Chapter Text
Complacency is the slow killer. Regulus has grown complacent in his time with the Dark Lord. He is accustomed to his violent tempers, his vicious mood swings, his petty control. They are aspects of his existence that he has just learnt to accept. Regulus is the frog in the simmering pot, and the prophecy is the moment he finally recognized that the water has grown too hot.
The Dark Lord tortures Severus. This is not an uncommon occurrence. It’s only a partial prophecy after all and anything short of perfection is punished. When his rage has abated, and Severus is left gasping and twitching on the ground, he begins planning.
“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...”
Thrice defied him could be any of Dumbledore’s Order. Privately, Regulus knows it could also mean him, or Cissa, or Barty and Evan. Even Severus fits the bill. However, the wizarding community is small and only a few people are expecting a July baby. Narcissa and Lucius are spared by just a month. The Potters and the Longbottoms are not so lucky.
Fruitlessly, Severus tries to persuade him the prophecy could mean an adult wizard is literally coming to the Isles. The Dark Lord is not amused. He wants the Potters and the Longbottoms dead. Regulus can see the moment the Dark Lord loses Severus remaining loyalty. It is a quiet death. The Dark Lord does not even notice, but Regulus does, like recognizes like.
---
In his paranoia, the Dark Lord has forbidden Regulus from leaving Lestrange Manor or writing Pandora or even being alone with Barty or Evan. Privately, Regulus understands that this slight is petty jealousy. The Dark Lord wants to own Regulus completely, and so he fears any other demands on Regulus attention. He wants Regulus alone.
It has the unfortunate side effect of limiting Regulus’ communication with Dumbledore. He is fairly confident the only remaining horcruxes are the locket Kreacher discovered and the Gaunt family heirloom. He gave their locations to Dumbledore almost a year ago, but without confirmation of their destruction, he is paralyzed by indecision.
If he were to try and kill the Dark Lord now and they are not destroyed, he risks more than just his life. His current position is hell, but he knows there are fates worse than this living torment. He cannot run, either. As he has explained so many times to his cousin and friends, the Dark Lord would hunt him down through his Dark Mark, and the punishment for fleeing would likely be worse than if he simply tried to kill him. What is death to a man who cannot die? Abandonment would be the far crueller betrayal.
Still, he cannot passively remain. The life James Potter and Lily Evans have so painstakingly built, the life that should have been Regulus’, is in peril, and Regulus cannot abide that.
Narcissa is his lifeline. Regulus can admit, only to himself in the privacy of his thoughts, that he would be dead without her. As Regulus has fallen further into complacency and depression, Cissa has carried the torch of the horcrux hunt. She has kept Regulus purpose alive, but she is 7 months pregnant now and in no fit state to be playing spy. The pregnancy was planned, as Lucius needed an heir, and perfectly healthy, but privately Regulus worried after his cousin.
So, it is Severus, who he slips a note to, in the tense weeks after the reveal of the prophecy. Severus is spending more and more time in Lestrange Manor, trying to earn his way back into the Dark Lord’s graces. Their Lord finds this an amusing display of desperation, but Regulus understands it to be loyalty of a far deeper and older kind than Tom Riddle has ever warranted.
There is something satisfying in the smooth hand off of the note in the hall after an evening meeting. Regulus is trailing after his Lord and passes Severus speaking to Lucius. He brushes his hand against Severus’, hidden beneath Severus’ long dark sleeves, and in the fraction of a second of contact, Severus has cottoned on to what’s happening and smoothly palmed the note between Regulus fingers. He doesn’t even falter in his conversation with Lucius, but Regulus can’t risk looking back to check that the message is received.
That night Regulus is racked with anxiety. Fearful that Severus loyalties may be swayed more to the Dark Lord than to Lily or her unborn child, that he may accidently expose Regulus’ betrayal. His only reprieve from this anxiety is that the Dark Lord is feeling particularly tender that night.
This is the part of their relationship that no one else seems to understand. Cissa, his friends, even Sirius, all seem to operate under the misapprehension that abuse is motivated by hatred, that it is impossible for someone to both love you and hurt you terribly. Regulus has always understood that this is not true. Walburga Black loved her sons to the furthest extent that she could, but she hurt them anyway, because she was awful and terrible and cruel. Even the worst people in the world can love someone. Love does not preclude abuse. The Dark Lord may not love Regulus, but he does not hurt him because he hates him.
Tonight, he is soft. Fingers dancing feather light over Regulus abused skin, rubbing bruise balms and lavender oil into his sore muscles. His lord does not apologize, but he is apologetic as he kisses down Regulus’ back. On nights like these, Regulus believes that this is likely the closest Tom Riddle has ever come to loving anyone.
Abstractly, he understands that this does not excuse the abuse he has faced at his lord’s hands, but Regulus has only known one love that wasn’t caustic, and he never deserved James Potter to begin with. He hates the Dark Lord and loves him in equal measure, and he is so so terrified to leave or to kill him, because Regulus has been complacent here too long. What is there to go onto after this? A dead father, a mentally absent mother, a brother who hates him, and a boyfriend who married the woman of his dreams.
Tonight, he just lets the Dark Lord kiss away his worries and tries not to think of Severus holding his fate in his hands.
---
Narcissa has taken to bed rest at Malfoy Manor, and Regulus is no longer able to see her. He knows it is for the best. She did her part, destroyed the cup and the diary when Regulus could not. But he is lonelier now than ever. He doesn’t even have the reprieve of tea with her to soothe his aches both mental and physical.
It is relief when, leaving another meeting a week later, he feels the brush of parchment against his knuckles and is discreetly palming a note hidden in Severus’ sleeve. Despite the soring rush of joy and trepidation, Regulus does not break stride or even look his way.
He is fearful of any attention he shows Severus, reigniting whatever lust the Dark Lord had felt toward Severus before he went to the continent. Severus has been safe so far, but since the prophecy, his work as a spy has made him indispensable. The Dark Lord is disappointed with the partial prophecy, but he can still see Severus’ talent, and his moods change so quickly.
It is difficult to hide things from a man who you share a bed with, and regularly insists on seeing you naked. He palms the note on the way back to their chambers, still trailing behind the Dark Lord. He can’t stick it in a robe pocket and risk it being whisked off with the laundry and discovered by a house elf. Nor can he hide it on his own person which will no doubt be bared in a matter of minutes. It’s not a large parchment. He could roll it up along his wand and slide it back into his wand holster. The Dark Lord or any unsuspecting house elves are unlikely to find it there.
Quietly, he ejects his wand from his wrist holster and into his hand. The Dark Lord is not looking at him, and they are in a secluded part of the manor nearing their rooms. He is attempting to twist the paper around the slim handle of his wand subtly with one hand, when he is suddenly shoved against the wall by his throat, his wand hand pinned to the wall by his head, still clutching his wand and the note to hide it.
The Dark Lord is glaring down at him, “Why, pray tell, pretty pet, do you have your wand drawn at my back?”
This looks bad. Really really really bad. Regulus hadn’t even been considering casting at his lord, but the Dark Lord’s paranoia is intense, and to be fair to him, this does look suspicious.
Regulus tries to even out his frantic heart rate, to relax into the grip on him, hyper-aware of the note hidden in his hand. He needs to lie and lie well. Truth and fiction.
“It wasn’t drawn on you, my lord. I just…” He trails off biting his lip and trying to look shame faced. “I keep my wand in hand in the manor most days. Some of your recent company is a touch… unscrupulous.” He looks back up trying to meet the Dark Lord’s eyes with as much sincerity as he is capable of, “It was never meant to be a threat against you, my lord. I would never-“ He looks away again bashful. “I’ve just had some unwanted advances.”
The Dark Lord’s jaw ticks as he asks, “Unwanted advances?”
Truth and fiction. “Nothing- nothing I can’t handle” Regulus stutters. He needs to play on the Dark Lord’s jealous possessiveness, to keep his focus of how bad of a lie this is.
“Do you not think me capable of protecting you, little star?”
“No. Of course you are, my lord. It’s only-“ Regulus is still chewing on his lip desperately, hoping his real anxiety about the note, reads as anxiety about the people in the manor. “You are a busy man, and I’m not- I don’t want you to think- I-“ He hangs his head shamefully, “I’m sorry, my lord.”
The hand on his throat has relaxed to merely press against his collar bones, and the one on his wrist releases. Regulus drops his wand hand and swiftly shoves his wand and note back into his holster. He’s so relieved now that the note is hidden, that he nearly misses the quirk of the Dark Lord’s lips.
“Did you not want me to think you weak, pet?” The hand that had previously pinned his wrist has migrated to his hip, pulling him firmly against the Dark Lord.
Regulus relaxes into the familiarity of this dynamic. He knew how to play this role. “I’m not weak, my lord. I can fight my own battles.”
A hand was cupping his jaw and tilting his head back to meet the Dark Lord’s gaze. The crimson of his irises was nearly hidden by his blown pupils. Regulus had not expected this effect from his lie.
“Oh, I’m sure you can, my vicious snake, but I don’t need you to fight those battles here. I need you to look pretty and tell me who is threatening you.”
Regulus swallowed thickly, thinking of names fast. “Greyback.” This was a half-truth. Greyback certainly leered at Regulus inappropriately, though he may not have acted on that desire, Regulus hoped this could be some small revenge for children Greyback had turned. “My brother in law-“
“Lucius?” The Dark Lord interrupts in surprise.
Regulus snorts, “No, Lucy is entirely devoted to dear Cissa. Rodolphus. Though, I don’t believe he wants me, so much as he wants revenge for his wife’s jealousy.”
“Bellatrix’ jealousy?” Voldemort seems vaguely amused.
“Wants you desperately enough to hate me.” Let that be petty revenge against Bella.
“Yes, well, I have no interest in bringing her to our bed.” His lord ran fond fingers through his curls and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “Anyone else?”
“No one common enough to concern you.” Regulus pressed forward against his lord. “Perhaps we could retire to our bed?”
There was a sharp edge in the Dark Lord’s grin as he pulled Regulus onward toward their chambers.
---
Malfoy Manor Potion’s lab. Saturday at dawn. The password is the dosage for the potion I gifted you
He manages to read the note early the next morning once the Dark Lord has slipped off to some meeting or another. It’s good that Severus has given him time to figure out how to escape to Malfoy Manor. Regulus knows his movements are being watched carefully.
He burns the note and spends the day lying in bed staring at the ceiling, running through potential excuses or escape routes, until a house elf arrives to inform him that he is wanted in the dining room.
Fenrir Greyback is killed that evening. He was tortured to death in a gruesome display of what the Dark Lord would do to anyone who thought to lay a hand on Regulus. The assembled Death Eaters looked on in mute horror. It was as strangely touching as it was horrifying.
When they return to their bed chambers, Regulus launches himself into the Dark Lord’s arms, kissing him frantically. His lord has always enjoyed the look of desperation on him, so he needs to make his desperate gratitude believable. And maybe, just a bit of it, is real.
When they are lying down in the early hours of morning, Regulus’ head on the Dark Lord’s shoulder and his Lord’s fingers tugging gently at sweaty curls, he makes his request.
“I was wondering if you would permit me to visit Malfoy Manor again, just until Narcissa gives birth.” He makes sure his voice is soft, but the hand stills in his hair all the same.
There is a noncommittal hum above him. “Why?”
Regulus turns to bury his face slightly in the Dark Lord’s shoulder. “She’s having a difficult pregnancy. I would like to support her. And...” He trails of anxiously.
“And?” The hand is moving in his hair again. It soothes some fear in him.
“My grandfather is old and ill. I will take up the Black Lordship soon, but I do not have an heir.” He lets out a long-suffering sigh, “My brother cannot be relied upon to produce an heir.” He snorts, “Or perhaps he can be relied upon to produce too many, none of a suitable lineage. As much as I enjoy our activities here, they are hardly going to create a Black heir.
“I will more than likely be declaring Narcissa’s first born son to be my own heir as well. As much as I detest the idea of a Malfoy sitting in the Black family seat. I want to secure a place in the child’s life and a say in their upbringing.”
These are all very reasonable conclusions, though patently untrue. Regulus declared Sirius his heir with his grandfather’s approval, nearly as soon as he turned 17. Sirius is free to claim the Black Lordship and wealth in the event of Regulus’ death, and to name any heir he would like. Probably his own progeny or perhaps James and Lily’s child, if they survive. Wouldn’t that be fitting? Regulus would likely have named James’ son his heir in a different life, if he hadn’t been marked, if he had gone to live in a cottage and build a family with James and Lily.
The Dark Lord is silent for a long time. Regulus knows he is thinking, though he is still relaxedly trailing fingers through his curls, so Regulus understands he is not upset.
“Yes. You may visit Malfoy Manor, but only when I am otherwise indisposed. You come when called, pet, and I expect you to be with me at all other times. Understood?”
There is something strangely hanging about the statement, as if the Dark Lord is contemplating something beyond Regulus visiting his cousin. However, Regulus understands this command. He is granted this small freedom at the cost of his little remaining agency. Well, when needs must.
---
Regulus is standing outside the Potions Lab in Malfoy Manor just before dawn. He taps his wand against the door and whispers “three drops.” It swings inward to reveal Severus brewing, and Cissa sat against the far wall, looking pale and pregnant.
Closing the door quietly, Regulus strides toward his cousin, “You need more iron.” He kisses both her cheeks in greeting.
Severus snorts over his potion. “That’s what I’ve told her.”
“And as I’ve told you, I cannot stomach red meats or spinach.”
“Then, let me brew you an antiemetic.”
“I won’t risk potions with the baby.”
“Cissa, you know there are no known risks-“
“Known. Known risks and let’s be honest wizarding medical research is years behind muggle science.”
Regulus smiles at this back and forth. He hadn’t known Cissa and Severus were such friends, but he supposes he can see how they fit together.
“Dandelion greens.” He interrupts their banter. “Lily recommended I try them.”
Severus freezes at this, eyes narrowed cautiously, so Regulus turns to face him fully.
“Did you apologize to her like I asked you to?” Regulus keeps his voice soft.
Severus jaw twitches. “Yes. We’re back in contact, not that she will forgive me for having damned her son.”
Regulus can see the bone deep guilt gnawing at the man. He can’t assuage that guilt. Not that he would want to, a guilty man is in this case an indebted man.
Regulus steps forward slightly, voice lowered to emphasize the importance of what he is proposing, “Then help me save her. Help me kill the Dark Lord.”
---
The Dark Lord broke Regulus’ leg. It was to be his punishment for “taking too long to return from Malfoy Manor.” It is set and splinted, but he is not allowed any Skelegrow, so he is sure it will heal wrong. He is bedridden for weeks.
---
He is now rarely alone, trapped in their bed chambers as he is. The Dark Lord seeks his company any moment he is not actively engaged in a meeting. It is unpleasant, not even being able to escape this bed to the sanctuary of a library or tea with his cousin.
Eventually, he has the clever idea of calling Kreacher to him on one of the few mornings he is alone. Though, he is hyper vigilant that the Dark Lord may return at any moment.
Kreacher pops in once again wailing about Regulus’ injury, and mistress’ health, and the filthy mutt defiling the Black ancestral home. That’s an interesting development, but Regulus has no time, so he hushes Kreacher quickly and asks him to deliver notes between Regulus and Severus, but only when they are alone. Kreacher agrees, and Regulus has an update from Severus within the day.
Dumbledore is dying, but the ring is destroyed.
---
Regulus begins walking again in the first week of June. It is far far too early, but he has already accepted that the broken leg is a lost cause. What’s a little more pain? Besides Cissa is due any day now and Regulus would not miss this birth for his own funeral.
He is at Malfoy Manor nearly every morning that week. The Dark Lord is not amused, but he does not rebreak Regulus’ leg. Some small desperately foolish part of him thinks maybe the Dark Lord feels guilty for breaking it the first time, because the worst he does is fuck Regulus particularly viciously for his subsequent visits.
None of this dampens the joy when on the morning of June 5, 1980, little Draco Lucius Malfoy is born. He is so small and pale, with the same grey eyes as his mother and white-blond hair as his father, that Regulus could cry.
Draco certainly does, screaming to the high heavens. Enough that Regulus is inclined to blame the theatrics on the Malfoy side, if he weren’t acquainted with his own brother.
He stays the entire day with the new family, holding his godson and congratulating Lucius and Cissa. He is positively brimming with joy when he returns to Lestrange Manor, and it is perhaps only this that stays the Dark Lord’s rage.
Regulus broke an explicit rule by staying gone so long, but nearly as soon as him and his Lord are alone, he is rambling about Draco. He talks about his chubby cheeks and pudgy legs, about how his first breath and how he cried and cried. Regulus loves his godson so much he cannot keep the words in.
He falls into bed still smiling and flushed and finds himself crawling up into the Dark Lord’s lap. He can tell his Lord is not even remotely interested in the child, but he humours Regulus enthusiasm, likely because this is the most enthusiastic Regulus has been in years.
Regulus kisses him.
He doesn’t know why he does it. It is the first time he has initiated a kiss without an alternative motive. He feels sort of sick with himself as soon as he pulls away, but the Dark Lord is smiling back at him.
“He’s just so adorable. I never thought I would love a child this much.” Regulus sighs and buries his face in the Dark Lord’s neck.
He can feel his Lord’s chest rumble with a soft laughter. “You are certainly more enthusiastic about him than I had anticipated.” He guides Regulus face back up to look at him. They are millimetres apart. “I was giving some thought to your heir problem.”
Regulus frowns, “I thought we had solved my problem. Draco will be my heir?”
The Dark Lord smiles, kissing his nose. “Have you given any thought to the concept of immortality, little snake?
Regulus is plunged into icy dread. He can’t help the way his whole body tenses. It takes him long seconds to recover and he’s stuttering when he does, “I- Not- not really. W-why…?” He cannot finish the thought. Cannot bear to speak it into existence.
The Dark Lord’s hands have gone tight on his hips, digging into his skin. “It’s a difficult process, pet, but entirely possible. You could remain eternally young, beautiful, powerful. Perfect, precisely as you are now for all time.” He maintains an air of nonchalance, but Regulus can tell it is a façade. “You could be by my side forever.”
Regulus feels ill. He cannot bear the thought of this forever. Now that this idea has been planted, Regulus will never be safe. The Dark Lord does not need his consent, has never needed his consent, to go forward with his desires.
What’s worse is Regulus cannot tell if the Dark Lord understands that this is a nightmare. He would see immortality by his side as the perfect gift. This horror may be the Dark Lord’s idea of an act of love.
Regulus stammers through an excuse. Nineteen is so young. Like his age has ever mattered before. He wouldn’t want to rush into a decision like that. He needs more time to think.
---
On July 31st 1980, Harry James Potter is born at sunset. Regulus and Severus quietly mourn the small hope that he may have waited to be born on the dawn of August, but alas a matter of hours dooms James and Lily’s son.
---
August passes in a blur. September and October follow swiftly after. The Dark Lord has not mentioned the potential of immortality. He is preoccupied with efforts to kill the Potters and the Longbottoms. Regulus for his part is busy with Baby Draco, who has proved to be a blessing in more ways than anticipated. The Dark Lord seems to have given up on efforts to prevent Regulus from visiting his godson, privately he is overjoyed at this small kindness. His excursions to visit his godson provide excellent cover to collude with Severus and eventually Evan and Barty. It’s the first he has really seen of his closest friends in months. There are not tears to be shed, just hushed assurances and a fear for what they all know to be true. The Dark Lord’s influence is spreading. His victory is only a matter of time now.
“Say the worst thing.” Barty whispers between the three of them.
“Sometimes I can’t tell which side I’m even fighting for anymore,” is Evan’s quiet confession.
“Sometimes I think I’m a monster. I think my father might have been right about me.” Barty’s voice is choked.
“Sometimes I think I might love him.” It’s the worst truth rattling around Regulus shattered heart, but Barty and Evan accept it unflinchingly. The same way they followed him into this mess.
---
On the first Friday of December, Regulus was attending the usual Death Eater meeting, knelt at the Dark Lord’s side, when the room was dismissed of all but the inner most circle. This is not in and of itself suspicious, but then the floo flared abruptly and someone new arrived, and Regulus heart sinks. Regulus knows him, has watched him with envy and disgust for years.
Peter Pettigrew comes cringing from the fire to kneel in the centre of the room and take the Dark Mark. Regulus is paralyzed through the entire event. Severus is not trusted here. No one trusts a spy. Meaning Regulus is the only one who could potentially warn the Order, James and Lily, that one of their own, their friend has betrayed them.
Regulus is in a haze all the way back to their bedchambers. He is merely going through the motions of the evening and when they settle down to sleep, he finds himself whispering into the darkness, “How could he betray his friends like that?”
His voice is small, and he knows he should not have said it, not before the Dark Lord, but all he can see is James sunny smile and Sirius unending loyalty, and he cannot understand turning your back on love as unconditional as that.
The Dark Lord pulls him closer and whispers into his curls, “Because he recognizes power, pet. Same as you. Now, stop worrying about things that don’t concern you.” After a few moments, he sleepily continues, “Perhaps we should move my plans up. Give you something better to focus on.”
---
The McKinnon family is slaughtered within the week. Regulus knows this was Pettigrew’s doing and finds himself throwing up what meagre food he’s been able to eat. Regulus hadn’t known the McKinnon’s well, but it’s Dorcas who consumes his thoughts. Dorcas who was his friend for years, who worried after this too thin, too quiet younger year. Dorcas, who loved Marlene McKinnon so desperately that she has gone on a killing spree.
Dorcas is angry and effective enough to make it on the Dark Lord’s radar by mid-January. She is killing every Death Eater who crosses their paths. Hunting them for sport. Regulus is disturbed, awed, and heart-broken in equal measures. He wonders if she would kill him. Barty? Evan?
He warns Severus about Pettigrew’s true allegiance, and he passes on the information to Dumbledore. Pettigrew is arrested, but it matters very little at this point. Marlene McKinnon is dead, and the rat has set in motion a series of events that cannot be undone.
---
Mad-Eye Moody kills Evan Rosier on February 13th, and the next day the Dark Lord kills Dorcas Meadows himself. When the history books record their deaths as an eye for an eye, will they remember that Evan Rosier and Dorcas Meadows loved each other once? That they ate lunch together everyday for six years at Hogwarts. That they bickered over music, but always split their chocolate frogs. Will they remember that this dead Death Eater and this dead Order Member were friends longer than they were enemies?
Regulus feels empty. What is their left to feel? He wonders if he should write Pandora, but he doesn’t.
That night, when the Dark Lord’s hands are on his skin, Regulus knows these are the hands that killed his best-friends.
---
He doesn’t see Barty for two months. When he finally crawls out of whatever hole, he was hiding in, it’s to meet Severus, Cissa, and Regulus in Malfoy Manor.
“I’m going to destroy the locket, myself. I’m done waiting.” Barty looks older, thinner. Regulus wonders if this is how he looks too. Like the war ate away his youth.
“You can’t go alone.” It’s Narcissa, who speaks up.
“You’re not going.” Severus interjects, staring holes through Cissa’s head.
“I can’t either.” Regulus volunteers. He would love too, but the Dark Lord is watching him like a hawk these days, and to be blunt, as soon as the horcruxes are all gone, Regulus has the best shot at killing Tom Riddle.
Severus jaw ticks. “Then, I will go.”
Regulus studies Barty for a second longer. “Are you sure? You don’t have to do this.”
His voice is hollow as he meets Regulus eyes, “Yes, I do.”
---
They both leave on the evening of April 30th, but it is only Severus who returns early on the first morning of May. He’s soaking wet and covered in scratches, but clutched in his hand is a green and silver locket emblazoned with the Slytherin crest.
Regulus doesn’t even spare the locket a thought because Barty isn’t there. Barty isn’t with him. Where is Barty?
The question is tumbling from his lips before he can stop it, but he already knows the answer, because Severus can’t meet his eyes. It’s Cissa who guides Severus into a private drawing room, dries his clothes, and pries the locket from his stiff fingers. Regulus can’t move. His brain is just static.
Severus stutters through an explanation. A basin of poison, an army of inferni, drowning, drowning, drowning.
Barty drowned.
Barty is dead. Evan is dead. Dorcas is dead.
All his friends are dead.
He got all of his friends killed.
---
Regulus knows he’s a horrible friend, because he doesn’t shake himself from his stupor and remember Pandora for several hours. Pandora who has lost all the same people he has. Pandora who just gave birth to a baby girl and named Barty the godfather. Pandora who he must end this war to see again.
Severus and Cissa destroyed the final horcrux. It’s on Regulus now to finish this out.
---
When he returns to their bed chambers, wearing his grief like a cloak, Regulus is enveloped in the Dark Lord’s arms. It’s a crushing hold, and Regulus is reminded of the evening he and Cissa disappeared to destroy the cup horcrux.
“Barty is dead.”
The Dark Lord hums, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “A tragic loss. My condolences, little star.”
Finally, the dam breaks. Regulus finds himself burrowing back into the man’s chest, arms around his waist. He is frantically crying. The grief so overwhelming he feels like he might be drowning right alongside Barty, and the worst part is Regulus cannot even tell what is real and what is acting. He doesn’t want to move from the Dark Lord’s hold. Doesn’t want to take the next step.
There are long fingers carding through his hair. This is so familiar and so horrible, and it is his worst secret, because even in this moment he thinks he might love the Dark Lord. He thinks of Barty and Evan facing it so unflinchingly. Never judging.
It was the Dark Lord’s war that killed them, but it was Regulus they followed into this nightmare. Is he really any better than the man currently holding him through his grief? Can he even face Pandora, knowing he killed her twin, her best friend, and the godfather of her infant daughter?
Regulus doesn’t know the answer to any of this and so for now he only weeps into the man’s chest and hopes that his friends can forgive his betrayal.
---
He mourns for weeks, and the Dark Lord is gentle with his grief. It is this that hurts the most. Regulus knows what he must do next, knows what Barty and Evan died for, but then lips brush his ear and fingers stroke down his spine, and Regulus doesn’t know anything anymore.
Regulus wants the Dark Lord dead, and he wants himself dead in equal measure.
He refuses to leave their bed, ignores Severus and Cissa’s increasingly frantic messages via Kreacher, and worst of all ignores the fact that he knows he is prolonging a war that is costing lives. Who will die next because he can’t—won’t-- kill the Dark Lord? Pandora? James? Sirius?
---
They are quickly approaching Draco’s first birthday, when the Dark Lord finally loses his patience with Regulus. He drags him from the bed by his hair. Regulus is hurt, hurting, but nothing matters. He deserves this.
---
He has a nightmare. It’s Barty, waterlogged and milky eyed, sharing Regulus’ bed. He doesn’t speak. They lie there for the entire night, just staring.
---
It’s Evan next, with the white locs he had sixth year and the Yule robes from fourth that he hated. He’s spinning a thaumatrope with a bird on one side and a cage on the other, over and over again, giving the appearance of a caged bird.
“You never went to my funeral.”
Regulus didn’t even know he’d had one. “I know.”
The image is still spinning faster and faster between his fingers. “I forgive you.”
“No, you don’t.” You’ll never get the chance to.
Suddenly, he stops the spinning disc between his fingers, so it lands on the image of the bird. “Yeah, but then, I never really had to. Did I, Reg?”
---
Finally, it’s Dorcas, who he hasn’t seen since sixth year and who will never forgive him.
She’s in her Slytherin chaser uniform, still sweaty from practice, but she’s holding the broken white queen from the wizarding chess set before them. They’re almost done with a game. Regulus just needs to move one more piece and its checkmate, but he can’t do it. He’s as focused on the broken piece in her hand as she is.
“You’re times almost up, Reggie. Time to move.”
“What if I just forfeit the game?”
She just laughs, and it’s been so long he thought he’d forgotten the sound of it.
---
Dumbledore was admitted to St. Mungo’s. Regulus knew he was dying, but somehow this information feels like a noose steadily tightening around his neck. The Dark Lord is increasing his focus on killing the Potters and Longbottoms. He’s particularly obsessive when it comes to Harry Potter. Regulus thinks it is something to do with the boy being a half-blood and knows that he must act soon. He owes James and Lily that much.
---
There is an athame, an old Black family heirloom, from back when human sacrifices were still common practice. It’s a beautiful thing, rich mahogany and shining silver, displayed in Grimmauld place. Kreacher is kind enough to bring it when asked. It fits nicely in Regulus hand. It fits nicely beneath his pillow.
---
“I don’t want to die, ever.”
The Dark Lord stills, where he lies with Regulus in bed, and Regulus can feel the tension in his arms as he seems to consider this. He pulls back slightly meeting Regulus’ eyes.
“Never, pet?”
“Never.” He injects as much confidence into his voice as he can muster. The hesitantly he bites his lip, “I know my lord has uncovered a way. I know you offered, and now I’ve had some time to think on it…”
The Dark Lord smiles, charming and disarming in the way he was when they first met. “Of course, you know I did have a theory, and this would make an excellent opportunity to test it.” He catches Regulus chin with his fingers, seemingly studying him, not as a person, but as if he is inspecting a cut of meat. “I had hoped to wait until we could use the Potter boy, but… I suppose it matters very little.”
Panic flares in Regulus mind; this is not going according to plan. “My lord?” he questions.
His eyes refocus on Regulus. “Have you ever heard of a horcrux, little star?”
Regulus breath stutters, “Only- only in theory.”
“Explain them as you understand.” He sounds like a professor, and Regulus is struck with the sudden vision of a younger, more whole, Tom Riddle lecturing a classroom full of students.
“They’re an object that houses a piece of a wizard or witch’s soul tethering them to this world. They make the creator functionally immortal.”
“Correct. They are traditionally objects, though they don’t have to be.”
“I take it you made a horcrux, my lord?” Regulus tries to push past his unease. He just needs to know for sure how many.
“Oh I’ve made more than just one, pet.” He smirks as he pushes up, so he is sat above Regulus. He feels small, like a mouse staring up at the viper poised to strike.
“How many?” His voice is breathy and he is trying to peer up at the man in feigned awe. Trying to disguise the fact that he is waiting with bated breath to confirm that the man before him is truly finally definitely mortal.
“Secrets, love.” It’s the first time the Dark Lord has ever called him love, and it’s the worst time for it.
Regulus falters before putting on a playful pout. He has to see this through, “Well, what is your theory then?”
“I believe a living horcrux would be as immortal as the soul it hosts.” Horror like creeping tendrils of ivy, begins to strangle Regulus’ lungs, but the Dark Lord isn’t done yet. “I was going to make you my final piece to complete my perfect arithmetic set, so you will stay by my side forever. My perfect horcrux.”
Whatever panic Regulus felt at the original proposition of immortality pales in comparison to the way my perfect horcrux seems to be echoing around his head.
“A piece of your soul in… in me?” Regulus manages to say.
Voldemort is studying his reaction intently and Regulus knows desperately that he needs to pull it together. He is leaning back down closer to Regulus face again, a hand quickly undoing the buttons of Regulus’ shirt.
“Don’t you want to be with me forever, love?” he says against Regulus lips. There’s a hand snaking into his trousers.
“Yes!” he gasps. No. No. No. “Please, my lord. I want- I just want-“
“Yes, little star?” He’s undressing them both quickly, like Regulus consent has awoken some kind of frenetic energy in him.
“You, my lord. I just want you forever.”
Regulus can feel him smile into his skin and warmth spreads through his chest as he whispers, “Good boy.”
They’re both bare now bodies pressed flush together, and something else finally registers with Regulus. My perfect arithmetic set. Meaning the Dark Lord is one shy of seven soul fragments. Regulus would be his seventh. Does he mean seven horcruxes or seven pieces of his soul? Regulus has to assume the latter, he cannot risk being made into a horcrux himself, which makes the man above him the last remaining piece.
Regulus wraps his bare legs around the Dark Lord’s waist, moaning as the Dark Lord’s mouth drifts from his neck to his chest. He’s got his left hand laced through the man’s hair, while his right has snuck up above his head and under their pillows. He feels around until his hand touches polished wood and cold metal. There are teeth pulling at a nipple and he whines as his hand grips the hilt of the athame. Then, as swiftly as possible, he yanks the man’s head up with his left hand and plunges the knife into the Dark Lord’s neck.
It's strange. Of all the world, Regulus is likely the most intimately aware of how human the Dark Lord is, but somehow, he is still surprised at the squelch of meat and grind of bone as he buries the blade to the hilt. When he pulls the knife back, he expects the spray of arterial blood to feel warm as it hits his bare chest, but against his flushed skin it only registers as wet. The Dark Lord is gasping, choking on his own blood, red eyes blazing, but there is nothing to be done. Regulus is plunging the knife back in and out, and in, and he’s losing time a bit.
He has rolled them over, straddling his lord, and Regulus’ lungs heave as he drives the knife back down into the Dark Lord’s chest. It’s gone still, but Regulus is still forcing the knife through muscle and bone. There is blood coating their bed, their blankets, their pillows. It’s in Regulus hair, his mouth, his soul, and the Dark Lord isn’t moving. His eyes have rolled back, open but unseeing.
Regulus doesn’t know when he stops. Long after the thing beneath him ceased living. It just lays there utterly still and staining everything.
There’s nothing to be said. No dramatic speeches or final words, just the mess. It’s the mess that horrifies him the most. He can’t stand the mess. The mess with eyes that stare at nothing and know what he’s done.
---
Regulus Black has not been home in four years, but here he stands on the doorstep of number 12 Grimmauld Place, twenty years old, half dressed, and soaked head to toe in blood. There is a part of him that understands shock as a medical phenomenon, but the louder part is still in that bed straddling a corpse that he had made.
He knocks on the door. It’s quiet and hesitant, but it’s all that’s needed to awaken some kind of horrid shrieking on the other side. It’s his mother’s voice, and all Regulus’ animal instinct screams at him to run, but before he can bolt like a startled lamb, the door is being thrown open by his brother.
Sirius looks world weary, older than his years, but still sporting the signature leather jacket and messy black bun. They both seem to be staring at each other in surprise. Regulus doesn’t even really know why he came here. He supposes some childish impulse just sought out Sirius in their childhood home, like he is still four and hiding from mother’s temper. Their mother’s voice is still coming from behind Sirius and as shame begins to war with the shock numbing his bones, he starts to seriously consider fleeing again.
Finally, Sirius seems to come to his senses, “Is that your blood?”
Regulus glances down like he had forgotten the blood that was drying on his skin and soaking his hair and thin button down. He’s relieved to realize he did remember pants, even if he forgot trousers. He looks a mess.
“No.” His voice cracks. “Can I come in?”
“Did you kill someone?” Sirius looks angry now and Regulus shrinks back.
“Yes.” He whispers. It’s true isn’t it? He killed his Lord—his love, his master.
A new voice comes from Sirius’ right, “Christ, Pads, why does it reek of blood?”
Remus Lupin reaches the doorway and seems to take in the absolute state Regulus is in.
“Oh. Let’s… erm. Let’s just get you inside.” He pushes Sirius to the side and steps out to guide Regulus through the door. It’s perhaps for the best, because Regulus makes it all of two steps before his legs collapse with sudden exhaustion and Lupin is the only thing supporting his weight.
There is a hissed conversation above him, but he’s hardly paying attention.
“Moony, what the fuck?”
“He’s barely dressed, Sirius; we can’t just leave him out there.”
“He’s a Death Eater.”
“He’s your fucking brother. We can sort out what to do once he’s properly clothed. Merlin, shut the portrait up will you.”
Regulus spaces out. He’s vaguely aware of being led to a sitting room more brightly lit than he can ever remember the house being in his childhood. At some point, a blanket is draped over him, but he’s still covered in blood. He desperately wants a bath but can’t seem to move.
Kreacher appears before him, fretting over his state and wiping at his face for what little good it does. Lupin comes bearing a cup of tea, but Regulus hardly looks at it. He’s curled into a ball on the sofa and is staring at the fireplace.
Time seems to get soupy. He catches more snippets of conversation.
“Dumbledore’s in no fit state.”
“Moody’s a paranoid bastard.”
“Well, who else to we call?!” He flinches at the anger.
Eventually, he comes to enough sense to voice his singular strongest desire right now. “I need to floo Narcissa and Severus.”
This sparks a new bout of arguing, much of the anger directed at Regulus, but he doesn’t budge. He only absently insists, “They need to know it’s done. They need to know I didn’t fail.”
Eventually they settle on begrudgingly calling Severus. He is at least an Order member, even if they have their doubts about his loyalty. He’s, of course, initially reticent to join them, sneering and callous, but as soon as they mention Regulus, he steps through the floo. He pauses as he takes in Regulus’ body still bloody and curled on the couch.
But Regulus needs to tell him, the words practically fleeing his lips, “He’s dead.” There’s an edge of hollowness to his voice.
Severus mouth is a firm line, as he responds, “I know. Look at your arm.”
Regulus hasn’t even thought about his mark. It’s haunted him for years, the visual evidence of his inability to flee. However, he’s been so panicked and numb that he hasn’t felt a thing since he grabbed the athame.
Now, shakily, he lifts his left arm and pulls back the loose sleeve; distantly, he realizes this isn’t his shirt. He’s wearing the Dark Lord’s shirt. How macabre. But his left arm is bare, besides the bloody smears, and few scars, not a trace of the stark black snake and skull that has dominated it for years.
It all sinks in then. It feels suddenly real for the first time, and he bursts into tears. His hysterical sobs are mingled with the occasional burble of uncontrollable laughter.
“Floo Narcissa.”
“What? No!” It’s Sirius enraged voice. “The last thing we need is more Death Eaters in our house, Snivellus.”
Lupin, ever the voice of reason, buts in, “Why?”
Severus eyes never leave Sirius face, “Because your brother has just murdered the Dark Lord, Black.”
---
Cissa arrives, with fluttering hands and a soft voice. She’s gentle as she takes Regulus’ face between her palms. His tears seem to subside as he meets her grey eyes, “Oh, lion heart, what did you do?”
She guides him to a guest bath and helps him strip and step beneath the water. He knows he should feel shame, but there is just nothing. The blood flakes off his skin, running down the drain in rivulets and he finds himself scrubbing at his skin until it is red and raw, and Cissa has to stop him. She is poised even in this, and Regulus can’t understand how she does it. Her hair had begun to grow long again, tied up in a bun, like when she brews. She makes him sit on the tile floor as she massages shampoo into his scalp, and he begins to cry again. Not the hysterical panic of earlier, just a gentle flow of tears.
---
He's wearing his old clothes. The ones he abandoned here, when he began to live at Lestrange Manor. It’s somehow feels wrong, like he is inhabiting the skin of a boy who died years ago. Things happen around him.
“Bellatrix has found the body. The Dark is in shambles, but they know it was Regulus’ doing. It is imperative that we hide him.”
“Has anyone told Dumbledore?”
“There are celebrations in the street.”
“The Daily Prophet’s cottoned on then?”
“We need to worry about the Ministry right now. They’ll be rounding up Death Eaters, and that includes Regulus and I.”
Regulus falls asleep. He dreams of Barty again, face bloated from the water, and seaweed clinging to drenched clothes.
“He’s dead,” Regulus tells him.
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Tell Dora that.”
When Regulus wakes, he has slept for 37 hours straight. He doesn’t feel rested, but he’s lying in his childhood bedroom and Sirius is asleep in the chair beside his bed. He relishes in the quiet for a few moments, because the Dark Lord is dead, and Regulus doesn’t know how to feel about that. Thinking about the man makes his chest constrict. There is blood on his hands again, on the bed, in his hair. He can’t breathe, can’t move. Sightless red eyes stare up at him. He’s going to die in this bed.
Suddenly, there are hands on his shoulders and grey eyes staring into his. Sirius is taking big, exaggerated breaths and Regulus struggles to match him. He feels like a child again, with Sirius trying to comfort him after one of mother’s punishments.
Once his breath has slowed and steadied, he is pulled tightly to Sirius’ chest. He sinks into it. He hasn’t hugged his brother since their final confrontation in Hogwarts. He has missed him and hated him in equal measure.
“I’m sorry, Reg. I’m so-“ Sirius voice becomes choked. “I didn’t know. I thought you were a Death Eater.”
Regulus frowns. “I was a Death Eater.”
“No. No, I thought that’s what you wanted, that you were one of them.”
Regulus doesn’t understand. “Does it make a difference?”
“Merlin, yes.” Sirius sounds exasperated, now and he pulls back to study Regulus’ face. “Yes, Reggie. Of course, it does.”
Regulus can’t look at him, so he finally takes a moment to study the room. It looks exactly as he left it, like a perfectly preserved mausoleum of his youth. Regulus is alive, but he feels like there is some ghost of a younger boy haunting the corners of the room.
“Merlin, this is unnerving.”
Sirius glances around too and scoffs, “I know. Mine was the same. I was kind of surprised honestly, I would have thought Mother would burn everything I owned.”
Regulus doesn’t think Sirius has ever understood their mother. Perhaps, it is because they are too alike. “She loved you.”
Sirius frowns, “Whatever that was, it wasn’t love, Regulus.”
Regulus is pretty sure they aren’t just speaking about Mother anymore.
---
They make it down to the dining room, where Kreacher has begrudgingly laid out breakfast. Regulus can hardly stomach more than toast, but at Lupin and his brother’s urging, he does try. Sirius has redecorated. Grimmauld has never looks cleaner or brighter, Regulus had hardly noticed when he first arrived, but now it strikes him as odd.
Eventually, when he realizes why, he has to ask, “Where’s mother?”
The whole room goes still. Sirius suddenly looking shamefaced.
“Oh, I forgot, you wouldn’t have heard. When I got your letter, at first, I refused to return just on principle, you know?” He laughs awkwardly, “But eventually, Prongs- er- James talked me round. I think it was grief about his mum and dad,” Sirius voice cracks, but he clears his throat as Lupin rubs his arm comfortingly, “Anyway, when I finally came back, she was much much worse. Couldn’t even get outta bed or eat food on her own. So, I contacted St. Mungo’s. She’s in the Janus Thickey Ward, permanently. I’m sorry, Reg.”
Regulus hadn’t really known what he’d expected. Why hadn’t Cissa told him? Surely, she had heard. Maybe she had wanted to spare him that extra grief, he’d hardly been in a place to handle it well.
“Oh.” He exhales quietly, and they eat the rest of breakfast in silence.
---
Unfortunately, Regulus can’t go back to hiding in his childhood bedroom. Severus returns shortly after eleven.
“There’s been an attack on the Longbottoms.”
It’s awful news and sends Lupin and Sirius into a state of panic. Regulus listens to the story in a sort of detached manner. They had come out of hiding at the news the Dark Lord had been killed. The Lestranges had found them and tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom. They were stable in St. Mungo’s but recovery was looking difficult. At least Bellatrix had been arrested on the scene, evidently screeching about hunting down her “traitorous baby cousin” next.
---
For today, Sirius and Lupin are off to St. Mungo’s to check on the Longbottoms. Apparently, Sirius has started healer training. Who would have seen that coming? Well, other than Regulus, who was patched up by his older brother more times than he cares to count in their youth. He’s aiming to specialize in dark curse damage, like crucio. It’s ironic that their horrific childhood may turn out to be useful for something.
Severus has agreed to accompany Regulus to St. Mungo’s with them to visit Dumbledore.
Regulus hasn’t been out in public in years and the rush of passing healers and aids in the hospital halls makes Regulus’ skin crawl. He follows Severus quietly with his head down to avoid the gawking stares of the public. Some are looking at him and Severus with disgust, while others, the ones who have started to hear the rumours, the ones Regulus has no hope of containing, that it was Regulus Black who killed the Dark Lord, peer at him in curiosity, awe, and fear.
He understands how the rumour mill works. Bellatrix’ proclamations of Regulus’ betrayal will only confirm the public’s suspicion. It will hit the Daily Prophet by tonight if it hasn’t already. Everyone will know that Regulus Black, the perfect pureblood heir, killed the Dark Lord in their bed.
The real test will be to see if they paint him as a hero, liberating the wizarding world, or as a monster, cementing his place as the next Dark Lord.
Regulus wishes he was back in bed.
Dumbledore’s hospital room is small, well-lit, and private, with mounds of well-wishes and flowers littering every available surface, but in the bed Dumbledore looks older than he ever has before. His skin sags oddly like he’s lost weight rapidly, and his right hand looks like a blackened husk. There is the faint scent of rot permeating the room that the vases of flowers fail to cover.
Regulus has never thought to pity Dumbledore before, but as he lies here now obviously dying, Regulus can’t help but. Regulus makes his way to the seat beside his bed and slowly sits as the old man sleeps on.
Severus stands stoically by the door, as he drawls, “He’s been sleeping a lot. You’re welcome to wake him.”
Regulus huffs a soft laugh, “No. I’m in no rush.”
They wait in silence. It’s comfortable: the comradery of survivors.
Dumbledore wakes within the hour. It’s a gradual stirring, but eventually his blue eyes flutter open and catch on Severus first, then Regulus. They don’t twinkle now.
“Ah, Mr. Black. Severus.” He greets them. His tone is light.
It’s odd. Regulus has hated this man. Hated him almost more vitriolically than he ever hated the Dark Lord, but as he watches him right now, all he feels is exhaustion.
“Tom Riddle is dead.”
Dumbledore cocks his head as he studies Regulus. “Yes, I’ve heard.”
Regulus nods once, mechanically.
Dumbledore’s gaze softens minutely and quietly he adds, “My condolences, Regulus.”
It’s like a knife to his chest because it’s precisely the truth of the matter. Regulus is grieving. He shouldn’t be, but he is and before him sits the only other man who even remotely understood Tom Riddle, the man, not just the Dark Lord Voldemort.
“Yeah.” He sighs.
The three men sit together in silence for a long while yet, and when Regulus and Severus finally leave it is the last time that they ever see Dumbledore alive.
---
It takes Regulus three days more to gather the courage to visit Pandora. He knows he is a bad friend, but all he can picture when he thinks of her is their friends who he killed. Still, he can’t put it off much longer. Death Eater trials are well on their way, and the whole wizarding world knows what Regulus has done.
The Lovegood House appears to be a massive black rook near Ottery St. Catchpole. It’s a strange looking house, just a single great tower rising from the English countryside, but it’s surrounded by a sea of colourful flowers, and nothing has suited Pandora better than this.
He makes his way to the door cautiously but hesitates before knocking. It doesn’t seem to matter, because no sooner has he lifted his hand, the door swings inward. Pandora looks older and bone tired. It’s horrible, because in all his years of being their friends he never thought Pandora and Evan looked all that similar, but standing here now, all he can see is the echoes of his face in hers. They have the same round nose and soft cupids bow and dark eyes. But standing here now, Pandora is older than Evan will ever get to be. Regulus is too. They always will be.
There are tears on his face. He can’t even be bothered to wipe them off, but Pandora is crying too. Crying and smiling something sad and aching. She looks so pretty despite it all, and Regulus loves her so fiercely it’s painful.
She pulls him through the door and into a violent hug, that he can’t resist.
“I’m so sorry., Pandora, for all of it.”
“I know, Reg. They forgive you.”
---
He meets Baby Luna, when they both calm down. Xenophilius is in the woods recording the patterns of the mooncalf dance, though how he’s doing this at mid-day, Regulus does not understand. He decides it’s best not to question it.
Luna is still a soft and squirming little thing. She’s got big blue eyes, which seem a tad unearthly, but Pandora’s warm skin and big ears. He loves her instantly. She reminds him of Draco with the small patches of pale blond hair on her head, but unlike Draco she doesn’t cry, only blinks up at him curiously.
There’s something heartbreaking in knowing that the little girl he’s holding will never know her Uncle Evan, or godfather Barty, or Auntie Dorcas. There are so many people missing here who should have been around to love and hold her. To sing her songs at night and tell her grand, if grim, stories. There’s so much love lost from the world.
But there’s also this beautiful baby girl before him, who’s going to get to grow up at all. That has to be enough.
---
Death Eater Trials pick up and both him and Severus are required to testify. Dumbledore had written and signed letters assuring the general public that they were working as his spies. It helps that Bellatrix kept crowing about killing her traitorous younger cousin all the way to Azkaban. It’s enough that by mid-July they are both acquitted, though they’re still frequently called to testify on the crimes of other Death Eaters.
The reality of Voldemort and Regulus relationship comes out in the trials. With veritaserum there is no hiding that they shared a bed. Bellatrix certainly didn’t shy from calling him all manner of names; none of which are new to Regulus. Privately, he’s been thinking the same about himself for years.
Public opinion is fickle. Sometimes they are sympathetic to the boy groomed and raped by the Dark Lord. Sometimes reporters are digging up old photos of a 15-year-old Regulus smiling at a young and charming Lord Gaunt and declaring Regulus a harlot who seduced the Darkest Wizard Britain has seen in centuries. Sometimes he’s the next Dark Lord, and sometimes he’s the saviour who ended the war.
Mostly, Regulus just wishes they would stop picking through the worst years of his life with a fine-tooth comb like it will somehow make the senseless violence of the war more digestible. Mostly, Regulus wishes Sirius and James didn’t read the newspaper.
---
He has to go to Godric’s Hollow next; though, Regulus drags his feet about visiting here too. Somehow, he’s even less sure of his welcome. He tries to remember James’ last words to him, “We’re not done with you yet, Regulus Black, so don’t give up on us either.” However, he can’t help but think those were the wishful promises of children, who didn’t yet understand exactly what fighting a war would take.
James and Lily’s cottage is cozy. He’s grown up in gorgeous townhouses and sprawling manors, but they can’t hold a candle to the charm of this quaint little home before him. It’s two stories, with a lush front garden filled with flowers and a hand-painted mailbox that reads “The Pottery”.
Sirius and James had pulled down the Fideleus last week, when the last of the Death Eater trials were completed. There are still corruption charges and internal investigations making their way through the Ministry, but the immediate danger has passed. The Potters are no longer considered active targets. When Sirius had given Regulus their address, he’d looked confused, but Regulus had neither the desire nor the mental fortitude to explain that to his brother.
He makes his way up the front path, but before he musters up the courage to knock, he can hear laughter from the back garden. It’s the high squeals of a child playing, and he hesitates for a moment at to what to do. Does he still knock? It’s a beautiful day; is anyone even inside to answer the door?
It’s such a bizarre anxiety that Regulus is momentarily stunned. When was the last time he fretted over something so mundane? Eventually, he just settles on knocking. The silence after he wraps thrice on the door seems to stretch out in an eternity. He feels frozen in this moment of uncertainty.
Then, Lily Potter opens the door, and all anxiety flies out the window.
She’s older with tired eyes and shorter hair, but she’s still Lily. The same Lily who had commiserated over their siblings and touched his Dark Mark without fear or shame. She’s still his friend, and here she is alive and whole.
She seems shocked to see Regulus standing on her doorstep, as she gasps and breathes out, “Reg.” And then he’s enveloped in a hug. It’s warm and firm, and Merlin above how he has missed her.
“Hey, Lils.”
She pulls back to take his face in her hands and examine him. He knows he’s still a sight, underweight and sickly, but she smiles something tired and a little wane.
“Christ, we thought we’d never see you again. You utter, ass. You just vanished, and the Dark Lord’s dead for months, and Sirius is talking about you being back home. James is shitting kittens about that one, mind you. And Sev keeps telling me to just give you time. Not even a letter? What were you thinking?”
The words are spilling from her mouth so fast that Regulus is a tad overwhelmed and ashamed, but this is so unbearably real, that he just pulls her back into a tight hug again and laughs.
“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I just needed time to process. I’ve been a mess.”
“Yes, well, you’re our mess.”
They make their way inside. It’s as cozy inside as the exterior had made it seem. There are pictures of James and Lily kissing, of the Marauders’ wrestling, and of a pudgy baby the spitting image of James, on nearly every surface. Toys are strewn messily in the living room and the kitchen is a cluttered mess. It’s so different than the stern cleanliness of any home Regulus has ever known. Cissa would faint.
Lily apologizes for “the mess,” but Regulus has seen far worse messes than this well lived in home and so he brushes it off with a smile.
“James and Harry are out back. Sirius got him a toy broom for his first birthday.” She rolls her eyes in fond annoyance. “That man is going to be the death of me, I swear.” She seems suddenly unsure of herself, “Would you- I mean, do you want to come out back and see them?”
He knows that she won’t make him, but he wants to, “Yeah, I’d love to.”
They step out the backdoor and into the late summer air. It’s a beautiful, privately expanded little garden with tall trees secluding them from neighbours and afternoon light dappling the leaves. There’s a little boy, barely old enough to be walking, zipping around at knee height, and behind him runs a huffing James Potter.
He’s a beautiful now as he was at 17. His hair is a little longer, and he’s wearing muggle jeans with grass stains and a red t-shirt that highlights how much his shoulders have really filled out in the last few years. His eyes shine as he laughs at his son’s antics, and Regulus’ heart constricts.
It’s the little boy who notices Regulus and Lily first, taking a wide turn to face them and coming to an abrupt halt. He doesn’t look afraid, only curious, and it’s the first time Regulus recognizes how startling his green eyes are.
“Pads?” he asks squinting, but James has caught up to him, swinging the boy up in his arms, and now he’s noticing Regulus too. He stills. They both stare for a long moment. Then, the little boy, Harry, breaks it as he says definitively, “Not Pads.”
James squawks a startled laugh. “No, beta. That’s not Pads.”
He still hasn’t moved closer, so Regulus decides it’s time to be bold. Bold got him James in the first place. He glances once at Lily who nods encouragingly and begins to cross the yard.
Harry is still staring curiously, “Who?” He looks so much likes James, seeing them together almost hurts. Seeing James hold his son, Regulus has never been more in love with him.
James clears his throat almost choked up. “This is Regulus Black.” His eyes don’t leave Regulus face as he answers.
“Ike Siwi?” Harry asks.
“Yeah.” James breathes out. “He’s Sirius’ brother.”
Harry gets a sudden look of determination. He reaches out to Regulus from his father’s arms and says, “Ugs.”
It’s so comically Gryffindor of him, that how can Regulus say no. He looks back at James for the ok, but the man seems entirely entranced by Regulus mere presence, so he takes the initiative to reach out and take Harry from his arms. His arms and hands brush against James, and it’s the first time they have touched since Hogwarts.
Once, Harry is settled in his arms, he looks down at the toddler, barely 14 months old, and says, “Hello, Harry. My name is Reggie, and I have heard so much about you.”
The child just grins up at him with all his baby teeth and Regulus falls in love all over again.
---
Eventually, Lily takes Harry back inside, insisting it’s time for lunch and a nap. Regulus is sure that she is in large part trying to give him and James privacy. He’s grateful, even if it’s slightly awkward at first.
“I’ve missed you.” He settles on to start.
James seems hesitant to touch him for some reason. Regulus knows in his heart that it’s motivated by care, a concern for Regulus’ boundaries and comfort, but he can’t help the part of him that says James is disgusted. Why would he ever want to touch a filthy thing like Regulus?
“I’ve missed you, too. Fuck, Reg, we- I-“ He sucks in a shaking breath. “I’m so glad you’re ok.”
“Yeah.” Regulus’ voice cracks, and James is moving forward before a tear has even begun to fall. He’s got one hand on Regulus cheek, cupping it so tenderly, and the other is around his waist pulling him closer until their foreheads touch.
“I didn’t give up.” He says it like a confession, a prayer. “I came back to you. I said I would.”
“I know. I know. You did so good.” Now that James has broken the seal, he can’t seem to stop touching him. He’s rubbing circles into his lower back and swiping across his tear-stained cheek. “You did exactly what you said. You’re so strong, love.”
It tastes like a lie. Regulus chokes out a sob, “I’m so sorry. You don’t know. You can’t- You don’t want me.”
“I do, though. I love you. I still love you, and nothing, not even this stupid damn war, could change that. We’re here. We’re alive, and I still love you. Lily and I still want you.”
A weight that has been crushing Regulus all his life eases just slightly. It’s not gone. Maybe it never will be. There’s still a lot to figure out. But for now, Regulus breathes a little lighter and leans up to kiss James Potter.
---
“You were shagging my baby brother!?”
Regulus snorts, “Well, if you don’t like that, you’ll hate what the Dark Lord was doing.”
Lily and Remus are the only two that laugh.
---
Comfortably sleeping three adults in a house when one of them is sleeping with the other two but said other two are not remotely interested in shagging each other, is more difficult than one would expect. Especially, with the addition of an overly curious magical toddler.
Eventually, Regulus settles on a magical expansion, so he and Lily each have private bedrooms, and only invade James’ on occasion. Harry is particularly fixated on the green décor in Regulus’ room, because it’s the same colour as his eyes. He’s gracious enough to only act smug in front of his brother.
---
Harry and Draco make instant enemies at barely two years-old. It’s a bitter rivalry for all of an hour until Draco discovers Harry’s toy broom and insists on riding it. Cissa is not amused.
---
Harry is utterly enthralled by Luna. She doesn’t talk, though Pandora insists that she can, but only when she is ready. Despite the silence, she is the only person who seems to make Regulus’ overly rambunctious son sit still for more than five minutes. The pair sit and colour for hours. Regulus never hears her speak, but that night, when he’s tucking Harry into bed, he sleepily tells him, “Luna says you have red eyes following you.”
---
The war is over. It has been for some time before Regulus gather’s the courage to set foot in Azkaban. This isn’t a task he wants to do, but the mind healer that he’s been seeing every Thursday has urged him to try.
Bellatrix’ cell is in the East tower, for high security inmates. “High Security” is just a nicer way of saying more Dementors. It’s cold in a way that feels horribly like his worst nights in Lestrange Manor, when the words swirling in his mind couldn’t leave his lips. It feels like the day Barty died, and Regulus crawled back to his killer’s bed. The guard leading him is not unaffected either, though he maintains his patronus through the journey, which is a relief, because even if Regulus was permitted his wand here, he still can’t cast a corporeal one.
When they make it to Bella’s cell, he’s ashamed to feel guilt at his cousin’s state. She’s dirty and slumped in the corner on the other side of the bars, humming softly to herself. It’s a barren cell, with only a thread bare mattress and exposed toilet. Regulus heart aches for her, and he hates that.
“Cousin.” He greets her, and the humming abruptly cuts off.
Her movements are stilted, as she lifts her head to look at him. The moment that she recognizes Regulus, she is flying across the space, screeching about “Ickle Baby Reggie, the traitorous whore.”
He doesn’t let the words affect him. He can’t afford to.
“I have a question, Bella.” He manages to say over her hysterical cackling.
She quiets. “What could you need from me, little star?”
The phrase sends a shiver down Regulus’ spine, but he doesn’t flinch away from her suddenly lucid gaze. “I need to know what you did with the body.”
“Oh, baby cousin,” she coos, “Do you miss our lord’s cock that badly?” She has a wicked grin that turns Regulus stomach.
He grits his teeth so hard that his jaw aches, but steps forward and places a hand around the bar beside her face. Her eyes shift and widen slightly as they take in the new obsidian Lordship ring glittering dangerously on his finger.
“He is dead, Bellatrix. Your loyalty is to the House of Black first.” He looks down his nose at her, “So, as Lord Black, where did you hide his body?”
---
There is a private cottage in the West country owned under the name Bellatrix Black. It’s why it hadn’t come up in Ministry raids on the Lestrange properties. They hadn’t been allowed to seize any of the Black properties, because officially no Blacks had been convicted as Death Eaters.
It’s a small property with a single bedroom, and lying perfectly preserved on the bed is the Dark Lord’s body. Regulus is glad he came alone, against James and Lily’s wishes, because when he first sees him, he just stares.
He’s been dressed in black robes, and most of the blood has been lovingly washed away. With his eyes closed, he almost looks like he did at that first private dinner when Regulus had been just fifteen.
There is a part of Regulus waiting for the man to wake up, but there are clear stab wounds in the exposed skin of his neck, and Regulus knows they stretch down the man’s torso. This is nothing more than a corpse; it cannot touch him.
Before he came here, Regulus had decided to burn the body, just to be really sure that Tom could never be resurrected, but as he stands here now, he knows he can’t do it. Instead, he goes back outside to dig a grave.
He isn’t sure why he does it, but he knows he needs to. It’s not a deep grave and their will be no coffin, just a mound of soil and a rock. When it’s done, he levitates the body out and drops it down into the hole. It’s completely undignified. It just plops down into the dirt like a ragdoll. It’s so comically un-Dark Lordly, that Regulus bursts out with a laugh.
Then, he can’t stop laughing. It’s almost cathartic in a way, because the Dark Lord was always always just a man. He wasn’t superhuman or really special in any way. He was just a cruel man, who died like cruel men do: thinking with his cock.
He refills the grave with a swish of his wand and sits atop the dirt to carve carefully into the black rock he’s settled on as a tombstone, “Tom Marvolo Riddle.”
It’s far from beautiful, just a plain stone and his shoddy handiwork, but it’s more than this man ever deserved, more than some of his friends ever got.
“I hate you.” He tells the rock, because he will never get to tell the man. “You’re a fucking bastard.”
“You took so much from me that I will never get back. You destroyed so many things, because you were a selfish, selfish little man. And I hope you’re suffering for it. But fuck you for making me miss you too.”
He chokes on a sob, and his tears are soaking into the freshly upturned soil.
“I am so so much more than you could ever make me. More than just pretty. I have a little boy at home, and I love him so much. You would hate him. You wanted him dead, and now I’m raising my son with the loves of my life, and you are just a corpse rotting in the ground. You are nothing. You will always be nothing, just a foot note in history. No one will even mention your name without saying mine first. I win.”
It’s a petty victory. He wishes he could go back, say all of this to the man while he was still breathing, but he’s not.
The Dark Lord is dead in a pauper’s grave, and Regulus is alive.
He knows he will return to this grave again. Probably, yell at it, cry over it, and everything in between, but for right now, James Potter and Lily Evans are waiting for him in their little house in Godric’s Hollow with his brother and their son, and a whole life left to be lived. Regulus Black has better places to be.