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Regulus Black doesn’t miss a trick.

That’s what everyone used to say about him, back when Regulus was younger, and sharper, and unabashedly alive. His parents had called him astute, his brother called him nosy, his cousins called him scary, and Tom Riddle had called Regulus talented— until Regulus took too much notice of Riddle’s activities. Then, Regulus was called dangerous. 

None of those words have ever felt right to Regulus. He’s not a genius, as his parents bragged, and he’s not the heartless combatant that the rest of his world wanted him to be. He’s puzzled for eighteen years and eighteen more over this emptiness, this lack of language to describe himself, and the only word he can come up with is observant.

This word helps him breathe.

There is nothing attached to the word observant—  no mother’s skeletal fingers, no gaunt or ghostly cousins, no reverence for any mortal man. There is only a peace, the same kind of peace that Regulus feels when he sits on the front steps of his cabin and looks out over the loch. Regulus worships that peace now, and there is nothing left over for his brother or for Riddle. It has taken him thirty six years to build this quiet life, to learn to breathe. Now, he breathes freely.

He notices the color of the hills changing with the seasons. He notices the way the sun looks before the mist rolls in. He notices the leaking roof and drafty windows of his cabin and fixes them, even with his aching back. His hair turns slightly gray in places. His eyes weaken and he buys reading glasses from the Morrison’s where he works.

In one of the early days of winter, Regulus notices the absence of birds in the rowan bushes. The bushes usually shake with the redwings and the bully fieldfares in the morning, but now the only rustling comes from behind the bushes.

He squints to make out the blurry shape.

It's a boy.

Regulus's frozen breath suddenly dissipates. He stops in his tracks, gripping the towel around his shoulders. The snow bites him through his thin shoes, ones not meant to soak into the winter ground. 

A boy.

And another one. Then, a girl.

There are three children gathering kindling along his property line.

Regulus watches them for a moment. They snap sticks and drop the wet ones back into the snow, finally ambling off into the woods with enough firewood to last one hour. Maybe two, if their fire is small and the ground is dry. Regulus can hear them arguing long after they’re gone.

He shakes the uneasiness from his shoulders, looping his towel on a branch that hangs above the loch. They’re bored backpackers, he tells himself, or stupid kids from town. He’s seen both around here, and obliviate remains the only magic he’s used since—

God, he really doesn’t want to obliviate those kids. He turns around one last time to make sure they’re gone, then slowly wades into the frozen loch.

As his head plunges under the water, Regulus wants to scream. Bubbles escape from his mouth and the pressure against his brain builds, so powerful that he thinks his head might explode.

Ever since the cave, Regulus can’t stay out of the water for long. The loch twinkles at him and calls him back, day after day, and Regulus complies. He has settled into a routine: three laps around the loch in the morning and three at night.

His fingers disturb the ice fractals that cling together on the water’s surface. He can feel the warmth of his body seeping into the lake and his muscles loosen.

It’s very, very cold. But Regulus has cheated death once, and he knows to hold out, to wait, and the feeling will pass. As the shocks of water penetrate the very atoms of his skull, his mind wanders back to the kids in the woods, and a strange part of him— the part that is turning old— starts to worry. Perhaps they don’t know that when you can no longer feel the cold, you’re a dead man. That you have to welcome it, feel its bitter sting with each fingertip. They don’t know that their bodies won’t give up on them, that air hides in your lungs even when you think you’ve breathed your last. They don’t know to close your eyes when your vision tunnels, to grasp onto memories of your life, your friends, your brother.

How could they know? They are young, probably around the same age Regulus was when he—

And because the loch is crackling with ice, and the frost is strangling the red rowan berries, and it really is very cold outside, Regulus removes the section of concealment charms on the eastern side of his property. 

He stokes the fire. He prepares a roast. He waits for the children to notice.

*

The knock comes around five o’clock, and Regulus opens the front door.

The boy’s eyes widen and he takes a step backwards. It’s either in fear or surprise, Regulus can’t quite tell. 

“Sirius,” the boy says.

The air is sucked from Regulus’s lungs. He stares at the boy, and it clicks. “James.”

The girl and boy on either side of James share a confused glance. Their cheeks are rosy from the cold and they’re dressed like the teenagers who buy cereal and booze late at night.

Regulus’s brows furrow. This boy isn’t James, he can’t be James, too many years have passed. As Regulus stares at the boy, who is struggling for a sentence, suddenly all Regulus can focus on is his eyes. Green, like the emerald colored potion they made that day in Potions class. The day Regulus walked in, young and arrogant, and the only sixth year who could match his expertise was—

“Lily,” Regulus breathes, and the boy startles again. “Are you James and Lily’s son?”

“Yes. Harry.” Harry says his name with an annoyed tilt of his head, as if Regulus should know exactly who he is.

“Who are you?” The girl asks. “Harry’s right, you look just like Sirius.”

Something in Regulus’s throat closes. He hears Sirius’s name all the time, obviously. He hears it behind the Morrison’s butcher’s counter and thrown willy nilly by tourists downtown. Seriously? Seriously? That word means nothing to him.

But the way the girl says it, You look just like Sirius. 

It is a piece of his past returning, it’s a piece of his heart put back together. They know Sirius. Barely thinking, Regulus removes the last of the disguise charms from his face with a flick of his wand. He’ll sneak into their camp or hostel and obliviate the three of them later. This shred of hope, this link to Sirius, is all consuming.

The kids blink, all at once, and then the girl’s eyes pop open. “Wait. Are you Regulus?”

Regulus gives a small bow. “Alive and well.”

“Regulus Arcturus Black?” The other boy, the redhead, gasps. “We’ve been looking for you! Well, not for you, specifically, because you’re dead… or everyone thought… but your— your note! We have it!”

Regulus has no idea what the boy is talking about. Suddenly, the three of them are excited, staring up at him like he’s a god or a snitch or something equally worshipped.

Snitch. Huh. He hasn’t thought of Quidditch in a while.

The wind blows shrilly through the open doorway, and Regulus moves to the side. “Come in.”

The girl bounds up the steps first, introducing herself breathlessly. “I’m Hermione Granger, by the way.”

The other boy is more shy. “Ron Weasley,” he mutters awkwardly. 

Harry Potter shuffles in after Ron, averting eye contact.

Regulus closes the door and turns to see them taking in his small cabin. It’s only one room, and the kitchen, table, sofa, and bed flow together in only a handful of steps. There hasn’t been anyone inside the room other than Regulus for eighteen years, and he can’t help but feel a bit embarrassed of the décor. Everything is second hand and out of date, and most of it is from the old grannies that visit the butcher counter every Sunday afternoon. There’s a floral table runner on his dark dresser, cat hair on every surface, and on the countertop, the radio is blaring the Rolling Stones.

He reaches over to turn it down, asking over his shoulder, “How are your parents, Harry?” An easy question to get the conversation rolling, and soon he will ask about Sirius. Not yet. He throws the kids a conversational low ball.

Regulus’s question is met with silence.

When he turns, the three are firing a silent conversation at each other. Finally, Harry says incredulously, “My parents are dead. They died a while ago. Didn’t you know that?”

Regulus blinks and stutters awkwardly, “I didn’t. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m a little out of the loop. Mail doesn’t get here often, and no one knows I’m alive… so… I don’t hear much.” After a long, terse silence, he can’t hold his question any longer. “How is Sirius?”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione go mum and raise their eyebrows at each other. Regulus’s teeth clench. Their telepathy is starting to grate on his nerves, just as it had when Sirius and Bellatrix pushed him to the side when he was younger. Back then, at least he had Narcissa to run to. Now, all he has is his fingertips drumming impatiently on the radio as Mick Jagger waxes lyrical about Shining a Light.

Hermione takes a small step forward, meeting his gaze with steely eyes that once again remind him of a time long past. “We’ll answer your questions, but only if you answer our questions first.”

Regulus shrugs. Crosses his arms in front of him. “Of course. But like I told you, I’ve been shut up here for eighteen years. I’m sure I don’t have the answers for you.”

Ron winces. “Yeah, about that. You’re probably only one of two people that we can ask, and the other person is a psychotic murderer. We’re, uh, we’re looking for the Horcruxes.”

For the first time in eighteen years, Regulus feels like he’s drowning again.

*

They don’t talk much over dinner.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione devour the roast like it’s the first meal they’ve had in years, and Regulus holds his plate close to his mouth as he eats over the kitchen sink.

Having company is a funny feeling, but it’s a good one, too.

Regulus secretly likes working at the Morrison’s butcher’s counter. It’s disgusting work, sometimes, but he deserves it. A handful of tourists bother him from time to time, but most customers are regulars— grandmothers who want to set him up with their spinster daughters, grandfathers buying anything they can get their hands on for when the weans come to visit. The weans are coming up on Saturday, they say. Have I shown you a picture of Layla’s new babby? Here she is, that’s Grace. That means there’s five weans running around now, and I’m going to make steak for all of them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus watches Harry, Ron, and Hermione wipe their mouths on their sleeves and lean back in their chairs. 

The weans are here, he thinks, and then smiles.

Regulus throws his plate in the sink and grabs some biscuits from the cabinet, the kind he won’t eat because they taste funny and cheap. He sets them on the table. “How did you find out about the Horcruxes?”

“Dumbledore, kind of,” Harry says, raising his fist to his lips to hide a burp.

Ron nods. “And Slughorn, kind of, too.”

Hermione digs in the bag by her side, and it eats her arm almost to her elbow. “But it really started when we found your note.” She pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, eyes alight. “Before you…erm… died— or didn’t die, you wrote that you’d switched out the lockets and were going to destroy the one that Voldemort made into a horcrux. Do you have it? Or can you help us find it?”

There are only three chairs at the table, so Regulus drags the wooden rocking chair by the bed halfway into the kitchen. He brushes off some black cat hair, then takes the piece of paper from Hermione. His handwriting sings up at him, bold and young and sure.

Regulus smiles. He flicks the paper between his fingers. “No.”

The weans stare at him.

“No, you don’t have it, or no, you won’t help us find it?” Harry asks in alarm.

Regulus hands the note back to Hermione. “Both. I don’t have it, and it can’t be found.”

Ron drags a hand over his face.

“Why?” Hermione sputters. “What happened to it?”

“I destroyed it.” Regulus shrugs.

There is a long silence.

Harry, in the darkness, looks so much like his parents. Like James, watching Regulus on the Quidditch pitch. Like Lily, when they got the same mark on that first exam. “You destroyed the locket?”

“I destroyed all of them.” Regulus counts on his fingers. “The locket, the cup, the diadem, the diary, the ring, and the snake. It took me almost two years. Rotten work.”

Hermione’s mouth is hanging open. “You destroyed all of them? We’ve been looking for horcruxes since Harry’s birthday! And all this time—”

“Since when? When’s your birthday?” Regulus asks, head lolling towards Harry.

Harry’s face is grey. “July thirty first.”

Regulus lets out a little laugh. “That’s my birthday, too! How funny. Does Sirius ever mention—”

“I’m sorry, your shared birthday is not relevant right now,” Hermione snaps in a panic. “Mr Black, you don’t know how important this is. You’re saying that we can kill Voldemort right now?”

Regulus is getting tense, he can feel it in his shoulders. He tries to keep his voice polite. “Tom has never been immortal. He’s always been just a man. Stab him, shoot him, take your pick. Tom will die.”

Hermione’s face twists in confusion. “But it doesn’t make sense,” she whispers. “Harry, your visions!”

“Yeah!” Ron snaps his fingers at Regulus. “Harry gets these dreams where he sees into Voldemort’s head, like they share the same brain. A normal man can’t do that type of magic.”

“He’s been getting angrier,” Harry nods. “Over the last few years, he’s become more evil and more violent. But… he’s scared, too. He gets more scared every day.”

Regulus rocks the rocking chair slowly. “Perhaps he’s scared because he has no armor, and the world is close to knowing his secret. That’s my guess,” he sighs, then sighs again. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for spoiling your adventure. I’d be irate if I set out on a quest and some old man had already done it for me.”

Hermione and Ron try to laugh, Harry doesn’t.

“How did you destroy the Horcruxes?” he asks.

Regulus can’t help but smile. “I burned them with fiendyfire in the loch over there. It was easy, really. I just needed a couple months to figure out how to light it underwater,” he says pertly. “But now I’ve answered all of your questions, so it’s your turn to answer mine. How is my brother?”

Regulus watches Harry’s eyes fall with grief, and Hermione and Ron look down at their shoes. He knows the answer before any of them speak. 

“He’s dead, then?”

Harry nods.

“When?”

“Two years ago.”

Regulus inhales sharply and stands up from the chair. He hears the three of them talking in hushed whispers, and suddenly wishes they would leave. He wants them out of his house and off of his land so that he can think properly.

Sirius is dead.

No. No. Regulus grabs his yellow gloves from above the sink and starts the washing up. He scrubs Ron’s plate and jams it into the drying rack with a little too much force.

Sirius can’t be dead. There are too many people who can’t live without him, Regulus included. What would Sirius’s friends do if he were dead, what would James and Lily and Peter and—

“You said your father is dead,” Regulus says to Harry, and it’s not a question.

“Yeah.”

“And your mother, too.”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder. The only three adults who have ever cared for me are dead, it’s fantastic.”

Regulus scoffs, and he’s being mean now, he knows it. “That can’t be true. What about Peter Pettigrew?”

“He’s the one who led Voldemort right to my parents,” Harry’s voice is getting shrill. “Pettigrew’s the one who murdered them, and they pinned all the blame on—”

“Harry,” Hermione interrupts.

“What?” Harry snaps. “They blamed it on Sirius. They thought Sirius killed my parents. They put him in Azkaban for thirteen years.”

Hermione’s glass slips from Regulus’s fingers and clatters in the sink. He grabs it and rinses the lip. His throat is tight and constricted. “Is Peter dead now?”

“Yes,” Harry answers.

“Good,” Regulus chokes. He needs good news. “Is Marlene McKinnon still around?”

“Dead,” Harry says.

“What about the Longbottoms? I remember them.”

“Tortured.”

“The Prewetts?”

It is Ron who says, “Dead.”

“Mary?” Regulus dreads the answer. It’s quiet for a moment except for the running of the tap.

“Who’s Mary?” Hermione finally asks.

For some reason, this is the answer that Regulus just can’t take. As Regulus’s plate falls, it chips against the faucet, and Regulus leaves it there. He rips the gloves from his hands and steadies himself on the counter. He drops his head, struggling to take a breath.

Mary.

He feels sorry for all of it, for everything he’s done, but what he regrets most is what he did to Mary. How he and Barty and Evan stalked her every move and cut her down in the corridor with the spell they’d learned from Severus, all because they came from magical blood and she didn’t. And she fought back— even as her shirt bloomed red— she fought, and slashed Regulus across the thigh so deeply that he can still see the scar now. When it was over, their blood streamed together on the floor, and Regulus remembers marveling that it looked the same. There was no difference, no gold or sparkle or magic in his that wasn’t also in hers. He owes everything to Mary. He remembered her blood when he turned on Riddle.

Regulus has remembered her blood every day since. 

Of course he works at the butcher’s counter. He’s used to the crimson, feeling the stickiness on the soles of his shoes. He deserves the mess and the stink.

Of course he remembers the customers. Their white hair and wrinkled hands. When Mary Ainslie or Mary McMillen come in, he gives them extra and wraps the meat with careful hands. “Here you are, Mary, love,” he says, and he thinks of Mary, and hopes she’s living a better life.

When Regulus speaks, his voice shakes. “Mary Macdonald was one of my brother’s best friends. She was one of Lily’s best friends.”

“We don’t know a Mary,” Hermione says, and Regulus has to give her credit. She truly sounds apologetic.

Somehow, he walks back over to the rocking chair and collapses in it, pressing his fingertips against his lips. It’s bad enough that Sirius is dead, and James and Lily are gone, but it is torture, the purest, brightest pain, to think that their son doesn’t know Mary Macdonald. How could that be possible? How could the last eighteen years have gone so wrong?

Regulus looks at the weans. There is one more he hasn’t asked about. He knows it. Harry knows it. Regulus can see in Harry’s— Lily’s— eyes that Harry wants to tell him, but Hermione is making him wait. Regulus braces himself for the worst. How can it be good news, if Sirius is gone?

“And how is Remus?”

The three visibly brighten.

“He’s great,” Hermione says. “He married Tonks, and they’re expecting now!”

Regulus’s eyes pop, and he grips the armrests of his chair. “What? Remus married Ted Tonks?”

“No!” Ron guffaws. “Not Tonks’s dad! Nymphadora Tonks, Andromeda’s daughter!”

“My God,” Regulus mutters, placing a hand on his heart to stop its thundering. Ron’s words take their time sinking in. Remus and Andromeda’s daughter? “My God,” he says again, puzzling over the thought. “I guess I’ve missed quite a bit.”

“We don’t want to overload you with information, Mr Black.” Hermione shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “We wouldn't want you to actually die from the shock of everything. Maybe we should go back to our camp.”

“Oh, nonsense.” Regulus waves his hand. “You’ll sleep here.”

Ron looks around the cabin quizzically. “There’s not much room.”

Regulus points at his bed. “Two of you on the bed, one on the sofa.”

“Where will you sleep?” asks Harry.

“Don’t worry about me,” Regulus assures him. There’s a roar in his ears that’s threatening his composure. He needs to be alone. “I think I’ll go for a swim, anyway. To clear my head and avoid death by shock. While I’m gone, make yourselves at home.”

The weans busy themselves arguing over the sofa while Regulus skirts around them, pulling on his boots and winter coat. There are one million voices screaming in his head, one question louder than all the others. He turns to Harry. “Please tell me how he died.”

Harry’s face falls again, and Regulus’s gut rolls. “It was my fault. I had a dream about the prophecy, that Voldemort kidnapped Sirius and brought him to the Department of Mysteries. I swear he was there. But when we got there to rescue him, we were ambushed. Sirius came to save us, and… and…”

“And was killed,” Regulus finishes for him.

“Bellatrix Lestrange did it,” Ron says, and Regulus has to ignore him.

He zips his coat, hands shaking just a little. “What does it say?”

Harry’s brow furrows. “What?”

“The prophecy. What does it say?”

“Oh, it’s a long one,” Hermione jumps in. She looks up as she recites the words. “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. Or something like that.”

Regulus nods. Undisturbed. Indifferent. Shaking. “Did my brother ever hear this prophecy?”

“He must have known about it,” Harry says, looking at his friends. 

“But did he hear it?” Regulus presses. “Every word?”

“I don’t know. He knew it was about me and that’s why my parents went into hiding. I don’t know if he ever heard it word for word.”

When Regulus smiles, it feels like baring his teeth. “Right. Well, great. That is just great. And of no matter. Erm… goodnight, then.”

He exits the cabin, turns to his frozen garden beds, and vomits.

*

The night is inky black, and down by the loch, Regulus can hear the ice reforming. He plunges his hands into the water, opens and closes his fists.

It’s too much. The world seems flipped on its head and turned. Regulus can feel his heart splitting, the same sound the water makes when it cracks and gasps in true winter. The words of the prophecy ring in his head.

Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. 

Born to those who have thrice defied him.

Who have thrice defied him.

Thrice.

Regulus yanks his hands out of the water and undresses in frustration. Leaving his heavy clothes on the shore, he splashes into the water and throws himself into a front crawl.

Once.

“Mama, tell me the story of when I was born,” Regulus said, crawling onto Walburga’s lap. He had heard the story of his cousins’ birthdays more times than he could count, and every year before Sirius blew out his candles, Orion told the story of the night the Black heir was born. But Regulus had never heard his story, and now, on the eve of his fifth birthday, curiosity blistered underneath his skin.

Even though the day had been hot, and the thunderstorm had not yet broken through the clouds, Walburga laid a hand on Regulus’s sweaty forehead and pulled him close. In the corner, Sirius hummed to himself as he plodded along on the piano.

“There’s not much to tell, darling. You came early,” Walburga said.

“But what happened that day?” Regulus pressed. “How did you know I was coming?”

Regulus felt his mother take a pained breath. He looked up and saw a bead of sweat trickle down her neck.

Walburga’s forehead was pinched. “It was a very important day, and in the morning, we thought of other things. Our… friend was returning, and he had called all the important families to the Carrows’ country estate to celebrate his return. Do you remember when we visited the Carrows last spring?”

Regulus crinkled his nose. “I don’t like the Carrows.”

“Me neither,” Sirius chirped from the piano, and Walburga snapped, “Sirius Black! Your half an hour isn’t done yet.”

Sirius slouched and played a dramatic D Minor, which made Regulus giggle.

“It was supposed to be the most important day of our lives,” Walburga sighed. “But you came. Early. Too early. Our friend was very angry that Father and I hadn’t visited him. I tried, but… well, I was still hurting very badly. I tried to get out of bed. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

Regulus pouted. This wasn’t like Sirius or Narcissa’s stories at all. He snuggled closer to Walburga. “Is your friend still angry with you?”

“He remembers that we weren’t there.”

“Oh.”

Walburga gave Regulus a little squeeze. “That means we have to be very kind to him in the future, and do anything he asks us to do. Do you understand? We owe it to him. You owe it to him.”

Regulus nodded against Walburga’s chest. The room was silent for a moment as Sirius puzzled out a chord. The first rumbles of thunder sounded in the distance, low and foreboding.

“It was still an important day, though, right?” Regulus asked, and realized guiltily that he had talked in the tone his mother didn’t like, the one that leaned towards a whine.

But this time, Walburga didn’t notice. She looked down at him softly and brushed his eyelids with a fingertip. “You still have many years to prove yourself, my dear son.”

Regulus breaks through the surface of the loch and starts his second lap. He flings his arm behind his head. Backstroke. Breathe, he tells himself. Breathe.

Twice.

Regulus was ten, Sirius was eleven, and they could hear Grandfather Arcturus yelling through the study door.

“Have you lost your mind?” Grandfather thundered, and Sirius turned to Regulus and waggled his eyebrows.

“Father, you don’t understand—” Orion started, but Grandfather Arcturus interrupted.

“The Black family bends for no man! Toujours pur! Do you remember that saying, idiot son of mine? We are leaders, we are pure, we don’t grovel at the feet of some half blood. I have been alive for eighty five years, Orion, I have seen men rise and I have seen men fall. When his plans for a new world fail, you will be left kissing his undeserving feet, and all the world will see. I forbid it. You may not swear your allegiance to anyone but this family.”

“Father, you don’t understand. We’ve defied him once already,” Orion hissed. “He is angry.”

Regulus took a step back from the closed door, but his father and grandfather’s voices were loud now. Kreacher could probably hear them from all the way downstairs.

“What if his plan for a new world works? What if purebloods take back our control of the wizarding world?” Orion asked. “If we don’t swear our allegiance, the Black family will be left behind.”

“That will never happen!” Grandfather Arcturus roars. “As long as a member of the Black family is alive, Riddle— Voldemort, whatever you wish to call him— cannot reign superior. Our conversation is over, Orion. Take my hand. Vow to me that you will not declare allegiance to Riddle in your lifetime.”

Regulus shot a glance at Sirius, wide eyed. The unbreakable vow?

Sirius elbowed him out of the way so he could peer in the keyhole.

“What’s happening?” Regulus whined.

“Shut up!” Sirius snapped.

Regulus could still hear his father’s voice, meeker this time. “I, Orion Black, vow that I will never declare allegiance to Lord Voldemort in my lifetime. I, Orion Black, vow on behalf of my wife, Walburga Black, that she will never declare allegiance to Lord Voldemort in her lifetime.”

“Good,” Arcturus said. “I advise you not to break your promise. You know what will happen.”

There was a short silence, a sharp crack, and finally, Regulus heard his mother’s voice. “Orion, the Dark Lord will kill us all.”

Regulus’s heart pounded hard in his chest. He reached out and gripped Sirius’s shoulder.

Sirius’s face was pale, but he shrugged Regulus off. “Yeah, right. I’d like to see anyone try to kill our mother,” he said in a low tone.

“Don’t say that,” Regulus whispered, chest tight with panic.

They could hear Walburga pacing the floor.

“What about our boys?” Her steps paused. “We can’t declare allegiance to the Dark Lord, but what if we promised our boys to him?”

“Walburga, that feels quite medieval.”

“Do we have another choice, Orion? You heard what the Dark Lord said at the last meeting! He’s expecting our support! If we don’t show it, our boys will be punished.”

“But if we promise Sirius and Regulus to him, they’ll be spared.”

“And we will be spared, too.”

Sirius straightened, and Regulus jostled him out of the way so that he could see through the keyhole. His mother stood by the fireplace. His father sat, defeated, at his desk.

In a few short steps, Walburga took Orion’s hand in hers. “Sixteen,” she said earnestly. “We’ll tell the Dark Lord that Sirius and Regulus will pledge allegiance to him and his cause once they reach the age of sixteen.”

“What if they refuse?” Orion asked.

“They will not dare refuse. I’ll make sure of it.”

Sirius’s expression twisted into something dark. “We come from a shit family,” he spat, and Regulus’s eyes widened.

Where had Sirius heard that word? And how could he throw his anger so easily at their mother and father— and at Regulus? He hadn’t made the unbreakable vow or promised himself to a dark lord. He hadn’t done anything at all. He was ten.

Regulus opened his mouth to respond, but Sirius turned on his heel and ran down the hallway, slamming his bedroom door so that the whole manor rattled.

Regulus turned in the opposite direction and shut his own door with a soft click.

Regulus passes his pile of clothes for the third time, now. Breaststroke. Every time his head dips beneath the water, he sees Sirius’s face.

Thrice.

“How could he?” Walburga screamed. Her hair had come undone from her tight bun and flailed wildly around her head. Her eyes were crazed, clothes torn. 

It was the eve of Regulus’s birthday, the next day he would turn fifteen.

No one remembered. Sirius was gone.

“Thrice!” Walburga’s scream cut deep into the walls of Grimmauld Place. “Thrice we have mocked the Dark Lord! He will kill us all! Why would he— how could he—”

“Mother.” Regulus tried to calm her, placing what he hoped was a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“You,” Walburga whirled on him. Regulus barely recognized her. She dove towards the fireplace and scraped at the floo powder, pushing a grainy handful into his hands. “He loves you. Go find him, Regulus. Bring him back.”

Regulus closed his hand around the powder.“I’ll bring him back, Mother. Don’t worry.” 

Walburga collapsed in front of him, howling almost in pain.

“Kreacher!” Regulus yelled, and the elf poked his head into the room, wringing his hands nervously. “Bring me the potion that’s brewing in my bedroom. Go!” He turned back to Walburga. “It’s alright, Mother. Kreacher’s fetching your tea. I’ll be back soon, alright? And maybe Father will come down and help. Kreacher! Where are you?”

“Here, Master Regulus, here,” Kreacher said in his wobbly voice. He held out the potion, still steaming.

Regulus forced Walburga’s head back and urged her to sip from the bottle. When the liquid hit her lips, her eyes glazed and her grip on Regulus’s wrist weakened.

“I’ll be back soon,” he assured her.

Walburga’s face crumpled. “Bring him back with you.” She blinked slowly, and Kreacher caught her as she fell backwards.

Regulus stood and stepped into the fireplace, mind racing.

Potter Manor, he told himself. Go to Potter Manor.

But he couldn't move. He couldn’t do it. Flashes of Sirius burst through his mind— Sirius laughing in the Hogwarts corridors, Sirius leaning against Remus’s knee in the Gryffindor common room, Sirius smiling to himself in the library as he did his school work, all while a black cat watched and understood. Sirius was buoyed at the Potters’ with the heaviest anchor, and Regulus didn’t have the strength to pull it up.

It was better for all of them— for their mother, their father, for Regulus, and for Sirius— if Regulus let Sirius go.

Regulus would be better. He’d pledge allegiance on his fifteenth birthday, not his sixteenth. He'd be as loyal as two sons. He’d do anything the Dark Lord asked him to do if it meant that his brother could walk free.

On the floor, Walburga’s eyes fluttered closed.

Regulus opened his fist, watching the floo powder fall back into the jar by the chimney. He stepped out of the fireplace and knelt by his mother’s head. “He’s gone, Mama, but you have me,” Regulus whispered, taking her limp hand in his. “You have me.”

Thrice.

Thrice.

It’s a stupid, antique word, and when Regulus was eighteen, it was his leash. Thrice, he was reminded often, and upon hearing that word he would kill, maim, sever. Anything to protect his ailing parents, anything to protect himself. He didn't have a choice.

Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. 

Regulus wades out of the frigid water and towels off his burning body. He glances back at the dim light from the cabin to check if he’s truly alone, and when he knows that he is, his body shrinks, elongates, and sprouts with sleek, black hair.

The cat presses its fur in the towel, drying the last stubborn drops of water.

When he shifts out of his animagus form, Regulus pulls on his clothes. He looks up at the brightest star in the sky and starts to cry.

He’s lived by himself for eighteen years, but he has never felt so utterly and completely alone. Sirius, the only other person in the entire world who could understand the prophecy, is dead. 

Regulus folds in on himself, dropping his head between his knees and hugging his legs as he cries. The tears are hot against his frozen skin, and it makes him angry to think that something inside him is still alive and burning. He wishes he was like the ice along the loch— oblivious, careless, indifferent at the thought of melting away.

Regulus needs Sirius here. He needs someone to tell him what to do, how to help the weans. He doesn’t know how to handle the information they’ve given him. How can he explain that the most obvious answer is never the real one? 

The prophecy doesn’t point to the green eyed boy sleeping inside the cabin. It points to a sad old man who is screaming at a star.

Regulus wipes at his snot, tries to blink through blurry tears. Did Sirius feel like this when Regulus died? Black Heir Dead at 18. Regulus had seen the trampled headline at a bus stop, covered with dirt and footprints. He’d smirked, clad in his disguises, and when he stepped on it, he twisted his foot so the paper tore. He’d never thought about what Sirius must have felt when he saw those same words.

In eighteen years, he’d never considered that Sirius must have felt this, this sudden, violent destruction of a part of his soul.

“My brother,” Regulus howls at the sky, his throat thick with anger and mucus. “My idiot brother.”

*

“We’re leaving today,” Harry says the next morning. “I think we’ll head back towards Hogwarts to let the Order know about the Horcruxes.”

Regulus nods, mute. He feels as if he’s been hit by a truck. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and his shoulders ache from sleeping as a cat the entire night. It’s all he can do to flip the sizzling pancakes.

If Harry notices the state Regulus is in, he’s kind enough not to say anything. He grabs a pancake from Regulus’s pile and takes a large bite. “You could come with us.”

Regulus’s lips twitch in a smile. “It’s tempting, but no, thank you.”

They’re quiet for a moment as they watch the next pancake bubble.

“Why didn’t you ever reach out to Sirius?” Harry asks.

Fresh emotion roars in Regulus’s ears. “He wouldn’t have wanted to hear from me.”

“Sure he would.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Regulus says, a little too loudly. He peers at the bed and is relieved that Ron and Hermione are still sleeping. “I knew him very well, Harry. Better than you ever knew him. When I… left, Sirius had a beautiful, full life. Picture perfect. He had Remus, he had James and Peter, and your grandparents adopted him as their own. I couldn’t get in the way of that.”

“But if he knew the things that you did— if he knew that you destroyed the Horcruxes—”

“Harry, you don’t know the boy I was back then. The Aurors had orders to kill me on sight. Even if I explained my whole situation, none of them would forgive me for the pain I caused. I didn’t… I didn’t expect to survive the cave. No regular human could survive it. But I did, because when I was twelve I copied my brother and your father and became an animagus. The cat saved me." He's never spoken these words to anyone, and it feels surreal to say them now, in the kitchen flipping pancakes for Lily and James's son.

Regulus steels his jaw and plows forward. "It took me three days to climb out of the cave and up the cliffs. I slept on rocks that were centimeters wide and dripping wet from the sea spray. When I got to the top, my claws were down to nubs, I was exhausted, and the world believed I was dead. I remember thinking, why not? I’d betrayed Riddle, I was an enemy of the Ministry and the Order, and I didn't have any friends or any family to help me. Nothing has changed since then. I'll never be accepted back into the wizarding world, that’s a fact.”

“No, it’s not,” Harry argues, mouth full of pancakes. “You don’t know how important those Horcruxes were. You could be a hero!”

Regulus shakes his head. “I didn’t find the Horcruxes so that I could be a hero. It was penance. Atonement.”

Harry fixes Regulus with Lily’s stare. “You’re one of the few adults that can really help us.”

Once again, Regulus is at a loss of what to say to the boy. Finally, he puts down the spatula and grips Harry’s shoulders. Hard. “I’m sorry, truly. I’m sorry for all of it. I’m sorry about the prophecy and the stress you’re under and how there’s no one around to help you. But I can’t act in loco parentis for you, or for your friends. I’ll watch out for you, but as a dead man, I can’t do much more.”

It rips Regulus’s heart open to say those words and to see the hope on Harry’s face evaporate.

“Fine. We’re used to going it alone. Just thought I’d ask,” Harry says with forced nonchalance, taking a step back from Regulus.

Regulus watches silently as Harry treads over to the bed and shakes Ron and Hermione. They slowly come to life and reach for their things, remarking how good it smells in the cabin, how nice it is to eat some real food.

Sirius, Regulus thinks. Help me. What would you do? What did you do?

When he turns back to the stove, his gaze snags on his wand, which is shoved in a glass jar on the counter with his dish scrubbers. The morning light dances across it, brighter than any star.

*

Regulus stalks them from a distance, as if he’s a mountain lion instead of just a house cat.

He watches the three children apparate into Hogsmeade, then sneak into the school. He’s hiding when they rally their troops, call the Order in, banish Severus and his cronies beyond the school grounds and activate their shields.

He watches it dawn on Harry, that he is not the one the prophecy speaks of, he has a different role to play. A final role, a terrible role, a role that Regulus would trade for in a heartbeat. 

Harry is Riddle’s last Horcrux.

When Regulus tracked down the other six horcruxes, Riddle could feel it, and in a moment of retaliation and anger, transferred a part of himself into Harry, knowing whoever was destroying the objects could not destroy the boy.

Riddle is right.

Regulus watches from behind beady, emerald eyes as Harry and Riddle duel in the forest. Riddle blasts the killing curse at Harry, and only Regulus and Narcissa notice what the curse really killed.

He trots back up to the castle, black tail swinging. 

He turns back into his human form. He steps into the courtyard. He waits for them to notice.

No one does.

What would Sirius do? He thinks, and smiles at the answer.

*

Riddle and his pack of murderers walk slowly across the crumbling bridge and into the courtyard. Harry hangs limply from Hagrid’s arms. Slowly, agonizingly, his chest rises and falls.

“HARRY POTTER IS DEAD!” Riddle cries, and the people crowding on either side of Regulus let out a gasp.

Good lord, Regulus thinks, but remains silent and hidden.

“Now is the time to put your faith in me,” Riddle announces, but his face is hidden by the throngs of students and professors. Regulus can only see the white of his arms and hear the dangerous rhythm of his voice. “Join us or die. Are any of you smart enough? Are any of you brave enough? Who will be the first of many to pledge their allegiance to the victors?”

The children glance at each other. The air is thick with loss and ash.

“Excuse me,” Regulus whispers, placing a hand on a redheaded girl’s shoulder so he can move by her. “Sorry, excuse me, darling.”

Startling, she takes a step back, then the boy next to her steps back, and suddenly Regulus has cleared a path all the way to Riddle.

“Hello, Tom,” Regulus says, halting at the front of the crowd. “You’ve aged terribly.”

Riddle balks. His cheeks are sallow now, his skin ghostly white. Sometime in the last eighteen years, his nose has been lopped off, and with his open nostrils, it’s as if Riddle is staring at Regulus with two pairs of eyes, all four snake-like. “Could it be? The youngest Black?”

“Who?” the redhead asks.

“Unfortunately, yes, it’s me,” Regulus says, unshakeably calm. “I’ve been having a great retirement, but it’s come to my attention that you orchestrated my brother’s death. Do you remember Sirius Black? He was a genius, and the kindest person I’ve ever met, and you used him as a pawn and as bait. I’m a little angry about all that.”

Regulus takes a step towards Riddle, and Riddle recoils. He nearly bumps into Hagrid and Harry, but quickly regains his footing. His eyes shoot back and forth, and he’s rattled, Regulus can tell.

Regulus raises his voice, brandishing his wand at his side. “It makes me angry because you promised, on my fifteenth birthday, that you wouldn’t harm any member of my family as long as I answered to you. I did everything you asked me to, no matter how violent or bloody or inhumane. Can you imagine how I felt when I found out he was dead? When I found out you went back on your promise? You’re a liar, Riddle. I'm glad I destroyed your Horcruxes when I did. Now we can duel on even terms.”

Riddle’s face clouds with rage. “You!” he hisses, holding his wand in front of him. “It was you.”

“It was me who discovered your secret!” Regulus shouts to the courtyard. “Now I’m here to finish the job. For myself and for my brother! Avada Kedavra!”

The spell cracks against a column, and the air erupts in screams. Harry twists out of Hagrid’s arms and makes a break for the castle. The crowd of Death Eaters is pushed back as Regulus spars with Riddle, sharp cracks ringing throughout the courtyard as the cowards flee. Regulus can't hear anything over the anger in his chest.

Riddle disarms Regulus, but he doesn't care. He throws himself at Riddle and attacks his old captor with all the strength he can muster. He manages to grab a handful of Riddle’s robes and shoves, sending the two of them plummeting off the bridge. The wind whips through their teeth and fists.

Somehow, Riddle stops them before they hit the ground, and they fall the last remaining distance without the threat of impact. When Regulus stands, his legs are knee deep in icy water.

The Black Lake.

Riddle raises his arm and starts to speak, but Regulus tackles him, sending him splashing underneath the surface. Regulus’s breath is calm and steady. He finds Riddle’s throat with his hands and squeezes. Wills his fingers together. Pushes down.

Riddle struggles and his hands bat at the water. Regulus doesn’t let go. He thinks of how Sirius used to laugh, used to shake his hair and show off the gleam in his eye, and how much Regulus looked up to him. 

Regulus loved Sirius. He loves him.

And this man, this mortal man choking and dying between his fingers, made sure that Sirius would die. He lodged a part of himself in Harry in a sick attempt at immortality. He murdered James and Lily and Marlene in cold blood. He kept Mary Macdonald from Harry. He murdered Sirius.

Regulus closes his fist, and the bubbles stop.

Heaving, he wipes the sweat and blood from his eyes. Next to him, beneath the softly lapping waves, something glitters. Regulus reaches into the water and his hands close around cold metal.

He drags it up from the bottom of the lake, and it shimmers in the sun when it breaks through the surface.

A sword.

Regulus doesn’t think.

He aims the sword downwards and plunges it through Riddle’s cold body, buoying him in place. His blood seeps out around the silver, and it is red.

There is no magic, there is no gold, there is nothing special in the thick liquid of it.

Tom Riddle’s blood is red.

*

“Do you need anything, dear? Water? Bandages?”

Regulus looks up at the witch bobbing above him. She holds a tray of little cups with a placid smile. She’s somebody’s mother, probably, unaware of who Regulus is and what he’s just done. In the last hour, they’ve started to let civilians into the Great Hall collect their children and take them home. The castle is slowly emptying, but Regulus can’t leave yet.

“Thank you.” He nods politely and takes a cup of water.

Her smile slips as she looks down at the bodies next to him. “Were they your friends?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says, then moves on, leaning down at every vigil.

Regulus sighs, gaze resting on Remus’s corpse. “Something like that,” he repeats.

In another life, friends. In another life, family.

Regulus noticed Remus immediately after returning from the Black Lake. He was laid out in the center of the Great Hall, still holding hands with the girl who must’ve been Andromeda’s daughter. Remus’s collar was out of shape, his hair mussed, with one pocket torn and hanging limply inside out.

Regulus dragged Remus and Tonks through the rows of dead over to the far wall. For an hour he crouched over them, putting them slowly back together. He straightened Remus’s hair with his fingers, fixed his collar smartly— the way he remembered Remus wearing his button-down during school— and wiped the dust from Remus’s clothes the way Sirius would have wanted.

What a lucky man, Regulus thinks, looking down at Remus’s ashen face, to have a Black looking out for him in life and in death. It probably protected him more than he ever knew.

Regulus will not leave Remus’s side until he is interred, he promises himself. He will see that the Tonks girl is reunited with Andromeda and Ted. He will carve a headstone for Sirius and place Remus and Tonks by his side, so that the three of them will finally rest. Regulus will dig a grave on the other side of his brother, and one day that resting spot will be his.

The new and noble house of Black.

The thought makes fresh tears sting in the corner of Regulus’s eyes, and he rushes to wipe them away as a shadow falls over Remus’s body.

A girl looks down at him, a deep gash on her forehead and a faraway look in her eyes. “Hello, Uncle,” she says softly.

Her hair is lighter than Pandora’s ever was, but Regulus recognizes her immediately. “Hello,” he croaks.

She sits down beside him and loops her arm through his. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she leans her head against his shoulder. “Everyone thinks you’re brave, even if they’re not saying it.”

Regulus’s throat closes again, but it doesn’t feel like drowning. He rolls his head back against the wall and stares up at the blue sky ceiling.

“Professor Lupin was my favorite professor,” the girl whispers, voice muffling against Regulus’s robes. “When we learned about boggarts, he told us about a student who was was afraid of the Giant Squid. That was you, wasn’t it?”

Regulus smiles. Feels his eyes leak. “That was me.”

“Mum talked about you all the time. She kept your picture on the mantle— I used to say good morning and goodnight to you when I was younger. You were my friend.” Regulus feels her body deflate in a sigh. “There will be too many new professors when school starts again.”

Regulus’s gaze shifts to the center of the Great Hall. There is a murmuring crowd gathered over the dead Weasley boy. Harry, Ron, and Hermione quickly nod in Regulus's direction as they stumble over the rubble and out the front entrance. McGonagall, Slughorn, and Kingsley bow their heads in hushed conversation, shooting glances at him every few seconds.

There are so many Death Eaters to hunt down, so many teaching positions to fill. 

There’s no question of where Regulus’s allegiances lie now— he has turned his back on his old life by plunging a sword through its chest. He knows where Death Eaters will hide and how to lure them to justice. As he looks around the Great Hall, there are only young faces, and very few ones that wrinkle like his.

Kingsley starts to make his way across the room, and Regulus can tell from the way Slughorn and McGonagall are watching that Kinglsey is about to offer him a job.

Regulus will do it.

He will stand, shake Kingsley’s hand, and tell him he needs a month to prepare. He has a burial to attend to, a life to begin, and a tidy cabin in the highlands that needs a good vacuuming. After that, he’ll help in any way that he can, but he will not kill. Not ever again.

Regulus pats the girl’s hand, and she loosens her grip on his arm. He gets to his feet, groaning a little at the soreness in his legs, and wipes his palm on his robes.

Kingsley saunters over and extends a hand in greeting. “It’s been a while, Mr Black. I’m sorry that we have to reunite under these circumstances. Lupin was a fine man, a good man. I know this is an importune time, and I hope this isn’t an inappropriate question to ask, but—“

Regulus cracks a smile. “Are you hiring?”

Kingsley’s eyebrows raise slightly.

After all, Regulus Black doesn’t miss a trick.