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The Dark Lord isn’t a figure one would ever liken to fatherly. But while he’s holding onto Regulus’ drenched, heavy clothes and keeping the top part of his body above murky salt water, he sure looks like a cross father that’s got hellfire on his tongue, ready to whip it across Regulus’ aching back with direct and unprecedented precision. 

His red eyes are ablaze with justified fury. Regulus coughs, trying to ease his breathing and exhale the lungfuls of water inside of him. The water around him is coloured bloody crimson from the gashes all over his body. The Inferi are coiled around Regulus’ legs and lower torso, their fingernails turned to claws as they raked across Regulus’ body. The only reason why they haven’t submerged him fully is because of the Dark Lord’s intervention. 

Regulus ought to be thankful for it. He’s a Black, though, and being grateful to anyone other than a Black is beneath him. His head lolls forward, almost slumping onto the cave’s rocky interior. He hears the gurgling of lost souls underneath more clearly. It is an uncomfortable position to be in. 

’’Is Kreacher all right?’’ Regulus manages to ask, blinking the daze his immense loss of blood has wrung upon him. His fingers are numb, so even if he could hold onto the cliff of this cave’s pool, the Inferi would be able to drag him back down without a moment’s hesitation. 

’’You are an incorrigible, unbelievable child , Regulus.’’ 

If Regulus is to be afraid of an adult hissing hellfire at him, he first must do a series of things in his mind. One of which is to compare the lethality of the Dark Lord’s tone of voice with his mother’s. It does not surpass Walburga Black’s psychologically and emotionally abusive voice, therefore he does not fear it. 

’’My lord?’’ Regulus’ voice is smaller than he’s ever allowed it to be. Suppose that is the side-effect of being near death’s door. He welcomes it, if only because he has done something no one from that blasted Order of the Phoenix has been able to: sabotage the Dark Lord’s heinously complicated life-insurance. ’’What brings you in these parts?’’ 

The Dark Lord throttles some sense into him. Regulus can’t keep his eyes open. A final sort of sleep nestles across his eyelids and weighs heavily on them, preparing him for a slumber he does not fear. A slumber that the Dark Lord refuses to give him, because when Regulus stops answering his questions, his unexpectedly heavy hand falls over Regulus’ cheek and leaves a bruise. 

Regulus has never been hit before. Walburga and Orion don’t think highly of muggle parenting tactics. It just isn’t a thing he’s ever expected to experience. 

His shock must register on his face, because the Dark Lord scoffs and calls him sheltered. ’’Grow up, Regulus.’’

’’I am an adult.’’ Regulus doesn’t know whether he’s convincing himself or the Dark Lord. Right after graduating Hogwarts, Regulus thought of himself as the most grown up he’ll ever be. With a burden on his back the size of all of Diagon Alley. The entire Black family tree is a planet he is forced into holding up on his back like Atlas does the Earth. Regulus may be named after a king, but he has only ever felt like a pawn.

It doesn’t help that the queen’s been eaten -- the heir’s gone and the spare’s got big shoes to fill. He’s aware that he will never be Sirius. But he’s wanted to do one thing that will set him apart from Sirius forever: he’s wanted to do a heroic deed right before dying a martyr. Maybe nobody will know his name. Maybe everyone will. But he will have felt useful and legendary, if only for a moment. 

The Inferi have ceased their gurgling, waiting for orders from the man they call creator. Regulus finds that the Dark Lord’s taken a hold of his arms now and is trying to pull more of him out of the sea. He doesn’t feel anything, his limbs numb from the terrifying cold and the blood loss. 

’’Why aren’t you killing me?’’ Regulus’ voice feels far away from himself. As if it could never belong to him. As if he’s only hearing it because it’s being broadcast directly into his mind. 

The Dark Lord’s robe is covered with Regulus’ blood and he looks fittingly decadent. Regulus knows that this man has been born from blood and thrives in it. Regulus has never gone to a butchery, but he imagines that a butcher looks kind of how the Dark Lord does right now: in his element. Well aware where to strike the fatal blow. 

‘’Then help me up, will you?’’ Regulus doesn’t know if he’s speaking or if the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is speaking through him. 

The Dark Lord looks at him oddly. His brows furrow and he takes a wand out – yew, everyone knows it’s yew – to wave it above Regulus’ mangled flesh. Regulus screams in pain, convulsing and kicking as he can feel the numbness fade. He blindly wonders if this is the cruciatus curse. He blindly wonders, but the Dark Lord simply hushes him: ‘’It is not. It ought to be.’’ 

Again, the anger is back. The disappointment, too, really, which is insulting. Regulus is insulted by the Dark Lord holding back a proper attack. 

‘’I tried to kill you.’’ Regulus hates that he says the word ‘tried’. He loathes that he hasn’t succeeded and made his last effort on this plane of existence count. His hands clench as his teeth unclench. ‘’Why are you not dead? Where is Kreacher?’’ A harrowing thought: ‘’Did you kill him?’’ 

Regulus tries to stand and again fails. Everything he seems to fight the Dark Lord on is not enough. He hits his chin against the jagged floor and he’s bleeding from yet another wound, this one in his mouth. Has he bitten his tongue? 

The Dark Lord’s thoughts align with Regulus’. He quickly aims his wand at Regulus’ mouth in order to check. It isn’t a clean bite, the powerful man explains. ‘’This will sting.’’

Yet another spell crashes through Regulus. This one does sting, but it isn’t anything he cannot handle. It is only a spell to mend. 

All of the spells the Dark Lord ushers his way are meant to mend. 

The Dark Lord then force feeds him a series of potions, even through Regulus’ protests. He binds his wrists together to his chest so he may not disturb the Dark Lord’s meticulous work. This is careful and calculated -- there is no room for error. When Regulus refuses to swallow, the Dark Lord covers his mouth with his hand, hoping the idea of suffocating is enough to yield results. His crimson eyes pop open in horror when he notices that Regulus’ obstinacy exceeds reason. With a swish of his yew wand of legend, Regulus’ throat works against him and he swallows potion after potion, feeling dizzy and sick. 

It is at this point that Regulus cannot stop shaking from the cold. He thinks he has been poisoned and welcomes it, but rues not dying on his own terms. His mind, in this weakened state, is open to the Dark Lord and he snorts at the theatrics of Black blood. ‘’I have not poisoned you, nor do I plan to.’’

Regulus glares at the spectre garbed in Malfoy-bought robes. He dislikes the Malfoys, for his mother has told him all about their nasty blood mixing. After so many trysts with the macabre and the obscene, their blood has diluted to something disrespectful to mage kind. He begins to suspect that the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is the only family that knows the Dark Lord is unworthy of any favourable attention. They agree with what he is doing, but not how he is doing it. His mother, Walburga, despises the Dark Lord in general, and Regulus has never quite been able to put his finger on the reason. 

The potions are mending him, but the pain of it is too much to bear. He tries to hide away from the Dark Lord’s dangerous scrutiny. He disallows him such privacy, sitting down next to him wearing a freshly cast warming charm, if only to force Regulus to have to keep his mind open as he draws on the other’s warmth. 

’’Are you crying?’’ 

’’Am I?’’ Regulus doesn’t know. He’s leaning on the Dark Lord, absorbing every bit of warmth his warming charm is exuding. Through spells he’s been dried off, patched up, and now he’s only trying to gain some semblance of peace. His heart is still beating so fast and hard that it feels it can rip through his ribcage. 

’’When I came here, Regulus,’’ the Dark Lord’s fascination with repeating his interlocutor’s names never ceases to annoy Regulus. It’s as if he’s worried that the other’s attention is waning and he must remind them of their conversation at hand. ’’I expected a lot of different things. Wildly different things. I had expected a partisan so full of himself and his search for bravado that he would undermine another man’s careful and meticulous planning all in favour of a day of fame. You are not infamous, boy. Your family is, but you are nothing but the carriers of its legacy. Did you think by undermining me you would craft your own legacy, free from the burden brought upon you by incestuous cunts?’’ A laugh tears through him then when he sees that Regulus is exhaling angrily at the jab at his family. ’’You still defend them. It is admirable. I had not had parental supervision as a boy. I lent myself to murder and dark magic, but I was my own person and this was what saved me. Abraxas, he was not as fortunate. He remains steadfastly a slave to his family’s ideals. He couldn’t even rebel properly to take a mudblood lover as he claimed he was doing.’’ The Dark Lord’s voice is morose. ’’Will you die, I wonder? Can I confess to a dead man my sins before he passes and takes them to the afterlife?’’

’’So sure,’’ Regulus drowsily says, ’’that there is an afterlife? I welcome the blackness of oblivion and infinity. If there is a god or a series of gods, I vow to fight them now in order to ascend to their throne of power and infamy.’’

The Dark Lord cannot suppress his fascination for this intriguing young many any longer. He sees himself at Regulus’ age and it is a flabbergasting moment. He has never felt old, not while Abraxas has gained grey hairs and tried to play them off as differently coloured platinum blond, thank you very much! Not when Dumbledore’s red has all but evaporated from his face in favour of a stark, dangerous, and all the more bitter grey. 

No, the Dark Lord has not felt old, even while watching Lucius grow and court and attempt to father children. He has seen Ministers rise and fall and it has pained him not to be one of them, but he has decided that he is worthy of bigger things than Ministry work. 

Now, with this child leaning onto him and clutching for warmth, he not only feels old, but he feels ancient. As if history itself has burrowed within his underfed, avitaminosis-prone bones and told him that he should mind his age more. That he is not the youth any longer that surges and kills girls with plant names. That he is no longer the handsome young orphan who can play Oliver Twist. 

’’You asked why I was not killing you...’’ he speaks and Regulus listens, craning his head to hear him better and to absorb his words like the elixir of life. 

’’I am afraid, Regulus,” the Dark Lord admits, “about what you have done and how you have unearthed my secrets. It means that either I have not been as careful as I have thought, or I have been betrayed by a person I could not bear a betrayal from.’’

’’Abraxas Malfoy.’’ Regulus is no fool. Every Death Eater (aside from Bella, really, who’s an optimistic soul to the end) knows who cradles the Dark Lord’s heart in his hands. ’’He’s my legal guardian, you know. Mother said, on a drunk and sad occasion, that if she had not married Orion, she would have become Lady Malfoy. She looked at me and Sirius and said that we would be black haired, but without the insanity plagued by our bloodline.’’

The Dark Lord smiles. ’’I am well aware that he is your legal guardian. Sirius’, too.’’ Not seeing the point in beating around the bush any longer, he demands to know: ’’Did Abraxas Malfoy betray me?’’

’’Not to me.’’ Regulus cryptically says. He vows to be a nuisance until the very end. ’’I learned of your machinations all on my own. Kreacher helped. You should really be more nice to the help, my lord,’’ he says as a lark, not out of reverence, ’’they overhear all sorts of things. Gossip is what keeps them going. Were you ever looked down upon?’’

’’Yes.’’ The Dark Lord answers the boy’s questions, understanding that, if they do not leave this cave soon, Regulus may contract hypothermia and die in his hands. Walburga will throw a fit and he does not care for the maniacal screams of mourning, mad mothers. ’’Keep a hold of me. I will apparate us.’’

’’Where to?’’ Regulus pictures a torture chamber. He feels nauseous already. He can only hope he does not throw up when they disapparate. 

’’Malfoy Manor.’’

’’That is your home.’’ Regulus is going mad. His lungs are full of water. His mind is full of water. His fingernails have raked salt. The gashes on his body have not fully closed. By the way the Dark Lord looks at him with immense pity, he must be hideous, too. His whole face is numb. ’’This was supposed to be my tomb.’’ 

’’Yes.’’ He says again, tersely. Regulus feels like an interrogator himself, prying words from the Dark Lord with cruciatus curses. ’’You need a healer.’’

’’If it means anything, I do not have anything against you.’’ Regulus does not know the Dark Lord well enough to have anything for him, either. He has chosen to become a Death Eater to alleviate the sense of inadequacy his whole existence has wrought upon him. He has longed for a sense of belonging and he has wanted to be like the Spartan men, belonging to a joint cause that will uplift them and teach them to be better. Instead, he has decided that he wants to do something memorable with his life. 

’’I know this.’’ The Dark Lord is gentle when he holds Regulus to him in this standing position. ’’But you have still made me your enemy today. This cannot be taken back.’’

’’I know that .’’ Regulus scoffs. He does not entertain any notions of grandeur and forgiveness. He is of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. His own flesh and blood has been hunted down and killed for lesser offense. ’’I’m not an idiot.’’

’’No, you are simply very young.’’ 

’’You think I’m you,’’ Regulus wheezes. Something is severely wrong with his health. The potions the Dark Lord has forced fed him have extinguished the ever-present burn in his heart, but something remains severely wrong. He is not adept at field medicine, nor has he thought of ever becoming a Healer. Healing, his mother once said, is for women without husbands and for men without ambition. 

’’Should I be concerned, Regulus, that in this state you are able to read my surface thoughts?’’ The Dark Lord, as well as any other wizard on this decrepit island, is well aware that the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black are all natural legilimens. To varying degrees. Cissa, for example, can look anyone in the eye and lie to her heart’s content. Bella, in contrast, can only play poker very well. Sirius, as far as anyone is concerned, is only good at hiding his thoughts, not reading other’s. Regulus is too young to have been put in a category. 

Regulus shrugs. ’’I apologize. You, yourself, ought to be aware that you do not choose when you do and don’t read thoughts. If it puts you off, craft sturdier walls.’’

’’You do.’’ The Dark Lord calmly says. ’’You can turn it off. I shall teach you. It seems your mother has wanted you to suffer a different sort of pain to the one she inflicts upon your brother and father.’’

’’Aren’t you going to kill me?’’ Regulus does not want to think about himself and silence. About him not being able to hear any thoughts other than his own. It feels too silent, now, as an offer. He would rather die. 

’’No, Regulus. I am not going to kill you.’’

’’I wish you would.’’ Regulus’ voice chokes with tears. ’’I wish I had died there and been a martyr. Being alive,’’ he speaks and he knows it is to a man who has done unspeakable things in order to never die, ’’being alive is a burden I do not wish on my worst enemies. I want to die.’’ He is in so much pain. What potions he’s drunk are wearing off so he becomes aware of, exactly, the kind of pain he is in. ’’Everyone I know has left or burdened me. Why shouldn’t I burden them in return with my death?’’

’’You do not want to die. This is your lowest moment, child, and you will remember it in years to come and see how foolish you were.’’

’’What good will life bring me in one of your cells? You shall torture me, shall you not? Kill me in different ways than the one I seek.’’ Regulus doesn’t struggle, doesn’t run towards the Inferi leering at him hungrily from within the saltwater. He remains near the Dark Lord. ’’Do you have your horcrux?’’

’’I have taken it back, yes.’’

’’Is Kreacher all right?’’ Regulus cannot stand the possibility of Kreacher being harmed. It is the only thing that can bring him out of this suicidal trance, if only to take revenge for the only friend he has ever known. 

’’Legally, only a Black is allowed to kill one their own elves.’’

’’Since when do you care for the legality of things?’’

’’I care very much for the legality of things.’’ The Dark Lord’s sense of humour, Regulus admits, is worse than any father’s could be. ’’Why, I have not jaywalked since 1939.’’

’’A metal broom almost hit you, didn’t it?’’ Regulus remembers the horrors Sirius has told him about the muggle world. 

’’It is called an autocar.’’

The Dark Lord neither confirms nor denies Regulus’ claim.

Regulus throws up over the Dark Lord when they arrive at Malfoy Manor. Side-along apparition remains, steadfastly, as the worst modus of travel in Regulus’ existence. He collapses in his own puke when the Dark Lord lets him fall face first into it. 

’’Abraxas!’’ he shouts, aghast, ’’The boy’s thrown up over your boots.’’

’’Not my Valentino shoes!’’ Abraxas Malfoy’s voice shrieks in terror. ’’Kill him! Kill the boy right this instance and be done with it all! I shall find a way to explain to Walburga that there was no other choice left to us.’’

’’Hm.’’ The Dark Lord nudges Regulus’ passed out body with his vomited shoe. ’’I am not smart, Abraxas, he rather reminds me of myself.’’

’’When you were eighteen you were working .’’ Abraxas Malfoy speaks as if he’s high on cocaine on a good day, Regulus doesn’t want to think of how fast Abraxas would be speaking were he actually high on cocaine. ’’You weren’t a leech to your parents – the system – the government – the social BLOODY services – whoever it is that would give you money. Nor were you taking advantage of the man who gave you purpose and money.’’

There is a cosmos of fondness in the sentence, ’’I robbed Burke blind , my dear Abraxas. You think so highly of my character when I was young and impressionable. Had I Regulus Black’s circumstances, I would have turned into something deeply disturbed.’’

Regulus falls unconscious and the last thing he hears is Abraxas Malfoy’s defensive sputtering. 

’’You have gravely erred.’’ Abraxas Malfoy cuts a mean figure when angered. Meaner than the Dark Lord. He loves the Dark Lord far more than the man loves himself, and when someone you love is threatened, it brings out the darkest portion of your soul out.

Regulus awakens in the comfort of a guest room, in a warm bed with fluffed pillows and food and drink on a tray on his bedside cabinet. He feels much better, too, which means that he has gotten a professional to look at his injuries. 

’’Am I to get another lecture? Is the one from the Dark Lord not enough?’’

’’Do you understand your position?’’ Abraxas treats him like a boy he is civil towards, not how the Dark Lord’s treated him in the cave as a peculiarity. 

’’I understand he will not kill me. Nor will you. You fear my mother and what it will mean if she is to pull her strings and rally the purebloods to disband from the Dark Lord’s influence. They may be bound by the Marks to serve him, but they are bound by their own blood and their own upbringing to serve the best interest of the Twenty-Eight. He is, from my mother’s words, an outsider you have taken in hand. And the last time I checked, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is more influential even in this day and age than fairy- fucking Malfoys.’’

Abraxas strikes him in anger. Regulus hisses in pain and hates that there are tears on his eyes then. He hates how mollycoddled he has been all of his life and that he is now under the care of two very direct individuals. It sparks a hatred within him that cannot be faltered, but he must stay his hand. If he were to hurt Abraxas in any capacity, the Dark Lord’s kindness shall fade.

’’Your mother has not taught you manners.’’

These men, Regulus has noticed, never mention his father. As if he is not a pillar in his life at all. On behalf of Orion Black, Regulus feels adamant to defend his honour. ’’No, my mother’s taught me little to nothing other than to hate. Everything else I’ve learned, I’ve learned from my father.’’

Abraxas snorts at this. ’’Your father is a mess of a man with a love for broken, mangled things.’’

Orion Black is an artiste. He’s painted Walburga’s portrait and portrayed it in the living room proudly. She is his muse, his greatest work of art. It is the closest either will go and proclaim their love for each other. Their marriage is of love, but they have never shown it in front of Regulus or Sirius. 

’’At least he is a man.’’ Regulus snidely calls to attention Abraxas’ fairy blood. It is their money that keeps them afloat, otherwise the Malfoy family will have been run off the island with pitchforks as dark creatures. ’’Only beasts resort to violence.’’

Abraxas inhales and exhales sharply, forcing himself not to say something he may regret or to do something that may set them back. ’’We cannot obliviate your mind as it is naturally repellent against the spell. It is the virtue of a Black mind. Most inconsiderate for us, as we cannot kill you either. For obvious reasons. Instead, we shall make an accord.’’

’’We,’’ Regulus hisses, ’’we, we, we. Lord Malfoy, who is this we? Do you think yourself on the same level with the Dark Lord?’’

’’Pretending to be fascinated and charmed by him shall do you no good after you have disrespected him so irrevocably, Regulus.’’ Abraxas says. There is no room for argument. His word is law in this home and underneath these spells of protection he has weaved into the very fabric of the walls and the shrubbery outside in the gardens. Regulus understands that while he is safer here than in that cave full of Inferi, he is a prisoner like any other. 

Regulus closes his eyes and leans back into his bed, into the pillows that are full of feathers. Peacock feathers, most likely, as there is a sheer abundance of the birds mingling about like watchdogs. They are Abraxas Malfoy’s prized pets which he has trained to kill to protect. He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands and groans deeply, unsettled by all of this. He’s resigned himself to be a dead man in that pool, only to be a living, unhappy one in this room. It disturbs him, also, to note how frantic both the Dark Lord and Abraxas Malfoy are to silence him. 

’’There are more, aren’t there?’’ Regulus lifts his head from his palms to watch Abraxas go rigid with fear. ’’There are.’’ Regulus confirms. ’’I suspect only Dumbledore knows.’’

’’There have been others to suspect. None have found one.’’ Abraxas whispers. The others have been dealt with, he adds, as fertilizer for my wife’s striped carnations. ’’Lucky you,’’ he says, ’’you have found one and attempted to destroy it.’’

’’I do not know how to destroy them, if it helps.’’ Regulus admits. He knows that if they wish to enter his mind, it is ill advised to stop them. 

Abraxas nods, pleased to hear this. ’’It does help. What do you want?’’

Regulus has never been asked by an authority figure what he wants. The wills and wishes of others have always been inflicted upon him and this question startles him. Abraxas is wise enough to understand the burden of being heir to a pureblood family. He is an only child. Regulus feels like one. ’’What do you offer?’’

’’Anything you want. Now say your price for your silence.’’

Regulus stares at Abraxas like a cow stares at a coloured barn door: very dumbly. 

Abraxas sighs and tells him that he has the entire day to think things through and that by tomorrow night he shall be expecting a sound and reasonable offer from the boy. ’’You have a good head on your shoulders, I’m told, if not particularly convinced, surely you can think of something you want in the meantime.’’ 

Regulus’ mind is a whirlwind after he is left to his own devices in the guest room. There is an attached toilet and he manages to drag himself there to assess the sheer damage done unto him by the Inferi. 

He wishes he hadn’t looked. The toilet isn’t as near as he’s hoped so he throws up over the marble floor of the bathroom. His hands shake at the weight of him and he will have to shower, to wash out the vomit from his hair. He is alive, he has to force himself to come to terms with, and he wishes he had not lived. He wishes for Kreacher to be here with him and to comfort him as a friend ought to. 

What a stupid, stupid boy you are – a voice says – to be friends with elves and no one else. 

It sounds like Sirius. He misses his brother, who’s abandoned him to this life, to the lives of madmen and women. 

An elf pops up, named Dobby, and cleans Regulus up with magic. He cleans the bathroom, too, and wishes Regulus a speedy recovery. 

’’Dobby,’’ Regulus says, ’’can you do me a favour? Can you pass on a message for me?’’

Dobby is uncertain whether he is allowed. He asks to hear the message first. Paranoid masters nurture a paranoid elf. 

’’I just want you to tell an elf named Kreacher that I am alive. That I miss him. That I want him to be good and kind to himself.’’ Regulus can’t stand upright so he eases himself to sit on the marble floor of the bathroom. It is cool to his inflamed wounds and he feels at ease, if only for a brief moment. 

Dobby says that he shall do his best to deliver the message, but that Regulus needs to go back to bed as he looks like he is ill with fever from his wounds. ’’They must be cleaned, again.’’

Regulus allows elves to manhandle him. It’s what he’s been doing since he can remember. Neither of his parents have touched him or Sirius often. If at all. 

Tomorrow morning, Bellatrix is at the foot of his bed. She is not angry at him, how he’s expected every visitor of his to be. She is saddened that he has not come to her for aid. Ah, she has read his thoughts. Regulus cannot muster up the strength to be angry at her for it. ’’Cousin Bella.’’

’’Reggie,’’ her voice is softer than he’s ever heard it. She doesn’t approach him, as if he is a leper. ’’The Dark Lord’s told me what you’ve done.’’

Regulus highly doubts that. ’’He has told you what I tried to destroy?’’

’’Of course.’’ Bellatrix snorts. ’’I am his most trusted.’’

’’You’re his General, Bella. He trusts you to watch his back on the field. He trust Lord Malfoy to watch his back in any other given capacity.’’

Bella narrows her eyes at this. She crosses her arms, too. Because she has always been dramatic. Regulus, too, is dramatic. ’’Is Cissa here?’’

’’It is her home.’’

’’Can I see her?’’

’’I thought I was your favourite?’’ Bella feels stricken. Regulus can feel her haunted thoughts to be wrong. 

He is quick to amend his words: ’’You are my favourite. I love you. I thought I could follow you anywhere, but I was in over my head. I do not find myself belonging to this side, nor the side Sirius has chosen.’’

’’I see.’’ Bella thinks that Regulus’ bout of insanity is just that: a bout. That it is not a constant prickling feeling that’s stabbing into him from all sides. ’’Are your remorseful for what you have done?’’

’’No,’’ Regulus freely admits, realising that his food has most certainly been dosed with veritaserum, ’’no, I do not regret my decision. I do not feel bad about what I have done. I feel bad that it has failed in killing me.’’

Bella’s eyes widen. She tells him that she has to excuse herself, but Regulus can see that this admission has shaken her. Perhaps it is different to grow up in a home with Uncle Cygnus, who is a much warmer presence than either Orion or Walburga are. Cissa is perfectly well adjusted. Must be the flower name. 

Regulus wonders if there are boy flower names. How easy it would be to change one’s name, whole identity, and leave. He looks at the Dark Mark, scratched up – a gash on his forearm, courtesy of the Inferi. Regulus stops himself from vomiting again. He dry heaves for a couple of seconds and wills himself to stop.

The Dark Lord comes to him, without Abraxas, and sits in an armchair next to Regulus’ bed. He angles the armchair so it faces Regulus head on. ’’You have not killed yourself and you have had ample opportunity to do so.’’ 

’’With what could I have killed myself?’’ Regulus has not been allowed cutlery. Every time he’s gone to the bathroom if he’s stayed for longer than ten minutes, Dobby’s popped in (and traumatized him) to see if everything is all right on his end. 

’’You could have jumped out of the window.’’

Regulus does admit that he hasn’t thought to open the window. ’’I suppose, I am not that interested in doing all of the hard work.’’

’’No, you would prefer to get euthanized .’’ the Dark Lord detests the mere thought of it. 

’’I do not want to be immortal like you. There are people like that.’’ Regulus bites out.

’’No amount of cheek is going to convince me to kill you, Regulus. If it helps you to be rude, by all means, I’ve learned not to take you people seriously by now.’’

’’Us people?’’ Regulus quirks a brow. ’’So you really aren’t a pureblood.’’

The Dark Lord shifts in his chair and shakes his head. ’’I am not.’’

’’You belong nowhere, too.’’ Regulus can see it, hidden behind the façade. Ever since he has held the horcrux in his own hand he has felt a deeper understanding of this man in front of him, with his cracking, delirious façade. ’’Dumbledore despises you, I’m told. My mother despises you. You belong nowhere, yet you’re trying your very best to rally around ignorant people with a penchant for violence. You could have spent your time better off as an expatriate someplace far away.’’ 

He makes the bloody Dark Lord perk up, instead of sneer. ’’Is that what you would like? To disappear and go live someplace quiet to call your own decision and not the decision of your parents, your brother, your surroundings?’’

’’What use will that be to me if I do cannot even enjoy it.’’ Regulus gestures to himself. ’’I cannot even walk properly without assistance.’’

’’A cane can be a fetching accessory.’’ The Dark Lord mutters in encouragement. 

Regulus fumes and wishes he had the strength to throw something at this dastardly lord in front of him. ’’Are you even a Lord? I’ve never heard of a Lord Voldemort in all of my schooling. What kind of silly name is that? It’s French, I’m aware of so little, but it does not ring any bells. Where are the Voldemorts from?’’

’’It is more of a first name.’’

’’A pseudonym?’’ Regulus balks, horrified at such plebeian matters. ’’I have dealings with a madman.’’ He whispers more to himself than Voldemort. And he shall begin calling him that. For too long he has afforded this creature reverence. ’’I do not know what I want. I was this rubbish war to end. Can you put a stop to it for my silence, or is that asking too much?’’

’’It is asking too much.’’

’’Thank you,’’ Regulus is a polite boy at his core, he swears ’’at least now I know that the sky is not the limit. What has possessed you to mark a newly graduated Hogwarts student?’’ Regulus nods to his marked hand, bandaged and bleeding. Always, always bleeding. He must feed himself turnips and other iron-based foods while he chugs blood replenishing potions. 

’’Bella asked me to. I had been against it. You were too young, but if Lucius could get his friend Severus into the fray, then why couldn’t she get her favourite cousin.’’ He shakes his head ruefully. ‘’The whims of children. I should not have listened to either of them.’’ Without a moment’s pause. ‘’I shall remove it. Do you want that?’’

Regulus stills. He is seething with anger, but it is the silent sort of rage that encompasses him. ‘’It is perfect,’’ he seethes, ‘’that all of you look down on me and think that I am incapable of making up my own mind. I am not stupid! I am a purebloo-"

"You are intelligent enough to figure out a complex and well kept secret of mine. This pitying state is beneath you.’’ Voldemort’s words are cruel, yet sensible as well. ‘’The blood mania surrounding this island, this speck of an island in the world is harrowing to listen to. I have surrounded myself with people who are all interrelated with each other and boast about it. Yet where are the results? I have lost Redmond Lestrange to a squib he has gone to attack for blood revenge. Do you know how John Wright killed Redmond Lestrange, Regulus? He killed him with a gun. So don’t come to me about your childish hysterics. You think yourself grown yet you entertain thoughts only children do.’’

‘’How the fuck would you know anything about me?’’ Regulus balls his hands and they hurt, everything hurts, he hurts, this world hurts, and he wants Voldemort to hurt, too. More than anything he wants him to suffer. His lungs are on fire and it is his tongue that burns with cinders of words he fears will be his undoing were he to say them. 

How conflicted and macabre, thinks Regulus. For someone who wants to die so badly I pick my words as if everyone wants to kill me and I wish to live.

‘’I know things about you from different sources. You are my servant, Regulus. Remember the mark hidden underneath your marred skin. It may not be visible from the attacks, but the magic is still there. If not the aesthetique and dramatism.’’

‘’Will you remove it if I ask?’’ Regulus can feel the other’s magic, languidly moving towards him, in order to placate him from doing something both of them will regret. It is condescending. He is not a boy! 

‘’I offered you the option. You are the only one I regret marking. I look at you and I see…’’

‘’Yourself?’’ Regulus ganders a guess. 

Voldemort balks. ‘’No. Well, not in a good way. I am not proud to have you in my midst, to look at you and remember your mother. And you do look an obscene amount like her. She is dominant in every aspect of her life, even in passing on genetics onto her children. Though, with Orion and she being cousins, both of you look like him, too.’’

‘’Explain, then, what do you see?’’ Regulus is bedridden and eating food dosed with truth potions and drinking potions full of nourishing properties. 

Instead of explaining, Voldemort veers the conversation into talk of ritual he has undertaken. Regulus is curious why it is that the horcrux reacted to him so foully. It reacted as if it knew him. He tells the Dark Lord as much and the other says, clearly at unease. ‘’Soul magic and blood magic are not so different.’’

‘’I did no blood magic.’’ Regulus thinks he will have sensed that much. 

‘’No,’’ Voldemort says, cryptically, but very much resigned, ‘’you did not have to. I do not know everything about magic, even though I have been studying it for many decades. Your magic is specific due to your blood.’’

Regulus does not find this out of the ordinary. He is a Black, after all. Their blood has been running through this island for centuries. He is not afraid of his own blood, for he knows it is the purest and most powerful blood among the Twenty-Eight. 

Against his better judgement, but exactly for his own insatiable curiosity, Voldemort asks Regulus to explain the process that took him to the cave. 

After explaining, Regulus goes on: ‘’I had felt the horcrux begin to drain my energy. I thought that it was going to kill me before the Inferi did, that the Inferi would only finish the job of the thing that they were meant to protect with their very beings. But then,’’ Regulus is smart, Regulus is too smart, ‘’then it stopped draining me. Enough, at least, that I stood a fighting chance against the inferi. It called to you. You did not come because you had a failsafe involved to let you know of intruders. That is not the horcrux’s purpose. But nevertheless it called to you when it sensed me, when it realised who I was to you.’’ 

Voldemort doesn’t look him in the eye for the first time that evening and Regulus knows he’s hit the mark. ‘’It sensed that I was your son.’’ He twists the knife further when Voldemort doesn’t answer him, but Regulus sees how white his knuckles have become as he grips the armchair with immense and horrified strength. This is information that should never have seen the light of day. Fitting then that Regulus is to find out about this devastating truth in the middle of the night, with a man who wants to bury himself alive than to speak about it. 

‘’It was unnerving to see you in such trenches of agony. And yet you took joy in being at Death’s door.’’ Voldemort finally speaks. He plays with his fingers and kneads his robe in discomfort and anxious stimming. Regulus thinks that is not a sign of a strong character. He looks down on this man more and more as time passes. To know that they are related (omission speaks enough) is disappointing. 

‘’Do not speak to me about unnerving. How am I to take your being my father? Knowing you are my blood disgusts me.’’ Regulus has no filter, everyone has always told him this. He takes immense joy in having his retribution through words if not through actions, crippled and disfigured as he is now. 

‘’I am not your father. Orion has raised and succoured you from when you were born.’’

‘’My mother would never betray my father for someone like you.’’ Regulus seethes. 

At the mention of betrayal and his mother, Voldemort becomes silent and withdrawn. Regulus refuses to have this. He rages, his magic infusing in the very walls of the Malfoy Manor. He will get this roof down on both himself and this creature of immortality and immorality. 

Voldemort’s magic intervenes faster and pushes Regulus’ down. He is stronger, better trained. Regulus cries from anxious and wrathful discontent. ‘’Stop it!’’ 

And finally the magic stops suffocating Regulus. He breathes, barely, rasping out for air. 

Voldemort comes to him to aid him. ‘’Do not attempt that again.’’ 

Regulus bats his aid away with his hand and tells him to go fuck himself. ‘’Isn’t it enough that you ruined one pureblood family, if loosely with so many halfbloods, but you had to go and ruin my mother’s honour?’’ 

Voldemort closes his eyes and steps back, crossing his arms and looking anywhere but Regulus. His lips are pulled in distaste. He can sense the unease rolling off of Regulus in abundance, so he asks him, finally: ‘’Ask your question.’’

Regulus asks, afraid of the answer, but more afraid of ignorance: ‘’Did you rape my mother?’’ He can picture it. An outsider like Voldemort, full of arrogance and glee at wielding power over trusting purebloods. He will have, of course, picked the most prized pureblood lady to soil. Regulus wishes he has more strength to leap out of the bed and attack him with his magic and his fist both. 

It is a long silence before Voldemort answers him. Regulus doesn’t trust a single thing that comes out of his mouth. ‘’I am susceptible to the usage of love potions. They can influence me harder than most people would be affected. The same goes for you, too. We are cursed to be born of love potions. I can hope that no one will use one on you how your mother has on me.’’

And it is with such clarity, that Regulus can see even though with his heart he does not trust Voldemort’s words, his mind is open to him. This is the truest form of pain he has ever allowed anyone to know. There is a haunted sort of discomfort nestled behind his brows, behind his smile lines and his dimples. A horror rests atop his tongue as he repeats, for Regulus’ sake - because it cannot be anything other than horrifying to admit to such an occurrence: ‘’It was only a matter of time. She has always wanted to break me. I am only so lucky to be surrounded by people who knew how to rebuild me. Not, by any means, how I was before. But still,’’ again he jokes, and Regulus understands this man only jokes when he is terrified and tries to lighten the situation or diffuse two sides of conflict, ‘’still,’’ he nods, ‘’they used much better materials to build me back. That kind of cement you’d use to make a mansion of an influential person’s. I learned to like caviar in the meantime.’’ He shrugs. 

Regulus has never been more appalled to know a man. ‘’Is Sirius - whose son is Sirius?’’

‘’Orion’s.’’ Voldemort says it with such confusion. ‘’An heir must be pure. You were Walburga’s greatest joy, only. A show for her greatest accomplishment. The taming of the Upstart. ’’

‘’...Do I look like you?’’ Regulus cannot see a smidgeon of resemblance between them. 

‘’Through the Dark Magic I have conducted, my appearance has changed. I do not remember what I looked like. There are photographs. Abraxas, when he is sentimental, he looks at them and becomes morose. You ought to ask him. You look like your mother and for everyone that is enough. A Black is a Black. You have inherited her mind magic.’’ A thought, and a question: ‘’Have you ever spoken with a snake in Slytherin?’’

‘’All Slytherins are snakes.’’ Regulus plays dumb on purpose. If Voldemort can say silly jokes then he may do so as well. Voldemort looks at him. Regulus finally caves. ‘’No, I dislike them.’’

‘’Perhaps I was more lonely than I realise to have always sought them out. You may be able to speak to snakes.’’

‘’You are a Gaunt.’’ Regulus knows enough about the history of Pure Families to realise that he is speaking to the bastard of the Gaunt line. He is ill, yet again, that he is not a pureblood how he has been led to believe. That he is a tainted aberration made cruelly by this man. To have enticed his mother so into making her lose her mind. ‘’Your father is a muggle.’’ The mere taste of these words and the fact that his blood is filthy is enough to send Regulus into a panicked state. 

Voldemort takes out his wand and has to calm Regulus’ impending panic attack with a spell. Again with the field medicine. 

‘’Stay away from me.’’ Regulus seethes. 

‘’No.’’ Voldemort tells him. ‘’I do not trust you will not hurt yourself if I leave. If I do leave, I will bring elves to guard you. Because you are a child that has turned the whole world upside down because of a glorified temper tantrum that is years too late.’’

‘’SHUT UP!’’ Regulus shouts back and seethes with poison at the tip of his tongue. ‘’You don’t know anything. All you know is how to ruin proper families. I should have listened to my mother and never gone with Severus. He was desperate. He was weak for letting a mudblood’s feelings get to him. I - I was supposed to be better than that. I was - ‘’ He keens a cry that is undignified, but no, he remembers, not for a bastard, not for a horrible quasimodo. He is not better than anyone. He is lesser now, lesser than any Lestrange, any Malfoy he has made fun off for their mixed blood. His is the weakest out of them all. 

‘’You speak it.’’ Voldemort says and distances himself from Regulus’ rage. ‘’It is only luck and your mother’s magic that has kept you from speaking parseltongue until this moment. Walburga has asked after your health. I told her that you are her son and just as insane as she.’’

‘’I hope she kills you.’’

‘’She has already, Regulus.’’ Voldemort doesn’t let that admission sit, if even for a moment. ‘’I was sincere when I said you take after her. Sirius and you both. You are not your father’s sons.’’

‘’I am not your son.’’ Regulus says and there is no possible room for argument. He refuses any of it and he is ready for it to come. It never does. Voldemort is aware that he is not his father. He has not raised him, he has not clothed or fed him, he has not taught him. The only thing he has done is both doomed his life and saved it in the same breath. 

‘’My father screamed when he saw me for the first time.’’

‘’I imagine it is traumatic for any sensible man to look at you.’’

Voldemort almost finds the joke endearing. His mind is open to Regulus. He knows. He does not laugh. ‘’My witch mother drugged him with a love potion, you see. At the time I did not know this. I killed him, thinking him the villain of her and my story.’’

‘’For how long did she keep him under the potion?’’

‘’A year.’’

‘’How long did my mother-’’

‘’One night. Abraxas almost killed her. It was only Orion’s pleading for her life that left her with it.’’

‘’Then you are very rude.’’ Regulus says. 

‘’What?’’ Voldemort seethes, showing fury at Regulus for the first time. This subject is prickly for him. 

‘’You asked me, in the cave, if Abraxas had betrayed you. You are very rude, I say, for forgetting that he had almost doomed his entire family line for you when he threatened my mother’s life. Do you know what a scorned Black is capable of? We know blood revenge very well. Andromeda almost lost her life, but uncle Cygnus is a much more patient man than anyone else in this family. He gets it from his mother’s blood. You would not know, of course. Yours -’’ Regulus hates, hates, hates, ‘’my blood as well is fickle. It is diluted.’’

‘’Biologically blood is unable to be diluted.’’

‘’You know what I mean! It is filth!’’ Regulus shouts. ‘’You have ruined my prospects in life. This is - you are - all of this - I am a filthy halfblooded cripple!’’

‘’Then you should not have gone after destroying Dark Lord’s horcruxes.’’ Voldemort tells him. ‘’You have only yourself to blame.’’

‘’You did not have to tell me. You could have lied to me.’’ Regulus whispers.

‘’You would have been able to tell.’’

‘’Does anyone know?’’

‘’Bellatrix, I fear. She suspects that there is another reason why you are still alive. Abraxas knows. Your parents. I would never think to undermine Narcissa’s intelligence. Antoinette knows.’’ The Lady Malfoy knows quite a lot of things about quite a lot of people. 

It is through careful consideration and negotiation that Regulus finally knows what he wants. ‘’I want all of this to end.’’ He is sagging in his bed and thinking that if anyone can make it stop it is the man that has begun it in the first place. 

‘’I will try my best. But I have my own conditions that we will need to discuss first. They are non-negotiable.’’ Voldemort says and Regulus can already feel that they will not be lenient to him. 

They argue for what feels like a long time before Regulus finally agrees, realising that these conditions truly are non-negotiable. But he won’t stop being petulant until the very end. It’s the least he deserves!

‘’You need time to recuperate from your injuries. In a few months we will discuss our terms again.’’

‘’Is Kreacher alive?’’

‘’Yes, your bloody elf is all right.’’ Voldemort speaks in an accent Regulus has looked down on for all of his life. He grimaces. Voldemort speaks over the grimace. ‘’A child should not have this much power.’’

‘’Such is the power of children over their blood.’’

This silences him. Not for very long. ‘’Oh shut up . Someone will punch your lights out if you continue going about your life this way. Be mindful of your words. Not everyone has steel patience as I do.’’

‘’You have denied me a fundamental right of every human. I am allowed to speak to you how I see fit.’’

‘’That is not a right! That is a sign of lunacy, you whining child.’’

Regulus rolls his eyes. He makes no further comment. 

Voldemort decides to leave him then. ‘’Go to sleep.’’

‘’I cannot.’’ Regulus says and stops him before he exits through the door. Inquisitively he looks at Regulus, waiting for an explanation. Nothing comes.

‘’You refuse to sleep.’’

‘’No.’’ Regulus finally caves in. ‘’No, I cannot sleep from the pain.’’

‘’The very last thing I need is to give you an addiction to pain potions.’’

‘’Get me a healer then. They can give me an addiction to pain potions instead.’’

‘’Mark my words,’’ Voldemort says, ‘’someone will punch you in the face for your mouth. I relish that day.’’

The next day, Regulus gets a healer - a regiment of potions - and strict exercise schedules. 

Plus, Narcissa to play poker with. She has no tells, but sometimes she lets him win. They talk about flowers. With Bellatrix he talks about family and babies and wives and husbands. She is anxious about the idea of starting her own family with Rodolphus. Regulus asks her if she is anxious about being with men in general. Bellatrix comes very close to being the person that punches him in the face for his words. Such things are not brought up, ever. They are compartmentalized, Bellatrix teaches him. After you give your husband an heir and a spare you are allowed to go about your inclinations to your heart’s content. 

‘’Is that why you fancy Voldemort so much?’’ Regulus is way too smart for anyone’s good. ‘’He’s the least threatening man I’ve met. He knows none of the rules. In fact, what self-respecting pureblood man would ever invite women into his organisation? Plus , he’s getting it from Lord Malfoy so he’s not frustrated. No, really, he is the ideal covert husband.’’

Bellatrix’s face is red. She stands up and leaves. 

Narcissa takes Bellatrix’ poker chips and the two remaining players continue their game. 

‘’Cissa, am I going to get punched in the face one day for my tongue?’’

‘’Probably.’’ She says and checks her cards. 

‘’Cissa, are you queer?’’

‘’I love Lucius.’’

‘’Do you like the sex?’’

‘’He’s not bad at it.’’

Regulus shrugs his shoulder, hisses in pain, rues the day he has ever ventured into that cave for a heroic mission, and doesn’t win the round. Narcissa takes the chip to hoard like a dragon. She cackles with glee. 

‘’Does Lucius know about this side of yours? The unladylike one - the one that only appears around family?’’

‘’Yes. He is my family.’’

‘’And he loves you anyway?’’ Regulus balks. 

Narcissa narrows her eyes. ‘’Yes.’’

‘’I could never love my wife like that.’’

‘’Maybe you are meant to take a male lover like your father.’’

‘’Cousin Cissa, I kindly request that you bring your face next to this cripple’s fist so I may punch YOU in the face.’’

‘’I am charitable, but unfortunately I do not partake in this specific charity. I will first need to vet it to understand if the proceedings actually go to the one’s intended. As of now, you have been put on a one year waiting list.’’

‘’I hope you don’t talk to Lucius like that in bed.’’

‘’Do you want to get punched in the face?’’ Narcissa asks, baffled. Astonished. 

‘’Ever since Voldemort mentioned it to me, I cannot stop thinking about how it would look like. Would it be very painful?’’

‘’Not as painful as the Inferi, I bet.’’

‘’No, obviously not. Yet I have found myself curious.’’ 

‘’Then I shall leave you to your curiosity.’’ Narcissa wishes Regulus good luck with his thoughts. ‘’I have a baby to make.’’

‘’Name it after me?’’

‘’Regina if it’s a girl.’’ Narcissa promises. 

‘’And for a boy, too!’’

‘’No, Lucius names our son. We’ve discussed it.’’ Narcissa smiles. 

Abraxas often comes to see how Regulus is faring in his physical therapy. 

‘’Would you like to say something to your mother?’’

‘’I cannot look at that woman.’’ 

‘’Would you like to write a letter?’’

‘’Perhaps if I can hold a pen for long enough.’’

‘’You can hold a pen just fine.’’ Abraxas reprimands him. ‘’Do not be cruel to her. She deserves all of life’s cruelty, but she has seen that her behaviour is unacceptable. Everyone around her is leaving her. It will make her think. Make her think hard .’’

‘’I will see if I can come up with a parting letter.’’

‘’You are good at those. I am thinking of framing the one you wrote for Voldemort.’’

‘’Please, do. I would enjoy knowing it has been commemorated in some way.’’

Abraxas laughs. Regulus hears, for the first time since he has been brought back from the cave, that Lord Malfoy laughs with him for a change. 

Regulus whispers: ‘’I would have preferred you as a father. You have tempered Voldemort from insanity. You would have tempered my mother.’’

Abraxas Malfoy stops laughing. ‘’No, I would not have. She cannot be reasoned with, Regulus. Neither of them are tempered. In order to be tempered, you must first understand you need someone to temper you. This is not the case for either of them.’’

‘’Yes, I suppose you know better.’’ Regulus, just by default, sounds as if he is sarcastic. 

Abraxas shakes his head and leaves him to his exercises. 

Dear Mother,

You are everything you have taught me to hate. 

With love, 

Regulus

Getting the mark hurts far more than removing it does. In fact, the entire process is anticlimactic. Regulus can sense that his magic is solely his own now and whether that is good or lonely, he will figure it out on his own. As a parting gift, Abraxas Malfoy gives him a cane. It is sleek and black and he tells him that it is infused with protective magic. There is an unspoken threat there, too, Regulus can recognize it because he knows to look for it. Be silent or else we will know. 

Narcissa hugs him close to her and tells him that they will speak. She will find a way and she will be discreet. It is comforting to know that his cousins love him so much. Bellatrix is pretending not to cry. He draws her in with the cane to come and hug him goodbye. Both Narcissa and he ignore her bouts of irrational mewling. His dear murder-prone cousin is sad! He shall not embarrass her. 

‘’Oh quit crying, you’re acting like a little baby.’ Narcissa has sworn no oath not to embarrass, on the other hand. 

Bellatrix sends a stinging hex at Narcissa. Regulus moves out of the way before their playful duelling may singe him by accident. 

He clutches the cane and leans on it, hating every moment of being reminded of his foolish actions. 

Voldemort is by the door. Regulus crutches towards him and they meet someplace in the middle. ‘’What of Sirius and my parents?’’

‘’Narcissa will spread rumours of your betrayal and that you have been dealt with. Abraxas will get a log to transfigure into your body for a memory of your supposed elimination. It will be taken care of.’’ Voldemort assures him. ‘’I can send you the memories, though I fear seeing your own death will inspire you to take matters into your own hands.’’

‘’You made me vow not to kill myself.’’

‘’It does not mean you cannot influence others to kill you. Your tongue knows no censorship and I think every person you encounter may want to harm you because of it. Learn how to be silent.’’

Regulus rolls his eyes at this display. ‘’I hope you lose this war.’’

Voldemort’s lip twitches. It is the only show of anger he allows himself. He gives Regulus a spanish dictionary. ‘’Don’t forget to use the cane. It is infused with my magic.’’ 

He gives the man a nod and absconds via the portkey in the dictionary. 

Regulus goes to South America. He is not obliviated for that spell does not work on a mind with his blood, if even diluted how his is. 

It takes him a long time to get used to the heat. He crafts a life for himself in this village and teaches English to children. They do not ask him about his appearance, their tongues curbed by their parents. Those that do ask, he tells them that it is a Dark Ritual Gone Heinously Wrong. It is a magical village and so they understand to leave it at that. 

Women court him, fascinated by him and his standing. Regulus welcomes their company and pettily hopes he has better game than his older brother, even as a cripple like this. Wisely he does not contact anyone from the island of his misshapen youth. Not even Narcissa’s letters manage to find him and it is both saddening, lonely, yet liberating in a way fresh starts always are. 

Voldemort dies. 

The news even reaches Regulus. 

It is strange, then, that the cane is very much still alive with his magic. 

Regulus remembers that this man has many horcruxes and goes about his day. Even if he is to die, Regulus does not plan on mourning him. They do not know each other well enough to be sad about each other’s demise. 

It takes him a long time to learn the language, to get used to the life of a mundane english teacher teaching both squibs and magical folk on this continent - but it does not take him a single moment to get used to the presence of yet another man, this one a lot more clear headed than Regulus at the time of their meeting, who has been told that South America is the place to be when one is trying to escape the fallouts of a war. 

‘’Barty Crouch Junior?’’ Regulus blinks carefully, disbelief colouring his face how a child colours outside of the lines. 

‘’Regulus?’’ Barty Crouch comes in muggle clothes to fit the part. His forearms are bare. Regulus does not feel special anymore. He feels like a precedent. 

They are older than they have ever been, and it is a point of contention whether or not they will grow older after this point. Regulus is too lazy to kill himself. Barty is too enamoured with life to part with it. 

‘’I have coffee.’’ Regulus offers, in place of an olive branch, an espresso so strong it can knock a man into a different dimension. Regulus swears he has seen things no man has. 

‘’What about tea?’’ Barty inquires impolitely. He is still clinging to the ways of life on that blood-drenched island. 

Regulus shows how much this question offends him with his face. Barty shrinks at the gaze and says that he will have coffee, too. There is no problem with coffee. In fact, coffee is quite lovely. 

‘’Anything new?’’ Regulus inquires for politeness’ sake. He does not want to know anything about the war, or his brother, or his sisters, or those two madmen in Malfoy Manor. 

‘’My father’s kept me under the imperius curse for eleven years.’’ 

Regulus takes a long sip of his coffee. He savours the taste. ‘’And I had thought my relationship with my father was shite.’’

‘’He’s punished me.’’ Barty cries, breaking down over their coffee, ‘’What other reason did he have to send me away, to get the mark off of me - renouncing his affiliation with me?’’

After Regulus, Barty is the youngest Death Eater. Regulus thinks of regretful men in his life. He does not say anything as an explanation to Barty. Let him think himself discarded, the sadness will make him stronger when he stops wallowing in it. 

‘’He is going to lose this war.’’ Regulus says, pleased with himself and his ability to curse people just through sheer will alone. 

Barty punches him across from the table. 

Regulus begins to realise that, maybe, he really ought to watch what he says around people. 

Barty stomps away, shaking with grief and anger all over a man that has never seen him as anything other than a pawn. Regulus can’t help but laugh at him from the ground, his nose bloodied. He uses the cane to prop himself up and with his wand he cleans the spilled coffee off of the table. It is a shame, Regulus thinks, for the coffee.

Voldemort dies. 

The news even reaches Regulus. 

It is strange, then, that the cane is very much empty from his magic. He holds it in his hand and it is lighter, too. Regulus swishes the cane through the air and it makes a whizzing sound how all canes do. He infuses his own magic into it then, too used to the presence of magic in mundane objects. 

Bravo, he thinks, Harry Potter you have done something remarkable. 

Regulus looks at the spanish dictionary he has come here with, both a portkey and afterwards only a dictionary, and thinks that this shouldn’t affect him. He moves slowly towards the dictionary collecting dust in his home, picks it up from the shelf, blows the dust off, and then goes through it from the beginning. 

Barty finds him in silence, holding the dictionary as if he is holding a body. ‘’Are you happy?’’ He asks him. Regulus does not know. He has indulged in so many things, women, drugs, alcohol, yet found no sanctuary in any of them. Is he happy? 

Ah. Wait. Regulus thinks a little more. Barty is asking him if he is happy about Voldemort’s death. ‘’It was inevitable.’’ Regulus snorts. ‘’The man is not immortal, after all.’’ Even after his death he is incapable of mentioning the horcruxes.

Barty is not as important to know. Probably. 

‘’He is.’’ Barty corrects. ‘’Was.’’

Apparently ~ he is important enough to know. 

‘’I am indifferent.’’

‘’No,’’ Barty comes closer to him, ‘’you aren’t. Do not lie to yourself.’’

‘’Are you sad?’’

‘’I am grieving for him. He was more my father than my father will ever be.’’

Regulus makes another one of his infamous grimaces. 

Barty threatens violence. 

‘’I dislike you, Barty.’’ Regulus admits. ‘’I do not find your company helpful or friendly.’’

Barty takes offence. He gives back just as much as Regulus is serving. They begin arguing until Regulus decides to go back to the island. ‘’I do not have to listen to you. You ramble on about loyalty and ideals that disinterest me, that I have outgrown a long time ago. Barty, good luck learning Spanish.’’ He hands him the dictionary, realising that Barty may enjoy it more than Regulus, ‘’I am going to go find my best friend.’’

Harry Potter opens the door to Grimmauld Place and finds someone whom he both wants to hug in joy and leap away from in terror. 

‘’I am neither Sirius nor Voldemort.’’ Regulus Black introduces himself to the Boy Who Lived. ‘’My name is Regulus Black and I am here for my elf.’’

‘’M-master Regulus?’’ 

Harry Potter has never heard Kreacher speak with such love and reverence and hope. He looks between the elf and Regulus and steps back, letting the two have their reunion.

‘’Kreacher,’’ Regulus smiles and bends down to be on his level, outstretching his arms to hug him. Kreacher ambles up to him, not yet believing the sight in front of him. ‘’Kreacher, old friend, it’s me. It’s Regulus. Don’t be afraid.’’ Regulus’ voice cracks at the last part. The last thing he wants is to cause Kreacher alarm. ‘’I know I don’t look well. But, please, don’t be scared of me. I could not bear it.’’ There are tears in Regulus’ eyes. 

Kreacher does not hesitate in flying into Regulus’ arms. ‘’Master Regulus.’’ 

‘’Yes, Kreacher,’’ Regulus cries tears of joy, ‘’it’s me. I’m taking you with me. I never intended to leave you.’’

‘’Kreacher is sorry. Kreacher was bad elf! Bad! Kreacher did not protect Master Regulus!’’

‘’No, Kreacher.’’ Regulus can feel Kreacher shake against him, ‘’Kreacher,’’ he breaks the hug so he may look into Kreacher’s saddened eyes, ‘’you are the greatest elf anyone can ever hope to know. You have been the best, most kind elf a boy like me could hope for. You did everything correctly. None of this was ever your fault. You did everything as I asked you and I could not be more proud of you. Do you understand, Kreacher? I do not blame you for anything.’’

The relief in Kreacher’s eyes is unparalleled. He cries. 

Up until this point Harry’s never been aware of the fact that elves can cry. He feels awkward during this reunion, feeling out of place. Finally, he says: ‘’Sirius was my godfather.’’

‘’What, do you want money from me?’’ Regulus shakes his head, holding back his own tears. ‘’Be off with you, Boy Hero. I came here for Kreacher and no one else.’’

‘’Can I get to know you?’’

‘’No.’’ Regulus says, almost scoffing. ‘’You seem uninteresting to me. Also,’’ he is not a good man, Regulus knows, but he is an entertaining one, ‘’Barty Crouch Junior is in South America. Have fun finding him.’’

Harry Potter scrambles to alert people of this, leaving Regulus and Kreacher on their own. 

Regulus holds Kreacher’s hand in his own and smiles at the elf warmly. ‘’I’m going to let you take us someplace. Anywhere but the place I came from. You get to choose the place we call home.’’

Kreacher asks if Regulus is sure to give so much power to him. 

‘’Of course, Kreacher. I trust you.’’

Kreacher melts at the praise. With love, with finality he apparates them out of Grimmauld Place.