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Chapter Text

Prologue

September 4th, 1979, 11 PM – Regulus Black

Regulus lit the candle with a whisper of flame and a flick of his fingers.

The library was still. It always was, this time of night—heavy with dust and legacy, the weight of a dozen portraits sleeping behind enchanted glass. He liked it here. It smelled like parchment, old spells, and the cold edge of moonlight.

His hands didn’t shake as he unfolded the heavy parchment. Not even a tremor.

In the corner, Kreacher stood stiff and silent, eyes too wide.

“It’s just a letter,” Regulus said. “Don’t look like that.”

The elf didn’t respond. He hadn’t since Regulus told him the plan.

No—not a plan. Plans had contingencies. Plans had outcomes. This was a last resort in formalwear.

Regulus dipped the quill, tapped it once, and began to write.

After he finished penning the letter he reread it once, then folded the parchment into thirds. Pressed his seal into the wax—not the Black family crest, not anymore. Just his initials. Small. Plain. R.A.B.

He stood, crossing to the tall window where the owl waited. A quiet, ordinary bird, feathers mottled and eyes sharp.

Regulus tied the letter to its leg.

“Take this to my brother,” he murmured. “His flat, please. If he’s not there, someone will be.”

The owl blinked. Then, without a sound, it launched into the dark.

Regulus didn’t watch it go.

He moved instead to the edge of the desk, where the ceremonial knife lay waiting. He didn’t hesitate. The cut was small. Intentional.

The spell was older than the House of Black. A blood anchor. It would hold his soul in place—temporarily. Long enough, if he was lucky. Long enough, if someone read the letter and understood.

He wiped the blade clean, breath steady.

Behind him, Kreacher’s voice broke the silence. “Master…”

“I’ll be fine,” Regulus lied.

He looked back at the candle. It guttered once. Then steadied.

Then he turned, and disappeared into the dark.

Chapter Text

September 5th, 1979, 5 AM – Remus Lupin

Remus wasn’t sure when James had started leaving tea to steep until it went cold, but there were three mugs on the windowsill this morning, each one in a different stage of abandonment. One had milk curdled at the bottom. Another had collected a long-dead fly.

He dumped all three in the sink without comment.

The kettle was already boiling again.

“Where’s Sirius?” he asked, not quite looking over his shoulder.

James shrugged. He was sitting cross-legged on the couch, dressed like he hadn’t changed clothes in two days, wand spinning absently between his fingers.

“Still not back,” James said. “It’s been two weeks.”

Remus reached for the tea tin. “And you haven’t heard anything?”

“Not a word,” James said lightly. “But I know he’s fine. I can feel it.”

Remus made a noise in the back of his throat. Not quite a laugh.

It had been like this for weeks now—tension without direction, silence that stretched thin. Everyone was waiting for something to snap, but no one wanted to admit what they already knew: the Order was bleeding. Missions had been compromised. Safe houses burned. Someone was leaking information.

And everyone had a theory.

James believed it was someone low-level, recently recruited. Mary Macdonald had been seen in the same café as Travers two weeks ago. Dorcas had gotten cornered in Hogsmeade and barely made it out. Lily was certain it had to be someone outside the main circle, someone using passive surveillance and guesswork.

Remus… didn’t know what he believed.

Except that it wasn’t Sirius.

It couldn’t be Sirius.

(But the doubt was still there, like something lodged between his ribs. Sharp. Irritating.)

He poured the tea. Sat across from James and let the steam hit his face.

“Didn’t sleep?” James asked.

Remus shook his head.

“Nightmares?”

“No.” A pause. “Just didn’t want to close my eyes.”

James gave him a long look over the rim of his mug. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

Remus arched a brow. “Which look?”

“That one you make when you’ve been thinking too much and it’s about to be someone else’s problem.”

Remus didn’t answer. Just sipped his tea.

James sighed and pushed himself upright with a wince. “Alright, I’m going to the safehouse. Moody wanted me for something. Might be a trap, might be a mission. Could go either way.”

“Wear your good pants,” Remus muttered.

“I’m saving those for the funeral.”

“Yours or someone else’s?”

James grinned. “Dealer’s choice.”

He grabbed his coat off the hook, fished his wand out of the couch cushions, and paused in the doorway. “You’ll tell him I was looking for him?”

Remus nodded. “If he comes back.”

“Right. Well. Don’t burn the place down.”

And then James was gone.

The flat fell into silence.

Remus exhaled. Let it settle around him. The tick of the clock on the mantle. The hum of traffic down below. The steady, predictable rhythm of the ward runes in the walls.

He took another sip of tea. Closed his eyes.

He hadn’t even finished the cup when the sound came—a faint knock against the kitchen window.

Remus opened his eyes.

Another knock, accompanied by the scratch of talon against glass.

He stood slowly, crossed to the sill, and pulled the window open.

The owl that blinked back at him wasn’t one he recognized.

Not the Ministry’s stiff, overbred couriers. Not one of Dumbledore’s fleet. Not even the Order’s usual nondescript browns and greys.

This one was mottled, sharp-eyed, and quiet. No tag. No ribbon. Just a single roll of parchment tied to its leg with dark green twine.

He hesitated.

Then untied it carefully. The owl didn’t wait—it launched into the grey sky without a sound.

The parchment was thick, cream colored and rolled tightly, sealed with wax.

The seal stopped him cold.

Just three letters. Pressed deep into the wax.

R.A.B.

Remus stared at it.

Felt something coil tight in his chest.

He broke the seal, and began to read.

Sirius,

I’ve always thought there was a lot to be said for being a member of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.
Lately, I’ve had time to reflect on what it means to be a member of this family, and what it means to be a brother—
I’ve taken it for granted that I had access to magic.
But the knowledge that I am no better than any other living being on this planet has wormed its way into my soul.
I don’t write this to beg for forgiveness or to try to reconcile differences that are impossible to climb or overcome—
But I hope that in the years that follow, the war that’s coming, those of us who are left will be able to pick up the pieces.
I walked the market today, and it was bleak and dark, the light sucked from the world like staring into a cave.
The wind whipped, babies were crying, I could taste salt on the air—reminiscent of the time we visited Dover.
It’s hard for me to be forthcoming with my emotions, a sentiment I’m sure that you share—
And though I hope that this is not the last letter I write you, I know there’s a chance that it might.
To quote Napoleon: “Death is nothing; but to live defeated and inglorious is to die (daily).”
I’m sorry.

Your brother,
Regulus Arcturus Black

The silence in the flat pressed in from all sides.

Remus read it again, and then a third time.

Each pass did nothing to clarify what the fuck he was looking at.

It was just a letter. About the weather. About nothing. About everything.

And it was from Regulus fucking Black.

The kitchen chair scraped back hard against the floor. Remus stood like he’d been burned.

He paced. One lap. Then two. His breath came faster with each step.

He tried to think. Tried to make sense of it.

Why would Regulus write to Sirius?

Why now?

Why like this?

He spun on his heel and braced both hands against the countertop, staring down at the parchment like it might explode.

The first thought came fast and ugly.

Sirius is a spy.

(He didn’t believe it. He didn’t. But it was there, all the same.)

Because why else would he be receiving correspondence from his little brother in the middle of a war? Why would Regulus use a plain wax seal, no wards, no charms? Why send it to the flat?

Unless he knew Sirius would be the only one to open it. Unless Sirius was expecting it.

Remus’ jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

No. No. It didn’t make sense.

Sirius didn’t even talk about Regulus. Not unless he was drunk, or angry, or both. And even then, it was always in the past tense. He was a little shit. He thought he knew everything. He made his choices. He’s probably dead.

Not my brother wrote me a fucking letter.

Remus pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars.

Sirius wasn’t a spy.

He’d bet his own life on that.

(And in some ways, he already had.)

So if this letter wasn’t proof of betrayal—

Then what the hell was it?

He sat down again.

Smoothed the parchment out flat, and started reading it for a fourth time.

Because there was something about the phrasing that felt wrong. Not awkward—Regulus had always been articulate in the most insufferable way—but off. Purposeful.

Remus read it again. Slower.

Some lines ended in periods. Others trailed off in em dashes, ellipses.

The thought unfurled slowly.

And then—

A memory. Sharp and unexpected.

Sirius, two winters ago. Drunk on firewhiskey, curled sideways on the sofa with half a cigarette and ash on his jumper. Rambling about something—school, Grimmauld, Regulus. He’d laughed, mean and bitter, and said:

“Mother used to open our mail sometimes, right? So we had this dumb code—me and Reggie. Just to be safe. We’d hide messages at the end of each line. Use a period to mark it. Stupid shit. Kid stuff.”

He’d waved it off. Smoked the rest of the cigarette. Changed the subject.

Remus hadn’t thought about it since.

Until now.

His eyes dropped back to the letter. He counted. Eleven lines with periods. Everything else trailed or broke.

And the last word of each?

Black. Magic. Soul. Pieces. Cave. Dover. Might. Die. Sorry.

He stared at the list for a long time.

Then very quietly, Remus Lupin folded the letter in half.

And started making a plan.

September 5th, 1979, 5 AM – Regulus Black

The wind off the cliffs howled like something ancient and hungry.

Regulus crouched just above the edge, one gloved hand braced against the limestone. Below him, the sea crashed against jagged stone, white spray leaping and vanishing into mist. There was a path, if you squinted. A narrow shelf of crumbling rock barely wide enough for a foot at a time. One wrong step, and the sea would take him.

He adjusted his grip on the outcrop and started down.

There were easier ways to die.

The descent was slow, brutal. The stone gave under his fingers more than once, and the dampness in the air made every surface slick. He didn’t use his wand—not yet. There was no point announcing himself with light. If the cave wanted to kill him, it would.

His boots scraped the edge of a moss-darkened boulder, and he nearly lost his footing. A spike of panic shot through his spine. He pressed close to the wall, breathing through his nose until the vertigo passed.

Then he moved again. One step. Two. A stretch where he had to lower himself hand over hand along a twisted root embedded in the cliff face. Then another stretch where he crawled.

By the time his boots touched level ground again, his legs were shaking.

But the cave was there.

It wasn’t hidden.

That was the first thing that struck him.

There was no illusion ward, no glamour. Just a yawning arch in the cliff face, black and wide and patient. Like it had always been there. Like it always would be.

Regulus wiped his palms against his coat and stepped closer.

The magic hit him like a wall.

Not active. Not repelling him. Just… present. Dense. Heavy with intent. It felt old. Like something buried alive.

He stopped just short of the entrance.

Etched into the stone beside it was a shallow bowl, rim dark with dried rust. Not rust—he knew better.

He didn’t hesitate.

He rolled back his sleeve and drew the dagger from inside his coat. The edge was already clean. The cut didn’t need to be deep, just enough for a few drops.

Still, his breath caught when the blade touched skin.

Blood welled, bright against the grey stone.

He let it drip into the basin.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

A tremor ran through the rock.

Then the air shifted and the threshold shimmered.

The darkness inside deepened.

He took one last breath of sea air.

Then stepped into the cave.

The tunnel was long. Uneven. Damp with condensation that dripped steadily from the ceiling and slicked the stone beneath his feet. His boots echoed against the rock in sharp, wet snaps. He kept his wand at his side but unlit—there was enough ambient magic here to see by, a dim green shimmer clinging to the walls like algae.

The farther he walked, the heavier it got.

Not just the air, but the magic. Dense and layered, like velvet soaked through and left to rot.

When the tunnel finally opened into a cavern, Regulus stopped short.

The cavern breathed magic.

Not like Hogwarts—grand and humming with enchantment—but ancient, close, suffocating. The kind of magic that had been left to rot in the dark. That had soaked into the stone like blood.

Regulus stepped to the edge of the black lake and crouched, wandlight flickering across the water’s surface.

The island sat in the center of the lake, maybe thirty meters out. Flat stone, no cover. Just a single basin resting in the middle, barely visible through the mist.

That was it.

No obelisks. No runes carved into the stone. No trapdoors or guardian beasts.

Just a lake. An island. And a Horcrux.

Which meant the danger wasn’t above the surface, it was beneath it.

He swallowed and sank back onto his heels.

He couldn’t rush this.

He had to survive—not forever. Not even for long. Just long enough.

Long enough for the letter to arrive.
For the seal to be broken.
For Sirius to understand.

That was the gamble.

He didn’t let himself dwell on the odds.

Regulus drew a folded scrap of parchment from inside his coat, creased with sharp, careful lines. Not the letter—this was the diagram. A rough sketch of the cavern, the boat, the island. What Kreacher had described in panicked fragments, voice hoarse from the binding magic that had nearly torn him apart.

Scrawled along the margins in neat shorthand were the spells Regulus had prepared. A binding charm to tether the boat to the island—Tempus anchorum. A defensive ward, reinforced with salt and blood, to create some kind of shield—Vallum carceris. And something to throw off the Inferi’s senses—Duplicatus, a decoy, an echo of warmth or breath.

It wouldn’t hold forever. But it didn’t need to.

It just had to last long enough for someone to come.

He had no idea how long that might be. Twelve hours? Twenty-four? Longer?

Could he carve out a space beneath the island stone, sealed with a blood-lock charm and masked with scent suppression? Could he cast stasis around the boat’s mooring so it wouldn’t drift back on its own? Could he slow his own heartbeat enough to fool the Inferi into thinking he was already dead?

He didn’t know.

But he could try.

Because Regulus Arcturus Black hadn’t come all this way just to drown in a tomb built from his own good intentions.

He extended his wand again, let it drift slowly over the surface of the lake. No wind. No current. Even his breath didn’t stir it.

But it was full of bodies. He could feel them—low and patient beneath the surface.

The lake was a graveyard. A prison. A warning.

Move fast. Don’t touch the water. Don’t call attention.

He murmured a spell under his breath—not to summon the boat, not yet. Just to reach for it. To feel the edge of its enchantment, the way it was tethered.

The sensation that came back was like brushing the back of a sleeping thing’s neck. Not inert. Just… waiting.

He dropped his hand.

Then leaned back against the cold cavern wall, eyes drifting upward.

The mist above looked like stormclouds from this angle. Something gathering.

He let his eyes fall shut. Just for a second.

He imagined Sirius finding the letter.
Rolling his eyes.
Cracking the seal.
Realizing what it meant.
Coming for him.

When he opened his eyes again, the lake was still waiting.

So was he.

Chapter Text

September 5th, 1979, 5:30 AM - Remus Lupin

The Order’s safehouse smelled like ash and rain.

Remus stepped inside, shaking the wet from his coat, and nodded once at Kingsley, who pointed him upstairs without a word.

He took the narrow staircase two at a time. The second floor was half-lit by floating candles and the dying glow of a ward map someone had left flickering on the wall. The usual buzz of conversation hummed from the sitting room.

He spotted her immediately.

Andromeda Tonks—posture perfect, wand tucked neatly into the belt of her coat, a book in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in the other. She didn’t look like she belonged in a half-collapsed manor house used for war meetings. She looked like she belonged behind a desk at the Ministry, quietly orchestrating a political coup while her quill caught fire from spite.

Remus took a breath and crossed to her corner. “Do you mind?”

Andromeda looked up. “I do. Sit anyway.”

He smiled faintly and dropped into the armchair across from hers.

“I had a question,” he said, casual as he could manage. “One I thought you might be able to help with.”

“Flattering,” she said, without looking up from her book. “What’s the subject?”

“Black magic.”

That made her pause.

She set her tea down slowly. “Define the term.”

“That’s the thing—I’m not sure,” Remus said. “I read it in a letter. Capital B, capital M. Could mean dark magic. Could mean something else.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Something… familial.”

He nodded once.

Andromeda closed her book. “I haven’t heard that phrase used in quite a few years.”

“So it is a thing?”

“Black family magic,” she said softly. “Yes. Not just dark spells or Unforgivables. Older, stronger. Passed down through the bloodline, usually through the women. My mother has a copy of the grimoire that she received on her wedding day. I’m sure Sirius’ mother would as well.”

Remus leaned forward, voice low. “Was any of it about survival? Something that would give strength, or help someone overcome extreme odds?”

Andromeda tilted her head, studying him. “What are you trying to survive?”

“It’s not for me,” he said quickly. “I just—I think someone might’ve used it.”

She didn’t ask who. Smart enough to know he wouldn’t tell her. Kind enough not to make him lie.

“There’s a spell in the grimoire,” she said after a moment. “We called it Anima Vinculum. The soul tether.”

Remus went still.

“It binds the soul to the body,” Andromeda continued. “Temporarily. Meant to be used in battle, or when death was imminent. It doesn’t heal. It doesn’t fix. It just… holds. Like pressing pause on the soul’s departure. Buy you a few hours. Maybe less.”

“Side effects?”

“Pain,” she said. “Exhaustion. Hallucinations, in some cases. But the worst part is that you’re awake for all of it. Even if your body is failing. The spell keeps your mind tethered. You don’t pass out. You don’t fade.”

Remus swallowed hard.

“Why would someone use it?” he asked.

Andromeda raised a brow. “Why does anyone want to live a little longer?”

Silence stretched between them.

She took a sip of her tea. “Whatever you’re looking into—be careful, Remus.”

“I’m always careful.”

She gave him a look.

He gave her a smaller, guiltier smile in return.

Then stood. “Thanks.”

“If you find a copy of the grimoire,” she said casually, “don’t try to use it.”

“I won’t,” he said.

(He might.)

Remus returned to the flat not long after.

The fireplace was cold. The lamps were off. He shut the door behind him quietly, as though not to wake something sleeping in the walls.

“Sirius?” he called, just in case.

No answer.

He didn’t expect one. Sirius was rarely home these days, always the first hand in the air when volunteers were needed for a mission.

But the flat felt emptier than usual.

Remus hung his coat on the peg, kicked off his boots, and crossed to the bookcase without turning the lights on. The book he was looking for was new— James had just added it to the shelf during one of his weekly rants about the power of love.

“Threads of the Self.”

He carried it to the kitchen table, set it down gently, and sat in the chair that faced the door.

Old habits. Full moons had a way of making you want your back to a wall.

The book opened easily, apparently not its first time being read. Remus began skimming chapter titles. Most soul magic in this book was closer to ritual than research—bonding charms, intention spells, light tethers between loved ones. Temporary. Harmless.

He flipped past a section on soul resonance. Past a chapter on emotional echo charms, which supposedly allowed your feelings to carry across distances if your magical alignment matched another’s. The kind of thing people performed at weddings, or sealed into heirlooms.

But near the end—

There it was.

A footnote. Small, printed in tight italics, like the author hadn’t wanted to give it too much attention.

“Though it is not the aim of this volume, it must be noted that the study of soul magic carries with it considerable risk. Any spell that attempts to fracture or isolate the soul—whether through killing, binding, or anchoring beyond natural death—should be considered highly illegal and ethically abhorrent. These practices do not lead to healing. The soul, once divided, cannot return to its whole.”

Remus stared at the page.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe, for a moment.

Fracture or isolate the soul.
Binding. Anchoring. Beyond natural death.

Andromeda’s voice echoed back to him. The worst part is that you’re awake for all of it.

He closed the book gently. Pressed his fingertips to the cover and let his forehead rest against the edge of the table.

Whatever Regulus had done, it wasn’t about survival for survival’s sake.

He was trying to live long enough to be found.

And if Remus didn’t find him—soon—

No one would.

September 5th, 1979, 6 AM- Regulus Black

Regulus stood at the edge of the lake and thought, absurdly, about how calm it looked.

The surface was like glass. Still. Black. Reflecting nothing.

His reflection didn’t show in it. Neither did the stone ceiling overhead or the eerie mist that hung just above the waterline like fog waiting to rise. Just… dark. Still and waiting.

He hated it.

He took a slow breath through his nose and exhaled evenly.

Then reached out, steady fingers, and let his wand trace the air in a slow arc.

Appareo.

The spell glowed dim gold in the air.

At first, nothing happened.

Then—ripples. Deep ones. They unfurled from the center of the lake like something beneath had stirred. A soft hiss of movement, a yawning pause. Regulus took one step back on instinct.

Then the boat appeared.

It broke the surface like it was rising from the depths—ancient, narrow, made of rough-hewn wood gone dark with age and magic. It settled near the edge of the rocky shore without a sound.

No oars, no tether, just waiting.

He stared at it for a full minute before moving.

His heart was beating too hard. Not fast—just heavy. Like each thud was trying to echo down into his stomach and sit there.

He checked his wand holster. The salt pouch in his coat. The parchment scrap with his spellwork scribbled in tight lines along the edges.

Then he stepped into the boat.

It didn’t move.

He sat down slowly. It rocked just once beneath him—like breath—but held steady.

The mist was thicker out here. He could barely make out the island anymore, though he knew it was close. Maybe thirty meters ahead.

“Alright,” he whispered, voice swallowed by the cavern.

Then he tapped the side of the boat with his wand, and it began to move.

No sound. No pull. Just the gentle glide of motion across a lake that he wasn’t sure was really water.

He tried not to look down.

He could feel them beneath him—the Inferi. Not stirring, not yet, but present. Like bones at the bottom of a well, waiting for movement, waiting for heat.

He held still.

Breathed through his nose.

Did not sweat. Did not shiver. Kept his wand balanced on his knee and his hands in his lap.

He could feel the tether spell pulsing faintly under his skin. It had anchored hours ago, and it hadn’t faded yet. That was good. That was something.

The island loomed closer. A circle of flat stone, gray and mottled, with a single black basin in the middle.

No cover. No shelter.

Nowhere to run once they came for him.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Just get there. Just step off. Just start the next thing.

The boat bumped gently against the stone shore.

He stood, carefully.

The water didn’t move.

The air smelled like salt and rot.

Regulus stepped out of the boat and onto the island.

The stone was cold beneath his boots.

Regulus stood in the center of the island and stared down at the basin.

It was carved from black rock, polished smooth and shallow like a ceremonial bowl. At first glance, it looked empty. Still. But as he leaned closer, the surface shimmered faintly—dark green, too thick to be water, too still to be alive.

He tapped the rim with his wand. Nothing happened.

He tried a whisper of Finite. Then Revelio. Then a soft probe of magic to see if anything would shift.

The surface rippled once, then stilled.

Not empty.

Just waiting.

He set his jaw and moved on, circling the basin, inspecting the stone beneath it for gaps, runes, anything hidden.

There was nothing.

Just a single purpose, carved in ancient arrogance; Drink the potion. Reveal the Horcrux.

He tried conjuring a vessel. The basin resisted it.

Tried siphoning spells. They slid off like oil on water.

Tried everything he could think of except the one thing he didn’t want to do.

Eventually, he stepped back.

There was no way around it.

If he wanted the horcrux, he would have to drink what guarded it.

And once he did, he wouldn’t be himself. Not fully. Not reliably.

Which meant he needed to prepare first.

He dropped to a crouch beside the basin, unbuttoned the inside pocket of his coat, and pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle.

Inside: a pouch of salt. A vial of bloodroot. Chalk. Three lengths of twine. A small silver coin etched with the Black family crest.

And his wand, steady in his right hand.

He started with the outer edge.

A circle of salt and ash around the basin—carefully measured, reinforced with murmured Latin and the slow drag of his wand against the stone. Not to ward the basin, but to mark his center. If he collapsed, if the potion broke his mind, this would anchor him.

Then the shielding spell—Vallum carceris—cast around the edge of the island. It wouldn’t stop the Inferi, but it might confuse them. Might buy him time if they came too soon.

Next, a binding charm to hold the boat tethered, prevent it from drifting even if he passed out or lost control. That was the contingency.

He added one more line of defense—Duplicatus—a decoy spell, a simulacrum of himself to project warmth and movement just a few feet away from where he actually sat. If the Inferi were drawn by heat, maybe they’d strike at the illusion instead.

He had no illusions of safety.

But this was the best he could do.

He stood slowly, joints stiff from crouching too long. The basin waited, undisturbed.

He could see his reflection now. Pale. Tired. Determined.

“Alright,” he whispered.

He grabbed the pearlescent shell that rested at the edge of the basin, mocking him.

He dipped it slowly into the bowl and watched as potion clung to the shell like syrup, too thick, too green. It smelled like metal and mold and something bitter he couldn’t name.

Regulus raised it to his lips, paused to take a deep breath, then drank.

Chapter Text

September 5th, 1979, 6 AM - Remus Lupin

Remus finished his tea even though it had gone cold. He didn’t flinch at the taste.

The flat was silent—still missing Sirius, still waiting for something unspoken to settle between the walls. But Remus had stopped waiting.

He folded Regulus’ letter carefully—creased along the lines it had arrived with, the wax seal broken cleanly across the center—and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. The weight of it felt heavier now. Like it knew what he was planning.

He crossed the room and knelt beside the cabinet by the fireplace, tugging it open with practiced ease. His rucksack was already there, half-packed as it always was. The kind of half-preparedness that came from Order work, or paranoia. In his case, both.

One by one, he built the contents with care.

He repacked the bottle of dittany, checked the wax seal on the healing potions, and swapped one for a newer vial from the shelf. He added a poison remedy kit—small, expensive, tucked in its velvet pouch like it might bite.

The water flask went in next. Still cool from the charm.

Then a decent sized butterfly knife, the kind Sirius had once claimed could cut through rope and bone if it had to.

Lastly, a thermal blanket and spare socks, both shrunk down to the size of a matchbook, and a small book of protective glyphs, tucked more out of comfort than practicality.

He paused by the fireplace, where Sirius had left his heavier coat hanging on the hook weeks ago. The inside lining was worn soft, reinforced with discreet charms. He hesitated only a second before slipping it on.

It wasn’t about sentiment. It was just the best coat for what he needed. Weather-proof. Durable. Familiar in the way gear becomes when it’s been field-tested.

Still. He supposed there was something fitting about it.

If Sirius were here—if he’d been home to read that letter, to see what Remus had seen—maybe he’d be the one grabbing his coat and going.

But he wasn’t.

So Remus turned on his heel and left the flat behind with a loud, echoing pop!

The cliffs rose white and jagged along the edge of the sea. From this distance, the water looked harmless—still and grey under a sky trying to decide whether it wanted to rain.

Remus apparated just inland from the coast, near a narrow path of trampled grass and loose stones. The wind hit him immediately—cold, briny, relentless. It cut through his trousers and tugged at Sirius’ coat, but he kept walking.

He didn’t know exactly where to start.

He just knew he was close.

The hidden message had said Dover. And cave. And Regulus Black was poetic, but Remus had to hope he wasn’t poetic enough to mean anything else.

He moved along the edge of the cliffs, wand out, eyes scanning every fold in the rockface. There were places where the drop was sheer, and others where ledges jutted out—natural shelves, just wide enough to stand on. A few had narrow paths leading down. Treacherous, but not impossible.

Regulus would’ve taken one of those.

Remus crouched by the edge of one crumbling slope, heart pounding harder than it should. Below, the cliff face was riddled with seams and crevices, some wide enough to be entries. One—near the base—was darker than the rest. A shadow that swallowed the light.

A cave.

Remus exhaled.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s hope you’re still alive, Black.”

He took the slope carefully, boots crunching against loose stone. The wind didn’t help, but the path hugged the cliff well enough, and he kept one hand on the rock as he edged lower. His wand trembled in his grip—not from fear, but from the current under his skin. His magic hummed, restless and alert.

The moment he reached the small landing at the mouth of the cave, the temperature dropped.

It wasn’t just the shade. It was the air itself—thin and cold, with a hum in it that made his spine tighten.

Something was here.

He lit his wand. The light didn’t go far, but it was enough to see that the cave sloped inward. The walls were damp, smooth in places, and there—just ahead—a basin carved into the stone. Dark stains marked the rim.

Blood.

So he was right.

Regulus had been here.

He was ahead. Somewhere.

Remus didn’t pause to think, he dug into his pocket for the knife he’d picked up at the flat and sliced a clean line across his palm. It welled up quickly, bright and warm against the cold.

He let it drip into the basin.

The reaction was immediate. The stone pulsed faintly under his fingers, then shimmered—just once—before the wall ahead of him creaked open with a low, grinding groan.

Remus exhaled, wrapped his hand, and stepped through the opening into the dark.

September 5th, 1979, 6:15 AM - Regulus Black

The first mouthful nearly came back up.

Regulus gagged, the shell clattering in his grip as the potion slicked over his tongue like oil and copper. His stomach lurched, throat convulsing in protest.

He closed his eyes. Swallowed hard.

Then forced himself to take another.

It didn’t get easier. Each scoop burned colder than the last—like he was swallowing memories frozen in salt and grief. His hands trembled. His knees locked. His mouth went dry by the fourth dose, but he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop.

By the time the basin shimmered empty, Regulus was shaking and sweat-drenched, hunched on his hands and knees beside the stone. He fumbled for the basin and grasped the locket, shoving it into his pocket before stumbling back, disoriented.

His tongue felt too large. His skin buzzed.

The island tilted.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

The horizon didn’t straighten.

He tried to focus—on the center of the island, on the runes he’d carved, the protections he’d laid down like threads in a loom—but the world around him was already going soft at the edges.

He was hot. And then he was freezing.

His throat ached.

He needed water.

The lake was just there.

He stumbled forward, crawling the last few feet to the water’s edge. Mist clung to his shoulders like smoke. The surface of the lake was still, flat and silver. The reflection staring back at him looked like a stranger—eyes too wide, face too pale.

He reached down. Scooped a handful of water.

Just before it reached his lips, something moved.

The lake rippled.

A pale hand broke the surface, fingers long and waterlogged, nails like splinters of bone.

A pale hand shot up from beneath the surface, fingers skeletal, grasping for his wrist.

Regulus jerked back with a cry—barely avoiding its grip—and scrambled to his feet. His boots skidded against wet stone as he turned and bolted toward the center of the island.

Behind him, the lake came alive.

Bodies rose. Silent, sunken-eyed. They didn’t scream. They didn’t groan. They simply moved—with one purpose, one instinct.

The Inferi advanced.

Regulus crossed the boundary of his protections just as the first Inferius reached the salt line.

The shield charm flared white-hot and held. For a second. Maybe two.

Then it cracked.

The first Inferius breached the line with a sizzle of breaking magic.

Regulus raised his wand, already panting, and cast.

“Duplicatus!”

A perfect mirror image of himself shimmered into being beside the basin—confused, blinking, just human enough to fool whatever sense the Inferi were following.

It worked.

The Inferi shifted. Lunged for the double.

Regulus backed away as they fell on the duplicate, hands clawing and tearing. Bones snapped. Skin pulled. Flesh split apart in uneven rips like parchment soaked through and shredded.

He couldn’t look away.

He tried not to be sick.

The copy screamed as it was ripped to pieces—his voice, his face, his blood—until nothing was left but ruined cloth and wet, dragging limbs.

Then the Inferi turned toward him again.

“Bombarda!”

The closest exploded backwards, chunks of frozen flesh scattering across the stone.

“Incendio!”

Flames burst along the line of his salt barrier before spreading across the surface of the lake, lighting up the mist like a funeral pyre.

It didn’t stop them.

He kept firing—spell after spell, hand shaking, wand sparking under the strain. Each curse knocked them back, bought him seconds, but they kept coming.

Then one crept up behind him.

He felt the claw before he saw it—sharp, cold, raking down the back of his neck. His breath caught as pain bloomed red-hot beneath his skin. He stumbled forward, blood soaking into the collar of his coat, vision swimming.

There were too many.

He couldn’t hold this line.

He was out of time.

Chapter Text

September 5th, 1979, 6:30 AM - Remus Lupin

Remus stepped hard onto the stone just inside the mouth of the cave, stumbling as his boots hit slick rock.

It was worse than he expected.

He barely had time to process the unnatural chill in the air, the thick layer of mist, the smell of smoke and blood and rot—because when he looked up—

He saw the island.

And he saw Regulus.

Collapsed on his side, blood soaking through torn fabric. A tangle of limbs and claw marks. His body jerked once—reflex, not control. And surrounding him, climbing over themselves to reach him, were dozens of—

Remus went cold.

Inferi.

The lake was swarming with them. Clawing over the island stone, rising from the water, stumbling through mist lit with strange orange fire from spells that hadn’t come from him.

They were tearing him apart.

Remus scrambled for the bag at his side, heart thudding so hard he could barely hear himself think.

He fumbled the broom out with shaking hands. Dropped the strap. Swore.

“Shit, shit—”

Mounted. Kicked off.

He was in the air before he finished thinking.

The lake was alive beneath him—Inferi turning, their eyes tracking him in the dark. They didn’t reach him, not yet, but they would.

He had seconds.

He didn’t waste them.

“Pestis Incendium!”

The word came from somewhere deeper than fear—deeper than instinct. It exploded from his chest like a roar.

Fire burst from his wand—massive, searing, golden and angry. It hit the edge of the lake like lightning, curling upward in snarling waves. A serpent made of flame twisted through the air, snapping its jaws. It wasn’t controlled—but it moved.

And it cleared a path.

Remus didn’t wait.

He shot through the smoke, ducking low as the broom skimmed the rising heat. The flames snapped at his heels but didn’t catch.

He didn’t slow down.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Just flew.

The moment he reached the island, he dropped fast, knees hitting the stone with a thud.

Regulus didn’t move.

His chest rose—barely.

Remus dropped his wand and reached for him.

One arm behind his back, the other under his knees. He felt the blood instantly. Heat and something worse.

“Come on,” Remus whispered. “Come on, come on, I’ve got you—”

He lifted.

Regulus sagged into his chest, a dead weight of blood and bone and bruises.

“I’ve got you,” he said again, louder this time. Desperate. “I’ve got you.”

The fire was beginning to branch off behind them, leaving scorched openings along the edge of the island. The Inferi were coming fast now—dozens, maybe more, drawn by the sound, the movement, the living.

Remus didn’t look.

He held Regulus close, kicked off the island, and flew.

They were halfway to the mouth of the cave before Remus risked one hand off the broom.

He pointed his wand over his shoulder and shouted, “Bombarda Maxima!”

The spell cracked through the air like a war drum.

The ceiling buckled.

Chunks of stone fell like car sized hail, hitting the lake and crushing the decaying bodies that hadn’t thought to look up. Remus heard the cracking above draw nearer, and dodged sideways to avoid falling debris. He tucked himself and Regulus low over the broom and pushed, coaxing the broom to fly faster than it normally would.

Finally— finally, he made it into the tight, winding path that led back towards the shoreline. The entrance collapsed behind them in a flood of sound—rock and water and magic sealing shut in a spray of ash, chalky white stone falling and meeting the sea in a ferocious clash.

And then it was only wind and sky and the sound of Regulus breathing against his chest.

Just barely.

The wind off the sea was brutal.

Remus could taste salt and smoke in his mouth, and he didn’t know if it was the wind or the blood or the ache in his chest. The broom bucked slightly in the air as they crested the last ridge, and then—

Shit.

People.

Down below, on the Dover cliffs, a small group of Muggles stood gawking, pointing at the collapsed edge of the cliff where smoke still curled up from the ruins of the cave.

Of course they saw. Of course they fucking saw.

Remus jerked the broom hard left, shielding Regulus’ slack form with his body as he dropped altitude fast, angling away from the viewline.

He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk being seen. Couldn’t risk him being seen.

He thought of Order safehouses, of St. Mungo’s, of Sirius and James’ flat—

No.

His brain went blank with panic.

And then the answer landed, sharp and final.

Home.

He’d barely thought of the place in years. But he knew every square inch. No wards. No locks. No questions.

He tightened his arms around Regulus, felt the weak flutter of his pulse against his wrist, and twisted on the broom with wand raised.

Crack.

They landed in the garden.

If you could still call it that.

The grass was wild. The path was broken stone and dirt. The wooden gate Remus had once helped his dad paint was hanging off one hinge, barely clinging to the fence.

The house loomed in front of him—modest and quiet and heavy with time.

It looked smaller than it used to.

Everything did.

Remus stumbled forward, dragging the broom and Regulus both, feet catching on roots and memory. His whole body screamed. He hadn’t realized until now how badly he was shaking.

The door wasn’t locked.

He shouldered it open with more force than necessary and nearly collapsed in the entryway.

The house smelled like dust, and lavender.

He didn’t let himself look at the photos. Most were gone anyway. He’d taken them down in the months after his mum died, too angry to let them watch him grow into someone she never got to see.

The couch was still there.

So was the low table, the threadbare rug, the bookshelf half-full of books no one had touched in five years.

Remus lowered Regulus carefully onto the couch. His knees gave out halfway and they both went down harder than he meant.

He reached a hand down to check Regulus’ pulse. Still there, barely.

“Okay,” Remus panted, “okay, you’re here. You’re safe. You’re gonna be okay.”

His wand hand trembled. He reached for the bag. Shrunk, compact, charmed to hold more than it should.

He didn’t feel calm.

He didn’t feel anything.

Just motion.

Action.

He laid out what he had—healing salves, Dittany, bandages, potions. Water. A blood-replenishing potion he hoped would work on someone half-straddling the veil.

Then he started working.

One torn sleeve at a time.

The blood was everywhere. More than he expected. More than he wanted to see. There were claw marks across Regulus’ shoulders, his neck, his back— some still bleeding sluggishly.

The smell was awful.

But Remus had lived through worse.

He took another steadying breath, murmured a spell to light a fire in the hearth, and got to work.

First the jacket—what was left of it. Burnt at the sleeve, soaked in blood, half torn down the back. Remus cut the rest open with a flick of his wand and eased it off, slow, careful not to jostle what skin still clung to healing.

The shirt underneath was worse. Charred and torn and stuck in places where the skin had opened too deep. Remus peeled it back like tissue, mouthing quiet apologies he wasn’t sure Regulus could hear.

The wounds on his chest were mostly shallow. Defensive. A swipe here, a puncture there. Not clean work, but not deadly.

It was the back that concerned him.

Claw marks, long and ragged. Some already beginning to fester. Others fresh, pink and raw. The skin had split in three different directions, some of the muscle beneath torn open like fruit.

Remus sat back on his heels and breathed.

Okay. Okay. One at a time.

He uncorked the Dittany, hands shaking more than he wanted to admit. Tipped a few drops into the worst of the gashes and watched as they fizzed and hissed, the magic latching onto shredded skin and beginning the slow, miserable process of mending.

Regulus didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound.

It wasn’t unconsciousness anymore. Not quite. More like whatever state came after pain had overstayed its welcome. A strange, too-still kind of quiet.

Remus whispered a charm and watched the blood clot. Then another. Then another.

Once the top half of him was stable, he moved to the trousers. They were slashed through at the thigh—one leg drenched in dried blood. He hesitated only a moment, then reached for his wand again and murmured another splitting charm. The fabric peeled apart, and Remus drew them down Regulus’ legs in slow, careful motions.

He left the pants, for dignity’s sake.

Not that there was much dignity in the way Regulus had collapsed into the couch cushions, fever-slick and silent, his breath shallow, lips cracked and too pale. His hair was damp with sweat, his lashes stuck to his cheeks, and there were bruises blooming along his ribs like watercolor.

But he was beautiful.

It hit Remus in a strange, unsteady way.

Not desire, just the observation of something rare and precious reduced to ruin. Like watching a marble statue fall from its pedestal and shatter. Or the Sistine Chapel ceiling after a fire. A masterpiece, bleeding out in his childhood living room.

His throat tightened.

He forced himself to keep working.

More salve. More Dittany. More whispered healing charms that caught in his voice the longer he spoke.

Finally, when all of the visible wounds had been handled, he uncorked the bottle of blood replenishing potion and tilted regulus’ chin up. His thumb worked its way between his lips, pulling gently to open his mouth as he tilted the bottle forward. He moved his hand down, pressing with the back of his fingers to coax Regulus’ throat to swallow the potion. His hand drifted up once more without thinking—fingers brushing over Regulus’ brow, sweeping sweat-matted hair back behind his ear.

“You’re going to be alright,” he said softly. “You have to be.”

There was no response.

But the rise and fall of his chest continued.

Steady, relentless, alive.

September 6th, 1979, 9 AM- Regulus Black

The world didn’t come back all at once.
At first, there was only sound. A pop at the base of his skull, like pressure equalizing. The whisper of flames. Wind whistling softly against a window frame. Wood creaking under weight.
Then came sensation—burning.
Not sharp. Not the bite of claws or the shock of cold lakewater. Not the heat of fire catching skin. This pain was duller. Deeper. The ache of something that had tried very hard to die—and failed spectacularly.
He inhaled.
And choked.
His body lurched before his eyes could open, a startled, desperate flinch away from whatever memory had sunk its teeth in last.
Hands. Grabbing. Pulling.
The lake.
His chest stuttered.
He was going to drown.
He was being dragged toward the water—
No.
No, there was warmth now. Fabric beneath his fingers. A couch, maybe. Something soft. Something real.
The air no longer smelled like smoke.
It smelled like old stone, and dust, and lavender.
Regulus forced his eyes open.
The ceiling above him was low and off-white, cracked in one corner. Across the room, a bookshelf sagged under the weight of too many spines. A fireplace flickered quietly with a half-tended flame.
He blinked.
Not a hospital.
Not the island.
Not dead.
Which meant—
“Fuck,” he rasped, throat raw. “Where—”
Something shifted to his left. A shadow, slow and solid.
Regulus turned his head, vision still blurred, eyes straining to catch up.
“Lupin?”
Remus was sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him, one hand resting on his knee, the other cradling a mug like it was the only thing tethering him to the room.
Regulus stared.
His mouth opened, but nothing useful came out. The questions crowded his throat—Where am I? How did I get here? How are you even real?—but none of them made it past his lips.
Because Remus looked too steady. Too kind. Too whole. And Regulus still felt half in the dark, still felt phantom hands at his ankles, dragging him under.
His chest tightened.
“I died,” he whispered. “I—I think I died.”
Remus didn’t argue.
He set the tea down carefully, like he didn’t want to startle anything. Or maybe like the moment itself might break if he moved too fast.
“You didn’t,” he said softly. “You nearly did. But you didn’t.”
Regulus swallowed hard.
His skin felt too tight. His lungs didn’t fit right in his chest. Everything was wrong.
“I was in the cave. On the island. There were hands, and I—” His voice broke, raw and thready. His fingers clawed at the cushion beneath him. “I felt them.”
“I know.”
“Is this—” Regulus’ throat closed around the words. “Am I—?”
“No,” Remus said, leaning forward slightly. His voice was calm. Certain. “You’re not dead, Regulus.”
He let that hang in the air.
Let the silence breathe.
Then added, “You’re in Cardiff. My old house.”
Regulus blinked.
Cardiff?
“Why?” he managed.
Remus offered a tired smile. “Because it was the only place I could think of where there wouldn’t be questions I don’t have answers for.”
And that hit something low in his chest.
A fracture in the ice.
Because Regulus understood that. He was that—too complicated for questions. Something better carried in silence.
He let his head fall back against the arm of the couch and stared up at the ceiling again.
Cardiff.
Alive.
He didn’t know what to do with either of those things.
The morning stretched on, quiet and uncertain.
Remus was quiet across from him, sipping coffee that smelled strong enough to wake the dead. He hadn’t asked many questions when Regulus shuffled from the sofa to the kitchen—still pale, still aching, still half-convinced the whole thing had been a hallucination— with a blanket wrapped around himself like a suit of armor. He’d just made eggs, popped bread into the toaster, and handed him a mug like it was the most normal thing in the world to be feeding a nearly-dead Black heir in nothing but a fleece throw.

By now, the toast was soft.

Regulus didn’t care. He was alive, upright, and not currently being devoured by lake corpses, which felt like a high enough bar to clear for one morning.

No questions.

Not yet.

Regulus stared at the jam on his plate.

And then, because his brain had been chewing on the thought since he woke up—

“Where’s Sirius?”

Remus didn’t look surprised.

He shrugged one shoulder, lazy and tired. “Somewhere in Europe, probably. Order mission. He’s been gone a while.”

Something flickered in Regulus’ chest. He didn’t ask what kind of mission. Didn’t ask if he was alright. That would invite more questions than he could afford to answer.

Remus took another sip of coffee. Set the mug down gently. Then leaned back in his chair, long fingers drumming once against the tabletop.

“You sent that letter to him,” he said. Not accusatory. Just a fact laid bare.

Regulus didn’t reply.

“I opened it because he wasn’t here. Thought it might’ve been something important.” Remus tilted his head, sharp eyes never leaving Regulus’ face. “I didn’t expect a coded letter from his estranged little brother. Or to spend the night flying a half-dead Death Eater out of a cave full of inferi.”

Still no reply.

Remus leaned forward now, forearms braced against the table, voice quiet.

“So I think it’s time you told me what the hell is going on.”

Regulus stared at his plate.

The silence stretched.

“I know what kind of magic was used to keep you alive,” Remus said. “Or close enough. Your cousin told me. Ancient Black spell, old soul magic. It worked. Barely.”

Regulus’s eyes lifted, startled.

“You talked to—”

“Andromeda,” Remus said. “She filled in a few blanks.”

Of course she had. She was always too smart for her own good.

“So tell me the rest,” Remus said. “Why did you do it? Why were you in that cave? What’s hidden there—and what do you mean by soul pieces?”

Regulus stared at him.

The question felt too big for his chest.

He’d come so close to dying with those secrets still intact. And now they were sitting between him and a cup of black coffee, and Remus Lupin of all people was asking him to give them up.

Regulus didn’t speak for a long moment.

Remus didn’t push.

The only sound was the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards—old wood shifting under the weight of everything unsaid.

Finally, Regulus exhaled.

“When I joined,” he said, voice low and even, “it wasn’t because I believed in any of it. The cause, the purity rhetoric, the idiotic vision of a world ruled by bloodlines—it was never mine.”

Remus didn’t move.

“I was sixteen,” Regulus said. “Sixteen, and scared, and trying to prove something to a family that only knows how to love you when you’re useful. And I thought—” He stopped. Laughed once, sharp and without humor. “I thought I could play the game better than they did.”

His hands curled slightly on the edge of his plate.

“I thought if I did everything right, everything would be okay. I thought if I could be the perfect heir, maybe they’d stop trying to drag Sirius back in.” A pause. “Turns out he didn’t need me to save him.”

Remus’ voice was quiet. “And you?”

Regulus looked down at the cooling eggs. “I stopped believing I could save myself a long time ago.”

Remus didn’t press. Just sipped his coffee, gaze steady and open.

Finally, Regulus exhaled. “He asked to borrow an elf.”

Remus didn’t react. Just waited.

“It wasn’t a strange request, not at the time. The Dark Lord has uses for all sorts of magic. My family was… proud. Honored.” He said it like it tasted bad. “I volunteered Kreacher. Thought it would earn me something.”

His fingers tightened around the mug.

“He was gone for hours,” Regulus continued. “And when he came back, he wasn’t the same.”

Remus said nothing, but something in his expression shifted—subtle and sharp.

“He wouldn’t speak at first. I had to use a blood-binding command to make him tell me.” Regulus’ jaw twitched. “He’d been taken to a cave. Made to drink a potion that drove him mad with thirst. Left behind to die. That was the point. That he die there, slowly. Alone.”

“And he didn’t?” Remus asked, voice quiet.

Regulus shook his head. “I’d given him an order, before he left. To come home. And he did. He obeyed me. That’s the only reason he survived.”

There was a long pause.

“That was when I knew,” Regulus said. “What the locket really was. What it meant.”

Remus frowned slightly. “He showed it to you?”

“No,” Regulus said. “But I listened. I watched. I thought. He always spoke about death like it was beneath him. Something he could outwit, or cheat, or conquer. And then he needed a place no one would ever reach. A lock on a door no one would ever open. That’s not power. That’s fear.”

Remus’ expression shifted. “You realized he was afraid of dying.”

Regulus nodded. “And that he was taking steps to make sure he never did.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“And you decided to stop him.”

“I had to try,” Regulus said. “If he was making Horcruxes—if he was tearing his soul apart—it wasn’t just about blood anymore. Or power. It was annihilation. He would destroy everything just to keep himself alive.”

“So you went back.”

“I couldn’t send Kreacher again. I couldn’t let him—” Regulus cut himself off.

His hands twisted together in his lap, pale knuckles white.

“I found the grimoire, found the spell that would tether me. Just long enough. Just until someone came. And I wrote the letter. In case—”

His breath hitched. “In case I didn’t come back.”

Remus’ voice was soft. “You thought Sirius would find you.”

Regulus nodded.

Remus sat back in his chair, letting the weight of it all settle between them.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Regulus said finally, almost a whisper.

Remus gave a tired smile. “Neither was I.”

Chapter Text

September 6th, 1979, 10 AM - Remus Lupin

Remus didn’t say anything at first.

He just sat there, one hand around his mug, the other loose and open on the tabletop. His tea had gone cold. He hadn’t touched it.

Across from him, Regulus looked small in a way that had nothing to do with his size. The blanket was slipping from one shoulder, exposing sharp collarbones and skin too pale beneath the kitchen’s dull light. His hair was sticking up in places—drying in odd, matted clumps—and the plate in front of him was half-eaten, the jam congealing along the crust.

It had been a long night.

A longer life.

Remus exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch again. The kind that didn’t feel tense, just tired. He rubbed at his jaw, thumb grazing the faint scratch he hadn’t bothered to heal. Then he stood, pushing the chair back with a gentle scrape of wood on wood.

Regulus didn’t look up.

Remus crossed to the sink, emptied the tea he hadn’t drunk, and turned the tap on low. Let the sound fill the space. Let it buffer the ache in his chest.

He wasn’t sure how to name what he felt. It wasn’t pity, exactly. It wasn’t even sympathy.

It was grief.

For what Regulus had endured. For how close he’d come to never returning. For the boy who had written a letter no one might’ve read, hoping it would matter to someone.

Remus leaned his hands on the counter and looked out the small kitchen window.

The garden was overgrown. Brambles along the fence. No more marigolds.

He hadn’t been back since his mum died. Not properly.

The air still smelled like her tea.

His throat tightened.

Behind him, a rustle of fabric. Then, quietly, “Do you have clothes I can borrow?”

Remus turned.

Regulus was still hunched in the chair, but his gaze had lifted—steady, despite everything. There was dried blood on his neck and grime along his collarbone, and the blanket wasn’t doing him many favors. But his eyes were clearer than they’d been earlier.

Remus nodded. “Yeah. I’ll get you something.”

He left the kitchen without another word, feet creaking up the narrow staircase. The hall still smelled faintly of lavender and dust. He hesitated outside his old room, then stepped into the one beside it instead—his parents’ room. There were still folded jumpers in the wardrobe, still slacks on hangers. His father’s clothes wouldn’t fit, but—

He paused. Then reached for a soft old sweater from the bottom shelf. It had once been his mum’s. Faded green. Worn at the cuffs.

He took that, and a pair of joggers from his own room. The waistband was drawstring. Good enough.

When he came back down, Regulus had moved to stand near the sink, awkward in his own skin. Like he didn’t know where to put himself in a house that wasn’t meant to be real. He didn’t look up until Remus set the clothes on the counter.

“The shower’s down the hall,” Remus said. “Water might take a minute.”

Regulus nodded. “Thank you.”

He took the clothes without comment, but there was something careful in the way he touched the jumper—fingers brushing over the worn fabric like it meant something.

Remus didn’t follow when he left. Just stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty mug and the half-eaten toast. His knuckles ached.

Eventually, he sank into the chair again and dropped his head into his hands.

Outside, the sun kept rising.

But nothing felt lighter.

The water started in the pipes overhead—groaning and rattling the way it always had. The sound felt almost too normal after everything else.

Remus lingered in the hall a moment longer, then slipped into the sitting room and shut the door behind him.

It was still the same.

Dust on the mantle. The faint scent of lavender and old wool. One of the throw pillows had lost most of its shape. A few paperbacks were stacked beside the armchair, titles faded with sun and time. But the photo was still there—crooked in its frame, tucked between a candlestick and a ceramic frog.

Remus picked it up gently.

His mum was mid-laugh, half-turned toward the camera, her jumper sagging at the shoulder like it always had. She looked happy. Real. A little messy.

He sat on the bench beside the fireplace and turned the photo toward himself, holding it carefully in both hands.

“Hey, Mum.”

The quiet stretched for a moment. Not heavy, just still.

“I made tea this morning,” he said. “Black, oversteeped. I know—I know you’d say it’s a crime against the leaves, but it felt right.”

His thumb brushed along the edge of the frame.

“The garden’s overgrown. The brambles hit the back fence. Haven’t had time to fix it.” A pause. “That’s not true. I’ve had time. I just didn’t come back.”

He exhaled through his nose. Something near a laugh, but softer.

“I miss you.”

That ache cracked something open.

“I miss you, and I don’t know what I’m doing and—”

He couldn’t finish.

His throat closed around it, and the words caught in his mouth like they were too big to name. He sank back into the couch, shoulders curling inward, the frame clutched tight to his chest.

It wasn’t enough.

He brought his knees up and tucked himself smaller. Hugged the photo like it might hug him back if he just held on hard enough.

And in the quiet that followed, the rest unfolded wordlessly.

I need you.
You’d know what to say.
You always did.

He pressed his face into the worn fabric of the couch and let the silence settle around him like a shroud.

I’m in over my head.
James is unraveling. Sirius is gone again. Peter’s slipping through the cracks and I keep pretending not to notice. I opened a letter I wasn’t meant to read, and now I’m here.
I don’t know how to be this person yet—the one who knows what to do, who knows how to fix things. I thought I could be useful. I thought that would be enough.
But it’s all bigger than me. The war, the fear, the silence in every room where someone used to be.

I keep trying to be strong for everyone. And it’s starting to hurt.

He pressed his forehead to the frame.

I just want you to tell me it’ll be okay.

Eventually, his voice found him again. Barely above a whisper.

“I think you’d like him.”

He let his eyes fall shut, forehead still pressed to the frame.

“You always had a thing for strays.”

September 6th, 1979, 11 AM - Regulus Black

The sweater was soft. Too soft, maybe—well-worn in a way that bespoke years of quiet, domestic use. It didn’t feel like it belonged to anyone still living.

Regulus stood barefoot at the edge of the hall, sleeves slouched over his hands, the fabric clinging faintly to his damp skin. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He hadn’t meant to come this far at all—just meant to ask for a different towel or figure out where the soap had gone.

But then he’d heard it.

“I think you’d like him.”

A beat later—quieter, almost fond:

“You always had a thing for strays.”

He froze.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t move.

Remus hadn’t been talking to him. That much was clear. The softness in his voice was too raw to be performative. And there hadn’t been a reply. Just that silence—the kind Regulus knew too well.

He stepped a little closer. Bare feet silent on the floorboards. One hand caught loosely in the hem of the cardigan. He could still smell soap on his skin and something warm in the cotton—something lavender-sweet that reminded him of old linens and safer days he’d never had.

He hovered in the doorway until the quiet stretched too far, then cleared his throat.

“I’m not trying to make things harder,” he said, voice low but steady. “You don’t have to take care of me.”

Remus startled slightly, then looked up from where he was curled on the couch. He had a photo frame in his hands, clutched close to his chest. His eyes were red-rimmed.

“You’re not,” he said after a moment. Quiet. Honest.

Regulus didn’t fully believe him. But he nodded, out of respect.

“I didn’t mean to overhear.”

“You didn’t,” Remus said again, like it mattered that he know.

The silence that followed was gentler than it had any right to be.

Regulus stepped forward, gaze flicking to the photo still cradled in Remus’ lap. The woman in it was laughing. Her hair was falling into her eyes, and she looked like the kind of person who never minded when it did.

“Was she kind?” he asked.

Remus looked down at the picture.

“She was.”

Nothing more. No follow-up, no elaboration. Just that.

Regulus nodded once and crossed to the armchair. He sat carefully, tucking one foot beneath him, cardigan sleeves slipping forward over his knuckles. He didn’t bother adjusting them.

He didn’t ask anything else for a bit. Just let the silence stretch, slow and comfortable, like something airing out after being shut too long. Regulus didn’t know what to do with that. Still didn’t, even as he curled tighter into the armchair, his fingers worrying at a loose thread on the cuff of the cardigan.

He glanced back toward Remus, who was still holding the photo. Still a little unguarded around the edges.

Regulus looked away.

He didn’t know how to respond to what he’d overheard. Didn’t know how to offer reassurance, or sympathy, or whatever it was people were meant to say when they caught someone crying over their dead mum. That sort of softness had never been asked of him.

So he didn’t try.

Instead, he said, very evenly, “The full moon’s tomorrow.”

Remus looked up.

Regulus kept his tone casual. “Have you made arrangements?”

There was a pause. A faint tightening behind Remus’ eyes.

“You knew,” he said.

It wasn’t accusatory. Just a quiet sort of surprise.

Regulus lifted a shoulder. “We attended school together for six years, Lupin. I’m not wholly oblivious.”

That earned a breath of a laugh, but Remus didn’t look away. He seemed to consider something, then nodded slowly.

“There’s a cellar,” he said. “Back garden. Reinforced with wards and a few—” he hesitated, “—a few other protections. My dad installed them. When I was a kid.”

Regulus didn’t respond at first. Let the weight of that hang where it landed.

“You still use it?” he asked eventually.

Remus gave a half-shrug. “I haven’t, in a long time. But it’ll work.”

There was no bitterness in the words. No drama. Just fact.

Regulus glanced toward the window. The yard beyond was wild and unkempt, hedges grown too thick. He hadn’t noticed a cellar door when he arrived—he hadn’t been in any state to notice anything—but now he could almost picture it. A rusted latch. Charmed bolts. The kind of place that wasn’t meant to be opened from the inside.

He turned back to Remus. “How long have you been doing it on your own?”

Remus blinked. Then frowned slightly, as if that hadn’t been the question he’d expected.

“A while,” he said. “Since school ended. Since Dumbledore stopped arranging things.”

Regulus didn’t push. He just nodded again, like that answer was enough.

Chapter Text

September 7th, 1979, 5 PM - Regulus Black

The next day passed in fragments.

It was the kind of day that didn’t feel like a day at all—just a stretch of pale light and slow hours, everything muted around the edges. The house stayed quiet, and Remus stayed… wrong.

Not dramatically. Not even visibly, unless you were watching closely.

But Regulus was watching.

Remus moved like his skin didn’t fit right. Too tight in the shoulders. Too slow through the knees. He flinched slightly when his own hand knocked the teacup, and winced when he reached too far for the kettle. He didn’t speak much. Didn’t eat. Just hovered between tasks like none of them mattered and all of them had to be done.

Regulus kept out of his way.

He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if he was meant to offer anything. He just drifted through the morning and into the early afternoon, quiet as he could manage, curled in the armchair with a book from the sitting room shelf. Something about magical theory. Nothing he hadn’t read before.

The sun crawled slowly across the floorboards. Shadows shifted.

And when the light started to go gold and heavy—when the quiet started humming with a different kind of weight—Remus finally stopped moving.

He stood in the kitchen for a moment, one hand braced on the counter, staring at the far wall like he was trying to memorize something that wasn’t there.

Then he turned toward the door.

Regulus closed the book.

“I’ll come with you,” he said simply.

Remus looked at him for a second, like he might argue, but then he nodded once.

Outside, the air was cool and brittle. The sky had started to change—still blue, but the kind of blue that meant it wouldn’t last. They didn’t speak as they crossed the garden. Regulus walked a pace behind, hands buried in the sleeves of the sweater he still hadn’t given back.

The cellar door was hidden beneath a slatted wooden hatch, overgrown at the edges with brambles. Remus knelt to pull it open, wandlight catching on the reinforced bolts. The hinges groaned.

The steps were narrow. Uneven. Regulus followed him down anyway.

It smelled like damp stone and old magic. The kind that soaked into the walls and never left.

Remus didn’t light the sconces. He didn’t need to.

There were chains bolted to the far wall—thick iron links, spelled and warded, anchored in four places. And near one edge, not quite out of sight—

Regulus stopped cold.

There were smaller cuffs bolted low on the wall. Wrist-height for a child.

His stomach turned.

If Remus noticed his hesitation, he didn’t comment. Just moved stiffly to the center of the room and sat down, back against the wall. He rolled up his sleeves. Offered his wrists.

Regulus took the first chain and locked it gently.

Then the second.

They didn’t speak.

When the last clasp clicked shut, Regulus sat back on his heels. His chest felt too tight. His palms were damp.

Remus let his head rest against the stone.

“Go,” he said, voice low. “Before it starts.”

Regulus didn’t say anything else. He just stood slowly, crossed to the stairs, and climbed back up without a word.

He didn’t leave.

He closed the cellar door behind him—carefully, quietly—and sat down on the top step, just on the other side. His knees drawn up. Hands curled loosely in the sleeves of that soft green sweater.

The wood between them was thick. The wards were stronger.

But Regulus stayed.

And when the first ragged sound tore through the dark—half-growl, half-sob—he closed his eyes, pressed his back to the door, and didn’t move.

Not all night.

Not once.

The night stretched long, and colder than he expected.

Regulus stayed curled on the top step, sweater drawn tight around his frame, chin tucked against his knees. He didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Not with the sounds coming from beneath the door—shifting, ragged, animal.

He didn’t flinch at the growls. Or the thudding. Or the sharp metallic rattle of chains yanked too hard. He sat through it all, spine pressed to the wood, jaw tight, muscles aching from the strain of stillness.

Eventually, the noise changed.

He heard it in the breath first—something soft and wet, like lungs trying to remember how to draw air. Then the silence. Then the unmistakable, awful sound of a human body hitting stone.

Regulus closed his eyes.

Waited.

Waited one minute more, just to be sure.

Then he stood, stiff and trembling with the weight of the night, and eased the cellar door open.

The air inside was colder.

It stank of blood and sweat and dog. The wards still shimmered faintly in the corners, like something recently fed. The chains were slack now, pulled loose where Remus had stopped fighting. He was slumped against the wall, pale and curled inward, naked.

His body was covered in shallow cuts. Old bruises layered over fresh ones. One of his ankles was twisted at an angle that made Regulus’ stomach turn.

He didn’t speak.

Just stepped quietly down the stairs, bare feet silent on the stone.

When he reached the bottom, he hesitated.

He didn’t know what to do. Not really. There was no map for this. No training in the art of quiet care. He hadn’t grown up in a house where pain was softened. Where kindness was offered freely. He only had—

Sirius.

He had Sirius.

And Sirius, when Regulus was small and scared and too bruised to sleep, had done the same thing every time.

He had sat beside him, gently carded his fingers through Regulus’ hair, and he had sung him the only lullaby he knew.

He grabbed a thick, woolen blanket from the corner of the cellar and shook it out gently, hoping to clear any cobwebs or visitors, before walking towards Remus and laying the blanket across his torso and waist.

Regulus lowered himself to the ground, spine against the wall, close but not crowding. He reached out—slow, careful—and ran one hand through Remus’ hair. It was matted and damp. Warm with fever. But Remus didn’t flinch.

So Regulus sang.

Quietly. Barely more than a whisper.

Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot…

The words came out low and unsteady. But they came. Simple, familiar. Sirius used to hum it when their mother’s voice had risen like thunder through the floorboards. When Regulus had curled up in bed and tried not to cry.

Prête-moi ta plume, pour écrire un mot…

He remembered every word. The shape of them in his mouth. The softness in Sirius’ voice when it was just the two of them, curled on opposite ends of the same bed, pretending the world couldn’t reach them there.

Ma chandelle est morte, je n’ai plus de feu…

He kept singing until Remus’ breathing slowed, until the tremors eased just slightly beneath his hand.

Then, gently, he stood.

He unfastened the cuffs. Hiked the jumper back up from where it had slipped from his shoulders, and then reached out to wrap the blanket more firmly around Remus.

And then he helped him up.

It took effort—Remus was half-conscious, shaking, dead weight in places. But Regulus didn’t stop. He wrapped an arm around his ribs, guided him up the steps, through the garden, back inside.

He brought him to the first bed he could find and eased him down onto it, careful of the twisted ankle, the gashes along his spine.

He didn’t know much healing magic, but he knew enough.

A charm for bleeding. A charm for swelling. Another for pain.

They were clumsy, but they worked.

Remus let out a breath and went still.

Regulus stayed at the edge of the mattress, fingers resting lightly on the back of his hand.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stayed there as the sun began to rise.

September 8th, 1979, 7 AM - Remus Lupin

The first thing he felt was warmth.

Not the fevered kind that followed transformation, when his body tried to stitch itself back together, aching and spent. This was gentler. Still. The kind of warmth that came from sunlight through thin curtains, and a weight—light but present—on the back of his hand.

Remus blinked slowly.

His body throbbed. Dull, persistent aches in every joint, bruises blossoming beneath skin he hadn’t yet looked at. His ankle twinged when he shifted. But he could move. He could breathe.

Someone had healed him.

He turned his head, slowly, cautiously.

Regulus was asleep beside the bed, slumped awkwardly in a chair that didn’t quite fit him. One arm lay across the edge of the mattress, fingers curled gently around Remus’ hand. His grip wasn’t tight. He wasn’t holding on like he was afraid of losing something—just there, steady and soft.

Remus stared at him for a long moment.

This wasn’t the kind of staying he was used to.

Sirius and James and Peter had become animals for him. They’d spent years planning it, hiding it, perfecting the transformation just so he wouldn’t be alone. They’d made a game of it. Made it easier to bear.

But they never saw him like this.

They always slipped away before dawn, sneaking out of the shack before Pomfrey came with a potion and a stretcher. They left with mud on their shoes and secret smiles, laughing in the early light, pretending the night hadn’t taken anything from them.

Regulus hadn’t laughed.

Regulus hadn’t left.

He had stayed through the whole thing. Had sung, maybe, if Remus’ fuzzy memory of earlier that morning was anything worth trusting.. Had unlocked the chains and carried him through the garden and sat here, watching over him in the daylight like it meant something.

And Remus didn’t know what to do with that.

His hand shifted slightly beneath Regulus’ fingers.

He expected him to wake. To pull away. To sharpen back into the boy who never let himself be seen too clearly.

But he didn’t stir.

Remus stared at the ceiling, throat tight with something he couldn’t name.

He hadn’t meant to wake Regulus. Had barely moved. But something must have shifted in the air—because a second later, the fingers resting loosely against his own twitched and withdrew, like they’d been caught.

Remus turned his head.

Regulus blinked groggily, blinking against the sunlight like it had snuck up on him. His hair was sleep-mussed and flattened on one side. He looked younger like this. Less sharp around the edges.

Their eyes met.

Neither of them spoke.

Remus waited for the usual mask to drop into place—the distance, the cold wit, the shield made of posture and polish—but it didn’t come. Regulus just sat up a little straighter in the chair, rubbing at his face with one hand and glancing toward the window like he was surprised it was morning.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Remus said quietly.

Regulus gave a noncommittal shrug. “You didn’t, either.”

There was no challenge in it, just fact.

Remus exhaled through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Fair.”

Another silence followed—awkward, but not unkind. Like two people still learning how to occupy the same space.

Finally, Regulus said, “You look like shit.”

Remus smiled, faint and dry. “Thanks.”

Regulus shifted a little, spine cracking as he rolled his shoulders. “You’re welcome.”

It wasn’t warm. Not really. But it wasn’t cold either.

They’d saved each other. That meant something. Even if neither of them had the words for it yet.

After a beat, Remus said, “Did you sleep here the whole night?”

Regulus gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t have to,” Remus said again, softer this time.

“I know.”

Chapter Text

September 8th, 1979, 8 AM - Remus Lupin

The kitchen was quiet when Remus came in.

Regulus was already there, slouched in one of the chairs, an open book in front of him and a blank expression that suggested he hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes.

Remus didn’t say anything at first. He lowered himself into the other chair and exhaled, slow and steady, like the act of sitting down might ground him.

After a moment, Regulus closed the book and pushed it aside.

They sat in silence for a while. No tea, no pretense—just a quiet too heavy to be comfortable and too familiar to be ignored.

Finally, Remus said, “It’s still in the living room, isn’t it?”

Regulus nodded once. “Yeah. Pocket of the trousers I was wearing.”

Remus blinked. “You just… left it there?”

“I’ve been busy,” Regulus said flatly.

That earned a faint huff of breath. Not quite a laugh.

Regulus stood. Crossed the room, bare feet nearly silent on the old tile floor. When he came back, he had the locket.

It looked so ordinary.

Just a bit of tarnished metal on a long chain, still faintly smudged with grime and blood. It clinked as Regulus set it down on the table between them.

Neither of them touched it.

They just looked at it for a long time, like maybe if they stared hard enough it would blink first.

“This is it,” Remus said quietly. “This is a piece of his soul.”

Remus looked back down at the locket, then asked, “Do you think this is the only one?”

Regulus didn’t hesitate. “No.”

It hit harder than Remus expected—even knowing the answer.

He let out a slow breath. “So it’s worse than we thought.”

Regulus didn’t respond. Just kept staring at the locket like it might start speaking if he glared hard enough.

“We’ll have to figure out how to destroy it,” Remus said quietly. “And if there are more… we’ll need to find them.”

That made Regulus look up.

“We?” he said, brow raised.

Remus blinked at him. “Yes?”

Regulus tilted his head slightly, like he wasn’t used to hearing that word applied to him in a sentence that didn’t involve blame.

“You said we’ll have to.”

Remus shifted in his chair. “I—Well. Yeah. Unless you’re planning to go off and do it alone, and nearly die again.”

There was a pause. Not long, but loaded.

Remus almost filled it with more words, more explanation—but Regulus beat him to it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. Quiet, but certain.

Remus nodded. “Alright, then. Step one: figure out how to destroy a piece of evil magic we barely understand.”

“Simple,” Regulus said dryly.

Remus didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely.

He looked at the locket again. “We’ll need books. I have a few here, but they’re mostly old textbooks.”

Regulus gave a faint nod, still watching him like he hadn’t quite adjusted to this being real.

Remus stood. His limbs ached from the full moon. His mind ached from everything else.

But there was work to do.

“So,” Remus said, turning over his shoulder to catch Regulus’ eye, “fancy a trip to a bookstore?”

September 8th, 1979, 9 AM - Remus Lupin

The walk into Cardiff wasn’t long, but it was cold. Early autumn wind threading through the gaps in their coats, noses pink with it. Regulus kept his hands in his pockets. Remus kept glancing toward the sky, like he expected the weather to turn on them at any moment.

They didn’t speak much.

It wasn’t uncomfortable. Just cautious. Like they were both still figuring out how to exist in the same rhythm.

Morgan Quarter was busy. Muggle enough to pass unnoticed. Shops buzzed with late afternoon customers, the scent of roasted coffee and paper bags of chips drifting out into the arcade.

Remus stopped in front of a record store tucked between a vintage boutique and a hair salon.

Regulus tilted his head. “Spillers?”

“Oldest record shop in the world,” Remus said, tugging the door open. “Since 1894.”

“Very educational.”

Remus didn’t dignify that with a response.

The inside smelled like vinyl and wood polish. Posters plastered the walls. The clerk behind the counter looked up as they passed, then immediately went back to sorting through a crate of imports. Remus led them through the narrow aisles, past a wall of tapes, and toward a crooked door at the back marked STAFF ONLY in cracked block letters.

He opened it without hesitation.

Regulus followed him into the dark.

There was a hallway. Dimly lit, lined with storage crates and old promotional displays. At the far end, a door. Plain, black, unmarked.

Remus touched his wand to the handle and muttered something under his breath.

The door clicked open.

Regulus stepped through after him—and the world changed.

The magical side of Morgan Quarter wasn’t loud. It wasn’t busy. It wasn’t even particularly well-lit. It was quieter than the Muggle arcade, shadowed and strange, full of narrow storefronts tucked into impossible spaces. Spells flickered across window displays. A brass sign above the bakery read Puffskein Pastries and adjusted itself slightly as they passed, like it was watching them go.

Regulus stared for a moment.

“Bit different from Knockturn.”

Remus hummed in agreement. “Less blood on the cobblestones.”

He led them past a café with floating chairs and a shop selling enchanted sunglasses, and stopped in front of a bookstore wedged into a corner that didn’t quite follow Euclidean geometry. The sign above the door read:

Inside, it was cramped and smelled faintly of ink, ozone, and something scorched. The shelves were tall and mismatched, the inventory a mess of forbidden theory and aggressively niche divination texts. A small silver bell chimed as the door shut behind them.

The clerk looked up. Middle-aged, owl-eyed, suspicious in that way all good booksellers were. He didn’t say anything. Just watched.

Remus headed toward the back.

Regulus drifted after him, glancing at the titles as they passed: Soulwork Through Symbolic Sacrifice, Breaking the Unbreakable: Theory and Application, Sevenfold Severance.

Some of them were in languages neither of them could read.

Remus ran a finger along a spine and pulled one down. Then another.

The clerk’s gaze followed them like a curse.

“I feel like we’re about to be asked to state our business,” Regulus murmured.

Remus shot him a look and muttered, “Try to look less like a Death Eater.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Try to look less like you just crawled out of the seventh circle of hell.”

They both reached for a copy of Splitting the Self: Ethics and Evasion in Soul Magic at the same time. Their hands brushed.

They both pulled back.

Regulus cleared his throat.

Remus tucked the book under his arm and headed to the counter.

The clerk raised an eyebrow at their stack. “Interesting topic.”

“Light reading,” Remus said dryly.

Regulus winced before the silence could.

The clerk didn’t laugh.

Remus paid in exact change.

They didn’t go straight home.

Too many books, too much tension, and neither of them had eaten since… sometime yesterday? Maybe the day before. Remus wasn’t sure.

He steered them down a quieter side street and ducked into a little Muggle café that smelled like grease and rain. The windows were fogged, and the sign in the window said OPEN in faded letters that blinked occasionally without meaning to.

Regulus looked vaguely alarmed by the place, but followed without complaint.

They took a booth by the wall. The seats were cracked vinyl and the tabletop wobbled slightly. A waitress handed them a menu and walked off without comment.

Regulus blinked down at the options.

“What’s a full breakfast?” he asked warily.

Remus didn’t look up. “Heart attack on a plate. Order it.”

Regulus muttered something about Muggle cuisine being a weapon of war, but he did as told. Remus added coffee for both of them, just because it seemed like the right thing to do.

When the food came, neither of them spoke at first. Regulus dissected a sausage like it might contain a riddle. Remus buttered his toast with the kind of slow, exhausted precision that came from having very little left in the tank.

Eventually, Regulus said, “You come here often?”

Remus snorted. “What, the café?”

“No,” Regulus deadpanned. “The cursed bookstore behind the record shop. Yes, the café.”

Remus shrugged. “Used to. Before the war started eating up all the normal.”

Regulus didn’t answer, but he looked around like he was trying to imagine what that version of Remus would have looked like. The one who wandered into town for a hot meal and a quiet booth and didn’t have to worry about soul fragments under his floorboards.

“This place is hideous,” he said eventually, poking at a baked bean like it had personally wronged him.

Remus smiled faintly. “Isn’t it great?”

They ate in near silence after that. Not tense, just… quiet. Like the kind of tired that sinks deeper than your bones. Their shoulders didn’t touch, but the table was small enough that their knees bumped once or twice. Neither of them moved away.

When the bill came, Remus watched Regulus reach for it automatically—habit, pride, or both, maybe.

Then he stopped.

Frowned.

Checked the pockets of the coat he wasn’t wearing when he left the cave, like maybe money would have magically appeared in the lining. It hadn’t.

Remus watched the whole thing unfold with a kind of quiet, unsurprised patience. Then he slid the bill off the table and stood to pay without a word.

Regulus didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t say anything at all.

He just sat back in the cracked vinyl booth and stared down at his empty plate like it had insulted him personally.

Outside, when the bell over the café door jingled behind them, he said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Remus shrugged. “I’ve got it.”

Regulus didn’t argue. But he looked like he wanted to.

Like maybe he didn’t know how to be looked after without finding a way to apologize for it.

September 8th, 1979, 3 PM - Remus Lupin

Back at the cottage, the locket sat untouched on the kitchen table, casting a dull, menacing sort of presence over the room like it knew it was being discussed.

They ignored it—for now.

Remus dumped their haul from Severn’s onto the sofa, and the books landed with the kind of weight that made the furniture groan. Regulus eyed the titles like they might bite.

“‘Bit of light reading,’ you said?” he said, thumbing cautiously through one of the older volumes.

“Six books? Practically a walk in the park,” Remus muttered, already flipping to the index of another. “At least these books don’t look like they’re going to try to eat me.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

Remus didn’t answer.

They settled in—books open, pages creased, notes scratched on the backs of old envelopes and scraps of parchment. A candle flickered on the end table. Outside, the wind moved through the trees.

Now and then, one of them would quote something aloud.

“‘A Horcrux may repel destruction by conventional magical means, and will often employ defensive enchantments or retaliatory curses,’” Remus read.

Regulus, without looking up: “Yes, thank you, very helpful, cursed objects are cursed.”

Remus smirked.

Later, Regulus muttered, “‘The soul, once split, may retain a violent will to survive, even when removed from its original host.’” He paused. “So that’s not terrifying at all.”

They worked through the evening, the space between them filling slowly with loose pages, underlined passages, and unfinished thoughts.

At some point, Remus passed Regulus a half-burnt quill stub and a folded piece of parchment. Regulus took it without comment, scribbled a phrase, and slid it back across the cushion.

See: basilisk venom, fire????

Remus blinked at the paper, then nodded slowly.

The hours slipped by unnoticed.

The locket remained on the table, untouched.

Eventually, Remus stretched—shoulders cracking, neck aching—and meant to suggest calling it a night.

But when he turned his head, Regulus was already asleep.

Half-curled, arms folded, one leg tucked up beneath him like he’d been holding himself small without thinking. His brow was furrowed, even in sleep.

Remus meant to move.

Meant to stand, or shift away, or do anything other than sit there and let his eyes close.

But the couch was warm. The room was quiet.

And for the first time in days, neither of them was in pain.

He drifted.

They woke tangled.

Not just shoulder to shoulder—tangled.

Regulus had curled into Remus somewhere in the middle of the night, head tucked against his chest, feet drawn up on the cushion like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. Remus’ arm, which must have started out slung lazily over the back of the sofa, had shifted at some point. Now it was wrapped around Regulus’ waist, hand resting lightly against his side.

They were breathing in sync.

It took Remus a full second to realize what had happened—and another to decide not to panic. He didn’t move. Not right away. Just stared at the ceiling and hoped Regulus was still asleep.

He wasn’t.

Regulus stirred with a soft inhale, then stiffened.

A beat of complete stillness.

Then—

“Right,” Remus said.

Regulus peeled back like he’d been burned. “Right.”

They both stood at the same time.

Remus nearly tripped over a stack of books. Regulus stepped on a quill and muttered a curse under his breath.

Neither of them looked at the other.

The couch was suddenly very empty.

Behind them, the books lay scattered. The notes were a mess. The candle had burned itself out.

And the locket still hadn’t moved.

Chapter Text

September 9th, 1979, 10 AM - Remus Lupin

The shower was meant to help.

He’d woken stiff and tangled, his arm still vaguely remembering the shape of Regulus Black curled into it, and decided—without thinking—that hot water might knock the memory loose.

It didn’t.

The spray hit his shoulders like a blessing. For a while, he just stood there, letting the steam rise around him. He washed his hair. Scrubbed his face. Tried to feel like a human being again.

It was going fine. Until it wasn’t.

Until his mind wandered back to the weight against his chest, the way Regulus had breathed, slow and even, with his cheek resting just below Remus’ collarbone. The curve of his waist. The smallness of him, pressed into the space between Remus and the back cushions like he belonged there.

Nope, Remus thought. Absolutely not.

He shook his head hard and muttered, “I am not attracted to Regulus Black.”

His cock disagreed immediately.

With interest.

Remus stared down at himself, scandalized. “You are not helping.”

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Regulus was sharp and secretive and constantly three seconds away from biting someone. He was also barely not a Death Eater, which really should have been enough to override any stray thoughts about the shape of his mouth or the way his voice got low when he read.

He closed his eyes. I am not—

His body remained unconvinced.

With a huff of pure frustration, Remus slammed the water handle to cold and let the shock of it punch the breath out of his lungs.

He stood there for a full thirty seconds, mentally yelling at himself, and this entire situation.

Eventually, he turned the water off.

That was when he realized he hadn’t brought any clothes into the bathroom.

He stared at the empty hook on the back of the door. “Brilliant.”

He dried off in a rush, still grumbling under his breath, and wrapped the towel around his waist in a haphazard knot that probably wouldn’t survive a strong breeze. His hair was still dripping.

The hallway was quiet.

He cracked the door, peeked out, and made a break for it—bare feet soft against the floorboards, towel clenched one-handed at his hip.

Four steps from safety.

And then Regulus turned the corner.

Fully dressed. Holding a mug. Looking far too put together for someone who’d also just slept on a couch full of cursed object research.

They both stopped.

Regulus blinked once. Then his eyes flicked down—slow, deliberate—then back up to meet Remus’ face.

Remus did not survive it.

He made a high, strangled noise—an exhale too sharp to be casual, too panicked to be ignored—and turned on his heel with the urgency of a man fleeing a crime scene.

“I—sorry—room—” he blurted, and disappeared into the nearest doorway before his brain could supply anything resembling actual words.

Behind the door, he leaned hard against the wall and cursed at the ceiling.

Outside, he could feel Regulus smirking without even seeing it.

September 9th, 1979, 10:30 AM - Regulus Black

Regulus stared at the closed door.

Remus had fled like someone caught in a crime—not with embarrassment, but with full-body panic. And all because Regulus had looked. Just once. Just long enough to take in the long line of his torso, the sharp dip of his hips, the towel that didn’t look particularly secure.

It had been nothing. A glance. A twitch of instinct.

But his brain had stored it. Locked it in tight. And now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He took a breath through his nose.

The air was too warm. Or maybe that was just him.

This was fine. Manageable. He was not flustered. He was in control.

He was also standing in the hallway, holding a mug of cold coffee, and trying not to picture how many freckles were scattered across Remus Lupin’s chest.

He turned sharply and went back into the living room.

By the time Remus reappeared—fully dressed, hair still damp but no longer dripping—Regulus was seated at the table, flipping through a heavily annotated book with all the calm of a man who definitely hadn’t just had a crisis in the hall.

Remus walked in like nothing had happened. Not a flicker of acknowledgment.

“Morning again,” he said casually, picking up a stack of notes from the arm of the couch. “Sleep well?”

Regulus didn’t look up. “You’re insufferable.”

“Just trying to keep things professional.”

Regulus made a quiet, disbelieving noise, then closed the book in front of him. “Speaking of professional—last night’s reading.”

Remus nodded, slipping easily into the change of subject. “Right. I went through most of Splitting the Self. Didn’t tell me how to destroy anything, but it was very enthusiastic about why you shouldn’t make one in the first place.”

Regulus picked up a thin volume with a cracked spine. “I got further in Dark Anchors.There’s a theory—unconfirmed—that certain soul containers can be broken by Fiendfyre.”

Remus raised a brow. “Fiendfyre?”

“Wild magic. Almost impossible to control. The risk of immolation is—”

“High,” Remus finished. “Yeah, I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Remus said, “I also found a reference to basilisk venom.”

Regulus blinked. “Do you have a basilisk?”

“No,” Remus said. “Do you have a basilisk?”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Just the one. I keep it in the pantry.”

“Very responsible.”

They both fell quiet again, the edge of amusement fading into something more serious.

“Those seem to be the only real options,” Remus said. “Fiendfyre. Basilisk venom. Everything else either bounces off or just… makes the object angry.”

Regulus tapped a finger against the book cover. “I know which one’s more accessible.”

Remus didn’t answer right away.

He stared at the page in front of him, at the looping script and jagged margin notes and the quiet, terrible truth of it.

“I’ve done it once,” he said finally.

Regulus looked up. “Fiendfyre?”

Remus nodded. “In the cave. To get us out.”

“You didn’t mention that.”

“You were busy,” Remus said. “Bleeding out.”

Regulus hummed, not quite a sound of agreement.

“Was it controlled?” he asked.

“No,” Remus said. “Not really.”

A beat passed.

“Can it be?” Regulus pressed.

Remus exhaled through his nose. “Maybe.”

It was the best he had.

Regulus leaned back slightly, arms crossed. “Alright. Then that’s the option we test first.”

Remus gave a quiet, humorless smile. “What could possibly go wrong?”

September 9th, 1979, 6:30 PM - Regulus Black

They took the locket outside just before dusk.

The back garden stretched long and narrow behind the cottage, grass overgrown and uneven, the fence half-eaten by ivy. Regulus kept to the flagstone path with the Horcrux in his pocket and the weight of it pressing into his thigh like it wanted to remind him it was still watching.

They’d picked a birdbath.

It was cracked and mossy, leaning slightly to one side—nothing sacred, nothing dramatic. Just the only thing in the yard made of stone and not currently in use. Regulus had transfigured the basin flat and wide, sanded the rim smooth with magic until it looked something like an altar.

He tried not to think about how appropriate that felt.

Remus was across the garden, wand drawn, muttering charms under his breath. He was methodical—walking the perimeter in tight circles, tracing lines of invisible magic through the air. Muggle-repelling wards, explosion containment, noise dampening. He cast a second set over the fence line, then another around the cottage itself.

By the time he made it back to Regulus, his hair was sticking to his forehead and his sleeves were damp with sweat.

“All set?” Regulus asked.

Remus nodded, then looked down at the birdbath with mild suspicion. “This is our sacrificial altar?”

“It was that or just throwing it on the ground. This felt more official.”

Remus huffed. “Fair.”

Regulus pulled the locket from his pocket and set it down gently in the center of the stone.

It didn’t react. No shudder. No glow. No wailing scream.

Just silence.

Remus stared at it for a long moment. “This is a bad idea.”

“Undoubtedly.”

They both took a step back.

Regulus folded his arms, one hand tucked against his ribs where he could feel the steady thump of his own pulse. He wasn’t afraid, exactly. But something about this felt heavier than he’d expected. Like watching a trap you know is about to spring, but not knowing which way the teeth will close.

Remus adjusted his grip on his wand.

Regulus caught the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way he shifted his stance to ground himself better, like he wasn’t sure whether he’d be casting or fighting.

“You sure about this?” Regulus asked.

“No,” Remus said. “But we’re doing it anyway.”

And then he raised his wand—

“Pestis incendium.”

It didn’t start like normal fire. It twisted into being—ribbons of gold and green and black folding in on themselves until they roared to life, licking up from the birdbath like they were hungry for more than fuel.

The containment wards hissed, sparks flying up, and out, and sideways.

Regulus staggered back a step, shielding his eyes. The heat came all at once—dense, suffocating, alive. His fingers curled tighter around his wand, even as instinct screamed to run.

The locket hovered.

Lifted into the air above the stone with unnatural grace, spinning slow and deliberate, bathed in flame.

Then it screamed.

A sound that didn’t belong to anything human. Raw. Violent. Angry.

The Fiendfyre reacted immediately—coiling tighter, almost eager.

The locket cracked once.

Then again.

And then, in a explosion of light and sound that nearly knocked Regulus off his feet, it burst.

Not exploded—shattered. Like something inside had splintered beyond saving. The fire roared in triumph, surging higher, and then it turned.

One seething arm of flame whipped sideways. Not randomly. Not wild. Targeted.

Regulus barely saw it before it was on him.

He cast a shield charm by instinct, too slow, too thin. The fire bit through it, catching him across the ribs in a hot, scraping arc.

It felt like dying.

He dropped to the ground with a strangled noise, vision tunneling, the fire’s scream echoing in his skull—

Then Remus was there, voice hoarse as he harshly cast every containment spell he knew.

The flames recoiled—resisted—and then with a sound like air imploding, collapsed inward and vanished.

Ash rained down around them, and when Regulus turned his head, he realized the birdbath was gone. Just a blackened ring in the grass.

Remus dropped to his knees beside him. “Regulus—look at me—Regulus.”

Regulus coughed once. Managed to focus.

“I’m—fine,” he ground out, though his side felt like it had been branded and his lungs were burning.

“You’re a shit liar,” Remus muttered, already running his wand over him, magic humming with healing spells.

“Did it work?” Regulus asked.

Remus didn’t answer right away. Just glanced at the scorched patch where the locket had been.

Then nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “It worked.”

And it nearly cost them, but it worked.

One down.

Merlin knew how many to go.

September 9th, 1979, 9 PM- Remus Lupin

They made it inside without speaking.

Regulus moved like it hurt to breathe—one arm braced against his ribs, his jaw tight—but he didn’t complain. He didn’t need to. Remus could feel it radiating off him: the pain, the adrenaline, the thinnest edge of panic curling under the surface.

Remus guided him to the couch and reached out, sweeping books to the floor before guiding Regulus directly in front of a cushion.

“Sit,” he said, voice low and even.

Regulus sat.

Remus vanished into the bathroom for the first aid kit, hands moving automatically—burn salve, cool compress, something numbing just in case. He didn’t think about anything. Not yet.

By the time he came back, Regulus had peeled off his overshirt and was sitting stiff-backed in only a thin undershirt, the fabric already darkened along his left side where the Fiendfyre had grazed him.

“Let me see,” Remus said gently.

Regulus hesitated.

Then nodded once.

He pulled the shirt over his head with a wince, careful not to twist too far. The injury was worse than Remus expected—angry red and blackened at the edges, like the fire had tried to linger in his skin.

Remus knelt beside the couch and uncapped the jar.

The salve was cool between his fingers. He touched it to Regulus’ side with slow, deliberate care—thumb brushing just above the worst of it, other hand steadying him at the hip.

Regulus didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

But his breath hitched—just barely.

And Remus felt it.

He kept his focus on the task. Smooth strokes. Gentle pressure. No wasted movement. He told himself it was just field healing. Nothing else.

Except it wasn’t just that.

Because Regulus was warm under his hands. Because his skin was soft where it wasn’t scorched. Because the last time they’d been this close, Remus had been half-naked and Regulus had been looking at him like he wanted to memorize it.

And now here they were again—different circumstance, same pull.

Remus didn’t say anything.

But he could feel the tension coil between them, tighter with every second. The weight of everything unspoken hanging in the air.

Regulus exhaled, slow and shallow.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured.

Remus glanced up. Their faces were too close.

“Practice,” he said softly. “War leaves a lot of scars.”

Regulus hummed again, low in his throat. Not a sound of agreement—just acknowledgment. He was still watching Remus. Still so still.

Remus didn’t look up right away. Didn’t dare.

He kept applying the salve in slow, deliberate strokes, letting his fingers map the curve of Regulus’ ribs, the ridge of bone beneath singed skin. He worked carefully, methodically, but it was impossible to ignore how close they were. How quiet the room had gone. How the warmth of Regulus’ body pulled at him like gravity.

The salve ran out.

Remus set the jar aside, but didn’t move his hand.

Didn’t move at all.

His palm rested just at Regulus’ waist now. His thumb had found a patch of uninjured skin there—barely an inch of soft warmth—and stilled.

He could feel Regulus breathing.

And slowly—very slowly—Regulus turned his head to look at him fully.

Their eyes met.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t sharp. It was quiet, inevitable, like the tide coming in. A hush that settled into the space between them and made everything else fade out.

Remus let his eyes flick down. Just for a second.

Regulus didn’t stop him.

Didn’t say a word.

His lashes dipped, barely-there, and it was so fucking fragile—so easy to break, if either of them so much as exhaled too loudly. It wasn’t clear who leaned in first. Only that suddenly they were closer.

Remus felt his heart beat once—hard. Loud enough that he was sure Regulus could feel it, too.

His hand hadn’t moved.

Regulus’ hand, at some point, had lifted—hovering at Remus’ shoulder now, not touching, just waiting. Just there.

Another second passed.

Then another.

Then—

Oh.

Remus leaned forward just slightly more and kissed him, lips ghosting across Regulus’, soft and hesitant and aching with restraint.

Regulus didn’t move away.

Didn’t lean in.

Just met him there—exactly where they were.

Like that had always been the plan.

When they parted, it wasn’t dramatic. No gasp, no sudden lurch of motion. Just space again, and the echo of something real that hadn’t existed a moment before.

Remus’ voice was raw when he said, “You’re going to need another layer of salve in an hour.”

Regulus, breath unsteady: “Right.”

And neither of them spoke for quite some time after.

Eventually, Regulus cleared his throat. “We need to talk about the next step.”

Remus nodded without looking up. “The Horcruxes.”

“If there are more,” Remus added.

“There are,” Regulus said, with quiet certainty.

Remus looked up at that, brow furrowed.

Regulus leaned forward, bracing his elbows against his knees. “He wouldn’t go to that much trouble to protect just one fragment. The locket was buried behind enchantments, Inferi, soul-draining poison—it wasn’t just hidden. It was guarded. That’s not a one-off.”

Remus nodded slowly, processing. “So… if there are more, we need to figure out what they are.”

“The locket was Slytherin’s. He liked the symbolism—legacy, bloodlines, power. My guess? The others are similar. Founder relics, maybe. Things that carry weight.”

Remus tilted his head. “So something Ravenclaw’s? Hufflepuff’s?”

“Possibly. Or something personal. A trophy. A place. An object that mattered to him.” Regulus frowned slightly. “It’s hard to guess without knowing what he valued most, beyond immortality.”

Remus gave a grim smile. “So… we need to learn more about Voldemort.”

Regulus leaned back. “Which means going back to London.”

Remus nodded, but didn’t speak.

Regulus waited a beat, then asked, “Where are we staying?”

That made Remus freeze.

He hesitated, then said, “I… I don’t know. Not my flat.”

“Oh?”

Remus didn’t look at him. “I can’t bring this back to Sirius and James. They wouldn’t understand. I barely do.”

Regulus tilted his head, considering.

Then, quietly, “Barty and Evan have a flat.”

Remus blinked. “Your Death Eater friends?”

“They followed me, not the Dark Lord.”

Remus gave him a sharp look. “That’s still a pretty thin line.”

“They made a choice,” Regulus said. “Same as I did. And they stuck with it. They’re not loyal to him. They’re loyal to me.” He hesitated, then added, “I owe them.”

Remus was quiet for a long time.

Then, grudgingly, “Do they have a spare room?”

Regulus managed half a smile. “Technically it’s Evan’s sewing room. But yes.”

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright. We stay there. We research. And we figure this out.”

Regulus nodded. “Together.”

Remus didn’t answer, but he didn’t disagree.

Chapter Text

September 10th, 1979, 11 PM - Remus Lupin

Remus didn’t pack much.

There wasn’t much to take.

He left most of the books—stacked in loose piles on the kitchen table, bookmarked and underlined, ink still drying on a few of the parchment scraps. They’d be back. Hopefully.

Maybe.

He lingered in the living room a little longer than necessary, running his hand over the back of the sofa where Regulus had nearly bled out, where they’d fallen asleep shoulder to shoulder, where they’d—

He didn’t finish that thought.

Instead, he walked down the hall, and into the small sitting room with the overstuffed chairs. He grabbed the framed photo of his mum— still smiling, hair still falling in her face, the way it always would now— and stood there for a moment.

He looked at her for a long time.

Then, quietly, he whispered, “I’ll be back.”

He didn’t know if it was true.

But it felt like something he needed to say.

The frame went into his coat pocket.

Outside, the air was sharp. Regulus stood at the edge of the garden, wand already drawn, chin tucked into the collar of his coat. He didn’t speak when Remus approached. Just met his eyes and nodded once.

“Ready?” Regulus asked.

“No,” Remus said honestly.

And then he stepped closer.

Regulus took his arm.

The world snapped sideways.

They landed hard in a narrow, dim corridor with green tile and yellowed walls. A rattling lift stood at the end, the gate half open. Somewhere nearby, a pipe was leaking—Remus could hear the steady drip echoing through the stairwell.

It didn’t look like much.

But the air buzzed faintly with magic.

Regulus raised a hand and knocked once against the third door on the left. No number. No nameplate.

A pause.

Then the lock clicked.

The door opened.

Evan Rosier stood in the threshold barefoot, hair damp, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He took one look at them—at Remus in particular—and exhaled a breath of smoke that curled into the hallway like a sigh.

“Well,” he said. “You brought a souvenir.”

Behind him, Barty leaned against the wall with a book in one hand and a wand in the other. He didn’t say anything. Just stared at Remus with something too unreadable to be disdain, but not far from it.

Regulus stepped forward like it was nothing. “We need a place to stay.”

Evan moved aside without comment.

Barty didn’t.

But he didn’t stop them, either.

The flat was dim, quiet, a little too clean. No signs of mess. No music. No laughter.

It felt like a bunker disguised as a home.

Remus stood just inside the door, fingers still tucked in the pocket where his mum’s photo rested.

The door shut behind them with a soft click.

Remus didn’t move at first. Neither did Barty.

Regulus stepped past him like this was routine—like he hadn’t just dragged the werewolf half of the Order into the flat of two people the Order would consider enemies. He unbuttoned his coat, hung it by the door, and glanced over his shoulder as if to say well?

Evan wandered back toward the kitchen, tapping ash into the sink like he lived alone. No questions. No welcome. No judgment. Just a soft, lingering sort of weariness that reminded Remus of old tea and older war.

Barty didn’t move.

His gaze flicked between Remus and Regulus like he was calculating something—weight, cost, consequence. His wand never lowered, but it didn’t raise either.

“Barty,” Regulus said quietly, not a warning but not nothing either.

At that, Barty blinked. Slowly. Like coming back into his own skin.

He nodded once.

Didn’t smile.

Then turned away.

Remus let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

The flat was clean. Tidy in a way that suggested someone needed control. The walls were dull but spelled for soundproofing. The windows faced the alley. There were no visible family photos.

But there were books.

And notes.

And a map on the far wall covered in pins and string.

This wasn’t a flat.

It was a war room.

Regulus crossed to the kitchen without a word and opened a cupboard like he still lived here. Evan passed him a chipped mug, murmured something under his breath that might’ve been welcome back and might’ve been you’re insane.

Remus stepped further in, still quiet.

He didn’t miss the way Barty watched him like a puzzle he hadn’t solved yet.

Didn’t miss the way Evan didn’t look at him at all.

Didn’t miss the second bedroom door, slightly ajar, with a bed that looked freshly made.

Regulus reappeared a moment later and gestured to it. “That’s yours.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “The sewing room?”

Evan snorted faintly from the kitchen. “Technically.”

Barty didn’t speak.

Remus looked at Regulus. “And you?”

“The sofa,” Regulus said simply.

Remus didn’t argue. Didn’t offer to switch. Didn’t say thank you.

They were past that, and not quite at anything else.

Instead, he nodded, walked towards the bedroom, and let the quiet settle.

Remus didn’t sleep.

Not because he couldn’t. Because he didn’t trust the quiet.

It wasn’t just the unfamiliar bed, or the way the flat creaked wrong—too neat, too watchful. It was the knowledge that three out of four people here had the Dark Mark burned into their arms. That two of them had just taken him in on Regulus’ word alone.

So he listened.

The bedroom door was cracked, the way he’d left it. Just wide enough to hear the soft sound of voices from the kitchen. The hum of low conversation. The scrape of a chair.

He stayed still.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t make a sound.

Just listened.

Regulus was standing somewhere near the table, voice even but low. “It was a Horcrux. The locket.”

No surprise from the others. No gasping horror. Just a pause, and then Evan’s voice, flat: “So Kreacher came home without you.”

“I told him to.”

“And you meant to die?” That was Barty—sharp, like a blade being tested.

“I meant to last long enough for Sirius to find me.” A beat. “He didn’t.”

Remus closed his eyes for a moment. Not out of sympathy. Just to breathe.

“He saved me,” Regulus added, after a long pause.

Silence.

Then: “You didn’t tell us where you were going,” Evan said.

“You would’ve followed.”

“We always follow,” Barty said. There was no warmth in it. No blame, either.

Regulus’ voice cracked just a little. “I couldn’t ask you to die for me.”

“We wouldn’t have,” Barty replied. “We would’ve helped.”

Another silence. Not empty—just full of everything none of them said out loud.

And then, quiet and direct, Evan asked, “What now?”

Regulus didn’t hesitate. “We find the rest of the Horcruxes. We destroy them, and then we kill him.”

A beat.

Evan: “Oh sure, simple.”

Barty: “You had me at murder.”

And just like that—it was decided.

Not with a plan. Not with a promise.

Just a choice.

Remus opened his eyes again.

It was strange, watching them. This… thing between the three of them. It wasn’t softness. It wasn’t even friendship, not exactly. It was something else—older, sharper, forged in fire and blood and too many bad decisions made for questionable reasons.

They didn’t smile at each other.

But they stood like they trusted themselves to have each other’s backs.

Evan stepped away from the counter and stretched, languid and vaguely cat-like. “I’m going to bed,” he said, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Unless you’ve got any other secrets to drop on us, Reg.”

Regulus shook his head. “That’s it.”

Evan raised both eyebrows. “Shocking.”

Then he vanished down the hall with a half-hearted wave.

Barty lingered a moment longer. His gaze flicked to Remus’ door—he had to know. Had to realize he was being watched. But he didn’t say anything. Just nodded once to Regulus and followed Evan down the corridor, footsteps quiet on the floor.

Regulus stood alone for a beat.

Remus pushed the door open wider.

“You coming?” he asked, voice low.

Regulus blinked. “You’re offering to share?”

“It’s a bed. I’ve shared beds.” Remus shrugged. “We’re adults. We can be very adult about it.”

Regulus snorted softly. “You don’t snore, do you?”

“Not that I know of.”

Regulus crossed the room without further argument, bare feet silent against the wood. He didn’t touch him as he passed. Didn’t look for long, either.

But he was smiling, just a little.

Remus stepped aside to let him in.

The door clicked shut behind them.

The bed was small.

Not uncomfortably so, but enough that sharing meant actually sharing—no dramatic distance between them, no pretending they weren’t there. Remus sat on the edge as Regulus pulled the blanket back and slid in first, settling with the careful, practiced motion of someone who still expected to wake up elsewhere. Or not at all.

Remus followed.

They lay facing each other, knees brushing under the blanket, the hush of the flat around them soft and slow.

“I don’t know what to do next,” Remus murmured.

Regulus’ voice was barely above a whisper. “Me neither.”

A pause. A breath. A flicker of something delicate between them.

“I don’t know what we are,” Remus said, eyes never leaving his.

Regulus held his gaze. “Me neither.”

They didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

Regulus reached out first this time, fingers brushing lightly against Remus’ hand. Not holding. Just resting. Just there.

Remus let his own hand drift closer until their palms pressed together, not laced, not tight—just a warm point of contact. Something to hold onto.

A moment later, Regulus’ fingers lifted again, brushing gently through Remus’ hair. His knuckles grazed Remus’ cheek on the way down, slow and uncertain.

Remus caught the movement—returned it.

He reached up and gently tucked a strand of Regulus’ hair behind his ear, fingertips lingering for half a second too long.

Regulus looked at him like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to breathe.

Their faces were close now—close enough that Remus could see the flecks of silver in his eyes, the faintest tremor in his lip, the war still living in his bones.

So much unsaid.

So much waiting.

And still—this.

Soft.

Real.

Remus leaned forward, slow and sure, and pressed a kiss to Regulus’ forehead.

Just that.

Just that.

He didn’t pull back far. Just enough to rest his head gently against Regulus’.

Neither of them spoke.

And when they finally closed their eyes—

It was the easiest sleep Remus had known in years.

September 11th, 1979, 3 AM - Regulus Black

The cave came back all at once.

The darkness. The cold. The screaming.

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t move.

The lake boiled under his feet, slick black and silent, until it wasn’t. Until the hands came, dragging him under, nails like hooks, fingers like bone. His wand was gone. His voice didn’t work. The potion was burning again—thirst thirst thirst—his lungs screamed with it—

And then the fire.

Fiendfyre, raging, wild, too big to control—

Except it wasn’t fire.

It was Remus.

Burning.

Gone.

And Regulus was alone.

He woke up gasping for air.

Slick with sweat, heart trying to claw its way out of his chest.

The room was dark. The ceiling too low. The walls too close.

He couldn’t breathe.

He sat up too fast and shoved the blanket off, shaking, trying to find something solid, something real, but all he could see was black water and burning sky and—

“Regulus—”

The voice cracked through the fog. Not an echo. Not a hallucination.

Remus.

Real.

Regulus flinched violently when the hand touched his shoulder.

“Hey—hey. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re here.”

He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. His breath came in ragged, sharp stabs, like his lungs were still drowning.

Remus moved in front of him, careful, slow, but close—hands steady and warm and so achingly alive.

“Look at me,” he said, voice firm but gentle. “It’s not the cave. You’re not there. You’re in London. You’re in Barty and Evan’s flat. You’re with me.”

Regulus’ eyes were wide, wet. He couldn’t stop shaking. His hands wouldn’t stay still.

Remus reached for them. Didn’t take them, not right away—just offered. Just waited.

Regulus curled his fingers into Remus’ shirt and clung.

Remus came closer, pulling him into a hold that wasn’t practiced or perfect, just tight. Just real.

“It’s over,” Remus whispered, one hand carding gently through his damp hair. “You made it out.”

Regulus shook his head against Remus’ shoulder, still caught in it—still there in that fucking cave.

“You made it out,” Remus said again, quieter now. “You’re safe.”

And Regulus finally sobbed.

Not a graceful sound. Not cinematic. Just raw, cracked-open grief dragged from the deepest part of him. He buried his face in Remus’ neck and shook, every breath pulled from him like it didn’t belong there.

Remus held on.

Said nothing more.

Just kept one arm wrapped tight around his back, the other stroking slow, steady lines through his hair, anchoring him to the here, the now, the living.

Eventually—eventually—the edge dulled. The panic ebbed. The sobs slowed to hiccuped gasps.

Regulus stayed pressed close, chest aching, throat raw.

Remus didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

September 11th, 1979, 8 AM - Remus Lupin

Remus woke first.

Not all at once—just slowly, gently, like surfacing from deep water.

The room was quiet. The city outside still muffled. No birdsong. No kettle whistling. Just soft breathing, warm limbs, and the fragile weight of a body pressed lightly against his side.

Regulus was still asleep, curled in like a ribbon—one arm tucked between them, head pillowed half on his shoulder, half on the mattress. His fingers were curled into the fabric of Remus’ shirt, still, even now.

Remus didn’t move.

He just watched.

The little furrow between Regulus’ brows was smoothed out now. His mouth slightly parted. Bruised-looking shadows still lingered under his eyes, but he looked… calm.

Peaceful.

And gods, he was young.

Remus let his eyes drift shut again for a few minutes, not to sleep—just to rest. To be.

Eventually, Regulus stirred. His fingers flexed first. Then his lashes fluttered, and his breath hitched like he was waking from something far less gentle.

Remus spoke before he could flinch.

“Morning.”

Regulus blinked. Focused. And then relaxed, visibly.

“Still here?” he asked, voice rough.

“Still here.”

Neither of them moved to get up.

Regulus looked at him. Really looked. “Thank you.”

Remus didn’t ask what for.

He just nodded.

They lay there a few moments longer—limbs warm, hearts still trying to believe in softness—before the sound of muffled voices filtered in from the hall. The world, inevitably, was still out there.

Regulus sat up first.

Remus followed.

By the time they entered the kitchen, Evan was already there, leaning against the counter with a cup of black coffee and the look of someone who’d seen too much and still hadn’t blinked it all away.

Barty was seated at the table, legs stretched out, wand tapping idly against his knee.

“You look like shit,” Barty said flatly, looking up at them.

“Good morning to you too,” Remus said, rubbing at his face.

Evan handed Regulus a mug without a word.

Barty’s tapping stopped.

“I heard something,” he said suddenly. “A few days ago. Malfoy. He was at one of the old safehouses, preening like a fucking peacock.”

Regulus straightened slightly. “What did he say?”

“That the Dark Lord had entrusted him with something. Something important. He wouldn’t shut up about how much faith had been placed in him.”

Evan snorted into his coffee. “Because nothing says ‘eternal loyalty’ like giving your most volatile asset a dangerous toy.”

Remus’ spine tensed. “Did he say what it was?”

“No.” Barty shrugged. “But if we’re guessing Horcruxes—he’s a pureblood fanatic with a vault full of heirlooms and no concept of subtlety. He’s a perfect candidate.”

Regulus set his mug down. “Then we start there.”

Remus nodded. “We find out what he’s hiding.”

And just like that, the softness cracked open.

The war slipped back in.

September 11th, 1979, 10 AM - Regulus Black

Regulus stayed quiet for a moment, staring into the steam rising from his mug.

Then: “I can write to Narcissa.”

Three sets of eyes turned to him.

“She won’t expect it,” he went on, voice thoughtful now. “But she’ll meet me. Tea, most likely. Somewhere neutral. She always preferred quiet control to open conflict.”

Remus straightened slightly. “You think she knows something?”

“I think she suspects something,” Regulus said. “And if Lucius is hiding it from her, she’ll want leverage. I can give her that—just enough to make her curious.”

Barty hummed low under his breath. “Regulus Black, bringing his boyfriend home to meet the family. Bold move.”

Regulus didn’t miss a beat. “You’re just jealous I never brought you home.”

Barty’s smirk faltered. “I—what—”

“Is that why you’re being so prickly this early in the morning?” Regulus asked sweetly. “Feeling left out?”

Evan cackled, nearly spilling his coffee.

Barty, silenced and red-faced, sank further into his chair.

Remus didn’t say a word—but he lifted his cup and smiled into it.

Regulus didn’t refute the boyfriend part.
Didn’t even blink.

“So we meet her,” Remus said once the laughter faded. “Soon?”

“I’ll send the owl today.” Regulus glanced toward Evan. “You have one I can borrow?”

Evan raised an eyebrow. “What, the family estate didn’t give you a personal murder crow?”

Regulus gave him a look.

Evan sighed, amused. “Fine. You can use Thorn. She’s moody, but she won’t eat your fingers.”

Regulus stood. “I’ll take my chances.”

And just like that, the plan began to take shape.
Quiet. Elegant. Dangerous.

Exactly the way Narcissa liked it.

September 12th, 1979, 12 PM - Regulus Black

Regulus adjusted his cufflinks as they approached the tearoom.

He didn’t own the kind of clothes that would impress Lucius anymore—not tailored robes or brocade waistcoats with ancient sigils stitched into the lining. But he’d found a clean button-down, dark slacks, a sleek coat, and a little of that old Black posture that said, You may look at me, but only if I let you.

Remus walked beside him, just a step behind.

Understated. Calm. Wearing a dark wool coat that made his shoulders look broader than usual and his eyes darker, too. He’d tied his hair back. Clean-shaven. Civilized. Unremarkable, if you didn’t know what to look for.

He looked like backup.

He looked like trust.

Regulus let the thought pass without touching it.

The tearoom was tucked into a quiet corner of Mayfair, old enough to be respectable and discreet enough to be useful. It was the sort of place wealthy families used for affairs and power plays disguised as reunions. The hostess gave Regulus a sharp nod as they entered and gestured wordlessly toward a private table by the window.

Narcissa was already seated.

Of course she was.

Blonde hair twisted back into an elegant chignon. Blue silk gloves. A fur-lined coat draped carefully over the back of her chair. She looked like someone who had never once spilled tea in her life.

She did not rise.

But her eyes flicked from Regulus to Remus and back again.

“Darling,” she said, tone smooth as satin. “You brought a guest.”

“Cousin,” Regulus said, and slid into the chair across from her. “You look devastating, as always.”

She smiled thinly. “And you look like you’ve been slumming it.”

“I have.”

“Admirable honesty.”

She turned to Remus, eyebrow raised.

Regulus didn’t wait for the question.

“This is Remus Lupin.”

Narcissa inclined her head. “Mr. Lupin.”

Remus gave the faintest bow of his head. “Mrs. Malfoy.”

Her smile grew colder. “How charming.”

Regulus reached for his teacup. “I wanted to catch up. It’s been ages since we’ve shared anything more than awkward silences at funerals.”

“True. And you’re far less gaunt now. I’m almost impressed.”

“You always did enjoy a project.”

A pause.

Then Narcissa said, “Why now?”

Regulus sipped his tea. “I’ve been thinking about legacies.”

Narcissa tilted her head. “You don’t have one.”

“Not yet.”

Their eyes met.

Quiet.

Measured.

And then—softly, without blinking—she said, “You’re here about the package Lucius received from the Dark Lord.”

Remus stiffened.

Regulus smiled faintly. “I always said you were the clever one.”

She looked away, smoothing her glove across her lap. “He keeps it locked in a drawer he thinks I can’t open. It whispers, sometimes. I can hear it at night.”

Remus’ grip on his cup tightened.

“I can’t send it by owl,” she went on. “Too dangerous. But I’ll have it delivered.”

Regulus nodded. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Her gaze sharpened. “Whatever you’re doing—finish it. Quietly. Quickly.”

Then, rising with slow, deliberate grace, she stepped toward Regulus and leaned in.

She kissed his cheek once.

Then the other.

A very French goodbye.

When she turned to Remus, she didn’t speak. Just offered the faintest nod.

And then she swept from the tearoom like a storm wrapped in silk.

Remus stared after her.

Regulus reached for the sugar. “Well,” he said. “That went better than expected.”

Remus blinked. “She terrifies me.”

“She terrifies everyone.”

September 12th, 1979, 6 PM - Regulus Black

They returned to the flat just before sundown.

The kettle was already boiling. Not because anyone planned to drink it—just because Evan always set it when the day felt heavy.

Remus dropped his coat over the back of the nearest chair and sat, looking dazed in that way that meant he was probably still replaying every syllable of Narcissa’s parting smirk.

“She said she’ll send it?” Barty asked.

Regulus nodded, unbuttoning his cuffs. “She didn’t call it a Horcrux, but she knows. Or she suspects.”

“She’s not stupid,” Evan muttered. “Lucius thinks she is, but that’s on him.”

Remus rubbed a hand over his face. “Now we just have to destroy it.”

The table went quiet.

Barty’s fingers drummed once. “So—Fiendfyre?”

“No,” Regulus said quickly. “Not again.”

Remus looked up, gaze sharp with memory. “It nearly killed him. It nearly killed me.”

There was a long pause.

“Alright,” Evan said slowly. “So. What else kills soul anchors?”

“Basilisk venom,” Remus said. “That’s the only other known option.”

“Great,” Barty deadpanned. “We’ll just pop down to the local basilisk pit and borrow one.”

Regulus was about to respond when Evan leaned back in his chair and said, “I might have a relative.”

Three heads turned toward him.

Evan shrugged. “Distant cousin or something. My great-grandmother and his mum were sisters. Pureblood line nonsense. We’ve never met, but my mother used to write to him around the holidays.”

Remus blinked. “Wait—who are we talking about?”

Evan grinned. “Newt Scamander.”

Regulus sat up straighter. “The Newt Scamander?”

“Yeah. Weird, reclusive, big on creatures. Retired, I think. Lives in Dorset with his wife and at least four sentient ferns, according to family gossip.”

Remus stared. “Do you think he’d help?”

“No idea,” Evan said, but his grin had faded slightly. “He doesn’t get involved in causes. Grindelwald burned that bridge.”

“But he might meet with us,” Regulus said, already thinking. “If it’s framed as a family visit. Curiosity. Academic.”

“I’ll write to him tonight,” Evan said. “Say I’ve been meaning to reconnect.”

September 14th, 1979, 9 AM - Regulus Black

Two days later, they stood outside a cottage near the Dorset coast.

The garden was wild but thriving. A puffskein snored in a flowerpot by the fence. The front door creaked open before they could knock.

Newt Scamander looked older than his photographs—stooped a little, with grey hair and the kind of eyes that had seen everything and still chose kindness.

He glanced at Evan. Then at the others.

“Let’s talk,” he said.
Newt Scamander’s sitting room smelled like lavender and parchment.
There were books everywhere—some stacked so high they bowed under their own weight, others floating lazily in midair. Something small and feathery chirped from the curtains. A jar of wriggling silver beetles sat uncorked on the windowsill.

Regulus had expected eccentric. He hadn’t expected this much heart.

Newt sat opposite them in a mismatched armchair, cardigan sleeves pushed to the elbow, a teacup balanced in his hand with the absent grace of a man who’d made peace with being strange.

“You didn’t come just to reconnect,” Newt said eventually, voice soft but steady.

Evan offered a thin smile. “Family loyalty and a favor, if I’m being honest.”

Newt looked past him—at Barty, who lounged like a predator mid-thought. Then at Remus, whose posture was deceptively calm, like someone used to waiting for bad news.

Finally, his gaze landed on Regulus.

“You’ve brought me something dark,” he said.

Regulus didn’t flinch. “We’ve brought you the truth.”

He didn’t say Horcrux. Not yet.

But Newt’s expression shifted.

“I’ve seen things,” he said softly. “Cursed objects. Fragmented magic. The kind that leaves claw marks in the soul.”

“That’s what we’re trying to destroy,” Remus said.

Newt tilted his head. “Fiendfyre?”

“We’ve used it once,” Regulus said. “Barely survived.”

“We need another way,” Remus added. “A clean one.”

Newt’s fingers tapped against his cup. “So you came here. To ask me for…”

Regulus exhaled. “Basilisk venom.”

The words dropped like a stone in still water.

Newt didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Outside, the wind picked up.

When he finally looked up again, his eyes were sharp behind their gentleness.

“You want me to help you obtain venom from a creature that is both illegal and extinct in most parts of the world.”

“Yes,” Regulus said.

Newt set his cup down carefully. “I spent years watching good people use creatures as tools. Grindelwald built armies from things that should’ve been protected. Studied. Loved.I’ve seen what happens when people use my work to kill.”

Remus leaned forward slightly. “We’re not building weapons. We’re trying to end something. Something that shouldn’t exist. Something that’s already killed.”

Newt looked at him. “I believe you.”

That made the room go very quiet.

“But believing you doesn’t make this simple,” Newt added. “I’ve kept myself out of the wars for a reason.”

Remus nodded slowly. “Then maybe… there’s something I can offer in return.”

Newt’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of offer?”

Remus didn’t glance at Regulus.

Didn’t glance at anyone.

“I can give you something no one else has,” he said quietly. “Access. Observation. A transformation, safely studied. Monitored. Controlled.”

Newt blinked.

And for the first time, his composure fractured.

“You’re—?”

Remus nodded once. “Yes.”

No one else in the room reacted. Not yet.

But Regulus felt his stomach drop.

Newt leaned back slowly in his chair. “I’ve never… no one’s ever volunteered that. Not without force. Not with preparation.”

“I’ve spent most of my life preparing,” Remus said, voice light. “If it helps—if it gets us what we need—I’m offering.”

Newt was quiet for a long time.

Then: “You understand I’d need time. Equipment, wards.”

“If you can get it before the next moon, then fine.”

Newt studied him. Then looked around the room—at Evan, unreadable now; at Barty, whose hands had curled into fists; at Regulus, who suddenly couldn’t breathe right.

Finally, Newt stood.

“I’ll do it.”

The words should’ve felt like victory.

But as Newt turned to fetch a notebook from the other room, the weight of them lingered like smoke.

Regulus didn’t look at Barty.

Didn’t need to.

He could feel it building.

And when this broke?

It was going to burn.

Chapter Text

September 14th, 1979, 2 PM - Regulus Black

They’d barely shut the door behind them when Barty exploded.

“You brought a werewolf into my home.”

Remus had just stepped out of his coat. He blinked once. Said nothing.

Regulus froze mid-turn. “What?”

Barty advanced, voice rising, brittle with disbelief. “You brought a dark creature here. Where we sleep. Where we live.”

Evan, leaning against the kitchen doorframe, said nothing. He was watching.

Barty didn’t stop. “Do you even understand what he is? What he’s capable of?”

Regulus stepped in front of Remus instinctively. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“He could kill you,” Barty snapped. “He could turn you. All it takes is one mistake. One bad night. Do you even get that?”

Remus stood calm and quiet behind him. Just listening. Just waiting.

“I know what he is,” Regulus said, voice even. “I’ve known.”

“And you didn’t tell us?”

“Because it’s not a threat.”

“He’s a fucking werewolf, Regulus!”

“And he’s also the reason I’m not dead.”

Barty laughed, short and sharp. “And that makes it fine? That makes it safe?”

Regulus’ jaw clenched. “He hasn’t done anything—”

“He doesn’t need to do anything! He’s an abomination. He shouldn’t exist.”

The words hit the room like a spell gone wrong.

Remus didn’t flinch.

Evan didn’t move.

Regulus went still.

Then—quietly, coldly—he said, “Explain to me how a werewolf, dangerous one night a month, is a bigger issue than the three fucking Death Eaters currently living in this flat.”

Barty blinked.

But Regulus wasn’t done.

“Explain how he’s more monstrous than us. Than you. Because I’ve seen what you’ve done, Barty. I know who you’ve hurt. I know what you did to prove yourself. He doesn’t need to be a dark creature to do monstrous things—and neither did you.”

Barty looked away, jaw tight.

Regulus stepped closer. Voice razor-sharp. “You think I’m scared of him? Of the man standing quietly in the corner wearing a floral cardigan and offering his body up to science so we can stop Voldemort? You think that’s who I should be worried about?”

No answer.

“The only person in this room who has ever chosen to hurt someone,” Regulus said, barely more than a breath. “Is you.”

Silence.

Heavy. Final.

Remus exhaled slowly. Still calm. Still quiet. Like this happened all the time.

Evan pushed off the doorframe and moved to the other room without a word.

Barty stood frozen, trembling with rage—or shame, or both.

Regulus didn’t look away.

Didn’t apologize.

Didn’t take it back.

Barty vanished into one of the spare rooms. Evan stayed gone. The flat was quiet, too quiet—like it had exhaled all the tension and now didn’t know what to breathe in next.

Remus stood in the kitchen doorway, still where Regulus had left him. He hadn’t moved since Barty’s voice had dropped that word like poison into the air.

Regulus crossed to him slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quiet.

Remus blinked once. “You didn’t say anything that needs apologizing.”

Regulus frowned. “I meant for… all of it. You didn’t deserve that.”

Remus offered a tired smile. “It wasn’t the worst I’ve heard.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“It doesn’t make it new, either.”

They stood there in the space between hurt and healing, the distance between them a hair’s breadth and a thousand miles all at once.

“He’s scared,” Regulus said finally.

“I know.”

“Still not an excuse.”

“I know that, too.”

Regulus shifted, gaze dropping to the floor. “I didn’t think it would bother me like that. I thought I could let him say it. Let it pass. But then he—”

Remus looked at him. Really looked.

“He called you a monster,” Regulus said, voice low. “And you didn’t even flinch.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s the truth.”

Regulus was quiet for a beat. Then, softly: “You shouldn’t have to live like that.”

Remus didn’t respond right away.

Then, gently, dryly, “Are you going to defend my honor again?”

Regulus huffed a breath. Almost a laugh. “Only if necessary.”

Remus was still standing too close, and Regulus was still feeling too much—the leftover anger, the ache, the way his hands still itched from wanting to shove Barty out of the room and shield Remus at the same time.

And Remus—bloody Remus—was just watching him. Calm. Kind. So very still.

Not scared.

Not angry.

Just there.

And that quiet trust… it broke something open.

Regulus stepped in without thinking.

Not cautious. Not asking.

Just certain.

The kiss was sudden, but not violent. This wasn’t about fury or grief or adrenaline. This was something else—something desperate and deliberate, something that tasted like you matter to me and I need you to know.

Remus froze for half a second.

Then leaned in.

One hand caught the edge of Regulus’ shirt. The other came up to his jaw, steady, careful, grounding.

The kiss deepened—not rough, not frantic, but real—and when it finally broke, their foreheads brushed as they breathed.

Neither of them moved away.

Then, softly—barely more than a breath—Remus said, “You’re still not scared of me?”

Regulus looked at him. Steady. Unflinching. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

Remus exhaled. Tried to smile.

Failed.

“Funny,” he murmured, “because I think I’m scared of you.”

Regulus blinked. “Why?”

And Remus—honest, aching—said, “Because you’re not a monster. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Something cracked open in Regulus’ chest. Not pain, or fear, but something quieter. Sadder. Truer.

He didn’t try to fix it.

Just reached up—slow, certain—and tucked a curl of hair behind Remus’ ear.

And said, “Then I guess we’re both in trouble.”

The floorboard creaked.

Both of them turned at once, heads snapping toward the hallway—where Evan leaned against the doorframe, one brow arched, a cup of something steaming in his hand.

He didn’t say anything about the closeness.
Didn’t smirk. Didn’t comment.

He just sipped his drink and said, “You good?”

Regulus straightened first. “We’re fine.”

Evan nodded once. Then, “Barty’s still in a mood.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Evan shrugged. “He’ll get over it.”

There was a pause that lasted long enough to imply more.

Regulus folded his arms. “You came out here for a reason.”

Evan sipped again. “He’s not wrong to be scared, you know.”

Remus didn’t move.

“But he is wrong to take it out on you,” Evan added. “He just—he’s got his father’s voice in his head, and he doesn’t always know when to shut it off.”

Regulus was quiet. Watching him.

Evan looked at Remus. “For what it’s worth, I don’t give a shit what you are. Just so long as we’re on the same side.”

Remus gave a small nod. “We are.”

Evan clapped his hands once, startling the tension into retreat. “Good. Now that we’ve all ruined a perfectly nice evening, can we talk about the actual problem?”

Regulus tilted his head. “Which one?”

“The Horcrux,” Evan said. “And the little ticking clock you’ve set on it. We’ve got, what, two, three weeks until the next full moon? What are we doing in the meantime?”

Regulus leaned back against the wall.

“We find the others.”

Evan blinked. “Others?”

Regulus gestured vaguely. “The locket belonged to Slytherin, right? So what if the others are relics, too? From the other founders.”

“That’s a leap.”

“It’s a theory,” Regulus said. “And we need a starting point.”

Remus rubbed his jaw. “So what are we talking—Gryffindor’s sword? Hufflepuff’s cup? Ravenclaw’s diadem?”

“Not the sword,” Regulus said. “That’s in Dumbledore’s office. Everyone knows that.”

“Right,” Remus murmured. “And too public.”

“But the cup,” Regulus continued. “The diadem. Those could be real.”

Evan tilted his head. “Any idea where to start looking?”

Regulus hesitated. “Well, the diadem’s been lost for centuries.”

Remus looked at him, something sparking behind his tired expression.

“Oh, good. And here I was worried this would be hard.”

Evan grinned. “Oh, I like him.”

Regulus didn’t smile, but he came close. “Yeah, me too.”

September 15th, 1979, 10 AM - Regulus Black

The four of them were gathered around the table again.

It was covered now—not in breakfast or tea, but in books. Piles of them. Some cracked at the spine, others dusted with the kind of age that made Regulus’ skin itch. A few had been taken from Evan’s personal collection, which meant at least one of them bit Barty when he tried to open it.

No one acknowledged that out loud.

Remus leaned over a page, brow furrowed. “Okay. So—if we’re right, and the locket was a Slytherin relic…”

“Then the other Horcruxes might follow the same pattern,” Regulus finished.

“Hufflepuff had a cup,” Evan offered, flipping through something charmed to keep the pages from tearing.

“And Ravenclaw had a diadem,” Remus added. “Which is missing.”

“Lost,” Regulus corrected. “Which is different. Which means harder.”

“So we start with the cup,” Barty said, not quite looking at Remus.

Remus gave a little nod. “Makes sense. Smaller. Easier to hide. Easier to transport.”

“And it hasn’t been worn by anyone’s rotting corpse lately,” Evan muttered. “So that’s a win.”

They paused.

“Do we even know where the cup is?” Remus asked.

“Not yet,” Regulus admitted. “But we can start by tracking the Hufflepuff family line. See if there are any living descendants. See where the cup might’ve ended up.”

“Assuming it didn’t get stolen, lost, or cursed beyond recognition,” Evan said cheerfully.

“We’ve had worse odds,” Regulus murmured.

There was a long pause. Books shuffled. A chair creaked.

Then—quietly, from Barty: “What about Borgin and Burke’s?”

Regulus looked up.

Barty still wasn’t looking at anyone directly, but his tone was steady. “If you’re looking for something old and valuable, that’s where it ends up. If it got passed around, if it got stolen—chances are, it went through there.”

Remus tilted his head. “You think they’d still have it?”

“Not necessarily,” Barty said. “But records, maybe. A transaction. A name.”

Evan raised an eyebrow. “Look at you. Helping.”

Barty shot him a look that had less heat than usual.

Regulus glanced toward Remus, who met his eyes and—just faintly—smiled.

They were, somehow, a team.

Barely.

But it was a start.

September 15th, 1979, 1 PM - Remus Lupin

Evan and Barty left just after lunch.

Evan wore an overcoat with the collar turned up like it owed him money. Barty didn’t bother with disguise—just a subtle glamour to dull the sharpness of his cheekbones and one of Evan’s rings slipped onto the wrong hand.

They looked dangerous in the way shadows did. Useful in the way knives were.

Remus was almost glad not to go with them.

The flat felt quieter without their energy—less charged, more focused. Regulus had already reclaimed the far side of the couch, books stacked on the table in front of him like miniature barricades.

Remus took the closer corner, folding one leg beneath him.

It took ten minutes for them to fall into a rhythm. Reading. Noting. Occasionally quoting a line aloud only to frown when it proved useless. Outside, the city buzzed like it always did—oblivious, or pretending to be.

“Here,” Regulus said suddenly, tapping a page. “Helga Hufflepuff was known to pass heirlooms through the maternal line. Not the vault.”

“Means it could’ve been taken,” Remus said, shifting closer to read. “Or gifted. Or stolen in some old blood feud.”

Regulus nodded. “We’ll have to look for families with traceable ties. Not just vaults.”

Remus hummed in agreement. “There’s a Ministry registry for founding bloodlines, isn’t there?”

“Outdated and full of half-truths,” Regulus said, dry. “So—perfect.”

Remus smiled and leaned back. “You really are good at this.”

Regulus looked over at him. “At what?”

“Scheming. Connecting dots. Making leaps no one else would think of.”

A pause.

Then, “Complimenting me won’t make me work faster.”

“I didn’t say it would.”

“You’re doing it anyway.”

Remus tilted his head. “Would you like me to stop?”

Regulus went very still. His expression didn’t give anything away, but something in the air shifted—held.

“No,” he said at last.

The silence after that was soft. Warm. Charged.

Remus didn’t look away.

Neither did Regulus.

A few inches away, an open book started to slide off the cushion between them. Regulus moved to catch it—

So did Remus.

Their hands brushed.

They both froze.

Regulus was the first to pull back. He cleared his throat and flipped a page he couldn’t possibly have read.

Remus didn’t say anything.

They kept reading.

Sort of.

Remus hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes, and judging by the tense line of Regulus’ shoulders, he wasn’t making much progress either. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—not anymore. It had just… shifted. Grown
heavier with something unspoken. Easier, too.

Eventually, Remus adjusted his position—shifted back into the corner of the couch, legs stretched out and book balanced against one knee.

He didn’t say anything.

But a moment later, Regulus moved as well.

He slid back slowly, his spine brushing against Remus’ thigh before settling—careful, almost hesitant—against his chest.

Remus didn’t move.

Didn’t startle.

Just let him stay.

He felt the breath Regulus released. Quiet, shaky, like he’d been holding it without realising. When Regulus tugged one of the books closer, Remus reached around him to steady it. His arm stayed there—draped low around
Regulus’ waist, loose and natural, like it belonged there.

Which maybe it did.

They read like that for a while.

Regulus tilted the book slightly so Remus could see it better. In turn, Remus nudged his chin lightly against Regulus’ shoulder whenever he found something worth marking.

It was quiet. Comfortable. The kind of closeness that didn’t ask for anything.

Just offered.

After a while, Remus felt the soft brush of hair against his jaw—Regulus’ head tipping back. He adjusted automatically, shifting to fit the new angle.

No words.

No pressure.

Just warmth. Steady breathing. And two boys trying to solve the end of the world from a secondhand couch.

Eventually, the front door creaked open.

Remus didn’t look up from the book balanced across both their laps. Regulus didn’t move either—still tucked against his chest, head tilted just enough to read without dislodging Remus’ arm.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Evan’s voice, “Well, well, well.”

Barty followed him in, less theatrical but clearly taking in the situation.

“You look cozy,” Evan added, dropping his coat over a chair.

Regulus didn’t dignify it with a response.

Remus just said, “Did you find anything?”

That did the trick.

Evan flopped into the armchair nearest the couch. “Borgin wasn’t especially forthcoming, but we got something.”

Barty leaned against the table, arms crossed. “Hepzibah Smith.”

Remus blinked. “Who?”

“Collector,” Barty said. “Old, wealthy, loud. Claimed she was descended from Helga Hufflepuff. Apparently had the cup.”

Remus sat up slightly, the movement shifting Regulus with him. “When?”

“1950s,” Evan said. “Borgin sent someone from the shop to try and buy it off her, but she refused. A week later, the clerk quit with no notice.”

“Did he say who he sent?” Remus asked, as Regulus sat forward too.

Barty’s expression darkened. “That’s the fun part. He couldn’t remember.”

Remus frowned. “As in—?”

“As in,” Evan said, “he told the story with full detail, then halfway through said he couldn’t recall the name. Like it was just… gone.”

“Memory charm,” Regulus muttered.

Barty nodded. “Sloppy one, too. Left enough suspicion for us to notice.”

“So we find the clerk,” Remus said, already thinking. “If they’re still alive.”

“They’d be middle-aged at most,” Regulus said. “Assuming they were young at the time. It’s not impossible.”

Evan leaned back, hands laced behind his head. “It’s something.”

Chapter Text

September 15th, 1979, 5 PM - Regulus Black

“Someone worked for the shop,” Remus said. “That’s the one who went to Hepzibah Smith. That’s the one we need to find.”

Regulus nodded. “But Borgin didn’t give us a name.”

“He couldn’t,” Evan corrected. “Like it was yanked out of his memory. On purpose.”

Remus tapped his finger against the tabletop, brow furrowed. “So we look at staff records. Employment logs. Payroll, if we can get it.”

Barty scoffed. “Do you think Borgin and Burke’s has payroll?”

“No, but someone might’ve kept receipts,” Evan said. “Inventories. Correspondence. Old sales ledgers. We could break in—”

“No.” Regulus cut him off, sharper than intended. “Not yet. Not unless we’re out of options. Let’s start with external records. If he worked there, there’s a chance someone else knew.”

“Ministry?” Remus offered.

“Possibly,” Regulus said. “Or private logs. Black market inventories. We’re looking for someone young, charming, persuasive—someone who could’ve gotten close to a collector like Hepzibah Smith.”

“Not many names to go on,” Barty muttered. “He’s a ghost.”

“Then we’ll hunt a ghost,” Regulus said. “We’ve done worse.”

And they had.

But the words rang hollow even as he said them.

A name erased from memory. A lead so fragile it was barely a thread. And beneath it all, a pressure building—like they were being watched by something colder than luck. Something that had noticed them noticing.

Then—

It burned.

The Mark on his arm flared, sudden and vicious, white-hot beneath the skin.

Regulus hissed through his teeth and stood.

Evan swore under his breath.

Barty was already halfway to him, tense and ready.

Across the table, Remus froze. His eyes locked onto Regulus—wide, sharp, knowing.

Regulus held his gaze. Just for a second.

There wasn’t time for more.

He Disapparated.

The clearing stank of smoke and ash.

They landed together—feet cracking twigs slick with rain, leaves curling beneath their boots. Around them, the others were already forming a ring. Cloaked. Masked. Silent.

Regulus felt his heart hammer once against his ribs.

Then go still.

He stepped into place.

Evan beside him. Barty to the right. No words. No nods. No sound but the wind threading through the trees like a warning.

And then—

He arrived.

Voldemort didn’t walk. He unfolded from shadow—pale and sharp and utterly wrong. The clearing bent around him. The cold deepened.

He stood at the center of the circle.

And in his hands—

A velvet-wrapped bundle.

Regulus felt the blood drain from his face. Ice in his veins. He didn’t look at Evan. Didn’t need to.

“My faithful,” Voldemort said, voice soft and poisonous. “I come to you with a task.”

No one moved.

“There are many I might trust with such a charge,” he continued, pacing slowly. “Many who have proven themselves in fire and in blood.”

He walked the ring with calm precision, the velvet bundle cradled in one arm like something breathing.

“I considered our most loyal,” he said. “Our most fearsome. Bellatrix, my blade.”

A pause.

A turn.

“But her name is known. Her face too familiar. If she is taken—when she is taken—her vault will be seized. And this,” he said, lifting the bundle slightly, “must not be touched.”

Then he turned.

Faced Evan.

Regulus stopped breathing.

“You,” Voldemort said, tilting his head. “Are quiet. Obedient. Unseen.”

Evan did not flinch.

“I give this to you, Evan Rosier,” Voldemort said. “Guard it with your life.”

He stepped forward.

Placed the velvet-wrapped object in Evan’s outstretched hands.

Regulus didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Neither did anyone else.

And then Voldemort turned away.

And the meeting went on.

But Regulus didn’t hear another word.

Because the thing they were chasing—

The Horcrux—

Was now in their hands.

And Voldemort had given it to them.

September 15th, 1979, 9 PM - Remus Lupin

Remus was fairly certain he had paced a hole in the rug.

The flat was quiet. Too quiet. Regulus, Evan, and Barty had been gone for—he checked the clock again. Then glanced at the dent in the couch cushion where Regulus had been curled against him hours ago.

Gone now. Just like the calm.

He hated the silence of waiting. It crept under his skin, sharp and slow, chewing at the edges of his thoughts. He didn’t know where they’d been summoned. Didn’t know who else had been there. Didn’t know what they’d walked
into.

Didn’t know if they’d walk back out.

He told himself not to worry.

Regulus was smart. Careful. Unshakable in that aristocratic, spine-of-steel way that made it seem like nothing could get to him.

But he was also wearing a target on his arm and carrying a secret in his chest.

And Remus had no idea how long that could last.

He was still pacing when the door creaked open.

He spun—halfway to his wand—then froze.

Regulus stepped through first.

Pale, but upright.

Barty followed, jaw tight, eyes shadowed.

Evan came last.

He was holding something.

Remus didn’t speak. Not yet.

Evan crossed the room without a word and placed a small, velvet-wrapped bundle gently on the kitchen table. Like it might explode.

Then he looked up.

“Funny story,” he said, voice a little too even. “We’ve got the cup.”

Remus stared.

Then—slowly, carefully—walked forward.

“You what?”

Regulus didn’t answer. Just watched him. Closely.

Evan peeled back the velvet.

And there it was.

Gold. Gleaming. Unassuming.

Wrong.

Remus felt it like a pulse—low and crawling. The air around it seemed to shift. Bend.

Barty exhaled, sharp. “Voldemort gave it to him.”

Remus looked at Evan.

“You have it?”

Evan gave a dry, humorless smile. “He said I was quiet. Trustworthy. Unimportant enough not to be noticed.”

“And now we have this.” Barty gestured at the table, as if it wasn’t a centuries-old artifact containing a piece of someone’s soul.

Remus didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

He just stared at the cup.

And thought: What the fuck.

They were still standing around the thing like it might grow legs and bolt when the knock came.

Three soft taps at the door.

Remus was on his feet before he realized he’d moved, wand in hand. Regulus beat him there—quiet, composed, cracking the door just enough to peek through.

A pause.

Then he opened it fully.

A house-elf stood on the landing—small and wide-eyed, dressed in a carefully folded tea towel embroidered with pale green thread. His ears twitched as he looked up at them, clutching something wrapped in dark velvet.

“Dobby,” the elf said, voice formal and thin, “is bringing a package from Mistress Narcissa.”

Regulus blinked. “She sent it already?”

“She said it should not be left waiting,” Dobby replied, bowing slightly. He held the bundle out with both hands.

Regulus accepted it with care. “Thank you.”

The elf gave a deep, trembling bow and vanished with a pop.

Regulus shut the door.

Evan eyed the bundle. “What is it?”

Regulus crossed to the table and placed it beside the cup. He unwrapped the velvet slowly, folding it back one edge at a time, revealing dark leather beneath.

A book.

Elegant. Old. Charred faintly at the corners. And stamped into the cover, in perfect gold leaf—

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Remus stared. His stomach turned.

“No,” he said flatly.

“It’s a diary,” Barty murmured, leaning closer.

Remus shook his head. “Diaries don’t feel like that. That’s—”

“A Horcrux,” Regulus said. Quiet. Certain.

No one disagreed.

The cup sat glinting on the table.

The diary lay beside it.

Two artifacts.

Two pieces of a soul.

And no safe way to destroy either—not yet. Not until the full moon. Not until Newt’s venom. Not until they were sure they wouldn’t be burned alive trying.

Remus sat down. Slow. Heavy.

He looked at the cup. Then the diary.

Then at Regulus.

“How many more do you think there are?”

Silence.

September 16th, 1979, 8 AM - Remus Lupin

The diary sat on the table like it was daring someone to make the first move.

The cup still hadn’t been touched since Evan unwrapped it. None of them were quite ready to decide what to do with it yet. But the diary—
The diary might actually talk.

“If it’s like the locket,” Evan said, “it’s going to fight back.”

“This one might not need to,” Remus replied, eyeing the cover. “It’s already open. It wants someone to talk to it.”

Barty gave a low, skeptical hum. “So what, we say hi?”

Regulus was already reaching for a quill. “Yes.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

Regulus nodded. “I’ll keep it simple.”

He dipped the quill and opened the book to the first page. The parchment was blank, clean, unblemished.

My name is Regulus Black.

The ink sank into the paper—then vanished.

A beat.

Then words began to appear, neat and elegant:

Hello, Regulus.
My name is Tom.

The handwriting was clean. Unhurried. Confident.

Regulus tilted his head, then wrote again:

I grew up in London. What about you?

A pause.

Then:
Wool’s Orphanage, also London.

Something in the way that line curved across the page made the hair on Remus’ arms lift.

Regulus didn’t blink. He dipped his quill again.

An orphanage? I’m sorry. He hesitated for a moment before continuing, Did you ever look into your family? See where you came from?

Longer pause.

Of course. I tracked them down. I paid a visit to what’s left of home.

Remus leaned forward slightly.

Where’s that? Regulus wrote. Where’s home?

The ink unfurled slowly this time. Purposefully.

Where the heir of Slytherin has always lived.

The diary fell silent.

Evan let out a low breath. “That’s not subtle.”

“Doesn’t want to be,” Barty muttered. “He’s showing off.”

Remus was already thinking. “The heir of Slytherin. Known bloodlines. That narrows it.”

“The Gaunts,” Regulus said quietly. “They’ve always claimed descent.”

“They lived somewhere in the country,” Evan added, standing to cross to the nearest stack of books. “I remember the name from a record once. Hang—something—”

“Little Hangleton,” Barty said, already flipping through one of Evan’s more illegal-looking tomes. “That’s it.”

Evan smirked. “I love when we’re right.”

Regulus closed the diary gently.

“Well,” he said. “Looks like we’re going on a trip.”

September 17th, 1979, 11 AM - Regulus Black

The village was the kind of place that likely didn’t deserve a spot on most maps.

The sign was weatherworn, the roads only half-paved. Even the sheep looked judgmental.

They Apparated just outside the boundary, into hedgerows heavy with damp. The air was thick with mildew and memory.

A few heads turned as they passed. No one waved.

They found the pub first—a squat stone building with shuttered windows and a sign that creaked with every gust. Evan charmed the bell to stay silent before they stepped inside.

The man behind the bar looked up slowly.

“We’re looking for the Gaunt place,” Regulus said, his voice polite but clipped.

The bartender narrowed his eyes. “You don’t want to go up there.”

“We do, actually,” Barty replied, flat as ever.

There was a pause.

Then the man leaned in, resting his elbows on the bar. “Bit north of here. Past the orchard. Left at the dead tree. Keep walking 'til the air goes wrong.”

Remus frowned. “That’s it?”

“That’s enough.”

They didn’t press him further.

They followed the directions in silence.

And sure enough, the orchard gave way to tangled overgrowth. The trees grew too close, their limbs twisted into shapes they shouldn’t have taken. The ground soured beneath their feet. A blackened oak stood at the fork in the
path, scorched and skeletal, like it had been struck by lightning and never quite healed.

Beyond that—

Everything changed.

The air turned thick. Off. Like breathing through gauze.

Then they saw it: a shack, half-sunken into the earth, slumped like it was too tired to stand. Its walls leaned. The roof sagged under rot and moss. The door hung crooked on one hinge.

But the magic—

The magic poured off it like oil.

Old. Dark. Violent.

“Charming,” Evan muttered, stepping forward first.

There was no resistance.

Barty followed. Regulus moved behind them.

And Remus—

Remus hit the ground.

It happened too fast to process. One moment, he was upright. The next, he crumpled—first to his knees, then flat—like the air itself had yanked him down.

Regulus froze.

Then dropped instantly beside him, heart hammering in his chest.

“Remus—?”

He knelt close, hands hovering uselessly, afraid to touch him. “What happened?”

Remus winced, his voice raw. “The wards. They don’t just reject… they repel.”

Barty crouched at the threshold, wand already out. “Blood supremacist bastards. Built them to keep the unworthy out.”

“Are you—” Regulus’ voice cracked. “Are you okay?”

Remus forced a breath. “Hurts like hell. But I’ll live.”

He didn’t look it.

His skin had gone pale and damp with sweat, his hands trembling where they dug into the dirt. Angry red welts crawled up his arms—like the magic had lashed every inch of exposed skin.

Regulus felt fury rise in him like bile.

Remus shook his head. “Don’t.”

“I’m not leaving you like this.”

“You are.” Remus reached out, catching Regulus’ wrist with fingers that barely held shape. His grip was weak, but the intent was solid. “There’s something in there. It wouldn’t be this heavily warded if it wasn’t protecting
something.”

Regulus stared at him.

Something inside his chest cracked—slow and splintering.

“You’ll still be here?” he asked, quiet.

Remus managed a thin smile. “Not planning on going anywhere.”

Regulus nodded once, jaw clenched, and rose to his feet.

Then he walked into the rot.

Whatever he’d thought of the outside, the inside was worse.

The shack groaned around them with every step. The walls wept condensation. The floor dipped underfoot. The magic clung to everything—thick and wet, like mildew left too long in the lungs.

“I hate it here,” Evan muttered, brushing cobwebs off his sleeve.

“Focus,” Regulus snapped. “He wouldn’t have left it exposed. Look for enchantments. Traps. Anchoring spells.”

Barty was already at the hearth, wand moving through the air in practiced arcs. “There’s old magic in the foundation. It’s fused into the bones of the place.”

Evan stepped toward the center of the room, pausing. “Floor’s hollow.”

Regulus joined him. Together, they cleared the debris—rotten boards, scorched parchment, a bottle long gone to mold.

Beneath it all, they found a panel.

And beneath that—

A cavity.

Just large enough for a shoebox.

Inside, nestled in green velvet, was a small, unassuming box.

Regulus didn’t touch it. He cast first—layered protections, one after another. The fourth charm nearly rebounded into his chest.

“Charming,” Barty muttered, batting away a glimmering curse as it sparked to life.

It took three rounds of joint spellwork and a disarming charm so forceful it nearly shattered the hinges. But finally—

They saw it.

A ring.

Black stone. Twisting gold.

Resting at the center like it had been waiting.

No one moved.

No one reached for it.

“Horcrux,” Regulus said. “Has to be.”

They resealed the box. Wrapped it in three layers of warded cloth. No one spoke as they stepped back out into the cold, gray light—

And saw Remus.

Still on the ground.

Not kneeling. Not braced.

Not cracking a joke through the pain.

Just—flat. Still.

Regulus hit the edge of the wards and nearly stumbled, dropping beside him.

“Remus?” His voice was sharp. Shaken. “Hey—hey, come on—”

No answer.

He pressed a hand to Remus’ shoulder. Too hot. His skin was fevered, the welts climbing higher now—jagged veins of heat pulsing beneath his skin.

“Fuck—fuck.”

Evan was there in an instant, wand drawn, already casting. Diagnostic spells fizzled mid-air. Useless.

He swore, tried again. Nothing.

“Why aren’t they working?” Regulus snapped.

“Something in the wards,” Evan muttered, still casting. “It’s blood-based—but not just repelling. It’s a curse. Layered. Deep.”

“He’s unconscious.”

“I know.”

“Is he—?”

“He’s breathing,” Evan cut in, quick. “But barely. Pulse is weak. Fever’s climbing. That’s all I’ve got.”

“That’s not enough,” Regulus hissed. His hand fisted in the fabric of Remus’ jumper, like he could keep him tethered through sheer will.

Behind them, Barty’s voice came low. Cold.

“We have to get him out of here. Now.”

Chapter Text

September 17th, 1979, 1 PM - Regulus Black

They landed in the flat like a dropped match.

Remus didn’t stir.

They laid him on the sofa—Regulus refused to let anyone else touch him—and the moment his body hit the cushions, Regulus was already barking orders.

“Get everything,” he snapped. “Every book. Every journal. Every cursed page in this place—get it.”

And then he didn’t speak again.

He just read.

The coffee table was buried. The floor littered with open tomes and torn notes. Regulus knelt in the centre of it all, hands trembling with the speed of his page turns. His wand alternated between being clenched between his
teeth or tossed aside with abandon, depending on the second.

Evan scoured the bookshelves, muttering aloud to no one in particular. “Could be a degradation curse. A heritage trap. A soul tether? No, that’s too deep—unless—”

Barty was elbow-deep in a warding codex, flipping pages so aggressively Regulus thought he might punch the book in half if it kept refusing to give him an answer.

Still, Regulus said nothing.

The only sound in the room was the frantic rustle of parchment, the occasional scratch of quills, and Remus’ breathing.

Too shallow.

Too fast.

His skin had gone pale around the edges—tinged with grey. The welts across his arms had deepened to a vicious, angry red.

Regulus paused.

Just for a moment.

He reached out, fingers brushing damp hair from Remus’ temple, strands matted with sweat and heat.

“You weren’t supposed to get hurt,” he whispered. His voice was frayed and breaking, soft enough it felt like a secret.

Remus didn’t stir.

Regulus inhaled sharply, like he was gearing up to scream.

But all that came was a trembling exhale.

“I swear,” he said, voice hoarse, “if you die, I will find your ghost and hex it until you come back just to yell at me.”

Still nothing.

Regulus pressed his lips together, set his jaw tight, and picked up another book.

He kept reading.

Thirty minutes passed. Nothing changed.

Regulus was pacing now, stalking back and forth across the floor in front of the sofa, muttering half-formed spells under his breath. Occasionally, he would whirl around, raise his wand, and try something—another charm,
another theory—but nothing worked.

Nothing even shifted.

Evan, perched cross-legged in the corner chair with a book balanced on his knee, looked up.

“Could it be some kind of draining magic?” he asked. “Like a siphon ward?”

“He’s not just tired,” Regulus muttered, not looking away. “He’s dying.”

“Okay, well, unless you’ve got a healer hiding in the kitchen, we’re out of options.”

A long silence followed. Even the pages stopped turning.

Then Evan said, carefully, “We could call Dorcas.”

Barty’s head whipped around so fast Regulus thought for a moment he might give himself whiplash.

“Are you mad?”

“She’s studying curse-breaking,” Evan pressed on. “I’ve heard she’s been working with blood magic reversal rituals. If anyone knows how to counter something like this—”

“She hasn’t spoken to us since we took the Mark,” Barty snapped. “She hates us.”

“She doesn’t hate Remus.”

That landed like a stone in the room.

Regulus stood, spine ramrod straight.

“Do it.”

Barty stared at him. “Reg—”

“Do it.”

Evan didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room, grabbed a pinch of Floo powder from the jar on the mantle, and threw it into the grate with a sharp flick of his wrist.

“Meadowes Cottage!”

Regulus tuned out whatever disaster was sure to follow. His focus was already back on Remus—still prone. Still too still.

Still burning up from the inside.

He dropped to his knees beside the couch, fingers curling in the edge of the cushion, voice low and shaking.

“Please don’t die.”

For a while, Regulus didn’t blink.

His hand remained pressed against the curve of Remus’ shoulder, grounding himself with contact. Across the room, Evan was still speaking into the fire—words sharp and low, voice half-lost in static flame.

Then—

The front door slammed open like it had been kicked off its hinges.

Dorcas Meadowes stood in the doorway, wind at her back, hair tousled and wild. Her wand was already drawn, her stance wide, eyes blazing with fury.

She took in the room in one practiced sweep—Evan first, still near the hearth; then Barty, frozen where he stood; and finally, Regulus.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve—”

Her voice broke off mid sentence.

Her eyes landed on the couch.

On Remus.

On the sweat clinging to his skin, the red welts curling up his arms, the way he wasn’t moving except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

She went very still.

“What the hell did you do to him?”

Regulus rose slowly, keeping his hands visible, his voice steady despite the chaos inside him.

“We didn’t curse him.”

Her wand didn’t lower. “He’s unconscious. Fevered. Covered in curse marks. That looks like curse damage to me.”

“It’s not from us,” Regulus said again, more quietly this time. And something in the way he said it—measured, hollow—made her hesitate.

“It was a ward,” he added. “He walked into it. We didn’t know it would react to him like that.”

“You didn’t know?” Her wand twitched. “You brought him into cursed ground and didn’t think to check for bloodbound magic?”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t our fault,” Regulus replied, voice low. “I said we didn’t know. And I’m not lying to you.”

He swallowed.

“I care about him,” he said. “I wouldn’t have called you if I didn’t. I need your help.”

The room held its breath.

Dorcas glanced back at Remus. His fingers twitched again—just once—and the red streaks had crept higher, snaking up his collarbone now, angry and glowing beneath his skin.

Her jaw tightened.

“Move.”

Regulus stepped aside instantly.

She swept in with purpose, dropping to her knees beside the couch and beginning to cast before her cloak had even settled around her. Her wand moved fast—sharp flicks, tight arcs—faster than anything Regulus had managed.
Her lips moved too quickly to track, murmuring incantations that shimmered briefly and then vanished into Remus’ skin.

A minute passed.

Then another.

The only sounds were the soft hum of her spells and Remus’ stuttering breath.

Finally, Dorcas exhaled.

“I know what this is,” she said. “Old ward magic. Pureblooded. Ugly stuff. Built to reject and destroy anything outside the sanctioned bloodlines.”

She met Regulus’ eyes.

“It’s reacting to his blood. That’s what it’s targeting.”

Barty cursed under his breath, pacing away.

Dorcas didn’t flinch. She wasn’t looking at him.

“The ward didn’t just repel him—it sank in. It’s trying to burn him out from the inside.”

“Is there a counter-curse?” Evan asked quickly.

“Not a proper one,” she said. “But the magic’s tied to bloodline. That means the only way to shut it down is to give it what it wants.”

Regulus felt his stomach turn.

“What does that mean?”

She didn’t sugarcoat it. “He needs a transfusion. Magical, not Muggle. From someone with confirmed pureblood ancestry. Ideally, from the same magical strata the ward’s drawn from.”

Silence dropped like a stone.

Then—

“I’ll do it.”

Everyone turned at once.

Regulus had already stepped forward, sleeves rolled to his elbows, wand set aside.

There was no hesitation.

Dorcas blinked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She studied him. Really looked. The gaunt edges of his face. The sleepless eyes. The posture of someone who had already been cracked open and glued back together too many times.

The boy she’d once called a friend, now standing in front of her like a promise.

She nodded.

“Alright, Black,” she said. “Let’s save your boy.”

September 17th, 1979, 2:30 PM - Regulus Black

“You’ll want to sit down,” Dorcas said. “He won’t feel this. But you might.”

Regulus didn’t hesitate. He lowered himself to the floor beside the couch, close enough to brush Remus’ fingers with his own. His sleeve was already rolled up—the arm without the Dark Mark—bare and ready, wand resting in his lap.

Dorcas worked quickly.

Salt circle first. Then the wandwork. Latin, low and fluid, murmured in a dialect too old to be taught at Hogwarts. This was the kind of magic that came with footnotes and warnings. The kind that didn’t care whether or not you
believed in consequences.

With one clean flick, she sliced his forearm. Not deep—just enough.

The blood welled up bright and fast. Pure. Vivid against his pale skin.

Dorcas guided it carefully into the spell, her hands never touching Remus. The magic did the rest, pulling the blood through the air like drawn ink, stringing it across the distance between them with delicate precision.

Regulus didn’t flinch.

The spell glowed a faint, pale gold as it sank into Remus’ skin. It hissed when it touched the welts—but they didn’t spread. They began to recede, slow and deliberate, like red ink bleeding backwards into the page.

Regulus stayed still. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

He just watched.

“Steady,” Dorcas murmured, adjusting the pattern with another flick of her wrist. “Just a bit more…”

The spell pulsed once—soft and deep.

Then it sank into Remus’ chest and disappeared.

Everything went still.

Regulus stared.

Remus didn’t move.

And then—

A twitch.

A breath.

His fingers curled slightly. His head shifted. A soft, broken sound escaped his throat.

“Remus,” Regulus breathed, already moving. He surged forward so fast he nearly knocked Dorcas off balance. “Remus—hey, hey, come back.”

Another breath. Deeper this time.

His brow furrowed. His lashes fluttered.

Regulus’ heart caught in his throat.

And then—

Remus opened his eyes.

Just barely.

But enough.

“…you look like shit,” he rasped.

Regulus laughed.

Or cried.

It was hard to tell which.

Remus blinked up at him, bleary but alive. His pulse fluttered just beneath the skin of his throat—delicate, but steady.

Regulus couldn’t stop touching him.

He kissed his forehead first—quick, desperate. Then the corner of his mouth. His cheek. His temple.

A kiss to the bridge of his nose, feather-light. Then his lips again—firmer this time. Not a question. A confirmation.

You’re alive.

Remus let out the softest breath, eyelids fluttering like he couldn’t quite keep them open.

Regulus kissed him again.

And again.

And again.

He didn’t mean to. It just kept happening. Like his body didn’t trust Remus was still here unless it could map every inch of him with a kiss.

Remus was too tired to do anything but smile, faint and dazed. “Hey,” he whispered.

“Don’t,” Regulus said quickly, kissing his cheek again. “Don’t talk. I’m—still mad at you.”

“For getting cursed?”

“For scaring me.” Another kiss, this one to his jaw. “And for trying to walk through a fucking blood curse like it was a hedgerow.”

Remus hummed. “Could’ve been a hedgerow.”

“It wasn’t.”

Another kiss.

And another.

From behind them, Dorcas—still frozen in the doorway—made a sound that could only be described as an entire broomstick snapping in half.

“What the fuck?”

Regulus turned his head slowly, expression unreadable. “Thank you for your help, Dorcas.”

“I—what—did you just—?”

Barty clapped a hand on her shoulder like this was any other Tuesday. “You saved our werewolf. We’re grateful.”

“We don’t deserve you,” Evan added, already gently steering her toward the door like a very polite bouncer at a very cursed nightclub.

“Don’t die,” Barty said, entirely casual.

And just like that, the door closed behind her.

Regulus turned back to Remus.

Remus’ hand found his—slow, clumsy—and squeezed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

“You better fucking not,” Regulus whispered.

And kissed him again.

September 17th, 1979, 3 PM - Remus Lupin

It had been about forty-five minutes since Dorcas left.

Remus was barely upright, still pale and fever-warm, his head resting heavily against Regulus’ chest like any sudden movement might shatter him again.

Regulus hadn’t let go.

He wasn’t planning to.

He cradled Remus like he was made of something precious and breakable, his arms loose but constant around him. Every so often, he pressed another kiss to his skin—forehead, temple, jaw. Small, reverent touches. Grateful.
Relentless.

As if stopping might mean losing him after all.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Regulus murmured, brushing his thumb gently across Remus’ cheekbone.

Remus tilted his head slightly into the touch. “I’m fine now,” he whispered, dazed but smiling, voice soft like an echo. “Really.”

Another kiss—just above his eyebrow. Then the corner of his mouth. Then the tip of his nose, for no reason at all.

Remus actually laughed, low and surprised. “You’re being embarrassing.”

“You almost died,” Regulus said. “I’m allowed to be worried.”

Across the room, Evan made a noise that sounded like a cat choking on a sugar quill.

“Alright,” he said loudly. “That’s enough.”

Regulus didn’t even look up.

Evan marched closer, arms folded, standing with the authority of a man deeply wronged. “You’ve been doing this for forty straight minutes. He’s not dead. You’re not dying. What you are is disgusting. And this is shared space.”

“We’re not—”

“I can see your hand under his shirt.”

Remus blinked. Then looked down. “Oh. Huh.”

“I’ve let a lot slide today,” Evan continued, ticking the points off on his fingers. “Near-death experience. Emotional trauma. Magical transfusions. But if you two are going to keep snogging like you invented it, take it to your
room.”

Regulus finally turned his head, unimpressed. “You’re evicting us?”

“Yes,” Evan said, with the weary conviction of a man forced to watch a romantic drama in real time.

Barty, still sprawled in the armchair with a book open across his chest, didn’t look up. “For the love of Merlin, please just leave.”

Regulus sighed. He pressed one last kiss to Remus’ temple, then carefully helped him to his feet. Remus swayed a little, but didn’t falter—just leaned into Regulus with a half-smile and a sleepy kind of affection.

“To the bedroom?” he murmured.

Regulus smiled back and nodded. “To the bedroom.”

Behind them, Evan made a pained, wounded noise.

They disappeared down the hallway, the bedroom door clicking softly shut behind them.

Evan waited two seconds, then threw himself dramatically onto the now-vacant couch.

“Unbearable,” he muttered into the cushions.

Barty turned a page. “Absolutely.”

Then, without glancing up, he raised his wand and cast a wordless silencing charm over their door.

September 17th, 1979, 3:15 PM - Regulus Black

The door clicked shut behind them.

Regulus didn’t let go.

He kept one arm around Remus’ waist, the other curled under his hand, guiding him gently toward the bed like he was still fragile. Like moving too quickly might shatter him all over again.

Remus let him.

He sat carefully on the edge of the mattress, shirt hanging loose off one shoulder, curls damp with sweat, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. And still—he looked up at Regulus like he couldn’t believe he was allowed
to. Like this moment might disappear if he blinked.

Regulus touched his jaw. Just his jaw, at first—thumb ghosting over his cheekbone, reverent and shaking.

“You scared me,” he said again, softer now. “I didn’t know how to fix it.”

Remus leaned into the touch. “You did,” he whispered. “You found a way.”

Regulus swallowed.

His throat ached with it.

“I couldn’t—” He broke off. Tried again. “I need—”

Remus nodded once.

Just once.

It was enough.

Regulus leaned down and kissed him.

Slow. Shy. Steady. Not lustful. Not yet. Just relief.

Remus breathed him in and reached for him—both hands coming up, slow and careful, curling into Regulus’ shirt and pulling him closer.

The bed dipped beneath their combined weight.

Their mouths moved together. Quiet. Familiar. Fingers threaded through curls, breath warming skin.

Regulus kissed him deeper—tongue brushing the seam of Remus’ lips, hesitant but pleading. Remus parted for him with a low sound, chest fluttering under Regulus’ palms. He was warm again. Alive.

Regulus didn’t rush.

His hands trailed down—over shoulders, over ribs—thumbs skimming soft fabric. He tugged gently at the hem of Remus’ shirt. A question.

Remus nodded again.

Regulus lifted it slowly over his head, careful not to jostle him too much. The shirt dropped to the floor with a soft rustle.

Remus was still pale. Still clammy in places. But his skin held colour again, his breath even and steady.

Regulus pressed a kiss to his collarbone. Then another, lower. A slow trail down his chest. Mapping every inch with his mouth. Memorising the warmth of him. You’re here. You’re here. You’re here.

“Reg—” Remus started, voice hoarse. But it broke into a sigh as Regulus kissed the dip of his stomach.

Regulus sank to his knees, between Remus’ legs.

His hands slid up, slow, resting on his thighs. He looked up, eyes wide and dark, searching Remus’ face for hesitation. For anything that might break the spell.

Remus’ breath caught.

Then steadied.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Please.”

Regulus moved carefully. His fingers found the waistband of Remus’ trousers, undoing them with quiet precision. He eased them down, along with his pants. Remus shifted just enough to help.

The fabric hit the floor.

And Regulus paused.

Took him in—bare, half-hard, still trembling faintly. Beautiful.

He leaned forward. Kissed the inside of his thigh—soft, slow. Then higher, lips dragging against warm skin, every motion deliberate.

Remus’ breath stuttered. “Fuck—”

Regulus steadied his hands on his thighs and kissed the base of his cock—light and teasing. Then licked a slow stripe up the length.

Remus groaned, head tipping back. His fingers curled in the sheets.

“Regulus—” It was breathless. A plea wrapped in disbelief.

Regulus took him in.

Warm. Wet. Careful. He started slow—just the tip, tongue circling, lips soft and patient.

Remus’ hands found his hair. Not pushing. Just anchoring.

“Oh—god—” he gasped, hips twitching.

Regulus hummed around him, the vibration pulling a low sound from Remus’ chest.

He worked him slow. Unhurried. Deeper with each movement, letting himself adjust to the weight, the rhythm, the closeness of it. His lips slick, his breath shallow, his throat relaxing as he took more.

He glanced up.

Remus’ eyes were half-closed. His lips parted. His chest rose and fell in quick bursts.

Alive.

“Fuck—Reg—” Remus’ voice broke. “Please—”

Regulus pulled back just enough to speak. Kissed the head. Whispered, “I’ve got you.”

His voice was wrecked.

He meant it.

He took Remus in again. Deeper this time. Nose brushing skin. His hands stroked slowly up Remus’ thighs—one holding him steady, the other slipping higher, cupping him gently, rolling his thumb just right.

Remus moaned—loud, raw.

His hands clenched in Regulus’ hair. His hips rocked forward, just once. Regulus let him. Matched the motion. Sucked harder.

“Regulus—fuck—I’m—” Remus’ words tangled. His body tightened.

Regulus didn’t stop. He held the rhythm—steady, insistent—until Remus came with a cry, back arching, hips jerking.

Regulus swallowed around him.

Took everything.

Held him through the shaking, his hands grounding him, his mouth easing off only once Remus had slumped, breathless and spent, against the pillows.

He licked him clean, kissed the soft curve of his hip. Then climbed up, kissed his jaw. His cheek. His mouth.

“You’re okay,” Regulus whispered, voice thin with relief. “You’re okay.”

Remus laughed—quiet, stunned. “More than okay.”

He pulled Regulus down beside him, still panting, still dazed.

Their legs tangled together. Arms pulled tight. Skin warm against skin.

Regulus buried his face against Remus’ neck and exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours.

Chapter Text

September 30th, 1979 - Regulus Black

The days slipped by.

Not fast. Not slow. Just… steadily. Like water through cupped hands.

The ring was still locked away in a warded box, buried beneath every protection they could muster. They hadn’t tried to destroy it yet. Not without the venom. Not with the moon so close.

Regulus didn’t push.

Neither did Remus.

Instead, they settled into a kind of temporary stillness—uneasy, but real. A rhythm of quiet mornings and restless nights. Evan made breakfast like it was a religion. Barty picked fights with the crossword. Remus read on the
couch with a blanket tucked around his shoulders and a cup of tea he rarely finished.

And Regulus hovered.

He didn’t mean to. But every time Remus coughed, or flinched, or rubbed the scars on his forearms where the curse had burned through him, Regulus was there. Watching. Waiting. Remembering the stillness of his body on the
ground outside the Gaunt shack.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he’d wake up and press two fingers to Remus’ wrist just to feel his pulse.

Just to be sure.

It was the end of September when the letter came.

Not from Dumbledore. Not from the Order. Just a short, tidy note from Newt Scamander, confirming the date of the next full moon. Confirming that the basilisk venom would be ready.

Confirming that Remus was expected.

Regulus had read it twice before handing it over.

Remus didn’t say anything at first. Just read it, folded it, and tucked it into the book he’d been reading.

Later that night, he sat curled on the couch with his knees drawn up and a too-hot cup of tea going cold in his hands.

Regulus sat beside him.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

He reached over, gentle and slow, and laced their fingers together.

Remus didn’t flinch.

He just squeezed back.

October 5th, 1979, 9 AM - Remus Lupin

The flat was quiet, but not peaceful.

The kind of quiet that came when everyone was pretending they weren’t dreading the same thing.

Evan flipped eggs in a pan. Barty sipped his tea with the same intensity most people reserved for assassination. Regulus sat at the far end of the table, arms folded, not looking at anyone.

Remus took the last chair. His limbs already ached. The moon was still hours away, but it had started—slow, relentless, like water rising in his blood.

“So,” Evan said, not looking up. “Big night.”

Remus hummed.

“You still going through with it?” Barty asked.

“Yes,” Remus said. “Newt’s expecting me this evening.”

“And we still don’t know if basilisk venom will even work,” Evan added.

“It’s the only thing we haven’t tried,” Remus said.

“And in return,” Evan went on, “he gets to watch you come apart like a biology project.”

“That was the deal.”

A silence.

Then—

“I’m coming,” Regulus said.

Remus didn’t even glance over. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes,” Regulus said, sharp. “I am.”

“It’s not safe.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

Regulus crossed his arms. “I was in a cave full of Inferi three weeks ago. I think I can handle you.”

Barty lowered his mug. “He’s right.”

Everyone turned.

Barty didn’t look at Regulus. He looked at Remus.

“He shouldn’t come.”

Regulus’ eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Not because of what you are,” Barty said evenly. “Because if something happens—if he gets too close—he’ll be a liability. You can’t afford that.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” Barty said. “I know how this ends if someone makes the wrong choice at the wrong second.”

Regulus’ whole body went still.

Remus didn’t say anything.

He just stood, slow and quiet.

“I need to talk to Newt,” he said. “Alone.”

Regulus didn’t argue.

But he didn’t look away, either.

Remus walked into the living room, tossing a halfhearted “Muffliato,” over his shoulder as he went. He knew it wouldn’t make much of a difference. They knew who he was calling.

He knelt in front of the fireplace, lit it with a flick of his wand, and tossed in a pinch of Floo powder.

“Newt Scamander,” he said clearly.

The flames flared green.

A few seconds later, Newt’s face appeared in the hearth—half-distracted, hair windblown, something small and scaly perched on his shoulder.

“Oh—Remus,” he said, blinking. “All set for tonight?”

“As set as I can be,” Remus said. “But I wanted to ask something.”

Newt raised an eyebrow.

“Would it… be safe for someone to come with me?” Remus asked. “To Dorset. Not during the transformation, just… nearby.”

Newt blinked slowly, then tilted his head in thought.

“I suppose it depends on the someone.”

“Regulus Black.”

There was a pause.

Then Newt gave a thoughtful hum. “I don’t mind—as long as he stays well clear once the observation begins, and doesn’t tinker with my equipment. I won’t risk his safety.”

Remus nodded, relief slipping in like breath through a cracked window. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you both tonight, then.” Newt smiled faintly. “And Remus?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. I know this isn’t easy.”

Remus gave a small smile back. “It’s worth it.”

The flames flickered.

Newt vanished.

Remus sat back, exhaled, and closed his eyes for a moment.

Remus stepped back into the kitchen, the fading shimmer of the silencing charm brushing off his shoulders like static.

Three heads turned toward him—Regulus tense, Barty wary, Evan very pointedly pretending not to be invested while watching him like a hawk.

Remus cleared his throat. “Newt says you can come.”

Regulus straightened, surprise flickering just behind his eyes.

“He said it’ll be safe enough, and also that you’re not allowed to touch his things.”

He looked directly at Regulus.

“I trust you to follow those rules.”

Regulus didn’t look smug. Didn’t gloat. He just nodded, short and steady. “I will.”

Evan made a little noise into his coffee, something between a sigh and a muttered oh, here we go.

Barty didn’t say anything. But he didn’t argue, either.

Remus sat down slowly, still aching. Still tired. But lighter.

October 5th, 1979, 5 PM - Remus Lupin

The wind had the taste of the sea in it when they arrived—salt and brine and the bite of something colder rolling in.

Dorset looked quiet. Empty.

Like the kind of place things came to end.

Newt was already waiting just beyond the edge of a low cliffside trail, crouched beside a weathered briefcase. He stood as they approached, brushing dust from his sleeves.

“Right on time,” he said, voice soft but warm. “Come on, then.”

He crouched again, opened the briefcase, and climbed in.

Remus didn’t hesitate.

He couldn’t afford to.

Regulus followed close behind.

The ladder ended in something between a laboratory and a greenhouse—earthy, humming with enchantments, the air thick with the scent of magic and freshly turned soil.

A few magical creatures occupied the space—none large, none dangerous. A small Mooncalf blinked at them. A Niffler dozed in a velvet-lined drawer.

Normal.

Ordinary, even.

Like this wasn’t the place where he would come undone.

Newt gestured them forward through a glass-paneled corridor. “This way.”

They passed through a warded door into an observation deck—circular, glass on all sides, protected by enchantments so densely woven they shimmered faintly in the light.

Beyond the glass stretched a field—open, grassy, bordered by containment wards that pulsed slow and steady, like a heartbeat in the ground.

Remus watched them for a moment. The rhythm. The precision.

It felt like walking willingly into a cage.

“There’s a single entrance, clearly marked,” Newt said. “The containment field will keep Remus visible at all times. No visual obstructions. No magical interference.”

He turned to Remus.

“I have a bracelet for you. It will monitor vitals—pulse, temperature, blood pressure—and provide a readout of neurological activity before, during, and after the transformation. It’s spelled to expand and contract with your
body.”

Remus took it without hesitation.

Outwardly, he was calm. Measured.

He slipped it onto his wrist. The metal glowed faintly, then dulled to match his skin.

Just another chain, disguised as something clinical.

“It won’t interfere,” Newt assured him. “You won’t even notice it once it’s on.”

Remus nodded. “Thank you.”

He meant it. He did.

But there was a tightness under his ribs that hadn’t left him since the full moon was marked on the calendar. Since Newt said yes. Since Regulus said I’m coming and Remus hadn’t known how to say don’t without sounding like
he was trying to push him away.

Newt smiled—gentle, tired. “It’s not every day someone offers to let me study this. I won’t take it lightly.”

Then he turned to Regulus, his tone cautious but not unkind. “You’re welcome to stay here. Just don’t get between me and the instruments.”

Regulus inclined his head. “Understood.”

Remus looked at him—really looked at him. There was a question on his face that didn’t need words.

Are you sure?

And Regulus, in the way he always did, gave an answer without speaking at all.

Remus exhaled.

Then he stepped through the door.

It sealed behind him with a whisper.

The field stretched out, green and open. Silent. Waiting.

He walked slowly to the center.

Sat, cross-legged. Back straight. Head tipped to the sky already turning gold.

And waited.

The wind smelled like salt and dusk and inevitability.

And behind the silence: fear.

Not of the transformation.

Of being seen.

Of what Regulus might think when he saw the bones break. The skin stretch. The boy pulled apart until nothing soft remained.

Too late to take it back now.

Remus closed his eyes.

And breathed.

October 5th, 1979, 6 PM - Regulus Black

Regulus had seen a lot of magic.

Ugly things. Powerful things. Curses that stripped people to the bone. Spells that changed what lived inside you long before they ever touched your skin.

He thought he understood transformation.

But this—

this was something else entirely.

Remus sat alone in the field, his back to them, perfectly still. Steady. Silent.

A bracelet blinked gently on his wrist, its pulses slow and even. Newt stood beside a monitor that tracked his vitals, fingers curled around a parchment scroll spooling out long, coiling lines of ink.

“Heart rate’s holding steady,” Newt murmured.

Regulus barely heard him.

Outside, the sky had begun to shift—gold fading to copper, copper into shadow.

Then Remus braced.

His hands clenched into fists. His breath hitched, sharp and sudden.

The change began not with violence, but at the edges—muscle tightening, tendons pulling taut, his spine bending at an angle no human body should endure.

And then—

the scream.

Not human. Not wolf.

Something in between.

Regulus didn’t flinch.

He made himself watch.

Remus dropped to his knees, gasping, fingers clawing at the dirt. The bracelet blinked faster now, strobing toward alarm. His limbs reshaped. Skin rippled and stretched. His back bowed. Bones cracked—then snapped into
something new.

And just like that, the man was gone.

In his place stood the wolf.

Not monstrous.

Not grotesque.

Beautiful.

Massive and grey, his coat rippling like moonlight on dark water. His eyes were sharp, even in the dusk. His breathing was ragged—but steady. Alive.

Whole.

Regulus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Then a soft sound broke the silence—a single beep from Newt’s monitor.

Then another. Quicker now.

Newt leaned in, his expression tinged with awe. “Oh,” he murmured. “Fascinating.”

Regulus straightened. “What?”

“At the peak of the transformation—just before the wolf takes over—his heart stops,” Newt said, eyes still on the scroll.

Regulus stared. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Only for a moment,” Newt replied, calm and clinical. “Less than a second. Then the wolf’s heart takes up the rhythm.”

“That’s insane.”

“It’s astonishing,” Newt said, almost gently. “You’re watching two lives overlap. One ending. One beginning. Every month. It’s... beautiful, in its own way.”

Regulus didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

The wolf was pacing the field now, breath misting in the cold air. Still wild. Still restless. Still Remus.

And Regulus couldn’t look away.

He tracked every step, slow and deliberate, as the wolf moved—closer, closer—until he stood just feet from the glass.

Regulus held his breath.

Moony’s gaze locked with his—unblinking and gold, sharp as a blade and impossibly steady. Like he wasn’t seeing containment wards or reinforced glass or scientific equipment. Like he wasn’t seeing the room at all.

Just Regulus.

And the worst part?

It didn’t feel like magic.

It felt like recognition.

Baseline. Instinct.

Like the wolf had looked at him and seen through everything—every mask, every ward, every inch of pure-blood shielding—and known him anyway.

Regulus stepped forward before he realized he was moving. Pressed one hand to the glass, fingers splayed.

The wolf didn’t flinch.

He leaned in slightly, fogging the pane with a single breath. Still watching. Still there.

Still his.

Regulus didn’t know what to do with it.

Didn’t know how to name the thing twisting beneath his ribs.

Not fate. Not magic.

Just inevitability.

“You’re very calm for someone being sized up by a predator,” Newt said behind him, voice low and observational.

Regulus didn’t move. “He’s not going to hurt me.”

“No,” Newt replied, certain. “He’s not.”

There was a pause. Then—

“How long have you been mates?”

Regulus blinked. “What?”

Newt flipped a page in his notes without looking up. “Wolves only react to two types of people like that. Offspring—which clearly doesn’t apply. Or mates.”

“That’s not—he doesn’t even—”

“He doesn’t need to know consciously,” Newt said. “The wolf knows.”

Regulus turned back toward the glass.

The wolf was still there. Still watching. Still holding his gaze like it was the only steady thing in the world.

Regulus felt the weight of it settle in his chest like a stone wrapped in velvet.

He was going to combust.

But before he could unravel completely, the sky began to shift again. The moon dipped low. The sun kissed the horizon.

The wolf shuddered.

The change back was quieter. No scream this time. Just a collapse—bones curling inward, fur vanishing, the stillness of after settling over him like a second skin.

Remus lay curled in the grass, breathing shallow.

Regulus turned to Newt, wordless, and held out a hand.

Newt didn’t argue. He passed over a small, stoppered vial—the basilisk venom, thick and green, glowing faintly through the glass.

Regulus pocketed it. Took a blanket from the bench.

Didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t say anything.

He opened the door and crossed the field, each step steady despite the storm still rolling in his chest.

Kneeling beside Remus, he wrapped the blanket gently around his shoulders, careful not to disturb the bracelet or the bruises blooming just beneath his skin.

Then he looked up.

Caught Newt’s gaze through the glass.

Held it.

One second.

Two.

Then—

crack.

They were gone.

They landed with a whisper of displaced air.

Regulus didn’t let go.

He guided Remus slowly through the flat, careful not to jostle the blanket. Careful not to think too hard about what Newt had said.

The bedroom was quiet. Familiar.

He eased Remus down onto the bed like he might break otherwise.

Remus let out a low, exhausted noise—half sigh, half groan—and turned his face toward the pillow without opening his eyes.

Regulus knelt beside him, hands still trembling faintly.

He took out his wand and whispered, “Lenimentum.”

The healing charm sank into the bruises along Remus’ collarbone. Another for the abrasion on his wrist, where the bracelet had rubbed. Another across his ribs.

Soft glows. Gentle warmth.

Remus didn’t stir.

Regulus leaned in. Pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Then to his temple. Then—just one—to the center of his forehead.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

He didn’t remember lying down.

But eventually, he was there too.

Blanket pulled over both of them. Arm around Remus’ waist. Breath steadying as the silence folded over them again.

Regulus closed his eyes.

And exhaled.

Chapter Text

October 7th, 1979, 8 AM - Remus Lupin

Morning came slow and golden.

Remus blinked awake to sunlight on the sheets and weight on his chest. Not heavy. Just warm.

Regulus.

Curled half on top of him, face pressed into the curve of Remus’ shoulder, one arm slung tight around his waist like he’d latched on during the night and never let go.

Remus smiled, slow and quiet.

Everything hurt, but not in the way it usually did. The full moon had left its mark—dull ache in his spine, tenderness in his muscles—but nothing sharp. Nothing broken.

He shifted slightly, wincing as his hip protested, and Regulus let out the faintest, grumpiest noise imaginable.

Remus laughed softly.

Then leaned in.

And kissed him.

Not dramatic. Not desperate.

Just a soft brush of lips. A thank you.

Regulus stirred. Brow furrowed. Then cracked one eye open, squinting blearily at him.

“Are you…kissing me awake?” he mumbled.

“Yes.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Remus kissed him again and hummed.

Regulus, apparently, had nothing else to say on the matter and nestled in closer.

They stayed like that, tangled in warm sheets and stolen time, with nothing but the sound of shared breathing between them.

“I didn’t hurt anyone?” Remus asked eventually, voice low.

“No,” Regulus murmured. “You were… perfect.”

Remus chuckled. “That’s not how most people describe me after a full moon.”

Regulus looked up at him, expression unreadable. “I’m not most people.”

“No,” Remus said softly. “You’re really not.”

By the time they made it out of the bedroom, Barty and Evan were already at the kitchen table—Barty sipping coffee like it had personally wronged him, Evan flipping through a book with all the interest of someone who hadn’t slept.

“Morning,” Remus said, voice still a little gravel.

Barty didn’t look up. “You’re alive. Shocking.”

“I do try to disappoint you daily.”

Regulus dropped into the chair beside him without fanfare.

Evan raised an eyebrow. “So. We’ve got venom. We’ve got Horcruxes. What we don’t have is a place to do extremely cursed magical surgery.”

Remus rubbed the heel of his hand against his temple. “The cottage.”

All three of them looked at him.

“It’s isolated. No neighbors. There’s a patch of land in the back—private enough, and the wards are still intact.”

Regulus tilted his head. “The one in Cardiff?”

Remus nodded. “It’s quiet. And if anything goes wrong… better there than here.”

For a second, no one said anything.

Then Barty shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to go to Wales.”

Remus squinted at him. “Really?”

Evan grinned. “Field trip.”

Regulus stood. “Let’s go conquer evil, I suppose.”

Remus took a breath.

And then they apparated.

October 7th, 1979, 7 PM - Remus Lupin

It took time to gather everything they thought they’d need. But once there were no more excuses—no distractions left—they apparated straight to the cottage.

They landed just past the wards, the sharp chill of sea air catching in their coats. The house stood quiet against the autumn sky, small and weather-worn, framed by wind and salt and memory.

It felt like something waiting.

The others were already heading toward the back garden when Regulus paused beside Remus.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just looked at the house in silence, hands deep in his pockets, eyes tracking the windows and chimney. The porch. The place that had almost become a tomb.

“This feels like coming home,” he said, voice soft—almost uncertain.

Remus turned to look at him. But Regulus didn’t meet his eyes.

And still, something inside Remus twisted—tight and bright and unbearably warm.

It shouldn’t have made sense. Not this place. Not like this.

But it did.

Because home, now, wasn’t a place. It wasn’t walls or keys or anything you could pin down.

It was Regulus. Standing beside him like it had always been this way. Like it would always be this way.

“Yeah,” Remus said quietly. “It does.”

Regulus didn’t say anything else.

He just walked toward the back door and opened it—not like a guest, not like someone invited in—but like someone returning. Like someone who belonged.

Remus followed, trailing behind the others through the kitchen and out the back step.

Evan carried a baking sheet, pinched from the cottage cupboards, while Barty held the vial of venom like it might explode.

“Three today,” Barty muttered. “Ring. Cup. Diary.”

Regulus placed the items down on the tray, one by one.

It looked absurd—just a plain baking sheet resting on the stone table in the garden, like they were preparing to serve biscuits. But the objects on it were anything but harmless: the diary, the ring, the cup. Three fractured pieces
of a man who refused to die.

The basilisk venom waited beside them, glinting in its stoppered vial like poison held in glass.

They were ready.

They thought they were ready.

But nothing had prepared them for what would fight back.

At first, there was nothing. Just wind. Just quiet.

Then the air shifted.

A pressure settled over the garden—dense and clinging, like rain that hadn’t fallen yet. Breathing became harder. Every inhale dragged like smoke.

Then came the whispers.

Not sound exactly. Not voices.

More like thoughts that didn’t belong to them, pressed into their minds with something cold and cruel behind them.

Remus barely noticed the first wave—just static, just background.

Until Evan flinched.

Hard.

He stumbled, one hand bracing on the edge of the table, the other clenched into a fist.

“Stop that,” he muttered. “Don’t—don’t sound like him.”

No one had spoken.

But the whisper came again. Clearer now. A slither of something venomous just behind their ears.

He’s going to leave you.

Barty looked up.

Evan went still.

He’ll walk away the second it’s easy. You’ve always been the convenient one. The quiet one. The piece he could afford to lose.

“Shut up,” Evan hissed, voice thin and shaking.

Regulus stood silent, eyes fixed on the ring. His body unmoving. Too unmoving.

Remus took a step toward him—then froze as the next voice slithered in.

Is this what you gave it all up for?

A cottage and borrowed time? Do you really think it’s enough?

Regulus said nothing, but his jaw clenched. His hands curled at his sides. His spine locked tight.

Remus opened his mouth, trying to speak—only for the voice to shift again, and this time, it was his name in its mouth.

You think he sees you?

His pulse jumped.

He sees the wolf. That’s all. The thing he can use. The thing he can control.

“No,” Remus whispered, but it didn’t sound like a denial. Not really. Just breath.

You’re not in love. You’re a science project.

His knees nearly buckled. The taste of bile rose sharp at the back of his throat.

Across the garden table, Barty was trembling now, his shoulders hunched like someone had dropped weights over his bones.

You sound just like your father when you’re angry.

He was angry when he ruined you. You’ll ruin everything else in return.

“Stop it,” Barty growled. His voice was tight. Guttural. “Stop it. Stop it—”

Remus tried to step toward him. Toward any of them. But his limbs felt slow, like he was moving through water.

The ring pulsed on the tray—not glowing, not vibrating, just… present. Like a hum in the dirt beneath their feet.

One of you will break first.

It’s only a matter of who.

Then Regulus reached out.

His hand hovered over the venom vial—uncertain, trembling. Like he didn’t know if it would help or only seal something worse.

And the ring moved.

Only slightly.

But it moved.

Toward him.

Like it wanted him.

You already belong to us.

That broke the spell.

Remus lunged forward.

He snatched the vial, uncorked it with his teeth, and poured.

The basilisk venom struck the ring first.

The sound that followed wasn’t human.

A shriek tore through the air—metal, bone, memory—as the ring screamed, the cup cracked, and the diary began to writhe like a thing alive.

They all staggered.

The venom sizzled against cursed metal. Smoke curled up—greasy and dark, not like fire, but like something being driven out.

The air filled with it: rage, grief, begging.

It wanted to live.

Remus didn’t let it.

He upended the vial, letting the last of the venom spill across every piece. Gold, ink, stone—all of it smothered in death.

One by one, the sounds died.

The ring twitched.

The diary gave a final, shuddering tremor.

The cup split with a dry, awful crack.

And then—

silence.

Not peace.

Not quiet.

Silence.

The kind that felt earned. The kind that cost something.

Remus stood over the tray, shoulders heaving. His chest ached. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The scent of venom and magic lingered sharp in the garden air.

Behind him, no one moved.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Just the soft wind.

And the things they hadn’t let win.

October 7th, 1979, 7:30 PM - Regulus Black

Regulus couldn’t stop looking at the tray.

The ring was gone. The diary, just ash. The cup had twisted in on itself like it had tried to flee from the venom and failed.

Three pieces of a soul. Dead now.

And yet—his hands still shook.

Not from fear. From… something else.

The way Remus had moved. The way he’d acted.

The way he’d thrown himself between Regulus and that thing like it wasn’t even a question.

And then—

That voice. That whisper.
You’re not in love. You’re a science project.

Regulus clenched his jaw.

He hadn’t known Remus thought that.

And it wasn’t true.

It would be handled—fixed—but not here. Not yet.

A low huff broke through the silence.

“I didn’t realize we needed to prepare for emotional warfare,” Barty muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

Evan snorted.

Then, without a word, he reached out.

Barty’s hand met his halfway.

Held.

No smirk. No comment. Just there.

Because he wanted to be.

Regulus looked away. Back toward Remus.

He was still standing where he’d poured the venom, shoulders tight, expression distant. Like his mind hadn’t quite come back with the rest of him.

“How much is left?” Regulus asked quietly.

Remus blinked. Looked down at the vial in his hand.

“About half.”

Regulus nodded.

They didn’t need to say it:
There were probably more.

But they’d face them later.

For now—

“You two should stay here tonight,” Remus said, glancing at Barty and Evan. “My old room’s still intact. Top of the stairs, second left.”

Barty nodded. Evan gave a two-fingered salute and tugged Barty toward the house.

That left the two of them.

Remus shifted slightly, looked like he might say something—might offer to sleep on the couch, or suggest floor space, or stumble over something unnecessarily self-sacrificing.

Regulus didn’t let him.

He reached out. Grabbed Remus’ hand.

And tugged.

Right through the back door. Down the hall. Up the stairs.

To the master bedroom.

No asking, no doubting.

Just—this way. With me.

And for once, Remus didn’t argue.

The door shut behind them, but the silence didn’t settle.

Remus lingered near the bed, thumb brushing absently against his wrist like he could still feel the venom vial’s weight there.

Regulus leaned against the dresser, arms crossed—not closed off, just… steady. Waiting.

“You haven’t said much,” he said.

Remus glanced over. “Still coming down.”

A beat.

Then Regulus asked, “What did they tell you? Before you destroyed them.”

Remus looked away. Not in shame—more like he needed to choose the words carefully. Like saying the wrong thing might make them real again.

“That you didn’t really want me,” he said. “That this was all… curiosity. Control. A test you were running.”

Regulus didn’t interrupt.

“It made sense in the moment,” Remus went on. “Not because I believe it, but because it’s close enough to a fear I’ve had before. That I’m something people try to understand so they don’t have to be afraid of me.”

Regulus exhaled slowly. “And you think I’m afraid of you.”

“I don’t know,” Remus admitted. “Sometimes I think I’d be more comfortable if you were.”

That landed harder than it should have.

Regulus stepped closer. Careful. Deliberate.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he said. “I’m afraid for you. There’s a difference.”

Remus met his gaze again. “That’s why I was able to break free of it. The Horcrux. Because when it tried to twist what I’m afraid of, it reached for you. And I—” He broke off, scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I chose to protect you. That part was never in question.”

Regulus didn’t respond right away.

He stepped into Remus’ space, reached for the hem of his jumper—not to lift it. Just to hold it. Anchor himself.

“Newt said something,” Regulus murmured. “After you changed. About wolves recognizing mates.”

Remus tensed, just barely.

Regulus pressed on. “He said wolves only look at people like that if they’re blood, or bonded. And since I’m not blood—”

He trailed off.

Remus didn’t move away.

He leaned in instead, voice a low rasp against Regulus’ temple. “You’re not wrong.”

Regulus swallowed. “You knew?”

“No, I don’t know. It’s not one of those things I have control over. And I didn’t want to bring it up, make you feel like a choice had been made for you.”

Regulus huffed a dry laugh. “Bit late for that, don’t you think?”

Remus finally smiled. Just barely. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“You don’t have to say it,” Regulus said, eyes dropping to Remus’ mouth.

“I know.”

“And I don’t either.”

“I know.”

They were close now—hands knotted in fabric, breath shared, hearts somewhere between panic and gravity.

Regulus leaned in. “But I think I need to show you.”

Remus kissed him like he understood, lips firm but yielding, a quiet promise in the way they moved together.

Regulus parted his lips, letting Remus’ tongue slip in—slow at first, exploratory, like every inch of this deserved to be memorized. It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t about urgency.

It was a quiet kind of claiming.

A low hum curled in Regulus’ chest as warmth spread from his mouth down his spine. Remus’ hands slid up beneath his jumper, calloused palms brushing the sensitive skin of his ribs. Regulus shivered, pulled back just enough
to yank the jumper over his head, flinging it to the floor without ceremony.

Remus’ shirt followed—tugged off in one rough movement, the fabric catching briefly on his shoulder before falling away. Regulus pressed both palms to his chest, fingers splayed, grounding himself in the warmth and solidity
beneath his touch. The steady thrum of Remus’ heartbeat. The rise and fall of his breath.

Here. Alive. Wanting him.

He leaned in and kissed the hollow of Remus’ throat—soft, reverent. Tasting salt and adrenaline, then trailing lower. His lips brushed over the sharp line of Remus’ collarbone, then lower still, his mouth mapping the skin across
his chest.

Remus let out a low sound, half-groan, hands firm on Regulus’ hips, pulling him in until they were pressed flush.

Regulus nipped lightly at the skin just above Remus’ navel, earning a sharp inhale. He smiled—smug and breathless—and dragged his mouth back up, catching Remus’ lips again. This kiss was hungrier. Teeth grazing lips. A
pulse beating hard between them.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he pushed Remus backward, guiding him down until he was seated on the edge of the bed. Regulus stood between his knees, his hands moving to the buttons of Remus’ trousers.

He undid them carefully.

No rush.

Just the thrill of undoing him.

He eased the fabric down along with his pants, helping him step out of both until Remus was left bare. Half-hard, still carrying the tremble of the day in his limbs.

Regulus dropped to his knees.

Kissed the inside of Remus’ thigh—light, warm, barely-there.

Then higher.

He moved to the other side and mirrored it, dragging the flat of his tongue along the crease where thigh met hip. A scrape of teeth. A reverent press of lips.

Remus’ breath caught. “Fuck—”

Regulus’ hands braced his thighs, holding steady. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the base of Remus’ cock, then licked a slow stripe up the length, savoring the twitch of Remus’ hips, the hiss of breath through his teeth.

“Regulus—” Remus’ voice broke on the sound, already fraying.

Regulus glanced up, lips curled around the head, and saw it—Remus, flushed and breathless, eyes dark with something more than need.

He took him in—just a little at first. A tease. Tongue swirling, jaw relaxing. Remus’ fingers threaded into his hair, not guiding, just there. Anchoring.

Regulus hollowed his cheeks, worked him deeper.

Remus groaned, hips twitching.

“God—fuck—please—”

Regulus moaned low around him, the vibration pulling a strangled sound from Remus’ throat. His hands tightened. His thighs trembled.

Regulus didn’t stop.

He worked a rhythm—slow, patient, worshipful. One hand wrapped around the base. The other stroking gently up Remus’ thigh, soothing, grounding.

He wanted to take his time. To ruin him slowly. To prove, with every movement, that this wasn’t experimentation.

This was devotion.

Remus was unraveling above him—panting, moaning, barely coherent.

“Reg—fuck—I’m—” His voice cracked, the warning already there, and Regulus pulled off just long enough to kiss the tip, then whisper, “I’ve got you.”

He took him back in. Deeper now. Throat relaxing, nose brushing coarse hair. Remus choked on a groan, hips jerking forward despite himself.

Regulus let him. Moved with him. Sucked harder, tongue pressing along the underside.

Remus’ body tensed. His hands spasmed in Regulus’ hair.

The release hit him fast.

A low cry. A full-body shudder.

Regulus swallowed—messy, instinctive—his hands still holding Remus steady through it. He kissed his way back up, slow and careful, licking him clean, then leaning up to press a soft kiss to his jaw.

Remus was breathless. Slack. Dazed.

“I’m not done with you,” Regulus whispered.

He straddled Remus’ lap, their bodies sliding together, skin slick, mouths meeting again in a kiss that was all teeth and heat and aftershock.

Remus’ hands found Regulus’ hips, unfastening his trousers with slow, hungry fingers. Regulus helped him, shifting to kick them off, baring himself with a shiver.

The air in the room was cool, but every inch of him felt hot.

They kissed again—sloppy now, desperate, hips grinding together.

Regulus reached for his wand, fingers fumbling on the nightstand, and murmured a slicking charm he’d memorized from an obscure text. A shimmer of cool magic coated his fingers, humming with promise.

Remus raised an eyebrow. “That from a textbook?”

“Obviously,” Regulus murmured. “Don’t interrupt.”

Remus chuckled low in his throat. “Wouldn’t dare.”

Regulus kissed him again, slower this time, then reached behind himself—coating his fingers, slick and trembling, working himself open with deliberate care.

He gasped at the first stretch. Exhaled through the burn. Added another finger.

Remus watched him—completely transfixed. His hands rested on Regulus’ thighs, grounding him, worshiping him without words.

“You’re killing me,” Remus whispered.

“Not yet,” Regulus said, breath hitching as he added a third.

He slicked Remus up next—firm, sure strokes that had Remus biting back a groan—then positioned himself. One hand braced on Remus’ shoulder. The other guiding him in.

The first push made him gasp—sharp, deep. He sank down inch by inch, jaw slack, breath shivering out of him as he seated fully.

Remus groaned. “Fucking hell—”

Regulus paused. Adjusted. Felt it settle deep inside him.

Then he started to move.

Slow. Measured. A teasing rhythm.

He rolled his hips, letting the friction build, watching the way Remus’ expression crumpled with restraint.

“Like that?” he murmured.

Remus’ hands tightened on his waist. “Don’t—” he growled.

Then flipped them.

Regulus hit the mattress with a soft thud, the breath knocked from his lungs—but Remus was already there, above him, pressing in deep and hard.

Regulus gasped, head thrown back. “Fuck—yes—”

Remus thrust again. And again.

No teasing now. Just hunger.

The angle was perfect—deep, devastating. Regulus clutched the sheets, legs shaking, jaw slack.

Remus’ fingers found his cock, stroking in time, and that was all it took.

Regulus came undone—spilling over Remus’ hand, crying out, hips twitching helplessly beneath him.

Remus didn’t stop.

He chased his own release, rhythm tightening, breath ragged. And when it hit—when he finally came—it was with a low, broken groan, hips stuttering, his entire body trembling as he emptied inside Regulus, holding him like he
might drift away otherwise.

They collapsed together in the tangle of sheets, sweat-soaked and panting, the room still echoing with the ghosts of what they’d done.

Remus kissed the back of Regulus’ neck. Pressed his forehead there.

“You believe me now?” Regulus asked, hoarse.

Remus laughed against his skin. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

Chapter Text

October 8th, 1979, 8 AM - Remus Lupin

Remus woke up warm.

That wasn’t unusual these days—Regulus ran hotter than any reasonable person should—but this was extra.

One arm slung across his chest. A leg tangled between his. A forehead tucked into the curve of his neck. Like Regulus had tried to fuse their bodies together in his sleep and was almost succeeding.

He made a soft noise—half sigh, half grumble—and nuzzled closer.

“You’re not subtle,” Remus murmured.

Regulus didn’t answer. Just made another disgruntled little hum and burrowed in tighter.

Remus smiled, slow and sore in all the right ways. He reached up and carded his fingers through the mess of dark hair at the back of Regulus’ head.

They stayed like that for a long minute.

Breathing. Drifting.

Until Regulus finally stirred, voice rough from sleep. “Shower.”

Remus blinked down at him. “Are you asking me to let you go, or inviting me to join you?”

Regulus looked up at him through barely open lashes. “Why would I want to shower alone?”

Remus didn’t need to be told twice.

They scrambled out of bed, still tangled in sheets and sleep and each other, laughter bubbling up between them like it couldn’t be stopped. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet, old and uneven, but neither of them cared.

Regulus nearly tripped over last night’s discarded trousers—crumpled somewhere near the dresser—and Remus caught him by the elbow with a grin, steadying him easily.

“Careful, love,” he teased, the word slipping out like a reflex, softer now, less charged, but no less true.

Regulus raised an eyebrow, but his smirk melted into something gentler. Without a word, he tugged Remus toward the bathroom, their bare feet padding over the worn wood.

The bathroom was small. Cramped. The shower barely large enough for one. The tiles were chipped, the grout stained, and the showerhead had a known reputation for sputtering to death on cue.

Regulus twisted the knob. The pipes groaned, and a weak, uneven stream of water trickled out.

“Merlin, this thing’s ancient,” he muttered, flinching as cold splashed his hand—but he was laughing. Bright. Unfiltered. The sound hit Remus in the chest like sunlight after a storm.

“It’s vintage,” Remus countered, stepping in behind him and yanking the curtain shut with a rattle. The water was barely lukewarm. It dripped more than it poured. But none of it mattered.

They were pressed close—bodies sliding slick against each other, Regulus’ back to Remus’ chest, skin-to-skin in the narrow space.

Remus wrapped his arms around his waist, kissed the damp skin just below his hairline, then nipped lightly at the curve of his neck.

“You’re spoiled,” he murmured, grinning as he felt Regulus squirm.

Regulus leaned into the touch, his own hands covering Remus’ before drifting lower—fingernails grazing his hips in a way that made Remus shiver.

“Maybe I just know what I like,” he replied, head tilting to give Remus better access.

Remus took the offer. His mouth found the line of Regulus’ shoulder, teeth pressing in harder this time—enough to mark. A flush of pride swelled in his chest when he saw the bruise bloom next to one from last night.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice low, kisses trailing down Regulus’ neck. “And what’s that?”

“You,” Regulus answered simply.

He turned in Remus’ arms, slipping easily through the water to face him. Their lips met in a kiss—open, messy, sweet. Water clung to their lashes, dripped down their faces. It was imperfect and real and entirely theirs.

Remus groaned into the kiss, hands sliding down Regulus’ spine to cup the curve of his arse. He squeezed, fingers digging in, pulling Regulus closer until their cocks brushed—bare, slick, hard.

Regulus laughed, breathless. Bit his bottom lip. Tugged sharply before smoothing over it with his tongue.

“Brat,” Remus muttered, voice rough—but there was no heat behind it, only affection.

He pressed Regulus against the tiled wall, earning a gasp as the cool ceramic met flushed skin.

Regulus grinned and hooked a leg around Remus’ thigh, using the leverage to drag him in close again.

Remus kissed him deeper, water running down their chests in rivulets, pooling where they moved. His hands skimmed over Regulus’ ribs, then paused.

Regulus’ hands wandered up, fingers splayed across Remus’ chest—mapping the scars like they were familiar territory. His thumb brushed along one near his ribs, gaze softening.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice hushed, reverent.

The words hit Remus like a blow—gentle, but devastating. He kissed Regulus again, slower this time. Like it meant something. Like he meant every part of it.

Regulus’ hands wandered again—fingertips catching on Remus’ nipples, giving one a sharp pinch that made him hiss. His cock twitched, bumping Regulus’ thigh.

“Fuck—Reg—” Remus growled, retaliating by biting at his collarbone, harder this time. A fresh mark bloomed there, vivid and red.

Regulus moaned, head tipping back, throat exposed.

Remus didn’t waste the invitation. He bit his way up the line of his neck, nipping and sucking until Regulus’ hips bucked forward, needy and urgent.

Their cocks slid together—hard and slick, but not slick enough.

Remus spat into his hand—desperate, rough—then reached between them to slick them both, the water helping but not doing much. Still, it was enough.

Regulus whimpered, eyes fluttering shut.

Remus bit down again, harder, at the base of his throat.

“Fuck, you’re still—” Remus groaned, voice rough, losing himself for a moment as he pressed a finger in, feeling how easily Regulus took it, the heat and softness making his cock throb.

“So fucking perfect,” he muttered, adding a second finger, curling them, stretching him further as Regulus gasped, hands scrabbling at Remus’ shoulders, nails digging in.

“Remus—please—”

There was no teasing now.

Remus spat again. Slicked himself. Pulled Regulus’ leg higher around his waist and lined up. The angle was awkward, space tight, but the second he began to press in—slow, steady, relentless—it didn’t matter.

Regulus cried out, loud and honest, the stretch rough but right, his hands clutching at Remus’ back like he might fall apart if he let go.

Remus bottomed out, groaning low in his throat, the heat and pressure dizzying.

The showerhead sputtered overhead. The water fell unevenly, forgotten.

Regulus’ leg trembled, barely holding him upright.

Remus wrapped an arm around his waist, bracing him, fucking into him with careful, deep thrusts—each one deliberate, grounding.

His other hand rose to Regulus’ throat—not tight. Just there. Feeling the pulse. The breath.

Regulus moaned, head lolling against the tile, his hand finding his cock, jerking himself off with quick, desperate pulls.

The sounds were filthy. Water splashing. Gasps. Skin against skin.

Then a laugh—shaky, real.

The showerhead had hiccupped again.

Regulus’ laugh turned into a moan as Remus thrust deep, grinding in at the end.

“Yes—fuck—right there—”

His body tightened, clenching around Remus, and Remus bit his shoulder hard enough to bruise.

Regulus came with a shout, his body shuddering, twitching through the aftershocks as the water washed his release away.

The way he pulsed around Remus—hot, tight, perfect—was enough.

Remus came with a low groan, hips stuttering, spilling inside, the world narrowing to heat and pressure and Regulus.

He stayed there, arms tight around him, forehead pressed to his shoulder.

Regulus whimpered—wrecked, oversensitive—his hand finally stilling, body slumping.

Remus eased them down to the floor of the shower, curling around him in the warm spray. Gentle kisses followed—along the new bruises, the side of his throat, his jaw, his temple.

“You realize I’m never going to be normal about this, right?” Regulus murmured, voice hoarse. He winced a little when he shifted, the soreness settling in—but his smile was soft. Unfiltered.

“About what,” Remus asked, pulling out slowly, careful. “Showering?”

Regulus huffed a laugh. “About you.”

Remus leaned in again, kissed him—slow, deep, reverent.

“Good,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t know what to do with normal.”

October 8th, 1979, 10 AM - Remus Lupin

Later, they descended the stairs with something like dignity—though Remus’ hair was still damp and Regulus was still smirking like a man who had been well and thoroughly worshipped in a stone-tiled shrine of steam and sin.

They barely made it into the kitchen before Barty looked up from his coffee and said, with zero preamble:

“Again?”

Remus blinked. “Good morning to you too.”

Barty set his mug down with the delicate grace of a man about to lose composure entirely.

“I haven’t even finished being horrified about last night,” he snapped. “And then this morning—again. Again, Regulus.”

Evan, to his credit, didn’t even look up from his toast. “At least they’re consistent.”

Barty jabbed a finger in their direction. “I am going to hex the hinges off every door in this house.”

Regulus sat down, unbothered. “That feels counterintuitive to your privacy concerns.”

“My concerns are that I’ve heard more moaning in the past twelve hours than I did during my entire seventh year.”

“Your loss,” Regulus muttered.

Remus coughed hard into his tea.

Evan passed Barty a piece of toast. “Eat. You’ll be less dramatic on a full stomach.”

“I doubt it,” Barty grumbled. “They’ll just do it again.”

Regulus took the other mug on the table and poured himself tea like nothing was wrong. “Probably.”

Barty stood up, toast in hand, stormed off muttering something about earplugs and celibacy, while Evan remained serenely munching and said, entirely too casually, “I offered to fuck him to see if we could be louder. He said he didn’t think he could get hard listening to Regulus go ‘oh god.’”

He shrugged. “His loss.”

Remus made a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze.

Regulus sipped his tea. “Technically I only said that once.”

“Yes, but with conviction,” Evan replied, not missing a beat.

Remus dropped his head to the table. “I’m going to die.”

“Not before I do,” Barty shouted from the other room.

They were halfway through breakfast—well, Remus was trying to eat while pretending he hadn’t just defiled the shower—when the light in the room changed.

No wind. No crack of spellfire.

Just a silver glow, soft and sudden, casting a long-legged shadow across the floorboards.

The stag turned its head toward Remus.

“Finally,” it said, James’ voice sharp and tired. “You disappeared off the face of the fucking earth. If you’re alive, you need to come back. Now.”

The Patronus flickered.

“Sirius is back. And he’s not okay.”

Then it vanished.

No drama. No time for it.

Remus stood without thinking.

The clatter of his chair made Regulus flinch.

They met eyes across the table—Evan stilling mid-bite, Barty going quiet in the doorway.

Regulus was already standing.

“I’m coming with you.”

Remus hesitated. “No.”

That single syllable hit like a slap. Regulus’ expression didn’t change much, but something about him closed.

“I need to do this alone,” Remus said, voice softer. “It’s James. And Sirius.”

Regulus didn’t speak.

Remus took a slow step closer. “I’ll come back to you.”

Still, nothing.

Remus reached out. Caught his wrist, then his hand. Held it like it was the only thing in the room that mattered.

“I mean it,” he said. “Two days. I’ll check the flat, and if you’re not there, I’ll come here.”

Regulus finally nodded.

Tense. Controlled.

“Are you staying here?” Remus asked. “Or going back to London?”

“I don’t know,” Regulus admitted. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether Barty survives the next time Evan tries to be louder than me.”

Remus huffed a weak laugh. “Fair.”

They stood there a moment longer.

Neither moved to let go.

But the war was calling again.

And this time, it came wearing antlers.

Chapter Text

October 8th, 1979, 1 PM - Remus Lupin

Remus apparated straight into the living room.

The second he landed, he smelled blood.

Not a lot.

But enough.

James was already there—pacing, shirt rumpled, hair worse than usual, eyes red like he hadn’t slept.

“You’re alive,” James said, but it wasn’t a relief. It was a reprimand.

Remus opened his mouth.

“Don’t.” James shook his head. “You vanished for a month, Moony. I don’t know where the fuck you were or what you were doing, but right now—right now—Sirius needs you.”

Remus’ stomach dropped.

And then he saw him.

Curled on the couch. Shirt shredded. Blood smeared across his ribs, down one arm, across the cushions. His face was too pale, too still. One hand dangled off the edge like he’d collapsed mid-reach.

It was Regulus all over again.

“He’s alive,” James said hoarsely. “But barely. He sent a Patronus—I found him behind a bar in Marseille. Half-dead. Burned. Bleeding.”

Remus was already at his side.

“Help me turn him,” he said.

They peeled back what was left of Sirius’ shirt, and Remus winced at the sheer number of bruises.

Two deep lacerations along his side. Burn damage across his shoulder, angry and raw. Purple-black bruises blooming down his ribs like fingerprints left by something unforgiving.

“Ribs are broken,” Remus said. “At least three.”

“I couldn’t tell how bad it was,” James murmured. “I just—he was already out when I got there.”

“You said Marseille?”

James nodded. “Behind a bar in the 6th arrondissement. I got the Patronus, apparated straight there. He was alone.”

Remus didn’t press for more.

He pressed his wand to Sirius’ ribs instead. “Reparifors.”

There was a low crack and a hiss from Sirius’ throat—unconscious, but feeling it. His arm twitched. James grabbed his hand.

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice cracking. “I’ve got you.”

Remus cast another round of stabilizers. Slowed the bleeding. Drew the heat out of the burn and layered a cooling charm over the worst of it.

He glanced at James, who had his head buried in Sirius’ shoulder, and reached out, plucking a few hairs from Sirius’ head quickly, and tucking them into a phial in his coat pocket. James didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t comment.

They worked in silence after that.

James whispered reassurances. Remus focused on the injuries, wand tracing up and down Sirius’ torso, making sure nothing was missed.

Pausing to check the parts that weren’t broken, paying mind to the ones that almost were.

He muttered a diagnostic charm and watched the glow flicker over Sirius’ chest. Nothing fatal. Weak pulse. Shock.

But he’d survive, he had to.

Eventually, Remus sat back on his heels. “That’s the worst of it,” he said. “He’s stable.”

James didn’t let go of Sirius’ hand.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

Remus nodded.

Neither of them spoke again.

The only sound in the flat was the low whistle of Sirius’ breath.

October 8th, 1979, 5 PM - Remus Lupin

It started with a breath.

Not a sharp inhale, not a gasp—just a slight hitch. A shift in rhythm.

Remus looked up from where he sat on the floor, back against the coffee table, wand still loosely in hand.

Sirius stirred.

Fingers twitching. Brow furrowing. Then—

“…fuck.”

James was on his knees beside him in an instant. “Pads?”

Sirius winced, one eye cracking open. “That’s a voice I wasn’t sure I’d hear again.”

“You’re home,” James said. “You’re safe.”

Sirius tried to sit up and immediately groaned, collapsing back onto the cushions.

“Don’t move,” Remus said, quiet but firm. “You’ve got three broken ribs, two cuts I just sealed, and a shoulder burn that looks like you got hugged by an exploding cauldron.”

Sirius exhaled through his teeth. “Charming.”

James squeezed his hand. “What happened?”

Sirius didn’t answer right away.

Just stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, breath shallow.

Then, finally: “It was a setup.”

Remus and James exchanged a look.

“I’d been working a line on Dumbledore’s orders,” Sirius went on. “Cells through Belgium, down into the south of France. Places where ‘Sirius’ doesn’t mean much, but ‘Black’ still opens doors.”

“You were pretending to be Regulus?” James asked, barely more than a whisper.

“Not exactly. Just—leaning on the name. Letting them fill in the blanks. Some thought I was him. Others didn’t care. They liked what I had to say.”

“And what was that?” Remus asked.

“That Voldemort’s power won’t last. That the ones who side with him now will be abandoned. That the Order knows more than they think. Enough to make them hesitate.”

James frowned. “And they believed you?”

“Enough of them did.” Sirius closed his eyes again. “But someone didn’t.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Sirius said, “They cornered me in Marseille. Four, maybe five. I held out as long as I could, but—”

He swallowed.

“I dropped one of them. Knocked the mask off.”

His voice turned flat. Quiet. Icy.

“It was Peter.”

James didn’t move.

Remus didn’t breathe.

“I saw his face. I saw him see me. And then he Disapparated.”

Sirius opened his eyes again. “He left me there.”

There was another long pause.

“I think,” Sirius said, “he was supposed to finish the job.”

He turned his head—looked at James, then at Remus.

“He didn’t.”

October 9th, 1979, 1 PM - Remus Lupin

The Order meeting was more tense than usual.

Maybe it was the room—an old safehouse in Cornwall, stone walls damp with sea air—or maybe it was the silence that followed Sirius’ voice.

He hadn’t raised it. Hadn’t shouted.

He just said, quiet and even, “I saw him. Peter Pettigrew. Mask off. Face clear.”

No one spoke for a long moment.

Then Moody muttered, “That little bastard.”

Sirius leaned forward, hands braced against the edge of the table. “He left me there. Knew who I was. Didn’t care.”

James didn’t take his eyes off the far wall. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt.

“We’ve got to tell the others,” someone said—Emmeline, maybe. “If he’s turned—”

“He’s been turned,” Sirius cut in. “We just didn’t see it.”

Moody gave a low grunt. “Or we didn’t want to.”

Silence again.

Then, Moody’s one good eye narrowed. “Could be useful.”

James snapped his head up. “Useful?”

Moody shrugged, heavy and deliberate. “We know he’s a rat now. That’s leverage. That’s intel. If we don’t let on we know, we can use him. Feed him bad information. Track his movements.”

“You’re suggesting we use him?” Sirius hissed.

“I’m suggesting we win,” Moody shot back.

Remus didn’t say anything. He kept his eyes on the tabletop, jaw tight, thoughts racing.

Eventually, the meeting dissolved into strategy and speculation—who had seen Peter last, who might still trust him, what messages had passed through his hands. James and Sirius left together, silent but locked at the shoulder.
Remus stayed behind.

Waited until the room cleared, until only one person remained, standing at the far end of the table, hands folded neatly in front of him.

“Professor.”

Dumbledore looked up.

Remus approached slowly. “Can I ask you something?”

Dumbledore smiled, tired around the eyes. “You can always ask, Mr. Lupin.”

“Does the name Tom Riddle mean anything to you?”

The smile faltered, just a flicker.

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, after a beat. “Yes. It does.”

Remus didn’t speak.

Dumbledore stepped closer. “What do you know?”

“Not enough,” Remus admitted. “But I’m trying.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “That’s more than most.”

Remus hesitated, then asked, “Do you know if any of the Founders’ relics have… resurfaced recently? Or gone missing?”

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment.

Then said, “The sword of Gryffindor rests in my office. I check on it often.”

“And the others?”

“Lost to time,” Dumbledore said lightly. “At least as far as the record is concerned.”

Remus watched him.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, but there was weight beneath it. “Artifacts like those have a way of coming and going. Much like the truth. And war.”

Remus nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

He turned to leave—

Then stopped.

“Coming and going.” He said it under his breath. Quiet. Almost to himself.

And then his eyes lit up.

Like something had just clicked—a thread pulled tight, a riddle cracked sideways.

He didn’t say anything else, just walked faster towards the exit.

Once he was outside, he glanced around quickly to make sure no one was watching, then apparated straight into the alley behind the flat.

He didn’t stop to breathe. Just marched through the back door, took the stairs two at a time, and pushed open the front door like he’d never left.

James and Sirius were in the living room.

James looked up fast, startled. Sirius flinched, then exhaled—still pale, still bruised, but upright and stubborn about it.

“You’re back already?” James asked.

“I have to go,” Remus said.

They both stared.

“Again?” Sirius said, hoarse.

Remus nodded. “There’s something I need to do. Something important.”

“More important than us?”

That came from James. Quiet. Flat.

Remus didn’t answer immediately. He looked at them—at his best friend, still not whole, and the man they both loved like breathing, broken and bandaged on their secondhand couch.

And then he stepped forward.

Took James by the shoulder. Pressed a hand to Sirius’ arm.

“I need you both to trust me,” he said.

James didn’t move.

Sirius didn’t blink.

But neither of them pulled away.

Remus let out a slow breath. “I’m not abandoning you. I promise. But this—what I’m doing—it might end this war.”

James swallowed.

Sirius said nothing.

Remus’ voice softened. “I’ll be back.”

A pause.

Then he added, “Also… you two need to stop dancing around it.”

James blinked. “What?”

“You’re idiots,” Remus said. “Mutual idiots. It’s embarrassing.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Are you—setting us up as you flee the premises?”

“I’m encouraging emotional honesty under extreme duress,” Remus corrected.

He turned toward the door.

Paused.

“I better hear you’ve kissed by the time I get back.”

And then he was gone.

Chapter Text

October 9th, 1979, 2 PM - Remus Lupin

The flat was empty.

No Regulus. No Barty. No Evan.

Remus didn’t bother checking the bedrooms—just turned on his heel and Disapparated.

He landed in the front garden of the Cardiff cottage with a soft crack, his heart already ahead of him.

The door slammed open.

Regulus looked up from the kitchen table, alarmed. Evan dropped a spoon. Barty actually flinched.

And then Remus was across the room in three strides.

He grabbed Regulus by the face—no hesitation, no preamble—and kissed him like he needed to.

Regulus didn’t even question it. He kissed back.

Only when Remus pulled away, slightly breathless, did he say it,

“COMING AND GOING.”

A beat of silence.

“…What?” Evan asked, baffled.

Barty squinted. “Is this code? Are we being attacked?”

Regulus blinked at Remus, still half-dizzy from the entrance. “I—what?”

Remus finally took a step back, trying to calm his breathing.

“Sirius is okay,” he said first. “He’s hurt, but he’s alive.”

Regulus’ posture shifted. Not visibly, not dramatically—but Remus could see him visibly deflate a little, as if he hadn’t relaxed his shoulders in two days.

“Tell me everything.”

Remus nodded, still catching up to himself. “He was on a mission. Using the Black name to get close to sympathizers. Got ambushed, and sent James a Patronus. I helped patch him up.”

He ran a hand through his hair.

“James called a meeting.I stayed behind, and talked to Dumbledore. Asked about Tom Riddle, about the Founders’ relics. He mentioned the sword—said it was still in his office. The others, he claimed, are lost to time.”

“Convenient,” Barty muttered.

“But then he said this thing. This very Dumbledore thing.” Remus looked at Regulus again. “He said, ‘artifacts like those have a way of coming and going.’”

Evan raised an eyebrow. “And you took that to mean—?”

Remus turned toward all of them now, animated. “Everything else has been sentimental. A place, an object, something personal to Voldemort’s identity. The cup—Hufflepuff. The ring—his bloodline. The diary—his past. So what if it’s where he hid it that matters?”

“Coming and going,” Regulus said slowly.

Remus nodded. “The Come and Go Room. Room of Requirement.”

Silence again.

Then Regulus smiled, sharp and sure. “Hogwarts.”

“Exactly.”

October 9th, 1979, 4 PM - Regulus Black

The Marauder’s Map unfurled across the kitchen table like a secret begging to be broken.

Regulus stared at it with open suspicion.

“You made this?”

Remus nodded. “Fifth year. Took all of us. Sirius, James, Peter, me.”

Evan leaned over it, brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you use it to cheat on your exams?”

“We did,” Remus said. “And also to break into the kitchens. And also to sneak into the Astronomy Tower. And also—”

“We get it,” Barty cut in. “It’s a deeply irresponsible magical artifact. Perfect.”

Remus traced a finger across the faded ink, watching the little labeled dots shift and wander. “The Room of Requirement is here,” he said, tapping the upper right quadrant. “It doesn’t show up unless someone’s in it, but we know where the entrance is.”

“And we know what we’re looking for,” Regulus added. “The diadem. It should be hidden in the Room of Hidden Things.”

Evan tilted his head. “Bit on the nose.”

“It’s Hogwarts,” Remus said. “Everything’s on the nose.”

They went quiet for a moment.

Then Barty asked, “So. How do we get inside?”

Remus didn’t look up. “You don’t.”

Regulus’ expression twitched.

Remus glanced at him. “You can’t risk being seen. You’re marked. If someone notices you in the halls, it won’t matter what excuse we make.”

“And you’ll just… go alone?” Regulus asked.

“No,” Remus said, a little too fast. “Not alone.”

His fingers drummed once against the map.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. Inside: a few dark hairs, floating like ink in water.

Regulus’ eyes narrowed. “Is that—?”

“Sirius,” Remus confirmed.

“You took his hair while he was unconscious?” Evan asked, not even pretending to be scandalized.

“Yes,” Remus said. “I did.”

Regulus looked like he was about to argue—then didn’t.

Just closed his eyes for a long second and said, “Fine. Polyjuice.”

Remus nodded. “It’ll take a month to brew. In the meantime, we stay low. We plan. We practice.”

“And then?” Evan asked.

“Then we break into the most well-guarded places in Britain,” Remus said, deadpan. “To steal a crown.”

Barty raised his mug. “I’ve heard worse ideas.”

Regulus let out a slow breath. “It’s not a crown. It’s a diadem.”

Remus looked at him.

And smiled. “Same thing, really.”

October 31st, 1979 - 8 AM - Regulus Black

Brewing Polyjuice Potion was, in a word, boring.

Regulus had expected danger. Complexity. Maybe even a sense of arcane reverence.

Instead, it was just… stirring.

Constant, slow stirring. Heat low. Patience high. The potion sat in a cauldron in the middle of the sitting room—on a table they’d cleared of books and charmed to stay steady—even if someone accidentally kicked it during one of Remus’ more dramatic pacing routines.

They’d chopped the lacewing flies. Steeped the leeches. Whispered over the shredded boomslang skin like it mattered.

Now they just had to wait.

Regulus stood in the kitchen, alone for the moment, watching the soft simmer of the potion from the doorway. The scent was faint—herbal and metallic, nothing too offensive yet. It would get worse.

Everything about this part of the war felt like that. Quiet. Suspended. Like the eye of something.

He didn’t hate it.

Barty and Evan had left three days ago.

After the third time Regulus forgot to lock the door and Barty walked in on something that nearly made him combust, they’d declared—loudly—that the flat in London would be a better base. They’d still help. They’d still research. But they’d owl first.

Evan had been kinder about it. Barty had used the phrase “soul-shattering regret” more than once.

It was probably for the best.

Regulus yawned, barefoot on the cold tile, wearing nothing but one of Remus’ threadbare jumpers. It hung off his shoulders, long enough to pass for decent, short enough to feel like a risk. He liked the way it smelled—books, pine, something faintly like warmth.

He reached up to open the cupboard.

The mug he wanted—black, slightly chipped, his favorite—was on the highest shelf. Of course it was. He stretched, rising up onto the balls of his feet, a soft breath slipping out as the jumper he hadn’t bothered changing out of rode higher over his thighs—

And he felt the shift in the air behind him.

A familiar warmth pressed in.

Remus.

Big hands slid low on his hips—not pulling, just anchoring. A kiss followed, slow and deliberate, to the side of his neck.

Regulus didn’t turn.

“Potion still stable?” he asked, voice quiet.

“Barely simmering,” Remus said, lips brushing his skin. “Like you.”

Regulus huffed, a sound that was almost a laugh.

“Were you watching me stretch?”

“Obviously.”

One of those hands slipped under the hem of the jumper. Hot against bare skin.

“Pervert.”

Remus bit his shoulder. Not hard. Just enough. “You’re one to talk.”

Regulus finally turned, leaning back against the counter. Lips parted. Eyes darker than they’d been a minute ago.

“This is wildly inappropriate breakfast behavior.”

Remus kissed the corner of his mouth. “We had breakfast,” he murmured. “This is brunch.”

His mouth was on Regulus’ jaw then, trailing lower.

Regulus didn’t resist. He let his hands wander up beneath Remus’ shirt, palms flattening against his ribs. He felt the tremble beneath his fingertips when his nails scraped lightly along bone.

“You’re insatiable,” Regulus breathed.

Remus kissed him.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was dirty, deep, all tongue and heat, a claiming sort of kiss that left Regulus breathless—his back pressed hard against the counter, balance slipping. He barely had time to catch himself before Remus spun him around again.

Hands hit the counter. Jumper shoved higher. Heart hammering.

“Here?” Regulus managed, breath stuttering.

“Here,” Remus agreed.

He bit the back of Regulus’ neck and reached for his wand.

The hum of magic passed over his skin, a whispered lubrication charm sparking a cool slickness between his thighs. Quick and practiced. Efficient. They’d learned after the shower to keep a wand handy in every room.

Regulus exhaled, a low tremble rippling through his legs. The tile was cold beneath his feet. The contrast made the heat building inside him feel feral.

Remus’ hands returned, dragging the jumper up higher until Regulus was fully exposed. He arched into the touch, a silent offer, and Remus groaned—low, strained—as one hand slid up his spine, pressing him forward until his
chest was flush against the counter’s edge.

“Fuck,” Remus rasped, “you look—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Just bit down on Regulus’ shoulder, harder this time, and lined himself up.

Regulus moaned, soft and aching, fingers white-knuckled around the counter’s edge.

“Remus—please—”

He didn’t need to ask twice.

Remus pushed in slow. The stretch burned, even slicked, but it was the right kind of ache—familiar now. Anchoring.

Regulus’ breath caught. Remus groaned against his neck, burying himself deeper, setting a rhythm that was fast and urgent from the start. The kind of fucking that came from wanting someone so badly your hands shook.

The kitchen filled with the sound of it—their breathing, the slap of skin, the faint hiss of the Polyjuice Potion bubbling away in the next room.

Regulus pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, chasing the edge even as it built too fast. His voice fell apart into broken pleas as the counter creaked beneath them.

Remus’ hand found his throat—firm, steady, not tight—just present. The other hand braced above Regulus’ own on the counter, their fingers laced together. Grounding him.

Regulus’ legs were trembling now. The angle hit too perfectly. Every thrust sent a shock of pleasure up his spine. He reached down, hand slick with sweat and spellwork, and began to stroke himself, gasping at the contact.

“Remus—oh god—” he choked, and Remus bit him again, leaving a mark that would last for days.

It was too much.

He came with a cry, head dropping forward, his cock twitching in his hand as he spilled across the counter, body clenching tight around Remus, pulsing with the aftershocks.

Remus stilled just long enough to kiss the bite mark.

Then pulled him upright. Chest to back. Still buried deep.

“You’re perfect,” he said, voice wrecked.

Regulus laughed—breathless, dazed, his whole body buzzing with heat and pleasure.

“You’re insane,” he whispered, and whimpered when Remus started moving again. Slower now. Deeper.

“Remus—too much—”

But there was a smile in his voice, a ragged edge of joy.

Remus kissed his jaw. Then his cheek. Then turned his head and kissed him properly—open-mouthed and messy, their bodies slick and close and shaking.

A few more thrusts—slow, dragging, intentional—and Remus came with a low groan, deep inside him, holding tight as the pleasure tore through him like it had nowhere else to go.

They stayed like that, panting, the kitchen filled with nothing but the simmer of potion and the warmth between them.

Eventually, Regulus shifted. Winced. “Fuck,” he muttered.

Remus chuckled, pulling out slowly, helping him turn around.

Regulus shifted, wincing slightly, and Remus chuckled, kissing his shoulder softly.

“You’ll survive,” he teased, hands ghosting over regulus’ thighs.

Regulus smirked, still catching his breath, and leaned up to kiss him—slow, lazy. “Barely,” he murmured, but his eyes were bright.

Chapter Text

November 1st, 1979, 2 PM - Regulus Black

It started quietly.

Three days out from the full moon, and Remus always got like this—quiet, yes, but also... still. Like something beneath his skin had gone tense and watchful. Like his thoughts were already half-wild, and his body was bracing for
the rest to catch up.

Regulus noticed it in the way Remus hovered.

Not clingy. Not obvious. Just—there. Too there. Close enough to brush fingers, shoulder, hip. Always touching, always tracking him through a room like a second heartbeat.

He wasn’t possessive.

But the wolf was.

At first, Regulus said nothing. Let it play out like the other times, assuming it was just the moon twisting through his bloodstream, making everything louder.

But on the second night, Regulus caught him watching—really watching—from the corner of the armchair. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of Regulus’ breath.

“Okay,” Regulus said, tone low, even. “Talk to me.”

Remus blinked, caught. “About what?”

“You’re acting like I’m going to vanish.”

“You might.”

Regulus tilted his head. “I’m not.”

“You could.”

That landed heavier than it should have.

Regulus crossed the room without another word, dropped down to perch on the arm of the chair beside him. “Is this about the full moon?”

Remus nodded, eyes fixed on the floorboards.

“You get like this every time?”

“No.”

“So what’s different?”

Remus hesitated. Then finally, “You.”

The word made Regulus still.

Remus let out a breath. “We’ve talked about the mates thing before. How it’s not destiny, or fate, or any of that. But it’s real. Instinct. Permanent. The wolf doesn’t do casual.” His voice went quieter. “I didn’t mean for it to
happen. I didn’t want it to.”

Regulus’ jaw tensed. “And yet.”

“And yet,” Remus echoed.

Regulus frowned. “So now you think I deserve an out.”

“It’s not about deserving,” Remus said, quietly. “It’s about choice. I don’t want to tie you to a life that isn’t yours. To me.”

Regulus stood.

Not fast. Not loud.

Just final.

He reached down. Curled his fingers into the front of Remus’ shirt. Tugged him upright.

“That,” Regulus said, voice flat with fury, “is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Remus stumbled forward, caught off guard by the heat behind the words. But Regulus didn’t let up. He pushed him back—insistent—until Remus hit the sofa and dropped into it with a startled exhale.

Regulus followed.

Straddled him.

Tugged his shirt up and over his head with practiced impatience.

“You don’t get to decide what I deserve,” he said, then kissed him like punishment—sharp, teeth against lip, a flash of tongue and fire.

Remus groaned into it, hands unsure on Regulus’ hips. He wasn’t used to this—Regulus taking the lead, riding the line between anger and want. But he didn’t stop him. He leaned into it. Let it take him.

Regulus kissed down his jaw, to the base of his throat, biting where the skin was thinnest. “You think I’m casual?” he asked, voice dark. “After everything? After all of this?”

Remus didn’t answer.

Regulus pulled away just long enough to strip. His jumper. Trousers. Pants. Gone.

He reached for Remus’ waistband, undid the buttons one by one, slow enough to be maddening, then tugged his trousers and pants down in one motion.

Remus hissed softly at the rush of air. He was already half-hard, the full moon’s approach making everything sharper, rawer.

Regulus grabbed the wand off the side table, cast a lubrication charm low and clean, and worked it over his fingers, his cock, then over Remus with practiced focus—rougher than usual, deliberate.

Remus tipped his head back, groaning as two fingers slid in, stretching him with more insistence than grace. It wasn’t careful. But it was wanted.

“Fuck, Regulus—” he gasped.

Regulus smirked, sharp and unsparing. “You’re not the only one with instincts.”

He slicked himself, lined up, and pushed in with a slow, forceful grind of his hips.

Remus’ breath stuttered out of him, back arching.

“You feel that?” Regulus asked, biting his shoulder again. “That’s not casual.”

He started to move—sharp thrusts, deep and relentless, his hands braced on Remus’ shoulders, nails leaving faint red lines as he rolled his hips hard.

Remus moaned low and desperate, hands scrambling for purchase. He wasn’t used to being taken like this. Not by Regulus. Not like this.

Regulus gritted out, “You want out? Then say it.”

Remus didn’t. Couldn’t.

Regulus leaned in, pressed their chests together, driving his cock deeper, angling just right.

Remus broke.

“Fuck—Regulus—” he groaned, and his hands locked onto Regulus’ back, dragging him close, letting him take everything he wanted.

It didn’t take long.

Regulus came with a stuttering cry, body clenching, panting into Remus’ throat as he spilled inside him, trembling with it.

He collapsed forward, boneless for a moment.

But Remus wasn’t done.

Not nearly.

He flipped them in one smooth motion—Regulus on his back now, flushed and still gasping—and Remus reached between them, slicking himself again with fingers wet from the release.

“My turn,” he growled, voice edged with hunger.

Regulus blinked up at him, too dazed to argue.

“You’re mine,” Remus said, and drove into him in one deep, possessive thrust.

Regulus cried out, voice wrecked, thighs trembling as Remus found his rhythm—hard, claiming, deliberate. One hand pinning his wrists above his head, the other gripping his hip like he never planned to let go.

Regulus’ moans cracked apart into breathless whimpers. “Remus—fuck—please—”

“Too much?”

“No,” Regulus gasped. “Don’t stop.”

So Remus didn’t.

He fucked him through it—through the overstimulation, through the second wave that built fast and brutal. Regulus came again with a sob, body clenching around him, and Remus spilled right after, hips stuttering, his groan
low and ragged as he collapsed over him, their bodies tangled and shaking.

They stayed like that.

Sweat-slick and breathless.

Polyjuice still bubbling faintly in the background, ignored.

After a long, aching silence, Remus whispered, “You’re not casual.”

Regulus, eyes half-lidded and lips parted, managed a soft, hoarse, “Good.”

Then reached up, fingers tangling in Remus’ curls, and pulled him into one more kiss.

Slow.

Certain.

Final.

Because they both knew—

There was no out.

November 4th, 1979, 6 PM - Regulus Black

Regulus hadn’t told Remus he’d gotten rid of the chains.

Mostly because he hadn’t meant to.

He’d come down to the cellar that afternoon to check the lock, maybe reinforce the insulation charms—and found himself staring at the cuffs bolted into the wall like they were something criminal. They felt like a betrayal. Not of logic, but of Remus.

So he’d removed them.

And then, because he was an idiot with poor impulse control and a developing sense of humor, he’d conjured two pillows and tossed a squeaky dog toy into the center of the room.

Bright red. Shaped like a rubber bone. Regulus thought it was hilarious.

When they arrived at sundown, Remus stopped in the doorway and stared at the scene like he’d walked in on an intervention.

“What the hell is that?”

Regulus shrugged. “Comfort.”

Remus pointed to the toy. “That’s a chew toy.”

“It squeaks.”

“Why?”

“In case you want to work through your aggression in a safe, supervised environment.”

Remus looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t.

Instead, he glanced toward the wall where the chains used to hang. “Where are—”

“I trust you,” Regulus said simply. “And I trust the door.”

Remus was quiet for a long time.

Then nodded. “Alright.”

He stepped inside, eyes sweeping the room like he expected it to change. Regulus watched him fold down onto one of the pillows, slow and careful, like his body already knew what was coming.

They didn’t say goodbye.

They never did.

Regulus closed the door and sat on the top step, hands clasped between his knees, and waited.

The sounds began just after moonrise.

It was worse than last time. Not louder. Just closer. No stone and iron between them. No distance. Just his back against the door, and the brutal, gut-deep sound of bones dislocating and rearranging on the other side.

Remus didn’t scream.

But he made noises that were worse. Ragged gasps. Guttural cracks. The kind of pain that didn’t need volume to sound unbearable.

Regulus sat frozen, each breath shallower than the last.

Then the sounds changed.

The breathing grew erratic. Short. Panicked.

Then—scratching.

The gentlest scrape of claws against the other side of the door, followed by a low, miserable whine.

Regulus stared at the handle. Then made, without question, the worst decision of his life.

He unlatched the door and cracked it open.

Just a sliver.

Enough for the moonlight to spill down and catch the shape of something enormous on the other side.

Moony was curled against the wall, ribs rising too fast, ears flattened. He raised his head and stared.

Regulus opened the door wider.

The wolf didn’t move. Just watched.

Then—slowly—he stood.

Hackles raised. Shoulders taut.

He paced once across the room, then doubled back, sniffing the air. Each step was silent. Deliberate. A hunter assessing the idiot who’d wandered too close.

Regulus stepped down onto the cellar floor.

The wolf froze.

Sniffed.

Came closer.

Regulus stood still.

Let him get close. Closer.

Sniff. Sniff. Breath warm against his chest.

Moony growled, low in his throat.

Regulus did not flinch.

A long, slow pause.

Then—squeak.

Regulus blinked.

Moony had nosed the toy. Hard. It bounced once across the stone floor.

Then he pounced.

Squeaked it again. Looked at Regulus with something perilously close to smugness.

Regulus laughed, but it came out high and a little panicked.

Moony dropped the toy at his feet.

Regulus picked it up, tossed it, and watched with morbid fascination as the wolf chased it.

They did this three more times.

Then, apparently satisfied, Moony trotted back across the room and flopped down beside the far wall.

Regulus followed, heart pounding.

Sat beside him. Not too close.

But Moony had other ideas.

He shifted—large and warm and heavy—and dropped his head squarely into Regulus’ lap with a faint huff.

Regulus stared down at him.

Lifted one cautious hand. Scratched behind his ear.

The wolf sighed.

Regulus leaned back against the wall, breath finally beginning to slow.

And hummed.

Low and quiet, the same lullaby Sirius used to hum when Regulus couldn’t sleep. The one Regulus never admitted he remembered.

Au Clair de la Lune.

He kept scratching until the wolf stilled completely.

And didn’t stop until he drifted off too.

Chapter Text

November 5th, 1979, 5 AM - Regulus Black

Regulus woke up with a crick in his neck and the distinct, bone-deep feeling that he’d made a series of poor decisions.

The cellar was still dark. Still cold. His back ached from the stone, his legs had fallen asleep, and there was a very heavy weight pinning him to the floor.

He blinked blearily down.

Remus.

Not Moony.

Just Remus, curled half on top of him, face pressed against his hip, breathing slow and shallow. Naked. Bare skin streaked with dirt and magic residue, back rising with every breath like it hurt.

And changing.

It was subtle at first—more like unwinding than shifting. Fur retreating. Bones settling. The tension bleeding out of him like smoke.

Regulus winced as his spine popped. He tried to shift, to ease the pressure, but that movement was apparently enough.

Remus stirred, made a low groaning noise, and then lifted his head—

And froze.

Their eyes met.

Regulus opened his mouth.

And Remus said, hoarse and sharp and furious, “What the fuck.”

It wasn’t a question.

Regulus sat up a little straighter, rubbing at his neck. “Good morning to you too.”

Remus pushed himself up with a hiss. Every muscle in his body looked like it had been chewed through and stitched back together. “You—opened the door.”

“Technically, yes.”

“Regulus.”

There was real panic in his voice now, threaded through the fury. Real horror.

“You opened the door,” Remus repeated. “To a werewolf.”

Regulus stood, slowly, stretching out the worst of the stiffness. “You were whining.”

“I was transforming.”

“You sounded miserable.”

“I am miserable!” Remus snapped. “It’s a full moon, I’m supposed to be miserable! That doesn’t mean you invite yourself into the blast radius like a lunatic!”

Regulus didn’t flinch.

Remus was fully upright now, though swaying slightly. Still naked. Still trembling. But furious enough to power through it.

“You could’ve died,” he said, low and brutal.

Regulus folded his arms. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t this time.”

“You licked my hand.”

Remus went still.

His jaw ticked.

“You played fetch.”

“That is not—” Remus gestured wildly. “You shouldn’t have been in here.”

“I didn’t plan to be!”

“You should have left!”

“I wasn’t going to leave you alone!”

“You were supposed to lock the door and stay out—you absolute—”

He broke off, either too tired or too exasperated to continue. Probably both.

Regulus stood his ground.

Remus ran a hand through his hair. “I could’ve hurt you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.”

Regulus let the silence stretch for a beat before saying, quietly, “I know.”

Remus looked at him.

Regulus stepped forward, hands loose at his sides. “I know what I did was stupid. I know it scared you.”

“It didn’t scare me,” Remus lied.

Regulus smiled, tired and small. “You’re a shit liar.”

Remus didn’t argue.

He just looked at him—really looked—and shook his head like he didn’t know what to do with any of it. With the broken chains. The pillows. The fact that Regulus was still alive.

Regulus held out a hand.

“Come upstairs. Let me take care of you.”

Remus didn’t move.

But his shoulders sagged.

And after a long pause, he reached out—and let himself be pulled up the stairs.

They didn’t talk much on the way back inside.

Remus limped. Regulus hovered. The door shut behind them with a soft click, sealing the night out like it might still follow.

Regulus guided him to the kitchen—steady hand at his elbow, too gentle to argue with. Remus didn’t fight it. Just dropped into a chair like gravity had finally won.

His skin was a mess.

Claw marks healing into bruises. Bite scars barely sealed. Elbows scraped, ribs dark with blooming red and purple, dried blood cracking at his temple.

Regulus fetched the salve without being asked.

He came back with the kit and set it down between them, wordless. The tension hadn’t left—it hung in the air like smoke, sharp at the edges. But there was no heat now. No anger.

Just the weight of it.

Remus rolled up his sleeves with shaking hands.

Regulus didn’t ask. Just reached out and started to work.

They sat in silence while Regulus cleaned the cuts—soft, practiced movements, hands steady even when the rest of him wasn’t. He dabbed gently along a bruise at Remus’ collarbone, fingers brushing skin still warm with fever.

Remus hissed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I’ve been worse.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Another long pause.

Then Remus said, quietly, “You shouldn’t have been in that cellar.”

Regulus didn’t look up. “You’ve made that clear.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Remus watched him for a while—eyes flicking over his face like he was searching for the part that still didn’t understand.

Then, softer: “You don’t know what I’m like. Not really.”

“You think I haven’t seen you like this?” Regulus asked.

Remus shook his head. “Observing from behind layered wards is not the same thing as walking into a room with a monster, and you know it.”

Regulus paused in his work.

The salve sat cool on his fingers, hovering just above another bruise.

“You’re not a monster,” he said.

“No? What do you call a werewolf, then?”

Regulus looked up at him then. Really looked.

And said, very quietly, “I’ve seen monsters, Remus. You’re not one of them.”

That landed somewhere deep.

Remus looked down at his hands; the cuts. The scars. The things he didn’t let anyone name.

Regulus reached for another bandage, his movements a little gentler now. “You don’t have to fix it all at once.”

“I don’t know if I can fix it at all.”

Regulus pressed the bandage down.

“Then let me.”

November 7th, 1979, 3 PM - Regulus Black

Two days later, the potion was ready.

It sat on the kitchen table, bubbling faintly in a thick, scorched-bottomed cauldron.

Regulus stood over it with his arms crossed, feeling faintly sick.

Across the room, Barty and Evan were already making themselves at home. Evan was nursing a cup of tea like it was whiskey. Barty was perched on the edge of the armchair with the kind of grin that promised regret.

Remus stood nearby, watchful.

“This is just a test,” he said gently. “We’ll time the transformation, make sure it works. Make sure we have enough time.”

Regulus nodded once.

He didn’t like this part. Not the magic—he was fine with the mechanics. But the concept.

The hair floating in the ladle was dark. Curly. Familiar.

Sirius.

Regulus picked up the vial, paused, then downed it in one long, miserable swallow.

It tasted like wet ash and floor polish. He gagged, hand braced against the table, and then the change hit—fast, hot, wrong.

He wasn’t prepared for how it would feel.

Everything shifted—bones, height, the angle of his shoulders. His hair pulled longer. His hands grew broader. His face—it didn’t feel like his face anymore.

And then it was over.

He staggered upright, breath shallow, and looked at the others.

Three sets of eyes were on him.

Evan let out a low whistle. “Well. That’s unsettling.”

Barty grinned. “I’ve had fantasies that started exactly like this.”

Remus didn’t say anything.

He was staring.

Not longingly—not exactly. But looking. Really looking. Studying him like something didn’t sit right.

Regulus looked away.

His throat felt too tight.

He hated this, hated the feel of Sirius’ face on his skin, of broad shoulders that weren’t his, of hair that felt too heavy.

But what he hated most—what made something coil in his chest—was the way Remus looked at him.

Like he didn’t mean to, but couldn’t help it.

They tested the potion. Measured the timing. Walked the perimeter of the garden until Remus was satisfied with how Regulus walked while wearing his brother’s body. Regulus didn’t speak unless he had to. Didn’t look at Remus unless forced.

At one point, Barty elbowed him in the ribs and muttered, “You okay there, Lover Boy?”

Regulus didn’t respond.

At the one-hour mark, the change reversed. Relief rushed in like a wave breaking. Regulus collapsed into himself with a gasp, arms braced on the table.

Remus moved to steady him without hesitation—hand at his back, firm and steady.

Regulus didn’t lean in, but he didn’t pull away either.

“All right,” Barty said, clapping his hands once. “So that worked. Great. What’s the plan again? In and out, no detours, no snogging in the Forbidden Forest?”

“No stopping to fuck in a broom cupboard,” Evan added helpfully.

Remus looked vaguely pained.

Regulus said nothing.

Because the thought of Remus touching him while he looked like Sirius—

It made his skin crawl.

Not because of Remus.

Because of everything else.

“Right,” Remus said, recovering his voice. “Tomorrow, we go. In and out in under an hour. Straight to the Room of Requirement. No distractions.”

Regulus nodded. “No mistakes.”

No pretending.

November 7th, 1979, 10 PM - Regulus Black

The bedroom was still.

Outside, the wind moved against the windows with a hush like it was trying not to wake anyone. Just a whisper. Just enough to be noticed.

The fire in the grate had burned low. Only embers now—soft and slow, the last heat curling into the shadows.

Regulus lay on his side, curled beneath the blanket, one hand tucked beneath his cheek. The other hidden somewhere near his chest, clenched and restless, like he could hold the thoughts back if he just held on tight enough.

Behind him, Remus lay close enough to share warmth, but not touching.

Not yet.

They hadn’t spoken since lights out.

Regulus’ throat had been thick with unspoken things for hours. Ever since the test—ever since the polyjuice, the mirror, the wrong face staring back at him like a trick of memory. Ever since Remus looked at him and hesitated.
Just for a second.

But a second was long enough.

It had followed him all day. Every glance. Every breath. That small, sharp pause between seeing and remembering. Between him and Sirius.

And now it was here with them, in the dark. Between the sheets. Between heartbeats.

“You’re quiet,” Remus said at last, voice low and tired around the edges.

Regulus didn’t answer.

“You okay?”

A pause.

Then, carefully—barely audible—

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

Another beat.

Regulus’ voice was soft. Uncertain.

“Are you just with me because you can’t have him?”

Silence.

Thick, sudden, awful.

Remus didn’t move.

Not toward him. Not away.

Regulus rolled slightly—just enough to feel the weight of the question settle between them. He didn’t expect an answer. Not really. Maybe that was the answer.

“It’s fine if you are,” he said, quieter now. “I wouldn’t blame you. I know what he meant to you.”

Remus let out a breath—long and slow and shaky.

“I’m not,” he said. “But that’s… not a simple answer.”

Regulus blinked at the wall, eyes dry and burning. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.”

Remus shifted behind him, just slightly, the mattress dipping with the motion. He didn’t touch. But his voice came a little closer.

“I thought I loved Sirius,” he said. “For a long time. I think… maybe I still do. In a way.”

Regulus said nothing. He could feel the words already curling sharp in his chest.

“But it took me growing up to understand that loving someone doesn’t always mean being in love with them.”

That made Regulus go still. Entirely still.

“And I wasn’t,” Remus said. “Not with him. Not like this. Not the way I am with you.”

The words didn’t fall like a blow.

They settled.

Like rain after a drought. Like something gentle and needed and finally allowed.

Regulus closed his eyes.

Remus reached for him then—slow, cautious. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. His fingers brushed Regulus’ side once, then stilled.

“I know I look at him and feel something familiar,” Remus murmured. “But I look at you, and I feel something undeniable.”

Regulus let that sit for a long moment.

Then he rolled.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

Just enough to reach behind him and find Remus’ hand. To thread their fingers together beneath the blanket.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

Remus squeezed his hand once.

And Regulus, after a long moment, squeezed back.

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. It wasn’t waiting for anything.

It just was.

And for the first time in days, Regulus let himself believe that maybe he could stay. Maybe this wasn’t going to be taken away. Maybe he was wanted—not as a proxy, not as a ghost—but as himself.

He shifted again, turning fully this time, pressing his forehead lightly to Remus’ chest.

Remus’ hand came up to card through his hair, slow and steady. Like it had always belonged there.

“You’re allowed to be afraid,” Remus said softly.

“I’m not,” Regulus whispered.

Remus stilled.

“I’m not afraid,” Regulus said again. “I just didn’t know if I was… enough.”

He felt Remus exhale, felt the breath move through his ribs.

“You’re more than enough.”

Regulus tilted his head up. “You sure?”

Remus leaned down and kissed him—gentle, unhurried, all warmth and weight and clarity.

“Yes,” he said into the kiss. “I’m sure.”

Regulus kissed him again, just to be certain. Just to be sure of himself.

When they pulled apart, he didn’t look away.

He pressed their foreheads together and whispered, “Okay.”

Because it was.

Because they were.

And in the stillness that followed, the wind at the window gave one final sigh—and passed them by.

Chapter Text

November 8th, 1979, 10 PM - Remus Lupin

The Honeydukes cellar smelled like sugar and dust and memory.

Remus hadn’t set foot here since seventh year. Back then it had meant mischief—nicked sweets and stolen weekends and James whispering “Don’t drop the Cloak, you menace,” while Sirius tried to hex the squeaky floorboard into silence.

Now?

Now it meant war.

Regulus was already mid-transformation, crouched beside the crates of nougat with one hand braced on the stone floor. The Polyjuice Potion was nearly empty—just a smear left at the bottom of the flask—and he was breathing hard through the change.

It was more subtle this time.

No collapsing. No gasping.

Just a gradual reordering of his body. Hair darkening. Jaw sharpening. Shoulders broadening into something Remus hadn’t realized he still remembered so well.

When it was over, Sirius was crouched where Regulus had been.

Not exactly, but close. The posture was different, the expression more guarded.

But the resemblance was enough to split Remus down the middle.

“You good?” he asked softly.

Sirius—Regulus—nodded once. His voice came out wrong. “Let’s get this over with.”

They moved fast.

Remus slipped the Marauder’s Map out of his pocket and tapped it with his wand. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The parchment flared to life.

Remus watched the little labeled footprints pacing the castle—Filch in the dungeons, Peeves by the Trophy Room, McGonagall somewhere near the library.

The path was clear.

“Let’s move.”

They crept through the tunnel—wands lit low, footsteps light. The stone walls were damp with late-autumn chill, the way only old things were. They didn’t speak.

They emerged into the hallway behind the statue of the one-eyed witch. Remus poked his head around the statue, checking to be sure no one had wandered into the hall since he’d last checked the map.

Remus glanced sideways at Regulus—Sirius, now—eyes catching in the dim.

“You ready?”

Regulus nodded.

They moved.

Remus led them through the transfiguration corridor and to a staircase tucked into the side of the castle, away from the normal flow of Prefect rounds and student activity.

Remus checked the Map. “Clear. This way.”

Up the stairs. Down the corridor. Past a suit of armor that still bore a dent from one of James’ fifth-year incidents. Then—

The stretch of blank wall.

The one they needed.

Remus paced in front of it three times, thinking: I need the Room of Hidden Things. I need the Room of Hidden Things. I need—

The door appeared.

He reached for it.

Regulus stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

Remus looked back.

Just for a second, he saw it—Sirius’ face, Regulus’ eyes.

Then the hand dropped.

“Let’s go,” Regulus said.

Remus pushed the door open.

And they stepped into the dark.

The Room of Hidden Things smelled like dust, old magic, and a thousand bad ideas.

It stretched in every direction—towering stacks of broken cabinets, mountains of discarded books, shelves and crates and forgotten relics half-buried under time and regret. There was no light source, but Remus’ wand illuminated just enough to make it feel bigger. Endless. Like the castle had been hoarding sins here for centuries.

Regulus stepped in behind him.

Still wearing Sirius’ face. Still utterly, painfully himself.

They didn’t speak, just moved.

Remus led them down a narrow aisle between a crumbling wardrobe and a pile of melted cauldrons. His map was tucked away—no use now. The diadem wouldn’t be marked.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a tiara-tracking spell,” Remus muttered.

Regulus snorted. “Fresh out.”

They turned a corner. Dead end.

Doubled back.

Halfway through what looked like a collapsed shrine to discontinued Defense textbooks, Regulus paused.

“There,” he said.

Remus followed his line of sight.

High up—balanced on the head of a broken bust—something glittered.

Remus raised his wand. Light flared. The shape caught it and shimmered, faintly blue and impossibly delicate.
The diadem.

Ravenclaw’s lost crown.

He stepped toward it.

“Careful,” Regulus said sharply.

Remus slowed.

“Magic like this—he wouldn’t have hidden it here without protections.”

“I know.”

He reached out—slow, deliberate—and levitated the crown down with a steady hand.

It hovered toward them, spinning slightly, the inscription gleaming around the edge.

Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.

“Do you feel it?” Remus asked.

Regulus nodded once. “Yes.”

The Horcrux thrummed in the air between them. Not loud, not aggressive, just present. Like it knew it had been found and was waiting to be fought.

“We need to move,” Remus said. “We’re twenty-five minutes in.”

Regulus tucked the diadem into the magically shielded satchel he’d prepared that morning. Reinforced. Sealed. Nothing should be able to touch it—at least not yet.

They turned back, retraced their steps.

They made it to the 7th floor corridor without incident and then doubled back to the same staircase they’d taken on the trip up. A ghost– Remus didn’t watch long enough to see which– materialized a few feet away from them and Remus grabbed Regulus’ hand, tugging him into an alcove until the coast was clear.

Finally, they made it down the staircase, and back to the statue of the one-eyed witch. Remus drew his wand, muttered “Dissendium,” and held tightly to Regulus’ hand as they stepped back into the tunnel that led to Honeydukes.

They collapsed against the wall the second the trapdoor closed behind them, breath ragged, adrenaline racing. The satchel with the Horcrux sat between them like a live wire.

Twenty minutes left on the Polyjuice.

Remus could barely look at him.

Not because it was Sirius’ face, but because it wasn’t Regulus.

Not the tilt of his mouth. Not the sharpness behind his eyes. Not the very specific way his silence filled a room.

And he missed him.

God, he missed him.

So he waited.

Quiet. Tense. Every heartbeat louder than it should be.

Then—finally—Regulus shifted.

It wasn’t violent. Just a slow, steady reversal. Like exhaling. The broad shoulders pulled in. The sharpness of Sirius’ jaw softened. The nose changed, the mouth, the eyes—

And then there he was.

Regulus.

Real and narrow and furrowed-browed, blinking like his skin had stopped itching.

Remus exhaled like it was the first breath he’d taken in an hour.

“Hi,” Regulus said, hoarse.

Remus leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Regulus’ shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to remind himself he could.

“Hi,” he said back.

They Apparated straight into the kitchen, the wards Remus had cast letting them through without resistance.

Evan was the first to appear from the hallway, half-buttoned and blinking like he’d just rolled out of bed. Barty followed with his wand in one hand and toast in the other.

“Well?” Evan asked.

Remus didn’t speak. Just reached into the satchel and pulled out the diadem.

It shimmered in the firelight—cold and ancient and wrong.

Barty let out a low whistle. “That’s it, then.”

Regulus nodded. “That’s all of them.”

They laid it out on the table.

One cursed crown, one satchel full of destruction.

And four people too young to have survived what they had.

Evan sat down with a groan.

“Okay. So the locket is gone. The diary, the cup, the ring.”

“And now the diadem.” Evan looked at all of them. “Five pieces.”

Regulus nodded. “Five.”

“And he’s still out there,” Barty said.

Regulus’ jaw tightened. “But he’s mortal now.”

A beat passed.

Then Barty leaned back in his chair and said, “That last one was weirdly easy.”

Regulus looked at him.

There was no humor in his voice when he replied, “We still have to win.”

Another pause.

Then, softer, “Someone still has to kill him.”

November 9th, 1979, 2 AM - Remus Lupin

They were sitting around the kitchen table, the diadem between them, when Remus said, “We need to tell Dumbledore.”

Silence.

Not shock—just stillness.

Regulus leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. Evan stilled mid-sip. Barty raised one eyebrow like he’d heard a slur.

“No,” Barty said flatly.

“We have to,” Remus replied. “He’s the only one with the power and reach to end this.”

“He’s also the leader of a vigilante army that wants us,” Evan started, gesturing broadly to himself, Regulus and Barty, “Dead.”

“I know what he is,” Remus said. “And I also know he’s not Voldemort.”

Barty scoffed. “Debatable.”

Remus turned to Regulus.

He didn’t need to say anything.

Regulus met his eyes—sharp, quiet—and said, “You really think you can convince him?”

“I have to.”

More silence.

Then, slowly, Regulus nodded. “You’ll tell him everything?”

“As much as I can.”

Evan ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I’ve always wanted to be executed by a man with good robes.”

Barty muttered, “You’re both insane.”

But none of them said no.

Remus stepped outside into the garden, took a slow breath, and raised his wand.

“Tell Albus Dumbledore,” he whispered. “Remus Lupin requests a meeting. Immediately.”

His Patronus leapt from the wand tip—bright, silver, four-legged and swift—and vanished into the night.

Chapter Text

November 9th, 1979, 2:30 AM - Remus Lupin

Dumbledore arrived fifteen minutes later.

Not with a crack of thunder. No grand entrance. Just a shimmer through the wards as he approached the garden gate, quiet as breath.

Remus met him there.

He looked older than Remus remembered. The lines around his eyes were deeper, the stoop in his shoulders more pronounced. As if the years had caught up all at once.

“You called,” Dumbledore said simply.

“I did.”

Dumbledore studied him—no smile, no warmth. Just quiet calculation.

“You’ve been gone a while.”

Remus nodded. “I was busy.”

He turned. “Come inside.”

The moment Dumbledore stepped into the kitchen, he stopped.

Three former Death Eaters.

One werewolf.

A table littered with open books and annotated maps. A containment charm glowing softly around the final Horcrux—sitting, impossibly, in the middle of the breakfast table.

The silence that followed felt brittle. Almost reverent.

Remus gestured to the seat across from him. “Thank you for coming.”

“I must admit,” Dumbledore said lightly, “this is not what I expected to find.”

“Same,” Evan muttered.

Remus took a breath.

“This is Regulus Black. Evan Rosier. Barty Crouch Jr.”

Dumbledore’s gaze swept over them like a cold front—measured, distant. “We’re familiar.”

“They were Death Eaters,” Remus said. “They’re not anymore. They’ve helped me track and destroy every Horcrux Voldemort made.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flicked to the diadem. “And that?”

“The last one.”

He let the silence stretch. Let the weight of it settle.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Remus said quietly. “I know what this looks like. But you weren’t there. Regulus nearly died trying to destroy the locket alone. Evan and Barty followed him out of loyalty, not allegiance. They’ve
risked everything to be here.”

Dumbledore looked at him for a long time. Then:

“And what of you, Remus? What have you risked?”

Remus smiled—sharp and tired. “I went into the werewolf camps for you. Remember?”

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t flicker.

“You let me into Hogwarts,” Remus said. “Not out of charity. You needed something. You hoped kindness would make me loyal.”

“I gave you a future,” Dumbledore replied.

“No. You gave me an assignment,” Remus said. “And I did it.”

The words echoed. Heavy in the room.

“I’m asking you now to give them what you gave me.”

Dumbledore stared at him. Long. Unblinking.

Then—softly, as if testing the word—“Clemency.”

Remus nodded. “Clemency. For all three.”

Another pause.

Then, at last:

“Very well.”

No fanfare. No qualifiers.

Just yes.

Remus let out a breath that had been sitting in his lungs for weeks. Maybe months.

Dumbledore stepped forward and looked down at the diadem, still pulsing faintly beneath its containment field.

“So,” he said. “The others are gone?”

“All but this one.”

Dumbledore nodded once. “Then the war is nearly over.”

Across the room, Regulus spoke. Quiet. Unshaken.

“Not until he’s dead.”

Dumbledore’s eyes met his.

“No,” he agreed. “Not until then.”

Remus leaned forward. Elbows on the table. Voice steady.

“So let’s make a plan.”

As the hours wore into morning, the kitchen transformed.

Maps blanketed the table. Notes and sketches were layered between teacups and inkpots. Patrol routes. Timelines. Ward layouts. Surveillance blind spots.

At the center of it all, the diadem—still humming softly, untouched.

Dumbledore observed more than he spoke. He offered corrections when needed, context when asked, but his gaze rarely left the crown.

“We use it as bait,” Remus said. “He thinks he’s untouchable. We give him a reason to prove it.”

Dumbledore considered him. “And where would you like him to make that declaration?”

Regulus spoke before anyone else could.

“The Ministry.”

Heads turned.

“The Atrium,” he clarified. “It’s open. Vulnerable. Magical surveillance on every floor. If we can get control of the wards, we can isolate him—cut off reinforcements.”

Barty let out a low whistle. “I always hoped I’d die in a historically significant building.”

“We’re not dying,” Remus said flatly.

He looked around the table. One by one.

“We’re finishing this.”

November 9th, 1979, 11 AM - Remus Lupin

The next day was quiet.

Too quiet.

Remus sat by the kitchen window with a cup of tea he hadn’t touched in an hour, watching a breeze worry the tall grass behind the cottage. The others moved around him—Regulus scribbling something down in one of his
endless notebooks, Evan flipping idly through a deck of cards he swore was cursed, Barty pacing like a caged thing—but Remus didn’t join them.

He was listening.

Not for footsteps or sounds outside the wards. Not for anything physical.

He was listening for the world to shift.

Because it had. It just hadn’t told them how yet.

The meeting had ended less than an hour ago. Dumbledore had played his part to perfection—calm, cryptic, unshakable. He had conducted the meeting like normal, recapped recent Order missions, losses, casually mentioned a
safe house that would need to be resupplied.

Then he’d planted the rumor.

Just a few sentences, dropped like stones into water at the end of the meeting. The diadem had been found. It would be moved to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at noon the following Friday. No guards. No detail.
Just facts spoken into the air where Peter Pettigrew could hear them.

Where Peter could pass them along.

Remus had tried not to think too hard about Peter since he’d seen the way he froze, barely masked, when the trap had been laid.

It was the only time Remus had truly looked at him. And Peter had looked back.

He wondered if Peter had noticed the shift in the room. If he’d realized, even for a moment, that they knew.

That they were waiting.

Regulus crossed into the kitchen without a word and handed him another cup of tea. It wasn’t even hot. They both knew Remus wouldn’t drink it.

“Thanks,” Remus murmured anyway.

Regulus nodded, settled in the chair opposite him, and said nothing.

The clock ticked.

In the other room, Evan hummed tunelessly. Barty cursed under his breath when something dropped to the floor.

Everything was normal.

Nothing was.

Remus stared at the far field, where the tall grass met the fog. Somewhere out there, a message was already moving. Somewhere out there, a man was packing for war. Somewhere out there, Voldemort had heard the bait.

And now all that was left to do was wait.

Wait, and hope the trap would spring before the cost rose higher.

Remus closed his eyes.

And listened to the silence.

Chapter Text

November 16th, 1979, 1 PM - Remus Lupin

The atrium gleamed like it always had—cold, cavernous, and over-polished, all sleek tile and sharp edges. It didn’t feel like a battlefield.

But it would.

The portraits along the walls had been cleared. The fountains stood dry. Statues watched from the far end, silent and still, like they were waiting to witness history.

At the center of the room stood James.

Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Jaw set. And—

Remus blinked. “Are those—?”

“My good pants,” James said, not turning. Just grinning. “You told me to wear them.”

“You said you were saving them for a funeral.”

James glanced back, one eyebrow raised. “Dealer’s choice, right? Guess whose.”

Across the room, Sirius paced. Restless energy in every step.

Remus felt Regulus shift beside him, then the quiet slide of fingers into his palm.

He squeezed back. Once. Steady.

A beat passed in that electric, uneasy silence.

Then—

“Why,” Sirius snapped, turning suddenly, “are you holding hands with my brother?”

No room for subtlety. No pretense.

Remus didn’t flinch. “Because I like him.”

Sirius blinked. Froze.

Then pointed at Regulus, incredulous. “You—?”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. Dry as dust. “Now? Really? This is when we’re doing this?”

Before Sirius could muster a reply, Barty nudged Evan with an elbow and said, sotto voce, “You owe me five galleons. I told you this would happen.”

“No, you said he’d throw a hex,” Evan shot back, eyes still fixed on the far doors.

Barty gestured pointedly to their joined hands. “There’s still time.”

Somewhere behind them, James muttered, “Are we all going to die awkward, or…?”

Remus turned to him, jaw tight. “Don’t die.”

James gave a tight nod. “You either.”

A pause.

Then Sirius raised his wand. The light caught in his eyes—sharp, fearless, furious.

“Here we go.”

November 16th, 1979, 2:00 PM – Remus Lupin

Voldemort didn’t arrive with fanfare.

He came like a pressure drop.

The moment before a storm breaks, before the sky splits open and the air turns electric—that’s how it felt. The magic around them stiffened. The wards rippled. The shadows stretched long across the atrium floor—and from
them, Voldemort emerged, silent and sure, as if he had been part of the building all along.

He moved like a man who had forgotten what fear was. But Remus could see it—even before the fighting began. The way the darkness clung to him. The way his magic pulsed too sharp, too fast. He looked older than he had in
every memory. Not aged by time, but by rot. Hollowed out by the thing he had carved himself into.

Behind him, the Death Eaters spilled in like a tide.

Too many.

But not enough.

Voldemort’s gaze swept across the room, taking in the faces that stood against him—Dumbledore. The Order. The boys he thought he’d broken. The ones who had rebuilt themselves from the ashes. Then his eyes landed on the
diadem, gleaming cold on its pedestal, and lingered there.

“I see,” he said, voice soft and bone-deep, like the whisper of a knife. “You’ve come to die together.”

“No,” Dumbledore replied, stepping forward without hesitation. His wand was already in hand, but his voice remained calm, steady. “We’ve come to end you.”

And then the air fractured.

Magic erupted in every direction—silent at first, like a held breath. Then a boom, sudden and violent. Spells collided midair. The floor cracked beneath them. Walls shuddered under the weight of centuries-old enchantments
trying to hold.

The battle began in chaos.

There was no choreography to it, no structure. Just raw, furious magic. A scream here, a cry there. The crackle of spells echoing off marble. Smoke filled the atrium like a curtain pulled over a stage, and through it, flashes of
color—green, red, silver—lit the haze like lightning.

Remus didn’t think. There wasn’t time to think. He moved on instinct. Fired hexes toward the masked figure bearing down on him, ducked a blast that split a nearby pillar in half, dove to cover Regulus’ exposed flank and cast a
shield just in time to block a nasty looking curse.

His wand burned in his hand, the magic channeling through him faster than he could name it. His blood felt electric. Every nerve was on fire.

Somewhere in the smoke, he could see them—Sirius, reckless and grinning, darting across the wreckage with his wand drawn like a sword. James behind him, eyes sharp beneath sweat-matted curls, blood at his temple, but
steady. They fought like they’d been born for this.

And then—just for a heartbeat—everything paused.

James reached for Sirius. Grabbed him. Kissed him, hard and fast, like it might be the last chance he’d get.

It stunned Sirius still for a second.

Just one.

And then James pulled back, met his eyes, and said quietly, “Just in case.”

And was gone again.

Vanished back into the smoke, already casting another curse.

Sirius stood frozen, blinking, one hand raised to his mouth like he could still feel it there.

Remus shouted, “Sirius—move!”

And Sirius did.

Spun on instinct, fired a hex over Remus’ shoulder, and disappeared into the haze.

The fight surged again.

The floor cracked open beneath them. A statue fell, shattered in a blast of rubble. Spells lit the air like fireworks, but beneath it all, Remus felt something shift.

A pull.

Low in his chest.

A tightening in the magic.

He turned, breath caught halfway in his throat, and saw Dumbledore press Voldemort back with a sweep of silver fire. The spell struck the floor at his feet, and Voldemort stumbled.

Not far.

But enough.

And for the first time—the first time—Remus saw it.

He looked mortal.

It was only a flicker. A tremor in his stance. A shadow behind his eyes.

But it was enough.

Remus didn’t hesitate. Didn’t look to anyone else. He stepped forward, quiet but certain, cardigan torn and blood drying on his sleeve, the diadem wrapped in a strip of cloth between his hands.

Everything else fell away.

He moved like the world had narrowed to this. To one final choice.

Voldemort turned, drawn by the movement. His eyes locked on the bundle in Remus’ arms, hunger and fear flickering in equal measure.

Remus stopped a few feet away, fingers tightening around the fabric.

“I believe this is yours,” he said.

Voldemort’s hand twitched, prepared to summon it—

But Remus was faster.

He pulled a vial from his pocket, uncorked it, and poured the basilisk venom over the diadem.

It hissed like a living thing, smoke curling from the ancient metal, veins of fracture appearing almost instantly.

The diadem shuddered.

And Remus didn’t flinch.

He folded the cloth, winding it tight.

Then tossed it, underhand.

“Catch.”

Voldemort, too shocked to question, reached out and caught it.

And that was his undoing.

The moment it touched his skin, the metal fused. The venom surged through the contact point, sinking into his palm, blackening the skin. The lines of corruption spread like roots, dark veins crawling up his arm, pulsing
beneath the surface.

He screamed.

It was no human sound.

It was a creature being dragged from the edge of death and made to remember what pain felt like.

His knees hit the floor.

His wand clattered beside him, useless.

The dark streaks climbed his arm, wrapped his shoulder, crept toward his throat.

He tried to tear it free, clawing at the crown with his other hand, but it was too late. It had fused to his flesh. It was part of him now.

Smoke poured from his mouth. His nose. His eyes.

And still, it spread.

The battle paused.

The war paused.

The magic in the air stilled.

And everyone watched.

Watched as the thing they feared most fell apart in front of them—not in a blaze of glory or a burst of power, but in slow, writhing collapse.

His body convulsed. The cursed veins surged upward. His face twisted—contorted in agony, disbelief, fear.

He met Remus’ eyes.

And in them, Remus saw it—confusion. Helplessness. The absolute horror of someone who had never imagined an end.

There was no final word.

No prophecy fulfilled.

Only the sound of splitting skin and the slow, sickening crack of something ancient dying.

His chest caved inward.

His limbs buckled.

Then he was ash.

Nothing left but smoke, dust, and the crown that clattered hollowly against the stone, cracked clean down the center.

Remus didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

The venom was still glowing faintly in his hands. The silence pressed in. His chest rose and fell in shallow, disbelieving breaths.

And the world, for the first time in years—

Was quiet.

Was free.

And still, no one spoke.

Because what do you say, when the war ends with a boy in a cardigan throwing a cursed crown at the devil and winning?

You say nothing.

You breathe.

You survive.

And then—

you go home.

November 16th, 1979, 6 PM – Remus Lupin

It didn’t hit Remus until they were outside.

The Ministry doors had been flung open. The wounded were being moved. Names were being shouted. The press was already trying to find the story.

But Remus didn’t hear it.

He just stood there, in the cold morning light, and looked at Regulus.

Covered in dust. Bleeding from the cheek. Hair singed. Still standing.

Still his.

Regulus met his eyes. “Let’s go home.”

So they did.

Back to the cottage, where the wards hummed gently and the chairs still remembered their shapes.

Regulus walked in and kicked his boots off without a word. Sat on the couch like his bones had forgotten how to carry him. Let his head fall back against the cushion.

Remus locked the door behind them.

Then crossed the room. Sat down beside him.

Not touching.

Just close.

After a long silence, Regulus asked, “Now what?”

Remus thought about it.

Then leaned over.

Took Regulus’ hand.

And said, “Now we live.”

Chapter Text

The door to Dorcas Meadowes’ flat opened like it expected trouble.

To be fair, it got some.

Evan was standing stiff-backed in the hallway, dressed like he wasn’t sure if this counted as a house call or a trial. Barty had insisted on bringing flowers. Not because he thought it would help, but because he liked having something to do with his hands that wasn’t hexing someone.

Dorcas stood just inside the threshold, backlit by a golden spill of late-afternoon sun. She didn’t look surprised.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

Barty didn’t flinch. “Didn’t think you’d want to see us.”

“I didn’t.” Her eyes flicked to the flowers. “Changed my mind.”

Evan cleared his throat. “They’re for you.”

She took them. Just—took them. No smile, no comment. Disappeared for a moment to put them in water.

They stood awkwardly.

When she came back, she didn’t offer tea. Just nodded toward the sitting room. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

Barty didn’t move.

So Evan did.

“We’re not here to explain,” he said. “Not really. Because there isn’t an explanation that would make any of it okay.”

Dorcas tilted her head.

“I know what we were,” Evan said. “I know what I did. What I didn’t do. I know what it cost people.”

He paused, took a deep breath, then, “I’m sorry.”

That landed like it meant something.

Dorcas looked at him for a long time. Then turned to Barty.

“And you?”

Barty exhaled. “I still don’t know how to talk about it.”

“That’s not a great start.”

“I know.” He stared at the carpet. “I joined because of my father. I stayed because of Regulus. I hurt people because I thought I could do it without becoming something else.”

He met her eyes.

“I was wrong.”

Dorcas studied him. Quiet. Sharp. Nothing in her expression gave away what she was thinking.

Finally, she said, “Did you love it?”

“What?”

“The power. The fear. The rush.”

Barty swallowed. “Yes.”

“And do you still?”

“No.”

That hung there.

Dorcas sat.

They blinked.

She pointed to the other chairs.

“Sit down before I change my mind.”

They obeyed.

She didn’t smile, but she poured three glasses of wine.

For a long while, they just sat there. Not quite at ease. Not quite unwelcome. Something in between.

Barty stared into his glass, swirling the contents once, then said—quietly—

“Have you ever heard of kintsugi?”

Dorcas raised an eyebrow. “That Japanese pottery thing?”

He looked faintly surprised. “You have.”

“Had a mentor who liked metaphors. Broke a plate once just to glue it back together in front of us.”

Barty huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah. That’s the one.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, “I used to think broken things were ruined. That once you cracked, it was over. You got thrown out or buried or punished until you stopped looking like the mess you were.”

He met her eyes.

“But I think maybe I’m starting to get it. The point of kintsugi.”

Dorcas didn’t answer.

So Barty kept going. Steady. Measured.

“You put something broken back together. Not to erase what happened—but to mark it. To say: this mattered. This broke. And it was still worth keeping.”

Evan looked at him, a little stunned. Dorcas just stared for a long moment.

Then finally said, “Not bad for a man who once tried to duel a mirror because it insulted him.”

“It did insult me,” Barty muttered.

But her voice was softer now. “And maybe you’ve changed.”

“Maybe.”

A pause.

Then he lifted his glass.

“To gold in the cracks,” he said.

And—for the first time—Dorcas lifted hers back.

“To the cracks,” she agreed.

The key turned in the lock with a soft click.

James opened the door slowly, like it mattered—like it meant something.

The cottage in Godric’s Hollow wasn’t much. Low ceilings, uneven floorboards, a garden that needed taming. The wallpaper in the hallway was peeling in places, and the upstairs creaked if you so much as thought about stepping wrong.

But it was his.

And he wanted Sirius to see it first.

Sirius stepped in behind him, quiet for once.

James didn’t speak. Just let him look. Let him feel it.

Finally, Sirius said, “So this is it.”

James nodded. “It’s ours. If you want it.”

Sirius blinked. “You’re serious?”

James raised an eyebrow. “No, you’re Sirius. I’m just an emotionally repressed disaster with a mortgage.”

That got the smile he was hoping for. Small. Sharp. Real.

Then Sirius looked at him. Really looked at him.

“Why now?” he asked. Not harsh. Just… curious.

James took a breath.

“I think I always knew you were my other half,” he said. “I just didn’t realize what that meant until it was almost too late. Until war and grief and growing up made it impossible to pretend I didn’t want more than late-night jokes and shared cigarettes.”

Sirius stared.

James gave a helpless shrug. “I’ve always loved you. It just took me a while to figure out it wasn’t the kind that ends when school does.”

Sirius stepped closer, something soft in his eyes.

“You’re a bloody idiot,” he said.

James smiled. “I know.”

“Big, noble, golden-hearted idiot.”

James bumped their shoulders together. “So, that’s a yes?”

“It was never going to be anything else.”

James’ eyes were bright as he led Sirius through each room, pausing to give an opinion on what the space could be.

Sirius pointed to the wall in the living room. “My records’ll go there.”

“Only if I get to put my Quidditch trophies on the mantel.”

“You still have those?”

“I’m very sentimental,” James said, deadpan.

They picked out the corner for the bookcases. The hallway for the photos—Polaroids and stolen school pictures and candid snapshots from a world that didn’t end after all. The guest room that wouldn’t always be empty.

Then the back garden.

The gate stuck a bit, but Sirius shouldered it open.

James followed.

He looked at the patch of grass at the far end. The old bench that had survived more winters than it should have.

“I thought maybe we could plant something,” he said.

Sirius glanced at him. “Like what?”

James’ voice was quieter now. “A tree. For my parents.”

Sirius nodded.

They didn’t linger in the grief. It had lived long enough.

Instead, they stood together in the soft morning light and talked about apple trees. About getting soil under their nails. About planting something alive where so much had gone quiet.

Sirius turned to him, eventually.

“Do you know what this feels like?”

James looked around.

At the crooked chimney. The wonky fence. The way the ivy curled along the side of the house like it was reaching for a reason to stay.

James glanced at him. “Home.”

Sirius nodded. “Yeah.”

Sirius took his hand again, and didn’t let go.

The Cardiff cottage hadn’t changed much.

Still crooked. Still drafty. Still holding on like it had something to prove.

Remus walked the garden barefoot that morning, dew clinging to the grass, air sweet with lavender and soil. His mum’s flowers had begun to take again—careful, wild little things that thrived when left alone but bloomed better with a bit of love.

He didn’t speak. Just knelt in the soil, sleeves rolled, and ran his hands through the earth.

Regulus appeared in the doorway sometime after sunrise.

He was in one of Remus’ old jumpers—threadbare, stolen, perfect. Hair sleep-mussed. Barefoot too. He came without comment, crouched beside him, and nudged a trowel toward his hand.

“I got rid of the couch,” Regulus said, too casually.

Remus raised an eyebrow.

“The one I nearly died on. I didn’t like the way it looked at me.”

“Fair.”

“I replaced it with a sofa that does not smell like trauma.”

“You’re nesting,” Remus said, amused.

Regulus shrugged. “I like it here.”

It was the most he’d ever said about that. About staying. About choosing something real.

Remus didn’t reply—just leaned over, pressed a kiss to his shoulder, and let it rest there.

They worked in silence after that.

A new life didn’t need to be loud to be honest.

They didn’t plan to go to the sanctuary that day.

But Regulus had read about it the week before—a small home tucked into the hills outside the city, taking in werewolf children orphaned during the war. It wasn’t a Ministry project. Just witches. Trying. Offering safety where there had been none.

He brought it up over tea. Casually.

Remus had gone quiet.

And then said, simply, “We should go.”

The woman who ran it was named Mari. She had greying curls and a deep scar across her throat, and she never smiled unless it meant something.

She showed them the main wing. The garden. The converted barn where the transformations happened—safe. Reinforced. Full of pillows and blankets.

Remus ran a hand along the worn frame of the door.

“I was five,” he said quietly. “When I was bitten.”

Mari didn’t flinch. “So was Teddy.”

They looked up.

She nodded toward the field.

A little boy was racing across the grass—barefoot, giggling, hair wild. He couldn’t have been more than five. Maybe six. Too thin. Bright eyes.

“His name’s Theodore,” she said. “We call him Teddy.”

Regulus stepped closer to Remus.

The boy turned.

Saw them.

And ran over without hesitation.

“You new?” he asked, eyes on Remus.

“No,” Remus said, crouching to meet him. “Just visiting.”

“You smell like me.”

Remus blinked.

Teddy leaned in closer. “But older.”

Regulus watched them. Silent. Something caught in his throat.

“What’s that?” Teddy asked, pointing to the bite mark on Remus’ collarbone.

“A reminder,” Remus said.

“Of what?”

“That I lived.”

Teddy looked at him for a long moment. Then grinned. “Cool.”

He ran off again.

Remus stood slowly.

Regulus took his hand.

And in the fading light of the sanctuary, watching a boy who reminded him of a version of himself that hadn’t known hope yet, Remus whispered, “He’s like I was.”

Regulus squeezed his fingers. “Not anymore.”

That night, Regulus woke up gasping.

No words. Just breath. Just panic.

The sheets were damp with sweat and twisted beneath him like vines. His hand had clenched into the blanket so tightly his knuckles ached. His eyes darted to the window—dark, still, safe.

But his chest—

His chest felt like it was caving in.

Remus stirred before Regulus could say anything. Turned toward him, groggy but alert in a way only people who know fear can be.

“You’re alright,” Remus said softly, reaching. “You’re home.”

Regulus let himself be pulled in.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Remus held him until the tremors stopped. Until Regulus’ breathing slowed. Until his forehead rested on Remus’ collarbone like it belonged there.

He didn’t fall back asleep.

But he closed his eyes.

And the next morning, there was chamomile waiting on the nightstand.

The next night, it was Remus.

No scream. No thrashing. Just—stillness. A too-sharp inhale. The kind of quiet that feels like absence.

Regulus woke to the weight of it. Turned to find Remus sitting upright, jaw clenched, eyes on nothing.

“Remus?”

No answer.

Regulus reached, touched his shoulder. “You’re here,” he said. “It’s alright.”

A long pause.

Then, finally, Remus said, “I had a dream.”

Regulus waited.

“You never wrote the letter.”

That hit like cold water.

“I never made it to the cave. No one did.”

His voice stayed level, but it frayed at the edges.

“James died. I don’t know how, just—gone. And Sirius… they said he did it. Which makes no sense. He’d never—”

He stopped. Swallowed.

Regulus’ fingers curled around his wrist.

“And I was alone,” Remus finished. “Utterly, completely alone.”

He didn’t cry.

But the silence that followed felt like grief.

Regulus pulled him close. Let Remus fold against him, breathing slow and ragged into his chest.

“I wrote it,” Regulus said. “You came. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

It wasn’t a spell. It didn’t undo anything.

But Remus clung to him like it mattered.

And Regulus held him like it did.

The day after that, Regulus found him in the bedroom at the end of the hall.

Remus was standing in front of the closet, holding a shoebox full of photographs—some faded, some torn, all of them familiar. A younger version of him. A smiling woman with tired eyes.

Hope Lupin.

There was a bag half-packed on the bed. Remus didn’t look up when Regulus stepped inside.

“You’re clearing it out,” Regulus said quietly.

“I don’t need the room anymore.”

Regulus stepped closer. Saw how tightly Remus was holding one of the photos—creased at the edges, thumb-worn.

“You’re packing her away,” he said.

“I just…” Remus’ voice caught. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

Regulus reached for the photo.

Gently took it from his hands.

And turned toward the door.

“Come with me,” he said.

In the living room, he placed the photo on the mantle.

Then another. And another. Until the stone shelf above the fireplace held every memory Remus had nearly folded shut.

He stepped back. Studied it.

Then said, like it was a fact:

“All this place needed was a little Hope.”

Remus stared at him.

Then walked forward, wrapped both arms around his waist, and buried his face in Regulus’ jumper like he might never breathe out again.

It was weeks later.
The war felt further behind them.
And the garden was growing in full.

They were tangled in bed—warm, half-asleep, morning just a faint suggestion at the edge of the curtains.

Regulus was lying on his side, fingers tracing the scars across Remus’ back.

Soft. Unhurried.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he murmured.

“I know,” Remus replied.

Regulus pressed a kiss between two of the oldest marks.

“About what?”

Remus shifted—rolled toward him, eyes tired but open. “I want to go back.”

Regulus didn’t ask where. He already knew.

Mari didn’t seem surprised when they showed up again. Just nodded and told them Teddy was out in the field, trying to teach a younger kid how to whistle.

He came running when he saw them. Threw himself into Remus’ arms like gravity had missed him.

“You came back!” he grinned.

“We did,” Remus said. “We want to talk to Mari.”

Teddy blinked. “Are you in trouble?”

“No,” Regulus said. “We’re trying to start something.”

They sat in the front room.

Remus’ hands were steady when he said it.
“We want to bring him home. If he wants to come.”

Mari didn’t answer right away.

But she looked between them—at the warmth that lingered between their shoulders, the steadiness in their gaze, the kindness in their bones.

Then she nodded.

“I’ll talk to him.”

The night they brought him home, Teddy was wearing a too-big jumper and holding Regulus’ hand like it was an anchor.

He fell asleep curled between them on the new couch, small and safe and snoring gently.

Remus looked at Regulus.

Regulus looked at Remus.

Neither of them said a word.

They didn’t need to.

They were home.