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September 1974
As far as Regulus was concerned, he ought to be allowed onto the team simply for being who he was. After all, who could possibly be better at anything he chose to try than Regulus Black, heir to a noble family, one of several skilled Quidditch players their family line had produced?
But Emma Vanity, the Slytherin captain, insisted on tryouts. And she insisted on giving everybody a fair chance, even the half-bloods. Then again, she was half-blood herself, so perhaps that was to be expected.
Regulus knew what his parents would say if he wrote home and complained.
You don’t have to join the team, they would write. In fact, why take a subordinate position to a girl with a Muggle grandmother? That sort have their place, I suppose, but what could Slughorn possibly be thinking, putting her in charge rather than -
And cue the list of every pure-blood who was even mildly athletic - completely missing the point, of course. If Regulus refused to try out on the grounds that Slughorn preferred talent over blood status when choosing his favorites, he would never have the chance to play at all, let alone to become captain himself someday.
He would do that. He was determined. No one was better than him on a broom, not even Sirius, who had made the Gryffindor team last year. He wouldn’t sit by in the stands and watch other people fly, not when he could be up there in the sky, the wind in his hair and the Golden Snitch held fast in his hand, robes billowing out around him in a cloud of emerald green.
That was the thing his parents would never understand. It wasn’t just about bringing glory to Slytherin or their family. That was part of it, of course, but beyond that, Regulus simply liked playing Quidditch.
Ever since the first time he rode a toy broom over the lake behind his grandfather’s house, Regulus had known he belonged in the sky. His home might be in the shadowy halls of Grimmauld Place and the dungeon beneath the lake, but his heart was born to fly.
And fly he did.
Mounting his Silver Arrow, he kicked off, glancing warily at the others who had likewise come to try out. A girl in his year - he thought her surname was Pucey, but he wasn’t quite sure - who grinned at him as if this was some sort of friendly competition, as if they weren’t now adversaries. A boy who gulped nervously and fumbled with the handle of his broom; he would be no real threat.
If it couldn’t be him, Regulus decided, it ought to be one of the sixth or seventh years. That way, Regulus could simply try out again in a year or two. The worst case scenario would be if the Pucey girl was chosen. In that case, he might have to arrange some sort of an accident, because there was no way he was going to settle for any position but Seeker, or watch from the stands until they both graduated.
From a few meters away, the team captain flew low over the pitch, a basket of small white balls floating alongside her.
“Right,” she said. “First, you’re going to fly out one by one and I’ll throw five of these at you. Your job is to catch as many as you can. The ones who do best get to try with the Snitch.”
Regulus glanced around at his competition, seeing a dozen looks of steely determination.
“What if there’s a clear winner this round?” he asked, a note of arrogance in his voice.
Emma shook her head.
“Catching ping pong balls is one thing,” she said. “Catching the Snitch is another. Think of this as a test of agility and reaction time, nothing more. The second round will be the real challenge - if you make it that far.”
She looked at him as if she didn’t think he would, which only made him more determined to succeed. He would’ve gone first if she let him, but she didn’t seem interested in alphabetical order, and there were plenty of volunteers. So Pucey went first, snatching one, two, three balls out of thin air before fumbling the fourth one. Flustered and disoriented, she nearly missed the fifth as well, but just barely managed to snatch it out of the air.
Okay, he told himself. She’s not perfect. You can still be better.
An older boy called Pritchard took his turn, and there was no denying he was good. Five catches. Regulus felt a sickening feeling tie up his stomach in knots. If he fell short now…
Evan Rosier was next, broad-shouldered and muscular, the wrong sort of person to play as Seeker. He gave Regulus a grin and a wink as he flew out onto the pitch, where he caught only one of the balls Emma Vanity threw at him.
“That’s alright,” he said. “I really wanted to talk to you about playing Beater next year. Once Selwyn graduates…”
Regulus smiled, but Emma Vanity simply told him to wait until next year’s tryouts, giving the distinct impression that she thought he was wasting her time.
She ought to be grateful someone like Evan would want to be on her team, Regulus thought to himself.
But by the time it was his turn, he was too nervous to be very arrogant. He took a deep breath and flew out onto the pitch, doing his best to remain steady and show no weakness.
The ping pong balls flew at him, and he forced down the thought of how ridiculous it was to use equipment from what was obviously a Muggle sport. He could complain about that later. Right now, he needed to catch them.
His instincts kicked in. There was nothing in that moment but his broom, those tiny white spheres, and the way he darted instinctively towards them as they flew.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
He landed, grinning, only to be caught off-guard by the look of disappointment in Emma Vanity’s face. She hadn’t wanted him to succeed, he realized, his stomach sinking. She had wanted him to be nothing more than a bratty, overconfident child who made a fool of himself trying to show off.
Why?
He couldn’t possibly imagine. But whatever the reason, he couldn’t deny that it stung.
Later, with a golden snitch fluttering in his grasp, he let out a triumphant laugh. He had done it. And now he had five years ahead of him to soar above the Quidditch pitch in silver and green.
Five years.
It felt like a lifetime to him.
He looked up at the vast blue sky above and knew he was where he belonged.
April 1975
By the time the third game of the year arrived, the thrill of being chosen as Seeker had long since worn off, replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread and fear.
Maybe he was overreacting. But he was thirteen years old, and never in his life had he truly struggled with something - unless you counted Herbology, which as far as he was concerned didn’t count. There was no reason someone like him should need to dig around in the dirt, and his parents quite agreed with that sentiment, even if Dumbledore and Professor Sprout did not.
He was beginning to worry that, despite what he had always been told, he wasn’t really that good of a Quidditch player. Sure, he had flown to victory at tryouts. But he’d fallen off his broom and broken his arm in their recent game against Ravenclaw. And as for the first one of the season, where he’d gotten into a verbal argument with Sirius and that Potter boy in midair? Well, the less said about that , the better.
He needed to win this next game, or else there was a very good chance that Emma Vanity would call new tryouts for Seeker next year. He knew perfectly well she didn’t like him. If he gave her the excuse to kick him off the team, she would undoubtedly take it.
“I still don’t understand why she hates me so much,” Regulus complained to Evan and Barty, slouching back against the headboard of his bed with one arm wrapped around his knees.
Barty shrugged.
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters,” said Regulus. “I’m not used to being disliked. I suppose some people, like your father, don’t like my family on principle. Because - you know.”
He gestured vaguely with one arm, as if Mr. Crouch’s contempt for the Dark Arts and lack of regard for blood status were some sort of physical presence lingering in the room with them even then.
“But the Vanity family is on our side. I mean - they’re Dark Wizards, too.”
“She’s half-blood, though,” said Evan. “You think maybe she’s jealous?”
“Jealous?” Regulus shrugged. “Probably. Lots of people are jealous. They should be. But that doesn’t explain why she doesn’t like me, does it? I mean, aside from the fact that we lost the first two games, but I don’t think she liked me even before that.”
Evan and Barty laughed, but Regulus didn’t understand why.
Regulus watched the Hufflepuff Seeker carefully as they took their places, preparing to lift off. He was older by several years, and probably more experienced. Regulus was pretty sure he’d seen him on the pitch before.
Back in the common room, his friends had laughed and assured him that Hufflepuff never did well at Quidditch. They were far too concerned with playing fair, Barty had said, to win anything except praise for good sportsmanship.
This would probably be no big deal.
At least, that was what Regulus told himself as he mounted his broom, rising up into the air alongside his teammates.
As the Chasers flew past, tossing the Quaffle back and forth between them, Regulus scanned the sky for the Snitch. But so far, it had yet to make an appearance, and he found himself instead watching Emma Vanity dig the sharp edge of her elbow into one of the Hufflepuff Chasers’ stomachs, prying the Quaffle from his grasp as he doubled over in pain.
She lobbed it across the pitch at Edmund Parkinson, who snatched it out of the air and raced off in the direction of the goal posts.
Meanwhile, Selwyn aimed a Bludger directly at the Hufflepuff Keeper, hitting him hard in the shoulder just as Parkinson approached with the Quaffle. He was knocked sideways, barely managing to stay airborne, paying no attention to the large leather ball soaring past him.
Score!
“Your team plays rough,” said a voice behind Regulus.
He turned sharply, surprised to see the Hufflepuff Seeker there, watching him with a look of amusement. That baffled Regulus more than anything else: amusement . The smile in his eyes was totally out of sync with his words.
“We play to win,” said Regulus, trying his best to sound nonchalant.
“So do we,” said the other boy. “But not at all costs. Better to put forth one’s best effort and fall short than to win unfairly.”
“It’s not cheating,” said Regulus. “Technically, the Beaters are allowed to go after the Keeper when the Quaffle gets near the goalposts.”
The Hufflepuff Seeker gave a nod, grimacing slightly.
“Technically.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Regulus asked, sneering slightly. “Waiting for me to find the Snitch for you?”
“Hardly. I just thought I’d introduce myself. Gregory Bones. We’ve never met properly, but my brother Edgar was in your cousin Andromeda’s year.”
At those words, Regulus clenched his jaw, his veins flooding with ice.
“Andromeda is not my cousin,” he said coldly. “And I don’t care who you are. Only whether I can beat you.”
Bones just gave an easy grin and shrugged his shoulders.
“Suit yourself. But - Regulus, I watched your first two games.”
“Yes? What of it?”
“You didn’t fly like a Slytherin. And I mean that as a compliment. Aside from losing your temper with your brother and his friend -”
“Don’t remind me of that,” Regulus snapped.
“You generally played fair. And you did quite well, given your lack of experience. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I hope you won’t become discouraged. It’s worth it to do things right, even if it’s harder in the short term.”
But there would be no long term if Regulus didn’t start winning now.
He knew it.
And he couldn’t afford to take the risk.
When Regulus won, it was by knocking Gregory Bones off his broom. He clutched the Snitch in his fist and held it high, trying not to worry as Madam Pomfrey rushed to his opponent’s side.
Two of his teammates lifted him onto their shoulders, holding him up high in victory. All around them, silver-and-green-clad supporters cheered. Even Emma’s face now showed no sign of resentment, just delight at having finally won.
I could get used to this, Regulus decided.
November 1976
“I’ve got to win this game.”
Barty sighed, running his hand through his hair, making no secret of his impatience.
“You’ve said that a dozen times already.”
“It’s against Gryffindor!” Regulus protested. “Sirius and Potter! I’ve got to beat them. If not, they’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
He had lost to Gryffindor in third year, beaten them in fourth year, and he wasn’t about to let the idiots in red and gold get the better of him again. Now that Sirius wasn’t his brother anymore, it seemed even more important to defeat him.
“You know neither one of them is actually the Seeker, right?” Barty asked. “Worry about her. Don’t think too much about your brother or Potter, or you’ll just get distracted and end up missing the Snitch.”
Regulus bristled in disdain, hardly able to believe his friend had suggested such a thing.
“Sirius isn’t my brother,” he snapped.
“Right. Whatever you say.”
It would seem that Barty didn’t have much patience for that, either, even though it was true. Sirius wasn’t on the tapestry anymore, and that meant he wasn’t Regulus’s brother.
Right?
Okay, maybe Barty had a point. About not getting distracted, not about Sirius still being his brother. But how exactly was Regulus supposed to ignore someone who seemed intent on knocking him off his broom?
Regulus ducked out of the way of a Bludger and glared daggers at Sirius before zipping off in the opposite direction, searching for the Snitch. But the glint of gold was as elusive as ever.
James Potter intercepted the Quaffle, snatching it out of the air right in front of one of the Slytherin Chasers, and was shooting across the pitch in the opposite direction before she could react. She glanced at Regulus with a grimace, and he fought the urge to scream.
“Find the bloody Snitch,” she told him.
Easier said than done.
The Gryffindor Seeker was new this year, a girl Regulus didn’t know, but who he had seen from time to time across classrooms. His year, then, but far less experienced. Far less accustomed to dodging Bludgers and racing off after the Snitch. Especially given that he had never seen her surname on the family trees of any of the old Wizarding families.
He knew by now that pure-bloods weren’t always the best fliers. After all, Rabastan Lestrange could barely stay airborne for five minutes. But still, Janice Wilson from Gryffindor most likely hadn’t grown up flying the way that Regulus had.
Three years old, zooming around on a toy broom, his toes skimming the grass as he chased after Sirius.
Six years old, balancing carefully on Uncle Cygnus’s old Shooting Star, listening as Narcissa coached him on how to control it, how to move it forward and steer it left or right.
Eight years old, soaring over the grounds of his grandfather’s estate, Sirius and their cousins by his side.
Twelve years old, grinning from ear to ear as he walked out of Quality Quidditch Supplies carrying a beautiful new Silver Arrow.
Glancing down at the handle of that very same broom, Regulus smiled. It had served him well over the years, and he felt more at home on it than anyone who first learned at the age of eleven possibly could.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have assumed such a thing. Because Janice Wilson from Gryffindor came very close to winning that day.
And yet, despite that heart-pounding moment when he’d rammed into her from the side, knocking her off-course and buying himself time - despite the fear that coursed through him as he realized he might fail - he was the one who emerged clutching the Golden Snitch in his fist.
As his teammates crowded around him, he glanced across the pitch at Sirius, giving him a cheeky grin.
I won, he thought to himself.
Sirius glared back, and Regulus ignored him, allowing himself to be swept up in the euphoria of victory.
December 1978
It wasn’t a Death Eater meeting. Not really. For one thing, the Dark Lord wasn’t there. But it wasn’t an ordinary Christmas party, either.
Regulus sat on the couch at the Rosiers’ house, sipping mulled wine and nibbling on a gingerbread cookie. He spotted Narcissa across the room, giggling at something Lucius had whispered into her ear. The Lestrange brothers were talking to Mulciber and Avery, giving advice on how to master the Cruciatus Curse, while Macnair and Selwyn sneered at the latest issue of the Prophet .
They’d written another article condemning the Dark Lord, of course. But condemning him still meant talking about him, and they couldn’t deny how powerful he had become. When Regulus returned home, he would have to make sure to get a clipping of it for his collection.
He glanced at Barty, whose father would probably die of shock if he knew his precious son was here, among such people. Barty grinned back at Regulus, his eyes bright with excitement.
“We should play Quidditch,” said Evan Rosier, halfway across the room, holding up an empty wine glass with a slightly flushed, unfocused expression and his words slurring together a bit.
“Quidditch?” asked Rabastan Lestrange, glancing up with a frown. “Why the bloody hell would we do that?”
“Oh, shut up, Rab,” said his brother, shoving him playfully with his shoulder. “Just because you’re no good -”
“We should,” Regulus agreed, scanning the room and making a quick calculation. “We’ve got almost enough people. I assume Rabastan won’t play, which makes it an even number and gives us a referee. With just two Chasers and one Beater on each team… yes, it should work.”
“I take it you’ll want to play Seeker,” said Avery with a sneer.
“Of course,” agreed Regulus, pretending he didn’t hear the mocking tone. “Let’s see. Evan and I should be the team captains, seeing as it was his idea and I’m the captain at Hogwarts.”
There was no need to mention which team he was captain of. That went without saying here.
“Sounds good to me,” said Evan. “Barty, want to be my Seeker?”
Barty grinned. Then, glancing at Regulus, he murmured a half-hearted apology.
“Don’t bother,” said Regulus. “You’ll be great. Just don’t expect me to go easy on you.”
Then, turning to his favorite cousin, he beckoned with one hand.
“Narcissa. I’d love to have you play Chaser for my team.”
Her eyes widened, as if his suggestion was completely unexpected. As if she hadn’t counted the number of people in the room and seen that she would be needed. Or, perhaps, as if she had expected to be the last one chosen for whatever spot remained.
Regulus knew better. She might never have flown for Slytherin, but he had seen her fly. He had seen her soar like a bird over the grounds of their grandfather’s estate. And he knew she was better than almost anyone here.
“Come on. I’m counting on you,” he said. “You’re not going to let me down, are you?”
She gave a demure little nod, and he saw the smile in her eyes even as she tried to hide it.
The sun was setting, the sky growing dark, by the time that Regulus and Barty flew side-by-side, each of them stretching out an arm towards the tiny golden ball that flitted ahead of them. By now, the score was already leaning heavily towards Regulus’s team, thanks in no small part to Narcissa taking everyone but Regulus by surprise. Who would’ve thought that the woman best known for her perfectly manicured nails and stylish dress robes would fly circles around all these big, tough men?
He should be grateful, probably, that Evan hadn’t suspected. Narcissa might have actually stood a chance against him as Seeker. Barty, on the other hand, didn’t. Quidditch fan though he might be, he would never be a great Quidditch player.
For instance, right now he was simply following Regulus, struggling to keep the Snitch in sight. Regulus could tell by the fact that they’d drifted away from its trajectory with Barty apparently none the wiser.
Regulus, on the other hand, did notice, and at just the right moment, he veered sharply to the right, leaving Barty behind as the latter struggled to get his bearings. Regulus’s fingers closed around the Snitch, and he lifted it high in the dim light, letting out a shout of triumph.
February 1979
The golden snitch fluttered between Regulus’s fingers as he slowly glided downwards, savoring the moment of victory.
Only one more time. One more game. And then it would be over.
Oh, he would keep flying, certainly. Not at Grimmauld Place - you couldn’t just hop on a broom in the middle of London - but with his friends who lived in the countryside, for games like the one at Christmas.
Still, only one more game remained where he would play as the Slytherin Seeker.
He held up the snitch in his right hand, careful to keep his left arm at his side, where there was no risk of the sleeve slipping to reveal -
Better not to even think it. Not in front of the whole school.
His feet found the ground beneath him, and the weightless feeling was gone. His teammates crowded around, cheering and slapping him on the back, lifting him up onto their shoulders.
A part of him wanted to freeze this moment. To simply stay here, like this, forever.
It was an oddly melancholy thought, and he pushed it away, refusing to let it taint his happiness.
“And, well, I could’ve caught the Snitch if I’d wanted to, of course,” came the voice of the obnoxious little fourth-year the Ravenclaws had, in an uncharacteristic moment of stupidity, selected as a backup Seeker when their usual one found himself unable to play. “It would’ve been only too easy.”
“Would it?” came the voice of the Ravenclaw captain. “Then explain to me why, exactly, you spent more time showing off for the crowd than looking for the bloody thing!”
Regulus bit back a laugh. He didn’t know what they had expected from Gilderoy Lockhart, but he certainly wasn’t going to complain. Not when the boy had handed him the easiest victory of his Quidditch career.
April 1979
The letter arrived two days after his final game of the season, sealed with the emblem of the Montrose Magpies. Tucking it into his pocket, Regulus spent half the day fighting the urge to open it, to find out what it said. But he couldn’t possibly open it at the breakfast table or in the middle of Potions class, that much was certain.
Finally, when he was back in his dorm room with no one else but Barty present, he ran a fingernail under the seal and unfolded the envelope, carefully tugging out the parchment inside.
Dear Mr. Black, …
He read the words once, twice, and finally a third time before their meaning truly sank in. Glancing up, he met Barty’s eyes.
“They want me to play for them.”
“Who?”
“The Magpies. It’s from their manager. They’ve been looking for a new Seeker, and I guess they’ve had scouts at some of the games. They want me to play for them after I graduate.”
Barty’s eyes lit up, and a grin spread across his face.
“Are you going to do it?”
And in that moment, reality came crashing back down. The smile on Regulus’s face slipped away. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he shook his head.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” Barty asked. “You love Quidditch.”
“My family…” he shook his head. “They’ve supported me playing for Slytherin, but they wouldn’t want me to make a career of it. They’d say it’s beneath our dignity. In any case, I think one of the Magpies’ Chasers is a Mudblood.”
Barty made a face, and Regulus did the same, as if scrunching up his nose and mouth would make the longing disappear.
“What if something happened to them?” Barty asked. “The Mudblood Chaser, I mean.”
Regulus frowned, considering the prospect.
“I suppose…”
But then he shook his head.
“They’d still be people who’d allow a Mudblood on their team, even if there wasn’t one around anymore. And that means I could never tell them about… well, you know.”
He briefly raised his left arm, indicating the spot where his Dark Mark would show, if it were not covered by his sleeve.
“Which means I couldn’t change in front of them in the locker room. So, even if I could convince my parents, there’s no way it would work.”
It would be too risky - and not just with the Magpies, if he was honest with himself. No matter which team he might join, the chances of being found out by a teammate were simply too high. His fellow Slytherins were happy to look the other way and pretend they didn’t see what was on his arm, but he couldn’t be sure of the same with any of the professional teams.
“It’s not in the plan, anyway,” Regulus said. “My parents want me to take a job at the Ministry, and to start preparing to take my grandfather’s place someday as the head of the family.”
“Yeah,” said Barty with a shrug. “Mine are the same. They’ve got it all planned out for us, don’t they? Whether or not it’s what we want.”
He spoke so nonchalantly, as if his words were simply a statement of fact. But Regulus felt his stomach twist. He knew that Barty’s relationship with his family was far different from his own. He knew that, while he did everything in his power to make his mother proud, Barty wanted nothing more than to become the opposite of everything his father stood for.
And yet, Barty spoke as if the two of them were the same. Regulus wanted to tell him he was wrong, but he couldn’t quite figure out what the difference was, except that he did want to make his family proud.
Regardless, he had exams to study for, and then he would move on to more important things. The Dark Lord had plans for him, too, that were far more important than a childish love of flying. Quidditch was never meant to last forever.
Holding out the letter from the Magpies in front of him, he jabbed it with his wand.
“Incendio.”
There was no point in dwelling on what he couldn’t have.