dung's flat and back before Kingsley could light a cigarette. "Thanks for waiting," Remus said. "Listen, Kingsley — I wanted to ask you for a favor."

"Oh?"

Remus paused, weighing his words. Kingsley Shacklebolt was easily the best find of the new Order: experienced, capable; a man of action, but an incisive thinker as well. Remus thought that Kingsley was something like the man James might have become, if he'd had the opportunity to grow up. He decided to be direct.

"Don't bring Sirius those letters." Kingsley quirked his head. "At least, not yet. Let me talk to him first."

"You think he doesn't have the whole picture?"

"Oh, I'm quite sure of it," said Remus, "As I'm the one who did the translations for Dumbledore to begin with."

Kingsley raised an eyebrow. "Care to elaborate?"

Remus thought of his father's old house, of the cottage in Godric's Hollow, of the flat that four friends had briefly shared. Lowering his voice, he reached for his own carton of cigarettes and offered Kingsley a light. 

Remus sat on the table in the basement kitchen. The house had emptied out and Kreacher had scurried off somewhere, but Remus didn't mind the solitude; he washed the dishes idly with his wand, allowing the rote task to settle his mind.

While Remus had stood outside a few hours ago, whispering a few words of explanation to Kingsley, Tonks had presented Sirius with her real birthday surprise: a night out. She had approached Remus last week to help her plan this little excursion, and he still felt light inside when he thought of the mischief in her eyes, the fact that she'd drafted him as her co-conspirator.

They'd made rules. Remus would mind the house, in case Dumbledore caught them out or the Order had an emergency. Only Padfoot would leave Grimmauld Place — Sirius could not be seen in Britain — and Tonks would Side-Along the dog to a coast a few hours away where he could stretch his legs, see the stars. It had been good fortune that the moon was waxing, that the night was clear and cold. Watching Tonks leave with the dog, morphed to disguise herself as a tall young man, Remus was reminded of those nights slipping out of the Shack, a lifetime ago.

The cousins would not be back for hours yet. Finishing the dishes, Remus cast about for another task, and his eyes fell on the box that he'd brought over to Sirius from the flat. With a flick of his wand, he set it floating behind him and turned toward the stairs. He would put the box in Sirius's room with the rest of his old relics, available for him to sort through when he was ready.

Remus had been to the upper landing only once, when he'd accompanied Sirius to the house for the first time to see if it was livable. They'd been doing a census of the most urgent hazards on each floor, and the upper bedrooms had been deemed a low priority. As a result, Remus was struck when he re-entered the bedroom, just as he had been the first time, by the sense of stepping into the past. Sirius had not been allowed visitors as a child, but the boldness, the tacky defiance of the messy room — the bright Gryffindor banners, the Muggle posters on the walls — it all evoked a vivid sense of nostalgia. He tucked the box into a corner and stepped quickly out of the bedroom.

Familiar handwriting stared him in the face.

Remus had never been in Regulus's room. When they'd done their initial search of the house, Sirius had given it the once-over while Remus had been caught up in his first glimpse of his friend's childhood. Distracted, he had barely spared a glance toward the opposite door.

Remus stood in the hall for a long time.

At last, feeling strangely compelled, he took a breath and pushed through Regulus's door. Saw the Black family crest painted on the wall. The neat desk. The newspaper clippings.

The clean surfaces. Dusted and swept.

Making an abrupt decision, Remus turned rapidly on his heel and took the four flights of stairs back to the basement.

Hoping his absence had been noticed, he headed to the corner of the kitchen and listened. A shuffling sound confirmed his suspicions, and he opened the dingy door opposite the pantry. Kreacher started in surprise as Remus ducked his head and clambered into the tiny space.

"The half-breed invades Kreacher's cupboard!" the elf wailed, scrambling up from his bed of rags and scooting back beneath the pipes. "Brings its filth to every corner of the house, oh yes, my poor Mistress, and now it comes to steal from Kreacher too—"

"Kreacher," Remus said sharply, folding himself into a seat beside the boiler. The elf did not pause his muttering. Kreacher seized random objects from the piles of pilfered Black family relics scattered about him and clutching them to his skinny chest.

A photograph of Bellatrix Lestrange leered up at Remus. He tried to focus solely on the elf, and spoke. "'Down, up: Sun's light. Ash, sup: Take flight.' Who am I?"

Kreacher stopped dead.

The boiler whined, letting out a puff of steam. "A phoenix, incidentally," Remus said. "Bit on the nose. Childish. But that's in character, if I recall." The elf stared, wide-eyed. Remus could not recall ever seeing Kreacher look at him so directly before. "Kreacher," he said. "I want you to tell me about the letter."

"The half-breed speaks nonsense to Kreacher."

"Regulus's letter. The one I'm quoting."

"Master Regulus wrote many letters. Master Regulus was a good boy."

"Let me refresh your memory," said Remus. "On October 12th, 1979, Regulus Black wrote to his brother asking for help with an unspecified task. Sirius never saw the letter, and so he never went to meet him.

A few hours later, you sent another owl on his behalf, bearing a copy of his will and what amounted to a suicide note." Kreacher watched Remus with rapt attention. "I didn't see the second letter until two years later. I hadn't thought about it for some time before tonight. Sirius never saw it, and so he never summoned you."

Kreacher began to rock back and forth, barely avoiding bumping his head on the snarl of pipes surrounding him. He fiddled with the heirlooms in his hands, and his eyes began to well with tears.

Remus did his best to speak gently. "What did Regulus want? What was he asking Sirius to do?"

Kreacher shook his head. "Only Master Sirius," he croaked, "can ask Kreacher about the letter. Kreacher can only tell Master Sirius, and only if he asks. Only in private. Master Regulus orders Kreacher."

"Regulus is dead. His orders can be overruled."

"Kreacher takes orders from his blood traitor master, not from werewolves and criminals and scum."

Remus had heard it all before, and from well-heeled wizards, not old house-elves cowering wretchedly in boiler cupboards. He could stay above it. "I'm here to help," Remus said calmly. "I can get someone to bring us Regulus's letter. Sirius will come and speak to you if he reads it. I'm sure he'd be curious, at least, about his brother's last request. If that's what it was."

Remus took a breath. "But I need you to let me know what we're getting into, first. Sirius is...fragile, at the moment. I think you know that. If Regulus was playing some trick to lure him back to his family, or worse— or if it was just spite, another taunt to make him miserable—" Remus thought of James, thought of secrets and softened edges. "I don't want to tell Sirius things he doesn't need to know. He's having enough trouble keeping his grip as it is."

Grip, indeed. Kreacher was twisting something so tightly around his hands — the thick chain of an antique necklace, it looked like — that Remus suspected he'd lose feeling in his fingers. The elf gulped, looking indecisive.

"Just give me the overview," Remus pressed. "You can spare the details."

"Kreacher— Kreacher can say nothing. The werewolf must send Master Sirius."

"I can't do that without—"

The elf raised a shaking chin. "Kreacher will not fail in his orders. Will not betray his Master's secrets. Kreacher must tell no one except Master Sirius."

Remus leaned back on his heels, letting out a breath. Kreacher's lip wobbled, but he kept his gaze high, defiant.

"Alright, Kreacher," Remus said slowly. "Let me think it over. Get a read on what his mood is like after tonight."

Kreacher looked tentative, almost hopeful. "The werewolf will show Master Sirius the letter?"

Remus's own words came back to him: Sirius is in the pact. The words that, in the end, had not moved James. "We'll see," he said. Feeling the cracking in his joints, Remus inched out of the cramped cupboard and stepped back out into the empty kitchen.

Sirius returned at 2 in the morning with a ruddy face and a smile reminiscent of his youth. "Moony!" he called, entering the drawing room. "All clear?"

"Crystal," Remus said wryly, sipping another glass of Orion Black's liquor. "Quiet all night. Albus doesn't suspect a thing. Where's Tonks?"

"Said she was Apparating home after she opened the door for me." Remus swallowed his disappointment as Sirius flexed his fingers. "No thumbs, see."

"I believe I know the feeling." Sirius walked over to Remus and flung himself onto the sofa beside him. "Good night?"

"Fantastic. Beach was empty. I'd call it good luck, but it was midnight in November — bloody cold."

"Conjure a fire?"

"Played fetch. That cousin of mine has really got an arm on her."

"Adorable."

"Quite." Out of the corner of his eye, Remus caught Sirius giving him a sly look. "She asks after you, you know, whenever she comes 'round."

"Kind of her." There was a lightness to Sirius's manner that invited conversation, confession. Remus wanted to give in to it, but he couldn't. Everything they'd lost lurked in that lightness. Sunshine on a brick wall.

Sirius seemed to sense this, too, as he trailed off. "Kreacher clean up in here, or did you?" he asked, gesturing across the empty drawing room.

"I did," Remus replied. "Figured it'd be cleaner that way."

"Without a doubt. We're lucky he didn't poison us."

"He'll know which bottles to lace next time," Remus bantered halfheartedly. "I fear that the sambuca might be done for."

"Tragedy." Sirius adopted a false brightness. "Suppose I'll have to get out of this dump before my next birthday, then."

"For your safety."

"Of course."

The reminder of their little party sunk Remus back into the thoughts that he'd been nursing all night. He watched Sirius out of the corner of his eye. Two paths forked before Remus like threads on a tapestry, like branches in a family tree — one line ending in a neat date of death, the other in a scorch mark.

"It's still sort of bothering me," Sirius said, breaking the silence that had settled like dust over the drawing room.

"Hmm?"

"What Kingsley said earlier. About James."

Remus turned to him searchingly. "About James? Not Regulus?"

"I don't know. Him, too." Sirius was looking at his brother's name on the tapestry. He did not look at Remus. "Regulus never wrote me. He never asked me to help him run. But he should have." Remus said nothing. "I knew, when I left this house, that I was burning that bridge. That was— I did that. I needed to get out, and there were consequences when I did. I own that choice.

But James— James was for me what I couldn't be for my brother, and none of those consequences are on him. And it just got under my skin, this assumption— I mean, it's ridiculous. James had no idea what happened to Reg!"

Finally, he looked over. (What assumption had Sirius meant to name?)

"He spent forever setting up that safe house in my flat, remember? We all did."

They had. James had suggested the idea, in fact, after three days of searching fruitlessly with Sirius for signs of his brother.

By the time news had filtered to the Order that Regulus Black had disappeared, he had already been missing for weeks. Most defectors from the Death Eaters in those days had lasted thirty-six hours at most before being tracked down and murdered. But Sirius had been single-minded in his pursuit of his brother, had insisted on checking every place he could think of where Regulus might go, and James had accompanied Sirius indefatigably. For days, they'd combed through every speck of a broom shed or hidden cellar on every out-of-the-way property that the Blacks had ever owned.

Remus remembered meeting the two of them at a manor in Cambridgeshire, abandoned by Sagittarius Black in the 17th century because of its proximity to Muggle scientists. He'd been asked to help with a six-hour hunt through every room in the place. When Remus had arrived, James and Sirius had been emerging, grim-faced, from the private wood surrounding the house, where Padfoot and Prongs had already searched the grounds for half the night.

It was only when Sirius had decided to ask his cousin Bellatrix for news about Regulus — had resolved to write to his mother to put them in touch — that James had intervened.

"Think about it, Padfoot," James had said, suggesting, soothing. "If something happened to your brother, and the Death Eaters know what it is — we're going to find out. Someone will say something. Our spies will hear.

But if he really did run, and he's out there somewhere...," James had taken a breath. "He's going to have come to you. All of his friends are Death Eaters and the Aurors will throw him in Azkaban before he can blink. The whole bloody country is terrified of Voldemort. Who the hell else could possibly take him in?"

"I wouldn't put it past Regulus to flee England before knocking on my door," Sirius had replied sarcastically, with a grumble and an eye-roll that seemed almost genuine. But he'd taken the advice. Instead of searching through property records to stake out abandoned Black chateaus, he and James had begun to brainstorm what precautions might protect a runaway Death Eater from the Ministry's arrest or Voldemort's retribution.

The next day — Remus remembered that it was a Tuesday — Peter and Remus had both taken off work, and the four of them had warded Sirius's flat from top to bottom.

Sirius had been determined to cast some kind of blood shield over the place, very Dark stuff, the same type of magic that had ensconced generations of Blacks at Grimmauld Place. There had been some book he'd remembered from childhood that had provided specific instructions for casting these spells: it had been bound in red scales, with Boons for the Besieged scrawled across the cover as if by a quill inked with acid.

Uncharacteristically, James hadn't spoken a word of objection to the Dark Magic that Sirius decided to slather about his home. He'd only insisted on accompanying Sirius to Knockturn Alley to buy the book. They'd gone out at 5 in the morning to catch the store as it opened, hoping to avoid the shadier clientele and get home early enough that they could devote the entire day to the project.

Remus and Peter had been waiting at the flat when they returned. The four of them had barely spoken, just a few quick words to go over the plan, before they got to work.

Warding a dwelling, even one as small as Sirius's flat, was tedious, exhausting work. It involved repetitive casting of a single spell, over and over until layers of magic were nested together across every wall and entrance of the home. When he had explained the concept to his seventh-year Defense students at Hogwarts, Remus had likened the process to weaving on a loom: every layer of thread extended the protection, but any snag in the spellwork — any missed brick or forgotten windowpane — created holes in the fabric that your enemies could exploit, widening the weak spots until the entire ward unraveled.

The four of them had worked in focused silence as the sunlight in the window brightened, darkened, and eventually disappeared again.

Sirius had spent the day sitting cross-legged on the floor, pricking his thumbs over and over with a silver needle. Carefully, he'd used his want to draw each drop of blood away from his skin. With occasional glances at the red book, set to hover at eye level on his right, Sirius had levitated the blood onto his front door in a complex runic pattern that had taken nearly seven hours to complete. As he'd worked, he'd periodically poured and drunk a shot from the bottle of Firewhisky that stood beside his left knee.

His friends had been watching him then, too. Remus remembered the hunch in his shoulders, the clockwork regularity of his drinking, the abrupt way he'd thrown his head back every time he took a shot. And the steadiness of his hands, despite the whisky, as he'd meticulously placed each line of the protective rune.

James and Remus, meanwhile, had been cloaking the flat under every defensive spell that they could think of. Both had spent most of their first year in the Order creating safe houses to hide Muggle-born families targeted by Voldemort, so they'd amassed quite an arsenal of options to choose from. James, in particular, had gotten quite creative reverse-engineering some spellwork he'd picked up from the Prewett brothers, who'd given him a rundown on Auror ward-breaking techniques during a lengthy stakeout six months prior.

"If Regulus needs to hide," James had said, "we don't exactly want the Aurors snooping around, either. Not until we work out a strategy. Something he can use to make a deal, stay out of prison." (Remus had recently learned from Tonks that James's intricate ad-hoc shielding, modified specifically to keep Aurors out of the flat, had been noted as evidence of malicious intent on the Wizengamot brief approving Sirius's expedited conviction.)

Peter had never been totally proficient in complex charms, but that didn't mean he had been useless. Instead of working on the wards, he had stocked the place with emergency supplies, making an inventory of everything that a survivor of Voldemort's persecution might need in a hurry. He'd spent the rest of the day darting around the room, minding three cauldrons as he brewed enough Wound-Cleaning Potions and broad-spectrum antidotes to fill the entire closet.

The best plans had always been James's. He had given Sirius something concrete to work toward — a project that might indeed have rescued Regulus if he'd been alive, and that had the added benefit of shoring up protections for Sirius, regardless. The first-aid stock had come in handy for all four of them over the next two years of the war, especially Remus, who'd made a habit of borrowing from it whenever he left for a long mission with the werewolves.

By the time they'd finished locking the place down, it had been as close to impregnable as any place could be under wards that hadn't yet had time to age — secure enough that Sirius had never needed to flee the place during the war; enough that half a dozen Curse-Breakers had been required to crack it open after his arrest. Only Voldemort himself could have gotten through without preparation, if he'd ever tried to search for Regulus there...but if Voldemort had actually gone after Regulus himself, there was very little that any of them could have done to save him. James and Lily were proof enough of that.

Some situations couldn't be salvaged. Despite a day's worth of exhausting distraction, Sirius had still ended the night passed out on his bathroom floor, his head on the toilet and James Potter holding his hair.

Remus realized, a bit dejectedly, that this detail would probably not surprise any member of the current Order of the Phoenix. (If anything in his memory did surprise today's Order, it would more likely be the steadiness of Sirius's spellwork, his even hands as he'd cast charm after charm). But at the time, it had rattled Remus. Before Azkaban, Sirius had been a party drinker, a convivial drunk who flirted and danced. He had rarely kept anything stronger than Butterbeer in the house, and had relied on his friends to procure the booze whenever there'd been an occasion. When asked about this, Sirius had always smirked, claiming that a stocked liquor cabinet would make him feel like his father. He’d never used alcohol to cope, except in the very darkest moments of the war.

Remus couldn't remember what he'd been doing, while Sirius had retched up at least a bottle of Firewhisky and the new wards had knitted into one another, still visible as they finished setting. He'd felt empty in his limbs. Almost dizzy from hunger, from labor, from the moon.

He was fairly certain that at some point he'd gotten into the whisky himself, that maybe they all had. That Peter had passed out drunk in Sirius's bed. That Remus had eventually found himself sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, head tilted back onto the couch cushion behind him. Disoriented, but entranced (and a little nauseated) by the sinister glitter spreading outward from the front door and across the ceiling: the Dark Magic seeping into more familiar wards.

This was where he'd been sitting when James finally emerged from the bathroom. Tentatively, James had taken a seat on the floor next to Remus, following his attention upward. The two of them had sat in silence, looking at the ceiling as if stargazing.

"Remus?"

"Hmm?"

James had paused. His voice, when he'd finally answered, was hoarse. "Did we do this?"

Staring at nearly eight hours' worth of complex spellwork, it had taken Remus a moment to understand the question. When he'd finally realized James's meaning, he'd looked over so quickly that his head spun. "No," Remus had said. "James, no. Why would you ask that?"

James had turned his head to meet Remus's gaze. His eyes had been very red. "James, are you talking about that Portkey?"

James had said nothing. Turned his head back to the ceiling.

"Prongs." Remus had sat up, trying not to slur his words. "If anything happened to Regulus, it's Voldemort and his people who did it. They're at fault. Always." This had been a mantra among the Aurors in their group, who'd seemed to believe that the Order needed inoculation against survivor's guilt. Personally, Remus had rarely had trouble remembering who the enemy was, at least not at that time. "You know that, Prongs."

"Yeah."

"And besides," Remus had continued. "That letter was vague. What did Sirius say," he'd pressed, "when you showed him the copy?"

James had given a halfhearted shrug, still looking away. "I thought it was a trick," he'd said. From the bedroom, a set of mattress springs had creaked loudly as Peter turned over in his sleep.

"It might still be a trick," Remus had agreed. "Or it might be a coincidence. Are we sure it wasn't one of us who got to Regulus? Someone in the Order who won't say it it to Sirius's face?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"Or—  James. He might not even be dead." Remus had suddenly felt sharper, more focused. He'd gestured around the flat, multicolored lights from the wards glinting kaleidoscopically onto his palm. "You said it yourself. He very well might still turn up."

Remus had felt a strange relief as James finally turned to look at him again. "That's true," James had said. "He might. He might not be dead."

"Sirius could still find him. You never know."

"Right," James had echoed. "We don't really know anything." The two friends had lapsed into thick silence. Remus had felt the fuzziness of alcohol and exhaustion slowly returning to his head. Abruptly, James had reached up, feeling for a throw pillow on the couch behind him.

"I'm gonna go cast a cushioning charm on that tile," he'd said, grabbing two pillows and standing. He'd selected some blankets from the back of the couch and nodded in Remus's direction before heading back to the bathroom where Sirius slept. "Night, Moony."

"Night, Prongs."

The next morning, Remus had woken on the couch, sunlight streaming through the open windows and a hangover pressing at his temples. Pete had been cooking breakfast. The smell of sizzling bacon had tempted the wolf's appetite even as it riled the lingering nausea in Remus's stomach.

Sirius had been just blinking awake when Remus walked into the bathroom to throw some water on his face and give his teeth a quick brush. James had still been asleep in the bathtub, curled up under one of the couch blankets with his head on the yellow throw pillow.

They'd eaten Peter's breakfast on their feet, carrying plates of eggs and slices of toast as they'd inspected the flat, prodding at the wards with their wands. The spells had finished setting overnight, so the magic that protected them was once again invisible, but they could feel it crackling on the backs of their necks as they tested for fraying spots.

When Sirius had announced that he was satisfied, the four of them had left the flat. They'd wandered down the street to the Muggle cinema and caught whatever happened to be playing (a half-over matinee of Alien). For the rest of the film and its next two full showings, they'd stayed sat in that theater, playing stupid pranks in the back row. Levitating popcorn kernels off the floor and into people's hair.

When they'd finally left the cinema, Remus recalled, they'd gone to a park. Bought chips from a stall and hunted lazily for the coolest outfits on the Muggle passersby. Loitered until the sun went down.

After that day, the four of them had never talked about Regulus again.

"—even if we never used it. After all of that, why wouldn't we have answered if Reg had asked us for help?" Sirius was still talking, heedless of Remus's woolgathering. "We'd done all that work already! Why wouldn't we have jumped on it?"

Suddenly, Sirius reached over into the front pocket of Remus's jacket, fumbling for something rectangular. "May I?"

Remus nodded as Sirius found the pack of cigarettes, pulled one out for himself, and lit it wandlessly. He took a long drag, then passed it over to Remus. "Kingsley is wrong, in any case," Sirius said. "It was just a troubling idea. That's all."

The two of them passed the cigarette back and forth, drifting. "Moony?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you staying for awhile?"

Remus shrugged. "Long enough to finish my drink."

"Mind if I crash? I'm a bit knackered from all the running."

"By all means." Remus gestured toward the hallway, but Sirius shook his head with the ghost of an apologetic smile.

"I didn't mean upstairs. I think I've had my fill of the past, tonight."

"Oh. Of course. It's not a problem," Remus said. Sirius handed him the cigarette; a moment later, Padfoot sat beside him on the couch. He wagged his tail, and Remus lifted his glass in acknowledgement. "Night, mate." Padfoot curled in on himself and closed his eyes. Out of habit, Remus reached over to scratch him behind the ears.

He was still so thin. The Padfoot who’d wrestled a werewolf every month would never have been able to lie comfortably on this spindly, antiquated sofa. Remus ran a hand idly through his fur.

He needed to decide what to do about the letters before Sirius found out some other way.

Remus blew out a careful breath of smoke, watching it curl in patterns through the hazy drawing room. His thoughts curled with it, swirling around one another, insubstantial as the past.

James didn't keep secrets from his friends. But he had. Remus thought of James, keeping pace with Sirius as they'd searched for his brother in the woods, knowing all the while that he was looking for a corpse. Thought of James's red eyes as he'd sat next to Remus by the couch, watching Dark Magic seep into new wards.

Remus thought of all this — and considered that James Potter had been about as well-suited to deception as Regulus Black had been to bloody courage.

But then, Remus had not known Regulus Black. Not well enough to ascertain his intentions, to decide whether or not it was safe to show his brother his last message.

James Potter, Remus had known. But even James was an enigma now, as Remus sorted through the legacy of his choices, the tangle of his aims. What had James really been trying to hide? What had he known that Remus didn't?

Letters. Words that prowled like ghosts, tight-lipped and lingering; insubstantial glimpses of a human being now irrevocably out of reach. Letters concealed, letters hidden, letters unearthed. Letters from Lily, rediscovered; letters for Harry, never to be sent. Remnants of people who had been lost, or who would be lost; of the motives locked in their secret hearts, of the nothings they left behind for others to decrypt.

When had Lily stopped trusting him?

Why had James started keeping secrets?

What had Regulus done before he died?

Lily. James. Regulus.

No one. No one. No one.

And the dog's fur beneath his hand. The friend who still slept and breathed, who was skin and bones and someone, whose words were more than echoes on a page. The only friend whom Remus could still know.

What separated them? The wall of their shattered past?

But it was James and Lily who were shattered, it was their passing that was a wall. Remus and Sirius still spoke, still felt. The future still opened before them.

What use, to grope backward endlessly? What use, to be ghosts who breathed?

That night, Remus would sleep at the house for the first time in three months. When Sirius woke, he would be cooking breakfast. He would stay. He would smile. He would speak.

Kreacher would skulk about the edges of the kitchen, uncharacteristically silent. When Sirius was not looking, he would shoot Remus expectant looks, waiting. The elf would have a question in his eyes, but Remus would not answer it. He would look away.

Instead, Remus would take a breath and break his long silence. He would look into his tea and find the words to tell his friend about all those empty years. About loneliness, addiction, unemployment. About the lows he could not shake and the loves that he avoided. About weeks spent in the woods with the werewolf who'd turned him. About the two days when they'd forgotten to reach out to him, after Harry Potter had ended an unendable war.

And haltingly, Sirius, too, would start to speak. About mistrust and false friends. About cold oceans and prison bars.

About the days before James had cast the Fidelius charm, when Sirius had warded Peter Pettigrew's flat as meticulously as he'd once warded his own for his brother. About how, in Azkaban, he had often dreamed — with unsettling precision and clarity — of the silver needle that he'd once driven into his friend's thumbs, drawing blood.

All the hideous secrets of their ruined lives, brought finally into the sunlight.

And maybe, then, a connection remade. The written word abandoned for the spoken. The dead left to rest, their final wishes forgotten, in the hope that the living might have a chance to heal.

Remus stubbed out his cigarette, planned for tomorrow, and hoped that it would be enough.