Archive of Our Own ^beta

Privet Drive was everything Regulus hated about Muggle Britain. He passed rows of identical houses behind identical gardens with identical automobiles in their driveways. He’d never met Petunia Dursley, but looking at this display of gross conformity, it was no wonder she wasn’t as special as her sister had been.

His legs came to a slow stop, and he tipped his head back to look up at the overcast. Early summer in England still meant rain; he could taste it in the air under the heavy smell of weedkiller and exhaust fumes. He could only be grateful it hadn’t started yet. He’d been practising gratitude recently, since weaning himself away from the sleeping draughts and then the alcohol. If he didn’t look around for the little things, he would only see the big things that weren’t there.

It had been eight months since their deaths, and it would have been the hardest eight months of Regulus’s life if he remembered most of it. It had been all he could do to keep himself alive, to bring himself close enough to death to pretend that he could join them but never actually reach for their hands. His trial had been what forced him into sobriety, and in the few days of clarity, he remembered that it wasn’t just himself he needed to care for.

Lily had loved her sister, but from a distance. She never wanted Harry sent to Petunia, and she would have especially hated for him to be raised on a street like this.

Number four was exactly the same as number two and number six on either side of it, other than the heavy-duty wards set up on the boundaries of the property. Holding his wand in front of him, Regulus recognised Dumbledore’s work immediately, and although the elder wizard’s spellwork was strong as always, it was rushed. The foundational runes and arithmancy were lacking, but few could hope to match Regulus, with his pure-blood upbringing and genuine interest in the subjects.

Most of the wards broke away once he destabilised their cornerstones, but one remained stubbornly in place. It was a flimsy thing, the requirements for it not being met, and it would barely need a nudge to break apart. Interestingly, it wasn’t Dumbledore’s magic fuelling it. Regulus ran a hand over it, and it arched into his palm like a cat. He froze, breath stuttering.

Lily’s magic curled up his forearm and seemed to regard him for a moment. It felt like the steam that rose from her morning tea, like her head in his lap and his in James’s. He lingered, feeling her magic for what may be the last time before he choked it and let it crumble like ash. His hand shook where it was still outstretched, and he forced it to still before he allowed it to drop.

The wooden door boasted a gold number four, under which lay a knocker. He hesitated. Was what Lily wanted truly what would be best for Harry? Regulus could never hope to be the parent that Lily or James would have been, and would certainly never be a great role model. He put his hand into the inner pocket of his robe and pushed his thumb against the corner of the parchment folded within, then rolled his shoulders back. He was late enough already.

Regulus debated forcing his way inside, but recognised it as something Sirius would have done, and settled for lifting the cold metal of the knocker and tapping it firmly against the door three times.

The curtain of the front room twitched, and he scrupulously fixed his robes, steeling himself to at least be pleasant to Lily’s family. They were sure to be in mourning still, and he didn’t actually want to cause any upset where it could be avoided - but he would be leaving with Harry, regardless of how much they wanted to keep him. That was his- that was their son.

Regulus waited a minute, then three. He scowled at the lower nail of the door number, then glanced around the street. Perfect hedges. Perfectly mown grass. Well, if they were going to be rude, then he was going to cause a scene. Mère would be so disappointed.

When he raised his hand, he bypassed the knocker entirely and pounded on the wood with his fist, projecting his voice loud enough to be heard at least three doors down. “Police! Open up!”

It took Petunia Dursley barely ten seconds to wrench the door open, colour high on her cheeks and mouth gaping like a fish. She looked nothing like her sister, but Lily used to wear the same expression when he purposefully riled her up. It made him pause, but only for a moment before pushing his way past her and into the narrow hallway.

“Good, you are in,” Regulus said mildly, calming himself with the subtle smell of detergent and bleach. There was a child in hysterics, likely his fault for being so loud. He took a second to feel guilty, then shoved it away. Children cried. He had to get used to that.

“Excuse me?” Petunia exclaimed, shutting the door behind him with enough force to make the frames that lined the hallway rattle against the peach walls. She pointed at him with a dishcloth, and Regulus turned away from her.

A large man, presumably Mr Dursley, appeared at the end of the hallway. His eyes narrowed into slits as he sized Regulus up, his face becoming redder by the second. “Who are you? Do you have a warrant?”

Regulus looked the man up and down, fighting to keep a sneer off his face as he shouldered past him and into the living room before they could throw him out. The walls were wallpapered in hotel-stripes, and above the unlit fireplace a banner proclaimed ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY DUDLEY’ in silver and blue lettering. The television played some daytime cartoon, tinny and cheerful and doing nothing to cover the wails of a distressed child reverberating through the house.

“You can call me Mr Black,” he said, turning back to the Dursleys crowded in the doorway, gawping at him. “Not police, I’m afraid that was a lie.”

“What are you doing in my house?” Mr Dursley spat, squaring his shoulders as though he’d truly be able to take Regulus down.

Regulus looked around the room. “I’m here for Harry.”

There was a chubby, happy-looking toddler with tufts of blond hair sat on the floor in front of the television, smears of baby food on his cheeks - obviously not Harry. Regulus frowned, looking for the other child, then slowly realised, taking in the blanched faces of the Dursley parents. Everything else fell away until all he could hear was crying.

It had taken Regulus until he was three to know not to cry, to know that no one coming was better than drawing the attention of mère or, Merlin forbid, père. It had been a hard lesson to learn, and a harder one for James and Lily to help him unlearn. His chest tightened as he recognised the cries and his muscles shook with the control it took not to lash out at these Muggles who were supposed to protect his- their baby.

“Where is he?” He asked, chewing the words.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mr Dursley stuttered, visibly shrinking back from Regulus when he stalked past them back into the hallway.

Good. Let him be scared.

Regulus started up the stairs, ignoring the protests from both Dursleys, heart clenching uselessly. Was it going to feel this way every time the child cried? He hadn’t even met him yet and already it was so hard to hear him in pain.

It wasn’t until he was halfway up the stairs that he realised the cries were wrong. They echoed strangely and weren’t coming from above him at all; in fact, they sounded like they were coming from beneath him.

Directly beneath him.

Regulus stared at the Dursleys through the balustrade of the staircase and they looked back wide-eyed and, wisely, tight-lipped. He walked back down and looked at the thin, sloped door of the cupboard under the stairs. Now that he focused on them, the cries obviously originated from inside.

“That’s your nephew,” he said softly, horrified. Petunia’s mouth pinched, and she looked away, twisting the dishcloth in her hands. Regulus rounded on her, close enough for the floral notes of her perfume to bother him. “That is Lily’s son, your sister’s son. The only thing left of her.”

“The boy’s parents were nothing but freaks,” Mr Dursley scoffed, and Regulus turned his head slowly towards him, his face carefully blank. “He’s being treated exactly how he should be.”

Regulus hadn’t intended to threaten Lily’s family, honestly he hadn’t, but they made it so damned hard not to. His wand was in his hand and pointed under Mr Dursley’s chin before he’d even thought it through.

Petunia choked on a gasp. “You’re one of them.”

Mr Dursley swallowed, the skin of his throat brushing against the wand tip. Regulus tipped his head to the side.

“The lights are on…” Regulus deadpanned without taking his eyes away from Mr Dursley’s wide, terrified ones. He’d love nothing more than to do something to this man, but his child was crying, and he wouldn’t be able to comfort him from Azkaban. He bit hard at the inside of his cheek, the pain giving him the strength to lower his wand, and reminded himself and the Dursleys: “I’m here for Harry.”

He turned to the cupboard door and waved the lock open. The space was small, the air stale with a sour tang. It was piled with odds and ends, and in a washing basket half-filled with linens sat a little boy.

Harry hiccupped on his sob, looking up at him with wet, red-rimmed eyes. Lily’s eyes, but the rest of him was certainly James. Regulus drew a breath, and the world tilted slightly on its axis. This boy would be his due north from then on. His lodestar.

Regulus crouched down and held his arms out, and Harry reached back.

“Hello, mon ourson,” he murmured, lifting him under the arms and settling his bum against his hip. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

An unpleasant smell unfurled into the air as Harry was moved, his hair flat against his head with oil build-up. He could feel that his nappy was overfilled, but Regulus pulled him to his chest regardless. Harry immediately buried his wet face into his collar, sniffling but calming down significantly. He wasn’t heavy, but his weight against him did more to ground him than anything else had in months.

Regulus cut his eyes across to Mr Dursley. “Did he have anything with him when he arrived?”

“No,” the man answered, short and obnoxious.

Regulus looked down at Harry, who was dressed in a dirty, oversized babygrow and nothing else. “Does he have a coat?”

A pause. “No.”

Regulus closed his eyes, counted backwards from ten, then again, in French. He needed to leave before he lashed out. He needed to get Harry somewhere safe. Everything else could be bought later.

He pushed past Petunia to the door, speaking through his teeth. “Good day, then.”

“Wait. Mr Black,” Petunia called out, and Regulus half-turned over his shoulder. She was worrying her bottom lip, her hand moving the pendant of her necklace back and forth across the chain. “Where will you take him?”

Regulus regarded her coolly. “Somewhere he will be loved.”

“We never asked for this,” she snapped, a sudden fury flashing across her face. “I have my own son to worry about without needing to care for the spawn of my sister and that freak. There’s only so much love I can give.”

“Evidently,” Regulus sneered, his hand on the door. “I worried, for a moment, how I would be able to care for a child. I wondered if leaving him in a family unit would be better for him. Dumbledore obviously thought so. But thank you for showing me that no matter how badly I do, I could never be worse than this.”

He let himself out, closing the door with a sharp click behind him. It was colder outside, a chill in the breeze, and he drew the edge of his robes around Harry to protect him from it. A lawnmower droned a street away. The child seemed to have cried himself to sleep against his shoulder; soft, even breaths ghosted over his neck, and a tiny hand fisted the front of his shirt.

This was Regulus’s to protect now, and though he’d been actively preparing for this moment for weeks, he needed a moment to breathe - which, of course, is when Dumbledore appeared at the bottom of the garden, a tabby cat trailing the bottom of his purple robes.

“Headmaster Dumbledore,” he greeted, not quite hiding all of the shake in his voice. He tightened his hold on Harry. “I would say it’s a surprise to see you, but then I would be lying.”

His former headmaster looked at him without emotion on his face, assessing. Regulus resisted the instinctive urge to fidget. He was doing nothing wrong.

“What are you doing with Mr Potter, Mr Black?” Dumbledore asked in that genial manner that Regulus always thought was fake.

“Taking him home,” Regulus said firmly, raising his chin. The older wizard was taller than him, so he couldn’t quite look down his nose at him, but he hoped the short distance between them created the effect anyway.

Dumbledore glanced up at number four. “This is his home.”

Regulus laughed humourlessly, trying not to move in a way that would jostle Harry. “They were keeping him under the stairs. Did you know that?”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes held his over his half-moon spectacles with an expression Regulus recognised. The Hogwarts headmaster always had a knack for making himself seem like the most reasonable one in the room, but Regulus had become disillusioned with him around the time he’d been made to take the Mark.

“The Dursleys are Harry’s only remaining blood relatives,” Dumbledore explained, with a tone too sweet to be savoury. “With your brother’s imprisonment, they’re the only ones legally able to take him in.”

“My brother’s imprisonment?” Regulus frowned, sure he’d lost the thread of the conversation. Then, understanding dawned, and his mouth formed an oh without his input. “I’m afraid you’ve miscalculated, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore’s long, white beard twitched. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Careful not to disturb the sleeping child, Regulus reached into his robes, withdrawing a slightly wrinkled sheaf of parchment. Dumbledore gave him an indecipherable look as he hastily took it.

“Bottom of page three. ‘In the event of the death of myself, Lily J Potter, and my husband, James F Potter, all parental rights of my son, Harry J Potter, should fall to Regulus A Black, effective immediately upon the death of the second parent.’” Regulus recited helpfully, enjoying the slow, subtle apoplexy spreading across the headmaster’s face. “Lily’s will. You’re welcome to keep that, I have copies. That particular section has been filed with the Ministry since Harry’s birth. You didn’t think she’d die without a plan, did you?”

“Well, writing a will at her age is quite unusual,” Dumbledore grumbled, flicking through the rest of the document. “Did James know about this?”

“He countersigned it. Last page.” He shifted Harry gently on his hip, then gave the man a wan smile as he did, indeed, check the last page. “Getting my brother out of the way was impressive, I’m not sure how you managed that, but he was never the one that was going to get Harry’s parental rights. Can you imagine Sirius raising a child? It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“You were… close to the Potters,” Dumbledore said. Regulus gave Dumbledore a flat look that didn’t betray the taste of bitter bile that had coated his mouth. The older man tilted his head to the side, a patronising look sliding over his features. “I’m not sure the Ministry would take kindly to a former Death Eater looking after The Boy Who Lived.”

“Acquitted,” Regulus reminded him, narrowing his eyes. He took a step forward, but only so he could put himself between Harry and Dumbledore. “The Ministry has no business interfering - he’s mine.”

Ours. He should have been ours.

Dumbledore raised one bushy eyebrow, and Regulus didn’t break his stare until a meow at their feet made Dumbledore look down.

“If that’s all, Headmaster, I need to get Harry home.” Regulus stepped past him, the Dursley’s grass sinking below his heel. Harry’s weight remained a steady measure to centre himself by. “He needs a bath, and I don’t actually know if they fed him.”

There was a moment where he thought he was going to be let go without further comment, then: “Mr Black, have you ever considered teaching?”

Regulus looked at Dumbledore over his shoulder.

“That is a laughably desperate attempt.” When Dumbledore just continued to look sincere, Regulus actually did laugh. “And what would you have me teach?”

“You got past some very complex blood wards.” Dumbledore gestured back to number four, where Regulus could see the Dursleys watching in horror from their front room window. “You’ve always been extremely talented with Ancient Runes.”

Regulus scoffed. “If you cared to take even a moment to examine those wards, you’d know that they required love, not blood, to maintain. Something that house was sorely lacking.”

The look Dumbledore gave him was unbearably smug, as though he’d just proven a point, but it was laced with triumph. There were always agendas upon agendas with men like that.

“What are you not telling me?” Regulus asked.

“Pardon?” There was a flicker of something in Dumbledore’s eyes, and Regulus dug his fingernails into it.

“You wanted Harry away from wizarding society, but failing that, you’ll settle for keeping him close.” Regulus tilted his chin up. “It’s not a political move, or you would have tried to raise him yourself. So, what is it?”

Dumbledore spread his arms at his side, showing his palms. “I assure you, Mr Black, I only want the best for Harry.”

Regulus looked back at number four, his thumb drawing unconscious circles onto Harry’s back. He trusted Dumbledore’s word as much as a Daily Prophet reporter. “You certainly have a strange way of proving that.”

“Where will you take him?” Dumbledore asked, and Regulus gave him a hard look.

“Tell you what: I’ll consider your offer of teaching if you write to me when you do Harry. In nine years.” Then he gave Dumbledore a sly look, knowing he held a critical card. “Though, of course, I could send him elsewhere. Merlin knows the treatment he’d receive from the other students just for being who he is.”

Dumbledore kept his face blank, but Regulus could see the tempest in his eyes. He couldn’t find it in himself to feel too guilty for ruining plans; the headmaster had nine years to scheme for the new variables Regulus had thrown onto the board. Regulus turned away.

“I’ll see you in a few years, Mr Black,” Dumbledore called, but Regulus didn’t grace it with an answer.

He kept his steps measured and sure, even as he let his face fall out of the carefully constructed mask, running a hand over Harry’s dark, tangled hair with a shaky sigh. He wasn’t supposed to do this alone. He tipped his head back; the clouds were heavy with rain, but they held.