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Chapter Text

18 June, 1977

As soon as he lands in Grimmauld Place, he feels like throwing up. Having been used to disapparition since his early childhood, he knows it’s not magic causing the sense of nausea. It’s the star themed tapestry on the walls, the grey cupboard in the living room, the pale wood of the table, the light that doesn’t seem to pass through the window despite the sun still being up: it’s the haunted house he’s in. 

Grimmauld Place is always cold, even in the summer, perhaps it’s Walburga’s dark magic seeping through the walls and freezing the entire house. At least this time Walburga won’t deprive Sirius of the pleasant summer heat. This time, Sirius is far away, tucked under the Potters’ protective spells. 

Regulus will serve as a shield. He’ll bear with Walburga, so Sirius doesn’t have to; he’ll act for her, so Sirius doesn’t have to; he’ll pretend to serve her wishes, then ruin her. He’ll find a way. Revenge runs in his blood as strongly as magic does. He’ll keep his back straight and his eyes cold, turn his bones into steel and freeze his blood if needed. 

One day, he thinks as he stares at her back, Revenge will wash her down. She’ll regret everything she’s ever done and said, she’ll beg for forgiveness, beg for help, just like her sons did, and no one will rescue her.

The sudden movement of her taking off her robes - she always wears those, even in summer, crazy woman- makes him snap out of it. He rolls his shoulders and takes off his own robes in one swift movement.  

“Kreacher, serve us tea,” she says, walking inside the living room. The heel of her shoes makes a dull noise everytime it hits the ground: tap, tap, tap. The sound of her steps makes him shiver, he doesn’t buckle to uneasiness. He follows with forged poise, watching the light of the chandelier sparkle when they walk in the living room.

Kreacher bends his head, glances at Regulus (who waves briefly at him), and snaps his fingers. He’s gone the second later. Regulus stares at the empty spot, and proceeds to force himself to look away.

“Sit down, Regulus. Hand me your wand.” 

He moves his chair quietly, and watches his mother go through a few letters, then setting three on the table. He wrinkles his nose and almost startles when the tea set appears right in front of him, shoulder tense and hands wringing at each other under the table. The tea has already been poured into the mug. At last, he sets his wand on the table and watches her hand snatch it away from him.

“You can drink,” she says, placing Regulus’s wand in one of her pockets. She then sits down in front of Regulus, piercing blue eyes examining him as he takes the mug. “How do you reckon you did in your O.W.L.s?” 

Regulus takes a sip of the tea and grimaces at the taste of dirty water. “I should have done really well, actually. I’ve been studying with-” he stops, frowning. That’s not a piece of information he’s willing to share with her. “I should have good grades.” 

His mother taps her fingers on the table. “Good isn’t enough, Regulus.” Feeling his throat dry, he drinks some more, emptying the mug. “As the heir of our household, you should understand the importance of excellence. When you take the mark, do you think the Dark Lord will be satisfied with just good?” 

“I’m not going to take the mark,” he says, bluntly, then frowns. He didn’t mean to say that. “You put veritaserum in my tea.” 

“That’s what happens when you lie, Regulus.” She stops moving her fingers on the table. “Who’s the wench you were caught with at the beginning of the year?” 

“I haven’t been with any wench,” Regulus replies, glancing at the closed door. With his wand taken and everyone out of reach, he doesn’t just feel caged, but doomed as well. It’s hard to remind himself to be strong when even lies are taken from him.

His mother tilts her head to the side. “Are you defending her, Regulus? Are you in a relationship with this girl?” 

“I’m not.” It’s not a lie: he sort of wants to smile at his small victory. “I haven’t been with any girl.” 

“This is an official letter from the head of your house, Regulus. I don’t believe he lied to me,” Walburga says, running her fingers on the yellow envelope. “You know very well I don’t tolerate affairs of any kind. Your father and I are supposed to find a good wife for you, from a pureblood family. It’s dishonourable and incredibly disrespectful to your family to entertain yourself with another girl in the meantime.” 

“It seems like anything I do is dishonourable to you. I’m a good for nothing and a liar in your eyes-” 

“In my eyes?” Walburga repeats, amused. “In my eyes, you’re a blood traitor and a craven. Not even the shadow of who your brother was.” She spins her wand around her fingers, and he claws at his own leg, keeping himself from flinching. He clenches his jaw, digging nails into his skin. “You must have felt good to send Sirius away, choosing him before the people who gave you life, a roof, food, good education. You ruined everything. However, that was the last time you chose him, Regulus.” He clenches his jaw, grits his teeth together. “I know perfectly where Sirius is and the moment you misbehave will be the moment in which he comes back to this house.” 

“You can’t do that.” Regulus says, in a low voice. “The Potters have full custody of him now. They wouldn’t let you.” He grins, raising his eyes. “Besides, Sirius wouldn’t be able to give you a nephew, mother. Haven’t you heard? He likes blokes, everyone knows at Hogwarts.” 

He sees the green light of the spell and shuts his eyes at the acute pain in his cheek. He touches it, and he’s not surprised to find blood staining his fingers. He blinks at it, and tightens his hand into a fist. Blood smears on his skin.

“Tell me the name of the girl, Regulus.” 

“How many more times do I have to tell you?” Regulus snaps, angrily, standing up. He grips at the table, knuckles white. “There is no girl.” 

Walburga presses her lips together, standing up as well. Instinctively, he steps back, slightly bumping into the chair. “Very well, then. Who is the boy?” 

Regulus’s jaw falls slack and he can feel his face lose colour at the question. With the veritaserum, he struggles to lie; it’s a tricky potion. Omitting things is possible if the question isn’t right, but there’s no way around it otherwise. What most people don’t know is how the truth serum prompts people to tell things, to give away details: not just a blunt answer, but everything needed to back it up. It makes one spill their guts to the person who’s asking; it’s a complete violation of the mind.

He bites his tongue, staring back at her. He won’t tell: he’d rather bleed, he’d rather bite his tongue off than let her any closer to the truth, any closer to James.

“Who is the boy?” She asks again, raising her wand. Again, Regulus feels like throwing up. “Tell me. It’s a mudblood, isn’t it? They’re always tainting good kids.” 

“Nobody tainted me but you,” Regulus says, and it’s an answer and the truth. 

He already knew it would end like this: with him kneeling on the floor, trying not to scream as the acute pain of the Cruciatus curse takes over his whole body. He can tell his mother is yelling at him, but can’t make out the words with how loudly his ears are ringing. It stops, then it goes again, and Regulus keeps a fist tight against the seat of a chair when tears fill his eyes. 

His mind goes back to his childhood. He must have been nine, maybe ten, he doesn’t remember Sirius being there. He found a book on wandless magic in the library and read it in a couple of days, enamoured with the possibility of doing magic before his wand ceremony. The memory is filled with the deep desire to leave everyone with their jaw slack. 

He didn’t manage it, at the time, but the first thing professor Flitwick taught them was to visualise magic. Magic is where rationality doesn’t come first, he used to say, we’re creatures of imagination. If you can’t imagine your magic, it’s all pointless wand movements and meaningless incantations.

He raises his eyes. Mother is surprised, clearly, because for one second, the curse has no effect on him. How beautiful it would be to be able to see her shocked expression, instead of the blurry figure of a woman in a gown. But he doesn’t have time to ruminate on that. 

Regulus has always pictured his magic like a light green thread that pulls at things, sews them together, or ties around them and makes them pop away. Sew an image into another: the glass is now a bunny, but really, the bunny was always there, right behind the glass. Pull at the desk, it will move, don’t pull too hard or it will hurt you. 

This time, the green thread slithers towards his mother. He stares and stares at her wrist, despite the blinding red light of the cruciatus curse, and perhaps that’s what makes him go amiss: the light. But as his magic starts to seep into the room, the window bangs, the floor trembles, the shutters of the cupboard open dangerously, and the green thread pulls at his mother’s wrist, not at her wand, like he originally planned. Her wand clatters to the floor, the curse is broken, Regulus feels like he’ll throw up.

He wanted to disarm her, not break her wrist, and when she screams, Regulus is set free, but he crawls towards the wall in horror, because this- well, this will definitely get his father’s attention. 

And here he comes, tall and broad, salt and pepper hair and beard and an aghast, repelled expression on his face. Walburga screams and cries, and talks about how her son, her disloyal, dishonourable, disrespectful son snapped her wrist. There's blood in her hands, blood on the floor, blood on her sleeve.

“Go to your room,” his father says. Regulus stays unmoved, scared, nauseous, a deep aching pain in his chest as he watches the delicacy of Orion’s touch on Walburga’s arm and hand, evaluating the damage. “Regulus, to your room, now,” he repeats. 

Regulus flees, naturally, but he doesn’t go to his room. The first stop is the bathroom, where he throws up twice, has one panic attack and once that’s all gone, he takes a shower and washes the dirt from his skin. Realistically, there’s not any, besides the blood. He showered in the morning. Still, a sense of filth and contamination takes over him, and he showers. He doesn’t know how long he stays under the water. When he comes out, the sun is still up. He brushes his teeth more than once, lounges in the bathroom some more, then finally calls Kreacher and asks him if he can, please, if he’d be so kind, bring him some clean clothes, the cleanest he can find. 

The clothes don’t quite fit him anymore. The trousers stop above his ankles, the shirt almost shows skin, and Regulus isn’t sure he wants to show skin around the house. Kreacher enlarges it before Regulus starts to panic again. 

His parents are talking in the library, no silencing spell or whatsoever, discussing whether or not he’s fit for the position of the heir. Once again, as if they didn’t discuss it enough the whole summer of 1976, or when Regulus was at Hogwarts, putting shame in the name of the family.

He pads to Sirius’s room with feather-light steps, delicately opens the door. There’s a pixie swinging on the chandelier, and the entire room is dusty. Regulus closes the door and climbs into the bed, just for five minutes, happy to notice Sirius’s smell clinged to the sheets. Then he starts to look for the mirror, but as he does that, the door swings open. Regulus’s hands fall into his lap and he stares at his father, hoping he doesn’t look guilty. 

“This isn’t your room,” he says, frowning. “What are you doing here?” 

“I was…” Regulus looks around, unsure. “I was looking for…” 

“Trouble, that’s what you’re looking for. Go to your room, it’s the third time I've told you so already.” 

Regulus pouts, but he gets up and walks past his father, then to his room. He tries to close the door, but the familiar “Door open, Regulus” comes before he manages. 

He sighs, and it comes out shaky, as if he’s going to cry. The cruciatus curse always makes him cry, it leaves him with pain in his muscles and shaky hands and a hazy head that makes him make awful decisions. Not to mention the way his vision blurs. He opens his window and sticks his head out, taking some fresh air. 

Some muggle kids are playing a ball game, shouting happily, with a luck they don’t know about glimmering over their heads like a small, golden crown. Regulus wants to be back at Hogwarts. It might not be safe, it might not be perfect, but it’s filled with friends. Even better- it would be even better if he was at the Potters, playing Quidditch with James and Sirius in the yard and then setting the table for dinner. No one would be upset if he broke a glass, and he would laugh, joke, be carefree like he was never allowed to be. 

“Don’t unpack,” his father says. 

Regulus turns, blinks at him to try and put him into focus. “Are we going to Nice?” 

“No,” his father replies. Regulus frowns. “Bellatrix will be training you. You’re not in the condition to prove yourself to the dark lord. No one better than Bellatrix to teach you how to be-” 

“A sodding servant,” Regulus sputters. “Heir of a noble and ancient house and you want me to be a servant. What happened to your pride? You have no dignity. You wouldn’t know honour if it slapped you in the face and stole you blind.” 

His father ignores him. Of course he does. Coward. “She’ll be here tomorrow morning. Kreacher will call for dinner.” 

And then he leaves.

24 June, 1977

Regulus is pretty sure he’s in Northern Europe: perhaps Iceland, but there’s no way to be sure. Nights are short, anyway. There’s hours and hours of daylight, and he’s still getting used to it. His bedroom is supplied with thick, dark curtains to close whenever he wants to sleep, a single bed and a desk, white walls and limited space. He doesn’t spend much time there.

Outside, the sun doesn’t burn, it doesn’t at all. Nothing like the hot summers in Nice, where Regulus always got his cheeks tanned and freckled. Here, Summer feels like Autumn, but without all the things that make Autumn so special: the orange leaves, getting to wear jumpers again, school, library, friends, Hogwarts, in general. 

Regulus turns sixteen in Iceland, or in Northern Europe; he turns sixteen in the cold and in the dark. He wanted to turn sixteen in the warmth of the Potters’ manor, to spend the night kissing James and running his fingers on his skin, trailing his lips down his neck and chest. Instead, he gets this: disturbed sleep, no letters, no presents he can open right away, because it’s a day like any other and he’ll be busy.

He’s slightly comforted to see that James wrote “Happy birthday, I love you!!” on their paper, and Sirius wrote “Happy birthday, are you ok there??” 

So the first thing he does once he wakes up, is draw the windows open, reply with vague answers that state his well-being. Then he stuffs the paper between his clothes, dresses up, grabs his wand and goes down stairs. 

He shares the house with Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan. Bellatrix is the one he spends most time with, but she makes him train with Rabastan and Rodolphus as well. The morning is usually about physical training, which Regulus didn’t expect to get. They make him eat lots, claiming it will help muscles grow bigger. Not one of them seems to suspect Regulus wants nothing to do with death eaters, and for his safety, Regulus makes sure they won’t have any reason to suspect that. 

They’re normal until they’re not. They sneak behind his back, like predators; their touch is rough and harsh, unloving and bruising; their words are soaked with the polite speech of noble purebloods, but there’s a venom to it, a bite: they never stop trying to hurt people.

When he arrives in the living room, the three of them are already sitting at their place. Bellatrix is curling her hair on her wand, like that’s not absolutely mental; Rodolphus reads the paper, looking particularly quiet and normal, which baffles Regulus, who knows and tries to keep in mind he’s a murderer; Rabastan reads, as he always does when they’re not training. 

Regulus can’t figure him out. Rabastan is not exactly a mystery to him: the Lestranges spent a good amount of summers with the Blacks, at the manor in Nice. Rabastan is only four years older than Regulus, and the time it made him so bloody cool: reason why Regulus always listened to him. It was only when he was eight, and realised Rabastan always tried to rile him up against Sirius, that Regulus stopped liking him. It was only natural: Regulus would have picked his brother over anyone, and when he fought with Sirius because of Rabastan, he had no doubts on who to leave behind. 

He was a fourth year when Regulus was in his first, he wasn’t there to witness Regulus’s change of mind, not the explicit one anyway. Regulus only remembers him dropping out of the Quidditch team the same year Regulus joined. From then on, he remembers Rabastan reading around the common room, always a bit grim, a bit sad actually. He seems quiet now, not happy but resigned, faking cheerfulness and good character and looking angry and sorrowful when he thinks nobody is looking at him. 

Regulus secretly thinks it’s a pity. Rabastan is a beautiful man, he’d have a beautiful smile if he meant it, even a cute one, because of the dimple on his left cheek. He could be kind, nice, if he wanted to, if he let himself be so, but he doesn’t. And he’s a murderer, like the rest of them; and if he never killed anyone, it’s also true he never stopped to prevent murders, it’s true that he supports the cause. 

Regulus walks on eggshells around them all, careful not to get attached, careful to only listen to what he needs and leave out all the rest. He’s starting to truly understand how Jonathan Harker felt in Dracula’s castle. 

A part of him knows this is family, the other one is dazzled, because how could these criminals be anyone’s family? It’s already messing with his mind, has been since the first night, when he first laid awake in bed and the thought of living with killers first got to his head.

“Ah, the birthday boy awoke,” Rabastan says, lifting his eyes from the book. Regulus stills, stares at him like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Happy birthday, Regulus.” 

Bellatrix laughs and Regulus pretends not to hear the hint of madness in it. She gets up with one swift movement. “Happy birthday, happy birthday!” She chants, while Regulus forces himself to smile, as if he’s happy to be here. “Finally sixteen! Feel any different?” 

“No,” Regulus says, bluntly, and makes his way to his usual seat, next to Rabastan. He moves the chair -lifting it, because mother used to curse his hand if he dragged it- then sits down. “I suppose it’s a day like any other.” 

“It’s not,” Rodolphus says, folding the paper and setting it aside. His eyes find Regulus’s, and he narrows them. “You’re almost of age. This is the last year to better yourself before you enter society as an adult.” 

Rabastan rolls his eyes. “Don’t listen to him,” he says, gently. “Unfortunately, being the birthday boy doesn’t save you from training.” 

“I’m afraid not. But perhaps it does make it a bit different,” Bellatrix says, as she swirls her wand in the air. A present wrapped in silver paper comes flying into her hand. “Aunt Walburga didn’t want me to give this to you,” she says, setting the present in front of Regulus. “But I think she’s blinded by pain for the loss of her first-born, and she doesn’t recognise your talents, so I didn’t listen to her. This is yours.” 

Something Regulus would have never seen coming is Bellatrix outwardly going against Walburga to defend him. The morning she came to get him, Regulus eavesdropped for twenty minutes, right outside  the library, listening to them fighting. Bellatrix accused her of being irrational: according to her, Walburga was letting herself be guided by her emotions, and she was grieving Sirius too much. No, if you asked Bellatrix, Sirius was never fit to be the heir, he was always too soft, always too much of a caretaker to be a rightful heir, and not ambitious enough. 

Bellatrix thought Walburga was too hard on Regulus and said that, once he returned from the summer, she would have been proud of him. “Not that Regulus really needs training,” Bellatrix said, “You just want to punish him, as if he didn’t do you a favour by getting rid of Sirius. Trust your son a little, will you? He’s the only chance you have to appear loyal to the Dark Lord.” 

It’s not a stretch, all things considered. Walburga refuses to take the mark herself, she considers it too much of a statement, she’s worried it might compromise Orion’s position in the ministry. Regulus taking it, instead, would be an honour for the family: so young and so ambitious, so in tune with the family traditions and beliefs. 

“Open it,” Rodolphus says, leaning forward. “Then we’ll explain a little change of plans as we have breakfast.” 

Regulus breathes in deeply, and he nods gingerly. Carefully, he takes the box and undoes the wrapping. “A knife?” He asks, surprised, setting the paper away rapidly. He takes it in his hand, runs his finger on the steel. “This is goblin steel.” 

“A family heirloom,” Bellatrix says, with a proud smile. “Many wizards think the only rightful weapon comes from our wands, I think it’s a misconception of what magic really is. Goblin steel is very useful during missions, and if you get disarmed…well, you have a back up plan. We’ll teach you how to use it, but know it is tied to you by magic. You can throw it, but it’ll always come back to you.” 

“Terrific,” Regulus comments, but what he means is terrifying. This isn’t a family heirloom, this is a crime in his hands. This was stolen from Goblins, and now it’s tied to Regulus. He’ll have to give it back, some day. “Thank you.” 

Kreacher serves them breakfast. He only pops up during meals, gaze lingering on Regulus, who’s the only one who greets him and thanks him. 

“I’ve been summoned by the Dark Lord for an important mission,” Rodolphus says, after taking a sip of his tea. “A friend of ours will join Bellatrix and Rabastan here. Since they won’t always be able to be around, she will look after you, train you, educate you.” 

“She…?” Regulus asks, confused. 

“Polaris Celia Black,” Bellatrix says, rolling the name on her tongue. “She was born in 1915, a brilliant witch. She was bitten by a vampire when she was seventeen. We tracked her down, she might fight for our side. Isn’t it wonderful?” She asks, cheerfully. “We can use her against blood traitors.” 

“Oh,” Regulus says, surprised, and partially scared by Bellatrix’s plan. “Oh, okay. When will she arrive?” 

“Tonight, when the sun sets.” Rabastan says, before throwing a blueberry into his mouth. “She’ll teach you a few magic tricks. Brilliant woman, she is. Pity that she’s a halfbreed.” 

Bellatrix and Rodolphus are busy packing in the morning, so Rabastan is the one to train him. They run, then Rabastan makes him do push ups, pull ups, and makes him lift weights. They have a small break around ten. Regulus stays shirtless, hot and sweaty from all the physical effort. 

“Can you still tackle?” Rabastan asks, while he fixes a mannequin in the room. 

“Yes,” Regulus replies, getting up. 

Rabastan nods and reduces the distance between them, now only a couple of metres away. “Show me. I’ll resist. You have to try until I fall.” 

Regulus rolls his eyes: it’s not like Rabastan underestimates him, exactly, he just treats him like he’s still a child. He clears his throat, nodding, and takes a good look at Rabastan. He’s bigger than Regulus is, and stronger, so he has to play smart: there’s two points he could target, the knees and his barycentre. By the way Rabastand is standing, though, targeting his knees or even just above is a hazard. 

He runs towards him with no hesitation, not scared of the impact, and makes firm contact with his shoulder, just like he was taught. Rabastan tumbles to the ground with a surprised huff, Regulus barely grazes the ground, pushing to his feet immediately. He knows he should stay, technically, keep him down, but he shies away from physical contact with any of them.

“You’re stronger than you look,” Rabastan says, with a grin. 

“It’s called thinking before you act,” Regulus replies, coolly. “Tackling isn't just a matter of strength: you taught me that.”

Rabastan opens his mouth to reply, then snaps it close, narrowing his eyes as he studies Regulus. Regulus stares back: see, with Rabastan, everything becomes a competition, has to be such, though Regulus wouldn’t be able to explain why. 

“Are you angry with me?” Rabastan asks, as he sits up and hugs his knees to his chest. He sounds slightly amused: it makes Regulus want to punch him in the face. “You’re very cold. We’ve known each other for years, you could be less…stuck up.” 

Regulus clenches his fists, frowning. He’s not simply upset with Rabastan, he considers, while he walks up to the table where Bellatrix set up a set of throwing knives. He’s upset with his whole family, with fate, with himself, and he’s tired. He wants to climb back into bed, fall asleep and dream of a better summer. He never wanted to be here. 

“This isn’t how I wanted to spend my birthday,” he says, grabbing one of the practice knives from the table. He runs his finger on the blade. “I have friends back home. I meant to be with them.” 

“Ah, the curse of being a summer child,” Rabastan says, tilting his head to the side. Rabastan would know about that curse: he was born on the 26th of August. “You never get to spend your birthdays with your friends. But you’ll have them all your life. You’re here now for a greater good…opportunities like this one happen once in a lifetime, if you ask me.” 

“I didn’t,” Regulus says, harshly, not able to bite his tongue as he usually does. Rabastan looks at him, surprised but still a bit amused. “Sorry,” Regulus says, looking away once more. “Just missing my friends.” 

“They’ll be at Narcissa’s wedding, won’t they? That’s just a month away, it’ll fly by. It’s not like you have time to miss them, anyway. You’re busy,” Rabastan says, springing up. Regulus scowls: he doesn’t like the way Rabastan thinks. “Bellatrix tells me you’ll meet your betrothed as well. An Avery?”

Yes, because if life wasn’t hard enough already, his mother decided he’ll get married to Avery’s little sister, who goes to Beauxbatons, otherwise she’d be starting her fifth year at Hogwarts in September. Telling James would have probably been a good idea, except Regulus doesn’t see the point. He doesn’t plan on giving this girl any kind of attention. He doesn’t even intend to go through with the wedding, and he barely cares to pretend like he wants to. 

“You tend to meet a whole lot of strangers at weddings, indeed,” Regulus observes. “You’re not married. Why? I thought marrying young was part of our tradition.”

“I’m sterile,” Rabbastan says, checking his nails. Regulus wrinkles his nose: he says it like it doesn’t matter, like he doesn’t care for it. “No pureblood woman would marry me.” 

“And how did you discover it? I believe we’re meant to refrain from sexual acts before marriage,” Regulus says, raising an eyebrow. 

Rabastan stares at him like he has been caught, but that expression is erased so fast Regulus thinks he has imagined it. “It’s not like there’s anybody physically keeping you from it. It’s not important how I discovered it anyway. Marriages are a means to procreate and I can’t serve that purpose, so I stay out of it.”

“Do you think of marriage only as a way to procreate?” Regulus asks, knife still in his hand, finger pad running over the blade. “Don’t you think that’s sad? To spend your life with someone just to have children? It sounds like torture.” 

“Adding life to our community is the greatest service we can offer to the future generation. I would never call it torture,” Rabastan says, stoically. Regulus has a feeling he’s lying, though. “There’s no life without community and our community is threatened. Arranged weddings are a way to protect it. ” 

“So are we to kill everyone who doesn’t contribute? Should we consider them threats as well? After all, they’re useless to the community.” Regulus provokes, leaning against the table. Rabastan looks at him like he just suggested taking over the world. “It seems extreme, doesn’t it? That would be because communities can’t be just about procreation.” 

“Of course it’s not. But its basis is procreation.” 

“There is no procreation without accords.” Regulus replies. “What comes first, and always will, is a reason to stick together. And unfortunately, for most people, a child isn’t enough to love each other. And neither is the intention to have one. Don’t you think love sh-” 

“Love doesn’t exist,” Rabastan cuts him off, cold and hasty. “And even if it did, it doesn’t serve anything. It’s a means of destruction- a fancy way to excuse oneself from selfishness. Now get here. You need to be able to stick those knives before lunch. Square your shoulders.” 

Rodolphus leaves after lunch. Regulus shows Bellatrix his knife-throwing, and she corrects his posture, his grip, and shows him how to get a better result, how to stick the knife harder. They’ll work on the distance, but she makes a point to tell him he’s doing very good. 

During the second half of the afternoon, Bellatrix explains to him non verbal spells. The previous days, they went over the basics of duelling: stance, disarming, distracting the opponent, hexes and jinxes, then defensive spells. Regulus learns fast, and Bellatrix is a good teacher, though he struggles to admit it. She may not be patient, but she’s straight forward, fast to find mistakes and correct them. She taught him how to control motion charms, how to get optimal results in charms with narrower wand movement. 

Once satisfied, she decided to teach him non-verbal spells. Those are quicker, generally more impactful, and harder to manage. She makes him start easy: in some way, it reminds him of his first charms lessons. 

Lumos is an easy spell, with no particular requirement of talent. It becomes hard when Regulus can’t say, mutter or even mimic the incantation. His eyes are covered by a piece of black cloth, to help him with isolation.

“Magic is an order that doesn’t need to be spoken. Incantation is a means to help younger witches and wizards,” Bellatrix says. She’s in front of him, he can tell by the way the sound of her voice comes. She moves around a lot when she speaks. “Besides, once you start with non verbal spells, you can’t quite go back, don’t you agree, Rabastan?”

Rabastan hums. “Easier, quicker. You only struggle at the start. You need to focus, Regulus. It should be easier for you, since you’re an occlumens.” Rabastan sets two cold fingers on his temple; shivers run down Regulus’s spine. “Your mind is protected.” 

Regulus gives a small nod, and breathes in and out. He imagines the green thread slither from the point Rabastan touched to his temple, it goes down to his shoulders and on his arm, then finally wraps around his wand. He doesn’t focus on the incantation, rather on the intention, and when the green thread reaches the tip of his wand, it lights up. 

“You did it!” Bellatrix says, loudly, admittedly quite surprised. Regulus immediately rips the blind fold from his face, as he stares at the lit up tip of his wand. “First try! Oh, that’s amazing!” 

“Good job!” Rabastan says, patting his back. “Now shut it off.” 

“Err…yeah, sure,” Regulus says, tagging at the blind fold. 

“You don’t need that,” Bellatrix encourages. “Just do it, Regulus, it’s in your blood. You have everything you need already.” 

“Right.” 

Regulus clears his throat, and imagines pulling at the green thread, which is enough to make the light dim, then disappear. 

“See! Easy, right? Of course, we have to work more on this, basic spells are easier. But you have the technique down, don’t you?” Bella asks, excited. She looks up at Rabastan. “What do you think? What should we try?” 

Rabastan gives a thoughtful look at Regulus, crossing his arms to his chest. “Do you want to try and mix up magic with the physical training you’ve been doing?” 

Regulus considers it, then nods. “I do.” 

Rabastan and Bellatrix are perhaps some of the strongest people Regulus has ever met, which is a way to say they absolutely destroyed him in duelling. They said he did good, but he’s not satisfied: were he an enemy, he would have been dead in the first five minutes; and since he will be an enemy, that’s a problem. 

Rabastan is the one that heals him: that’s what he specialises in, healing spells, fire spells. Regulus would have said otherwise by looking at him. Rabastan has strong arms, broad shoulders, he’s swift and his steps have a light sound, Regulus can barely hear him at night. He’d make a perfect spy, and maybe he does, but Bellatrix told him he barely gets out on the battlefield. He’s a healer first and foremost; the maximum he’s willing to do is set things on fire. 

Regulus never stopped to think how Death Eaters healed each other. But it makes sense that there’s healers in their lines, considering St. Mungo is inaccessible to them: they would be healed, of course, but arrested the minute they’re fine. 

“We meant it, you know,” Rabastan says, “you do fight well. You’re just inexperienced, which is expected, since you’ve only been here for a week and Hogwarts is basically useless for duelling nowadays. We plan on letting you fight in the woods once you get better at it. You’d be surprised how many times we had to fight in open spaces. Remember all that climbing you did as a kid? That will definitely be useful.” 

He’s currently healing a bruise with fire, a method Regulus didn’t know existed. He suspects it has nothing to do with western magic: element dominations are typical of East Asia. In Europe, it’s considered dark magic. Regulus never thought about how racist that was until he was forced to sit and be healed through it. Now he wonders how many spells were deemed dark simply because they didn’t conform to what Europeans called magic. 

Rabastan uses his hands, not his wand; he sweeps them over Regulus’s side, sometimes brushing the skin, though Regulus considers it an accident. He wonders where he learnt this technique, if he has spent time training in East-Asia and where precisely, if he speaks the language.

“I guess,” Regulus says, eyes following his movements. “I don’t tend to be the brightest.” 

“Not the best in your class?” Rabastan asks, with a slight smile. Regulus nods, watching the bruise disappear, living no trace. “That doesn’t mean anything. Grades are barely indicators of how bright you are. You learn fast and you have good instincts, that’s what matters. Magic isn’t something that can be evaluated by a grade.” 

“My mother thinks otherwise,” Regulus says, then grits his teeth as Rabastan makes fire crawls over his knee. 

“This one did not heal properly.” Rabastan says, with a frown. “Quidditch injury? What did they give you?” 

“I don’t remember, some potion.” Regulus says, fisting at the sofa. Rabastan frowns more. “Broke it a few times, bloody bludgers.” 

“I’ll fix it,” Rabastan says, raising his eyes to meet Regulus’s. “But it might hurt.”

“Just do it,” Regulus says, closing his eyes. 

It does hurt, so much so, Regulus has to hold back from making any pained noise. There’s clicking, Rabastan presses his palm over his knee, and that reaches the peak of pain. Then it fades, leaving no trace. Regulus is surprised by the sudden relief he feels. 

“Hogwarts healers are shit,” Rabastan says, rubbing his hands together. Flames dance around his fingers. “Anywhere else? Oh, your face-” 

“It's just a cut,” Regulus says, touching the healing wound on his jaw. He did that himself, by mistake. “It’s fine.” 

“It will scar, don’t be silly. Scars are recognizable, you don’t want to have those when you’re considered a criminal.” And so, Rabastan heals that one too. 

It’s too close for comfort, Regulus thinks. He also thinks he misses James, that he wasn’t supposed to spend his birthday on a sofa, being healed from a fight. Were things right, he would be with Sirius and James right now: they would have woken him at midnight to wish him happy birthday, they would have had a party and a cake, and Regulus would have gone to sleep thinking it was the best birthday he ever had. 

Instead, here he is. He won’t even see their faces.

“Oh, you’re sulking again, bless you.” Rabastan says, only mildly annoyed. “I don’t miss being a teenager. Dress up, Bellatrix says you don’t like pepperup and none of us is going to take care of you when you’re sick.” 

“Bunch of wankers.” Regulus mutters, and that makes Rabastan laugh and shake his head. 

24/06/1977, Iceland? 

I’m going to go insane here. Murderers shouldn’t be this way. They should be much worse. I wish they weren’t kind to me- I know they’re only kind because they think I’m one of them, that I want to be one of them. But it confuses me so much. If they can be so good, so nice, so polite, why did they choose to kill? To murder and torture? It doesn’t make sense to me. 

Honestly I feel bad too. I shouldn’t get attached but it’s so easy. They believe in me. They praise me all the time, and I can’t stop myself from feeling drawn to them. I hate every second of it. It feels- no, maybe it is manipulation. Or maybe this is how they treat each other. I don’t know. I have no idea. I hate them, but I like them, then I hate them again. 

I wish I was elsewhere. This place is going to make my mind hazy at some point. I can feel it already. I’m scaring myself, they scare me, but there’s another part of me that’s just so eager to learn. They’re powerful; they might use their power in the wrong way, but one would be stupid to deny they have it. I want that power too, so of course I feel drawn to them, but it feels so wrong- immoral, unethical. When I stop to think about it it crashes me down. But I can’t cry. Tears don’t even come, I’ve tried. I spent one hour just sitting around, trying to cry, it didn’t

There’s a knock on the door. His head snaps up, and he meets eyes with Bella. Her hair is a mess of curls going down her shoulders, and she’s got a grin on her face. Regulus sets his pen down, covering it with his hand.

“Oops, did I interrupt you?” She asks, while Regulus closes his diary. “Come downstairs, you have to meet Celia.”

“Right,” Regulus says, and he runs his hands through his hair. “Is she going to be around a lot? You know, with the sun problem…” 

“She’ll train you in the basement,” Bellatrix says, as they go downstairs. “Rabastan and I will still be your teachers most of the time, she’ll just look after you when we’re on missions. We’re sort of watching her for the Dark Lord, you see. He’s not sure she’s actually loyal to us.” 

Regulus nods. “I see.” 

Polaris “Celia” Black is smaller than Regulus pictured her when he first saw her. She’s about the same height as Pandora, with the sharp features of a Black and the enticing beauty typically associated with vampires. A cascade of white hair falls on her shoulders and pools around her hips. It must be dyed, Regulus thinks, and he immediately wants to ask her a hundred questions. She’s wearing black clothes, muggle: black jeans, a bit baggy, a jacket that looks soft to touch and black boots with glittery, silver laces. Her hands stay in her pockets while she speaks to Rabastan.

She looks awfully young, younger than Regulus thinks he looks, like her face was frozen into an eternal youth. If he saw her in the corridors of Hogwarts, he’d think she’s a fifth or even a fourth year. 

“Here he comes,” Rabastan says, once he notices Bellatrix and Regulus on the jamb of the living room’s door. “Regulus, meet Polaris.” 

“Celia,” she corrects him, coolly. She then turns to look at Regulus, eyes of an unnatural light blue. Curiosity sparks in her irises. Regulus feels drawn to her, in a way he has never experienced before. “Oh, he’s a nice one. I didn’t know Blacks could still be nice. What is he doing here?” 

“Training,” Regulus replies, immediately. “I was told you’d help me as well.”

She cocks her head to the side, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I  will. I like you,” she says, crossing the distance between them. “Ah, the genes did change, though,” she says, “who cheated? Lots of us do.” 

Regulus turns to Bellatrix in surprise; she shrugs. “Adultery is quite normalised, actually.” 

“It’s not,” Regulus says, frowning. “My mother wouldn’t say it is- besides, what’s the sense of all this war if you’re out there cheating on your partners? You marry young for what? Status? Image? If it’s all fake, I don’t see the point.” 

“Oh, feisty one, aren’t you?” Celia says, cheerfully. “Finally one I like. This one is mine, I’m training him.” 

Rabastan rolls his eyes. “That one is ours,” he corrects her. “And we’re not leaving him with you without supervision. We know you bloodsuckers like them young.” 

Celia rolls her eyes. “That’s a false rumour, besides, I don’t drink human blood, as I’ve already stated, so either start listening or shut your mouth,” she says, stormy eyes and eyebrows drawn together.

“I don’t mind being alone with her.” Regulus says, tying his hands behind his back. “I’m sure she has lots to teach me.” 

Celia turns fast, hair winding around as she does. She beams at him, youthful and insanely warm. “Of course I do!” 

It’s the beginning of a friendship, Regulus thinks, as she looks at her. He can’t help the smile that blooms on his lips.

Back in his room, he grabs the last one of James’s presents, the oldest of the letters and the Marcus Aurelius book. Opening the latter, he finds out that James carefully annotated it, and not just that, but he annotated it for Regulus. Underlying quotes with a black pen and writing advice, thoughts, observation specifically for him. Even the introduction has underlined quotes, sometimes with an exclamation point on the side, to reclaim Regulus’s attention. 

It’s sweet. If James was here, sitting in front of him, he would smile at Regulus, toothy and beautiful and more reassuring than anything else in the world. But he’s not here. He won’t kiss Regulus and ask if he likes the present, he won’t cuddle close before falling asleep and he won’t wake Regulus with a trail of kisses down his neck. 

It’s just another day, Regulus tells himself, as he sets the book aside and takes the other package. He unwraps it slowly, savouring the moment. The book inside is “The Little Prince”, by Antoine De Saint-Exupery. Regulus never read it before. James left a series of papers between the pages, and wrote a note right on the first one, under the title. 

Sometimes I’m convinced this book created you. Whether you’re the little prince, the fox or the rose, this book is about you. And I believe you’ll find many reasons to agree with me once you read.

The rest of the paper is “just” drawings. Regulus knows James likes to draw, of course, it was one of the first things James mentioned to him, but he never showed him many drawings. He did, sporadically, and Regulus simply assumed he uses drawing the same way Regulus uses writing. Maybe it’s not completely wrong. 

James likes to draw people, and he draws with black pens. The first drawings portrays Mary, smiling and leaning forward, in the Gryffindor common room, which Regulus recognises by the sketched window. It’s not extremely detailed, but at the same time it is: it’s like James managed to capture Mary’s energy and trapped it onto the lines. On the bottom left, he wrote: you said I never talk about my friends; it’s because words can’t capture their beauty. So I thought I’d let art talk for me. 

The second drawing is Sirius, laying upside down on an armchair, the tips of his hair brushing the floor. He’s laughing, eyes closed and arms holding his tum. On the top right, James drew his constellation, and on the bottom left, he wrote: to me, fair friend, you can never be old / for as you were when first your eye I ey’d / such beauty seems still (sonnet 104).  

And many, many more: of Sirius and Marlene, of Mary and Marlene, of Remus, almost always either smoking or reading, of Peter, to whom James gives small angel wings, of Frank and Alice, of Elias, even, who sticks his tongue at him. Regulus didn’t expect to find himself in those drawings, but there’s five that portray him.

In one, he smiles, wide and bright, and he almost doesn’t recognise himself. He’s sitting on James’s bed, in his room back home, wearing a jumper that he must have gotten from James’s wardrobe. On the side, James wrote: I never knew what “blinded by love” meant until you gave me your brightest smile.

“Oh, James,” Regulus murmurs, covering his eyes. “God, I miss you.” 

The fourth drawing in particular catches Regulus’s attention. In it, he’s not doing anything in particular. He’s just standing by the window of their room, looking outside, bare back to James and a book in his hand. On this one, James wrote: framed by the window, you’re an eternal work of art, and I’m forever fated to be the one you move.

Regulus sets the drawings aside, taking a deep breath in. It’s too much, and somehow not enough as well: he wants James to be here, right now, telling him more about the drawings, how did he picture his muses so well, why did he never show Regulus his works. Why does he draw in the first place? 

So Regulus tears a page from his diary and starts writing. 

24/6/1977

Darling James, 

Do not reply to this letter.

I’ve opened your presents. I loved the books, I loved the necklaces, but I loved your drawings more. Why did you always show me so little of it? Was it to surprise me on this day, or did it make you shy to share your art? I don't think you should be shy about it; it’s no surprise that you’re such a great artist. You give souls a chance to live and shine on paper, even if you don’t use colours. 

Will you ever tell me why you draw? Of course, I don’t think you should tell me why, but I’d like to know if you were willing to share. I want to know everything about you. 

I miss you a lot. I spent the day sulking because I missed you, actually. Isn’t it so silly? The world is full of cruelties, and I’m upset because I didn’t get to kiss you on my birthday. It’s not even warm around here. It’s dead cold; not even the summer sun is here to console me. I hope next summer we'll be together. I hope we’ll be happy and tanned and just as hopelessly in love as we are now. 

I love you to Neptune and back, 

Forever Yours, 

R.A.B.

27/6/1977

Dear Pandora, 

Please don’t reply to this letter, for I am not to receive any. I’m not at Grimmauld Place: I am somewhere in Northern Europe, very cold and with short nights. I’m mostly alright, and I hope you are too. 

I’m not sure what the purpose of this letter is, considering you can’t write back, perhaps it’s a way for me to feel you closer. I wish I hugged you tighter when we said goodbye. I miss you. Things are weird here. Very weird. My mind gets really dark sometimes: guilt, I think it is. Guilt and the unbearable reality of human nature. 

I’m learning a lot, though, about what my body can do and what magic I can produce. They say I learn fast, that I have talent. I’m not sure whether I believe them or not, but it’s not all that bad. Except when I remember they’re murderers. Then I feel dirty. It’s weird. I wish I could avoid this, I don’t know how to. The forced proximity isn’t helping me. 

I hope you’re alright. I miss you a lot. 

Yours, 

R.A.B.

3 July, 1977

Nights are getting longer, slowly, gradually, the sun is setting earlier. It’s still cold outside, brisk, especially once the sun sets, but there is no light pollution. When Regulus goes out, wrapped up in a blanket, the stars blink back at him, millions of them, and take his breath away.

“You’ve always liked to stargaze,” Bellatrix says, from behind him. He doesn’t jolt, but his shoulders get tense. She keeps sneaking behind him, like she doesn’t know the proper way to approach a person. “I remember you dragging Sirius outside to stargaze with you. You dragged him everywhere.” 

“I just wanted to show him the sky,” Regulus grumbles, tightening the blanket around himself. “It was boring to do things alone.” 

The Universe was theirs, when they were kids. Regulus dragged Sirius outside because Sirius used to tell him how they were going to travel from star to star, from planets to satellites, entire galaxies, just the two of them exploring spaces. They drew their space shuttle and named it Space Argo, inspired by the Greek myth of the argonauts. 

“Is it boring now that you’re an only child?” Bellatrix asks, with a grain of malice in her voice. “It must be weird to be alone all of a sudden.” 

“It’s not,” Regulus forces himself to say. It is hard; maybe at Hogwarts they didn’t spend much time together, but they still saw each other around every day, and Regulus spent the last two months visiting Sirius’s dorm. He misses those days and despises the new ones. “I sent him away. He was a blood-traitor, didn’t want to be the heir and didn’t have the qualities of one. He kept putting shame on the family name, going against traditions…I’m a better heir than he ever was. At least I know where my loyalties should lie. If Mother had some sense, she’d see that too.” 

“Oh, I know.” Bellatrix says, catching up to him. They’re shoulder by shoulder now. “You always had better qualities. Your mother just loved Sirius more. He was her first, she probably would have stopped there if she didn’t need a-” 

“Replacement,” Regulus concludes for her, because he prefers saying it than hearing it. “I know. I know how things work.” 

“She’s ungrateful,” Bellatrix says, turning to look him in the eye. Hers are black, an abyss, darker than death; eyes of madness and misplaced power. “You’re quite brilliant, in my opinion. Fast learner, co-ordinated, determined, ambitious. I always knew you were like this. Such a funny kid, you were. You drove them crazy,” She giggles, twirling one of her curls around her finger. “This one time you sneaked out while everyone else was at lunch. Sirius and I noticed, didn’t say anything. You were always running somewhere, a busy little man, scraped knees, bruised, somehow always dirty with soil. You were missing for a good three hours, we looked for you everywhere, then you made your way back. Oh, aunt Walburga was furious, you were all dirty, you had this cut under your eye and blood smeared on your arm, but you were smiling. You had this basket full of peaches. Your mother asked you where you stole them and you said “I didn’t, they’re on the trees”, and then you gave the basket to Sirius and went to the bathroom to wash your hands. Only your hands. Your mother was furious, but my father was laughing.”

Regulus remembers that, remembering the peach tree because he fell from it so many times, one with a whole breech. It was a fragile tree, it could handle Regulus at six, it definitely couldn’t handle him anymore at eight. 

“I gave those peaches to Sirius because I read somewhere that cats get their favourite people presents.” 

“Liar,” Bellatrix says, “There’s no way he was your favourite. You pushed him into the pool every time.” 

“That’s Rabastan’s fault,” Regulus replies, stoically. “He taught me how to tackle, I just thought it was fun. I bet he regrets it now. He can’t tackle me, did you know? I’m too fast.” 

“Oh, I know. I’ve seen him running after you like a poor sod. You made him trip a couple of times. I think he likes you,” Bella says, locking eyes onto his again. “Your mother told me you broke your chastity.” 

Regulus’s eyes go wide and for a solid second, he just gapes at her. She laughs, of course. He allows himself to do so too. 

“Did she say that exactly?” Bella nods, still laughing. “Bugger. She also called me a slag. She won’t leave me alone about it.” 

“I know. She betrothed you with that Avery’s girl, the one that goes to Beauxbatons.” Bellatrix says, amused. “Looking forward to meeting her?” 

“No,” Regulus replies, sincerely. “I’ll probably spend all the time with Barty and Evan anyway.”

“And how did you manage to break your chastity, if you only want to spend time with your friends?” Bella inquires, crossing her arms. “Did you just kiss her or did you have a relationship with her?” 

Regulus grimaces. He’s trying not to think about James, because missing him is unbearable. When he lies in bed, he hugs his pillow and waits, patiently, for tears to come. They don’t. But he misses James’s arms around him, and the stone is not enough. He wants the real thing: to dig his fingers into James’s skin, feel intoxicated with his smell, melt into him. 

“Rabastan says love doesn’t exist,” Regulus says, almost to change the subject. 

“Rabastan is a delusional man,” Bellatrix says, tilting her head to the side. “Did he tell you he was sterile, too? That’s a lie. He’s not. He doesn’t want to get married, that is. He’s probably one of those unspeakables, the Greek type.” 

Regulus frowns. “I didn’t understand a word,” he says. “Unspeakables of the Greek type?” 

“A queer,” Bellatrix says, mildly amused. Regulus’s stomach drops to his heels, or maybe splatters to the floor. “It’s not like he told me, goodness’s sake, but by the way he speaks…” She sighs. “He told his parents he’s sterile because he wouldn’t be able to make a woman pregnant, that is. We’re all liars.” 

“We?” Regulus asks, trying to look unphased.

“Oh, yes, we. I’m sterile. Actually sterile. I told my parents that the doctors said I can’t get pregnant because of the stress of the war, and they believed me. Fools.” She scoffs, glaring at the stars as if they faulted her, then looks back at Regulus. “Well, at least I’m doing my part for the wizarding kind. Now go to sleep, tomorrow will be a hard one.” 

It’s hard to sleep that night. So Regulus grabs his wand and one of James’s letters. This one dates back to January the 30th. 

Dear Snitch, 

Today I learnt love isn’t strong enough to create communication, and that’s not really anyone’s fault, is it? Sometimes people just have a hard time getting words out. You’re one of them. I’m not going to say “I think” or “I guess”, I know you are. You shy away from certain topics, and I get it. I’m like that too. I wish I said this to you today. 

I’m not sure why my mum’s letter upset you, but the more I think about it…you and Sirius really have a weird relationship with your parents. Or maybe with just your mother. Sirius waited for her letters too, everyday with no fail, and he wrote to her the entirety of the first three years. You’d think he didn’t, of course, or maybe you knew he did. He couldn’t help himself. I still don’t know what made him stop. 

My point is that family is hard to deal with sometimes, even if it shouldn’t be. That’s because human relationships are and will always be complicated, in some cases more than in others. 

I know I press too hard about you coming home with me. I know you won’t, you’re stubborn like that and you can’t ignore anything you call duty. Your family is complicated, and it gives you thoughts I don’t like. You’re scared to be bad, unkind, evil, not thoughtful enough, and it saddens me to see how you have no idea of how wonderful you are, how caring. I wish you knew. 

I think you were properly annoyed with me today. Maybe not all the time, but…sort of. I got too close and you didn’t like it. It upset me a little at first, though I didn’t show it. Then the feeling disappeared. I could see you were just hurt. 

I guess the point of this letter is to make myself aware that relationships are an activity, something people work on constantly. I guess communication for us, at least around some topics, might take a while. That’s okay, as long as we stick together, it doesn’t scare me as much. 

Forever yours, 

Prongs

Regulus breathes in and out; tears don’t come. He remembers that day, remembers how upset he had been that someone else’s mum wrote him a letter, like he was unmothered. It’s been six months and some days, Regulus still gets upset over it, over the fact other people have caring mothers, mothers that remember how to love, mothers that wait for them at home and cherished their childhood. 

He folds the letter neatly and sets it between the pages of his diary, like he did with the first one, but there he stalls. It’s almost one in the morning, he’ll have to get out of bed around eight, because who knows what creative ways will be used to wake him up. He dwells for another five minutes, then shakes his head and crawls inside the covers. 

8/7/1977

Dear James, 

Do not reply to this letter. I hope it finds you well. You must have left England at this point, but I hope you’ll read it once you’re back. 

I thought it was better for me to stay here, in the end, because at least my parents are far away, they can’t touch me, they can’t hurt me, they can’t and won’t talk to me. I thought that was enough. It’s not. I feel like I’m losing my mind sometimes. It’s not sadness. It’s guilt. It’s eating me alive to share a house with these people, to eat with them. They touch me and they’re kind to me and I swear on my life, James, they’ll kill me if they find the diary. I’m trying to act as the person they need me to be and it’s making me feel caged in my own skin, it’s horrible.

Training is not that bad. I get to learn new things, I’m becoming stronger! And taller. You won’t believe it when you see me again. But even then, sometimes I just feel small, insignificant. They beat me so easily, I can never win against them. Of course, they’re older, they have more experience, but it’s crashing my confidence. I know that when learning comes with mistakes and failure as its fundamental parts. But I can’t forgive myself for not being perfect. I need to be, if I want to make a difference. 

Stars are so beautiful here. Remember when you said looking at the universe puts you at peace, because everything is so big and your problems seem small? I tried to see if that worked for me too. But all the time, all I could think about was you. I looked up at the universe and I felt small. I wondered how the earth would look from very far away: a rock floating around, not impressive, as it doesn't even shine, like most of the rocks around space. It probably looks miserable and pointless, yet it harbours life and art, love, hate, passions and actions of various kinds in different stages. 

Thinking about planet earth and calling it a floating rock didn’t just feel stupid, it felt insulting. And I thought that perhaps my problem is that I look at myself with minimising eyes, I try to make myself seem worse than I am, and I can’t help that. However, I hope you always watch me the way scientists watch earth, I hope you hear me in the same way musicians hear music. I hope my letters become poetry in your hands. And I hope you’ll never get to see what I see when I look at myself. 

Forever Yours, 

R.A.B. 

16/7/1977

Dear Sirius, 

Do not reply to this letter. 

Do you remember the summers we spent in Nice? I keep going back there. I can’t say why. Do you remember Space Argo? Sometimes I get sad thinking those moments are never coming back. I never realised how hard it must have been for you, being the heir and expected to behave as such since you were a child. I thought I understood, but I didn’t. I’m glad you don’t have that responsibility anymore. 

I’m not sure why I’m writing to you specifically. I guess I just miss you. Last summer was less hard. I could deal with it. I don’t know why I seem unable to now. Perhaps I indulged myself too much. It’s been…a year. Different than all the ones before, sometimes harder than all the ones before, but I could never predict how the Summer was going to be. 

I hope you’re having fun. I bet James is making you help around the house. Are you excited about his cousin coming round? I hope to meet him and his wife by Christmas! Tell Effie and Monty I miss them very much. I miss you very much too. 

Love and a hug, 

R.A.B.

23/07/1977

Dear James, 

Do not reply to this letter

I can now manage non-verbal spells. I think I’m starting to develop a fighting technique. It took more than a month. It’s been hard, I’m not going to lie. It still is hard, but at least I’m learning something. I consider this a preparation for when I will, actually, have to fight. The positive sides stop here, though. 

I love The Little Prince. I must admit I wasn’t aware that children's books could hit this hard, carve this deep. I got through it in one sitting. But I keep reading and reading it. And thinking about it.

At first, I thought it was a bit vain how the little prince seemed to consider love as something "useful". But I think I get it now; love isn't something you expect or want or need to be useful; but utility is a quality. When one loves you, they take care of you, and that's useful, but it doesn't come from an utilitarianist place. The person that takes care of you doesn't think of utility first: they simply think of you. Watering a flower and shielding it from the cold or the fear is a gesture of love. 

I think a lot about the fox. Maybe because I feel like the fox. Unapproachable and perhaps a bit mean. And yet here I am, missing all the people who bothered to get past that and know me. Missing you on top of everyone, because you had the patience to stand by each of my moods and you never left. 

I know I have a lot of problems, that I don't always react right and that I've caused you pain more than once. It was never intentional. Once, Pandora told me that if I didn't trust you, I was going to break your heart. And the first thing I thought is that I mean no harm to your heart, for keeping it safe is the dearest responsibility someone ever entrusted me with. I know I'm probably causing you pain now. I'll make it up to you. But you always remember I love you, with every breath I take and every beat of my heart. 

Hopelessly yours, 

R.A.B. 

P.S. I hope your cousin’s wedding went well. I know it was a sensitive thing for you. My mum wants me to marry Elsie Avery. We’re betrothed, actually. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you as soon as I could. But worry not: I have no plans to even pretend I like her. You’re the only one I want, and you’re the only one I want people to see me with. I’m never going to marry her. I hope you can forgive me. 

29 July, 1977

Mother sent new dress robes for the wedding, along with a pair of cufflinks and a letter so horrible Regulus only reads half of it before throwing it inside the fireplace and watching it burn. He knows it’s a day to play the part of the good blood-supremacist that respects authority and elders and isn’t there to cause any trouble. However, Regulus is very fond of causing trouble, and he’s mad already, so he doesn’t think he’ll play his part right. 

Not that it matters, anyway. It’s not like his parents can just torture him in front of everyone, if anything because they don’t trust that they won’t be interrupted. Also, Regulus plans to spend all of his time with Barty and Evan, perhaps recovering from the foul month he spent. 

“Don’t you look like a handsome man?” Celia asks, appearing on the doorstep of the kitchen. She’s wearing a muggle suit and her hair is tied up in two braids that start at the top of her hair. “That girl is going to fall in love, bless her.” 

“I have no plans to love her back,” Regulus says, gloomily, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. My heart belongs to someone else; it’s his and his only, he thinks. 

“Don’t start your engagement like that,” Bellatrix says, from behind him. She must be somewhere in the middle of the living room: he doesn’t turn to check, he’s used to her by now. “Want it or not, you’re marrying her, you should at least try to find beauty in her. Then, if you don’t, you can just go for adultery.” 

“Lovely advice, Bella, thank you,” Regulus says, sarcastically. “Where’s Rabastan? We’re going to be late.” 

Rabastan is wearing similar robes to Regulus, only in velvet dark blue instead of black. He’s fixing his cufflinks as he comes down. “Shall we?” 

His mother is the first person to spot him, the right second they arrive. Her eyes meet his, then she starts making her way towards him, followed by Orion. Regulus isn’t prepared for the fear that hits him, for how his body grows tense and stiff. Celia, next to him, notices and takes his hand, squeezing it. 

“You’ll be fine,” she tells him, gently. “She’s made of flesh just like you. Also, if she touches you wrong, I’ll tear her apart.” 

“You’re terrible at comforting people. Please don’t kill anyone at Cissy’s wedding.” Regulus states, but clings to her hand as much as he can, then lets it go when his mother is close. 

Mother, of course, can’t be bothered with being nice, so she gives Celia a dirty look as soon as she’s close; Regulus gets a bad look too, because he’s standing next to a half-breed, and that would be enough to get him in trouble if there weren’t people around. Celia giggles at the look Walburga gives her, sticks her tongue at her like she’s seventeen and not sixty-two, then leaves, hands in her pockets. 

“Mother,” he says, politely, forcing himself to look at her instead of following Celia’s movements; she might be terrible at comforting people, but she feels safe. 

Walburga roughly fixes the tie of his dress robes, which Regulus had previously untightened because it made him feel like he couldn’t breathe. The unpleasant sensation is back again, and he shouldn’t be surprised it’s his mother that bought it. 

“No wandering off,” she starts saying, as Orion arrives behind her. He sets his hand on her shoulder. “You’ll stay with your betrothed, it was already troublesome to explain why you would bring a boy as your guest.” 

Regulus clicks his tongue. “I brought Barty because he’s my friend. You don’t want me to date, remember? It’s not like I could send back the invitation note saying I was bringing a girl. There’s no making you satisfied.” 

Anger flickers in Walburga’s eyes, and even if Regulus’s first instinct is to be afraid, the reminder she can’t hurt him here rings in his head. First of all, because Bellatrix and Celia are keeping a close eye on them, and since they both took Regulus under their wing, they won’t hesitate to get in the middle of it; secondly, because Walburga always restrained from drawing her wand at her sons in public. 

“I’ll introduce Regulus and Elsie,” Orion says, placidly, before Walburga can say anything. “Leave him to me, dear.” 

Walburga looks Regulus up and down again, then shakes her head. “Behave,” she says, before walking back to Uncle Cygnus. 

Orion takes him for a stroll. Regulus’s feelings about Orion are more lowkey. His anger with him has different reasons, it’s lesser, but steadier; with Walburga, anger is wavering, maybe not as wavering as it was, but still. Orion Black was always a quiet man, tranquil, who liked books and music and focused hard on his job, ignoring everything else; he was an absent father for most of Regulus’s life, always a slave to his wife’s intentions and parenting methods. He liked quiet, so he found ways to make Sirius and Regulus quiet: were those bedtime tales or sleeping potions that would knock them out for hours. 

“You didn’t use to be like this, Regulus. I’m very disappointed. You’ve been lots of things, but impolite was never one of those,” Orion says, hands behind his back as he walks. “We didn’t raise you to behave like this, not indoors and definitely not at important social events. You need to calm down.”

“It’s her fault,” Regulus says, bitterly. 

He can’t stand her. The more he tries, the more he fails, and every attempt is more unsuccessful than the previous one. Everything she could take from him, she tried to take, and every time Regulus shows signs of tenancy and character, she gets upset. She wanted to raise puppets, perhaps expecting Sirius and Regulus to be as easy to manage as Orion was. And yet, she was once kind and loving. 

Gone, he repeats to himself, that woman is gone. She’ll never kiss his cheek again and mean it, she’ll never smile at him like she used to. 

“She hates me regardless of what I do. It doesn’t matter how much effort I put in what I do, it’s never enough,” Regulus goes on, fists clenched inside his pockets. “She’s no mother of mine. I’m unmothered. If I had a family tree, I would burn her off-” 

“Regulus,” his father says, harshly, clasping at his shoulder. Regulus pulls a face at the touch, and it takes all of his strong will to not wriggle out of it or tackle his father to the ground. He registers, briefly, how he could do that easily. “I know you’re upset because we sent you away, but we’re doing it for your future. Your mother is grieving-” 

“Sirius isn’t bloody dead,” Regulus says, staring straight into his father’s eyes. “Do you hear me? He’s not fucking dead, she’s grieving nothing. It’s her fault. She gave him no choice-” 

“Him?” Orion asks, narrowing his eyes. “You mean she gave you no choice. I am no fool, child, and neither is your mother. You’re the one who sent your brother away. You don’t know how much it hurt her.” 

Regulus scoffs, freeing himself from his father’s grip. “Obviously,” he grouses. “She’s the victim now. Poor woman, she was stopped from assaulting her son. What is with the world these days…” 

“She wasn’t assaulting him,” Orion denies, eyebrows drawing together. Regulus shakes his head. “This is how we were educated, Regulus. It happens to everybody. Don’t think your friends have it any easier.” Regulus huffs at that. The narratives these people build to feel better about themselves never cease to amaze him. “You betrayed our family, Regulus. It’s only natural for her to feel angry: first, you send away your brother, then we find out you’ve been engaging in muggle depravity-” 

“Do you hear yourself speaking, father?” Regulus asks, scathing. “You’re her little servant. What she wants, she gets, and you won’t argue about it, because you know she’d kill you if you did. She wouldn’t think twice about it. Hurting people is second nature to her. I grew up hearing my brother beg for her to stop torturing him,” he says, angry, dragging the words out. They’ve been sitting there for too long. Orion stares at him like he’s watching a disgusting creature, not his son. Regulus wonders if he ever even thought of him as his son. “I didn’t betray my family, I didn’t ruin it, I didn’t break it. It was broken beyond repair long before I came to life.”

The slap hits him square in the face. Regulus closes his eyes as Orion’s hand slips away. It’s been a while since his father slapped him. It doesn’t hurt physically as much as it hurts emotionally, but Regulus grits his teeth and sends tears away, like he has been doing ever since he left Hogwarts.

“Now you listen carefully,” Orion says, tugging at his ear. Regulus winces. “You will go in there, apologise to your mother for everything you’ve done and do what she tells you. I’m going to call Rabastan. Don’t wander off.” 

Rabastan doesn’t ask what he did to get slapped, he just heals the damage before it shows and walks him to his mother, glancing at him nervously, like he expects him to have an emotional outburst any second. It doesn’t happen; Regulus does all his father asked, pretends to be enchanted to meet Elsie and excuses himself to the bathroom twenty minutes before the ceremony begins. 

The wall is cold against his back, his chest heavens, and Regulus counts, he counts everything he can, even just the seconds, trying to calm down, get off his high horse. His ears keep ringing, though; it always happens when he panics. 

The door opens, and Regulus naturally startles, straightens his back and tries to look proper, because whoever is coming in will meet the heir of the ancient and most noble house Black, and his mother would not let him breathe if he appears improper yet again. 

“Regulus!” Evan says, loudly, surprised. Regulus stares at him like he’s a miracle, a blessing from above, an angel to rescue him. “Oh, I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Look at you!” 

Regulus doesn’t say anything, he just launches forward and pulls Evan into a tight hug that makes him laugh. Evan’s fingers tangle in his hair and he holds back just as tight, just as happy to see him as Regulus is. 

“Oh, how I missed you,” Evan murmurs, right in Regulus’s ear. “Have you been doing okay?”

“I’m okay now,” Regulus says, voice a bit muffled indeed, but there’s no way Evan won’t hear the happiness in his voice. “I missed you too. Even your snores.” 

“Oh, fuck off.” Evan turns to look behind him. “Barty! C’mere!” 

“Barty!” Regulus exclaims, letting go of Evan to tackle Barty into a hug. 

Barty wasn’t expecting it, of course, so he stumbles backwards, but still returns the hug. Regulus is happy to nuzzle at his neck, smiling like a child. 

“Oh, he’s touch starved,” Barty says, gently running his hand on Regulus’s back. “You missed us, didn’t you?” 

“You missed me too,” Regulus says, pinching Barty’s side and making him squirm. “You missed me so much,” he continues, now tickling Barty, who keeps trying to wiggle out of Regulus’s range. 

“God, you’re annoying,” he sputters, blocking Regulus’s wrist. “When did you get so strong?” 

“Don’t call me annoying, you haven’t seen me in over a month,” Regulus says, with a deep frown. 

“I call you whatever I want, whenever I want,” Barty replies, turning up his nose. 

“I don’t think so,” Regulus says, making a move to start tickling him again. 

“I feel neglected,” Evan says, tugging at Regulus’s sleeve. “Annoy me too or you’re unfair.” 

Regulus rolls his eyes. “You’re not that ticklish, Evan, it’s less fun.” 

“Ah, so you think I’m less fun, uh?” Evan crosses his arms, offended. “I see. Now Barty is better than me.” 

“I’ve always been better than you,” Barty replies, intertwining his fingers with Regulus’s to prevent him from tickling again.

“Prick!” Evan accuses.

“Are you alright?” Barty asks Regulus, examining his hands. There’s scratches on his fingers, Regulus didn’t want Rabastan to heal those. “What happened here?” 

“Climbing,” Regulus says. 

They’ve started training him in the woods, which is terrible with the cold weather, the wild animals and the inexperience, but it’s also fun. Regulus can actually fight them now, and he does particularly well in the woods, where he can climb and use what’s around him to protect himself or to attack Bella and Rabastan himself.

“Climbing?” Barty and Evan say, confused. 

Regulus shrugs. “It’s too long to explain, I reckon. The ceremony will begin soon.” 

“Then you’ll do the explaining after,” Evan says, with a sigh.

Watching Narcissa walk down the aisle is an emotional experience, more than Regulus expects it to be. He spots Samira Shariq, eyeing Narcissa with softness in her gaze, and he thinks that it’s terrible to have to watch, to think of what it is and what could have been, if only the world was a kinder place to live in. Evan cries, of course, and Leonie sighs quietly, wrapping her arm around his waist and keeping him close. She smiles with tenderness, like she had been anticipating this. Regulus wonders if James is the type to cry at weddings too. 

Lunch is horrible. Regulus sits next to Elsie, Evan, Leonie and Barty in front of him. Elsie is a cute girl, with brown hair and sparkly blue eyes, a round face and rosy cheeks, there’s nothing wrong with her. Except she lives in a world of fantasy, and she can’t wait to get married, like it is the peak of her life -someone must have convinced her it is-. So during lunch, she keeps chatting and chatting about how their wedding is going to be like. Barty and Evan look horrified, and it takes all the patience he has to avoid telling Elsie to cut it out, they’re not getting married, Regulus is in love with a man and he has no intention to ever leave him. 

Thank Merlin, Barty and Evan find an excuse to drag him to the bathroom again. There, they claim a stall and Regulus places a silencing charm on it, and finally enjoys silence. 

“That girl wants to shag you so bad,” Evan says, “it’s a pity to watch. Were Potter here, she’d be popped out of existence.” 

“James wouldn’t do something like that,” Regulus says, quietly, eyes closed. “Too much of a sweetheart. He’d complain to me about it or try to monopolise my time. Or do something stupid to grab everyone’s attention. Merlin, I miss him.” 

“Good to see you’re smitten,” Barty says. “He’s worried about you, you know? Potter. And your brother too.” 

“Oh, we’ll never hear the end of it,” Evan complains. “They bothered us for weeks, saying ‘make sure to talk to Regulus at the wedding, make sure he’s okay, ask him if he wants to leave’. Like yeah, dude, I got it, this must be the hundredth time you ask me to do that!”

Regulus opens his eyes and frowns, loosening his tie. “I didn’t want to worry them,” he says, though he realises the letters probably didn’t help. 

“They were worried from the minute you disappeared from their sight,” Barty says, crossing his arms. “We meet at Potter’s every two weeks. For the war thing, because James refuses to let it die down, and to put together the information we have about you. They’re really worried, Reg. We all are.” 

“I’m alright,” Regulus lies. “You can tell them that.” He gestures at himself. “Look at me, all in one piece. I’m alright, really.” 

“Well, you didn’t sound particularly alright in your letters, nor you do now,” Evan retorts, taking a good look at him. “You get so tense every time a family member is near, Reg. What happened?” 

Regulus shrugs. “Mother knows I sent Sirius away. And she put veritaserum in my tea, so now she knows I’ve been with a boy, which is why I’m engaged to Elsie, it’s a punishment. And since they think I’m weak and lacking the necessary skills to be a proper servant to Voldemort, they sent me to some place in Northern Europe with Bellatrix and Rabastan. They’re training me.” 

“Does she want you to take the mark before school starts?” Evan asks, alarmed.

Regulus shakes his head. “She doesn’t get a say on that. Voldemort chooses his followers, you have to prove to be worthy. Yes, I’m being trained by very skilled Death Eaters, but that’s not enough to take the mark, I don’t think so. They’ll probably give me something to do,” he shrugs. “I’ll just fail and call it a day, if they do. It’s just…I’m in a house with murderers. And a vampire on an animal diet, but that’s different.”

“A vampire?” Barty asks, bewildered. 

“Yes, Celia? She’s a family member too, but she’s nice. I’ll introduce you guys later, how about it? Anyway, that’s it.” Regulus says, looking down. “Can you tell them to stop fretting? I’ll be alright when I come back to Hogwarts, no mark, no nothing. It’s just one more month. What have you been doing?” 

Barty shrugs. “Your boyfriend’s parents and Dorcas’s father and brother are teaching us how to duel, fixing some of our mistakes in magic…that’s why we gather in the first place” 

“When you see Effie and Monty, can you greet them for me? And tell them I sent a kiss?” Regulus asks, eyes darting between Evan and Barty. 

“Aww, you’re close with your in-laws,” Evan says, pinching Regulus’s cheek. “Well, not your legal in-laws yet, but you get the message.” He shrugs, then grows. “Leonie’s parents hate me.” 

“What?” Regulus asks, looking over at Barty, who nods. “Why? What’s their problem?” 

“I have no idea. Maybe it’s because I don’t do well in school- Oh, I don’t know really, but I think I did well in my O.W.L.s and I love their daughter more than anyone, isn’t that enough? It should be enough. That’s what I’d want for my kids.” 

“I think they don’t like that their daughter found herself a boyfriend,” Barty says. Regulus nods. “They’re just bastards, Evan. You don’t want to be liked by bastards.” 

“Yeah, bollocks to them,” Regulus says, looking at Evan. “Leonie loves you, that’s what matters.” 

Evan rolls his eyes, but he nods. “Ah, we have letters for you. From Potter and your brother,” he says, taking two envelopes from his pocket. Regulus takes them gratefully. “Pandora wanted to give you one too, but she had a family emergency-” 

“Is she alright?” Regulus interrupts. 

“She is, her letter just didn’t come in time,” Evan says, with a pout. “Sorry. But she’s there, alright, mate? And she’s fine, I promise. Misses you, though. Dorcas too.” 

“And Elias,” Barty adds. “He’s in Sardinia, but he sends all his love.” 

“Have you been seeing him?” Regulus asks, watching James’s handwriting on the envelope with fondness. 

“I’m going there by Portkey for a couple of weeks, but otherwise we just talk through letters. He’s working as a waiter, apparently. Said he wants money to go watch the Quidditch World Cup next year.” 

“Oh, I can’t wait,” Regulus groans. “Merlin, I miss Quidditch. I can’t wait to get on a broom again.” 

“We’ll tell James you miss his broom, then,” Evan says, with a grin. Barty chuckles.

“Do you want to drink toilet water?” Regulus asks, putting the envelopes in his pocket. “Because I can make you.” 

“Oh, come on, Regulus. The bloke’s hot, how do you not miss his broom?” Evan asks, teasing. “Oh, you’d combust, we’d seen him with this tiny shorts-” 

Regulus pushes Evan lightly. “Don’t look at his legs. I’ll kill you. His legs are mine to look at,” he says, with a frown. “You can’t look at his arms either. Or his tits! Don’t look at his tits, I’ll actually get violent.”

Evan laughs, head tipped back. “Oh, you’re so jealous, it’s so cute.”

Regulus frowns, narrowing his eyes. “If you looked at his bum-” 

Barty is the one to laugh this time. “You’re worse than me,” he says, pleased. 

Evan wrinkles his nose, scowling. “That’s not true, you were about to cry when you realised Elias was flashing his nips at everyone at the beach.” 

Barty blushes a deep red. “Shut up, Rosier.” 

“Yeah, shut up, Rosier,” Regulus says, sticking his tongue out. 

Dear Regulus, 

I hope it’s okay to give this letter to Barty and Evan. I just wanted to reply to your letters and say a few things.

About drawing: I didn’t show drawings to you because I wanted to surprise you, but I guess I also felt a little shy about it. It’s always nerve wracking to show people your art. But I knew you were going to be nice about it: you’re always nice, at least to me, and don’t you dare say it’s not true, you are and that’s a fact. You’re much nicer than most people. 

Drawing is really personal to me. It calms me down, it’s a way to express myself without necessarily using words, let alone that in the drawings I gave you there was almost always a quote or a thought to complete it. I’m not always good with words and I’m not going to pretend I am. Drawing makes things easier, and it takes my mind off things. So that’s why I draw. I’m glad you liked the drawings I gifted you. Do you keep them in your diary? 

As for my cousin’s wedding, it went well. I got sad sometimes, I cried, but I had my whole family with me. It was nice to see Rayaan after many years. His wife is really beautiful, I think you’d like her: she used to be a seeker, too. I can’t wait to introduce you to them. I haven’t come out to them, but mum and I are thinking Christmas might be a good time to do it. 

Now, your letters. I’m assuming you’re with family, or people close to your family, and I’m assuming they’re death eaters. I know you struggle to see the good in yourself, even if I don’t get why: you’re one of the best people I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet, and you’re good. You’re so good, Regulus: you’re kind-hearted, you’re gentle, you’re caring, and you’re so important. You have no idea how much meeting you made my life better. I wish my love could be glasses through which you could see yourself how you really are, and not how people you’re related to makes you see yourself. 

You need to forgive yourself for the things you can’t help. You didn’t choose this, Regulus. You were forced into it and of course it’s affecting you, I just don’t want you to think badly of yourself. I’m not there to hold you through it and I hate it. What can I do, my love? I wish I could get you out. 

I don’t want you to be perfect, Regulus. I know that’s how you want to be, but you’re so hard on yourself. This strive for perfection doesn’t allow you to see just how wonderful you are and it doesn’t serve you anyway. Nobody is perfect, Reg, you forgive everyone for being flawed, why won’t you forgive yourself too? You deserve it more than anybody; you haven’t done anything wrong. You need to be easier on yourself, my love. Being ambitious is good, but it shouldn’t be a reason to beat yourself down. You’re someone who ALWAYS puts effort in what he does, you’ve got no reason to act like this. 

Now, the marriage. I don’t know what I’d be forgiving you about. You’re not cheating, you haven’t chosen this, I hold no rage against you. I’m just so pissed that your mother keeps trying to get in your personal business. It’s horrible, and you don’t deserve it. 

I know this letter is very long. Bear with me a little longer, will you? I just want you to know I love you to death. There is nothing in this world that could take my love from you. You own it, your soul owns it, nobody can take it. I never even dared to dream of having such a beautiful person by my side. I’ve been really sad this year, sometimes, for a reason or another, and if you hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have been able to be so comfortable expressing that. When I was sad, you always made sure to let me know I was loved and supported, and even if that didn’t fix the external situations, it made me feel at peace. You’re my sunny days, Reg, you’re all the warmth I’ve ever felt. I hope you’ll see your beauty more clearly now. 

All my love and a million kisses, 

James

Regulus stares at the paper, speechless, with wet eyes. He swallows down tears, closes his eyes and his fingers find the stone at his neck. Somewhere in England, despite everything, James Potter holds back. Regulus wishes he could smell his cologne, feel his hands in his hair or run on his back. Just one month, he tells himself, one month and I’ll be in his arms again.

When he finally lets go of the stone, he tears open Sirius’s letters. 

Mon frére, 

I remember Space Argo. When you move in with me, we could stargaze from the yard! I can’t promise it’d be as fun as when we were kids, though. I’m afraid that imagination is long gone, though I miss it. But we could, if that makes you feel better.

I have to say, Reg, as much as I hate the pressure Mother and Father put on me, I never wished it on you. You were everything to me when we were kids, you’re the only reason why I knew how to have fun in the first place. You and all the crazy things you did as a child. Do you remember the pixie in the library? You wouldn’t leave the poor thing alone. It disturbed you while you were reading and it made you mad enough that you started chasing it around. I still laugh about that. 

The point is, I never wanted you to feel what I felt. I hate the thought of that pressure being on your shoulders. I know I haven’t always been good to you, I know I hurt you, but I never, ever wanted you to feel like you are right now. I miss being in the same house, even if you’d be annoying about it. I’d rather be annoyed with you than feeling like I’ve ruined your life. Sometimes I’m still mad at you for staying. I don’t know where you are, I can only guess who you’re with, but it still hurts me. 

You’re hard on yourself. I don’t know when you started becoming like that, but you are, and I’m scared you’re doing this to punish yourself for something. And that’s bullshit, Regulus. There’s nothing you need to be punished for. You don’t deserve this. 

Where are you? Can I come get you, please? Just come home with me. 

My love and a hug,

Sirius

The house is quiet at night, so Regulus can feel how his breath comes out ragged, somehow angered by Sirius’s words. His hands tremble, he can’t quite stay still, so he jumps off the bed and starts pacing around the room, counting breaths for the second time today, watching his hands shake and not knowing what to do about it. It wasn’t this bad at Hogwarts.

This house, much like Grimmauld Place, gets to his head. Perhaps there always was a part of Regulus that was clinging to this guilt, but it was never so prevalent. He fears there’s no coming back from it, that when he goes to Hogwarts he’ll be a much different person. Even more laid-back, even more closed off, struggling even more to tell people how he truly feels. He’s losing the progress he made, that’s how it feels. He worked so hard on himself: trying to be more trusting, making new friends, offering comfort. And yet he’s here again. 

When he looks in the mirror, it feels like his eleven years old self is staring back at him. Guilty, pressured, lonely and afraid. He hates every bit of it, because he’d like to be carefree, surrounded by the people he loves, courageous.  

James says he loves him, but will he still say that when Regulus comes back at Hogwarts and he can’t even bear to write his feelings, let alone speak them? 

The thought frightens him, and it takes sleep away from him completely. He grabs his copy of The Little Prince and flees his bedroom, in favour of the living room. The light is turned off, of course, so he flicks his wand at it, then wraps himself in a blanket, sits down and starts reading. 

The book is comforting; simple, yet not really. It soothes him so much his eyes start to get sleepy, and when he begins to have to reread passages, he knows he’s about to pass out. Then he startles, when a soft wind caresses his face. Suddenly, Celia is peeking at the pages from over his shoulders. Oh, Regulus could cry, he really wanted to just go to sleep: to rest and forget about the day he had. 

He sighs and turns to the right, meeting Celia’s bright celestine eyes. A grin spreads on her face, youthful and slightly playful.

“Hi, Celia,” he says. He’s trying to get used to how fast she moves around. “Did I disturb you?” 

“No,” Celia says. She overtakes him, then sits down next to him, hugging her knees. “I was just wondering about something I heard about you today. Apparently, if you ask your family, there are two very different sides to you. And I wonder which one is true and which one is false.” 

Regulus nods, closing his book and setting it aside carefully. “Just ask, then. I guess it’s inevitable.” 

“It’s not, really. You can say you don’t want to talk about it and I won’t bother you. But I was hoping you’d let me bother you. It gets pretty boring to be a nocturnal creature. I can never drag you into conversations.” Celia says, looking him in the eye.

Regulus swallows, looking away. He prefers not being dragged into conversations with Celia: she’s much older, much more experienced, and she can read him like an open book. Regulus despises it, but how could he ever avoid it? He started off this bond by wanting to be the one to ask questions, yet he never got to do that. Celia knows a lot more about him than Regulus knows about her.

“I heard Bellatrix tell your uncle that you sent your brother away to be the heir, because you thought he wasn’t as fit for it as you are. I don’t know if that’s the truth. See, Regulus, you don’t strike me as a purist, as much as you care to appear one. You have no respect for your parents -which I don’t think you should have, by the way: the way they talk to you is awful, they’re just getting what they deserve. But purists tend to have respect for their elders: it’s the culture. And this brother of yours…you never mention him, conveniently. But you do seem to be pissed when someone says anything against him. But then you do the same: you say he’s a blood-traitor, that he was too soft and blinded by the narrative.” 

Regulus sighs, sinking into the sofa and covering his eyes with his arms. It’s not a pleasant conversation to have with a stranger: besides, he’s been trying to avoid speaking about Sirius, even if everyone keeps mentioning him. “So I lied. We all lie. We’re a community of liars. You would know. I can’t imagine it to be much different when you were my age.” 

“But why do you lie? Why does Regulus Black put on a facade?” Celia asks. “You don’t…” She sighs and scrunches her nose. “You don’t seem like one who enjoys lying. Rabastan and Bellatrix get more fun out of it. You’re not like them. You lie because of-”

“Duty,” Regulus completes for her. 

Perhaps, he was selfish when he told James taking care of Sirius was not his job. Selfish, because Regulus claims that as his duty. Yes, he does it in a different way, but still. Regulus is ready to give up everything for Sirius: fool everybody, in Sirius’s name; fight a war, in Sirius’s name; get back at their parents, in Sirius’s name. 

Taking care of Sirius, making sure their parents can’t get a hold of him: that is Regulus’s duty. James can offer Sirius a house and a family that loves him, he can offer fun and love, and all the things Regulus can’t give him. Regulus will help from the shadows. He’ll be the distraction, the Wronski feint that brings the team to the win. 

But the thing about the Wronski feint is that it’s dangerous. It doesn’t always go well. One mistake, one slip, and you might get seriously injured. But Regulus isn’t afraid of a little wound, even less so if that wound keeps Sirius safe.

“Duty has a name,” Celia says, “your brother’s, am I right? Your mother said you turned the family to shreds by sending him away. She insists that you’re not sincere when you say you wanted to be the heir. She says you do it for Sirius, that he’s your weakness. Your Achilles’s heel, though your mother didn’t use these words.” 

“What’s your point, Celia?” Regulus asks, dropping his arms and folding his hands on his lap. “So maybe I’m here for my brother. I don’t see how any of that matters.” 

“It does,” Celia says, with a small frown. “Of course it matters, Regulus. If you sent him away, I’m guessing it was because you were unsafe. The both of you, I mean. You must have sent him somewhere safe. But why didn’t you follow him?”

“Celia…” Regulus struggles, breathing in through his nose. “You know how it works. Families need heirs.” 

“So you just placed your brother’s life before yours?” Celia asks, frowning. “Why on earth didn’t you just-” 

“Report my parents?” Regulus laughs, shaking his head. “And then what? Everyone knew what was happening  to us, Celia. If someone cared, they would have done something sooner. The people who cared did something sooner, actually. But it wasn’t me they cared about and that’s fine.”

“You deserve safety as much as your brother does,” Celia says, almost irritated, which is so funny to Regulus, because she doesn’t even know him. How would she know what he deserves? “Why would he be more deserving than you anyway?” 

“He just is, point blank.” Regulus says, crossing his arms to his chest. “I don’t see why any of this matters to you.”

“Let me tell you a story,” Celia says. Something in her tone makes Regulus want to listen to her.

“You’re opening up with me,” Regulus whispers. He senses it must be that. 

Celia ignores him. “Once upon a time, there was a family like many others. A mum, a dad and three children. The eldest daughter was ten years older than her little sister, and fourteen years older than her little brother. Having been an only child for many years, a lot of expectations were placed on her: to be a model for her little cousins and her siblings, to always appear proper, and to look after the babies when mummy and daddy were busy with work.” She tilts her head to the side, staring at a blank space on the wall. “She was good in school, if a little bit arrogant and with a flair for trouble. But she never truly disappointed her parents.”

Regulus stares at her, with a small frown. Ten years is a big age difference, especially in a family of purebloods: everyone tries to have kids fast and be done with it soon, as having kids is a chore.

“What happened to her?” 

“She was too gullible, and she thought she was invincible.” Celia says, hugging her knees. Her chin rests on the top of her knees. “She met her betrothed when she was sixteen. And started planning her escape. She wasn’t fond of the idea of marriage. But when she tried to escape, her little sister told everything to their parents.” She gives a slight smile. “But her parents didn’t know she befriended some people she shouldn’t have.” 

“Vampires,” Regulus whispers. 

Celia’s smile gets broader. “It was my plan B. A friend of mine and I made a blood pact. If I didn’t manage to escape, then he would turn me.”

“You asked to be turned?” 

“I did,” Celia says, with a smile that tugs at the corner of her eyes. “And it was the best choice I’ve ever made. First of all, not only was I disowned, I was also completely deleted from the family tree, like I never existed. Secondly, I was finally free of perfection. I had to be perfect to please my parents, then suddenly I was free of everything, and I had more than a lifetime to find my identity out of that space. It wasn’t easy. But I had friends: loyal, good friends that stood by me every time I needed it. I never looked back. I never regretted it. It took my brother getting married to make me think about him again. He was only three when I left, suddenly getting married. They probably took the memory of me from him.” Celia turns and looks Regulus in the eye. “Family wasn’t enough for me to give up on myself.” 

“You found freedom in death,” Regulus whispers, with a frown. “In re-birth, actually. You found yourself a new family.”

Celia nods slowly, picking at the sleeves of her jumper. “I still don’t regret it. All I have, my identity included, I got it because I wanted it so bad.  Everything I did, I did for myself and myself only. I wanted the freedom my family and society took from me. But I think you’re different from me.” She searches on his face, looking for clues on his story. “Now I wonder why Regulus Black went against his parents for his brother. He must be closer to your age.”

“He’s seventeen. Eighteen in November,” Regulus says. “I don’t care much about my parents,” he lies, “but Sirius comes first. Before anything and anyone.” 

Celia shakes her head, still not understanding. “You’re in great danger, Regulus. Giving up your life so someone else can live theirs is not as noble as you think it is. Why didn’t you save yourself when you could?” 

Regulus shakes his head and shrugs, pulling the sleeves of his jumper over his palms. He hates this conversation, but what he hates more is how much he needs it. 

“You know, Celia, I don’t believe in the afterlife. The mistakes we make have to be dealt with during our lifetimes.” He clears his throats, licks at his lips. “Sirius was always so good. He was always kind and welcoming and- and did everything in his power to make me feel safe at home. And I wasn’t able to do the same. For years, I chose my parents over him. I caused him pain and grief and I caused fights. But he still defended me and protected me when I needed him.” He swallows, eyes on the scratches on his fingers. “When the moment came in which I could offer him freedom and safety, I just…couldn’t stop myself from giving that to him. I think my freedom and my safety were less worthy than his. After all I made so many mistakes and hurt so many people, I don’t think I deserve to save myself. I think I’m paying for my mistakes, I-” 

I need pain to cleanse me, he thinks. I need pain to teach me how to be good.

“You’re sixteen years old, Regulus,” Celia says, so dismayed it hurts. “What are you even talking about? Some might tell you what you’re doing is heroic, but honestly, Regulus, you’re just forcing yourself into dangerous situations for no reason. I don’t think your brother would want this. I don’t think it’s right to ask this of yourself either. You’re so young. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“I don’t care what Sirius wants.” Regulus says, not surprised to find anger and irritation in his voice. “I care that he’s safe and far away from our mother. I’d rather carry the pressure he felt than watch him stand under it. I can take it. He endured worse.” 

She talks about mistakes, as if Regulus’s choices could simply be summed up with that word. She uses his age as an excuse. Everyone is always trying to justify him: he doesn’t want that. Perhaps, deep down, he wants someone to hold him accountable. 

Celia shakes her head, and Regulus only catches the movement because she’s sitting so close their shoulders brush together. “Then let me ask you this, Regulus,” she says, “when your plan falls down on you, which it will, who saves you? When you shove away everyone with this way of thinking, who helps you?” 

Regulus grabs his book and gets up with one swift movement, an angry frown directed at the woman on the couch, who stares at him with concern, and determination too. Maybe he took it from her. Maybe it’s her determination that makes him so stubborn.

“I save myself,” he says, slowly, dragging every syllable. “I don’t need people to save me, I don’t need help, I don’t need anything from anybody. I’ll succeed and I’ll do it on my own. I’m not weak or soft or…young.” 

Celia lowers her eyes, shaking her head once more. “You’re a fool, Regulus. And fools never fall with grace.”

3/8/1977

Dear Sirius, 

Thank you for your letter, but you’re not coming anywhere close to this house. Stay where you are, have fun, cheer up James if he’s sulking, 

Sincerely, 

R.A.B.

4 August, 1977

Nikolai Khelben, professor of Defence against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, found murdered in his house (read more at page 14).

Regulus stares and stares, tries to make sense out of it and fails. His mind doesn’t seem to be able to form a single thought, the same way his eyes can’t form a single tear. He wishes he could cry, though, because this deserves his tears. 

Regulus had grown fond of professor Khelben: his lessons were always interesting, but never heavy, and he always found ways to give house points without fueling unhealthy competition. Professor Khelben was the one who stopped him to give subtle advice, because he noticed the way Regulus flinched every time Dorcas whipped her wand out when duelling. And he’s dead; murdered in his own house. 

It’s not fair, he thinks, turning the pages, while nausea properly sickens him. This is why he doesn’t read the prophet at breakfast. Because it’s nauseating, because you might find that one of your favourite professors of all times got killed, in his own bloody house. His hands shake with anger as he reads, but his chest aches pain. He can’t even focus on the article: he just stares at the picture they chose of him, and he wants to cry, he wants to scream, he wants names, to go and punish them himself.

“Well, one more blood traitor’s gone,” Rabastan says, getting up from his chair. 

Regulus lets go of the paper, raising his eyes to glare at Rabastan. “Like you’re any better,” he says, sharp, scathing, scornful. He pushes up to his feet as well, turning to fully face Rabastan’s stunned expression. “Do you think you’re better, Mr. I don’t get married because I’m “sterile”? Why don’t you speak the truth, craven? It’s because you know you’re a traitor, too.” 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Rabastan replies, now equally mad, exactly like Regulus wanted him to be. “Are you hurt because your little blood-traitor professor got what he deserved? Poor little Regulus, can’t even deal with what has to be done. Face it, kid, you’re going to have to kill those bastards too.” 

“I can’t deal with what has to be done?” Regulus says, with a sharp laugh. He takes step after step, proudly watching as Rabastan moves backwards. This is why they shouldn’t be left alone. “You can’t even fuck a woman. You’re so quick to accuse others of disloyalty. Do you want to know why, Rabastan? Because you’re the most disloyal dickhead in our lot. You’re not even sterile, are you? You just don’t want to get married. Twenty years old, lying to mummy and daddy about-” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Rabastan sneers, flinging himself at Regulus. 

But Regulus knows how Rabastan moves by now. He rears back from his initial spot, rolls on the ground and gets back on his feet, fingers grazing the floor as he stares at Rabastan, whose blue eyes glimmer with anger. 

“Are you having fun accusing me of being a blood traitor when you’re about to cry for one?” Rabastan asks, slowly making his way towards Regulus, who straightens up a little, taking a half a step back. “You think you’re so much better than me- you and I are the bloody same, Regulus. Don’t even try going down that route. It’s none of your business why I don’t get married.” 

“Yes, it is,” Regulus replies, fists clenched. He doesn’t care about playing fair at the moment, he’s not concerned for the impact that his words have on other people. All he wants is to give back the hurt he’s feeling. “It is because it makes you a blood traitor. It’s your duty, you said it yourself. We need to continue the line.” 

Rabastan moves forward, and this time, Regulus isn’t fast enough to get out of his way. He finds himself trapped against the wall, with Rabastan fisting at his jumper. Rabastan is lifting him from the ground a bit, strong bastard. Regulus wants to headbutt him, but he can’t with the way Rabastan is keeping him still. 

“Why don’t you get married, uh?” Regulus whispers, snarky, as he wraps his fingers around Rabastan’s wrist. “I saw you reading Plato. A sun child, that’s what he calls you, doesn’t he? Too bad the wizarding community doesn’t use such nice terms. Sterile? Oh, you don’t fool anybody. I’ll tell you what you are, you’re-” 

“Shut up now, ” Rabastan says, pushing him harder against the wall. 

He towers over him, Rabastan. He’s taller than Regulus will ever be, probably, and if normally this would scare Regulus, it doesn’t scare him now. He’s done with being scared of them. They’re weak, just like everyone else. They’re weak, and they deserve to be hurt, and he doesn’t care to be kind now.

“I remember you,” Regulus whispers, “you dropped out of the Quidditch team, why? Who was it that you couldn’t take your eyes off of in the showers? Was it a teammate?” 

The first punch that lands is relatively delicate, at least for Rabastan’s standards. It doesn’t hurt as much as other hits Regulus took. But it gives him a way out. He places his foot on the wall and pushes hard forward, which Rabastan is not expecting at all, still processing what he’s done. They stumble forward, crumble on the floor a second later. Regulus doesn’t waste time: he straddles Rabastan’s hips, grabs his wrists and pushes against his chest with all his weight. 

“You’re crazy,” Rabastan slurs, though there’s some fear in his eyes, like he didn’t expect Regulus to hit the jackpot, to be right. “Incest really does cause damage, doesn’t it?” 

“Ah, there you go. Now he’s mean because he’s been exposed,” Regulus hisses. He’s struggling a little, because Rabastan resists his strength, but he won’t let go. “You’re a liar and a traitor. Do you want to know why you’re mad, Rabastan? Because you and blood-traitors are too alike,” he says, slowly, spelling out every word. 

Rabastan’s face crumples in rage, and he pushes forward with his hips, hard enough to get Regulus off of him and take over him. “It takes one to know the other,” Rabastan whispers in his ear. “You’re lucky Bellatrix believed your little tale about wanting to be the heir and deserving it more than Sirius. She treats you like the son she never had, that’s what saves you from being killed here and now. The truth is different, ain’t it? You love your blood-traitor brother, you didn’t want mummy to kill him. You took his place to protect him. Aren’t you a hero, Regulus? You don’t fool anyone either.” 

Regulus grits his teeth and rapidly lifts his knee, hitting Rabastan’s stomach and making him breathless. He then switches their positions again, blocking Rabastan’s wrists over his head. 

“Keep my brother out of your filthy mouth,” Regulus sneers. Their faces are close now, Regulus can feel Rabastan’s breath on his face. “Listen to you making up stories,” he laughs, holding tighter on Rabastan’s wrists. “You’re just jealous. Your brother would exchange you for some Shit Lord’s spit. You’ve always known he didn’t love you. That’s why you riled me up against Sirius when we were kids.” 

“Fuck off,” Rabastan says, before headbutting Regulus’s forehead. Regulus groans, but holds tighter to his wrists, stubborn and mad. “Fucking hell, kid. Let go.” 

“When I die,” Regulus replies, gritting his teeth. He’s not sure why his eyes fill with tears. “And you take back everything you’ve said. I’m not a blood-traitor and I deserved to be the heir more than Sirius did and professor Khelben didn’t deserve to be murdered. Take it back now.” 

“What the hell are you two doing!?” Celia’s voice comes from the door of the dining room. 

“He won’t get off,” Rabastan slurs, still struggling against Regulus’s grip. 

“Regulus!” Celia yells, but even her voice can’t dissuade him. 

“Take it back now!” He shouts, while a couple of tears roll on his cheeks and fall on Rabastan’s. 

There’s a soft swirl of the air around him, then he’s being pulled back by Celia’s cold hands. Rabastan, in front of him, immediately stands up and starts massaging his wrists, glaring at Regulus, who can’t stop crying. 

He kept it for himself for over a month, a horrible month, and it’s like professor Khelben’s death opened gates he can’t close: his shoulders shake, he can’t catch his breath, he’s sobbing and clenching jaw and fists in the attempt of stopping.

“I’m not training him in that condition,” Rabastan says, harshly, glaring at Regulus. “Make him rest or something.” 

“You’re a despicable man,” Celia says to him. She then grabs Regulus’s hand. “Come along, Regulus.” 

“I want James,” Regulus sobs, once they’re in the safety of his room, on which Celia placed a silencing spell. “I don’t want to be here.” He sits down on his bed, taking his face in his hands, then removes them, disgusted with the stickiness of the tears. “I hate this place. It’s cold. I want to go home. I don’t give a single fuck about any of this.” 

“Regulus,” Celia runs her hand through his hair, tucks a strand of it behind his ear. “You need to stay strong.” 

“I’m tired of staying strong!” Regulus retorts, breaking into one more sob. “It’s not fair. I want to go home. They’re turning me into a horrible person. They’re ruining me. I’m not like this. I wasn’t like this before them!” 

He wants to crawl into James’s arms and be surrounded by his warmth, wants James to tell him he’s not a horrible person, that he loves him regardless. The thought makes him, somehow, cry even harder. He tries to tell himself he just has to endure it for twenty-seven more days, but it feels like an eternity. He just wants to be back already and forget this summer even happened in the first place. 

“Stop,” Celia says, harshly. “Stop crying, Regulus.” 

He does. He’s not sure why. He stares at her, dumbstruck, irritated with the tickling of the tears that run on his cheeks. 

“Good,” she says. She summons a glass and fills it with water, then hands it to him. “Drink. And breathe, for goodness’s sake, you’re not a vampire, you need to breathe.” 

He downs the water: he hadn’t realised how thirsty he was. There’s a piercing pain at his temples, and he groans, pushing his palms against his forehead. 

“Yes, that happens when you cry like that,” Celia says, slightly annoyed. “You were desperate, Regulus, what happened?” 

Regulus shakes his head. “They killed my teacher,” he says, as if that wasn’t just the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The real problem is that he lost himself between the walls of this house. He doesn’t see how James could ever love him when he’s so broken, so hurt, so mad about everything. He crossed the line with Rabastan. Sure, his comment was horrible, insensitive and undeserved, but saying those things to him was mean, it was hurtful on purpose, and that’s not the person Regulus is. He doesn’t want to be someone who picks at someone’s most vulnerable part and stabs it. 

“They’re getting to me- I promised James I wouldn’t let them,” Regulus says, tears getting in his eyes once more. “I promised him-” 

“Regulus.” Celia reaches out and caresses his cheek, stroking it with her thumb. He melts into it, just a little, he clings to this tiny, affectionate gesture. “You’re burnt out,” she says. “What you need is a day of rest. I’ll tell Rabastan you’re not training at all today, and Bellatrix can try fighting me on this. Who’s this James? A friend?” 

Regulus falls silent, realising with horror how he let James’s name slip out his lips. When he stepped foot in this place, he promised himself he would never speak his name in someone’s presence, not even Celia’s. 

“He’s no one. Just a figment of my imagination.” Regulus says, looking away. “Forget it, would you?” 

“I’m on your side, Regulus. You can tell me. I’m here to help,” she says, a small frown on her face. “If you want to.” 

“I just-” Regulus sniffles, drying his face with his sleeves. “I just really, really miss him.”

“You should’ve gone with your brother and spared yourself from this,” Celia says, shaking her head. “What were you thinking?” 

Oh, that does it. Pain leaves, once again, in favour of anger. It always does when someone mentions this. He has a mission, and he’s a man of duty, and this isn’t the moment to let himself go like this. Not when there’s a reason, out there, to keep being strong.

Regulus clenches his jaw and breathes in and out, recentring, remembering his purpose. “I’m exactly where I should be,” he says, getting up. He’s happy to find out he’s stable on his legs. “I’ll have a shower. Can you tell Rabastan I’ll be ready for training in an hour?” 

“Just how stubborn are you?” Celia asks, mildly angry with him. 

“It’s what it takes,” Regulus says, refusing to back down. “I’ll see you later.”

Rabastan waits for him in the basement, a pained scowl in his face while he makes a little flower grow between two books. An odd thing to do, indeed, but Regulus isn’t going to be mean about it. 

“I’m sorry.” Regulus says, hands behind his back. “I crossed the line. I didn’t mean to.” 

Rabastan turns, eyes blazing and lines between his eyebrows. Regulus looks back until his expression softens. “It’s whatever,” he says, “just don’t mention it to anybody, please.” 

“I won’t.” Regulus promises. “And I’m sorry for shouting.” 

Rabastan shakes his head, lowering his wand. “It’s fine, Regulus. Let’s start training.”

9/7/1977

Dear James, 

Sorry for making you worry. I know it took me time to write this, but professor Khelben’s death knocked me out for a few days. I’m alright, or well, as alright as I can be. Rest assured, I will be making it to Hogwarts in one piece. 

I can’t believe we’ll be back in less than a month! I’ve been counting days. I miss our room, my dorm, the library, and all my friends. Barty and Evan told me they’ve been visiting: treasure their company on my behalf. I can’t wait to hug you again. I know it’s still a good twenty-two days before we’re back, but it feels like it will fly by. The rest of summer didn’t, not like it used to, but this was no typical summer. 

You asked if I keep your drawings in my diary: I do. It’s almost finished, the diary. I have ten pages left, I’ll need to buy a new one when I visit Diagon Alley, and new clothes too. I’m taller now! And a lot stronger, you’re not the only one who’s got man tits anymore. Prepare to drool all over me, Potter. 

All my love and a lot of kisses, 

R.A.B. 

11/7/1977

Dear James, 

I made a friend here. Perhaps one day I’ll introduce you to her. She’s…one of a kind. For one, she looks very young, but she’s actually just three years younger than your mum. Secondly, she dyed her hair white with magic, and guess what? Not even her roots grow black. I’m going to ask her to teach me: imagine the pranks you could pull with such a spell. How do you reckon Snape and Avery would look with bright orange in their hair? 

But I’ve been a bit sad, too. I haven’t said that in my letter. Remember how I told you that some queer people can’t cope, and they pick the wrong side because of that? Well, there’s one person here that is exactly like that, and as much as I hate him and I’m mad at him, I also feel…well, pity, there’s no kind way to say it. But also sad. Sometimes I stop and think how that could have been me, if Elias hadn’t been there. How Barty could have been the same. We’re not, obviously. I’m very comfortable in my queerness now, and I’m very proud to love you. But sometimes I stop and think about how prejudice creates crime, every day without a fault. Isn’t it sad? 

I want to make it better. Do you think we’ll ever be able to implement sex education at Hogwarts? I think it’d save lives. People tend to think this is a dramatic statement, but I don’t think so. I think my life would have been easier if someone told me, when I was eleven, that I could love boys and it was fine and natural and not a betrayal of the ugliest form. I remember us talking about it at the beginning of the year. 

It’s almost one year together, or well, two months and eight days to that. We could do something special. I’d love to, but I love every moment with you, so that’s implicit. It’s a monday, sadly, I just checked. Isn’t it so annoying? Anyway, we could spend the night together. I’d like to. 

Love you to the moon and back, 

R.A.B.

13 August, 1977

The cave is less bright than he remembers. Kreacher is still there, and so is the tremor in his hands and the horrible fear of falling into the water: it’s a suspicious grey colour. This time, he can feel the temperature: very cold, it must be December outside, but Regulus is only wearing a tight jumper that won’t do much against the wind. 

He’s in a hurry, like he was the previous times he dreamt this,and says all the same words: he keeps muttering words about soul-splitting spells and the slytherin locket, the damned slytherin locket, and his redemption, and he hasn’t spoken to Sirius in two years, God does he miss Sirius? He hopes he’s fine. He tells himself he’ll visit once he’s out of this cave. Except he doesn’t: he gets close to the water to drink, because he’s so thirsty, but the rock is slippery and he falls. Hands claw at his clothes, his skin-

He wakes in a cold sweat, heart racing and breath coming out funny, altered. It takes him a minute to get out of bed, unstable on his legs and quite nauseous. He opens blinds and closes his eyes as light fills the room. His desk is cold and he lays his fingers and palms over it, shivering, but feeling comforted by the contact with reality. 

“Regulus?” 

His eyes snap open and he stares at Rabastan, messy dark hair and a confused look on his face. 

“Are you alright? You’re pale,” he says, coming close. 

His hair is pulled back by a hair band. Rabastan wears long hair, has been since his last year, and he usually wears it in a man bun. It’s funny to see him with a headband. It cheers up Regulus, for some reason, it makes him want to call him ridiculous and flick at his arm. It must be how he misses Sirius.

“Er- I’m fine, thanks,” Regulus says, but it doesn’t stop Rabastan from placing his hand on his forehead. 

“No fever,” Rabastan says, raising an eyebrow. “Nightmare?” 

Regulus shrugs, looking away. Yes, Rabastan looks ridiculous and Regulus wants to make fun of him, but he definitely doesn’t like him and he’s not going to spill his guts to him. “I’m fine, I’ll be at breakfast in a minute.” 

“Have a shower, it helps,” Rabastan says, neutrally, before leaving. 

After the shower, he dries his hair and fixes his robes. He heard voices downstairs, and he has to look impeccable if there’s guests, because if Mother hears that he’s looking dishevelled, he’ll never hear the end of it. He starts breaking his curls as he makes his way downstairs. 

He raises his eyes after taking the first step, and almost slips in horror when he sees a massive snake staring at him. It’s green, with glimmering yellow eyes, thick as a man’s thigh: a man that probably lifts heavy weights and could crush a man’s skull with his legs, mind you. It flicks its tongue at Regulus, slithering closer. Regulus considers jumping off the stairs. 

“No, no, no, no, fuck no, absolutely not,” Regulus chants, when the snake is a metre away from him. “Piss off,” he says, pointing his wand at it. “C’mon, piss off, I don’t like things that slither. I like paws and legs and you don’t have any.” 

The snake almost strikes him, and Regulus falls with his ass down on the stairs with a thud. His wand, instead, rolls down. He curses every existing deity, plus the day he was born (for good measure). The snake gets close. 

“You’re quite impolite,” it says.

“Oh, I’ve gone insane,” Regulus says, pressing a hand on his chest. “I’ve gone insane, oh my- I need a mind healer.”

“You’re quite a lunatic, yes. Even I can tell, and I don’t know you.”

“Oh and I am impolite,” Regulus retorts, staring at the snake with hatred. “Piss off now, come on, I just want to have breakfast.” 

“You could be my breakfast,” the snake proposes. “You’d make a fine meal.”

A nervous laughter escapes Regulus’s lips, and he clings to the baluster, as if that solves anything. “I’m afraid I’m really indigestible after all the incest in my family. I hear it makes meat too chewy. How about hunting in the woods, umh?” 

A laughter comes from the end of the stairs. Regulus turns and sees Bellatrix, Regulus’s wand in her hand, and a man with dark hair, slicked back: Voldemort. They’re both laughing, much to Regulus’s dismay. Voldemort raises an eyebrow at him, still amused, eyeing him like a prey. Regulus doesn’t let go of the baluster. 

“Your mother didn’t mention you being a parselmouth,” Voldemort says, casually, calling the snake to him. Nagini, he calls her. “She could have. It’s an important trait. Though, I shall admit, I never thought it'd hear someone tell my snake to piss off.”

“Sorry about the piss off thing," he says, a bit sarcastically. "But I'm not a parselmouth, I would know, I'm sure I'd-” Regulus laughs again, nervously, a bit desperate. “Maybe I am. Well, at least I’m not going insane, that’s good news.” 

“I’m afraid you are going insane though,” Rabastan says, from right behind him. Regulus looks up, just to see that Rabastan is back at wearing his headband, and has shaved his beard. “Are you hugging the baluster?” 

“I’ll throw you down the stairs,” Regulus hisses, springing up and away from the baluster. “And I wasn’t.” 

“Whatever makes you sleep at night,” Rabastan says, with a giggle and his arms raised. 

“You should thank that Bellatrix has my wand, I would have tripped you,” Regulus continues, following him down. Bellatrix hands him his wand. “My Lord,” he says, bowing his head. 

“No need for such formality, Regulus. Bellatrix tells me your training is close to an end, and you’ve been doing great.” He says, as Regulus raises his eyes. “We need hard working men in our lines.” 

“For sure,” Regulus says, straightening his bed. “Nothing is achieved through luck.” 

Voldemort nods, then looks at Bellatrix. “Show me what you’ve taught him, then.” 

13/7/1977, 

Dear diary, 

Good news, I can now beat Rabastan in a fight! Bad news, Voldemort knows too and he seemed TOO interested in that, like fuck no, I’m not on your side, die slow. I need to tell Sirius. Or James. Anybody, really, I just need- I don’t want to be a death eater, I don’t want him to have any interest in me, I’m panicking so hard, but I don’t know how to write this in a letter without being scared they’ll stop loving me. My head is a mess. 

R.A.B. 

16/7/1977

Dear James, 

I’ll be back home on the 25th. I’ll try to get the mirror. I’d like to go out, but mother already said I can only go out with her, and to Diagon Alley. Apparently I’m grounded for how I behaved during the wedding. I guess there’s no way to see you sooner than the start of School. O.W.L.s results will come in soon! I’m very excited! Also excited to know who’ll be head boy and head girl this year: not going to lie, I quite liked Longbottom and Prewett. 

I can’t wait to play Quidditch again. Barty’s going to try out for any open position this year, and Dorcas is there too! Quidditch is going to be even more amazing. And Gryffindor isn’t going to win next year. We are. Semper victores! 

All my love,

R.A.B.

28 August, 1977

“The Dark Lord wishes to see you,” Mother says, from the jamb of the door. “Fix yourself and come downstairs. Quick. You don’t want to leave him waiting.” 

“I’ll be there soon,” Regulus says, a pile of shirts in his hands.

He had to buy new ones: old ones were tight and short on his arms. New uniforms, new robes, three new jumpers, that’s what Bellatrix’s report about his training gave him. Mother still looks at him with aghast, she’s still mad, but she can’t complain, and that’s enough for Regulus to spend these last two days of his summer in peace. Soon he’ll be back at Hogwarts, he’ll be at home. 

He knew Voldemort was going to have something for him. Bellatrix hinted at it many times during the last week he spent in Iceland. She said Regulus left a good impression on him, that he had an important mission and Regulus suited his needs perfectly. Shivers ran on his spine every time she said that, and every time Regulus pretended to be delighted with the possibility of proving himself to the Dark Lord, of being the youngest among the death eaters, a vessel of the Dark Lord himself. 

He’s disgusted, Regulus is. There are no other words for it. His hatred for himself has never reached such high levels. He’d crawl out of his skin like a worm, if given the possibility. A whole summer with the enemy, a whole summer of getting attached, of playing around with them, of forgetting what they are and who he is in the name of convenient kindness. 

His most recent dreams don’t help. He begs for forgiveness, in most cases, without receiving any. People walk away, people are mad at him, point out his hypocrisy. In other dreams, more hopeful ones, he’s given a second chance: his skin falls off, like a snake’s, and his rebirth begins. 

But his hands shake at the thought of being met with anger and disappointment by the people he loves, by the people he missed all summer long, laying awake and trying to remember how it felt to be hugged by James or link his arm with Pandora. Parts of his daily life he never took for granted, and yet his mind couldn’t memorise the exact feeling. Fantasy just can’t compare to the real thing.

He shakes his head and sets down the shirts. He fixes his hair, buttons the top of his robes and runs downstairs. 

Rabastan and Bellatrix are in the living room. Rabastan sits on the armchair and raises his eyes when he sees him coming down; Bellatrix is lounging by the fireplace, and she springs to her feet as soon as her eyes catch him. She’s quick to snatch him into a hug. Regulus freezes at first, surprised. 

“I’m proud of you,” she says, in a whisper. You don’t know me, Regulus thinks. “Now go in there and make me prouder, will you?” 

“Of course,” Regulus says, patting his hand on Bellatrix’s shoulder before stepping back. 

His mother’s icy eyes follow him as he moves towards the door. 

“Regulus,” she calls. He turns, eyebrows raised. A part of him hopes she’ll say something nice. “Be proper.” 

Air is knocked out his lungs with the force of a punch that says “still not enough”. 

“Of course, mother,” he says, then quickly gets into the dining room, where Voldemort awaits while looking at an old favourite picture. 

“My Lord,” Regulus says, hands behind his back. “I heard my presence was requested.” 

He turns, eyes soulless, lifeless, unhuman, brown curls and the long lashes that frame the emptiness of his gaze. His skin is so pale it’s almost translucent, but he doesn’t even look alive: just a vessel of cruelty. He’s beautiful at first glance, like a prince. And, like a prince, he is entitled, unaware, arrogant and evil. 

“Yes, Regulus,” he says, with an easy smile. “I have a gift for you.” 

“A gift, my lord?” He asks, confused, taking half a step into the room. 

“Of course. You trained very hard to be able to join our cause, I thank you for that,” his eyes glimmer, crashing onto Regulus’s. “It’s too early for you to take the mark. However, I believe you can do me a small favour.” 

He comes out of the room half an hour later and nods at the three people in the room. Rabastan and Bellatrix grin at him with complicity, his mother just narrows her eyes as she gives a small nod: still not smiling. 

Years later, Regulus will consider this moment the one in which the missing key was placed into his hands. For now, however, it’s just an old-looking diary.