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The library of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place has always been the quietest part of the house.
That's why Regulus gravitates to it—for the peace, for the stillness, for somewhere he can shut the door on the rest of the world. Very few people enter the library. Father does sometimes, but he's more likely to summon books directly to his study and read them there. Even when he does come in, he ignores Regulus, which does quite a bit to mitigate Regulus's carefully-concealed irritation at the intrusion. (Nothing like when Sirius used to barge into Regulus's bedroom and demand his attention—the sign on the door did exactly nothing to keep him out. Regulus hasn't taken it down yet, even though Sirius ran away in June and it's December now. He'll get to it. Eventually.)
Now that Sirius is gone, of course, the whole house is quieter, but Regulus still likes the specific silence of the library. The noiseless carpet and furniture, as well as the subtle auditory ward around the room (carved out of a linen closet, decades ago, with several Undetectable Expansion Charms and wards to stabilize the space), mean he can only hear the fire crackling, the pages of his book turning, and his quill scratching on parchment.
The pages are not turning as fast as Regulus would like, however. He'd thought enchanting his textbooks to detect when he was done with a page and turn it over themselves would be good practice for the Charms OWL, so he spent three hours on it this morning. The results are... mediocre. Each page is beginning to turn once he's done reading it, which means he copied the runic enchantment properly, but the pages are turning so slowly that he can read the page twice over before it flips. Which means the issue is with his Animation Charm, which is exactly what he'd thought he had finally worked out.
He finishes writing his note about feldspar's uses in illusory potions and the page begins to turn, excruciatingly slowly. At this rate, it's hindering rather than helping him, but it's still with some reluctance that he picks up his wand. "Finite."
The page falls back to where it was, and Regulus allows himself the luxury of slumping forward and dropping his head into his arms. Practically melted. Just like his willpower when he thinks about redoing that Animation Charm yet again. There's clearly something he's not getting about it, but it's been months since Flitwick taught it and Regulus is still no closer to figuring out what he's missing.
Mother and Father won't be pleased if they find out Regulus had to ask a professor for help with coursework, but at this point, he's at a loss for what else to do. He might be able to persuade Barty to ask for him, but Barty's Animation Charm is perfectly fine, so Flitwick would undoubtedly have some suspicions about why he needed help with it all of a sudden. Regulus could try gently pointing out to his parents that in his opinion, discreetly asking for help from a professor is better than doing poorly on the OWL, but that would get him precisely nowhere. Black heirs simply do not do poorly on exams, after all. He has two options: be naturally talented, or figure it out himself so he can pretend to be naturally talented. The former method has never been possible with Charms, and the latter is proving to be insufficient.
Naturally, because Regulus's entire family has a gift for horrible timing, that's when there's a soft click of a door handle turning. It's probably Father, who has never cared (or noticed) quite as much about propriety as Mother, but Regulus straightens up anyway and pretends to look engrossed in his textbook.
Then he notices that the door at the far end of the library, the one that leads to Father's study two floors below, is still closed. Which means...
"Regulus," Mother's voice says from behind him, cool and fluid, weaving its way into the silence instead of breaking it the way Father would. (The way Sirius would.) Mother is like that. Regulus has only ever seen her look out of place on Platform Nine and Three Quarters, standing still and proud among families saying their emotional hellos or goodbyes.
He makes sure his face is politely blank and turns, just far enough to see her in the doorway, not far enough to crane his neck in anything resembling an undignified manner. "Yes, Mother?"
Her lips are pinched the tiniest bit. That's never good, although it could be worse, could be furrowed eyebrows or narrowed eyes instead of mostly-concealed displeasure. "Come with me. There is a matter that requires your immediate attention."
She turns and walks away without waiting for a response, dragonhide heels clicking on the hallway's polished hardwood. Regulus only pauses long enough to put the lid back onto his inkpot before following her. This is something he is still getting used to: his family seeking him out. Sirius would take his time if Mother said something like that to him, but Regulus does not share Sirius's inexplicable desire to cause as many problems as possible. Especially not when Mother already seems unhappy.
She takes the quick way to the parlor, up the stairs to the nearest landing, neatly sidestepping the cursed chandelier when it tries to sneak one crystalline tendril around her neck. This is Sirius's handiwork, a spell shot upward on impulse as he dragged his trunk down the stairs. Regulus still isn't sure if he meant for it to strangle or hang the victim, not that it matters. The chandelier is just one more hazard of navigating the house, and an ineffectual one at that. It can't even get at Mother when she pauses to open the door on the landing and enter the parlor, and when Regulus approaches, it's too confused by the prospect of two different targets to even aim for him.
He steps into the parlor and closes the door quietly behind himself. It melts into the wall, silver handle sinking into the wainscoting. This door is one-way, so Regulus will have to leave through the main door and climb every flight of stairs he just skipped to get back to the library.
Mother takes a seat on her favorite sofa (which always makes Regulus feel as if he's sinking into the floor, but either the sofa likes her more or she doesn't care). "Kreacher."
Kreacher pops into the room holding a tray with tea for two, which is when Regulus's sense of vague uneasiness solidifies into general foreboding. Sometimes Mother likes to spontaneously check in with Regulus, give him instructions for whatever ball or luncheon or dinner party they're attending next, deliver axioms about how Heir Black should behave that always sound a little more like threats, things like that. But if Kreacher knew to bring tea for both of them, then this conversation was planned.
Lovely.
Kreacher knows their preferences well enough not to ask before dropping one sugar cube into each cup of tea and setting the spoons to stirring, quickly enough to dissolve the sugar, carefully enough to keep from clinking against the sides of the teacups. A splash of milk in one cup, none in the other.
Mother barely waits for the spoon to stop stirring her tea before she holds out a hand expectantly, and her tea floats over to her, dark liquid a sharp contrast to the pristine white of the cup and saucer. "Dismissed."
Kreacher doesn't even glance in Regulus's direction before disappearing. If only Regulus knew whether that was a good sign.
He takes a seat in a straight-backed chair upholstered in deep blue brocade and accepts his tea when it reaches him, but he doesn't sip from it just yet. Is it better to ask Mother what she wanted to talk about or let her bring it up herself? Is this the sort of conversation where casually drinking tea would look flippant?
Mother saves Regulus from needing to answer one of those questions when she says, "It is past time that we discussed your future."
That can't be good.
Regulus tamps down the urge to glance at the heir ring on his left hand, heavy silver engraved with the Black crest. He's had it for six months almost to the day, each one of them counted as Regulus waited for this conversation, never knowing exactly when it would come. Becoming Heir Black comes with a price, and the cost of the ring on his finger is repairing all of the family's hopes that Sirius shattered. First and foremost, the issue that sparked the argument that turned into a forest fire brutal enough to drive Sirius from the house and burn his name off of the family tapestry with furious precision.
Lord Voldemort wants a servant from the House of Black. Mother and Father want their heir positioned where he can take advantage of Voldemort's meteoric rise to power. It could have worked out very neatly if Sirius hadn't objected.
Regulus wants to wrap his hands around his teacup, focus on its warmth instead of the cold trepidation making itself known in his chest, but that would make him look anxious, so he can't. Instead, he nods and takes a slow sip while he collects his thoughts.
Maybe this is supposed to be a simple conversation, instruction and acceptance without protest. Regulus is not inflexible. He has done his best to twist himself into what his family needs him to be, what his peers expect him to be, adapting with a malleability that Salazar Slytherin himself would probably appreciate. Regulus never quite managed to be what Sirius thought he should be, though.
No matter. Sirius is gone. He won't lead Regulus out of this mess any more than he'll apologize for getting Regulus into it. (He'd probably consider it justice, in a way, punishing Regulus for daring to be so noncommittal, backing him into a corner and forcing him to choose. Expecting him to choose the 'right' way.) There will be no rescue. Regulus is on his own.
"The Dark Lord is generous with his Mark when amassing common soldiers," Mother says. "You will not lower yourself in such a manner."
Regulus is not naive enough to assume this means she has changed her mind about sending a son off to the Death Eaters. Mother is as stubborn as Sirius, or maybe it's the other way around. Once she's decided on a course of action, she has to see it through, no matter how much adapting it might take.
"You will be influential, as befits a Black," she continues. "Bellatrix has already made herself indispensable. You will no longer permit her to surpass you. Do what is necessary to that end. Should you require assistance..." Her lip curls, most likely at the notion of Heir Black possibly requiring assistance, precise plum lipstick like a stain against powder-pale skin. "Bellatrix would be pleased to prepare you to better serve him."
Regulus can think of many, many things he would rather do than ask Bellatrix to teach him to be a good Death Eater. Absolutely nothing about the prospect is appealing. It manages to combine asking Bellatrix for help, enduring her less-than-patient teaching methods, and investing time and effort in improving his qualifications for a role he does not want. Extracting bubotuber pus without gloves would be more enjoyable.
He doesn't say that, of course. In general, he prefers for his conversations with Mother to lack the screeching and melodramatics that were a cornerstone of her interactions with Sirius.
"Fortunately, you are young." (Mother has a way of saying words like 'fortunately' that makes it quite clear that she does not feel fortunate in the slightest.) "You have until you come of age to ensure that he will... appreciate your worth."
Mother never stops to collect her thoughts mid-sentence. If she pauses, it's not hesitation, but emphasis, a hint that Regulus should think very carefully about what she is actually saying.
In this case, she is saying that he has a year and a half to transform himself into the kind of person who could make up for the loss of Sirius's service. Regulus knows what that means—ferocious, decisive, fiery, aggressive, but only a worthwhile investment as long as one has his loyalty. Voldemort does not have Sirius's loyalty. The Blacks do not have Sirius's loyalty. James Potter has Sirius's loyalty, and that is how it will stay, Potter and his devoted servant.
Regulus cannot be like that. He has never been, nor will he ever be, fiery. He's thoughtful, level-headed, watches and waits for the right moment to get involved instead of diving in headfirst like Sirius would.
But more importantly, Regulus will not bend his knee to anyone. He'd tried—he'd tried to stay out of the power games in Slytherin back in his first year. For about an hour. But he couldn't help himself, entered the battle to prove he could win it, discovered that he thrived on not knowing who would stab him in the back next. It's probably good that he did, because there is no such thing as staying out of it. Not in Slytherin. Not in the House of Black. Not in the war.
The family tapestry hangs on the wall above Mother's sofa, dark fabric with gold embroidery winking at Regulus. From this chair, he can pretend not to see the burns, perfectly round, thread shriveled and blackened where it meets a name that has been struck down. Sirius's name—the place where it was, at least—is near the bottom, a neat hole just to the left of Regulus Arcturus Black, heir to the lordship.
Regulus can't do what Sirius did—pitch a fit, get into a fight with Mother that makes the chandeliers shake and the portraits frown disapprovingly, turn Grimmauld Place into an explosion waiting to happen, and then run off to Potter to avoid facing consequences, leaving Regulus to pick up the pieces.
And Regulus is not like Sirius, casual with displays of power, the center of attention in every room, insistent on getting his way no matter what. Even if he didn't already know that, other people have no qualms about informing him. There will be no slammed doors, no stomping on the stairs, no raised voices, no Father emerging from his study to ask Mother what's going on. There will be no hastily packed trunks thrown onto the sidewalk, no more names burned off of the family tapestry. There will be no repeat of the events of June.
But that does not mean Regulus is going to let Mother force him into making up for all of Sirius's transgressions.
He will not kneel to Voldemort.
He will not kneel to anyone.
And if he intends to walk away from this war with his back straight and his head high, he cannot settle for watching and waiting and hoping. Because there is no such thing as staying out of it. Not for Regulus.
If that means he has to chart a new course through the war, one that doesn't settle for swearing allegiance to another... then that is what he'll do.