Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Trixie?"

Bellatrix Lestrange was many things, most of them unsavory (just ask the Order members, or hell, her own husband), but sentimental fool was not one of them.

Yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t help the way the moniker seemed to slip through her defenses like a knife stabbed in the chinks of her armor, and she softened helplessly as she turned to face the owner of the voice. He was the only one who ever called her Trixie, now. Before, the name had been almost as natural as breathing, but that was before –

"Yes?" The tone of voice employed in her response would undoubtedly be termed by the general public as snappish, but anyone who’d been within two feet of her knew to recognize the underlying softness in her brusque reply, an all too rare gentleness lacing the word. Only three people in this world had the power to draw out this hidden softness (weakness, her father would have scoffed, and she didn’t disagree), and to her misfortune, one of them was standing next to her.

As the silence stretched on, she swiveled her head to look at her companion, only to find a pair of murky, charcoal grey eyes already affixed to the side of her face.

"Well?" She prompted, impatience returning in full force. (Never let it be said that she was unaware of her shortcomings. She knew she was brash and impulsive and hot headed, with none of the steady patience or good natured serenity which was expected in a daughter of her noble birth, oh no, all those qualities had been wasted on her father’s former favourite, the angel cast down from heaven, that absolute cow –)

He looked away, and she instantly regretted her harshness as he mumbled out an apology. "Nothing, it’s nothing." He’d been like that as a kid too, she remembered, with a burst of inexplicable fondness. Clamming up and shrinking away as soon as he received even a hint of someone’s displeasure.

She backtracked, trying to swallow back her harshness, her bitterness, her anger, and transform them into something even remotely welcoming or understanding. "It must have been something for you to even think about saying it." She pointed out, and indeed, it must have been, for the youngest Black was notoriously reserved.

“It’s just –” He hesitated. “It’s stupid.” He whispered, almost to himself.

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, hm?” She elbowed him. “C’mon, ickle Reggie.” As anticipated, the nickname made him wrinkle his nose and swat her hand away, grumbling under his breath, making her laugh. Honestly, he was more of an old man than their grandfathers, sometimes.

“Do you, um.” He hesitated again, and his discomfort might have been entertaining to watch if she hadn’t been so damn curious about the reason. “Do you remember that song you composed?” He finished, almost hopefully.

She stared at him. Has he finally lost his marbles?

“Song?” She repeated blankly.

He flushed and looked away. “Yes, the one on the piano?” Likely seeing her confusion written all over her face, he shook his head resignedly. “Told you it was stupid.”

She frowned. “No, no, wait. I wrote a song? On the piano?” She checked.

He nodded. “In the summer, about a decade ago, I think.”

She blinked in disbelief. “You know, I think that might be the most absurd thing you’ve ever said, and I say that as someone who suffered through your staunch though baseless belief that our poor old Great Aunt Cassie is a vampire –”

“Have you seen her? She looks younger than me! Besides, the evidence –”

“She looks younger than you because all that perpetual worrying you do has given you wrinkles, old man!”

“How dare you –”

“Oh, come off it, Regulus! Don’t tell me you honestly believe all that horseshite –”

“Uncle Iggy says so, too –”

“Yes, well, Uncle Iggy is nothing but an intriguer!”

He gasped, affronted. “He is not! Besides, he’s seen her do it, he’s seen her drink her lover’s blood –”

“How in Merlin’s name would he have seen anything of the sort? That would have required him to be in her bedroom, and how do you explain away the presence of a younger male relative in a proper lady’s bedroom, hm?” At this, he opened his mouth, then promptly snapped it shut again, glaring at her darkly.

“If you ask me,” She began, quite enjoying herself now that she had the upper hand, “He hatched this little plot up to draw attention away from the fact that he had a dirty, torrid affair with our lovely Aunt Cassie –”

“He would never, he’s much too in love with Aunt Lucy! And who’s the intriguer now, Trixie?”

“It’s an open secret, I can’t help it if no one tells the baby things –”

“I am the Heir, and sixteen years old, hardly a baby –”

“Aw, does the wittle baby feel left out?” She cooed, and watched with satisfaction as he began to grow red and swell up from rage. It’s too easy, honestly.

Before he could begin his undoubtedly long winded, stammering tirade, someone cleared their throat.

They both whirled around to face the intruders. Rodolphus, as always, exuded an air of vague irritation, while Rabastan was viewing the scene with unbridled amusement which gave way to distant seriousness as her husband spoke. “It’s time.” He announced, before fixing her with a flat stare. “Bella, the Dark Lord would like to see you now.”

At even the offhanded mention of the Dark Lord, her Lord, all her previous lightheartedness instantly oozed out of her pores, replaced by a grim sense of purpose. Of determination. Of power.

She nodded, feeling a flinty kind of smile creeping up on her face. “It would be my honor.” She started towards the door, a sort of tingling anticipation making itself known in her belly, muscles aching for the fluidity, the freedom, the unrestricted movement of battle.

“Wait.” He called. Groaning, she turned to face him, one hand already wrapped around the antique gold handle. “What is it?”

“He wants to meet him, too.” He jerked his head in her cousin’s general direction.

She narrowed her eyes, ignoring Regulus’ nervous bleats of oh no, why me in the background. “You’re certain?”

He nodded. “Asked for him by name.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. Sure, it wasn’t that surprising to learn that the Lord knew her baby cousin’s name (he was the sole male heir of the richest and most powerful wizarding House in Britain, after all, if not on the continent), but their master was a very busy man, and Regulus was an unassuming sixteen year old boy not even out of school yet.

She wasted no time in whirling in his direction. “Stop your whining, you brat!” She scolded, feeling a bit like a mother who wanted to smooth her son's curls down with water and scrub at his face with a handkerchief to make him presentable for houseguests. “Do you have any idea how big an honor this is?” She hissed, leaning forward to grab his arm. “You get to meet him right before your first mission. I didn’t meet him until after my fifth!” He blinked up at her, eyes darting around uncomfortably before gazing into the middle distance. She wanted to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him, did he not know how valuable, how rare an opportunity this was? 

“Don’t fuck this up, Reggie, I am warning you –”

This only served to make him look more terrified than ever. “What am I supposed to say? Am I – Do I have to bow?’

He seemed horrified by the prospect, which she supposed was fair, considering that it had been drilled into their heads ever since they could walk that a Black was inferior to no one, but the Dark Lord wasn’t just anyone, was he?

“Yes.” She confirmed, adding, “Though kneeling would be preferable. Just keep your mouth shut and don’t say anything stupid.” She tugged at his arm, but he seemed rooted to the spot. “Move it, brat.”

He finally began making his way towards the exit with slow, jerky movements, and she rolled her eyes as he hesitated yet again before the door she was graciously holding open like some common butler. The things she did for that boy!

“Merlin, how do you ever get anything done?” She muttered, glancing sideways at his ashen face as they began their journey down Lestrange Manor’s gilded halls. Not as effortlessly wealthy as the Blacks, of course, but also not as flashy as Malfoy Manor, so she considered it a win. Salazar, poor Cissa, having to endure those obnoxious peacocks all the time! She'd have Avada’d those preening idiots by the second day. And that husband of hers! Rodolphus was hardly the gold standard, but when she compared him to Lucius Malfoy’s slicked back blonde hair and oily charm, she thanked the heavens for her own respectably tousled, brown haired, stoic partner. Cissa, for some reason, was completely enamored by her worthless husband, despite Bellatrix’s many attempts to make her see sense. Regulus was, of course, no help at all, the only commentary he gave on the matter being a quiet as long as you’re happy, Cissy. Which was sweet, she supposed, but utterly useless, which just about summed up his existence as a whole. In the end, she’d thrown up her hands in despair and told her to marry him, then! Only for Cissa to scream right in her face that she didn’t need her permission and I was going to marry him, anyway!

It gave her a right headache to think of, but Cissa seemed to be thrilled with her new position as Lady Malfoy (she could practically hear her grandfather’s derisive snort), so she’d been the bigger person and shoved her animosity aside for her sister’s sake. (Mostly. Alright, well, partially, at least…)

As they finally reached the doors to the best drawing room in the manor (now used more frequently as an audience chamber for their Lord), she turned to Regulus and did her best to give him a reassuring smile. “Oh, stop your fretting. It’s going to be fine.” He swallowed and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Right.” Letting out a shaky exhale, he glanced at her and murmured, “Well, ladies first?”

Oh, honestly. She made a big production of rolling her eyes and letting out an exasperated huff, but inwardly, she was practically dancing with glee. She could feel her magic swirling about inside her, desperately butting against its confines of a clumsy mortal body and seeking out her Lord’s infinite, all encompassing power. Like called to like, pure blood to pure, and this, this was magic, true magic, magic wielded as their ancestors had intended, and such immense power could only be wielded by royalty, by nobility, by the purest of the pure. Those filthy mudbloods and halfbreeds and blood traitors could never even dream of such strength, let alone wielding it with the ease of their Lord, and despite such evidence, they still had the nerve to go about proclaiming themselves as her equal? She, Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black, equal to revolting base creatures like muggles and mudbloods? It was so pathetic as to be laughable.

Well, no matter. The wolves were at the door, the revolution had begun, and the Dark Lord would teach them their lesson soon enough, and then she would be the one laughing, make no mistake –

A soft voice broke her out of her reverie.

“Trixie?”

She blinked, startling a bit as she turned towards her cousin (this seemed to be the pattern for their interactions today), only to find him already watching her (again, strong sense of déjà vu), gaze watchful and narrowed (he always seemed to be watching these days, observant little blighter). “It’s not wise to keep him waiting.” He continued in a hushed tone, gaze darting apprehensively towards the heavy wooden gates. The little shit had a point, and so she nodded and faced the doors, resting one palm on the cold, engraved wood, the ridges of the carvings pressing into her hands. She could use the handle, of course, but something about the solidity of the wood grounded her.

She took a deep breath.

And pushed the gates open.

Chapter Text

He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the Persian carpet as they entered, eyes trailing along the abstract, interlocking designs in varying shades of green and silver (a rather unnecessary display of house loyalty, considering nearly every Lestrange over the past few centuries had been sorted into Slytherin), feet sinking into the plush wool.

Trixie came to a halt at the center of the room, surrounded by heavy velvet armchairs and dark leather couches, sinking into a low curtsey as she spoke reverentially. “My Lord.” He followed suit, bowing close to the carpet, still not daring to raise his head to catch a glimpse of the elusive Dark Lord. Even when his smooth, deep voice swept over them, instructing them to straighten, he kept his head lowered, not brave enough to face the man who’d got all the Wizarding World in such a tizzy.

“No need to stand on tradition with me, my dear Bellatrix. A commander is nothing without his loyal soldiers, after all.”

Trixie – arrogant, swaggering Trixie, who chafed against showing respect to her own father – rose up at once, head inclined deferentially. “You are too kind, my Lord.”

“Nonsense. I simply give credit where credit is due.”

There was a long pause, during which Regulus could physically feel the man’s attention shifting towards him, skin crawling like a thousand rats were jumping ship and he happened to be the unfortunate deck.

“I see you’ve brought a visitor.” The man’s tone was still pleasant enough, but there was an edge to it - an inquisitive, sharp undertone - that had him instinctively tensing up like one of Father's interrogations.

Well, there was no way around it.

He lifted his eyes, meeting the stare of the Dark Lord head on, and –

Oh.

Well, fuck.

Regulus tugged at his collar – it was freshly starched and buttoned all the way up, digging into his neck – and cast furtive glances around the room. Sirius was standing next to their father all the way over at the other end of the ballroom, jabbering away to some visiting French relatives who looked both amused and mildly impressed at his precocious, posh, practically grown up manner of speech. (“Some people would call it cheek.” His mother had sniffed, receiving a glare from his father. “He’s a smart boy. Eloquent. Better cheeky than soft spoken.” The not so subtle jibe at Regulus’ expense did not go unnoticed by any of them, his mother narrowing her eyes at Orion while Sirius nudged his foot under the dining table, giving him a commiserating smile. Unbeknownst to them all, Father’s words did not cut him nearly as deep as they thought. The lines had been drawn since his birth, and such routine jabs provided him the comforting assurance that those lines were being toed and the status quo maintained.) Father’s hand rested proudly on his shoulder, the infamous Black signet ring catching the light even from here.

During a lull in the conversation, in which the grown ups laughed indulgently for reasons best known to themselves, Sirius caught his eye and beckoned for him to come over, but he shook his head. He’d rather die than be forced to endure yet another round of pointless small talk which was always filled with long pauses whenever Regulus was involved and never ending chatter when Sirius was. Besides, his father had caught the gesture, and was now glaring at Regulus in a way that very clearly conveyed don’t even think about it. Watching his second born stumble through another awkward social interaction and praying he didn’t make any gaffe was probably the last thing he wanted. Well, no matter.

He turned away, scanning the ballroom for his mother, who would no doubt welcome him into her circle with an indulgent smile and pat on the head, but –

No, that would not do. She seemed to be engaged in very intense discussion with Mrs. Zabini, and he didn't care if it was impolite, but he didn’t like Mrs. Zabini. She always pinched his cheeks too hard and spoke in an overly embellished, high cooing voice like he was a toddler instead of eight years old. He wasn’t a baby.

Scratch that, then.

Maybe Cissa? No, she was over there, in a corner, talking to Lucius Malfoy. She didn’t mind her little cousin tagging along most of the time, but this wasn’t like most times, for it concerned Mister Lucius oh-Merlin-isn’t-he-so-charming-I-think-I’m-going-to-swoon Malfoy. (“Did you see that, Andie? Oh, he looked here, didn’t he? He did, he definitely did! Fuck, I think I’m going to faint – quick, tell me, is my side profile looking fine? At least he was looking at my good side – is my hair looking nice?”) Personally, Regulus couldn’t see what all the fuss was about – he had nice hair, but that was about it. He was just another bloke, in his (and Trixie’s) opinion. (“You could do so much better than that greaser, Cissy – what about Yaxley? Or Burke?”) Well, he wouldn’t go that far – he wasn’t that bad, surely.

Andie was nowhere to be found, and neither was Trixie (though Rodolphus Lestrange’s absence from the ballroom surely had something to do on that count).

The Rosiers were on holiday in France, and while he could go and strike up a conversation with some other kid, he didn’t want to risk it without Siri by his side. The girls were out, for obvious reasons. Mulciber and the other older boys (Nott, Shafiq, Travers) mostly ignored him, while the Selwyn and Avery boys had formed their own impenetrable unit.

The Rowles did have a son around his age, as did the Flints, but he didn’t know either of them very much. The Fawley boy was nice, but he was off with the Prewett twins, and though Regulus was loathe to admit it, they creeped him out – they moved and spoke in unison, tilting their heads ever so slightly, and the first (and last) time he’d spoken to them, they’d scared him so badly he’d spent the entire evening skulking behind Siri. Besides, they were far too old for him (three whole years!). Rabastan Lestrange was rather nice, despite the age difference, but he was also laughing with Shacklebolt near the drinks table, whom he’d never spoken to, so that was out, too.

There probably were some other kids – if he was truly desperate he could suck it up and go talk to Bulstrode and Greengrass and Macmillan and all the other giggling girls, but it always made him feel like they were having a joke at his expense, though Sirius had assured him it wasn’t so (“They’re girls, Reggie, they giggle at everything. Trust me, if they’re giggling when you talk to them, they like you.”), but Regulus wasn’t so easily convinced. The strange interaction with Pandora earlier that week had only cemented this belief. (He’d told Evan that introducing them was a bad idea, but did he listen? No.)

Restless, he glanced out the huge bay windows to the gardens beyond, where the outlines of massive chestnut and oak trees could be picked out against the dusky twilight.

Slowly, an idea began to form in his mind.

Could he –

It’s not like anyone would notice.

But –

The doors were right there.

It wouldn’t matter if he slipped out for a few minutes. Would it?

Before he could lose his newfound nerve, he darted out the grand entryway after loitering near it for a few minutes.

There. He’d done it.

He was out.

Like some low rate thief in one of Uncle Alphie’s favorite thrillers, he skulked out to the back garden, keeping to the shadows and out of the rings of light cast by the glowing orbs floating every few meters or so. It wasn’t like he was doing anything wrong – it was his house, after all! But some inner survival instinct told him to complete his little rendezvous without attracting unnecessary attention – at the end of the day, he was no Sirius.

Once he was at what he deemed a sufficient distance away from the house, he sauntered onto the path, hands stuffed in his stiff suit jacket, trying to maintain an air of utter casualness on his face. So focused was he on keeping his expression beyond reproach, beyond doubt, that he totally missed the slim figure on a bench tucked into one of the many shadowy corners of the Black Estate. As a result, all cool superiority went out the window when he squawked, flailed and ultimately fell on the ground like a dog playing dead when a voice called out, “Bit late for you to be roaming around on your lonesome, isn’t it?”

Regulus, who was more focused on not eating dirt, did not respond.

“Nasty fall, that.” The stranger remarked, making no move to get up and help the boy sprawled on the soil back to his feet.

He struggled upright, squinting at the man – the audacity! To come to a Black event, on their home turf, and then not offer his assistance to their youngest to help him out of a situation he was responsible for!

Despite himself, his curiosity was piqued, and though faint warning bells were ringing somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he got to the feet and moved closer to the bench.

“Who are you?” He asked, mustering up whatever haughtiness he could and trying to imitate Father’s most imperious, least impressed tone. The effect fell slightly flat due to the small waver at the end.

“A guest, of course.” He replied, sounding mildly amused.

He was silent for a moment before enquiring, “Well, what’s your name?”

“I have many names, child.”

Regulus was stumped. This wasn’t the proper answer at all. Sirius would know what to say, he thought suddenly, this is why I shouldn’t take strolls in gardens all alone –

“You’re the younger son, if I’m not mistaken?” The man inquired suddenly. “Romulus?”

"Regulus.” He corrected automatically.

“Oh yes, how could I forget. Every single one of you lot are named after stars. Bit pretentious, if you ask me.”

He remained silent. It was the first (though certainly not the last) time anyone had implied that the Blacks were anything but perfect in their eyes.

There was a short pause, during which the man studied him with narrowed eyes. “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” He said finally.

Regulus shrugged. It was true.

“Come sit.” He patted the bench beside him.

“Oh-h, no, t-that’s very kind of you, but I have to be getting back now, I’m sure Mother would be worried –”

The man snorted, cutting off the end of Regulus’ poorly constructed sentence. “Believe me, she isn’t. Worried, I mean.” He clarified, at his look of confusion.

Regulus bit his lip to keep from springing out a retort (contradicting an adult, more uncharacteristically Sirius like behavior) mainly because saying, of course Mother would be worried, I’m her son, sounded a bit too pathetic even to his own ears. And, well –

It’s not like he was wrong.

He viewed the stranger with mounting suspicion. Even if he was a guest, how did he know so much about his family despite Regulus not having met the man in his life? Who was he?

“How do you know my family?” He asked instead.

“Come sit, and I’ll tell you.”

He weighed his options. He could either turn away and run back up the path, fetch Father or Uncle Cygnus or someone and get them to explain who this man was, or he could… sit on the bench. He could just about hear his brother’s exasperated sigh (“Just sit on the damn bench, Reggie.”).

So, curiosity overriding any last dregs of common sense he may have possessed, he inched closer to the bench, perching on the edge at a safe distance from the guest. The man hummed in approval.

“Now, to answer your question…” He paused, seemingly to savor the anticipation before he continued. “I help your Father with his more... unofficial... businesses.”

Regulus gasped before he could help himself. “What, really?” The man seemed normal enough at first glance, but now that he was looking closely…

He seemed bemused by his enthusiastic response. “Yes, really.”

He scrutinized his face and was vaguely disappointed to find that it was indiscernible from the average wizard’s. “You look normal, though.” He said doubtfully.

“Well, I should hope so.” He agreed.

He really shouldn’t hang around this man any longer, especially after what he’s found out, but he can’t help himself – Father never lets them into his study (except Sirius, on rare occasions), never tells them about his work, and this is his one opportunity to find out. “So… are you really….”

He looked more confused than ever. “Just who do you think I am?”

He glanced nervously up at the moon (crescent, but you could never be too careful) and hesitated.

“Come on, spit it out.”

It took him a moment, but spit it out he did. “A werewolf?” He finished tremulously, readying himself for the sprint back to the Manor. If he screamed loud enough, would they hear? Would they care?

The man looked at him for a moment, face unreadable (Regulus braced himself for the worst – it was too bad, mauled by a werewolf was not the way he had wanted to go, though he hadn’t wanted to go at all, to be honest) before bursting into laughter, throwing his head back and howling at the moon just like the werewolf Regulus knew he was. “Good heavens, no. Just what kind of company does your father keep?”

“The right kind?” He responded doubtfully, though that seemed to be the wrong answer, seeing as how he simply laughed harder.

“Whoever put that idea in your head?” He wondered, wiping at his eyes after he’d finished with his inexplicable bout of laughter.

“Uncle Alphie told me.” He mumbled, feeling more than a little put out.

The man just as suddenly stopped laughing, and turned his head to fix him with an unnerving, unblinking gaze. “Alphard Black? He’s here?”

Regulus fought the urge to squirm. “No.” When the man didn’t seem entirely satisfied, he elaborated reluctantly. “I don’t think he likes parties very much. He never comes to them.”

The man relaxed slightly and turned away, slouching against the back of the bench. “No, he wouldn’t, would he.” There was an odd sort of weight to the simple statement, an edge that flew entirely over young Regulus’ head.

The man sighed, a heavy sort of sigh, and spoke. “Well, to answer your question, no, I am not a werewolf. Nor are your Father’s other lovely associates, as far as I know, though some of them are rather unsavory characters. I imagine your family wanted you to stay as far away from them as possible, thus filling your head with these ridiculous stories. What better way to make a child obey than fear?” He glanced over at the boy, a droll smile flickering on his lips.

He didn’t know what to say (a recurring theme throughout their short conversation) and so he settled for humming noncommittally, a response which was hard pressed to offend even the most sensitive of listeners. Personally, he wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t want to anger his strange companion lest his suspicions turn out to be not entirely baseless. After a short pause, the man spoke again.

“Don’t you get tired of it?” He asked, voice laced with unmistakable curiosity. “I mean…” He hesitated, seemed to think better of what he was about to say, and changed tracks. “Your brother is quite clearly your Father’s pride and joy. Aren’t you jealous?”

Regulus thought about it. It did not occur to him to be offended, although it was rather an impertinent question (no doubt his older family members would have torn into the unfortunate stranger for even insinuating such a thing). Perhaps it was because he could tell the question was genuine, and had seen Sirius receive sharp raps and reprimands far too many times merely for asking an honest question to be too keen to be on the giving end.

“No.” He answered, quite honestly in his opinion.

“Really?” A disbelieving reply. “Being overlooked, overshadowed, second choice and second best, doesn’t bother you?”

“No.” He replied, more firmly this time, knowing it to be true. “Besides, even if Father loves Sirius more, Mother loves me more, so it’s only fair.”

“How wonderful.” The man said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Mummy’s little hero, are we? Well then, where is she? Because she sure as hell isn’t tearing the place up for her precious little boy.”

He gazed at the man uncomprehendingly, who stared back with the expectant look of someone waiting for their audience to get the punchline to their joke. He didn’t understand – he was Mother’s favorite, and Sirius was Father’s – everybody knew this. It was set in stone, as incorrigible as his brother’s scratchy handwriting – an indisputable fact like Regulus is the brightest star in the Leo constellation.

A flicker of something – disappointment, maybe? – passed over the man’s face, before disappearing and leaving the same smooth mask in its wake. Not for the first time, he inspected his features closely – thin lips and a strong jaw, dark hair falling on his brow in a gelled swoop, hard eyes glinting in the conjured light. He was conventionally handsome, but not strikingly so – indistinguishable from a thousand other strangers in a crowd. Yet, Regulus felt he would remember the man’s face forever, if only because this was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in months.

The man cleared his throat. “Oh, never mind. You’re a little young to face the reality yet.”

He pouted. “I’m not young. I’m eight years old, Trixie says that’s practically a grown up.”

The man smiled. It was not a nice smile – all sharp edges and cutting teeth – but it was a dazzling one all the same. “My apologies. Why, I must be an old, old man then. Practically in my grave.” Despite the lighthearted comment, there was a trace of disdain in his words, a subtle hint of disgust like one that appeared in Mother’s voice when she spoke about blood traitors. (He did not know who these traitors were, nor did he know whose blood they had betrayed, nor what they’d done, precisely.)

He nodded, adopting a flippant tone he’d picked up from Sirius (who’d learned from the best – Trixie). “I suppose you must be.”

He hummed, gazing moodily out onto the grounds. Dusk had fallen, and he could see the moths flocking to the globes of light, buzzing around them in an attempt to draw out whatever little they could and keep it for themselves.

“I don’t think I could handle it.” He said abruptly. “Always overlooked. Never the first choice, never in the spotlight, never paid the slightest bit of attention to. I think I’d have gone mad.” He paused, before adding. “It’s very brave of you.”

Brave?

No one had ever called him brave before.

In spite of the unfurling warmth in his chest, he frowned. What the man had said – it wasn’t true. His family did pay attention to him. And even if they didn’t, it suited him just fine – he preferred it, in fact.

“I’m not like you.” He blurted. “I don’t mind.”

The man turned, blocking the light from the orb further up the path and fully facing him now. “Oh, but I think you are. You’re just like me, when I was your age. And just like me, you do mind. You mind very much. You don’t realize it because you’ve never had even a scrap of attention your whole life, but the moment you get even a second, an instant, in the spotlight, you’ll crave it. You’ll hunger for it. You’ll replay it, over and over and over again, and you’ll be desperate enough, willing enough, to do anything for it. You’ll claw your way to the top, you’ll make people pay attention to you, and you’ll watch as the same people who scoffed at you and belittled you and patronized you will beg you for help, for favor, for mercy, and you’ll enjoy every damn minute of it.”

The man’s voice had taken on a fervent, stirring, almost hypnotic quality, and Regulus found himself waiting with bated breath to hear what came out of his mouth next, when –

“Regulus?”

He whipped his head around to find Andie standing a little way down the path, gaze fixed on the two of them.

“What are you doing?” She asked, when it became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything. There was a strange stiffness to her words, an almost woodenness that reminded him, oddly enough, of those talking china dolls that Aunt Lucy collected. (He thought they were scary. Sirius thought they were too girly. Aunt Lucy loved them more than she loved her husband.)

“Oh, me and little Regulus here are just having a little chat.” The man said smoothly, reaching out one hand to ruffle his hair, and when no response was forthcoming, he added, “Wonderful young man you’ve got here. You must be very proud.”

He preened, but Andie’s words were oddly flat and clipped when she finally replied. “We are, though I thank you for such high praise.” She turned and held out a hand to Regulus. “Come quick, Auntie is looking for you. What were you thinking, wandering about after dark on your own like this?” She scolded. Chastised, he jumped off the bench and began to make his way towards her, but was stopped by a long, pale hand wrapping around his wrist. “No need to be so hasty, I’m sure.”

“Let him go.” He jumped as Andie suddenly appeared at his shoulder, glaring at the man with the kind of cold hatred that was usually reserved in their family for muggles and mudbloods. He noted with some alarm that her wand was in her hand.

Bewildered, he glanced between the two, but they seemed to be locked in some kind of staring match so intense that he swore the air between them crackled with energy. She placed a hand on his shoulder, gripping it firmly until her nails dug in. He hissed in pain, but didn’t dare shake her off.

After what seemed like an eternity, he relinquished his grip on his wrist. “Well, I’m sure I wouldn’t want to impose on your family’s valuable time.” He agreed, seeming more amused than anything, though Andie’s voice was as frigid as ice when she spoke. “That’s right. You wouldn’t.”

In lieu of responding, the man swiveled and bent down to look him in the eye. “Marvolo, child.”

Her grip tightened on his shoulder, but he ignored her, focusing all his attention on the stranger. “What?”

“You asked for my name, did you not? It’s Marvolo. Do not forget that.”

He nodded dumbly, but before he could bid him farewell, Andie dragged him to the path and began pulling him towards the Manor.

He tried to take one last look at the man – at Marvolo – but she tightened her grip around the scruff of his neck and told him in no uncertain terms to face forward, or you’ll get a hex to your backside. The whispered threat was so unlike the sweet, subdued Andie he knew that he obeyed instantly, limply allowing her to steer him towards the main path.

When they’d turned the corner and were successfully obscured from Marvolo’s field of vision by a decorative topiary, she whirled on him, kneeling on the path with no regard for the fabric of her insanely expensive dress.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you brat?” She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, hard.

There was an insane sort of quality to her face, a desperate, maniacal gleam in her eyes more commonly witnessed in her older sister. It was so out of character for her that all he could do was gape. Which was just as well, for she ploughed on without waiting for an answer. “You can’t just trust everyone like that, Regulus! That man was a very, very bad man, and what do I see when I turn the corner? The two of you gabbing away like old ladies at a society function!”

She paused, inhaling, and Regulus, possessed by the spirit of Godric Gryffindor himself that day, found himself saying, stupidly, “But he was nice.”

“Oh, well then. As long as he’s nice. You sound just like Cissa, you know that?  Nice. As long as he’s well bred, well mannered, he can go out and murd –”

She cut herself off, looking away. He stared at her in confusion and was horrified to find tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, overcome with the urge to bawl himself.

She turned back towards him, hands moving down to grip his arms. “It’s alright. Don’t cry, it’s alright.”

“You’re the one who’s c-crying.” He pointed out in a hoarse whisper.

She gave him a wobbly smile. “Nothing gets past you, hm?”

He shook his head solemnly, which made the corners of her mouth turn up again. The reprieve was short lived as her expression turned serious again, fearful, even, and she looked him in the eyes. “Don’t talk to him again. Please. Can you do that for me? Even if you see him at the next few balls, or functions, don’t talk to him. Don’t seek him out, and if he wants to talk to you, just tell me and I’ll handle it. Do you understand?”

He nodded shakily.

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

Despite his promise, Regulus had scanned the room for Marvolo at every single event he’d attended after that. Andie’s cryptic warnings had served only to add to the mystery’s allure, and Regulus was a very curious child.

In the end, it hadn’t mattered.

He never did see him again.

At none of the innumerable balls or galas or weddings did he catch a glimpse of the man with the sharp smile and crisp, gelled hair, in spite of his best efforts.

It was like he’d never existed, the mysterious man nothing but a figment of Regulus’ overactive imagination. After Andie’s uncharacteristic reaction that night, he hadn’t dared mention this encounter to anyone else, and by some unspoken understanding, she’d done the same.

After a while, the memory had faded to a dull ache in the back of his consciousness, throbbing with the pain of a mystery left forever unsolved. That is, until it resurfaced in full force today.

Across the room, a pair of dark brown eyes watched the realization dawn on his face with unconcealed satisfaction.

“Hello, Regulus. It’s been far too long.”

Chapter Text

As he locked eyes with the infamous man across the room, Regulus could almost feel himself falling, dragged into the depths of those mercurial chocolate brown eyes like a flimsy fishing boat caught in a typhoon, stretched thin like one of those hair bands Sirius the traitor had been so fond of, caught between past and present with the Dark Lord’s finger on the wobbly rubber, snapping it back and forth to his own amusement. Look at you, he seemed to say, look at you, still as weak and pitiful as you were all those years ago.

Regulus is eight, and he is sixteen, and did it matter which was which if he was still the same useless spare hiding behind his mother’s petticoats, dead weight in the family portrait, the worthless afterthought who could never quite manage to get anything right? Both versions of him, young and even younger, leaving imprints on the same godawful Persian carpet, both faced with a man who always seemed to turn up at the most crucial junctures of their lives, the very same man who somehow managed to see right past the cracks in their façades to the shameful, rotten truth beneath?

Eight year old Regulus scuffed his feet, looking over trustingly, and there was nothing Regulus wanted more than to sock him right in the nose, punch that ridiculously naïve expression clean off his face, grab him by the shoulders and shake him till his teeth clattered.

He hated that boy, hated him with an everlasting, burning passion. You fool, he wanted to scream, you’ve got everything, everything you could ever want, and you still fuck it all up. You fuck it all up because that’s what you do.

It was your fault.

All your fault.

As he looked at the other man’s face, still as timeless and effortlessly handsome as it had been nearly a decade ago, he was filled with the familiar, swooping sensation of acute awe, the aching feeling of admiration, of itching to ask, how did you do it? How did you make them notice you? You were nothing when I met you last, just another man seated alone outside a ball he’d been reluctantly invited to, a distant associate of the true rich and powerful, hanging onto the fringes of high society by the tips of your fingers, but look at you now. Look at us bowing and scraping to you, to your whims and wishes, carrying out your orders and executing a plan to build a world of your design.

You were right, all those years ago. It isn’t enough, it was never enough, but only one of us actually managed to do something about it. You’re the most powerful, the most feared, the most dreaded wizard in the world right now, and I’m still the same second rate replacement, the useless pawn in my family’s games.

How did you do it? How, how, how?

The familiar green snake of envy reared its head, sinking its venomous fangs into the so-called pure blood flowing through his veins, filling his soul with the swirling, noxious poison of jealousy, jealousy, jealousy –

At his prolonged silence, the Dark Lord’s smile widened, though it still didn’t quite reach his eyes, the overall effect being rather uncanny instead of welcoming.

He strolled over to the velvet chaise longue and flung himself upon it, one leg dangling lazily as he gestured for them to take the seats opposite, just as if he were some great ruler reluctantly dealing with common stragglers at the gates, instead of an extremist with dubious intentions being entertained in a manor he probably couldn’t dream of affording in nine lifetimes. “Come, sit.”

Trixie obediently walked over to the chesterfield sofa, Regulus following behind her, though a trifle warily, sitting without taking his eyes off the Dark Lord, who seemed determined to return the favour, watching Regulus with his dark eyes in a manner eerily reminiscent of a snake sizing up its prey.

“Forgive me,” He spoke suddenly. “I forget myself. Tea?” He gazed at them expectantly.

Trixie gushed. “We’d love some.”

The Dark Lord nodded, tilting his head slightly as he summoned the Lestrange house elf in an imperiously thundering voice. “Straker!”

With a pop, the elf appeared in the middle of the drawing room, head bowed, dressed in his kind’s usual fare of ragged pillowcases as he listened to their order for tea. Bewildered, he glanced at his cousin, who was happily nodding along like this was the norm, like it was perfectly normal for the most wanted Dark wizard in the world to politely request your house elf for tea and biscuits like some elderly dowager about to rehash all the scandals of the past century.

Did she not see how ridiculous it was to be treated like a guest in her own husband's home? Her own family’s house elf obediently doing as an outsider bid? The same outsider who currently had his feet up on the inordinately expensive, handcrafted mahogany table like he’d paid for every square inch of it?

Shaking his head, he forced himself to focus on the conversation flowing freely across the aforementioned table, now adorned with silver platters overflowing with thin crust sandwiches, golden scones accompanied by tiny, bejewelled pots of clotted cream, butter and jam; light, creamy pastries supplemented with huge, buttery biscuits. Trixie and the Lord (Marvolo, he reminded himself, he’s certainly no Lord) were holding forth at great length regarding the politics at the Ministry, with his cousin campaigning for her husband to become the unofficial face of the Pureblood lobby, replacing Lucius Malfoy. (“Pardon my bluntness, my Lord, but anything that – ah, Heir Malfoy – can do, Rodolphus can do better.”) The other man listened intently, with only the slight glint in his eyes giving away the true depths of his amusement as Trixie valiantly attempted to mask her disdain for her brother-in-law.

“So,” He spoke, after what seemed like centuries of Trixie yammering on about the many apparent failings of the unfortunate heir to the Malfoy name, finally fixing Regulus with his dark, shark like eyes as he leaned forward to place the dainty china teacup on its rightful saucer. Trixie quieted instantly, watching her Lord with the adoring, reverent gaze more commonly observed in Hagrid when he spoke of their wonderful headmaster, though no doubt Trixie would be outraged to be compared to ‘that inferior half breed’. “Regulus.”

He inclined his head in a manner not dissimilar to his cousin. He wasn’t a fool, no matter what his feelings on the man may be. “My Lord.” He spoke blandly, careful not to let any of the emotions simmering below the surface seep through.

“You are seventeen, correct?”

“Sixteen, my Lord.” He corrected, daring to sneak a sideways glance at Trixie, who looked mildly uncomfortable at the path this conversation was taking.

He furrowed his thick, even brows. “Sixteen? Are you not out of school yet?”

There was a small, awkward pause, which Trixie quickly jumped in to fill with the sound of her own voice. “Well, not yet, my Lord, but I don’t see how that will be an issue.” She plastered on a slightly forced smile. “He shall start his seventh year there this September, and he would be a valuable source of information regarding that old fool –”

“A spy, then.” His voice was flat, unamused.

“Well, yes, but I assure you, he will be able to provide invaluable assistance if the need arises. He is very capable, my uncle made sure of it –”

“Capability,” He remarked coldly. “is not the issue.”

Cowed, she fell silent, filling the room with a thick, heavy quiet which made him feel a bit like they’d been entangled in cobwebs, strung up and suspended in sticky strands far above the ground, unable to move, to speak, to breathe.

The utter silence in the room was interrupted only by the flat ticking of the grandfather clock, the thick wooden gates to the drawing room successfully muffling all sounds of outside life.

Tick. Tock.

His flat, obsidian eyes, fixed on his own.

Tick. Tock.

Trixie’s slight, involuntary fidgeting contrasting with his absolute stillness.

Tick. Tock.

Shadows on the carpet lengthening, light falling in extreme slants from the French windows as the day outside steadily approached dusk.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“Tell me.” He regarded him quietly. “Is this a game to you, Regulus?”

He snapped his head up, meeting the vague, unreadable stare of Marvolo opposite. Trixie began to stammer out something – an apology, no doubt – but he waved her words away, not taking his eyes off Regulus. “No, no, let him answer. I want to hear it from his mouth.”

There was a careful pause, pregnant with anticipation, laced with the barest hints of fear. When he spoke, he employed the same soothing, slightly patronising tone his father generally used with reporters who dared question his more draconian lobbying. “Pardon me, my Lord, but I’m not sure I like what you’re implying. I assure you, my wand and my heart lie with your cause, and your cause only. There is a reason I am here with you, after all.”

He gazed levelly at the other man, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from his right – perhaps he’d been a bit too forward? Merlin, was he going to kill him? He was going to kill him, wasn’t he?

To his crippling relief, no wands were pulled out, no curses spoken into the world, no accusations of disrespect and insolence slapped across his face. The other man’s expression remained as implacable as ever, with the only shift being the slight turning up of the corners of his mouth – heavens, was that a smile?

“Well, I would hope so.” He agreed, regarding him with what looked like mild amusement. He blinked in surprise, while next to him, Trixie huffed out a slightly hysterical chuckle, though it stopped abruptly at his next words.

“So, how is dear Sirius doing? Well, I hope?”

He stared at Regulus across the table, one elegant brow arched in expectation. He gazed back, trying not to let his shock, his sudden fear, show on his face.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know.” He stated quietly. “In case you were unaware, my Lord, I haven’t spoken to that traitor in two years.”

“Quite.” He agreed. “But if I may be blunt, child –” Here he swung his other leg off the chaise longue, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward and dissected him with a piercing stare. “– part of me is deeply surprised you didn’t trot behind your brother into those blood traitors’ arms like the obedient dog your parents make you out to be.”

A shocked hush descended on the table, his mouth dropping open while his cousin let out a choked sound.

Tick. Tock.

Somewhere in the oppressive stillness, a crow cawed.

Tick. Tock.

He watched them closely, a satisfied glint in his eyes.

Tick. Tock.

Trixie was the first to recover.

“My Lord, I promise you, there is absolutely no chance that Regulus shares that filthy muggle lover’s skewed ideals. He is loyal to our family, to our values, not to that – that blood traitor. There has never been any doubt regarding where his allegiances lie. If you prefer, I can vouch for him myself, on pain of death.”

“I am sure his loyalty to your family is not up for debate, but this isn’t about your family, now, is it? This is about the future of the Wizarding world. All this is to make sure that Pureblood children can attend school without their parents needing to fret about their children being contaminated by their filthy, muggle loving peers, without needing to worry about their magic being stolen by those stupid, disgusting mudbloods, without needing to fight someone inferior to themselves for a position that should rightfully be theirs.” He rose up from his seat and began to pace, wearing down the carpet with his Oxford-clad feet.

Regulus sat as still as he was able, not daring to move an inch lest it serve to set the man off further. He was well versed in recognising the signs of an outburst brewing near the surface – one wrong word was all it would take to make it explode, burst out of its unnaturally polite high society wrapping to reveal its true, bloodthirsty, savage, indescribably human nature beneath.

He’d played this dance with his father enough times before, sitting in his study while his father raved on about whatever perceived injustice he’d suffered through this time, about the alleged power, the so-called greatness of their noble lineage, breath reeking of liquor while he clutched his bottle like a long lost friend. More often than not, it devolved into a rant about his long lost firstborn, how he’d been cursed with an ungrateful, traitorous brat for his eldest and a cowardly fool for his youngest.

Such episodes had increased a thousandfold ever since, well –

He swiveled to face the two of them, a maniacal gleam in his eye, a determined, fervent expression on his face.

“This isn’t about your family. This isn’t about me, either. This is about the good of our world, this is about fighting for what’s right, this is about reclaiming what’s rightfully ours. Mudblood quotas, squib quotas, half-blood Ministers, innumerable legislations passed in their favour – all which is eating away at the true magic wielders, the rightful residents of our world – why should we share, when they have nothing to offer us in return, nothing except insults and disrespect? Our bloodlines tainted, our positions weakened, and why? What for? To be nice?” He spat.

“Where was nice when the filthy muggles were burning us at the stake? When we were stoned and driven from our homes simply because we were blessed? Because we could do more than they’d ever dreamed of? It took decades, no, centuries, to claw our way back into power, to protect our own and create a world where we could live in safety, where our children could play without fear, where we lived our lives like we deserved – like kings and queens, us all. And now, what, we’re supposed to share our world with them? With the same ilk who abused us, turned us away when we needed their help, killed us and raped our sisters, our daughters, our wives? No! I refuse. I will not stand by and let them ruin our world, the same world we worked so hard to build.”

He walked over to the window, looking out onto the steadily darkening grounds, and glanced over his shoulder, speaking in a low, impassioned, profoundly heartfelt tone. “I will make our world great again. All the ancient bloodlines, all the noble Houses shall be preserved, and not one member, be it the Head of the House or the youngest daughter from a quaternary branch, shall be harmed. You have my word. Together, we shall make our kind strong again. Together, we shall rebuild our beautiful world, we shall save Magic herself by reverting the world to its natural state, with our blood, chosen by the heavens themselves, ruling over it.”

He turned around, fixing him with an earnest, grim look. “It shall not be easy. They shall try to sway us, to paint us as villains, to put us off history’s rightful course, but we must not be deterred. We must fight, for our children, for our mothers, for our freedom. We must.”

A heavy pause.

“So, Regulus Black.” Each word delivered like a knife blow, damning and provocative. Involuntarily, he leaned forward. “Which side of history will your deeds land on?”

Tick. Tock.

Chapter Text

Rita Skeeter had a secret.

Many secrets, in fact, and as someone who traded in the same, digging out delightful, scandalous scoops to print in the papers for the world to see, she probably should have been more worried about her own getting out, but…. well.

You see, Rita Skeeter was not a pureblood.

The ordinary wizard (or witch, or non-binary magical being – the Prophet was trying to be a more inclusive workplace, key emphasis on trying), even during times of strife such as this one, would cock a brow, unimpressed, and say so? It was hardly a groundbreaking secret, in fact, it was barely a secret at all – around half the student population at Hogwarts and the majority of her colleagues at the Prophet were very much in the same boat – so what did it matter? Voldemort could just go fuck himself.

This lovely, rosy eyed view was unfortunately not shared by Rita, to whom it mattered a great deal. A mind healer would no doubt be intrigued by her particular case – some sort of internalised blood supremacy bullshit – but to be examined at all would mean Rita admitting she had any sort of problem whatsoever, which was unlikely to happen anytime soon, or even a century later.

Why, you may ask? Well, Rita Skeeter had spent so long living a lie that she’d be the last person to realise that it was, in fact, untrue.

“Slytherin!”

She climbed down from the stool, looking up at McGonagall in triumph – her mother had been in Slytherin, just like the good Pureblood girl she was supposed to be before she ran off with a muggle – and skipped over to the table closest to the doors. She slid onto the bench, grinning widely, resisting the urge to hop onto the table and yell I did it, losers! Oh, she couldn’t wait to write a letter to her mother – she just wished she could be there to see the look on her face when she read it. Despite all her assurances that all Houses were excellent, that she’d love Rita no matter what, Rita knew her mother well enough to read the lines in her pinched face and discern that if her daughter clawed her way into Slytherin, it would mean the world to her. Perhaps because it’d help her feel closer to her daughter, or perhaps just because it’d bolster her fantasies of living a normal, respectable pureblood life, with a normal, respectable pureblood daughter in the expected House.

As the sorting continued, a girl with wild, curly ebony hair and an imperious expression leaned forward and regarded her from across the table, clearing her throat. When it didn’t achieve its intended effect of making her target cower in fear, she scowled, tossing her hair over her shoulder (not an inconsiderable feat, with how thick and heavy her curls looked). Rita arched an eyebrow at her.

When the girl finally spoke, it was in a haughty, nasty sort of sneer that made her instantly decide that she hated her.

“Well, who are you, then?” She snapped.

Rita tried her best to match her cattiness and mustered up her most insolent tone (one she practiced frequently on her meddling relatives) and replied. “What’s it to you?”

For a fraction of a second, the girl looked taken aback, and she savoured the victory, but the gratifying sweetness on her tongue soon dissolved into a bitter taste (not dissimilar to bottle gourd) as the other girl spoke again, words venomously cloying. “Why, one needs to know who they’re going to be associated with, of course. After all, they’re letting in just any riff raff these days, are they not?” She smiled sweetly. “Heavens, you could be a half blood, for all I know. In fact, you could even be a mudblood, and I could never share a dorm with a filthy creature like that.” She made a show of shuddering, disgust twisting her admittedly pretty features into something rather unappealing. “So, are you a filthy little creature, Roberta, hm?”

When she finally found her voice, she was pleasantly surprised to note it was not as shaky as it could have been. “It’s Rita, actually.”

The girl hummed, unimpressed. “That’s what I said, Rachel. Are you hard of hearing? Is that a common malady among those dirty muggles?”

She met her gaze levelly. “I wouldn’t know. I’m a Pureblood.” Just like you went unspoken, but they both heard it all the same.

Despite the pronouncement, the other girl didn’t seem appeased in the slightest. In fact, she was now grinning like a cat who’d just got the cream. “Is that right?” She purred.

Rita refused to back down, not at this point. “Yes, it is.”

“That’s funny. Last I checked, Skeeter wasn’t exactly part of the Sacred 28, was it?”

Suddenly, she felt very hot. The noise in the Great Hall seemed too loud, almost grating, and despite being shoulder to shoulder with her housemates, crammed like sardines in a tin, not a single one of them seemed to be paying their conversation the slightest bit of attention. In fact, the only one who seemed to be looking at her at all was the other girl, who’d tilted her head and was observing her with a level of scrutiny generally reserved for magizoologists discovering a new species.

She hesitated just a moment too long. A smug, self-satisfied smirk spread across pretty girl’s face. “Liar.” She crooned. “You’re just another filthy mudblood, aren’t you?”

When she failed to respond, she continued, smirk growing wider by the passing second. “Tell me, do you roll around in mud to take a bath? Do you cook babies and eat them? I can’t imagine what that’d do to your complexion, but looking at your face, I’m assuming it’s nothing good.” She pouted in faux sympathy.

Involuntarily, she raised a hand to brush against her cheek, and dropped it almost immediately when she realized what she’d done.

The girl seemed delighted by this reaction. She opened her mouth, no doubt to batter her self-esteem to even smaller bits, but before she could get even a syllable out, Rita snapped. “I’m German, you ignorant cow.”

The girl looked so offended that it took all her willpower not to burst into slightly hysterical laughter. “What did you just call me?”

“You heard me.” It was her turn to lean forward, glinting eyes never leaving pretty girl’s black ones. “My mother’s maiden name was Philomena Flint. My father’s name was Magnus Skeeter. Both are Purebloods, you daft hag.”

Both were, in fact, not Purebloods. Her father’s name was not Magnus Skeeter. When alive, her father had gone by Jerry Skeeter, American ex-pat and beer connoisseur, owner of a nationwide trucking company, about as muggle as you could get. She couldn’t tell German from a fat donkey’s arse, but this bitch didn’t need to know that.

With a face like she’d sucked on a lemon, the other girl turned back to the Sorting with a huff, rolling her eyes petulantly.

Feeling remarkably bold for the predicament she’d found herself in just the past minute, she found herself imitating the other girl’s supercilious manner and looking down her nose with a degree of smugness which would have made her ancestors (on the Pureblood side, of course) proud. “And who, pray tell, are you?”

The girl whipped her head back towards Rita, jaw set, eyes blazing. Clearly, the queen of the hive did not appreciate being questioned by an ordinary worker bee.

“Bellatrix Druella Black, the eldest daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, you illiterate nincompoop. It’s far from a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” She fired back, glaring. For some absurd reason, a smile was tugging at the corner of her mouth.

That had been the first time Rita Skeeter had met Bellatrix Black (Lestrange now, she reminded herself, trying to ignore the strange ache in her chest – it wasn’t that she begrudged them the match, both were definitely awful enough – but he seemed a bit, well, boring for someone as spirited as Bellatrix. But what did she know? Not all that much, but enough to know that eleven year old Rita would never have imagined her catty little mortal enemy to end up married fresh out of school to the most prosaic, unimaginative, pompous asshat possible – but what did she care?).

It had also been the first time she’d lied about her parentage. Prior to Hogwarts, despite her relatives’ numerous (though not quite well meaning) attempts to get her to disown that part of her heritage entirely, she’d always put her foot down, throwing a tantrum until whichever unfortunate relation responsible backed down and reluctantly apologized. Unlike her bigoted family (who’d always been mildly relieved that her father died), she’d been determined to honour his memory, starting with mundane, everyday things like playing his favourite muggle records or learning how to ride a bike, and though she’d never said it outright, the proud gleam in her mother’s eyes spoke volumes. She’d certainly never objected to any of Rita’s impassioned screaming matches regarding the subject with her grandmother, and, well, she was the one who’d married the man in the first place.

That day, though? All it had taken was one look in Bellatrix’s cruel, piercing eyes for her to break and spit out the lie her mother’s family had been inculcating in her since poor Jerry’s death all those years ago.

One ten minute conversation with a proper Pureblood.

Her first night in the castle.

The cheap thrill of acceptance into the self-proclaimed elitists of the school.

That was all it’d taken for Rita to shed half her heritage and don an imposter’s robe.

She’d never been more ashamed in her life.

So what did she do? Did she come clean, unabashedly looking Bellatrix in the eyes while she declared that her father had been a muggle, and the nicest father at that, which was something she was sure Bellatrix wouldn’t know, considering she had to make an appointment a month prior to talk to her father?

Predictably, she did absolutely nothing of the sort.

Being placed in the same dormitory and attending the same classes made it rather hard for them to keep up their malicious little rapport, and being the only girls sorted into Slytherin that year eventually dissolved their mutual animosity entirely. It wasn’t long before she was laughing helplessly at Bellatrix’s caustic remarks, sides splitting, or studying with her in the library – as expected, the other girl was years ahead of the majority of their peers, thanks to the best tutors money could buy (though their methods left something to be desired – she didn’t think Bellatrix realized it wasn’t normal to stick a child to a chair with a charm till she could recite her Latin conjugations from rote memory or perform flawless wandless magic, but maybe that was just the way these people did things).

Soon enough, they were inseparable, in that way only two eleven year old girls against the whole wide world could be, clinging to each other in the face of their indifferent families. Helping each other out in class tests (the uncultured, casual observer would call it cheating, but they knew the truth), sharing sweets bought from Bellatrix’s not inconsiderable pocket money (Papa would have been lucky to earn that in a month, she used to think, guiltily squashing the notion as soon as it arose), participating in enchanted pillow fights till one of them begged for mercy, pinky promising to keep each other’s secrets till the day they died. (The passage of time made them seem inconsequential - foolish and rather laughable - but back then they were treated with the grave seriousness more appropriate for, say, Grindelwald’s sudden escape from prison. Not that Bellatrix would know anything about that, of course.)

Looking back, she’s surprised it lasted as long as it did. There were moments when the guilt overwhelmed her (admittedly weak) conscience and she nearly blurted out the truth, but some innate self-preservation instinct always stopped her at the last moment. She still doesn’t know what would have happened if she had. Would things have been the same? Would the timeline have been completely flipped? Would she have been living in some alternate universe where she baked cupcakes for fundraisers every weekend and smiled a lot and wore bright clothes while pinching babies’ cheeks?

More likely than not, she’d have ended up exactly where she was now – orange juice stain on her blouse, lipstick on her teeth, hair bedraggled and clinging to the wall in her beetle form.

Oh, yeah. That’s another thing to add to her Prophet matrimonial. 5’6. Steady, well-paying job as an investigative journalist. Fraudulent Pureblood and unregistered animagus.

There was a story behind that, too. But it wasn’t something she could be marginally proud of, nor was it one she was particularly eager to get into.

Besides, transforming into a beetle in her free time wasn’t even the worst out of all her lovely multitudes. Oh, no. It didn’t even come close.

You see, Rita had one last dirty little secret. One she rarely admitted, even to herself.

Rita Skeeter was indisputably, irrevocably, hopelessly in love with Bellatrix Black Lestrange.

Chapter Text

A strange, itching sensation spread throughout his body as his heart hammered in his chest, robes uncomfortably heavy and warm, weighing down on him like thick, iron chains instead of Twilfitt and Tattings’ finest.

Deep, fathomless pools of black watched him from their position near the large French windows as the sun dipped behind the ancient oak trees on the edge of the estate, the last of its light filtering through their branches to sweep through the room in muted, slanting beams.

The clock's infernal ticking seeped through his ears, its sound strangely hollow, distorted and slowed like it was travelling underwater, merrily keeping time for the merpeople that lived not far off the coast of Cornwall.

Tick.

Tock.

As he clutched the long forgotten teacup in his hands like a lifeline, the Dark Lord’s words echoed in his head, burrowing their way to some deeply suppressed portion of his soul, slithering through his subconscious to reignite a long smothered spark.

Which side of history will your deeds land on?

Which side?

Your deeds.

Your.

What deeds?

Shadowing his father in petty, outdated politics at the Ministry? Playing the good host, smiling at the right people, maintaining the illusion that the Blacks were untouchable when they were, in fact, leaning like a tower of cards? Appeasing his mother, doing as she said, when she said; is that how you want to live your life? Was that what Marvolo saw when he looked at him? A marionette on a million strings, the hands pulling them cruel, callous and withered from centuries of orchestrating the same old game, the game of power, of prestige, of fear? Or had he seen someone worth giving a chance to, someone he understood, for some god forsaken reason, on an innate, fundamental level?

What was he offering him? Lifelong servitude? Or a purpose, something to live for, to strive for, to fight for, to die for, something he’d do happily if only it meant living his life on his own terms, if it meant doing something worthwhile, something meaningful, even if the meaning was shameful and rotten and fell apart upon closer inspection.

He harboured no illusions about whatever this was – it was hardly the most noble endeavour, it was sick, twisted, pandering to the fantasies of a madman powerful enough to strike fear into Albus Dumbledore’s heart, and it meant placing his wand, his allegiance, his life, at his mercy.

He also didn’t give a fuck.

Why would he? It was bad, he supposed – people dying, people getting hurt, witches and wizards thrown out of their rightful homes simply for the crime of being born – but did he care?

No. No, he didn’t.

He didn’t care if it was cruel, or callous, or made him the heartless monster Sirius the traitor seemed to believe he was. There was nothing to be done. Nothing he could do or say could sway their opinions, their prejudices, their hatred, long hidden but festering in the corners of their heart, so why bother? What would he get in return, apart from pain? Nothing.

The war was going to happen whether he liked it or not, people were going to fight and die whether he liked it or not, genocide would be attempted and lauded whether he liked it or not, so what did his opinion matter? What did standing up for the side that had the (self-proclaimed) higher moral ground actually accomplish?

Everyone he cared about was a Pureblood. In the end, it all boiled down to that fact, didn’t it?

The fact that he had everything to gain, and nothing to lose.

This was his one chance to be part of something bigger than his pointless, wasteful existence, a chance to carve out a section for himself in this vast, uncaring, brutal world, a chance to make a name for himself that wasn’t the spare, wasn’t the replacement Black Heir, but Regulus. Someone whose name was whispered long before he walked into a room. Someone whose reputation preceded him. Someone who left a mark on this world that no one, not even his parents, would be able to claim for themselves.

He wanted to do something that wasn’t sitting around on his ass, throwing money at his problems to make them go away, schmoozing at parties and whiling away his life until it inevitably dragged him down, either to the depths of the bottle like his father, or his velvet lined coffin.

He wanted to do something great.

He wanted to be great.

He never said he wanted to be good.

He’d happily play the villain in life’s production as long as it meant playing any sort of a role at all.

Unbidden, Sirius’ the traitor’s voice rang through his mind. Do you really wish for attention that much? Badly enough to hurt for it? To bleed for it, to kill for it?

What was the answer? There were no clean little boxes to mark ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ on, like those dense Ministry forms people had to fill out to file witness reports or register marriages or settle divorces. Was a crime committed in front of you today? Tick Yes or No.

It depends. Does breaking someone’s heart count as a crime? Does leaving someone behind to start a new life without them count as a crime? Does making people bleed count as a crime if you can’t see the blood?

Can you find it in yourself to kill someone? To leave children fatherless, motherless, to deprive the world of a child, of a sibling, of a partner, of a beloved? Are you that twisted? Tick Yes or No.

Inexplicably, Dora’s face flashed through his mind.

The anticipation in the room thickened, practically tangible, two sets of eyes locked on him, expectation tightening like a noose around his neck as steadily rising waves of panic threatened to tide him over. Gently, with a care that felt entirely unwarranted, he set the teacup back on the table.

“Yours, my Lord.” He croaked. “Always yours.”

He knew how he sounded – desperation leaking from every syllable, a fanatical edge to his voice, the words dredged up from some deep seated corner of his heart. It was ugly, in the way all truth is, shameful and horrible and appalling but real, true and real, and he savored it, the opportunity to say what he meant, his guts spilling out over the soft, plush carpet. I want, I want, I want.

His eyes were flat and sympathetic and terribly understanding as he walked over to where he sat rigid on the sofa. Despite the pleased, benevolent expression on his face, Regulus couldn’t help but stiffen as he dropped back onto the chaise longue opposite, some primal instinct sending blaring signals of danger through his body. Eyes darting to the door and back again seemingly of their own accord, foot tapping out three beats for every impersonal tick, hands clenched in fists on his thighs. The textbook definition of nervous.

When he spoke, it was in a measured voice, smooth as silk, compassionate enough to make the adrenaline running thrumming in his veins seem a foolish, paltry safety measure – what did he have to fear when his Lord, his master, his savior was sitting in front of him?

“Kneel, child.”

Next to him, Trixie shifted uneasily, finally finding her voice after what seemed like decades of silence. “My Lord…. Now? The initiation period –”

He cut in, words slicing through the air like shards of glass through skin. “You do trust my judgement, don’t you, my dear?”

Despite the endearment attached as a careless afterthought to the end of that sentence, Trixie stiffened immediately, showing her first real signs of uncertainty all evening. “Of course, my Lord. I merely thought –”

“Well, don’t.”

Swallowing, she nodded, motioning for Regulus to continue with a subdued expression. He met her eyes, hoping for some comfort, some reassurance that he was doing the right thing, that he wasn’t signing his life away to the whims and wishes of some power hungry madman, but all he saw was fear. Naked, resigned fear.

“Regulus?”

He snapped his eyes back to the Dark Lord, whose benign patience seemed to have faded slightly. If anything, he seemed almost…. bored?

Knees trembling, he lowered himself to the carpet, legs breaking up the swirling eddies of emerald and silver, abstract loops replaying along the tasseled border, terrifying in their cold detachedness.

“Hold out your arms.”

He fumbled with his cufflinks with shaking fingers, folding back his robes and shoving his shirt sleeves to his elbows to reveal the expanse of smooth, unmarked, pale skin beneath.

The other man’s robes swished as he drew his wand. Chancing a glance upwards, he was unsurprised to find it was made of yew.

The cyclic power of life and death. Greatness and conflict. Strength and notoriety.

Gently, he placed the tip of the wand under his chin, guiding his face slowly upwards till his eyes met his glinting, tender, strangely blank gaze as he spoke, not quite loud, but somehow still echoing through the large space.

“Do you, Regulus Arcturus Black, swear, by your pure blood and your noble House, to obey me - your master above all masters - from this day and forevermore?”

A slight tremor manifested in his voice when he said, “I do.”

As he spoke, a thin, golden filament bound itself around his left wrist, stretching across the gap to do the same to the Dark Lord.

“Do you pledge your wand and your heart to our cause, and our cause alone, the event of betrayal punishable by death?”

“I do.”

The filament glowed.

“Do you promise to serve me – your Lord – mind, body and soul, to the best of your abilities till the unfortunate eventuality of your death?”

“I do.”

The Dark Lord smiled, a terrible smile, one that showed all his pointed teeth and was nothing like the one he’d welcomed them with only an hour (yet so long) ago. “Then may you live a thousand years.” As he spoke, the chain thickened further, throwing rays of dazzling light onto the surrounding furniture in the rapidly darkening room.

He regarded him for a moment longer, examining every inch of his face as he dug his wand in further, the tip poking the base of his chin and forcing him to tilt his head back till the ceiling swam into view, dark and wooden and coffered and inlaid in gold, a waterfall of crystals cascading from the chandelier.

The other man withdrew his wand without warning, stowing it away in his robes as Regulus bent double, trying to swallow past the pain in his throat. The glowing cord yanked against his wrist as he slumped down, keeping his left wrist dangling limply in the air, like a puppet whose strings had been pulled taut.

He glanced at Trixie, beads of sweat trickling down his temple despite the many cooling charms cast all over the Manor (the Lestranges ran a little hot, both in temperature and temperament), only to find her frantically mouthing something at him, shaking her head with a conviction that penetrated the strange, hazy fog in his mind.

He squinted at her uncharacteristically pale, drawn face, trying to make out whatever she was so desperate to convey to him, when the Lord pulled at the cord, forcing him upright with one solid yank.

As she shut her eyes in resignation, a wave of sudden, cold clarity washed over him, along with which came (too late) comprehension of Trixie’s mumblings.

Get up. She was telling him to get up.

Oh, well.

His attention snapped back to the Dark Lord as he reached, yet again, into his robes.

From his inner right pocket, he drew a knife.

Gleaming, six inch, silver blade, edge sharpened to a sliver. Idly, he tested the edge with the pad of his thumb.

Slowly, deliberately, he looked up, eyes glinting as they met his own.

“Let’s see if your blood is truly as pure as it’s made out to be, hm?”

Chapter Text

Deafening silence followed the strangely calm pronouncement, settling like a thick blanket over the occupants of the room, a shocked hush reminiscent of mists descending over frozen rivers in the winter, and if he dared to speak would he hear the ice crack? Would the mists part to reveal a painting best left covered? Would he fall through the deceptively solid surface to the cold, murky depths of truth beneath?

He stared at the other man, exhaustion hitting him like a tidal wave, and as he closed his eyes, all he wished for was to be someplace else, any place, initial enthusiasm a distant memory, harsh reality hitting him like a wet fish slap to the face, and all he wanted in that moment was to burrow under the covers in his own warm bed and sleep. Sleep till this was all some long forgotten nightmare, a distant fantasy dreamt up in the warm, drowsy shadows between wakefulness and slumber, something he’d shake his head at the next morning, wondering what possessed him to come up with such stupidity before rolling over and slipping back under. Then he'd get up, grumbling all the way, and Kreacher would bring him breakfast and he’d go into the next room to visit –

Thud.

He flinched, recoiling from the dagger embedded in the table leg three inches from his right arm, hilt still quivering as its owner examined his fingernails, the very picture of boredom. Chancing a glance upwards, he wondered if the thrower had missed or if it had merely been an intimidation tactic, a ruse intended to shock him back into this world, a world where self-proclaimed Lords ran rampant and Ministry officials squabbled amongst themselves for the bigger piece of pie. (He suspected it to be the latter. He doubted even Bellatrix would be particularly forgiving if her master cost the Blacks their only remaining heir, though with the way things were going, she might just hand them all over on a platter to her Lord for a pat on the head and a biscuit. Besides, he didn't strike Regulus as the type to do things by halves. Probably never failed at a thing in his life, the fucker. If he'd wanted to harm him, his head would have already been on a pike near the front gates. The cherry on top of the beautiful gothic architecture. Really gave it that homely feel, it did.)

This is your world, he reminded himself, and you’re lucky to be born into it, no matter how you wish you weren't, you with all your wealth and power and prestige –

Someone cleared their throat. He snapped his head up, back suddenly ramrod straight (thank you, Father), looking his soon to be master in the eyes with more than a decade's worth of etiquette training. A Black never shows his fear. A Black is simply better. Superior. But then again, a Black bowed to no one, and look where he was now? 

From the smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he got the distinct sense that the other man was enjoying himself immensely. One found amusement in more and more questionable avenues as they rose through the ranks, he supposed – his relatives certainly proved that rule well enough. (Grandmother Melania’s seances came to mind, among other things - the first and last time he'd participated had been when Sirius the traitor had dragged him into her 'spiritual parlour' at the tender age of six, and promptly proceeded to move things around the room with his own supposedly accidental magic. Needless to say, he had not been thrilled, and had sworn off communication with the next realm entirely.)

“Tell me.” He reached over, plucking the knife out of the wood with an ease that he had to admit was mildly attractive (what was wrong with him?) and swung the knife lazily through the air, eyes following its tip with an intensity that reminded him of Dora’s cat watching a piece of string swishing through the air. Really, he should be awarded an Order of Merlin for keeping a straight face at the ridiculously accurate comparison, though he tried his best to put it out of his mind entirely - he doubted the greatest wizard of the century would be thrilled to be compared with poor, massively overweight, disarmingly sweet Mr. Puddles. “Do you know what this is?

He took another look at the forbidding weapon.

The fading sunlight glimmered on the blade, catching its edge and shining right into his eyes, forcing them away and down to the elegantly wrought cross guard, the dragonhide wrapped hilt, the intricate emerald inlaid in the haft with a skill that spoke of decades of practice.

He was no expert, but there was no denying that it was beautiful, in that way all dangerous things are beautiful, the thrill of terror adding to their appeal till you felt you might die if you didn't have it in your possession, no matter if it was what brought about your demise anyway. It was gorgeous, unattainably so - beautiful in the way the assassin sent to kill you is beautiful, in that way lily-of-the-valley is beautiful, in the way he imagined death would be beautiful - serene, otherworldly, glowing with a light that spoke of things beyond mortal comprehension.

His eyes snagged on a tiny pendant hanging from the pommel – a little obsidian crow with white, pearly specks for eyes, wings half unfurled, feet outstretched as if to catch some unsuspecting prey. Despite the abject lack of wind in the air, it rotated ever so slowly, eyes glinting in condescending amusement, looking down at Regulus over its jagged beak with glee at his current predicament. So glad I could be of service, he snapped, before shaking his head at his foolishness, why the fuck was he talking to an inanimate crow - 

He frowned.

The more he stared at the bird, the more something niggled at the back of his mind.

Something about that crow –

A blurry image of the very same pendant hanging around someone’s neck flashed across his mind, gone before he could grasp at it with shaking fingers, much like a crow sweeping dangerously low over his head only to ascend and vanish into the vast sky overhead, one speck among thousands, one thought among millions, a vaguely familiar face floating to the front of his mind - 

He was snapped back to the present by another impatient tug on the chain, lurching him forward and forcing him to teeter embarrassingly to avoid face planting on the carpet. When he managed to save himself from the aforementioned undignified fate to turn back to the Dark Lord's face, the sharp scrutiny, the cold expectation etched there dropped him back into reality like a thousand pound stone, the direness of his situation hitting him like one of those creepy unmanned school carriages. Would he still think they're unmanned after this summer?

There he was, kneeling powerlessly in front of the most powerful wizard of the century, a sitting duck for whatever curses he wished to practise, this is all Trixie's fault - 

Unbidden, Barty’s voice echoed through his head. Didn’t take you for a queer, Reggie, but if there’s any man you should be on your knees for, it’s obviously me –

Not helping, asshole!

He could practically see his stupid little smirk. Hm, rather telling that you’re thinking about assholes right now –

He shut the voice out, darting his gaze across the other man's impassive face, searching for a hint, for a sign, for any answer that would save him from the possibly inevitable fate of being gutted like a sacrificial goat right on the Lestranges’ best carpet, but all his mind seemed to be able to present to him was the memory of Barty swaggering around the common room drunk last year, butchering their ears with his god awful rendition of Celestina Warbeck's A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.

He groaned internally, resigning himself to his fate as a mounted head on the plaque in their front hallway along with their previous house elves, his life terminated in the same manner as their employment, but at least Kreacher will join me after a bit –

The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow, and the sight frightened him so much that he blurted the truth out in a manner reminiscent of Grandfather Pollux after indulging in a little too much Ogden’s Finest.

“How the hell would I know - a knife?”

Cringing, he berated himself for the idiotic answer, he knows you haven’t graduated yet but you could’ve at least tried to sound literate –

The other man nodded as if this answer made perfect sense.

Without warning, he slashed the knife down the length of his right arm.

Blood welled from the gash, ruby red droplets trickling in streams down his arm and staining his formerly pristine white sleeve (sorry, Kreacher). He doubled over in pain, unable to tear his eyes away from the cut marring his arm, darkly gleaming blood tracing the contours of his palm, slipping into the creases between his fingers and down his knuckles, dripping onto the carpet and looking for all the world like ink blots on parchment.

There was so much of it. He cradled it close, watching in morbid fascination as the crimson liquid seeped into his shirt, warm blood sticking it to the plane of his chest.

Vaguely, he grew aware of the Lord speaking over his head, his commanding, unbothered voice ringing over his head, addressing the sole other occupant of the room –

A pale hand reached out, wrapping around his wrist in a cruel parody of that night all those years ago, yanking his arm forward while someone else dipped their fingers in his blood – when did Trixie get here?

The clock struck nine.

Bong.

Blankly, he stared at the blood – his blood – pooling beneath Trixie’s inch long nails. (A memory resurfaced, something he'd done his level best to bury - he'd been walking past his cousins at some society function, drink in hand, scanning the crowd for Dora when he'd overheard Trixie confiding in Cissa with a sinful smirk on her face, "Do you like my nails? Roddy darling finds scratches very sexy, you see." Typically, he'd promptly choked, spat the drink out, and ruined the very expensive white dinner jacket of a visiting Bulgarian diplomat. His father had been mortified. Trixie had seemed a little too entertained for someone who purportedly didn't notice him in the vicinity.) He fought off yet another wave of absurd, hysterical laughter.

Bong.

Low, fervid Latin penetrated his ears, flitting through his head just long enough for comprehension but not for memory. Chants floated through the air, borne on the wings of zeal to slip through one ear and just as easily slide out the other. He flinched as Trixie began tracing something on his left arm with his own blood, using the unnaturally sharp tips of her nails to define the edges, something he’d have ordinarily hissed in pain at but which paled in comparison to the blood currently flowing freely down his other arm.

Bong.

 ..... sicut hunc fortem puerum in ovile nostrum hodie suscipimus ....

The dead language flowed from the Dark Lord’s lips with a fluency which would have given his childhood Latin tutor a complex, ardent voice filling the room like something tangible, reverberating through the large space and giving his speech a ghostly echo. Goosebumps rose on his arms, both from Trixie's featherlight touch and the reverence in his voice, like the man was paying homage to something greater than himself, greater than life itself - 

Bong.

….. da ei animum rectum ….

He could just about make out the skull now, hollow eyes over a grinning mouth, though Trixie’s art skills definitely left much to be desired. At the uncharitable thought, she looked up, glaring at him through her curtain of dark, curly hair as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, and he tried to keep the shit eating grin from spilling out the edges of his mouth. The chanting intensified, assuming an urgency which made his skin crawl, his heart beating unnaturally fast in his chest, beads of sweat springing up on his temple, at the nape of his neck.

Bong.

Waves of pain crashed over him, the gash on his arm registering in his brain at last, shock wearing off to reveal an agony he felt right down to his bones, lightheadedness making him sway on the carpet, the border of which suddenly seemed much less defined than before - 

Bong.

 ..... liga eum mihi dominum suum ex hac die ....

Twilight crept through the sky from the east on padded feet, bruised clouds hurrying towards the horizon below which the sun dipped to fulfil its restless slumber. Deep hues of pink and purple lurked behind the overcast, cloudy layer, softening its edges to let the last rays of sunlight peek out shyly.

Bong.

He wasn't really religious - very few wizards were, despite the many legends surrounding the birth of Magic - but if he was, if he'd ever even looked in that direction, he knew without a doubt that it would've paled in comparison to the scene in front of him, raw power thrumming through the link around his wrist, the electrifying, charged atmosphere, the sanctity of the ritual undeniable, unquestionable. This was what they meant by culture, by tradition, by pure blood. He stared at the shape forming on his left arm, primitive curves and squiggles bounding the edges of something far more meaningful, far more potent, far more powerful - something which marked him as the member of a new family, a family he wanted to be a part of, a family he'd die for, kill for - 

Bong.

A hand grasped at his chin, twisting it upward till he was face to face with the Dark Lord, his flat, merciless eyes boring into his own as he touched the tip of his wand to the glowing chain linking their wrists, a second voice joining in the chants, insidious whispers swirling through the room, he a helpless supplicant at the altar of his faith, the Lord his priest, his god, his saviour, his master, and as the chain tightened around his wrist, as it burned and his flesh sizzled and it grew tighter and tighter, he welcomed this pain, this cleansing, this reinvention, a chance to alter the course of history, to be more than just another face, more than just another name. To be more.

As he crashed into the carpet, the pain finally too much for his overwhelmed senses to bear, the last thing he heard was -

Bong.

Chapter Text

Dear Petunia,
How are you? Well, I hope?
As you know, I am getting married this fall –

Wincing, she ripped the page out of the typewriter, crumpling it with a vengeance and throwing it onto the floor to join the rest of its kind, fallen soldiers in Lily's battle with the letter writing gods. Absently worrying her bottom lip with her fingers, she picked at the top layer of skin, rolling it between her thumb and index finger as she gazed at the monstrous challenge ahead. (Yes, Mum, she knew it's a disgusting habit, but desperate times and all that.)

Dearest Tuney,
How are you? I do hope you are well, for I have missed you dearly –

She made a face, revulsion crossing her features at the offending attempt at familiarity, and tossed the sheet without bothering to crumple it. Who was going to read it, James? That man ran in the opposite direction from the printed word like some medieval maiden who was afraid that education would compromise her honour and have her thrown out her husband's house. On the contrary, Lily might seriously consider evicting her boyfriend if he didn't start pursuing one of the many books scattered around their apartment (thank you, Remus). Besides, who was she kidding? Missed her dearly? Hah! Now there was a joke if she'd ever heard one, and she'd suffered through seven long years of the Marauders' increasingly elaborate pranks (with the occasional grey hair to show for it).

Dear Petunia,
I am getting married this fall. Unlike you, I would want my only sister to attend, because I'm not a heartless cow - 

Regretfully, she slid the sheet out the typewriter, holding it gingerly between her fingers as she stared longingly at the caustic words etched across the page, ink still glittering. As much as her sister deserved every bitter, scathing remark a thousand times over, as much as Lily wanted to pour all her hurt and all her anger across the page till each letter glowed a fiery, righteous red, burning with a fury to rival a thousand suns; giving that bitch the satisfaction of knowing that she'd successfully gotten under Lily's skin was the last thing she wanted to do. Oh, no. Lily would be cool. Calm. Collected. The bigger person, like she'd always been forced to be.

Dear Petunia,
I trust our parents would have informed you about my upcoming marriage this fall –

What was she, a lawyer?
Groaning, she slumped forward, thumping her head on the desk and letting her hair fall around her face in a curtain that blocked out most of the muted, yellow light emitted by the dingy lampshade on the table opposite. A pity it couldn't block out the horrors of wedding planning, too. Screwing her eyes shut, she mentally cussed out her sister for making her life so difficult, honestly, Petunia - 

Petunia, Petunia, Petunia.

A chant that ran through her head more times a day than she'd like to admit, her stupid, stupid heart refusing to accept that she and Tuney were practically estranged now, practically strangers, people who smiled fake smiles and wished each other good day while privately hoping for the exact opposite, distant relatives, distant acquaintances -

Where even was Petunia? In her perfect little brick house in one of those cookie cutter suburbs in Surrey, preparing dinner for her cookie cutter husband (honestly, with the way Petunia went on about him, you’d think he was some fabulously handsome movie star, not a paunchy corporate executive who supervised a drill factory for a living, but to each their own), standing in her shiny new kitchen with its squeaky clean Formica counters, wearing a perfectly starched, spotless apron, spatula in hand. Her pig of a husband was probably sprawled on the couch, yelling at her to get him a beer or whatever other misogynistic bullshit her sister found attractive while he caught up with the football scores on telly, tie knotted dangerously tight around his massive, ruddy jowls. He probably brushed that sad little Hitler mustache of his every morning before work too, the fucker. And what did her sister like to do, besides gossip about the neighbours and play House? Bitch about her good for nothing sister, probably.

As shocking as it was, it hadn’t always been this way. Oh, God no.

There had been a time when Petunia had meant the world to Lily, a time when she knew her sister better than she knew the well worn path from the dining table to the drawing room sofa; when Petunia used to smile at her and pinch her cheeks and braid her hair and do her makeup with the one pound fifty lip gloss she hid under the loose floorboards from their mother, who insisted that good little girls had no use for such things and that only strippers wore lipstick. She didn’t say the last part aloud, of course, but it was certainly implied clearly enough.

Sometimes, Lily missed those times.

Times when her sister’s glances hadn’t been tainted by the familiar green poison of envy, when hatred didn’t lace every (rare) word she spoke to her sister whenever she deigned to remember her existence, when Lily was spoken with love and not with an acid tongue. When Lily was more than just a burden, more than just a reminder of Petunia’s self perceived inadequacy, when Lily was nothing more than her silly little sister who looked up to her with stars in her eyes. When Lily was her sister.

Occasionally, when the two of them launched into one of their infamously fiery rows, their mother used to watch with the weary air of someone weathering the worst storm in decades and shake her head, tutting under her breath. What happened to the two of you? You never used to fight like this when you were little. In the frigid silence generally following such statements, she used to catch Tuney’s eye, unconsciously seeking comfort in the companionable glint of utter exasperation, the familiar, universal adolescent irritation at their sweet, naïve mother, and no matter how they each wished the other was dead and swore up and down how much they hated each other, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t feel some modicum of relief at this last, fraying thread tying them together, if only in opposition to their poor mother.

Such rows were a thing of the past, though. Now, if she happened to catch her eye at some god forsaken family get together, all she saw there was a cold, fixed indifference, a vague sort of stare like she wasn’t even seeing Lily, like Lily was nothing, looking right through her like she was some sort of pathetic little Victorian ghost hanging around her mansion.

It hurt more than she was willing to admit.

A lot more.

Sometimes, she found herself wishing that she'd just yell at her again. Scream and rage and shout and cry, just so she could hear an ounce of emotion directed towards her in Tuney’s shrill voice, something a bit more expressive than pass the salt, please or could you please excuse us, Lily?

Frankly, she didn’t think Petunia thought she had a sister anymore. It was like going to Hogwarts had eliminated her as a key player in her own sister’s story, like Petunia kept some sort of neat ledger in her head where she’d written down Lily’s sins as well as her redeeming qualities, her pros and cons, if you will, and decided she simply wasn’t worth the trouble. Not worth the trouble of loving, definitely not worth the trouble of hating.

She was worth nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.

She remembered the letter Petunia had sent her, all those years ago on that fateful day, narrow, sloping handwriting cramped into a single sheet of creamy paper, like wasting two pages of the more expensive letter paper from their local stationery was a cost her sister didn’t want to bear, not for her, the most exciting news of her life a postscript in the overly casual letter, so tiny she almost missed it. Oh, by the way, I got married last week. You’ve met Vernon, right? He’s a director at Grunnings. He’s a lovely man, I’m ever so happy. I’ve sent you a photo of the wedding, too.

Gaping at the letter in disbelief, she’d fished out the lone negative from inside the envelope, a grainy, reject shot of Petunia and the lovely man Vernon laughing around the wedding cake, Heather from high school standing proudly next to Petunia, occupying Lily’s rightful spot, smiling fondly over Tuney’s shoulder at the newly married couple.

Ultimately, she hadn't been that surprised – it was exactly the sort of passive aggressive move her sister was infamous for – but the betrayal that had hit worse than a punch to the gut had been her parents'. Her own parents, who couldn’t be bothered to tell her that her own sister was getting married, who couldn’t be bothered to invite her to the day she’d been dreaming of ever since she was a child, who were supposed to impartial in this ever widening dispute but who remained, solely, firmly, on Petunia’s side, their nice, normal daughter, with her perfectly respectable high school degree and her perfectly respectable husband, slotting into society with an ease Lily could only dream of.

She stared bleakly at the blank page leering at her from the old, clunky typewriter, the remains of a hundred failed attempts scattered around her like evidence at a murder scene, only the murder here was of her own self esteem, and she both murderer and victim. What the hell was she doing, fretting over the invitation of someone who didn’t even invite her to her own wedding?

Dear Petunia,

She began, and stared at the typewriter in despair.

There is one photo I have of the two of us. I am six, and you are eight, and we’re standing on the golden sand on Brighton beach, the sun glimmering off the sea behind us. You have your arm linked with mine, and while you’re staring at the camera, posing for the photo, I’m staring up at you, eyes screwed against the sun, observing you carefully just so I could imitate you in the following pictures.

This photo is framed, and is currently hung on the wall of the apartment I share with James (yes, the one who smiles too much, that’s right), right next to a photo of our parents and a photo of James’ parents, below the one of all our friends together, posing for a picture by some shifty hedge witch in front of a pub with a camera which was most definitely stolen.

The location has no particular significance, except for the fact that it has a place amongst the most important people in my life. Do with that what you will.

Sometimes, I look at that photo, and I miss you. Not the current version of you, of course. I hate how you seem to grow meaner with age and how you’re so obsessed with presenting a perfect picture to society, how you don’t really care about anything or anyone except yourself or your good for nothing husband. I don’t miss the Petunia who looks at me like I’m a stranger or the Petunia who sneers at whatever I do. I miss the old Petunia, the one who used to help me come up with outrageous backstories for our dolls and watch game shows with me and push me on the swings in the park near our house. I miss her. I miss my Tuney.

You didn’t much mind me clinging to you then. I wonder what changed?

I know what you’re going to say. You’ll sneer, or roll your eyes like some angsty teenager, and either insist that nothing changed, we simply grew up or accuse me of being the one to ruin our relationship, like I was the one who made my life living hell for the three months a year I spent at home, like I was the one who hated her sister simply because she had the opportunity to attend a school that I didn’t for no fault of either of us?

Now you’ll sigh, or shake your head, and say something ridiculous like it takes two to tango or there are two sides of the same coin that you most definitely picked up from father, and state, well, Lily, you hate me too. Well, Petunia, what the hell was I supposed to do?

All I knew is that the day I received my Hogwarts letter was the day you decided you hated me, and I could either lie down and take it or give you as good as I got, and if you really thought I’d choose the first option then maybe you never really knew me at all.

Anyway, I'm not writing this letter to reopen old wounds or so we can play at our old tug of war, nipping at each other's tails like puppies from the pound.

I'm getting married this September. Come if you like. If you still love me, come. If that pig of a husband of yours lets you, come. Come if you still care. Come if you'd cry if I died. Come if you want, or don't come at all.

Please come.

Love,

Lily

Chapter Text

Tall, slender poles bordered the narrow street, each with a hovering ball of bluish green light at the end of their protruding stalks, looking for all the world like the eyes of some gigantic, benevolent arachnid (the acromantulas Hagrid was rumored to breed in the Forbidden Forest came to mind). Underneath them, Regulus felt very small.

Trash littered the alley at random intervals, a number of strangely shaped cardboard boxes with the mysterious phrase Pizza Express stamped across the front (at least, that’s what he thought it said, after several moments worth of intense scrutiny, though he had to admit it didn’t make much sense) accompanied by what looked like round, flattened bottles made of tin. (Did the muggles really name a train after pizza? And just what contraband was it smuggling? Eyeing the thin boxes with rapidly mounting suspicion, he made a mental note to investigate the matter at a later date.)

Rats skittered across the alleyway, foraging in the rubbish for dinner à la carte, occasionally rattling the almost offensively bright, multicolored garbage bins hard enough to make him jump. Viewing the big, fat beetle on the wall behind Trixie’s head with distaste, he promptly stepped back, wrinkling his nose at the dingy scene. Really, if this was how muggles lived, maybe they were doing them a favor.

Crooked planks were nailed to the windows as a halfhearted attempt at obscurity, darkness leering through the gaps in the rotted wood with the hawklike intensity of an audience just waiting for you to slip, to miss one line, to make one fatal mistake to justify tearing you to pieces, your remains scattered across the stage, good show, ladies and gents –

A faint, indiscernible hum burrowed into his ears, blending with the irregular, distant drone of midnight traffic, the strangely loud silence serving only to further his disquiet. His hand drifted to his sleeve for no apparent reason, aching for the familiar solidarity of his wand.

There was something in the air, an intangible sense of wrongness borne on the wings of the murky smog hovering over the rooftops, lending to the tightness in his chest and the too fast beat of his heart, a reservoir of panic filling up, drop by fucking drop, and couldn’t they feel it, the faint whispers of danger, of stop, of turn around, this isn’t right, none of this seems right –

Trixie, on the other hand, was delighted.

“Aw, Reggie, who knew you had it in you?” She cooed, tilting her masked head towards his. Beneath the condescending affection, he could sense a note of underlying admiration, of respect, and he wasn’t that much of a hypocrite to lie and claim it didn’t go straight to his head like a glass of strong French wine.

“Fuck off.” He scoffed under his breath, trying to mask the hint of pride in his voice. Next to them, the third masked Death Eater tilted their head in askance, and any doubts Regulus may have had about his identity were instantly assuaged upon hearing Rabastan’s drawling, indolent, slightly accented voice.

“What did the baby do now?”

He scowled. “I am three years younger to you, Lestrange.”

“That’s Master Lestrange to you, frérot.”

“Master of what, exactly?” He grumbled. “Pining after girls who don’t look at you twice?”

Despite the masks, he could just about visualize his infuriatingly smug smirk, the bastard probably practiced it every morning in front of the mirror, too – “Low blow, mon cher, low blow. And I’ll have you know, I’m having tea with Victoria Macmillan on Sunday.”

“My condolences. She must have hit her head dreadfully hard.”

He laughed. “Well, I don’t really see ladies queuing up at the gates of Grimmauld Place either, so I don’t think you’re in a position to judge.”

At this point, Trixie deemed it wise to interject, sliding an arm around his shoulders. “Now, now, Rab.” She chided. “He’s a child, he shouldn’t even be thinking about girls at this age.”

At this, he rolled his eyes so hard, it was a wonder they didn’t pop out of their sockets and go rolling about in the back of his head. Honestly, with the way these two carried on, you’d think Reggie was some impressionable six year old who couldn’t be trusted to button his own robes.

“Yes, yes, quite.” He could practically see the shit eating grin on Rab’s face. “Except…. How is Miss Rosier these days, Reg?”

“Evan is fine, though I thank you for your concern.” He deadpanned.

He chuckled. “Clever. But I think we both know the real answer to that question.”

“Oh, for fucks’ sake, Rab!” Trixie snapped, clearly having lost whatever little patience she had. “Do you want to hear about his meeting with the Lord or not?”

“I mean, I can’t imagine there’d be much to tell, but do go on.”

“Not much to tell? Not much to tell?” She hissed, tone shifting from indignant to gloating as she prepared to drop the bombshell on her unsuspecting brother-in-law. “Why, that’s exactly right, Rabastan. There isn’t much to tell except for the fact that my baby cousin accomplished in forty minutes what you’ve been attempting to do for the better part of an year.”

“Don’t tell me he managed to convince Father that dancing skeletons make for very dull entertainment. If I have to endure their performance at another one of our galas, I might just end up stabbing him with the butter knife.” He added conversationally.

Trixie laughed, high on delight, while Regulus smirked behind his mask. Privately, he agreed with Rab – the troupe were only a novelty the first few times, and then only for the initial fifteen minutes or so – the loud, clacking noises of skulls being tossed from one bony foot to another while the hands drummed against the ribs were rather grating – but he wasn’t fool enough to offend his cousin’s father-in-law simply because he couldn’t endure a few minutes (alright, maybe a few hours) of admittedly overrated entertainment. Perhaps it was a generational thing – his mother was rather fond of them, as well, though she hastily turned up her nose and sniffed whenever he dared ask if she liked the performance, though the gleam in her eyes said otherwise – and if the former Lord Lestrange was partial to his skeletal dancers, he was hardly in a position to object.

Trixie arched an eyebrow gleefully. “Does my husband know of your patricidal ambitions, Rab?”

He didn’t miss a beat before answering. “In such a scenario, I do believe it would not be remiss of me to say he shares them.”

At the answering cackle, he shook his head, motioning towards Regulus. “Never mind that. What happened?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but Trixie beat him to it.

“I thought you weren’t interested? No matter, Rab, you’ll be hearing the news soon enough, albeit from more, ah, official channels.”

“What, is the Dark Lord himself going to issue a proclamation for his execution? In which case, it truly was a pleasure knowing you, Regulus, but I’m afraid your wellbeing ranks rather low in comparison to serving our Lord. I do apologize in advance, though.”

“Heartwarming. Really turns me into a gooey mess, it does.”

Trixie hummed. “If you want to curry favor with the Lord, Rabastan, it might do you well to lick the boots of the very boy you’re so eager to murder, you know.”

He snapped his head towards her, blinking in confusion – what the hell was she on about? – while Rabastan cocked his head, truly invested for the first time in the conversation. “Is that so?”

No, it most definitely was not.

At her answering nod, a tinge of genuine curiosity entered his voice. “Why is that?”

She motioned towards him. “Go on. Show him.”

He hesitated. It didn’t seem right to expose it to the night, to show the world the truth of what lurked on his arm, branded onto his skin with his own blood, his own magic a chain around his soul, tied to another’s in blatant, fundamental violation –

He was seized with the sudden, irrational fear that the darkness might latch onto it with pointed teeth, fangs sinking into the still glimmering mark on his arm only to never let go again, like some new, unshakeable species of leech.

Beside him, the other man stiffened. “You don’t mean –”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Both of them turned their heads towards him in unison, a gesture eerily reminiscent of Gid and Fab the Prewett twins, and Regulus was overwhelmed by a wave of nostalgia so intense that he could practically see the two of them, sun shining on unkempt ginger hair, wide, identical smiles turning towards him –

Crack.

Before he could open his mouth to respond, the smell of burning ozone pervaded the air as several robed, masked figures apparated inside the alley, which appeared far more sinister than it did a few moments ago, wands in hand and pointed at the three of them. The one in front stepped forward, dark ebony wand clenched in one ringed fist, appraising the two of them with a stare that somehow made its point even with the silver blocking the rest of his (undoubtedly forbidding) expression. When he spoke, it was with a strangely anglified Slavic accent.

“The sun runs and runs.”

Trixie didn’t miss a beat. “But the moon runs faster.” There was no trace of her previous mirth in her voice, all lightheartedness replaced by cold, hard determination.

The man studied them for a moment longer before stowing his wand, the others in his entourage following suit. “Lestrange.”

She inclined her head in a manner befitting a queen, and answered about as imperiously as one. “Karkaroff.”

His eyes flicked to her two companions, passing over Rabastan before halting on Regulus. “New recruit?”

“That’s right.”

“What, initiation drill?”

“As a matter of fact, Igor, he’s already been initiated.”

There was a low gasp and an outbreak of murmurs as Igor Karkaroff’s gaze snapped back to his own, flinty eyes twice as hard and piercing. “What about the initiation period?”

“Forgone. Special circumstances for special people, you know how it is.” Despite the proud glance she shot in his direction, he winced, already anticipating the underlying, bitter hostility about to be served to him on a platter by his future teammates, dirty looks shot in his direction while he wasn’t looking, jokes at his expense made in a voice just loud enough to make ripples but low enough to not be overheard by the wrong people. Favoritism had its perks, but he’d learnt early enough that it really wasn’t worth it.

Karkaroff eyed him with subtle, resigned disgust, no doubt cursing his luck for the green, pansy newbie assigned to his team, and he stared back, unconsciously imitating his father’s most intimidating manner. He held his stare for a moment longer before heaving a weary sigh and turning to the building they’d spent so long pacing in front of. “Alright, welcome to the team, Black. Rule’s simple – you follow my orders, and my orders alone. I don’t care if daddy pays my salary. No running to mummy to complain, either. You’ve got a problem with me, or with anyone on the team, you come to me, like a man. And if I find out you’ve been badmouthing me behind my back, there’ll be hell to pay.” He shot him an unimpressed glance. “Clear?”

Clearing his throat, he answered with as much composure he was able to muster. “Crystal.”

His eyes bored a hole in his own. “Crystal, sir.”

Ignoring the snickers emanating from the rest of the team (including his own cousin – was family loyalty simply not a thing anymore?) as well as the heat rising in his face, he mumbled, “Crystal, sir.”

“That’s better. Yaxley, report.”

As Yaxley the junior (he thought his name was Corban, though he could never be sure – their family had a horrid tradition of naming all their children with the letter C, and they all blended into a whirl of C.Y.’s after a bit) began droning on about the area, he was soon enlightened with the knowledge that the building (a bookshop, apparently – he made a face he instantly straightened, lest someone call him out on it, despite the fact that not a single one of them were paying him the slightest whit of attention), the property of a muggle whose child had just been born a witch, was right in the Order’s backyard (he stiffened, though none of the rest seemed half as concerned as they ought to have been) and burning it down was just the sort of statement the Dark Lord wished to send. (Privately, he thought the man’s ambitions went a bit beyond burning some paper, but he supposed it was the thought that counted.)

This was a target less mission (“In and out, no fancy manoeuvres, Lestrange, I’m looking at you.”) selected in honor of his planned initiation (“That’s clearly off the table, but it’s good enough for learning the ropes. Just need to see how well you mesh with the team.”) that would take no more than an hour, tops. (“I know most of you have places to be, so I won’t keep you longer.”) The briefing (rather more informal than he’d expected) ended with a resounding “To the Dark Lord.”. He half expected Karkaroff to give them all a cookie and a pat on the head.

As he split the duties with clean, brutal efficiency (“Romanov, secure the perimeter. Ivan, you’re with me.”), he paused upon reaching Regulus, surveying him from head to toe in a manner that made it very clear that he thought him an inconvenience and nothing more. “Black.” He paused, figuratively stroking his beard. “You’ll make a pass through the shop, make sure everything’s in order.” He decided eventually, nodding his head as the idea took root. “Yes, that’s what you’ll do.” He scanned the rest of the assembled members. “Petrov, you’re with him.”

As the group dispersed, Regulus was left facing a stocky, short boy, his only distinguishing feature a shock of floppy blonde hair sticking out the mask. “Petrov?” He chanced, flashing him an uncertain smile that instantly dissipated once he realized that Petrov could only see the narrowing of his eyes through the mask, and he did not want to make an enemy of one of the only potential allies he might have on this team. The other boy nodded, seeming about as uncertain as he felt. “Black.” As they stood for a moment, regarding each other with bleak suspicion, a voice echoed from further down the alley. “Oi! I didn’t tell you to stare into each other’s eyes like a couple of poofs. Get on with it.”

Wincing, he made his way to the back door, Petrov hot on his heels. He broke the rusty padlock holding it shut with a hastily cast alohomora, gingerly pushing it open to reveal total, utter darkness, the musty smell of books assaulting them in a wave the farther they entered the shop. “I’ll take left, you take right?” He asked doubtfully.

In lieu of a response, Petrov started away – towards the left. He gaped at his receding back, wondering if he should say something, then promptly shut his mouth upon remembering Karkaroff’s words from the dubious welcome before.

….. Okay, then.

It’s on, Petrov, it’s so fucking on.

Chapter Text

He padded through the long, twisting aisles on silent feet, tracing the path with renewed vigour, narrowly avoiding stacks of books placed haphazardly on the floor. Holding a shakily cast Lumos aloft, he swept his wand through the air, trying to catch anything out of the ordinary but possibly only catching a cold instead. Bookshelves loomed out of the darkness like giants out a mountain pass, dust motes swirling lazily in the air. (Honestly, did they never clean? Maybe this is what they meant by Muggles being filthy.)

The passage seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions, the door a tiny window of night sky what seemed like miles behind him, darkness extending seemingly till eternity ahead. He marched on, harboring visions of seeing the job to the very end and catching an undercover Order operative, dragging them back and throwing them at Karkaroff’s dragonhide clad feet, imagining his awestruck, regretful face, so sorry, Master Black –

Biting back a curse, he jerked to the side to avoid the huge metal rolling ladder that appeared seemingly out of nowhere in his path, a monstrosity of iron latticework and thin, rickety steps. Realistically, he knew that the shelves couldn’t be more than a story tall, but when he shone the light up the steps, they simply went on and on and melted into the gloom like a staircase leading to some flipped, twisted version of heaven. Try as he might, he was unable to see the end of the ladder.

He checked one aisle.

Another.

Then another.

Yet another.

Fast losing interest in his job, with nervous, jittery anticipation being steadily replaced by mind numbing boredom, he glanced down the aisles he was yet to survey and heaved a dreary, heartfelt sigh. There’s nothing here, anyway.

Suppressing a yawn, he retraced his steps and sat with a thump on the bottom step of the ladder, glaring sleepily at the shelves opposite. Books, books, so many books – this shelf alone probably held forty or fifty of them – and he lazily reached out a hand to run against the spines of the book, embossed titles catching on his fingers. They weren’t hardcovers, he noted absently, they seemed to be bound in some sort of flimsy, glossy paper instead. Pulling one out at random, he bent to examine the cover more closely. He was just about able to pick out a strangely futuristic city lurking behind the sand dunes, two vaguely people shaped beings trudging their way across the barren landscape. He squinted at the title, taking an embarrassingly longer amount of time to decipher it than he’d admit.

DUNE

By Frank Herbert

Flipping it over, he stared hopelessly at the dense blurb at the back, words filling it from top to bottom in a font that made his eyes ache to regard.

Oh, fuck it.

He flipped it again, glaring intensely at the illustration on its front like he hoped to glean all the secrets of the blurb from the (admittedly enticing) cover.

Contrary to his posh, rather scholarly appearance, he’d always hated reading.

Hated it.

All those musty, leather bound tomes tended to give him a stomachache and the scrawling, indecipherable writing of ages past simply added to the headache. All those words, dense, dark words, metallic ink sinking into the scaly parchment (he tried not to think too hard about which unfortunate animal had been skinned to pen that worthless knowledge), letters intermixing till it made him feel sick to his stomach to even look at them, the page a swirling mess of white and black, letters dancing like the couples at a ball. Tutors despaired, relatives wrung their hands, his parents scolded and threatened and bribed and cajoled in equal, desperate, alternating measure, Sirius the traitor spent hours trying to teach him to read, but to no avail. Regulus simply could not read.

Oh, he could cast spells, all right. His accidental magic had broken enough priceless vases for his family to determine that while he most definitely wasn’t a squib (and thank heaven for that, imagine the shame), he was hardly the sharpest tool in the box, either.

Matters escalated rapidly, eventually reaching the point that Regulus, the previously golden, obedient, far better behaved child, threw tantrums of the like not a single relative had seen at the merest mention of reading. Windows exploded, candles went out, chandeliers swayed dangerously while he screamed to high heaven, twisting out of the grasp of whichever new, supposed expert they’d hired at the time, scurrying away and hiding in the kitchen with Kreacher till they showed the tutor out, embarrassed, apologetic smiles twisting their features. Eventually, even his mother had given up, throwing up her hands in a so be it, then gesture that his father had performed far more easily months before.

Only Sirius the traitor had persevered, he remembered, an odd, bittersweet fondness twisting his stomach that he instantly suppressed, and Regulus had let him, if only because his brother the other boy never made him feel like a brainless, dumb fool and not because it was any help at all. In the end, Mother had written to Uncle Alphard in a last ditch effort to restore her secondborn’s reputation in society, and the other man, in a move that shocked all three generations of Blacks, set foot on ancestral property for the first time in half a decade, sat him down, and spent over a month painstakingly, valiantly working him through the basics of the alphabet. He couldn’t quite stop a smile from spreading over his face at the memory, a wave of gratitude washing over him, gratitude that never faded, no matter how many years passed.

Regulus loitered suspiciously near the entrance of the drawing room, eyes narrowed at the strange man so at home with the rather uncomfortable upholstery. His mother shoved him all the way in, hissed a warning to be good, and promptly shut the door. The man eyed him over the tip of his cigar.

He’d never seen a man with such long hair before, nor had he seen a man with shirt buttons undone to such a degree – he was exactly the type of person his mother would have sneered at – and yet here he was, shoved into this room by the very same mother who would have referred to the man seated in front of him as riffraff. He glared at the man, hands clenching at his sides in preparation for yet another awe inspiring display of destruction – sure, he didn’t know who the man was, but there was only one thing this could mean – more of the accursed reading. Regulus failed to see what purpose staring at chicken scratch symbols on dead trees would serve him in the real world, but with the way his parents went on about it, you’d think it was the sole purpose of his life.

“If you’re here to teach me to read, don’t bother.” He began sullenly. “It’s no use.”

The man regarded him with what looked like steadily mounting amusement. “Who said I’m here to teach you to read?”

He rolled his eyes, or attempted to – heaven knew watching Trixie gave him enough experience – and said, “Yeah, right. Why’re you here, then?”

“I’m here because, shockingly enough, this is my house.” 

He looked at the stranger incredulously. “No, it’s not. It’s my house.”

“Technically, it’s your parents’ house, not yours.” He pointed out. “And don’t you think I look like your mother?”

“Mother would rather die than look like you.” He said, rather rudely in his opinion, but the only purpose it served was to make him look more delighted than ever.

“Yes, she would, wouldn’t she?” He agreed. Regulus gaped at the man. After all, he’d just insulted him and the man had simply - agreed. When he said as much, the man looked at him, all serious like, and said something far beyond his six year old self’s comprehension, but something his current self grew to appreciate more and more with every passing day. “Who said it was an insult?”

He’d simply glared at the man, wondering who it was that came into their sitting room and puffed nasty smelling cigars (admittedly, the smoke rings he blew were rather fascinating – Regulus desperately wanted to stick his hand through them – but that was neither here nor there). When the mystery was revealed and the man’s identity disclosed, he’d gaped at the man yet again, shocked out of his tiny mind. “Mother has a brother?” He sputtered, and cried with the grave indignation of small children who believe they know everything there is to know about their parents, “Why didn’t she tell me?” The man had laughed, something he seemed to do often, and steered the conversation onto a different course.

Eventually, he’d handed Regulus a small, poorly wrapped parcel. “Here. A gift from your poor Uncle Alfie.” After carefully removing the wrapping – figuring out the man’s identity had mollified him enough to resume his general polite, well behaved demeanour – he discovered a small, intricately carved lion. He’d expressed his thanks, but his uncle, no doubt reading his nephew’s crestfallen face, asked him what the matter was. After some poking and prodding, he’d come right out with it, in a manner that would have earned him a nice slap for ingratitude. “I’m not a lion.” He spoke dolefully. “I’m going to be a Slytherin. I’m a snake.”

“Is that so?” Upon his firm nod, he’d paused, puffed a few puffs of his cigar, and spoken after what seemed like serious contemplation. “Tell you what. Why don’t we make you a snake, right now?”

He’d perked up, attention easily diverted, and soon enough, the two of them were whittling away at a bit of wood, Alphard teaching his nephew the basics of woodworking, Sirius an eager addition to their little workshop. “Me too! Please, please, please –” Characteristically, Alphard had agreed, and their little workshop became a daily fixture, Regulus and Alphard bent over pieces of wood with Sirius joining them in the afternoon after his lessons. Doubtless Sirius cottoned on to the truth of what was happening soon enough, but in a particularly uncharacteristic move, did not breathe a word of it to his younger brother.

On the other hand, Regulus was happily oblivious to the ulterior motives of his uncle’s generous teachings, not suspecting a thing even after their shapes became more and more repetitive, vaguely familiar and viewed more often in the very same books Regulus so desperately wanted to burn. His uncle, in an act of cunning that proved he really was a Black after all, made him practice all twenty six letters of the alphabet, again and again and again, swearing up and down that this was what any apprentice had to do in order to become a master at the work, and Regulus, infected with a zeal more commonly seen in Andie during her piano lessons, followed his instructions to the letter (quite literally). Eventually, he made him arrange them in some specific order or the other, claiming that he was training Regulus to analyse the difference between the strange shapes (“That’s what I did, too, before I could become a master – you’ve seen how good my whittling is, haven’t you?”).

Eventually, the truth did come out, though through no effort of Regulus’ own – his uncle simply placed a sheet before him, full of those dreadful words, and before he could yell or shout or cry, he was informed quite calmly that if he wished to continue their lessons, he was going to sit quietly, stat. Hurt and horribly betrayed, Regulus had sat back down, tears stinging his eyes – tears that vanished as fast as they’d appeared when he realized that the letters weren’t quite as alien as they had been.

It took them three long months, total, but eventually he could stumble through basic English without too much of a headache, reading level still pitifully behind for his age but advanced enough to make the first few infant steps into literacy.

In the end, it was at Grandfather Arcturus’ birthday dinner that his newfound reading prowess was revealed to the rest of his (absolutely shocked) family.

“Why doesn’t Regulus read us something, hm?” Alphard jerked his chin in his nephew’s direction. “In honor of his beloved namesake, of course.”

“That’s not funny, Alphard.” His mother snapped, drawing him closer on the sofa with one protective arm. “Don’t make fun of the poor boy.”

“I’m not.” He protested, and Regulus was rather more offended at the many disbelieving glances cast in his direction (the primary of which belonged to his father) than his uncle’s perceived slight.

“I’m serious.” He insisted. “No you’re not, I’m Sir –” His brother began gleefully, subsiding at their grandmother’s impatient “Oh, hush.”

Doubtful glances were exchanged amongst the room’s occupants, and his mother started up again about how she refused to let Alphard make her darling boy a laughingstock, when Arcturus himself intervened, observing the proceedings with glinting eyes. “No, let him try.”

His mother subsided, not daring to contradict the formidable Black Patriarch, a children’s book rapidly procured from the Manor’s vast library and thrust into an unsuspecting Regulus’ hands.

A poem was decided by vote of majority, the page opened, and over a dozen pairs of eyes turned to him expectantly, bracing themselves for inevitable disappointment.

He didn’t speak initially, puzzling out the letters and glancing every so often at his uncle for solidarity, but it was only after his father heaved a disgusted, resigned sigh that he began reading with a vengeance.

He stuttered his way through most of it, and it took him the better part of five minutes to read a four line poem, but looking at his relatives’ gobsmacked faces at the end of it, one would think he’d successfully slain a dragon. Only his uncle seemed unsurprised, puffing at his cigar and sending victorious smirks in his flabbergasted mother’s direction.

A resounding silence echoed through the room after he’d finished, and his family, already shocked at his uncharacteristic literacy, grew doubly aghast at the extraordinary sight of his mother bursting into tears, flinging herself onto Alphard, and bawling into his shoulder. None were more surprised than the man himself, who gently patted her shoulder with the wary air of petting a wild hippogriff. The last thing he saw before being ushered out of the room by Aunt Druella was his own mother, the same woman who glared at his uncle whenever they happened to be in the same room, the same woman who sneered at him and made snide remarks and petulantly rolled her eyes whenever Alphard spoke, clutching his uncle’s hand, tearfully babbling her thanks.

Uncle Alphard became a welcome, if infrequent, fixture at the Black Manor not long after, and though he never learned why he’d been so mysteriously absent for the initial years of his life, he did glean that the man had been, by and large, forgiven for whatever it was he'd done. 

“Why’re you grinning down at that thing like a loon?”

What followed was a sequence of events Regulus was deeply tempted to Obliviate from memory, and was exceedingly grateful that Trixie wasn’t there to witness him shriek, jump, bump his head on a step of the accursed iron ladder, drop his wand and hide the book behind his back like some shifty child caught stealing candy. Throughout this lovely scene, what was visible of Petrov’s face grew more and more unimpressed, illuminated only by the light of his wand as Regulus scrabbled in the dust for his own.

When at last he straightened, brushing one curl out of his eye, Petrov sighed, very obviously pretended not to notice the book shaped bulge in his robes, and turned to make his way out the shop without preamble.

Oh, well. There goes that alliance.

“Come on, Black, we’re going to be late.”

As he scurried after the other boy, a rat skittered out from below the very ladder he’d acquisitioned as a throne, paused for a moment to stare at the two boys, and hurried back into the recesses of the shop.

Back into the darkness.

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Barty Crouch Jr. was infamous for - besides having an evil senior knockoff - it was having a memory so abysmal that it put eighty year old pensioners to shame.

Exam tomorrow? Well, you might as well fail him now, for he'd get out his textbooks, get settled, and promptly forget what he was sitting there for. What followed was a leisurely stroll through the castle, mind lost in thought, till he chanced upon some unsuspecting classmate and began the cycle all over again. Homework? He'd probably handed it in on time maybe thrice in his life, and then only because Regulus kept nagging at him like some reincarnation of his dear grandmother, who could complain and complain till she was blue in the face and still not run out of things to fault. He hoped that wherever she was now (it was really too much to hope that the old hag had somehow clawed her way into heaven), she was nattering away at someone (preferably his grandfather) as usual, for why should the living have been the only ones to suffer through enjoy her ridiculous justified tirades?

He'd been grateful to receive one thing, and one thing only, from the senior Bartemius (apart from his trust fund, of course), and that was the constitution of a horse with no allergies whatsoever, which was most definitely the only reason he was still on this earth, for with his track record, he'd have absolutely forgotten all about his medical handicap, eaten the allergen without a care in the world, and kicked the bucket in early childhood. 

Favourite flowers, one month anniversaries, all those hoops one had to jump through to successfully remain in a romantic relationship? Mm, yeah, not for him. Back at Hogwarts, he'd been lucky to remember he had a girlfriend, let alone wait on her hand and foot, a fact Vanessa Flint had not been pleased about, but who cared? Not like he was going to marry her anyway, what with how ragingly, massively gay he was; a fact he was sure his father suspected but turned a blind eye to for the sake of his own sanity.

His mother, as usual, remained blindingly oblivious. You'd think a woman who read the trashy romances which flew off the shelves at Flourish and Blotts like her life depended on it would be a little more informed about her own son's love life, but she still laboured under the delusion that Barty and Vanessa were just 'going through a rough patch' and that they'd 'sort it out soon', a sentiment heartily shared by the girl's paunchy, red faced father. He wrinkled his nose at the thought of those idiotic books, the covers of which featured unrealistically proportioned women hiding behind shirtless men with biceps the size of watermelons, a flimsy wand clutched in one fist and pointed at whatever stereotypically evil creature the author felt like bashing that day. Dementors featured prominently on top of that list, followed by the occasional dragon or manticore, and once a giant, even; though that must have been hell to explain to those self-righteous activists who campaigned for magical creature rights outside Ministry offices.

Something he found even more unbelievable than their questionable anatomy was how astonishingly vivid their memory was, how they’d bump into someone from their (horribly tragic) past and remember every single detail, every little quirk, down to the last (conveniently sexy) scar. Hell, Barty was lucky if he remembered someone he’d met five minutes ago. 

Life before the age of eleven was nothing but a blurry smear of memories, captured in flashes, snippets of moments that made no sense on their own but somehow summed up his entirety perfectly. The more he aged, the more alien these flashes felt to him, remnants of a lifetime so far removed as to be someone else’s entirely; a time when life was less complicated, less brutal, less unfair, a time when life was lived instead of survived.

The sun shining onto the shiny white leather couch in some Ministry waiting room, reflecting into his eyes and practically blinding him as he swung his legs impatiently, his mother’s hand gripping his arm to keep him from taking off down the sterile grey corridors, freedom a tantalising few feet away.

Eating a massive ice cream outside Fortescue’s parlor, bought as a bribe to forgive his wonderful parents after yet another one of their screaming matches (is it really a match if one of them remains silent?), strained smiles forced onto their faces for his benefit, and he could never quite muster the courage to tell them not to bother.

Staring at the small window haloed in moonlight in the corner of his bedroom, half hidden by the massive walnut wood cabinet leaning precariously to one side, doors slightly ajar.

Scraped knees, torn shirts, muddy shoes.

Balloons charmed to fly out of the way just before he managed to catch them (a method his mother swore by to entertain hyperactive five year olds), buttery yellow seats in his father’s Ministry cars, homemade chocolate cake that was so bad it was almost good.

Not happy, exactly, but not bad, either. It just was.

Life. It was just life.

"It's done." 

Exhaling, he blew out a puff of white smoke, watching as the night air slowly dissipated it entirely, carrying it away to Merlin only knew where. Only then did he roll his head to look at the boy sitting beside him, cheek scraping against the abrasive stone wall behind them.

As always, his breath caught in his throat as he looked at him, this boy with his sleek ash blonde hair (he'd dreamt of running his hands enough times through the same to toe the line between hopelessly pathetic and borderline obsessed), lamplight casting his square jaw into sharp contrast, shadows pooling beneath his chin and in the hollow of his throat, shifting ever so slightly as he raised his own cigarette to take a drag. It was only when the other boy lolled his head towards him, expectation etched across his features, that he managed to clear his throat and say, in as natural a voice he could muster, "What is?"

Evan didn't answer for a long moment, keeping his gaze locked with his own as he flicked ash off the end of his cigarette, slender fingers tapping at it with practiced ease. By all accounts, Barty should not find such a simple gesture so attractive, but what can he say? He's a simple man. A simple, simple, foolish man.

As the silence dragged on and Evan kept his peace, mouth opening and closing slightly like he wasn't sure what to say, conflicted emotions warring across his face, worry began nagging at the back of his mind, both at his hesitation and the uncharacteristic tightness around the other boy's eyes, a new sort of wariness he'd never seen before and didn't particularly care for.

Just as he opened his mouth to tell him to go ahead, spit it out, Evan blurted out yet another nonsensical remark. "He took it."

Frowning, he regarded his earnest, screwed up face, brow furrowed and concern radiating from every tight, flawless pore. "Who took what?"

Swallowing, he said nothing. 

(don't get distracted Barty don't think of how it'd feel to have that neck under your lips don't don't don't)

He shook his head, bewildered. "Haven't given me much to work with, Ev."

Silence.

The moon glimmered through gaps in the rustling leaves of the alder tree opposite, Crouch Manor's vantage point on top of the low hill overlooking the quaint village below, shutters fastened tightly against the creeping night. Not a single light glowed in any of the cottages, their inhabitants battling the monsters of their dreams rather than the very real ones creeping through the narrow streets. The only illumination for miles was provided by the glowing tips of their fags, the old fashioned oil lamp set carefully to the side, and the ever present, impersonal moon.

"It's Regulus." He said finally.

His grip tightened on his cigarette, crumpling the paper. "What's wrong with the fucker now?" 

Despite his flippant tone, a very real spike of anxiety pierced his heart, free hand tapping a restless beat on the smooth terrace floor.

He hesitated yet again, and Barty, fast running out of patience with his dramatics, snapped in a more hostile tone than he'd intended. "Honestly, just say it, Ev, what the fuck is wrong with y -"

"He took it. The mark."

He froze, disbelief twisting his features into a face even a mother couldn't love, thin cotton shirt suddenly stiflingly hot. "Wait. What?"

Evan looked at him with a strange mixture of pity, relief and deep, horrible understanding. 

"He's not even of age yet! What's he going to do, spit in Dumbledore's wine? No, no, wait - what about the stupid initiation period? Thought it was so exclusive that you have to slave away for an year to earn the mark? Wait a damn second - when the fuck did this happen?"

Evan opened his mouth to respond, but he cut him off, swivelling on him as a terrible suspicion wriggled its way to the front of his mind. "And how do you know about this? Isn't it supposed to be top secret?"

He closed his mouth, looking absurdly guilty. "Listen, Bart -"

"Please don't say what I think you're about to say."

He shook his head slowly at the resigned look on the other boy's face. "No. There's no fucking way."

"Barty -"

"What the fuck, Evan? You promised me you wouldn't! You -"

"And I didn't! Merlin, would you just listen for once?" He exploded. "Just - listen. Listen to me. Please."

He snapped his mouth shut, remorse washing over him in a bitter, familiar wave, heart sinking a little in his chest at the desperation in his voice. "Alright." He said quietly, the word hanging in the small space between them like an anchor. "Alright."

He nodded, eyes darting across Barty's face as he absently flicked out a tongue to moisten his lips (seriously Barty you need to stop), a deep furrow in his brow indicative of just how deep in thought he was.

"Last night -" He began, making a marked effort to control his voice. "Last night, the Lord payed a visit to Lestrange Manor. Regulus was there." He added.

He couldn't help himself. "So, what, did he grab him by the scruff of his neck and carve it into his arm?"

Evan, characteristically, did not rise to the bait. "He met with him, and he was so impressed he offered to initiate him straight away. He was given a choice - in or out." He paused. "He wanted in."

He couldn't help the low snort that escaped him then. "Of course he did."

Evan didn't laugh, and he instantly regretted the bitter remark, some vague, indefinable guilt twinging at his conscience as he raised his fag to take a puff, looking away from the other boy's drawn, tense face onto the low, sloping rooftops beyond. Brilliant. Just fucking fantastic. What a lovely start to our last ever summer break. Our best friend sworn willingly to a fascist.

"He didn't have a choice, Barty. You don't get to say no to the Dark Lord and walk out alive."

He looked up, blue eyes meeting black, and Barty noted with some alarm the flicker of defiance in his eyes, the steady determination on his face.

"And when the time comes," He paused, seemingly to savour the sharp tang of anticipation in the air. "I don't intend to say no, either." 

Chapter Text

Eight hours and a century after stepping foot into Lestrange Manor, he was faced with the dour, grim countenance of No. 12, Grimmauld Place, heavy drapes swept tightly shut behind each window like the closed eyelids of some giant, slumbering beast, not a crack of light seeping out from behind the dusty velvet curtains.

Trixie apparated him back home with a huff (“Ask someone to teach you to apparate, alright? I’m not your chauffeur!”), beamed and pressed a kiss to his cheek (“You’re one of us now, Reggie!”), told him not to get so hung up about Karkaroff ("Don't waste your energy on that mangy boot licker, you're worth ten of him."), bade him goodnight, and disapparated with a pop to Merlin only knew where, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the many ghosts (of both ectoplasmic and emotional variety) of his childhood home.

Kreacher let him in, and he automatically shrugged out of his cloak, handing it to the elf with absentminded thanks, moving in a daze further into the old house till he entered the lobby, stopping when he came to the very centre of the imposing star inlaid in the Italian marble, a ten foot square monstrosity meant to honor a tradition passed down through the family ever since its founding. The stagnant quiet was broken only by the distant ticking of some grandfather clock, giving him the strangest sense of déjà vu, glimmering mark on his arm still smarting with phantom pain that ebbed and flowed in time with the dratted clock’s ticking.

The night's adrenaline had finally faded, dull exhaustion left behind in its wake, blood flowing sluggishly in his veins as the familiar, almost physical weight of the house's silence settled on his chest, dead atmosphere pressing down on his sternum till his lungs twinged with discomfort. His head was pounding and there was a sort of painful throbbing in the back of his eyes and ecstatic was not a word he could use to describe himself, not like Trixie who oozed smugness and excitement out of every pleased smile, every barely suppressed bounce and skip and twirl in her step. Miserable, though, might be slightly more accurate.

Shockingly, proud was not a word he could use to put a term to his emotional state, either, though he knew he should be proud, he had every right to be proud - his first mission had gone off without a hitch and the Dark Lord had, as Trixie had so delicately put it earlier, really liked him, so what business did he have being miserable? What right did he have to feel sick to his stomach at the thought of all those books going up in flames? They were just books, after all. Just paper. Paper sold by those disgusting, filthy, low class mudbloods. (Promise me you won't use that word, Regulus, or I'll stop talking to you, I mean it. Well, Regulus had broken that promise. Sue him. It wasn’t like the extractor of that particular oath was running around upholding all their stupid little pinky promises anyway.)

Even so, as he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, all he could see was the dusky, roseate glow of the flames against the polluted night sky, the raucous laughter of the society’s supposed elite, those books and those papers and all those words, catching fire and shrivelling, not to mention what came after, the curses and the screaming -

“Regulus?”

He jerked his head up, biting back a curse as his heart picked up speed, hammering in his chest as he scanned the room for the speaker. Eyes hunting for the source of the disturbance, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw his father, shrouded in darkness and wrapped in a heavy silk robe at the foot of the stairs, looking for all the world like one of the wraiths out of the horror stories Cissy had so loved scaring a young Regulus and Sirius the traitor with. (That’s because he is a heartless ghoul, Reggie, keep up!)

He nodded politely at the interloper. “Good evening, Father.”

He didn't reply.

He stood there awkwardly for a moment before clearing his throat and gesturing stiffly towards the stairs. “It’s been a long night, so if you’ll excuse me –”

“Bellatrix sent me a Patronus.” His father interrupted, raising his voice slightly as if he had never spoken. His voice petered out, and he took a breath before enquiring in as interested a voice he could manage, “Oh?”

His father hummed in response, stepping out of the shadows into the small circle of light cast by one of the wall sconces, his head tilted to one side, eyes narrowed and locked on his only son, and he tried not to squirm under his scrutiny. “She seemed to be under the impression that you’ve made the family name proud. And that the Dark Lord seemed to, ah, how did she put it? Like you very much.” The subtle disdain lacing every word made it very clear exactly how unlikely his father had found this statement, eyeing Regulus with unconcealed disbelief before asking, as composed as ever, “Is this true?”

He didn’t trust his voice not to shake, so he simply nodded, something which would have ordinarily made his father let out a tch of disgust and a strained order to speak when you address me, boy, but tonight he did neither of the two.

Instead, he regarded him carefully, deep, empty wells for eyes boring a hole into his head. "Karkaroff contacted me as well." He said finally.

Well, fuck. He met his gaze.

"He was, I take it, rather disappointed with your performance tonight." 

There was more, but it all sort of faded into the background, his father yapping on about something or the other - if he was a betting man he'd have said the family's honour and a reputation to maintain and disappointing conduct featured heavily in the monologue - but he was too preoccupied with ensuring that he stood still enough not to further attract his father's ire, hands clenched into fists at his side, back straighter than a ruler while he stared impassively back at the Black patriarch, nodding at all the expectant pauses in the conversation and fixing an expression of faux remorse on his face.

"- really, Regulus, don't you think it's embarrassing for me to have a son who can't cast even the simplest Unforgivable? I could cast it by the time I was twelve, in fact, even your useless spendthrift of an uncle could. This is unacceptable, and I will not have it, this laxity in your behaviour just because you think your position as the Heir is secure -"

He fixed his eyes on a spot just above his father's left eye, noting with mild interest that he possessed the same eyebrow cowlick that he did, the tiniest fraction of the small hair jutting off in another direction entirely, spiky in a manner reminiscent of Barty's hair that time he'd got it into his head that crisping his hair with an entire bottle of gel before boarding the train back home was the best way to get under his father's skin. And while it did accomplish the intended purpose, his own skin was hardly pristine by the end of it.

"- and you will, starting tomorrow, take private lessons with me, because apparently I have to personally ensure that my son knows something I'm sure even that little Rosier boy would, and he's ten, Regulus, shame on you. Honestly, what do they teach you in that school of yours? I told your mother we should have sent you to Beauxbatons, Lenard would have had you spitting your curses like the second coming of Gellert Grindelwald by now, but did she listen? No! How dare I suggest that we ship her darling boy -"

And on.

And on and on and on, till he had to lock his knees to keep standing, head fuzzier than ever. 

"I am disgusted by your behaviour, Regulus, and if you wish to keep your position within this family, I advise you to start living up to it. I will not tolerate any more mistakes. Do you understand?"

He inhaled slowly, trying to even out his breaths as much as he could, trying not to let the depth of his frustration show on his face. Even so, his chest seemed as tight as ever, stomach vaguely upset in that way it got during that horrid carriage ride between train and castle. He nodded.

"Speak up, boy!" And there it was.

“Yes, Father.” He murmured.

He gave him one last disdainful once over before turning away and sweeping up the staircase, strong, square face grimmer than ever, a harsh scowl twisting his lips. 

He waited till his footsteps had receded entirely before walking up the stairs with slow, mechanical steps that grew faster and faster the more distance he gained from the ground floor, wrenching open his bedroom door and all but sprinting inside, and no matter how he wished to slam it hard enough to crack the wall above the frame, no matter how he wanted the hinges to break and the wood to splinter, no matter how he wished there was some physical monument to his all his distress, to all his anger, he closed it as gently as a mother would cradle a newborn babe, carefully twisting the knob till it closed with a quite click. No door flew off its hinges. No big, gaping holes were blown into the heavy wooden door. Really, there was no change at all, except that now he was inside the room instead of outside of it, a ghost in his own home, moving with a deliberate care to leave things undisturbed that ensured no trace of his fury was left behind on the world in the slightest.

Just another night. The featherlight closing of the door. The gentle turning of the knob. Night after night after night, a routine more familiar than the creases in his own palm, ingrained in his very being, carved into his bones. Just another good, obedient child swallowing all that he wished to say, all the raw, emotional truth he wished to spew right into his father's face, all the speeches he practised in his head in preparation for the day he finally mustered up the courage to say even a fraction of all he thought, just a little bit, just one sentence, just one phrase. Just one word, one all powerful, forbidden word. No. He just wanted to say no. Why did no one ever let him say no?

Why did he have to grit his teeth, and smile, and go along with everything he said just because the infrequent grey hair on top of the old man's head made him the ultimate, supreme authority on everything? On a life that was his? A life he thought he'd live quite happily, if only he could do just as he pleased, when he pleased, if he pleased? 

He wouldn't even be bad. Oh, no. He wouldn't be some feckless degenerate who lived off his parents' money and couldn't care less what the world thought of him, couldn't care less what duty he had to perform or what society whispered behind his back. Oh, no. He'd be good. He'd be so good. He'd be the best son who ever lived, if only - 

If only - 

What?

If only his father stopped breathing down his neck.

If only he didn't feel like there was some huge, calloused hand, wrapping around his soul in a death grip, squeezing ever so slightly tighter with every dismissive nod, each vaguely irritated expression, like his very existence was some kind of nuisance, like all he was supposed to do was nod dumbly along with whatever they decided, smiling vacantly while he performed whatever unimportant task had been delegated to him this time, like all they wanted was for him to -

Please, just leave me alone.

Leave me alone.

Why can't they just leave me alone?

If you really want to be left alone that badly, Sirius' the traitor's voice sneered in his head, then why didn't you leave? I thought you loved them. I thought they were your parents.

They are. I love them. I do.

Then you deserve it, fool that you are. I hope you enjoy playing servant to dear Father. I hope he belittles you and shames you and hates you till the day he dies. I hope you suffer every single moment you spend locked up in there, because you. Didn't. Leave.

It was a crushing feeling, this slow, horrible realisation that no matter what he did, no matter how he did it, he'd never be happy, not really, not truly. How could he be? He lay awake at night, torturous, tantalising fantasies of what could have been refusing to stop haunting him, wondering how different his life might have been if only he'd -

If only he'd -

Left.

Oh, how he wished he'd left.

As if on cue, the mark on his arm twinged, and he hissed in mild surprise, drawing it up to hold it close, fingers digging into the freshly inked tattoo till they turned white.

He closed his eyes, sinking down to the cold, marble floor, fingers slowly undoing his cuffs, pushing them back with deliberate care till it was revealed to the dim, flickering candlelight which illuminated his room, skull leering up at Regulus while the snake slithered slowly out its mouth, a strangely perverted tableau which filled him with the same awe, the same reverence with which he'd regarded the Dark Lord not so long ago, though undoubtedly the effect had faded somewhat, initial zeal draining out of his body to be replaced by the tiniest nigglings of doubt -

No. He wouldn't leave, however much he wanted to. Of that, he was certain, bleak resignation filling his heart, a deep, familiar weariness settling in his bones. He'd live, and then he'd die, and just like hundreds of Blacks before him, he'd do it in this house, just another portrait to be added to the overflowing gallery, tied to this unshakeable monolith of a house with an invisible chain twice as thick as the ones in Azkaban, only this one would be gilded and coveted, barely resembling a chain at all to the untrained eye.

It was his nature. It was what he did. People left. He stayed.

Sometimes, they'd be on the verge of spilling out, all these desperate, brutal, honest words, their ragged edges scraping against the inside of his throat like sandpaper, tiny pebbles catching in his windpipe, begging for the chance to be expelled, to be birthed into this cruel, ugly world. A quick inhale, the slightest parting of his lips as the first syllable perched on the tip of his tongue, only his mouth closed firmly of its own accord a second later, momentary courage abandoned in the face of his very real, impending verbal execution. Oh, no, he'd never dared. Not once. That department had always been best left to -

No. 

He wouldn't leave. He couldn't, not when he'd just been accepted into a new family, one in which he wasn't dead weight (despite whatever Igor Karkaroff seemed to think), one whose patriarch actually cared for its members, one he'd voluntarily joined, and he'd be damned if he didn't make the best of it, if he didn't give whatever convoluted game was being played his absolute all. If he didn't win.

For once in his life, he wanted to win.

He rose to his feet, hands fiddling restlessly with his shirt while he paced the length of his small bedroom, an animal itching to escape the confines of his cage, and sometimes he thought he'd die happy if he only never saw these walls again, dark green and silver pressing down on him in a way it never did at Hogwarts, wallpapered walls looming even larger than usual, half open drawers leering at him from the dresser - 

Tap. Tap.

He whipped his head around, frantically searching for the source of the sound before locking onto the vague, blurry shape of an owl tapping at the crystal window pane.

An enormously familiar barn owl, a fat, lumpy parcel tied to its leg while its round, dark eyes regarded Regulus impatiently from the darkness beyond the glass.

Dora.

Chapter Text

The clatter of cutlery against porcelain mingled with the rustle of today's newspaper, the latter of which was being examined disinterestedly by her father while he dug into his omelette with far more enthusiasm, oily crumbs besmirching the latest propaganda and forming an unseemly moustache on their beloved Minister's cheery face. She stared incredulously at the black and white print, the supreme (well, officially, anyway) leader of magical Britain beaming like a schoolboy in a candy shop instead of even trying to present the front of an allegedly competent wizard inaugurating emergency shelters for civilians. Not like there's a war going on, or anything. 

Rain battered against the windows with unusual intensity for this time of year, punctuated by the occasional, ominous burst of thunder, flashes of lightening highlighting the uncharacteristically severe expression on her mother's face. Felix gnawed at his bacon with rather unnecessary enthusiasm (a wild kneazle blessed with a successful hunt for the first time in weeks came to mind), pausing every so often to remark inanely about something or the other that absolutely no one bothered to respond to.

She pushed her toast around her plate, stabbing at it dully with her knife, half of her contemplating cutting the crust off entirely while the other half wondered with a dreary sort of dread what exactly it was that she did to receive her mother's ire. Nothing came to mind. The last time she'd seen her in such a state had been over six years ago, when a ten year old Pandora had decided that it was a fine day to take a stroll and ended up in the muggle village a little beyond their property (privately, she'd never much seen what the fuss had been about - the few muggles she met had all seemed perfectly nice, even if they had stared rather blatantly at her robes) - but try as she might, she couldn't think of a single recent thing she'd done to warrant such open hostility.

Finishing his paper, her father tossed it to the side without taking the trouble to fold it, rolling his shoulders and yawning obnoxiously like he'd just finished a day of hard labour in the fields instead of his usual gourmet breakfast prepared by a small army of house elves. Pursing her lips, her mother deliberately looked away, making a point to ignore her only daughter over the first meal of the day, sipping daintily at her china cup while pretending to be immensely interested in the embroidered tablecloth.

She waited.

Nothing was forthcoming.

Bouncing in his seat, Felix brightly asked Nora to bring him all the chocolate frogs you can find, glancing cheekily at their mother while the house elf hesitated, waiting for the mistress of the house to object, only for Mrs. Rosier to ignore the both of them entirely, staring woodenly at a spot on the wall somewhere above Pandora's head. Popping away, the elf soon reappeared with an armload of the aforementioned sweets, which her absolute gremlin of a little brother swept out of her arms and promptly spirited away to a loving home (his stomach). Her father observed the spectacle with detached amusement, smoking one of his inordinately expensive cigars which somehow still managed to smell horrible, though doubtless her mother would disagree. It's one of the first things I fell for, you know. Her mother had whispered conspiratorially not so long ago. That damn cigar.

Still nothing.

All right, then. Time to deliver the coup de grâce.

She propped her elbow on the table, resting her head on the heel of her palm while she widened her eyes insolently at her mother. It was a move which never failed to annoy Estelle Rosier, for whom bad table manners were the height of dissolution. ("I didn't raise you in a barn, Pandora!")

As anticipated, it worked. 

"Pandora Estelle Rosier." She began grimly. The usage of her birth name instantly set her on edge, for Dory was the more common endearment heard rolling from her mother's thin lips, and on occasion, Pandora, but full name? She really was in hot water. "Your father and I need to discuss something with you."

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like don't lump me in with you while she glanced in trepidation at the two adults over the long forgotten breakfast, the six feet wide table suddenly presenting a seemingly insurmountable gap. Thunder boomed low and menacing in the distance.

Taking a deep breath, her mother gathered her cashmere shawl around her shoulders and set her mouth in a stony, obstinate manner that made it very clear which parent she and Felix had inherited that particular trait from.  "Chiefly, your prospects."

She blinked at her, nonplussed. "What?"

Sighing as if this was some great test of her patience cooked up by her many enemies (Mrs. Zabini from her mother's weekly gatherings being top contender for the primary suspect), she set the teacup down and regarded her with the resigned, weary air of someone speaking to a toddler. "Your marriage prospects, Pandora."

Absurdly, her first instinct was to laugh. "What?"

Nostrils flaring, her mother continued in a level tone. "The Fawleys have a lovely boy around your age - Albert, I believe?" She addressed this last part to her father, who shrugged, gazing out the window in acute boredom.

"Albert Fawley? Around my age? He's at least three years older than me!"

Her mother waved a hand dismissively. "Well, three years is nothing at all in the grand scheme of things, isn't it? Why, there's a fifteen year difference between your grandfather and your grandmother, and what difference did it make? They're still happily married, aren't they?"

She gaped at her mother in pure disbelief. "Wasn't Grammy fifteen when she married? That's disgusting! In fact, I'm pretty sure that's a felony -"

"Albert," She continued, speaking over her, "is perfectly handsome, from a good family, and decently rich. Besides, he's such a sweetheart - I've heard he donates a lot of his wealth to -"

"I don't care if he lives like a hermit in the Himalayas! He's an asshole, I remember him from school - Hufflepuff won the match, fair and square, and he threw a tantrum right there on the pitch! Broke Gudgeon's nose! And then he -"

"Who cares?" She hissed. "He's Heir Fawley's successor! With the way this dratted war is going, he'll be Lord Fawley in a year's time! I'd have killed to be in your position, Dory -"

"Well, you marry him, then!"

Her father sighed.

Her mother drew herself up to her full height, chest puffing out in preparation of one of her infamous lectures. "You are being extremely ungrateful, Dora, what with all the strings I had to pull to even make this match a remote possibility. Do you have any idea how hard it is to convince a family to bet on a daughter from a tertiary branch? Your dowry is insubstantial in comparison to -"

"I never asked you to do any of that!"

"I am your mother, I look out for you whether you like it or not!"

Falling silent, they glared at each other, faces flushed from the effort of shouting, and Pandora desperately wanted to punch someone. Preferably Fawley. Or maybe her mother.

She looked away.

"I am sixteen." She said quietly, staring at the grains in the table. "I am not going to marry anyone."

Her mother laughed.

It was an ugly laugh, a scathing laugh, one laced with the barest hint of hatred, and it was so unlike her mother, so unlike the woman who cooed at her three spoilt spaniels and fussed over her two children and tended to her garden with military efficiency, that she had the strangest urge to cry.

"Don't lie to me, Dora." She spoke bitterly. "And don't lie to yourself. It's beneath the both of us."

Her voice shook. "I'm not lying."

She laughed again and shook her head. "Unbelievable." She mumbled.

"It's true. I want to graduate first, and - and then I want to apprentice under le maître des rêves." She insisted, voice fading with every syllable, not daring to look up at their faces.

Her father shifted towards her, displaying interest in the conversation for the first time since its advent. "Le maître des rêves? You wish to study under that charlatan?" He asked incredulously.

"He's not a charlatan." She began hotly. "I wrote to him this summer and -"

"Oh, really? With whose permission, might I ask?" He asked sardonically.

Sh glared at him, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. "I wrote to him and he said he'd take me on after graduation, so there. And I'm going."

"There is absolutely no way that I'm sending my only daughter to study under a madman." He held up a hand to stall her protests. "Not a chance in hell, and I don't care if you cry yourself to -"

Her mother's clear voice cut through the argument like a knife through butter, a blade slicing directly into her heart. "Oh, don't you worry your pretty little head about it, Marcus. As if she'll still remember her education once that Black boy offers to put a ring on her finger. I may be old, but I'm not stupid, Dora."

Her father sighed, uncharacteristic anger drained away as suddenly as it appeared, and looked at her stricken face with mild sympathy. "That's uncalled for, Estelle."

Shockingly, she whirled on her husband. "There's no need to play devil's advocate to score yourself a few pity points, Marcus. The whole world knows you couldn't care less about us, anyway."

She stared numbly at her mother's face, a face which seemed to have aged a thousand years in the past half hour, and wondered how she'd missed the bitter lines setting in around the corners of her mouth, the crease between her pretty brows and the pinched, sour expression that looked like it had had a lot of practice, and as she looked upon the two of them, these strangers that had raised her, she wondered not for the first time what it was about life that made people this way, and she thought with sudden, ringing clarity, I don't want to end up like them.

He spoke in a tone frostier than the Arctic. "And just what would be so wrong about him marrying her? Surely your opportunistic sensibilities can admit that the Black Heir is a far better catch than some distant beneficiary of the Fawley name."

"You know exactly what, so don't play dumb."

"No, Estelle, I don't. He's a nice boy, filthy rich -"

"I am not marrying my daughter off to a murderer!"

Murderer?

He exhaled, shaking his head in exasperation. "Don't be dramatic."

Abruptly, she laughed, the sound tinged with hysteria. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"Pandora!" Her mother cried, aghast, but she wasn't done just yet. 

"You can stop your pointless, hateful arguing, for I'm not getting married. Not before I graduate, and definitely not before I get to study under le maître des rêves. I mean it. And when I marry, I shall do it for love, and not for their fucking title! And don't call him a murderer." She added, voice cracking ridiculously and undermining whatever dramatic effect she may have achieved with her impassioned speech.

A hush descended on the room, both her parents staring at her like she'd just declared that she was eloping with her wizened old headmaster to Siberia, and she stared back, chest heaving, daring them to say a word, daring them to object -

"Don't call him a murderer, she says." Her mother murmured, pushing back her chair and standing up, gathering her robes around herself while she looked away. "I've had enough of this."

"Well, he isn't one." This steely statement came, wonder of all wonders, from her own father. "But I'm not surprised you think so. You've always had a bit of a hard time differentiating between reality and the imagination, haven't you?"

For a long moment, she thought her mother was going to cry.

Crack.

Nora bowed, the edge of her ragged pillowcase scraping the floor.

"Heir Black is here to see Miss Dora in the library, please."

Chapter Text

“No, no – no, not there, I said left, you idiot – that’s right, behind that one – no, you fool, not that one, the black bookshelf –”

She paused in the doorway, one hand resting on the lacquered frame as she gazed incredulously at the scene unfolding in their previously tranquil library - Felix hopping on one foot, butterfly net in hand, ducking in and out of the aisles with a speed rarely witnessed when he was told to actually fetch a book, laughing maniacally while he brought his net down at regular intervals with gleeful, unwarranted violence, skidding and sliding on the polished wood. And there, sat on one of the lumpy lime green sofas, yelling nonsensical instructions at her brother, was –

Regulus.

He glanced up, spotting her by the entrance, and –

Oh.

That smile. That stupid, familiar, lopsided smile.

How could anyone look at that smile and call its bearer a murderer?

She started towards him, feet moving with a mind of their own, skilfully avoiding the teetering piles of books placed haphazardly around the room, and reached him just as he opened his mouth to speak. "Dora -"

The rest of his words were cut off as she promptly flung her arms around him, chin resting on top his head, arms wrapped around his shoulders from the side, and it was a bit of an awkward angle, especially since his arm went around her waist in a way she was trying very hard not to think of, hand gently resting on her side in a manner that made her stomach swoop in an admittedly not unpleasant way, but none of it mattered because he was here, here and in front of her, not a million miles away in that haunted house he called a home, and she squeezed tighter, a strange lump growing in her throat -

"Pandora and Regulus, sitting in a tree, K-I-S -"

Just as suddenly, she let go, ripping herself out of his grip to whirl around and glare at her idiot little brother, flicking her hand in a rather impressive display of wandless magic, even if she did say so herself. "Silencio." 

Despite having lost the faculty of his voice, Felix was undeterred, making rude and frankly rather inappropriate gestures for a ten year old, and it was only when Pandora threatened to squash all his precious frogs in the middle of the night that he moseyed out the door, smirking all the way. Mortified, she chanced a glance at Regulus, whose face bore a remarkable resemblance to the tomatoes Nora grew in the kitchen garden, and she might have laughed if she hadn't been so sure that her face was sporting a crimson to match.

She flopped down onto the sofa next to him, clearing her throat and breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Sorry about that."

He shrugged, giving a small smile, still not meeting her eyes. "No worries. Nice to see he hasn't changed, at least."

She laughed awkwardly. "Right. Yeah, no, not at all." God, she sounded like an idiot.

He looked at her then, still smiling that hesitant half smile, and Pandora, overcome with the desire to settle back into their usual comfortable dynamic, blurted the first thing that came to mind. "You haven't met him since a year, right?"

He made a so-so gesture, thankfully not commenting on her questionable topic choice, seriously, which loser talked about their little brother to their friends? "I suppose. I did see him at Christmas, though." He turned to face her, folding one leg beneath him, and she resisted the urge to look away from those beautiful murky charcoal eyes. "He's gotten taller, hasn't he?"

"He has, yeah. Little bastard." She shook her head, not bothering to mask the hint of fondness in her voice. "The fuck were you two doing?"

He adopted a solemn expression. "Ask me not, madame. I am merely a humble guard attempting to round up an escapee for my master."

She widened her eyes in mock horror. "An escapee? How thrilling!"

He leaned forward, speaking in a stage whisper. "Not just any escapee, madame. The ferocious, the terrible, the horrific.... chocolate frog."

She snorted, but slipped back into character almost immediately, scanning the room fearfully. "Quick, send a letter to Azkaban." She sniffed. "Dark days are upon us."

"There's no need for such drastic measures, my lady. You see, if there's any place he's hopping around in, that would be -" He glanced around conspiratorially. "- my stomach."

She gaped at him, scandalised. "An inside job? You dog!"

He made a show of shushing her. "Don't tell the prison warden, would you? I want to stay in his good books."

She snorted again. "Bold of you to assume that you were in his good books in the first place."

He grinned. "Come on, he loves me."

She rolled her eyes. "Why the fuck are you stealing candy from kids, anyway? Is this the beginning of some pitiful, poorly plotted revenge arc I'm not aware of?"

He shrugged. "Hungry."

"Breakfast was half an hour ago, Reg."

"Skipped it."

She frowned. "What? Why?"

He paused. "Couldn't bear to see his face first thing in the morning." He said finally. 

Oh. 

Her mind flashed to her own disastrous breakfast, her mother's shrill voice echoing in her head, her parents slicing into each other with sharpened words wrapped in velvet, and admired him, in an odd sort of way, admired him for having the courage not to show up to the shitshow when he didn't want to, for having the guts to do what she wished she'd done herself. As she looked at him more closely, she could make out the dark circles under his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced than usual, fingers tapping restlessly against the awful sofa fabric, eyes shifting from her face to some indiscernible point above her head, and all she wanted to do was hug him and maybe just be hugged, held unconditionally without the threat of a knife in the back or the promise of compensation hanging over her head. Just held. 

Just loved.

She snapped her fingers. "Nora?"

With a pop, the house elf appeared by her side, peering at the guest with undisguised curiosity. "Yes, Miss Dora?"

"Do you think you could scrounge up some leftovers from breakfast for us, please? Anything will do."

"Of course, Miss." She hesitated. "Miss -"

"Yes?" She prompted, when it became clear that no further speech was forthcoming.

Nora wrung her hands. "It's your mother, Miss. She -" Here, she glanced at Regulus, hesitating again. 

What, don't want me having tea with a murderer? Is that it?

"What does she want now?" She snapped, momentarily forgetting the honourable ideal of don't shoot the messenger, and instantly regretted it when Nora sank back, ears drooping. "Sorry. Just -" She sighed. "Could you please inform my mother that whatever it is, I'll deal with it later? Great." She added at her relieved nod. "Thanks, Nora."

Sinking back into the sofa cushions, she rolled her head, peering out the window pane at the ever increasing downpour outside, vaguely tree-shaped outlines swaying in the wind, branches whipping back and forth with an enthusiasm that would have given the Whomping Willow a run for its money.

He cleared his throat. "Thanks for the cookies, by the way." Then, almost shyly. "They were good."

She smiled. "Really? I sent you the reject batch."

His mouth dropped open in outrage. "You didn't."

"I assure you, I very much did." Lie, lie, lie, you filthy, fucking liar.

"Well, in that case -" He turned away petulantly. "I'll just have to return this wonderful present I'd bought to return the favour."

She sat up. "You bought something?" For me?

"Well." He hesitated. "Stole would be more appropriate, I suppose."

She shook her head in disbelief. "All that money and you're still a proper Artful Dodger, aren't you?"

He looked at her, confused. "What's an Artful Dodger?"

"Oh, never you mind." She extended a hand impatiently. "Come on, let me see it, then."

He fished something out his robe pocket – a book – and passed it over. 

DUNE

By Frank Herbert

She cocked her head in mild curiosity. “I’ve never heard of him before, which is..... rare, to say the least.”

He shifted in his seat. “Yes, well, it’s not exactly..... magical.”

She glanced up at him in shock. “What, it’s muggle?" At his answering nod, she let out a low whistle, turning the book over in her hands with newfound care. "However did your wretched father let you get a hold of this?”

He shrugged. “The lengths I go to for you.”

“Yes, yes, stealing a book at from some poor bookshop, such an arduous task –”

“Will you just look already?”

She smiled a little at the thought of her mother’s face if she ever found out that that Black boy had brought something that could very easily be misconstrued as a courting gift, only for it to turn out to be some strange book positively reeking of all things muggle and featuring a worm rather prominently on its cover. Her mother's precious smelling salts, recently stowed away in an upstairs cupboard in a misguided burst of confidence, might just have to make a reappearance sooner rather than later, that is, of course, if she didn’t have an aneurysm first.

What if -

Could she put off Fawley and her mother if she presented this to her parents as proof of Reg's interest? (Heavily charmed into some respectable wizarding title, of course.)

That's not fair. He didn't mean it like that.

But -

It's not like he'd have to know.

And it wasn't like she was doing this with some ulterior motive - she just didn't want to marry that greaseball, for fucks' sake!

"So, um." He laughed, a trifle nervously. "You like it?"

She glanced back up at the other boy, the corners of whose mouth were turned up in an uncertain, wobbly sort of smile, and her heart melted helplessly for this stupid, sweet, lovely boy, smiling away even though he hadn’t a clue what was going on in her head, her own smile widening of its own accord into a genuine, grateful beam whilst guilt stabbed at her chest for even considering what she was about to do. “Thanks, Reggie.” And she meant it – someone stealing a book for her might just be the most flattering compliment she’d ever received, not to mention who was doing the stealing – while his face relaxed into a pleased, if slightly relieved, expression. “Oh good, you do like it. Thank Merlin.”

She rolled her eyes at him good naturedly. “Oh, please, the day I start disliking books as presents is the day you can commit me to St. Mungo’s.”

He nodded gravely. “I shall keep that in mind, though your sentiments might change quicker than you think, particularly if you happen to come across one our family’s many sacrificial guides.” He dropped his voice to a murmur. “Bound in human skin.”

She tapped a finger to her lips, pretending to consider it. “Hmm, is the skin all pimply or is it acne free? I just feel like that’s a really important factor in my decision.”

He made a show of shuddering. “Oodles of pus, Pandora. Oodles of it.”

She half laughed, then instantly made a face. “Ugh, don’t be disgusting, Reg, ew.”

He leaned back, smug. “You’re the one who asked.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t expect you to answer!"

“I’m sure you wouldn’t know, Dora, considering your abject lack of interaction with actual human beings, but that’s how a conversation works!”

She gasped in mock affront. “Are you calling me a shut in? Shame on you, Regulus Black! Is that any way to refer to a lady?”

“I wasn’t aware you qualified as one.”

She simpered. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. If there’s anyone with a pair of balls here, it’s most certainly me, for I’m not the one who screamed to high heaven upon discovering an itty bitty spider on their shirt!”

“That thing was the size of Hagrid! What was I supposed to do, lie down and get eaten? Anyway, I really don't think your mother would consider that appropriate language for a lady.”

“It was smaller than my pinky! Besides, I thought I didn’t qualify as one?”

He grinned. “Touché.”

She huffed, flicking some of her hair over her shoulder before glaring triumphantly at the other boy, shaking her head in fake disbelief. “The nerve of men these days, I swear, male audacity is through the roof.”

Smirking, he replied. “Oh, really? I thought you were the one who possessed the balls between us –”

“Can you not? You’re putting me off my tea.”

Holding up his hands in surrender, he reached forward to snag a sandwich (sometime during their absurd bickering, Nora had popped in with an overflowing platter of supposed leftovers, taken one look at the two of them, and promptly disapparated again), and she found herself smiling silly, waves of contentment bobbing her around till she felt she'd float off into the rain quite happily if she got up.

Rain pattered against the glass, more storm clouds rolling in from the west, thunder booming like the horn of some bloodthirsty deity declaring war. Lightening flashed through the gloom, followed by the familiar, low rumbling, and she shivered involuntarily, subconsciously moving closer to the boy next to her. 

After a moment, he set down his sandwich, dusting off his hands, conflicting emotions warring on his face. She stared at him apprehensively over the rim of her china cup. 

"Dora," He began carefully. "You should know something."

Even as she smiled, clueless to the bombshell that was about to be dropped on top of her, her heart sank like a stone, body far more attuned to the shift in the atmosphere than her stupid, stupid soul. "What is it?"

He looked at her.

Slowly, he began unbuttoning his sleeve.

The left one.

Chapter Text

He sat sprawled on some old plastic crates near the edges of their wards, playing poker with some old man (Wilhelm? William?) who'd drawn the short straw for guard duty yet again, boredom nipping at his heels like an overexcited puppy, the sun's relentless heat beating down upon him like a drum. Most of the members of their little band of vigilantes had swanned off to their day jobs, to their cushy corner offices and smothering wives, leaving behind only the unemployed, the unattached, the disgraced, and the desperate. Unfortunately, Petrov slotted neatly into each of the aforementioned categories.

"Alright, I'll bet you twenty."

He raised an eyebrow. "Flush today, are we?"

The old man cackled. "Won a fair amount off that Yaxley motherfucker last night, and I'm feeling lucky." He grinned. "You know what that means, don't you, Petey boy?" He ploughed on without waiting for an answer. "There's a big fat pile gold around the corner with my name written on it."

He rolled his eyes. "The pain in your joints yesterday meant a storm for the ages, didn't it?" He made a show of looking around, gasping dramatically. "That's right, I'm practically drenched right now, Wilhelm. Sopping wet like some bloody alley cat."

"You laugh now, but one day you'll be begging me for my tips, mark my words. And I never said it'd rain here, now, did I?" He laughed uproariously. "That's the trick of the trade, my boy, that's the trick. Plausible deniability." 

He smiled indulgently at the old man, suppressing a yawn, hands fiddling impatiently with his draw. "Well then, I say -"

"Good morning." Contrary to its benign content, the phrase was spoken with the bitter weariness of someone not having a good morning at all. They whipped around in unison, turning to face the interloper who'd so rudely interrupted their steadily solidifying little ritual, only to find none other than Yelena Karkaroff standing a little ways down the rise, eyeing them with poorly concealed distaste. Getting to their feet, they knocked over the rickety table in their haste, strewing water stained cards all over the muddy ground, bowing as they murmured, "My lady." 

"Yes, yes, there's enough of that." She snapped impatiently. "Which one of you is remotely competent with their wand?"

They stared at her dumbly, Petrov fighting the urge to laugh, keeping the inappropriate smirk off his face a harder task than he'd imagined.

"Come on, one of you has to know the right end of a wand from the other." Her gaze darted between the two of them, eventually settling on Petrov. "You." She decided (like some bloody housewife choosing a cut of meat, he thought uncharitably). "You'll do."

Abruptly, she turned away, starting away down the rise, leaving Petrov to stare after her in disbelief before Wilhelm prodded him in the side (all those years had really sharpened his elbows into bloody spears), startling him into stumbling after her down the little hill.

He followed her a little ways off the tents, going farther and farther into the never ending fields, grass swaying around his ankles, boots squelching unpleasantly against the sucking mud of the marshes. Just as suddenly, she stopped, causing Petrov to flail wildly in an effort to not plough directly into his boss' daughter.

"This is fine." She announced, though to what, he wasn't sure, for it sure as hell wasn't to him. "We'll duel here." She added, shooting a bored glance over her shoulder at the gobsmacked Petrov. "Pardon me, my lady -" He began, only to be interrupted by her caustic, "Don't call me that. You don't mean it, in any case."

He stopped. "I do mean it." He said slowly, as if to an infant, honestly, what was her problem -

"I want you to duel me." She declared, as casually as anything, like she wasn't signing his own death warrant for him, like Karkaroff wouldn't string him up by his toenails for daring to lay a hand on his darling daughter. He couldn't help the incredulous laugh that escaped his lips. "What?"

It was her turn to employ a tone generally used for the mentally inhibited. "Duel me."

"Wh- Why?" He shook his head forcefully. "I couldn't, it wouldn't be right -"

"Don't be a sexist asshole, Peter." 

"It's Petrov." He corrected automatically, mind racing a mile a minute. "My lady -" He began, unsure of the whole endeavour from the start.

“Oh, don’t say no. Sasha would have helped me practice, but her parents have spirited her back to Russia because of the war, and I cannot afford to fall behind.”

He hesitated. “It is not a matter of my willingness.” He said in a measured tone. “I am afraid that I simply cannot match your prowess in dueling. It would not be a fair match, nor would it be of any benefit to you. Besides, your father –”

“Let me handle my father.” She snapped. “I don’t care if you have the skills of a newborn babe or that of Gellert Grindelwald himself. I don’t need a master in the art. All you need to do is stand there, look pretty and if it’s not too much of a bother, dodge and throw a couple of spells around. Understand?”

He nodded, at a loss for words. She nodded back, satisfaction glinting in her eyes.

“Good. I shall be using nonverbal and wandless magic, so that should put you at a bit of an advantage, anyway.”

Without preamble, she turned and began picking her way across the meadow, moving with purpose across the comparatively level ground. He gaped after her for a moment. “Should I –”

“Fifteen paces back.” She called, not bothering to glance over her shoulder.

Right.

He stared after her for a long moment before scrambling to do as he was told, fumbling his wand out of its holster and moving away, adopting one of his father's favourite stances, better to be on the defence with someone like her -

She began the duel without bothering to bow, starting off strong with a streak of purple aimed right at his heart. He managed to swerve at the last moment, retaliating with a poorly cast Expelliarmus which she deflected with ease.

“So, Petrov.” She fired a burst of vivid green light in the general direction of his head, and he tried his level best to convince his poor, weak, terrified heart that it wasn’t the killing curse. (She wouldn’t. Right? Right?) “Which year did you graduate from Durmstrang?”

He dodged, focusing on the multicoloured streaks of light, duelling a convenient excuse not to look his interrogator in the eye. “It would be rather hard for me to graduate from a place I’ve never attended.”

She sent another curse his way, this one a nasty shade of yellow. “Really? Why the fuck not?”

He tried not to let the very real shock in her voice get to his head. “Wasn’t accepted.”

She frowned, shifting sideways at the last second to avoid the jinx he’d thrown at her. (Just a knockback jinx, nothing fancy, he didn’t particularly care to be thrown into the river for injuring the leader's daughter.) “What, aren’t you a Pureblood?”

He stiffened involuntarily, narrowly avoiding a hex that would no doubt cause him much misery if given the chance. “No, I’m not. Will that be a problem?”

She fell silent, casting three spells in quick succession before speaking, voice noticeably cooler than it had been a moment before. "That depends. Is my father aware?"

He ducked, simultaneously sending a modified version of the tickling charm (he'd done it himself, a fact he took a possibly inordinate amount of pride in) towards his opponent. "Yes, he is." He could practically hear her mind whirring through all the possibilities, speculating about his heritage like he was some bug she'd taken a generous interest in.

"I never knew." She said finally, performing some rather impressive acrobatics to avoid his series of severing charms. 

"Yes, well." He executed a flip of his own, though it was nowhere near as skilful as Yelena's. "It's not exactly a fact I like to go around advertising, given the circumstances." 

She had the decency to look chagrined. "Fair." 

A moment later, she spoke again, a pitiful attempt at an olive branch. "Your ancestry must be decent enough to score a spot on our team, anyway."

He shrugged, fluidly stepping out of the way of her cutting curse. "It was quite pure till my birth."

"You're a bastard, then?"

He couldn't help but laugh a bit at her bluntness. "That is, unfortunately, correct."

Feeling the curiosity wafting off her in tangible waves, he inexplicably found himself elaborating. "My mother was my father's Muggle mistress, but she died in childbirth."

"Ah." A blasting curse whipped through the air. "Your father - he was a Pureblood?"

"He's a bolyar, yes." 

"And he raised you as his own?" 

He flung a tongue tying curse at the other girl. "He's a good man."

She dodged, pausing to take a breather. "Excuse my bluntness -" Too late, Yelena. "- but why in the name of Merlin did he not lie and claim you were legitimate? As a matter of fact, why are you being so honest now? You could lie and I'd be none the wiser."

He bent over slightly, hands on his knees, mirroring her pose. "For him, honesty was the most important virtue a man could possess, but only when it was convenient for him to do so. After all, I find it a bit hard to believe that a man who cheated on his wife can be a true paragon of virtue."

She snorted, then covered her mouth, looking mildly guilty. "Sorry."

He smiled to show her it wasn't a big deal. "Don't be."

Without warning, she lobbed a Flagrante at him. "Why weren't you accepted, then? Even with your mother being who she was, your blood is not so tainted. We have half blood quotas as well, Father should've been thrilled to admit you, killing two birds with one stone - you're a Pureblood in every sense that matters, after all."

"That -" He rolled to dodge a ruthlessly dispatched crimson hex. "- is something you're better off asking him."

"Believe me, I will." She weaved around the twin inflating charms he'd cast for lack of better alternatives. "So, you went to Koldovstoretz, then?

He gulped down some air, muscles twinging from the relentless exercise. "As a matter of fact, no, I did not." He replied slowly.

"What?" He noted her abject shock with some amusement. "Why the hell not? Their acceptance rate is a joke, surely you didn't have any problems securing a seat there?"

"Well, I didn't, no."

"Then why didn't you?"

He played dumb, sending a jelly legs jinx her way. "What?"

"Go, Petrov."

He tossed his wand in surrender, flopping down onto the damp grass with a groan. "It was very far."

"You're a wizard, you dumb fuck."

He laughed, the sound wild and free, so unlike the forced laugh he'd been giving to Wilhelm that he barely recognised the sound as his own. "Papa needed my assistance with our affairs. You see, I'm a bastard, but I'm also the sole male heir of my father's bloodline." He squinted up at her against the sunlight. "Well, that and he wasn't very willing to pack me off to some remote corner of Russia to study with blood traitors."

"That's actually understandable."

"So glad you approve."

She hovered above him like a very large bee in his sightline for a moment before collapsing onto the ground next to him, waiting a few moments before speaking again. "Where did you go, then?"

He cracked open an eye which had drifted shut in the golden warmth of the sun. "Nowhere."

"Really? But you're - I mean you're - you're tolerable. Your skills are strangely up to par for someone who's illiterate."

"I'm not, Papa taught me."

She laughed. "You still call him Papa, do you?"

He shrugged the best he could while lying on dirt. "So?"

"It's cute, is all."

He fell silent, unsure how to respond to such a statement - she was still his employer's daughter, after all - while she propped herself up onto her elbows to survey the landscape, oblivious to the war raging in his mind. He sat up, following her lead, rising to his feet to fetch his carelessly discarded wand after a minute or so, noting the mud splattered across it with dismay. She remained on the ground, and he stood by her, trying to scan the landscape with the same apparent care as her, trying to see what she saw when she looked upon these fields, this sky, this earth. It wasn't dissimilar to the view he saw from his bedroom window back home - hills rising in the distance, thickets of pine trees at random intervals, fat, fluffy clouds which looked like a painter's wet dream floating across the azure sky. He glanced at her from time to time, attempting to gauge her mood, but her face remained as unreadable as ever, a mask as impenetrable as the wards surrounding their settlement.

She really was lovely, he realised with a pang. Deep, owlish dark circles ringing her almond eyes, a lost, faraway look in those decadent, chocolate brown pools, bony cheekbones accentuating her gaunt face, strands of silky, thigh length black hair escaping her braid, pooled on the dewy grass, milky pale skin rendered almost translucent by the sun.

He averted his gaze, choosing instead to stare down upon his battered leather boots, caked with the mud of the marshes and scorched slightly on the side. The bookshop. The blaze. The rats, running screeching out of the building, their horrible little pink tails on fire.

The curses. The screams. The sound of people's feet on the cobblestones, pattering in much the same way as those wretched rats.

“It’s rather pretty, isn’t it?” She murmured after a few beats of silence.

He looked at her askance, and she gestured vaguely at the field. “This place. I didn’t think anything could compare to the beauty of home, but this…” She paused, hunting for the right words to voice her thoughts. “It’s nice. Just different. Peaceful." She finished lamely, but he understood. He did.

Looking out at the mist shrouded meadow, wispy white clouds hanging low over the strangely bright green grass, he had to admit that there was a sort of wild beauty to it, a fierce, untamable sort of beauty not dissimilar to the girl sitting a mere few paces away from him. Shallow pools of murky water shimmered in the intense sunlight, and all was quiet, save for the incessant chirping of grasshoppers and the low, throaty calls of frogs hoping to land a partner before the season’s end. The occasional low hoot of some owl or the other mingled with the high, cheery chirps of another bird, though Petrov would be hard pressed to put a name to either of them. Papa would have known, he thought wistfully, a wave of homesickness washing over him like high tide over a flimsy fishing boat. His father always had liked his birds, even if the winged ones held his interest less than the scantily clad. 

Clearing his throat, he agreed. "I think so too."

Looking up, she gave him a horribly sad smile, lips twisted in a manner generally used to express happiness, yet they showed anything but. 

A new, silky voice joined in. "You know, Petrov, that's strange, because I don't recall paying you to think."

He swore, spinning on his heel to face the intruders, Yelena launching to her feet in a split second. 

Behind them was Wilhelm, the traitor.

And behind him was -

Igor Karkaroff.

"Father," She began, voice shaking. "Don't blame him, I asked him to -"

"Yelena, darling." He purred, eyes never leaving Petrov's face. "Your tutor is waiting for you in your tent. Don't keep him waiting.'

She nodded and scurried away, all bravado of the half hour past dried up in a split second, fearfully glancing back over her shoulder as Wilhelm to escorted her to the tent, leaving Petrov alone with his very pissed off boss, if the glint in his eye was anything to go by.

"Petrov, sweetheart, do me a favour." He stepped forward, and his mouth went dry, hands trembling ever so slightly as Karkaroff towered over him. "Stay the fuck away from my daughter, you hear me?"

He nodded desperately. He looked him over, slightly appeased. "Good. And if you don't...."

He leaned forward to murmur in his ear.

Petrov dropped his wand.

He whispered the unspeakable.

Chapter Text

As the writhing snake reared its head at the sudden assault of brightness even in the dimly lit room, soft white cotton gliding over the black monstrosity, a preternatural hush falling over the room, she didn't recoil. Shockingly enough, her first instinct wasn't to look away, or jump up and screech, or hit him over the head with the sandwich platter, though each of these were, admittedly, a close second. Instead, she leaned closer, snake slithering in and out of the grinning skull's eye sockets, tiny, hateful red eyes glimmering over bared fangs, skin red and inflamed where the Mark was trying to latch onto his arm, the tiniest tendrils of darkness pulsing in time with his heartbeat along the tattoo's edges.

Nausea swelled up in her throat, only instead of bits of fish and apples bobbing about on the bile it was pieces of her stupid, broken heart, a rising tide of terror threatening to spew out her mouth, eyes darting from the horrid little artwork to his fervent charcoal eyes in quick succession. 

Betrayal, she learned, had an odd taste.

"I'm not marrying my daughter off to a murderer!"

Murderer.

M

 U 

  R

   D

    E

     R

      E

       R

She could see the word, clear as day, almost as if it were splashed across his forehead in grotesquely bright red paint, only it wasn't paint, was it? Oh no, it was blood, it was the blood of all the innocent people unfortunate enough to be deemed unworthy of the privilege of their own life by some raging fanatic, by some mysterious, self appointed Lord who spilt blood with the ease of emptying a glass of water into the kitchen sink, who wrought destruction wherever he deigned to set foot, and for what?

"Isn't it beautiful?"

She flicked her gaze to him, dumbstruck, and more than his absurd words it was the softness, the almost reverence in his hushed voice that scared her the most, burrowing into her bones with all the efficiency of one of the curses these so called Death Eaters liked to fling at children, betrayal a leaden blanket settling on top of her, and all she could croak out was -

"Why?"

He continued, heedless of her spiralling panic. "I'm the youngest member to ever be initiated, did you know that? Trixie told me." He added absently, pride lacing his statement, words so nonchalant that she could almost forget how truly terrible they were, that she almost wanted to congratulate him and kiss him senseless for what he'd managed to do, except the only thing he'd actually managed to accomplish was damning himself.

"Why, Regulus?"

He finally looked up, tearing his strangely rapturous gaze from the abomination on his arm, and met her eyes, surprised, almost as if he'd entirely forgotten about her presence. She didn't know what was showing on her face, but it mustn't have been anything good, for a faint crease formed between his brows, eyes inspecting her closely like this was the first time he'd realised that her reaction might not be all too pleasant. "What?"

She tried her best to keep her voice from cracking, and failed. "Why would you do this? Why the fuck would you do this?"

He shook his head, nonplussed, like he had no idea what the problem was, like he couldn't see anything wrong with this, not a single thing - "What's the matter with you?"

"With me? What's the matter with you?" She laughed, a tad bit hysterically, even though there was absolutely nothing funny about the situation. "I mean, really, Reg, if this is some pathetic attempt at a joke -"

"Don't call it a joke." He snapped, eyes flashing dangerously in the flickering firelight, and she fell silent, shock rendering her temporarily speechless. "It's not a joke, Pandora. It's an honour." He laughed, low and bitter, and Pandora was reminded rather violently of her own mother, laughing in much the same way not so long ago at the dining table. "The fuck's your problem? Why can't you just be happy for me?"

She gaped at him. "Happy for you? Happy for you? Why the fuck would I be happy for you, Regulus?"

He stared at her like he didn't know who she was, and she found that supremely unfair, because she wasn't the one who'd gone and signed up for a murder cult overnight, she wasn't the one who was gloating over admittance into a band of terrorists - "You're not?" He asked after a few seconds of deafening silence, words strangely quiet. Flat.

She stared at him, and in that moment she didn't know which was worse, the fact that he'd apparently thought she'd be ecstatic at the news or that he seemed genuinely hurt by her reaction. "No, Reg." What the hell did he have to be hurt for? She shook her head, trying to shake off the numbness that seemed to have lodged there, a faint, distant buzzing in her ears.

A moment passed.

Two.

Rain hammered on the windowpanes with an urgency that rivalled her pounding heart, sandwiches abandoned on the tray and teacups dumped to the side, forgotten.

"Why not?"

She'd never felt wearier than she did in that instant. "Don't."

He shook his head, mouth twisting downwards. "No. Tell me."

She smiled humourlessly. "Why do you care? What's done is done."

He inspected her closely, that horrendous thing still on display, fingers interlaced, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Tell me what's wrong -" He began sincerely. "- and I'll fix it."

"Fix it?" She gave a hollow laugh. "There is no fixing it, Reg. You've made your choice, clearly."

He looked at her, seemingly baffled, and she wanted to grab her hair by the roots and scream, because how could anyone be so stupid? How could he be so stupid?

"It's the right choice, Dora." He spoke, in a patronising tone not dissimilar to the one employed by her parents during their (rare) interactions with each other. "We're finally on the right side of history, the winning side -"

"We?" She spat. "There is no we. This is all you."

He  took a deep breath and continued in a markedly level tone, like she was the one being ridiculous, like discussing the matter in a manner more suited to grumbling about the weather would suddenly make it palatable, like there was some reasonable justification for the atrocities he was so proud of abetting. "The Dark Lord will lead us into a new age, a better future -"

"A future built on blood is not better, Regulus."

The bastard had the audacity to roll his eyes. "Don't overreact, Dora."

She snapped. "Don't you fucking tell me not to overreact! How could you?" She hissed. "How could you do that to Dorcas? To Maeve? To Benjy? Do you seriously believe they're second rate citizens who deserve to die simply because of the colour of their blood? You -"

"That fucking bitch has it coming." He hissed back, venom dripping from each syllable, a hateful glint in his eye that she couldn't remember ever seeing before. "You're defending her? You? After all she said -"

"I hate her too, Reg!" She screamed, the sudden increase in volume jarring in the stuffy room. "I hate her! I don't know how anyone could do what she did, but she sure as fuck doesn't deserve to die for it, and you know that!"

"You know why she did it?" He got up from the sofa, letting the sleeve fall to cover the Mark, rage simmering low beneath the surface. "You know why? I'll tell you why." He dropped his voice to an acidic murmur, and she shivered in spite of herself. "She did it because despite all their grand claims of peace and fucking equality, there is nothing in this world or the next they'd like better than to see us crushed under their feet like ants, for all they've ever wanted is to be superior to the very same people they're fit to grovel to, and that's about the end of it." He paused to take a ragged breath. "So we can either sit back and watch them destroy everything our families worked damn hard to build, or we can fight them and win." He shook his head, disgusted. "I don't know about you, but I'm no fucking coward."

And really, what could she say to that? How could she say anything when she could still see that ardent gleam in his eyes, the resolute set of his mouth, the belief, the faith etched across his features, his faith in the madman who'd so poisoned her best friend, and in spite of all his grand claims that magical blood, that Magic herself meant more to the Dark Lord than his own life, anyone with a jot of sense knew it to be the other way round, and yet still they believed him, flocking to him like stupid little sheep, bleating his preachings and his propaganda like good little minions, and it made her sick.

He made her sick.

"Get out."

He sighed. "Dora -"

"Get out!"

He raised his hands in mock surrender, supercilious expression on his stupid mug, and there was nothing she wanted more than to punch that smug look right off his face. Just before he reached the fireplace, he turned back, hands fisting the floo powder out of the flowerpot on the mantel."I really don't know what you're acting so fucking pricey for, Pandora. Don't try to pretend you had no fucking clue what was going on."

"I didn't."

"Oh, really?" A harsh smile twisted his features, and she couldn't help but stare at him, bewildered, for she'd never seen him like this before, not once. "What exactly did you think I was going to do? Open a few mudblood charities? Marry a muggle? Start wearing red and gold to Quidditch matches?"

"I didn't expect you to gloat over genocide, Regulus."

He tsked impatiently, and she cut him off as he waved his hand dismissively, opening his mouth to doubtless parrot more nonsense. "I certainly never expected you to believe in such bullshit, but I guess I was wrong." She paused, glaring at him with the righteous anger of someone who's just had the carpet swept out from beneath her, massive lump in her throat. "It's nice to know Dorcas was right about one of us, after all."

For a moment, his arrogant mask slipped, and she could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the stung, ridiculously hurt look on his face, but it wiped clean before she could feel even a drop of regret. When he spoke, his voice was a thousand times colder than his usual soft, gentle tone. "Speak for your own fucking self. Perhaps I'm a horrible person, but at least I don't try and pretend to be someone I'm not, because unlike you, I'm not a fucking hypocrite, Pandora."

She laughed, the jagged edges of the sound intended to slice right through his stupid skin and that stupid Mark. "Oh, I'm a hypocrite now, am I?"

"Get off your high horse before it throws you off."

She shook her head, stepping closer, and he shifted, floo powder forgotten. "And how am I a hypocrite, exactly?"

He matched her, moving closer till they stood almost toe to toe. "Not once in your privileged, self centred life have you ever, and I mean ever, bothered to oppose your own father's massively extreme policies. You've never cared about mudbloods or half breeds, not enough to help out your so called friends when they needed it, not enough to go against your wonderful family when they forbade you from talking to that shithead - Xenophilius, was it?" He smiled, victorious, as she looked away, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. "You went along with everything we said, everything we did, you agreed each time I spoke about assisting Father in his politics after school, and you expect me to believe you never saw this coming?" He shook his head. "You're not stupid, Dora. You knew this was going to happen, and you wilfully ignored it, because Merlin forbid Pandora Rosier actually has to take a stand once in her life, am I right?"

She looked at him, and she'd never hated anyone more in her life. "Politics," She began, voice shaking slightly. "Politics, and torturing people for fun, are vastly different things, you fucker."

Exasperation flashed across his features. "No one's torturing anyone."

"Look me in the eyes and tell me you believe that." 

He looked at her, bored, but she could see the slightest waver in his expression, the first traces of doubt seeping onto his face, and as the moments passed and he still didn't say anything, she nodded, satisfied. "That's what I fucking thought."

She stepped back, turning away, making to leave the room. "Get out."

"Wait." An almost plea, and so different from his earlier composed, icy hate that she paused against her will, shoulder squaring, foolish hope fluttering in her heart.

"Would you have done this if I'd told you I was becoming a politician?"

It was such an absurd query that she almost laughed, spinning around to face him yet again. "I suppose you'll never find out, will you, Black?"

"And just what -" He spoke quietly. "- is the difference between speaking things with intent and actually doing them?" She hesitated, and he ploughed on, interpreting her silence as permission. "You do realise that if I'd gone the official route, I'd have been campaigning for the exact same policies you so despise?" He raised an eyebrow at her continued silence. "So just what makes you so much better than me? Is the apparent mistreatment of mudbloods easier to stomach if you aren't directly involved? Is that it?"

She wasn't doing this. "Just fucking leave, Reg. And don't come back."

And if her mother's vindicated expression when she informed her (quite woodenly) that she'd be amenable to having tea with Fawley after all made her want to run right out into the rain, it was nobody's business.

If she went back to the library later to pick up that dratted muggle book, it was really nobody's business. 

And if she cried for the better part of an hour that night, it was nobody's business but her own, either.

Chapter Text

One Week Later

As he stepped out the massive stone hearth onto the polished marble, he was faced with the fairly bizarre sight of his favourite cousin rocking back and forth on one of the innumerable ivory velvet settees scattered throughout the Manor, cradling her stomach while she whispered what looked like her deepest, darkest secrets to the mass of cells in her belly, if the inordinately grave expression on her face was anything to go by. Brushing ash off his robes, he made his way towards his oblivious sister through a frankly unnecessary amount of furniture for the lone two occupants of the house, though he supposed the population would go up to three soon enough.

She glanced up in surprise as he flopped onto the winged armchair opposite, unfocused blue eyes staring right through him before latching onto his face. "Oh, Regulus! When did you get here?" She shook her head, gathering her robes around herself as she straightened, running a hand through her tousled hair. He smiled. "Just a moment ago, don't worry." He motioned towards her stomach. "How's little Malfoy doing?"

The merest mention of her unborn child made her smile dreamily, happiness sweeping across her face like a bird's shadow, hands gently caressing the insubstantial bulge. "Well, I hope. If they have any complaints about their lodgings, they certainly haven't mentioned it to me." She gazed down at her midriff with an absurdly fond expression, and he was gripped with sudden, bittersweet longing, the ridiculous yearning to be loved so purely, so unconditionally simply for existing, a pathetic, pitiful question rising to the forefront of his mind, was Mother like that, too?

He shook his head to clear it, tossing one leg over the arm and sprawling on the chair in a manner that would have made Uncle Alphie proud. "I'm sure they don't. They have the best mother they could wish for, after all."

She looked at him, a bit surprised. "Isn't that sweet?" She shook her head, smiling softly. "Thanks, Reggie."

"I really do mean it, you know." He insisted, the firmness in his voice taking them both by surprise, Cissa blinking at him across the coffee table, nonplussed.

"I believed you the first time." She murmured, eyeing him closely. "Are you quite sure you're feeling all right?"

He nodded, gazing intently at her slightly concerned face, icy blonde hair a bit disheveled from where she'd been bent over her stomach, and was seized with the urgent, desperate desire to make her believe him, to make her understand, because he knew she'd be a good mother, so good, the best, good enough to rival the likes of that horrible Potter woman Sirius the traitor had been so eager to run off to what seemed like centuries ago, but he couldn't, he just couldn't find the words, could never find the words -

Cissa sneaking into his room to bring him his favourite lemon ice lolly whenever his father would send him to his room in a rage, particularly during those dark days of attempted literacy, the age old punishment a consequence of sticking his tongue out at his unfortunate tutors one too many times.

Cissa waving wildly out the window at him every term for the five years she went to Hogwarts and he didn't, left behind on the platform in a sulk, scowling darkly at the train taking away his beloved cousin. Be it summer or winter, easter or halloween, beginning or end, she'd wave. She always waved. And when the positions finally reversed and it was her on the platform, dropping them off in lieu of their ever busy parents, still she waved, walking alongside the train as it gathered speed to leave the platform, smiling all the way.

Cissa teaching him and Sirius the traitor how to tie their laces, both the magical and the cumbersome way.

Cissa dragging him around with all her friends, making sure he sat next to her at whatever stuffy dinner or gala they'd been forced to attend, talking to him when even Sirius the traitor wouldn't, sitting with him in corners when he didn't feel like being shuffled from one guest to another or stumbling through the same small talk with minor variations being circulated throughout the room.

Cissa suffering through all his absurd, long winded adventures featuring the wooden animals Uncle Alphie helped him carve, adding scandalous elements here and there to make him gasp in delight. 

To his horror, he could feel tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

"Whatever's the matter?" She asked, befuddled, and all he could do was give her a wobbly sort of smile. "Nothing. You'd be a really good mother, is all."

Promptly, she narrowed her eyes. "What do you want?"

"What?" He yelped. "Nothing! Nothing. Can't I be nice without having an ulterior motive?"

"You can." She agreed slowly, still examining him a bit too closely for comfort. "It just doesn't happen all that often."

He gaped at her, affronted. "That's - that's patently false! Blatantly untrue! You -"

"Oh, patently false, is it? What about that time you gushed on and on about my hair simply to beg me for a hair regrowth potion ten minutes later? Or when you wrote me that letter praising our wedding to high heaven just to ask me to send you five bottles of the very same wine in the postscript? Five bottles? What did you even need five whole bottles for?"

"There was a party, we'd just won the Cup, obviously we'd want to celebrate - and that stupid potion wasn't even for me, it was for Barty!"

She arched an eyebrow. "Be that as it may. What is it that has caught your fancy now?"

"Nothing, I swear. So -" He shifted, clearing his throat, skilfully changing the topic with over a decade's worth of experience in avoiding emotional landmines at family gatherings. "- what're you hoping for? Girl or boy?"

Evident skepticism still marred her features, but she graciously let it go in favour of discussing her favourite subject.

"I think..." She hesitated. "I'd like a girl - all mothers would, I suspect. But -" She paused, shaking her head wryly. "I hope it's a boy." 

He stared at her, bewildered. "You want a girl, but you're hoping for a boy?"

"I'd love to have a girl." She confessed quietly. "Really, I would. I want to have a girl. I'd dress her in these gorgeous floral baby onesies I saw in Witch Weekly - you know that Albanian designer with the thick black beard? His spring collection is to die for - he just did this thing where he designs matching clothes for mother and daughter, and when I tell you they're the most beautiful clothes I've ever seen -" She broke off, sighing almost reverentially. "The skirts, Regulus. The skirts."

He didn't bother responding, waiting for her to pick back up her thread of thought, and after a moment, she did. "If I had a girl..." She fell quiet, fiddling with her sleeves. "If I had a girl, I'd raise her the way I wish someone had raised me." She looked back up, almost nervously. "I'd do right by her. I really, really would." 

A delicate, pregnant (hah!) pause followed the statement, Cissa meeting his gaze head on, as if daring him to say something to the contrary, but what would he say? What could he say when he knew with absolute, unshakeable certainty that she'd do right by the baby, girl or not, even if it meant standing on her head or, heavens forbid, giving away her prized demiguise fur coat? 

"I know you would." He said simply. "Believe me, Cissa, I know." 

Her lips twisted, a tired sort of smile flashing across her weary face before being replaced by her customary composure. Swinging his other leg over the armrest as well, he slouched fully into the role of mannerless degenerate. "What I don't know -" He began, lazily dangling an arm over the cool leather back of the armchair. "- is why you're hoping for a boy in the first place when it's clear you want a girl."

She drummed her fingers on the velvet, heaving a sigh so heartfelt that his own lungs twinged in sympathy, but all she said was, "Luce wants a son."

He tilted his head, confused. "So?"

"So use your brains, Regulus." She hissed, the angry glint in her eyes taking him completely by surprise. "I know you have some, even if moments like these make that hard to believe."

Frowning, he continued to stare at her, mouth opening and closing multiple times before settling on, "Is Lucius giving you a hard time? Because Trixie and I can always -"

She groaned in exasperation. "Merlin, Reg, not you, too! What vendetta do you people have against him? He would never -"

He backtracked hastily. "Of course he wouldn't! This is just, you know, insurance!"

A silky voice entered the fray. "Insurance against what, exactly?"

Merlin's saggy tits.

"Lucius!" Cissa beamed. "I thought you'd be politicking at the Ministry till three, at the very least."

The intruder glanced between the two of them for a long moment before clearly deciding that further probing was not worth the hassle. "So did I, but Moody was getting on my nerves with all his gruff little mumblings of constant vigilance, and I legged it out of there lest I throw a Crucio or two at the fucker. Honestly, it's like the man learnt three words in preschool, the third one being fuck." He crossed over to his cousin's side, dropping onto the settee with a thump. "You'd think someone who uses that term as much as he does would get around quite a bit, but rumour around the department has it, he's still a virgin." He clucked his tongue in mock dismay. "Shame, really. One good lay and all his bloody vigilance would go right out the window." He gazed into the middle distance before refocusing on the boy seated across from him. "Anyway, how could I pass up a meeting with my favourite cousin-in-law?" He smiled benevolently at his visitor, and Regulus resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the condescending display of affection. "Good to see you too, Lucius."

"Don't believe a word he says, Reg." She chimed in good naturedly from where she was now nestled into his side. "I seem to recall him saying the same thing to Sienna last week."

"Sienna?" He made a face. "Who's that?"

"Sienna de' Medici - she's the daughter of one of Mother's cousins - you know, the one who ran away with that Italian."

He squinted, perplexed. "Wasn't that cousin disowned?"

"Initially, yes." She agreed. "But they started missing her and then they found out that the Italian was from one of the most influential Pureblood families in Italy - forgiveness was but a downhill path from there."

He snorted. "I bet it was. Which rock did she crawl out from under, anyway?"

"Reggie!" She chided. "Be nice. She's a very sweet girl - wanted to find out more about her heritage on her mother's side of the family - and I was only happy to help. Besides -" Her voice took on a more suggestive tone. "She's only seventeen, and extremely pretty, in that Italian sort of way." Her meaning could not have been more clear if she'd waggled her eyebrows and made obnoxious kissy noises like some eight year old who'd just discovered the existence of the opposite sex for the first time. 

"Cissa!" He groaned. "She's my cousin, for fucks' sake." 

She was undeterred, waving her hand dismissively. "Honestly, Reg, she's your third cousin, and after all this time, who cares? I bet she's once or twice removed, as well."

He shook his head, embarrassed . "I don't care, it's still disgusting."

"Oh, leave him be, Cissy." Lucius interjected from where he'd been watching the scene with mild amusement. "Everyone knows he can't keep his eyes off that Rosier girl, anyway."

He stiffened.

Happy for you? Why the fuck would I be happy for you, Regulus?

She laughed. "Oh, yes, Dora, how could I forget?" She turned back to him. "You know, if you're that picky, she's related to you too, in some very distant sort of way - I can never wrap my head around all these twisted family trees." She paused, considering. "She might be your fourth cousin, a few times removed, if I'm not mistaken, though I very well could be."

She gave him an expectant sort of smile, probably waiting for him to blush and look away and mumble it's not like that unconvincingly enough to make her laugh and smile indulgently at the supposed folly of youth (you'd think she was thrice his age instead of a mere five years older, the way she carried on) but all he could do was sit there, Dora's voice echoing through his ears, you've made your choice, clearly.

We? There is no we. This is all you.

Just fucking leave, Reg. And don't come back.

Don't.

Come.

Back.

"Reg?" He darted his gaze back up to his cousin, the shit eating grin still pasted on her face, though its corners had wavered slightly, skin tight around her eyes, brows drawn together ever so slightly, head tilted inquisitively, and instantly regretted making her worry. "Yes, yes, very funny. You've had your fun." He forced a similar grin onto his face, slithering on the armchair till he was positioned the socially accepted way again, legs on the floor and arms by his side, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he clapped his hands with, in hindsight, rather excessive enthusiasm. "So! You asked me to visit, and here I am. What's wrong?"

Predictably, she pouted in mock distress. "Do you really believe I need an excuse to meet my baby cousin?"

"Yes." He replied mercilessly. "Yes, I do. Come on, spit it out."

Shockingly, the response to this rude statement came not from his drama loving cousin, but from her husband, a man who'd been sitting by her side with all the liveliness of a marble statue, watchful gaze unobtrusive enough to go almost entirely unnoticed. "I heard the news, Regulus." His eyes flicked down to his covered arm. "Congratulations are in order, I believe." He smiled.

Why the fuck would you do this? 

How could you?

He thanked him mechanically, accepting his oily praise with whatever humility he could muster, smiling at Cissa's proud, heartfelt congratulations, though he couldn't help but notice the way her voice shook slightly as she expressed her apparent joy, the way there was a light in her eyes that didn't quite gel with what was coming out of her mouth, and when he felt like he couldn't hear another word of how lucky he'd been without exploding, he clapped his hands again, feeling a bit like a teacher trying to grab the attention of his unruly pupils. "I thank you, I do. I could never have done any of this without you, and for that, I thank you. But -" He took a deep breath. "If we could all just come to the point? I promised Father I'd practise my curses with him before the day's end." He made a show of glancing at the grand alabaster clock in the corner of the room, and although the sun shining high in the sky was very clearly visible in the window behind him, they accepted his paltry excuse with the grace that had been inculcated in them ever since they could walk, though to his chagrin, Cissa did look a bit hurt.

She inhaled, glancing at Lucius for moral support. "Should I do it, or will you?"

At his answering gesture, she looked down at her lap, evidently mustering up the courage to say whatever it was that had them in such a tizzy, and he cocked his head, mightily curious.

"Regulus -" She broke off, hesitating before locking eyes with him across the magazine strewn table. "Would you do us the honour of being our child's godfather?"

Chapter Text

The sharp ridges of the wrought iron garden chair's latticework dug into her back, forcing her to sit bolt upright, hands folded demurely in her lap, rigid posture more commonly observed in -

No. She wouldn't do that murderer the honour of thinking about him, not now, not ever, not when she'd come here to forget him in the first place. He didn't deserve this bittersweet remembrance, not after what he did, what he said. 

Nostalgia curdled in her belly, leaving a funny, closed up feeling in her throat, and she did her best to swallow, to ignore the sharp twinge in her heart, a twinge which would broaden into massive, infinite heartache given the slightest chance, leaving her to claw her way up the edges of the chasm with broken, bleeding, desperate fingers, only to slide back down to the bottom of the unfathomably deep pit, lost in that endless cycle of why?

Why, why, why?

She did her best to focus on the family seated in front of her, even if that was a special kind of torture in and of itself.

"- Albert is a very talented equestrian, aren't you, darling? Came second in that cultural meet the Ministry organised before this horrible war, and then only because I'm sure that Prewett boy cheated, I mean, the things you hear about those two! Miryam was just telling me -"

As the stupidly austere chair's seat dug into her tailbone (honestly, would it kill the Fawleys to entertain their guests someplace which was actually furnished with cushions?), she found herself wishing rather uncharitably that one of those horses had simply run the darling Albert over. The boy in question, as expected, was about as insufferable as she remembered, leering at her with too-white teeth while he flexed his puny muscles with an enthusiasm which made it very clear that he expected her to blush, or fan herself, or maybe swoon once or twice for good measure, and if she was forced to sit in this insufferable heat any longer, she might just have to fulfil his wish.

Hot, white sunlight beat down from above, causing the top of her head to attain a temperature extreme enough to fry eggs on despite the shade cast by the vine strangled pergola constructed by some overambitious architect over the open space. Warm summer breeze swept through the pavilion, lazily displacing strands of her blonde hair from their carefully arranged hairdo (half up, half down on Nora's advice), leaving them to whip gently about her face in pale imitation of jellyfish tentacles. 

She inhaled a lungful of pollen laden air, the illicit letter in her too tight corset burning a hole in her chest, the corners of the smartly creased envelope poking into the spaces between her poor, squashed ribs, its contents a secret warming her heart which was stone cold in the face of Albert's blustering. From their perches amongst the exotic flowers blooming along the clinging plants steadily engulfing the elaborate wooden structures, birds chirped with far too much cheer for the slow motion train wreck occurring right in front of her eyes.

Her father eyed their hosts with poorly concealed distaste, the Fawley matriarch blathering on about her son's many alleged assets while the senior Mr. Fawley kept dropping names like he hoped to impress the fact of his family's prestige upon his poor, unsuspecting guests, ostensibly forgetting that he was currently entertaining members of the second wealthiest family in all of Wizarding Britain, no matter how far removed their branch might be. Her own mother, on the contrary, was hanging onto their every word as if they happened to be messengers of Merlin himself, dabbing at her glistening forehead with an embroidered handkerchief while she shot the occasional triumphant look at her husband and daughter like they were supposed to be taken in by their frankly unimpressive grandstanding.

"- as a matter of fact, we're the proud owners of the two finest Abraxans in all of England - breeding pure enough to put even those Blacks to shame, am I right, Maurice? - and Albert here is actually the one who takes care of them, and I say, darling, you don't need to bother about with menial tasks like that, we'll just employ one of those fancy horse trainers - you know, the ones who teach the pegasi to fly through rings of fire and some such - but do you know what my sweet boy said? He said, Mother, what kind of a rider would I be if I leave my beloved horses to suffer at the hands of those philistines? I want to take care of them myself, with my own two hands, make sure no one's mistreating my babies, and when I tell you my poor heart absolutely melted -"

Your bloody heart isn't the only thing that's melting, lady. Sweat trickled down her temples, down the gap between her breasts, pooling in the hollows beneath her eyes and the one in her neck, dampening her already mussed up hair. Next to her, her father shifted, visibly bored, while her mother cooed at the ridiculous story with all the heartfelt empathy of a small child seeing a kitten for the first time.

She closed her eyes, making a valiant effort to transport herself back to the time and place in which she received her precious letter, the phantom whoosh of wings sweeping through the room echoing in her ears, fumbling fingers impatiently detaching the creamy white letter from the leg of a surprisingly large, markedly foreign black owl while it hopped about her desk, much to Mr. Puddles' delight (though that fat cat couldn't catch a wounded, flightless bird if his life depended on it). Dear Miss Rosier -

A delighted laugh jolted her out of her reverie, Mrs. Fawley looking inordinately pleased with herself while the gathering, sans Dora and her father, laughed themselves silly. "Oh, how lovely!" Her mother beamed. "Actually, this rather reminds me of the time Felix - that's our youngest - chanced upon this rabbit in the woods surrounding our French estate -"

She shut her eyes once again, her mother's voice fading into the background as she refocused on the contents of her letter. 

Dear Miss Rosier,

I am pleased to inform you that I have glanced through your application for the position and have found it most satisfactory (and rather overqualified) for the position, though not very many apply for the post in the first place. Admittedly, it was your personal statement which moved me the most, for I feel you have a gift rarely witnessed -

A new voice cut into the never ending conversation. "Alright, alright, there's enough of that." Slowly, her eyes opened to find the mildly intimidating Mr. Fawley's gaze fixed on her, one massive, calloused hand stroking his grizzled chin. The overall impression was rather of a bear attempting to affect human mannerisms to better fool its prey. "Let the girl speak, for Salazar's sake."

She smiled uncomfortably, unable to tear her eyes away from his glinting, foxy gaze, spidery words dashed carelessly across embossed paper slipping from her mind, as elusive as the letter writer himself. Mrs. Fawley clapped, the sound strangely loud and jarring despite the wide expanse surrounding them on all sides. "Dora, I do hope you haven't felt like we're neglecting you, dear."

She resisted the overwhelming impulse to make a face at the overly familiar nickname. "Of course not, Mrs. Fawley."

"Oh, call me Julianna, darling. We're to be family soon enough, after all."

Her father hastily disguised his snort with an explosive cough.

The older woman smiled, oblivious to her discomfort, and spoke again. "So, what do you like to do for fun?"

Her own smile wavered slightly, stranded in the land of uncertainty, for she knew with gloomy certainty that if the boringly, almost depressingly normal Mrs. Fawley (oh, sorry, Julianna) caught wind of her true hobbies, she'd run screaming in the opposite direction, her beloved Albert in tow. So she cleared her throat, and replied in as bland a tone she could muster. "Er, I love to read."

Mrs. Fawley nodded, just as if she'd expected nothing more, and turned back to her son, attention seemingly unable to stray from the object of her affections for even a second. "Albert has never been much for such scholarly pursuits, but we never minded, for he always scored top marks without lifting a finger, isn't that right, Maurice?" At her husband's affirming hum, she returned to her unfortunate prey. "Allie obtained ten OWLs himself, and passed with an Outstanding in three of those. It goes without saying that he managed an Exceeds Expectations in each of the others, of course." 

"Of course." Her father repeated drily.

It was Mr. Fawley's turn to speak, steady stare flicking between all three members of her family in turn. "Come now, Julianna. I'm sure that pales in front of our little bookworm's achievements." 

To her amusement, she felt her mother stiffen, though her father appeared as unbothered as ever. "In a manner of speaking, Maurice." He said lazily. "In a manner of speaking."

Personally, she'd never held much stock in working herself into a nervous breakdown for something as inconsequential as an exam. What was the point? The only purpose it served was to pass her into the next year, and she'd managed that quite nicely, despite mucking around all year and cramming a mere week before the test. Evan had been much of the same mind, and together they'd watched in concerned bemusement as Barty and -

Never mind. 

Julianna latched onto this tidbit with all the bloodthirsty enthusiasm of a starved Thestral. "Oh yes, you must have given your OWLs recently, that's right. How many did you pass, my dear?"

She could practically hear her mother begging her to lie, to just embellish the truth a little bit, as she generally put it, but this might just be the most fun she'd have throughout this godforsaken tea party. "Six." She replied serenely. 

Her mother mumbled something under her breath. A curse or a prayer, it was hard to tell, though both were equally likely.

Her smile faltered. "Six? That's -" She glanced at her husband for support, inhaling sharply before continuing with great effort. "- lovely, sweetheart, absolutely lovely. There's absolutely no shame in focusing on your strengths, in fact, that's what I advised Allie to do initially as well - Miryam's daughter only passed six OWLs herself, but managed an O in each of those, I mean -"

"Actually," She cut in. "I scored an Acceptable in them all."

Her smile vanished, the façade of genial, aspiring mother in law dropped in seconds. "... All?"

"Don't be modest, Dora." Her father interjected. "You did get an O as well, remember?"

She pretended to think. "Well, yes, now that you mention it, I did."

Mrs. Fawley grasped at this information like a drowning man at a lifeline. "Oh, you did, that's wonderful, darling. Which subject was it?"

"Divination." She responded impassively.

Wind whistled around their ears, and her father heaved a sigh.

Her brows flew up to meld with her hairline. "Well." Disquiet flashed across her face. "W-we didn't know Seeing ran in your family."

"It doesn't." Her mother reassured them desperately. "The score was a fluke, I'm sure."

Mr. Fawley frowned. "It's very unlike the authorities to give a top score to an undeserving student."

"Oh, not really." She said breezily. "Anything is possible as long as you have the right man for an examiner and the daring to go along with it."

Her mother's face turned a striking shade of puce.

They didn't stay too long after that.

Chapter Text

Despite the cool air being expelled from the shaking, rattling contraption attached to the wall (purportedly called an air conditioner, which Sirius privately thought was a brilliant name, very on point - if there was one thing he'd learnt about muggles, it was that they didn't like to beat around the bush), the muggy outside heat still invaded the old building through broken shutters and lopsided hinges, wrapping around the office’s inhabitants like a blanket around a feverish child. No matter what he did or how close he tried to sit to the air-con, his shirt stuck to his back, skin oddly cool and clammy it that way in got after sweating buckets, his insides on fire and his feet likened to melting lumps of candle wax in his leather boots. The casual observer would take one look at the situation and wonder, well, Sirius, you’re a wizard, for fucks’ sake, just cast a cooling charm, but the world liked to make him suffer, didn’t it? The lovely, infamously laid back Alsatian – oops, sorry, Alastor – Moody had forbidden the use of magic in the building, on pain of punishments so creatively explicit that even Sirius hesitated to repeat aloud for fear of being arrested and thrown into some badly reinforced cell for public indecency. All in all, where did that leave him? Melting in a puddle on the dingy cement of an establishment so inherently muggle that his father would have an aneurysm if he saw his firstborn, disowned or not, sprawled on its floor.

The reason for his undignified state was a new (and doubtless utterly useless) safety measure (something about preventing the tracking of magical signatures) devised by some scheming mind all the way up in the topmost, lofty branches of the Order who liked to make unfortunate grunts like him suffer as much as remotely possible. It was bad enough that he was stuck sorting paperwork with Emmeline Vance, of all people, that sweating gallons while doing it just elevated the experience to a whole other level of torture.

It wasn't that Emmeline was bad company, per se - to this day he wondered how a girl who was the Hufflepuff ideal ended up in Slytherin, of all places - but with her disarmingly sweet manner and easily intimate chatter, she was about the last person on this planet he wanted to spend a Sunday afternoon wallowing with. It shouldn't be possible for already overtaxed people working weekends to be this bubbly, he reflected, but Emmeline was steadily proving him wrong. 

“– and then guess who she walked in on shagging her boyfriend? Lance, the one from work! Can you believe it? I mean, not only was he cheating on her, but he was also gay! So I tell her, Debbie, you’ve got to know your worth –”

He liked Emmeline. He did - as far as Slytherins went, she was strangely tolerable - but her one drawback was that she simply never shut up. Now, as someone told to do the same multiple times a day by practically everyone in his life,  Sirius could generally respect a fellow bullshitter, one master in the art of talking the ear off a doorknob to another, but even he knew when to keep his trap shut. (Oh, really? A familiar, soft voice whispered from some lovely corner of his consciousness. That’s not what happened last night, if I remember correctly. Remus swanned to the forefront of his mind, as he was prone to do at frequent and often inconvenient intervals, lean frame swimming in his worn, shabby, thrifted faux leather jacket with the patches on the elbows, Remus with his lovely sandy hair, the colour reminiscent of the beach Andie had dragged him to as a free babysitter last summer, faded scars crisscrossing his face, scars which were etched permanently into Sirius' memory after nearly a decade of gazing at his now boyfriend in the Hospital Wing and, under more fortunate circumstances, their dorm room. An amused smile played at the corners of imaginary Remus' mouth as Sirius snapped back, momentarily forgetting just how ridiculous it was to be conversing with a mental version of his own boyfriend, I thought you liked it when I was loud, Mister Wolf Man.)

Groaning, he slumped backward as he realised exactly what it was he'd been doing, letting his head hit the concrete with a hard thump that he’d no doubt be feeling later but was far too hot to worry about now. From his left, Emmeline prattled on, oblivious (or uncaring) to his state of obvious distress.

“– so she rings up her dad, the one who works in the muggle police force, and guess what he does? Digs up some old charge to arrest Tommy for! Obviously, he didn’t actually end up in jail, that’d be too harsh, but he had to pay some pretty hefty fines by the sound of it, and did you know that he could actually end up in jail for sleeping with another guy? That’s why Debbie told her dad that he was cheating on her with some girl named Hannah and not Lance. I mean, that’s wild. I know we’re all about inclusivity or whatever, but I swear I think those Purebloods have the right idea sometimes, muggles are just so primitive –”

He lifted his head just to drop it back again, rhythmically beating out a tune with his head, mind drifting to the appealing prospect of lunch with his mates - James and Lily were finally finished playing House, having completed furnishing their cozy little flat with enough warm lighting to make even old Dumbly jealous - though he had to admit that Peter's presence dampened the shine of the proceedings somewhat, a thought Remus would've undoubtedly chided him for, though the glint in his eyes spoke volumes of his true feelings - and he felt reasonably confident that if it wasn't for James, Peter would've been booted from their little group years earlier, Lily slotting in neatly in his place. 

Contrary to popular belief, he took no pleasure in such thoughts. In a lacklustre, distant sort of sense, he felt sorry for Peter, poor, mousy Peter, the boy who never quite grew out of his teenage awkwardness (or into his pathetically round baby face) and despite what many would have one believe (Snivellus standing at the forefront of that line), Sirius Black was no bully. Not anymore, at least. Sure, he'd done things he wasn't proud of, but hadn't they all? Who the fuck was perfect? Not Peter, that's for sure. Nor Snivellus, for that matter, no matter how he liked to play wounded martyr. Social acceptance and widespread popularity was one hell of a drug, and as the undisputed king of Hogwarts' social scene, he'd exercised his frankly unfounded influence for both good and bad, and he could honestly say he regretted the fact that the bad probably outweighed the good. It had all come to a head at the end of his fifth year, when he'd -

Anyway. The point was, there had been a time when Peter's naive, wide eyed gaze and endearing awkwardness had elicited only a fond protectiveness in him, a time when he'd have campaigned with great fervour for his inclusion - Peter's plight as the softest boy in all of Gryffindor Tower had done wonders for his saviour complex - but all that had changed when, well -

He pushed himself up, elbows scraping cement as he cut off Emmeline's rant about the apparent dismal state of London's dating scene. "Emmeline, darling, I feel for your friend, really, I do - Danny, was it? - but we've got to finish this pile, stat. As soon as that disgrace of a clock strikes three -" Pointing at the tiny, cracked specimen hung next to the broken window. "- I'm outta here."

She broke off, sighing. "I know." Gesturing vaguely at the measly three forms she'd bothered to fill. "This is just so repetitive, y'know? Really pisses me off."

He laughed. "You? Pissed off? I'd pay to see that."

She grinned. "You'd be surprised, actually. You should ask your brother - I'd yelled the living daylights out of him one morning in the Common Room, thought he was the one who'd charmed my socks to bite -" She caught his eye, and her smile instantly faded, replaced by a look of genuine regret. "Sorry." She said quietly.

He sat stock still, elbows still digging uncomfortably into the hard floor, metaphorical hackles raised (if he'd been Padfoot, she'd have had a real show), though part of him (a far larger part than he'd ever admit) wanted to beg her to continue, to show him a glimpse of this side of his brother he'd rarely witnessed, at least not after Hogwarts, heart gripped by the unforgiving hand of nostalgia, of remorse, of guilt -

Springing upright, he busied himself with the stacks of paper. "You take this side, I'll take the other." He said brusquely, dividing the piles with an efficiency which would have saved them the better part of the morning, if only he'd been appropriately provoked earlier - who knew the merest mention of his estranged family was enough to spur him to action? She accepted her quota silently, not breathing a word of complaint even when her pile was significantly taller than his own, petty revenge for upending his emotional sensibilities this early in the day. They worked in silence, the heavy, uncomfortable quiet a sharp contrast to the earlier lighthearted monologue that had tumbled so easily from her vividly purple lips. 

The work was simple enough - logistics of the protection programme for families of Order members, witness protection programmes, recruitment schemes, all at a low enough level that no change they made would affect the workings of Dumbledore's little empire enough to inflict upon him even the economic equivalent of a paper cut - and he threw himself into the drudgery, escaping into the world of supply chain problems and family housing, enrolment forms and printing budgets. The steady scratch of quill against parchment soothed him, drawing his mind away from the edge of the rabbit hole Emmeline had been so unwittingly about to send him down, and focused instead on completing the paperwork flawlessly enough to earn an Order of Merlin for his troubles. Emmeline worked doggedly through her own heap, forms filling out at a surprisingly rapid pace, neat, precise handwriting a league apart from his own chicken scratch.

Minutes bled into hours as he laid out one parchment after another, wet ink glimmering against the blocky Department type, Emmeline chewing on the tip of her quill, sunlight leaking in through the gaps in the boarded up shutters. A forceful stamp to complete the ritual, Department of Magical Law Enforcement gleaming in purple at the bottom of each page.

Abbott. Stamp.

Diggle. Stamp.

Jones. Stamp.

One measly rectangle of smudged ink to determine their futures, to declare them worthy of the protection so many others weren't lucky enough to receive, their fates decided upon the basis of the fortunate family member's importance in the Order, and his blood boiled when he realised Lupin was nowhere to be found, not in his pile, at least, though he doubted he'd find it amongst Emmeline's, either, not after Moody had made his views on werewolves very clear in that disastrous meeting not too long ago, Dumbly not breathing a word of opposition despite all his speeches of equality and inclusivity. He wondered, not for the first time, why the Ministry bothered to keep up this charade of cooperation when it was evident to everyone with a functioning pair of eyes that the Minister and his little cabinet were entirely in the Death Eaters' pocket, Lucius Malfoy slithering around the atrium with his lank blonde hair (he refused to accept that Malfoy's hair had once rivalled his own in the eyes of the general public, for everyone knew the public was just a stupid flock of brainless sheep, anyway), silver cobra cane in manicured hand despite having a perfectly good pair of legs. Slimy bastard.

He was knocked out of his grim reverie by Emmeline's enormous yawn and pointed glances at the clock, twisting her neck till it cracked with a concerningly loud pop. "Isn't it time for your date, Black?" 

He looked at the clock. Ten to three. He didn't really give a damn but felt obligated to ask. "You'll be fine finishing up here by yourself?"

She waved him away, perhaps sensing the reluctance behind the question. "Yeah, yeah, but you owe me one, big time."

He nodded solemnly, already turning to leave, and threw a two fingered salute over his shoulder, rewarded by Emmeline's exasperated huff. "Yes, ma'am."

Twisting on his heel, he disapparated out of the dilapidated office, reappearing outside a pub that wasn't in much better shape, dusty sign hanging askew over the soot stained brick, menu scrawled in chalk on the board cheerily proclaiming nominal beer prices and crafty happy hour schemes which were probably an alcoholic's wet dream but his wallet's worst nightmare. Catching a glimpse of familiar faces through the grimy glass of the lone window in the pub's front, he ascended the dangerously rickety wooden steps, pulling the door open by its sticky handle. There they were, Remus, Lily and James, all seated in a booth in the corner, Peter (thankfully) nowhere to be seen, and he let a smile spread across his face at the sight of his friends, his colleagues, his family. 

Remus, Lily and James.

His boyfriend. His friend. 

And his only brother.

Chapter Text

He stepped into the crowded bar, the original white of the cracked tile floor peeking out in trepidation from behind patches of faded, discoloured brown, preemptively cringing in the face of the day they'll be forced to share the unfortunate fate of their neighbours, a day only a particularly drunk patron or a few stubborns spills away. A blast of cool air buffeted him as he entered the dimly lit room, its occupants glancing up in mild disinterest before returning to the more pressing matters at hand, such as winking clumsily at the pretty girl across the bar or peering into the depths of their tankards in the desperate, forlorn hope of one more sip. A table at the back let out a ragged cheer, the leader of the charge being a smirking boy lounging on the sticky vinyl with all the confidence of a king in his castle, eyes lighting up at the sight of Sirius even from the far end of the room. Predictably, James was the first to spot him, the first to see him, and wasn't that just the story of his life?

"I'm James." The bespectacled boy across from him in the cramped train compartment spoke blithely, extending a tanned hand in welcome. "James Potter." Potter - he'd heard of the family, albeit infrequently and not in a very flattering light - according to Father, they toed the line between Pureblood propriety and blood treachery rather dangerously - but James seemed nice enough and he was already missing Regulus, so he took the proffered hand with minimal sneering. 

"I'm Sirius." He said loftily. "Sirius Orion Black III."

To his bemusement, James laughed. "Three? There are three of you?" He made a show of looking around the compartment. "Why, are the first two hiding under the seats? Or with our luggage in the racks?"

To his own surprise, he laughed. James grinned. "Not so Sirius now, are you?"  He made a pitiful attempt to waggle his eyebrows.

He couldn't help it. He laughed again. And that, as they say, was that.

"Sirius!" James' current version slid out of the booth, making his way through the packed tables to envelop him in that half handshake, half hug hybrid universal to the male populace. "I swear, it's been too long, man." Sirius laughed, the sound free and unhindered in a way it hadn't been in ages, contentment settling deep in his chest merely from being in the same vicinity as his best mate, a soft whisper in his bones of brother, of safe, of home, and followed the other boy back to their usual corner, the prized table commandeered with great difficulty from the packs of leering muggle boys skulking around the neighbourhood. (Sirius seemed to remember a fistfight, a levitating brick, and possibly a horribly off tune karaoke competition, though it was hard to vouch for his memory's validity since he'd been drunk right out of his tiny mind.) "We met just three days ago at that Order meeting, Prongs."

James mock pouted in a frankly ridiculous way he'd most definitely picked up from Marlene. "Three days too many! A minute spent away from you is a minute wasted, Pads, I've always said."

By this point, they'd reached the booth, and Lily, who'd turned just in time to catch the last bit, shook her head in resignation. "And I've always said that James should just marry you. Honestly, the way he goes on about you, I've started to think you're the other woman."

Sirius folded himself into the narrow gap between crumb littered table and worn seat back, pressing against the third bony, lanky occupant smelling faintly of ink and chocolate. "Fortunately for you, Lily, I could never betray our Moony like that. You might want to keep an eye on your man, though, if you catch my drift." He winked flamboyantly at the reluctantly amused redhead and turned towards his boyfriend, shamelessly making puppy dog eyes at his unfortunate victim (all that time as Padfoot had given him a lot of practice, alright?). "Moony, my love, my lovely, loveable Moon, might I perchance have a sip of your beer?"

Remus slid his glass towards Sirius, rolling his eyes. "You may, though perchance learn an adjective that isn't a variation of love first."

He gasped dramatically, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead. "My heart! Cruel is the blade of love, indeed."

Lily - ever the scholar - frowned. "That doesn't even make sense."

He took a long, noisy sip from the musty glass. "Just roll with it, Lilypad."

Remus snorted. "Ah yes, the key to living with Sirius Black. Just roll with it."

He batted his eyelashes obnoxiously. "As I recall, Remus, you're a particularly avid fan of rolling yourself."

Lily groaned. "How are the pair of you more disgusting than us? We're to be married, for fucks' sake!"

James put an arm around her shoulders, looking impossibly fond - really, Lily should take one look at that pathetically sappy look on her fiancé's stupid mug and then try to claim the pair of them were less nauseating - and rested his head on her auburn one. "They just started dating, darling. Let them get it out of their systems. They'll be having life threatening rows over whose turn it is to do the dishes in a year's time."

"Believe me, we do that already." Moony retorted drily. "Besides, I'd like you to take one look in the mirror before trying to find a couple more in love than you."

Point Moony.

James opened his mouth to respond, glancing up as movement near the door caught his attention. "Look, there's Pete."

He waited resignedly for James to get up and enact his good host routine, but to his abject surprise, he stayed put.

"Oh, joy." Sirius mumbled into the glass. 

Lily shook her head, while Remus murmured disapprovingly. "Don't start, Pads."

He huffed but said no more, glowering into the amber liquid in much the same way as the sorry fools he'd been pitying only moments before, though he doubted they were looking for portents of murder in the dregs of their glasses. (With Sirius doing the murdering, of course. As if that rat could get the better of him!)

"Pete!" James called with forced cheer, finally letting go of poor Lily - who bore a striking resemblance to a squashed soda can after being clung to so enthusiastically by a not inconsiderable bicep (Sirius blamed Quidditch) - to shake Peter's hand. "Good to see you, mate! C'mon, scooch over, Moony." They shifted down to make room for the pudgy man, the booth ironically just the right size for the four of them but a tight fit for five, and Sirius cursed whichever deity presided over the health of mousy, insignificant Order grunts for not striking Peter down with the flu the moment he received James' undoubtedly chirpy invitation. Or hay fever. Or something. He wasn't fussed.

Peter smiled, though it didn't seem to reach his eyes. "Alright, James?" As usual, he spoke in his high, clear, borderline needy voice which must have been cute back when he was eleven but sounded rather odd coming from a grown man, like a child drowning in his father's ill-fitting office cloak. He waited for Lily and Remus to add their own uncharacteristically subdued greetings to the insincere pile before looking Peter in the eye. "Wormy." He intoned blandly. "A pleasure as always." He let just enough of his disdain drip into his words for Remus to elbow him sharply, Lily frowning at him from across the table while James began blabbering on about menus and drinks, oblivious to the tension crackling between the other occupants of the table.

To his satisfaction, the skin around the other boy's eyes tightened, hands twitching by his sides as he sat down, making a marked effort to smile weakly at James, an inordinate amount of gratitude shining in his watery little eyes for James' paltry efforts at breaking the ice. It was almost enough to make Sirius feel sorry for him.

Almost.

He was jerked sharply back into the clamouring buzz of the bar by a particularly well aimed kick to the shin by none other than his wonderful boyfriend (honestly, were his fucking boots made of steel?), Remus staring at him flatly with that vaguely disappointed light in his eyes, discontent twisting his features into something bitter and jaded, scars adding to his weariness till he seemed quite old in spite of his smooth, unwrinkled, freckled skin and lustrous hair, and while he chafed at being the cause of his love's unhappiness, his discomfort, Sirius' shame wasn't nearly enough to make him stop despite Remus' many hissed admonishments.

Taunts. Snide comments. Deliberately exclusive jokes. Superior looks and patronising smiles.

At the end of the day, he was far too much like his mother for his own good. Perhaps that was why they'd never gotten along, even before the row to end all rows, their mutual inability to back down and leave others well enough alone making their coexistence hell, their shared gift to make people's lives miserable and their common tendency for dramatics making them incompatible, unable to live in the same house, a bit like those cuckoo chicks Lily'd told him about, pushing and pushing till one fell out the nest, only in his case, falling out of the nest might just be the best thing to happen in his sorry life. 

When it finally came, the reaction he'd been waiting eagerly for, an explosion of all the pitiful, pent up rage simmering below Peter's self important surface, an extremity of fury he didn't even know the other boy was capable of, a question aimed like an iron spear directly at his heart, target ruthlessly selected with nearly a decade's expertise in what pushed his buttons the most, designed to hurt, to wound, to kill; his first instinct was to laugh. Or maybe to cry.

Really, Sirius didn't even have anyone to blame but himself, him and his big fat mouth, all fast words and loose talk, and he'd continued to talk even when he'd seen the culmination of half a decade's verbal bullying looming over the horizon like a particularly nasty storm front, bruised grey clouds menacing in their implication of the havoc to come. He'd seen it coming, just like he'd seen Regulus' gradual detachment, just like he'd seen his own disownment, the hapless spectator of a deadly train wreck despite being the one behind the wheel, powerless to stop it in the same manner he was powerless to stop his ever running mouth. All he could do was sit there and weather the storm, body stiff as a board, trademark practiced devil-may-care grin twisting his lips in a sick parody of joy, hands clenching into fists below the table while Peter ranted and raved to high heaven, rolling his eyes at his more ludicrous points in a futile effort to present an unbothered front, though why he did so was beyond him, since everyone at the table knew him well enough to look past the flimsy facade anyway.

In some distant, dusty corner of his mind, he grew dimly aware of the bar's other customers heading about their business as usual, not sparing their little altercation a second glance, and while he knew that one of the others must have cast some variety of muffling charm or disillusionment spell to make it so, all it served as was a depressing reminder of how useless, how worthless their lives really were, because who the fuck cared? Peter felt excluded like some angsty teenage schoolgirl. So? How did it matter?

Every barbed word felt like a knife was being slid in between his ribs with excruciating slowness, twisting ever so often with each allusion to the heretofore taboo topics, the forbidden subjects, if you will, every unkind thought and cruel wish laid bare on the table to lie exposed with the overlapping cup rings. No one gave a damn. His heart was breaking in two and he couldn't complain for it was all his fault again and guilt was cleaving his soul in half and no one gave a damn. It was what he deserved and part of him was even proud of Peter in some twisted, masochistic sort of way but he didn't want to hear it, didn't want to hear what was coming to him, and could you blame him? He wanted to die.

No one gave a damn.

He staggered out the booth, stumbling through the tables towards the entrance, emerging blinking out into the white hot sunlight like a vampire begging for eternal damnation, walking away from the bar on shaky legs, boots clopping on the cobblestones, slowly at first, then faster and faster till he was almost running, rounding the corner while Peter's words played on a loop in his head.

Really, who the fuck do you think you're fooling, motherfucker? Think you're so tough because you stood up to mummy and daddy that one time, do you? Do you know why you're still stuck sorting paperwork despite placing leagues above the other poor sods in Order training? Ever thought of that? It's because no one trusts you.

No. One. Trusts. You.

Why would they? You're a Black, for fucks' sake. It's only a matter of time before you betray them, just like you betrayed Remus back in sixth year - what, did you think we'd forgotten about that? I haven't forgotten. I'll never forget. And believe me, neither will Remus.

What are you going to do when Father dearest shows up on the battlefield waving a wand in your face? When that crazy bitch of a cousin of yours turns up to enjoy her daily dose of entertainment? When she'll torture us till we can't scream for the fun of it? Will you laugh with her? Or will you try to stop her?

Tell me, Sirius, can you kill her? Can you kill your father? Hell, can you kill that twat brother of yours? Everyone knows it's only a matter of time before he's eating out of His hand, the perfect soldier, the perfect Heir. Can you kill him?

What if it's between us and them?

Us? Or them?

He screamed.

Chapter Text

She'd come back again. His mother.

He stared bleakly at the translucent woman hovering in front of him, tattered, mud splattered rags hanging off her emaciated frame, blisters on her feet, belly grotesquely swollen from a long and arduous pregnancy, some ghostly version of himself lolling in her womb and giving her grief even in the afterlife. Despite standing a mere few paces away from her actual son, her eyes gazed in opposite directions, grimly taking stock of the eyesore of a study which was a disgrace to oriental design everywhere (the former Lord Lestrange had gone through, let's say, a phase, during which he believed embracing the East would somehow cleanse his soul of a lifetime's worth of accumulated sins, granting him enlightenment or nirvana or whatever other sparkly ideal the bored and rich subscribed to, the lingering effects of which could still be observed in the odd room or two, in spite of his son's untiring efforts at refurbishment).

Her greasy, lanky hair hung in strands around her piggish face, clumps of matted hair sticking to her scalp, the mousy colour of which could just be inferred from beneath the thin coat of grit and dirt. Her face bore the pinched, haunted look of someone who'd been to hell and back, wandering gaze hollow, almost accusing, daring the world to look at her, to look at what it did to her, and look he did.

In her frail, withered hand -

The locket.

It rotated slightly in some nonexistent, otherworldly breeze, ghostly edges catching the flickering lamplight (tinted red from the horrifically vivid crimson lampshade, complete with long, whiskered dragons prancing amongst fluffy clouds). Even from a distance, he could make out the glimmering S, a serpent inlaid in stone and what looked like pure gold, though the monochromatic quality of the apparition made it rather hard to say so with any certainty (past experience, however, proved his assumptions to be correct); its thin, filigreed chain improbably able to bear the weight of a locket so heavy that one shoulder dipped further than the other (though that could, of course, be the inbreeding).

Merope Gaunt spoke.

She'd never done that before.

He strained his ears to hear her voice, a part of himself that should have been left behind at the orphanage pathetically curious as to what his mother sounded like, but to no avail - her mumblings were about as unintelligible as those of an inmate at a mental institution (which wasn't all that far from what she really was, anyway). Merope continued gibbering and moaning in a manner that was almost painful to watch, albeit a bit interesting - in a clinical, detached sort of way - and if he hadn't been so hung up on who the woman had been in life, he might have invested more of his energy into researching the exact mechanics of the apparition - Slytherin's lesser known gift? Obscure necromancy? Old magic? Blood magic? - but as matters currently stood, deciphering her blabbering had displaced world domination from the top spot in his list of priorities entirely.

Absently, he twisted the ring on his left index finger.

She vanished.

Frowning, he turned it over again. She reappeared, looking none the worse for wear (though that would be a feat in and of itself), blathering on about something or the other, hands frantically gesticulating at people only she could see, face so desperate it hurt to look at. Turning away, he diverted his attention to the ring - gold inset with onyx, peculiar scratches marring the stone's surface, scratches which that madman Morfin had been so sure were the Peverell coat of arms - a circle circumscribed in a triangle, with one neat line cutting both in half. Morfin had seemed quite unbothered by his poor sister's fate - indeed, all he'd had to say on the subject was that bitch deserved it, the filthy squib - and that, coupled with the frankly appalling state of his shack, had given Tom the very strong impression that Morfin was nothing but a dirty pig, disgracing their family's good name and squandering what little money they had left on the lowest quality booze. Be that as it may, there had been one thing Morfin had been inordinately proud of, and that had been this very ring, gleaming and pristine and quite at odds with its surrounding squalor.

He didn't know what he'd been thinking when he'd slipped it off his fat finger, humming some deplorable tune Alphie had been so hung up on that summer - something he'd no doubt have turned his nose up at under more normal circumstances, but stress did funny things to people, didn't it? - and over time, it had come to be a trophy of sorts, proof of his first foray into the land of crime, serious crime, that is, and not stealing from the corner shop or twisting kids' hands behind their back. He'd barely taken it off since then, that fateful summer over three decades ago, the summer of patricide and muggle wars and Frank Sinatra and Alphard Black, since you could never have one without the other, and not having Alphard Black had been inconceivable, incomprehensible, unimaginable -

1943. The summer before sixth year. The summer everything changed.

He turned his thoughts forcibly back to the ring, sliding it off with some difficulty to hold it up to the light, gold gleaming in sharp contrast to the black stone, which seemed to suck what little light was left in the room towards itself, a gaping hole in the fabric of the universe. Carefully, he took the stone between the pads of his fingers and turned it over. 

His mother vanished.

There came a smart knock on the door, whoever it was not bothering to wait for permission before slowly creaking the heavy door open, sticking their head inside to reveal the stoic, unflappable face of the current Lord of the Manor. He slipped his ring on again, hiding his hand in his pocket on impulse, and turned to face him with studied insouciance. "Yes?"

Rodolphus bowed. "The meeting is to start soon, my Lord. You asked me to remind you."

That he had, though he couldn't imagine what had possessed him to do so. He knew how to read a clock, for chrissakes.

"Thank you, Rodolphus. Shall we?"

He turned and led the way out the room, Tom following at a more leisurely pace, eyes fixed on his rigid back (honestly, why did all these Purebloods walk like they had a stick up their ass?), idly slipping his ring on and off in his robe pocket. The closer they got to the Manor's second best drawing room (which had been reappropriated to serve as an informal sort of conference room for the war effort), the more Rodolphus began to look over his shoulder at his leader, perhaps correctly intuiting that Tom would prefer to enter the room first, and he gave him a gracious nod as he bypassed the other man, drawing his hand out of his robes to pull open the door to their little war room, a hush falling on the occupants of the same as the door swung outwards. He treasured it, the way the mere possibility of his presence could silence a room, a room full of people who had enough rank and wealth that a single one of them could buy him a hundred times over, but they didn't know that, did they?

He smiled, eyes sweeping over the various Purebloods situated in varying states of comfort across the room, the older members reclining in a deliberate display of nonchalance while the younger ones followed his movements with hungry, shark like eyes, begging for action, for favour, bloodlust painting their expression a fervent red, face glowing with youthful vitality. Regulus and the Rosier boy seemed to be the youngest present, while the senior Mr. Rowle seemed to cap the company's age at a grizzled seventy six. (Or was it seventy seven? He could never remember, though he had the distinct recollection of scanning his records during his stint at Mungo's as some no name volunteer. Alphard had bullied him into community service as an effort to retain some semblance of connection to the Wizarding World even during the summer.)

"Gentlemen," He began, throwing himself into the largest armchair, positioned a little too near to the fireplace for the current weather, but it had that aesthetic appeal, and Tom always had liked pretty things. Pretty girls. Pretty boys.

Alphard Black.

"Bellatrix," He continued, acknowledging her pleased expression with a nod, the lone woman in a roomful of men, yet thoroughly unbothered by it. He paused to survey the room, gaze resting on each face for a fraction of a second before resuming. "We've gathered here today in an effort to escalate our advances and employ more, ah, drastic measures against the filth undermining our admirably rich heritage." He glanced at Rosier and Black before adding, more as an afterthought than anything else, "Two brave young men have been entered into our fold recently, and I invite each and every one of you to show them the ropes and treat them with the grace and understanding befitting their adjustment period." He broke off to smile indulgently at the pair, who seemed inordinately thrilled at being addressed directly. "This shall be nothing like your Prefect duties, boys." The paltry joke earned a range of laughs from throughout the room, full belly laughs from the lesser ranked and polite, humourless ones from those more secure in their standing. All brevity soon dissolved into grim, hard faced purpose as the meeting began in earnest, ideas lobbying back and forth with all the speed of a freshly crafted snitch, countless arguments and counterarguments, points and objections, disputes and disagreements so extreme that grown men looked seconds away from tearing each other's hair out. A veritable circus that the newbies viewed with mounting dismay.

Budget allocations. Escalatory measures. A revised list of future victims. Targets to be achieved by the month's end. Bills to throw their support behind. Bribes to be paid and officials to be enticed. Halfblood recruitment as cannon fodder. Updated security measures.

"I still think halfblood recruitment is a wonderful idea, send them out into the field, I say! Let them bear the brunt of the Order's efforts. Why spill precious blood when we can help it?"

"It's the principle of the thing, George, we can't campaign against halfbreeds and then have them do our dirty work, if we're not careful, they'll turn on us instead -"

And on.

"Reinforcements are being brought in from Russia, my Lord, Durmstrang's freshly graduated class will be of great help -"

"Sending children to fight our battles, are we, Karkaroff? I don't know how you lot do things in Russia, but here -"

And on.

"My contact in the Magical Law Enforcement managed to get us the Auror rota for today till the end of the month, and I demand that we exploit this advantage to the best of our abilities -" 

"I spoke with St. Mungo's Chairman, they'd be happy to provide our wounded discrete treatment after battles and such, for a price, of course -"

And on.

"My sources are confident that the Ministry's sympathies lie in our direction, and so does the Wizengamot's, apart from a few dratted muggle loving elements -"

"You can say Dumbledore's name, Nott, he won't jump out from behind the curtain and strangle you with it -"

Bellatrix's caustic remark earned a few scattered laughs, a minuscule relief in the stifling atmosphere, Nott turning a fiery, righteous red, but before he could begin his blustering, Orion cut in, impatiently waving a hand. “It’s pathetic, absolutely pathetic, the way the so called Minister is bowing to the whims and wishes of common filth, I mean, the amendments in werewolf legislation were bad enough, but an act that protects mudbloods? Honestly, it’s almost like they want our world to be tainted –”

Abraxas intervened. “It’s all because of that old sod Dumbledore, I tell you, Orion, cut off the head and the rest of the snake will follow. The minute old Dumbly is replaced by someone more, ah, suitable, is the minute all these new reforms are brushed right back under the carpet –

On and on and on.

By the time a rather unsatisfying general consensus had been reached, the sun had dipped below the horizon and the poor house elf had made his rounds at least thrice, warming up cold cups of tea and refilling wine glasses. The Rosier boy looked half asleep. Lord Yaxley was asleep, if the rumbling snores emanating from beneath the carefully placed hat on his face were any indication. Orion, however, was unflagging. 

"My Lord." He began, puffing up his chest self importantly. "An appeal, if I may."

He inclined his head wearily. "You may." Like you'd stop on my account.

"It has come to my attention that my son -" Regulus, who'd been staring out the window in acute, cross eyed boredom, straightened in mild alarm. "- has been repeatedly delegated to the most demeaning tasks in his team leader's arsenal, tasks as low as mere grunt work like sorting supplies with halfbloods -" He sneered "- and I'd like to hear Mr. Karkaroff's point of view on assigning such derogatory missions to the Heir of the Most Ancient -"

Karkaroff cut in. "Your son, Orion, Heir though he may be, happens to be one of the most incompetent fools I have ever, and I repeat, ever, had the displeasure of working with."

The poor boy looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and die. Orion, on the other hand, seemed ready to curse Karkaroff into oblivion. "Careful how you speak to me or my son, you -"

Tom deemed it wise to interject. "Why do you say that, Igor?"

Igor huffed disbelievingly. "Why do I say that? Why, I say that because in spite of six years of schooling and a lifetime spent preparing for this very moment, the boy can barely cast the most basic of curses, let alone Unforgivables! I asked him to cast the Imperius on some despicable muggle witness during our very first mission, and all the boy managed to do was turn him into a rooster! A rooster! And you still have the audacity to order me about -" This last part addressed to a fuming Orion.

"I've been training him rigorously for his missions in the past week, Igor, believe me when I say the boy is ready -"

"Ready?" He laughed sardonically. "Ready for what? Turning his unfortunate victim into a goat next? Preparing for an illustrious career in farming, hm? You know, back home, we have a word for people like him -"

"That is enough." He didn't bother raising his voice, though he did take the trouble of performing a rather neat bit of wandless magic that lowered the temperature of the room ever so slightly. It did the trick, Orion and Igor glowering at each other like chastised school kids while the boy in question looked positively mortified. "Incompetence will not be tolerated. Till the boy can handle a wand efficiently, I shall not have him jeopardising the missions with his faulty magic." Before Karkaroff could look too smug, he added on a whim. "To ensure his participation in our cause as soon as possible, Orion, I'll be taking over your tutoring sessions with Regulus."

He let a small, satisfied smile play on his lips as all three turned to him, gobsmacked. "Meeting adjourned."

Chapter Text

He shifted from foot to foot in front of the floor length mirror, fastidiously inspecting every inch of his appearance, admiring the gilt edged embroidery on his cloak detailing an impossibly intricate scene of wolves howling at the distant silver moon through a tangle of vines and trees and flowers, each a different shade, each stitched with enough care to make his usual school cloak look like some tramp's coat he'd fished out the gutter. An inch long border flowed along the edges of the velvet, an endless, repeating pattern of the Leo constellation, the heart of the lion markedly brighter than the other stars in each iteration, lions prancing merrily along the strip, and he instantly adored it even if it made him look a bit too much like a dratted Gryffindor. It was almost comical, how much he looked like -

He instantly squashed the quiet, wistful voice and sent it packing to the recesses of his mind, where it belonged. Resolutely, he returned to his outfit, fiddling with his cuffs (complete with golden cufflinks engraved with the Black family crest), smoothing down his pristine dress shirt (which had already been ironed to within an inch of its life by a vengeful Kreacher, who attacked laundry like he had a deeply ingrained personal vendetta against freshly washed clothes), raking a hand through his painstakingly styled curls (he'd spent an inordinate amount of time on them for once, long enough for Kreacher to pop in and out thrice and throw increasingly concerned looks in his direction each time).

There came a knock on the door.

There was only one resident of this ridiculously oversized house who bothered to knock instead of simply strolling in at their own leisure, and that someone was certainly not his father, who barged in like he owned the place (which, to be fair, he did). It couldn't be Kreacher, who just apparated into his quarters as and when he pleased - besides, he wasn't sure the elf could knock, not with how frail and spidery his fingers were - and via process of elimination (let Karkaroff get a load of that, the fucker, probably doesn't even know what the word means -), that left only one option. 

"Come in, Maman." He called absently through the door, opening his desk drawers to rifle for the little box of jewellery he knew he'd kept there (having two sisters came in handy, sometimes - most of it was filched or gifted). The door swung open, proving his assumptions to be correct - there she stood, resplendent in a vintage emerald gown, hair put up in a fashionably messy beehive which must've taken poor Kreacher the better part of an hour to do, hands and neck dripping in diamonds. She swanned in through the door, beaming, and reached up to pinch his cheeks. "Regulus. You don't remember your poor Maman anymore, yes? Far too much of a big man for your poor old mother!"

"You're not old." He grumbled, instinctively leaning into her touch even as he hunted for that damned box. He politely refrained from pointing out that this was was only the second time he'd laid eyes on her since the holidays began two whole weeks ago, his mother always out and about, spending their vault's bottomless money on pointless artefacts and ridiculously expensive robes or calling on her many friends (and acquaintances, and minor annoyances, not to forget mortal enemies, for how else would she stay afloat in the happening world of the Pureblood elite?).

"Don't lie to me, boy. I'm getting wrinkles. It's all because of that father of yours." She grumbled, leaning forward to inspect her makeup in the mirror with a critical eye. "You know, I've been thinking of summering in Normandy this year. You should come along, dear. Bring those friends of yours. Eliot, was it?" 

"Evan, Mother. We've known each other since we were four." It might have bothered him once, her blatant disinterest in any and all aspects of his life, but he'd more or less learned to accept it over time, the sharp stab of hurt having faded to a dull ache long since. She loved him. He knew that. That was all that mattered.

She waved a hand. "Yes, well, you just have so many friends, darling. However am I supposed to remember all of them?"

"I have three friends." Two now, he thought glumly, before perking up as a rather ridiculous thought occurred to him. Did him and Petrov qualify as friends? They certainly spent enough time together, thanks to the lovely Igor.

"You're too modest, dear. Why, everyone loves you."

Everyone but the one person that counts.

"You're just saying that." He pointed out, finally acquiring the box from the musty depths of the third drawer from the top. "You know. Since you're my mother."

"Believe me, I wouldn't if I didn't want to, boy. Or have you forgotten that brother of yours?" She ploughed on without waiting for an answer, not that Regulus was in any condition to give one, body stiff as a poker at the merest mention of the disowned ghost that lived in his walls. "Absolute disgrace, that one was. Always knew he'd end up a failure." In spite of her airy, lighthearted tone, there was the slightest edge to her voice, a sprinkling of anger and disdain and - dare he say it - hurt flavouring her nonchalant words, the palest shadow of grief flitting across her face, only to be replaced by her customary half smile a second later. "Oh! I almost forgot! Congratulations!" Surging forward, she seized him in an enthusiastic hug, only to let go of him a moment later, reaching up to adjust her dangerously teetering hairdo. She shot a meaningful glance at his left sleeve. "Youngest member to be initiated, hm? I always knew you'd excel in things that actually mattered in life. Kreacher!" She bellowed, Regulus flinching at the jarring increase in volume as the house elf appeared with a crack, bowing till his nose all but scraped the floor. "Yes, Mistress?" 

Frowning, she gestured at her deteriorating hairstyle. "Fix it, would you? And do it right this time."

As he set to work, Regulus wordlessly held the box out in front of her, already knowing what she would pick, and pick she did - the Black signet ring, worn by the Heir till his ascension (at which point it was replaced by the flashier ring signifying Lordship, currently glinting proudly on his father's pinky), the one with the tiny opal butterfly that whirred and flew away at inconvenient intervals to terrorise and fascinate children in equal measure, and the one whose surface plating slid open to reveal a tiny sword for absolutely no reason at all. It comforted him more than he'd ever admit, this paltry reassurance that no matter how far removed his mother seemed from her own son, the rift ever widening with age, he'd always know her well enough on some basic, fundamental level to correctly guess which rings she'd prefer out of a boxful of dozens.

He slipped them on carefully, almost tenderly, regarding their reflections in the mirror opposite, him a head taller than the other woman, a fact her gown more than made up for in terms of sheer volume alone, dominating the frame in spite of her short stature. Kreacher teetered precariously on the arm of his desk chair, rearranging her hair with an air of grim determination. 

"I meant to ask you, dear." She turned away, hands worrying at the silk of her skirt. "What of your term exams? You passed, did you not? Not that it matters, of course." She added quickly. "The education system is a broken one, I'm aware, but your father -"

"I passed." Barely.

Relief emanated from her in almost tangible waves. "Well, isn't that lovely? I knew you would, of course."

Of course.

"I can't wait to see the look on your father's face -" She paused, evidently realising what she'd just said, and hastily backtracked. "I mean, the happiness there, sweetheart."

"Obviously." He said drily.

She fell silent, seemingly uncertain for the first time since she'd walked through that door, and he turned away, busying himself with sweeping the clutter off the table and into the numerous empty drawers, all good humour of a few moments prior instantly evaporating at the mention of those dratted tests, with their too white sheets and traitorous, blocky letters. His mind flashed to those wretched days, filled to the brim with sleepless nights and nausea inducing headaches and the haunting, interminable scratching of quills on parchment. 

After a few moments of intensely awkward silence, she spoke again, voice gentle. "Your father loves you, you know. He just... worries."

He couldn't help but snort. "I'm sure he does." He replied bitterly, perhaps a bit too bitterly, for she quietened again, disheartened. Kreacher shot him a disapproving look from his perch behind his mother's beehive.

They spent the rest of their time together in deeply uncomfortable silence, avoiding each other's eyes. The house was silent, save the ever present ticking of a dozen clocks and the occasional rustle of her voluminous dress. 

When his father's Patronus finally came a few minutes later, emotionlessly ordering his wife to get in the carriage, she seized the opportunity with grateful enthusiasm, bustling about as Kreacher gave the finishing touches to her hair, talking far too cheerfully about nothing in particular, hands flitting about like caged birds. He stood there, powerless, suddenly unwilling to let her go but not quite daring to voice his wish, a yawning chasm where his heart should have been, assaulted by waves of regret at fucking up the only conversation he'd have with his mother in weeks, why did he always have to go and fuck everything up -

Suddenly, she turned towards him, gripping his arm, eyes vague and unfocused and not meeting his own in spite of his best efforts. Her other hand reached up to cup his cheek hesitantly, gingerly, a fleeting ghost of a touch. "My sweet, beautiful, darling boy." She murmured, flashing a tiny, melancholy smile, eyes fluttering closed for the tiniest instant before snapping open, moving backwards and sweeping out of the room without a backwards glance.

Inexplicably, he wanted to cry.

My sweet, beautiful, darling boy.

Promptly, Regulus is three again, trotting into his mother's bedroom in the middle of the night, all tangled up in blankets with tears staining his cheeks, gasping a hoarse Maman. (Orion Black had tried his level best to put a stop to the moniker, deeming it shameful for his sons to refer to their mother in such a soft manner, unbefitting of their noble pedigree, but in the end she'd put her foot down in an uncharacteristic display of pigheadedness and declared that they could call her whatever they liked.) She’d slipped out of bed and picked him up with arms warmed by sleep, pressing soft kisses to his head and carrying him back to his room. My sweet, beautiful, darling boy, she’d whispered, words slurred by sleep, and he’d let himself be lulled back into slumber, all nightmares of floating corpses and eerie green light forgotten.

He is six, shyly presenting roses he’d picked at the Rosier estate to his mother, simply because he’d overheard her explaining wistfully to Madam Bones at Twilfitt and Tattings that although she’d love nothing more than to commission all her robes in burgundy, Orion would never approve. (Honestly, that man! Madam Bones had scoffed. Taking house loyalty to the next level, is he! To his utter shock, his mother hadn’t commented upon this blatant disrespect to the soon-to-be Lord Black.) Despite Sirius’ the traitor's well intentioned warning to not give her the flowers in front of Father, the anticipation had proven to be too much to handle, and he’d abandoned his despairing tutor halfway through (Master Black! Get back here!) to rush into the sitting room, roses in hand. At the time, his parents had been entertaining the senior Rowles, and upon hearing the French doors burst open with a bang, they’d all peered curiously at the young, flower laden intruder.

After his father had recovered from the shock of his younger offspring barging into the room like a bull seeing red (only it was rather rare to see a bull arrive bearing the colour red himself), he’d frigidly demanded to know just what, exactly, did he think he was doing? In lieu of a response, he’d made his way towards his similarly surprised mother and handed her the makeshift bouquet, smiling adoringly at his hero.

Mrs. Rowle’s coos of oh, isn’t he precious and what a sweet dear did an excellent job of drowning out his father’s huffs of disdain, though they transformed into strained smiles soon enough upon hearing Mr. Rowle compliment him for raising such a ladies’ man. (I’m sure he’ll break a lot of hearts one day, at which his father couldn’t quite suppress his disbelief.) The heartthrob in question, however, had eyes only for his mother. Do you like it? He’d asked eagerly, bouncing up and down, eyes fixed on her face. To her husband’s resigned disapproval and her son’s sheer delight, she’d beamed at him, hoisting him up onto her lap. I love it, she’d declared, eliciting more coos from the elderly Mrs. Rowle. He’d leaned back against her, feeling oddly triumphant, basking in victory and grinning from ear to ear. What a thoughtful boy, the other lady had mused, and his mother had agreed, casually brushing a hand over his hair before adding, my sweet, beautiful, darling boy, ignoring Orion’s eye roll from the seat opposite. The grin had turned into a beam, and he’d snuggled back even farther, feeling like the luckiest boy in all the world.

Three.

Six.

Sixteen.

His mother's son then, and his mother's son now.

Wistfully, he stared at the doorway long after she was gone.

Chapter Text

Staring at the grease splattered silver cutlery placed neatly on either side of the delicate porcelain, wine stains and crumbs littering the once pristine white tablecloth, she allowed the noisy buzz of conversation to fade to a background hum as she smiled and nodded mechanically, mind expertly trained to carry on a conversation without absorbing any of the content matter enough to retain it for any significant period of time. Lucius sat on her right, one hand placed protectively on her arm as he smiled and rubbed elbows with none other than her own father, insincere flattery and thinly veiled opportunism oozing from every word. On her left, Mrs. Zabini nattered on about some cold scandal or the other, an inordinate amount of indignation dripping from her words for someone who held no stake in the matter whatsoever.

"- and then, if you can believe it, her son unleashed a stream of obscenities I cannot possibly mention in polite company, and told her in no uncertain terms that he would consort with whatever kind of company he pleased, I mean, the nerve of the boy, running around with that Veela –"

"– we’ve been thinking about making some changes to the Manor ourselves. My mother had impeccable taste, of course, but she understands if we want to make it our own – Cissa has quite the eye for such things, don’t you, darling – and I tell her, Mother, it’s very kind of you – truth be told, I can tell my wife has been itching to remodel –"

Near the top of the table, she could hear her uncle’s booming voice complaining vehemently about some legislation or another, echoed by the usual suspects – the former Lord Lestrange, Lord Mulciber, and her father-in-law, Abraxas. Involuntarily, her gaze lingered on the imposing man, pale hair streaked with white and slicked into a pony at the nape of his neck, trademark sneer splashed across his face, robes as starchy and sharply creased as ever, one massive hand flung over the back of his chair while he campaigned for whichever new extremist measure he wished to impose on the lesser fortunate.

Abraxas Septimus Malfoy. Lord Malfoy.

Husband. Father. Father-in-law.

Considering his dismal performance at all three, she wasn't exactly thrilled that grandfather would soon be the latest addition to the list.

Fingers playing idly with the stem of her wine glass, she let her eyes travel further down the table, past heads bent busily close in conversation and pearly white teeth flashed in gleaming smiles, past sly smirks and furtive glances cast over the tops of glasses by boys at their dates, past children stabbing dully at their food with forks held in fisted hands, all the way to the other end of the table, where her dear sister was holding court, seated at the right of the shark eyed man at the head of the table, a mirror to the stony faced host at the top end. 

The Dark Lord. 

Lord Voldemort.

Vol de mort. Flight from death.

"- nothing better than a gold digger, though I really mustn't say so, what with the company our Lord likes to keep, but I can't help but feel that it's our duty to preserve the English ideals -"

She smiled faintly at the agitated lady next to her, opening her mouth to prattle out something soothing and agreeable - she wasn't even sure what - but it seemed to do the trick, a vindicated look adorning her priggish face. "Exactly, my dear, exactly! These are exactly the sort of values families like those horrid Weasleys refuse to -"

Lucius blathered on. "- we've got our eye on one of those portal conservatories - the new ones that take you right to your preferred flora's native habitat, you know - but we've been a bit busy with more, ah, urgent ventures, and what with -" Here, he lowered his voice to a comically hushed whisper, taking into account the immense threat posed by eavesdropping children and nosy, elderly widows. "- the baby, all our efforts have gone into the nursery -"

Redirecting her attention to the other end of the table, she frowned internally at the spectacle that was her sister figuratively falling over herself to receive scraps of praise from the wizard who'd been suddenly and without warning christened the new Pureblood standard, the messiah who was going to lead them into a new age, a golden age, an age built on blood and devotion and sacrifice –

With a jolt, she realised that the scrutiny she was applying to members of the dinner party was being returned with interest by a boy seated only a few guests away, a boy with charcoal eyes and black hair remarkably unlike her own, in spite of the long standing family tradition of inbreeding (in a rare show of solidarity, both generations of the Blacks had put their foot down and refused to continue the practice of inter House marriages, much to the younger generation’s relief). Strangely enough, she bore absolutely none of her family's characteristic features - blue eyes instead of grey, blonde rather than dark haired, rosy cheeks where there should've been a chalky, practically undead complexion. In this respect, she’d always be a Rosier before she’d be a Black, the most easily accepted of all three both sisters into her mother’s family, the unofficial fifth member of her uncle's household. Really, she resembled even Lucius more closely than she did members of her own family, a fact cemented by the double takes and uncomfortable smiles cast by outsiders before they managed to discern, with poorly concealed relief, that the couple were, in fact, unrelated. 

Her younger cousin regarded her solemnly, giving her a tiny smile and a nod before turning back to his companion – wait a damn minute.

Next to him, thoroughly invested in whatever he was murmuring between lazy sips, hanging onto his every word in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Bella, was none other than the very same Italian girl she'd urged him to pursue, only she'd never thought he'd actually get around to doing it, for since when did he listen to her? All she'd meant to do was simply prod him in the direction of his exceptionally obscured feelings like an overly stubborn horse to water, only for it to turn and run full pelt in the opposite direction!

She viewed the unlikely pair with steadily mounting surprise, indignation already rising in her chest on Dora's behalf, because what in the name of ever-loving fuck was he doing?

Resuming her inspection, she scanned the table with newfound urgency, hunting for flaxen hair and a dreamy expression, and -

Oh, good Lord. (Or Dark Lord, these days...)

Seated about as far as humanly possible from her cousin, laughing rather loudly, was Pandora Rosier. And next to her -

Oh, the horror. The blasphemy.

She fought to keep the grimace off her face as she took in the freak show that was Albert fucking Fawley, with his perfectly coiffed hair and horrifically smug smile, reclining on the chair while he dangled a toothpick from his lips with all the confidence of someone who'd never interacted with the female species before and was convinced they found it wildly attractive (and maybe it was, just a bit, but family loyalty was a thing, differences in appearance notwithstanding.) 

She was possessed with the sudden and violent urge to bang her head against the table, partly at her neighbours' unceasing, mind numbing chatter and partly at the brats' stupidity, and while there was obviously nothing wrong, per se, with what they were doing, it still made her want to grab them by the shoulders and shake some sense into the astonishingly idiotic pair. It was quite evident to anyone with half functioning eyes that the two of them adored each other, so what unique form of self-sabotage was this? 

It was just so odd, really, seeing one without the other, a fundamental sense of wrongness like the world being knocked clean off its axis. What was next, Skeeter propagating responsible, unbiased journalism? Lucius shaving his head? Andromeda returning home?

Narrowing her eyes slightly, she resolved to get to the bottom of the matter at once, restlessly reaching for the fork just for something to fiddle with when all the used silverware vanished with a pop, leaving one hand dangling awkwardly in the air before she made as dignified a retreat as possible. Abraxas Malfoy rose without warning, tapping his fork against his wine glass (of course he gets a fork, she thought uncharitably, inwardly cursing that dratted house elf, doesn't even try to hide his favouritism, the wretch -).

Innumerable crystals dripped from the chandelier far above their heads, emitting a soft, secretive, glowing light, casting his aristocratic cheekbones in sharp relief. His hooded eyes surveyed the crowd slowly, drinking in their attention until he knew with surety that his audience waited with bated breath for whatever trivial bit of information he was going to dangle in front of the gossip mongers, like bloody bait being dangled in front of a shark.

"My friends." He began, voice echoing throughout the hall. "I have gathered you all here today not merely as an excuse to see your beautiful faces," He paused, smirking indulgently while the crowd tittered.

"Nonsense!" Someone (the senior Mr. Yaxley, she thought) shouted over the party’s low hum of laughter. "You’ve been ogling my arse all night."

The audience burst into peals of mildly scandalised laughter, casting fond looks at Yaxley, who was already well on his way to drinking himself into a stupor, if the high, pink spots on his otherwise pale skin were anything to go by.

Her father-in-law laughed along good naturedly with the rest of them, though it wasn't too difficult to spot the gleam of impatience in his eyes, the tightness in his profile, the harsh grip on his glass. "Be that as it may," He raised a hand, motioning for the guests to settle down, which they, of course, did, like good, docile sheep. "I did have something rather more important in mind when I came up with this delightful dinner party. You see, my son –" Lucius’ grip tightened momentarily as nearly all heads swivelled towards them, and she was overcome with a wave of anxiety so intense that she actually had to put the glass down, lest she drop it and spill red wine all over her powder blue gown. "– and his lovely wife -" Lovely, right, I'm sure you think so. "- have an announcement to make." Smiling benevolently at his only son, he settled down and made himself comfortable, leaning back as if to say, all yours.

Lucius slipped into the role of good host seamlessly, standing and holding out a hand to help her up, ever the polite gentleman. She smiled sweetly up at him with practiced ease – the ideal wife - and took her place by his side, gazing out at the cavernous reception hall. She rested one hand in the folds of her dress, not quite on her belly, but near enough that moving it at the opportune time would seem natural.

Like her, he took a moment to gaze out at the crowd, drinking in their faces, and she wondered absently what he was thinking, what he thought when he looked at this wealth, this excess; if it ever struck him as unnatural, unearned, unfair, and instantly dismissed the notion as soon as it occurred to her. She loved him - truly, she did - but she definitely hadn't fallen for his moral compass.

More likely than not, his mind was spinning the message that would garner the most sympathetic response, attract the most emotional appeal - she’d told him time and again that he should have just been a lawyer, the Council of Magical Law wouldn’t have known what hit them – but she supposed a politician (and unofficial businessman) worked just as well, if not better – she was yet to meet a witch or a wizard who her husband was unable to charm (Bella being the long standing exception).

"Ladies, gentlemen and respected children –" He paused to smile dotingly at the titters and adoring laughter from the younger ages in the audience, gap toothed grins and tiny hands clapping for him in delight. "– my wonderful, beautiful, perfect wife and I –" Another pause, this time to allow cooing murmurs, heartfelt sighs and overlapping awws to ripple their way through the guests, and she blushed in spite of herself. "– have a rather important announcement to make.” Another pause, this time for dramatic effect – and though she wanted to roll her eyes and tell him to get on with it, she let him have his fun, although there wasn’t much point to it – there was little else a recently married couple would gather their relations (and reporters – Skeeter was lurking somewhere at the back of the hall) to make an announcement for. “You see, my one and only love, Narcissa Black Malfoy, is pregnant.”

It was at this point she placed her hand on her belly as planned, leaning forward and allowing her blonde tresses to obscure her carefully blushing face as the crowd let out a roar of approval, congratulations being shouted from different sections of the table with varying levels of propriety depending on the degree of drunkenness. Lucius beamed at the crowd while her father began a round of applause, seats scraping against the floor as they were pushed back in order for their occupants to stand and clap, overjoyed. Bella was screaming incoherently from her end, while her mother was wiping honest-to-Merlin tears from her eyes with a lilac handkerchief, and she was a tad bit alarmed at the overwhelming tide of emotion sweeping through the hall, highly unwarranted yet startlingly, frighteningly genuine. Even the Dark Lord was on his feet, clapping slowly, and she resigned herself to hearing Lucius gloat about the same for the entirety of next week (at a minimum - a month was far more realistic). 

It was too much.

It was everything. 

Unconsciously, she prised herself out of his grip to wave at the crowd, grinning wildly, and the applause rose to a fever pitch, smiles all around. It was quite strange, how honestly happy people seemed, and it dawned on her that this might just have been the first bit of good news, the first truly lighthearted announcement they'd heard ever since this war had started, ever since announcements began meaning recruitment calls and power transfers, since news itself had taken on a negative connotation, one of hurt and death and darkness. Of pain. Of sorrow.

People wanted this. People needed this.

She let herself get lost in the noise.

Chapter Text

If she had to listen to Nymph perform yet another off tune variation of that ridiculous rhyme about some godforsaken black sheep giving away his wool, she might just have to murder someone. Preferably Ted. Or maybe herself. It didn't really help that a song about black sheep was a bit on the nose for Andromeda's current living situation, but convincing a child to stop doing something they loved was easier said than done. Besides, she wasn't her father.

When Ted had mentioned wanting to introduce Nymph to Muggle culture, she’d jumped at the chance of displaying yet again that she was absolutely nothing like her bigoted assholes of estranged relatives and had, with her darling mother in law’s help, instantly purchased this fascinating little toy machine and stick (called karaoke, apparently) for Nymph’s fourth birthday. Her daughter had been delighted. Ted, who'd had some inkling of their daughter's singing abilities (or lack thereof), had not.

Now, as many lovely qualities her darling daughter was blessed with, a good singing voice was markedly not one of them. Unfortunately, she'd found this out after the first ear splitting rendition of twinkle, twinkle, little star (one of the only Muggle rhymes that made a remote bit of sense), by which time both child and the machine were, regrettably, inseparable.

From where she’d banished Nymph and her husband to the other end of the house, came the faint but unmistakable sound of the dratted machine playing the intro to another accursed nursery rhyme (this one something incomprehensible about an egg on a wall) and she thumped her head against the bedrest in despair. She supposed it would be marginally more bearable if she sang some halfway decent muggle music (she was particularly fond of David Bowie, even if Ted laughed and called her mainstream), but Nymph seemed fixated on the overly saccharine, irritatingly repetitive children’s songs.

Shaking her head, she tried to concentrate on today’s paper. (The Daily Prophet. Even if it was filled with propaganda and overly dramatised trash most of the time, reading it every morning was one habit among many inculcated in her by her father Cygnus Black since a very young age, and unlike the others, one she was not inclined to break.)

As expected, it was filled with the usual bullshit – stricter Ministry laws, illogical amendments to existing Acts, inhumane punishments enforced for the most mundane of crimes, with fines markedly higher for those with muddy blood than for the purest of the pure. The Wizengamot capitulating to each and every demand placed by the blood purist lobby. Attacks on muggles and muggleborns treated with alarming casualness, often given a small piece near the bottom of the page, perhaps accompanied by a consolation and minor compensation given by some low level Ministry employee, if they were lucky.

Swallowing a bitter taste in the back of her mouth, she turned the page to the real reason she still bought the damned thing.

DEATHS

Holding her breath, she scanned the list.

Only three names today.

Breathing a deep, heartfelt sigh of relief, she realised that none of the names even remotely rang a bell. Perhaps it was wrong to be glad, to savour the sweet, cool feeling of brief respite when somebody else’s world had been irrevocably changed for the worse, but deep down, to an ill seated sense of shame, she found that she didn’t really care. Not even a little bit.

As long as it’s not us.

As long as it’s not them.

Exhaling harshly through her nose, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and moved to shut the paper before one of the end pages fell out and fluttered its way to the ground. Grumbling, she bent down to pick it up.

And froze.

Staring up at her from the cracked, uneven tiled floor of their dilapidated North London flat was a face she knew better than the one in the mirror.

Large, alluring ice blue eyes and lustrous platinum blonde hair that the black and white photograph couldn't do justice to. A heart shaped face and rosy skin. A girl who looked for all the world like one of the princesses in Nymph’s bedtime stories, only she wasn’t really a girl anymore, was she?

Childhood innocence given way to youthful beauty. Eyes that, even through the newspaper, no longer shined with the sort of idealistic zeal of little girls with the world at their feet. A hand that was no longer clasped in her own, but rather held by a man, a man who’d put a ring on her finger and the chain of obligation around her neck.

She’d grown up.

When had she grown up?

NOBLE HOUSE OF MALFOYS ALL SET TO WELCOME NEW LIFE

In a celebration that rivalled the likes of various Royal wizarding families all over the world, Malfoy Heir Apparent announces joyful news

by Rita Skeeter

Yesterday evening saw this very reporter hobnobbing with the country’s elite witches and wizards at the famously lavish ancestral Malfoy Manor. Yes, dear reader, you got that right. Humble old Rita rubbing elbows with the most esteemed Pureblood Lords and Ladies on the continent. What, you may ask, could be the reason for this honor?

When asked, Lord Malfoy made it abundantly clear that I was 'the only reporter we trust in that damned rag, dear'. While the wording left much to be desired, I couldn’t help but preen at that statement.

The curious mind may wonder what exactly caused the country’s top 1% of taxpayers to gather in the grand 30x23 meter ballroom, especially in such frightful times?

Well, the answer is simple, and a beacon of light in such times of strife.

In a brief, wholesome statement, Heir Malfoy, Lucius Abraxas, announced that his wife, the lovely Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, was expecting. The baby is due to be born in mid-January.

When asked whether the couple had a preference for the child’s gender, the bashful mother stated, simply and clearly, that the only thing that mattered to them was that the baby should be ‘happy and healthy’. Such sentiments are rare to come by, and refreshing to see. Truly, they don’t call her the queen of Pureblood society for nothing.

Sources close to the couple reveal that Heir Black, Regulus Arcturus Black II, is the top contender for the honor of godfather. When asked regarding the wisdom of placing their child’s future in such a young (though undoubtedly competent) boy’s hands, Mrs. Malfoy unequivocally declared that there was ‘no one, other than my husband and myself, that I’d rather trust my child with’. Despite initial reservations, this reporter has to agree that the quiet, endearing boy makes sense, both politically and emotionally speaking, as top choice. (Is Heir Black truly as good an example as his family makes him out to be? Scandalous sighting hints otherwise, Page 23.)

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the baby’s godmother. Lady Lestrange, though a prominent, vocal and active figure in politics, is hardly the epitome of respectable. Call me biased, but I simply do not see how the belligerent woman can ever set a good example for a gutter child, let alone a baby born into a family reeking of elegance.

When questioned politely concerning the suitability of such a choice, Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black, butted into the conversation herself and spewed forth a barrage of foulness this reporter would never dream of repeating.

One finds themselves questioning her mental stability the longer they converse with her….

There was more, but it was mainly just Skeeter ranting on and on about ‘insane’ Bellatrix who was apparently a ‘danger to civilised society’ and displayed ‘appalling behaviour and even worse table manners’ throughout the meal. They always did have that strange rivalry back in Hogwarts, she recalled distractedly. She’d had to regrow Bella’s hair more than a few times after the Skeeter bitch took a hunk out of it.

She turned back to the photo.

One hand on her stomach, she beamed up at the camera, and though she could see the tension in the corners of her eyes, the slight wariness in her expression, her smile seemed genuine enough. Even the Malfoy prat seemed overjoyed, with no traces of fear to be seen for miles. She wanted to slap him.

You idiot, you’re having a child in the middle of a war. One that you’re a prominent player in, as a matter of fact.

Was he that confident of victory?

Perhaps he knew that no matter the outcome, the Malfoy name would emerge unscathed. Why wouldn’t it? They certainly had enough money, enough power, enough influence. It’s not like his support for the Dark Lord’s cause could be conclusively proven, anyhow. Plausible deniability. She had no doubt every cash trail, every minuscule trail of evidence, every witness, even, had been dealt with swiftly and accordingly.

Usually, the thought of their corrupt justice system, of blood money and dirty politics, left a sick taste in her mouth (are they worth more than us simply because they’re wealthy? Because their blood is the right colour?), but not this time. She couldn't find it in herself to feel disgusted, not when it meant the safety of the little girl who’d once looked at her like there was no one else in this world or the next she'd rather spend her time with, like giggling with her and fighting over sweets and sharing secrets was the best thing in her life, like Andromeda was the best thing in her life. She just couldn’t. She couldn’t begrudge her little sister the privilege of raising a child in whatever little safety her status afforded her, not when she knew how dearly she'd hoped for the same. She just wished she could offer little Nymph the same courtesy.

In any case, Cissy deserved this. She deserved a husband who wouldn’t be carted off to Azkaban despite whatever dubious choices he'd made, and she deserved a husband who loved her, truly loved her, just like Ted did Andromeda. In spite of her ambivalence (creeping steadily in the direction of deep dislike) towards the slick blonde man, she couldn’t deny that he loved her. She’d seen it enough times, over the years, seen it in the way his eyes followed her when she moved, the way his own mouth curled up when her sister laughed, the way he gazed at her like there was no one else in the room, for there wasn’t, not for him.

So she looked at the photo, tracing the contours of her sister’s face with one gentle finger, and wished her well.

Good luck, Cissy. I hope your child is happy and healthy.

I hope Lucius treats you well.

I hope you’re happy.

I hope you’ll think of me, once in a while.

I hope you’ll tell the kid all about me.

Don’t forget me.

Please, don’t forget me, not when I can see your ghost in every room.

A drop landed on the photo, followed by another. Shakily, she raised her sleeve to dab at her wet eyes, cursing her sentimentality. Why are you crying over her? She hates you, and good riddance. She’s just like the rest of them. You know that. You know.

She wiped the drops off the page, smudging the face of some Ministry official in the process.

Close the paper. Just close it. This isn’t doing you any good.

Instead, she simply bent over it again, eyes hungrily scanning each and every inch of the grainy, half page black and white capture, desperate to glean any news she could about her sister, about her family –

There.

One pointy elbow clad in a gauzy lace glove. A few stray curls drifting into the frame on the upper right corner. A glimpse of a full black ballgown skirt sweeping over the marble steps. A woman clad in daringly plunging necklines and unfaltering confidence. Someone she’d once thought the world of, and someone she tried her hardest never to think about again.

She wasn’t an idiot, after all. She knew Bellatrix, knew what she thought of those inferior to her, of common filth and impure blood, of Ted. Knew that along with Black blood, the infamous Black family madness sang in her veins, knew it by her maniacal grin and the bloodthirsty fervour in the eyes that more often than not decorated the front page of the Prophet most days, generally accompanied by headlines that sang her praises and lauded the new Lady Lestrange’s ‘dedication to magical law enforcement’. If Cissy’s was a face she’d hardly seen since leaving the Manor all those years ago, Bellatrix’s was one she’d had the fortune misfortune of seeing on a near daily basis. If there was one thing the Skeeter bitch had got right, it was that Bellatrix was exerting an unprecedented amount of influence in Ministry politics for the Lady of a Noble House. It would have been far more suitable for her to settle down in some country Lestrange estate and pop out a few babies, ensure the continuation of the Lestrange line before gracefully rejoining high society, just another ambitious, brilliant woman turned bitter and cynical by the unforgiving claws of the patriarchy.

Bellatrix, however, had never cared for any of that.

Her stubbornness had been one of the many things she’d admired envied most in her elder sister – if Bellatrix didn’t want to do something, she wouldn’t, even if one hung her upside down by her toenails (a method employed by her despairing father for all of ten seconds before he lost his nerve and let her down). She did what she wanted, when she wanted, and the best worst part was that she always got away with it. Even though Andromeda was three years younger and much more well behaved than her hot headed elder sister, she wouldn’t have escaped a well-aimed jinx or two for the mildest of her sister’s antics.

Bella, though? They’d have let her set the house on fire simply because they knew it was futile to try to stop her. Better to enjoy the show while it lasted and deal with the repercussions later. She was sort of like a force of nature, as inevitable and destructive as the storms that whipped through the North Sea.

She’d always wanted to be more like her, to be her, to do what she wanted and fuck the consequences, but she’d never quite dared. And the one time in her life she had, the one time she’d dared to think for herself, to put herself first – well. That was a story best forgotten.

She hated her. She loved her.

Bellatrix, the godmother. It was an odd thought, though strangely comforting in the sense that if it couldn’t be her, she'd rather it be Bellatrix than some nameless, faceless Malfoy aunt.

She’s changed, a small, insidious voice whispered in the back of her head. Fueled by hate and only hate. She’ll turn that child into a monster.

She’d heard the rumors, of course. Torturing muggleborns. Killing muggles. Burning down businesses and terrifying innocent people whose only fault was their parentage.

They were all mostly lies, anyway, she argued. Bellatrix could be vicious, but she wasn’t sadistic. She’d never –

Oh, really? What about the time she’d thrown a stone at that baby kneazle? Or the time she’d –

Shut up.

Cissy’d never let her child near anyone like that, anyway. You remember how she was with Regulus.

She smiled faintly at the thought even as she swiped tears from her cheeks with trembling hands.

She’d never been that close to him – all her visits to Grimmauld Place had always been taken up by Sirius, something in him recognising her as another kindred spirit, another misfit, even as a small child, even when Andromeda and Sirius had been the pride and joy of both their respective parents – but Cissy?

Oh, she’d adored him.

Clasping his hand, she'd lugged him around parties and balls and galas like a particularly treasured doll and introduced him proudly to all her friends - my little brother, she used to say loftily in an amusingly aristocratic voice, while the boy in question would do his best to hide behind her. It was a bit like watching a mother dragon guard her eggs – the moment any of them upset him in the slightest, she used to spit fire at them, protectively shielding the little boy while glaring at the perpetrators and berating them in a clear, high pitched voice. Sometimes, Andromeda thought she seemed more affected than the actual target of the teasing, not that there was much teasing to begin with. It was a bit hard to bully someone when they were looking at you with those enormous doe eyes – sort of took the wind right out of your sails. Besides, if there was one thing Aunt Walburga cared about more than wasteful, needless extravagance, it was her second born. None of them much fancied being hexed silent for an indeterminate amount of time for daring to upset her darling little prince.

She stared dully at the page, watching her wave at the photographer, over and over, till the simple movement was ingrained in her mind, from the little twitch of her fingers as she lifted her hand to the dainty twist of her wrist. Narcissa.

She read the article again. And again. And again and again and again until each word was seared into her mind, when one phrase she'd previously skimmed over snagged her attention. 

Is Heir Black truly as good an example as his family makes him out to be? Scandalous sighting hints otherwise, Page 23.

Frowning, she turned to the highlighted page, flipping through advertisements and grimly worded headlines till she was faced with a blurry shot more suited to some low level tabloid than the national newspaper.

A large, lawn facing balcony (both belonging to Malfoy Manor, if she wasn't mistaken). The angle of the shot possible only if the photographer happened to be on the balcony with them.

Two silhouettes, entwined against the moon.

Above the photo, a blazing headline.

Rosier daughter cheating on betrothed with Heir Black? Fawleys shocked, 'dismayed'

"Oh, good Lord."

Chapter Text

Viscous, syrupy gold sunlight pressed down on his eyelids, turning their insides a garish shade of orange, and he nestled deeper within the covers, burying his face in the strawberry scented pillowcase. He'd just about managed to fall back into that drowsy liminal space between wakefulness and sleep, when -

Thwack.

"Ow!" He cried groggily, flailing away from his attacker, limbs tangled in the messy sheets. Blinking blearily at his surroundings, all he could make out of the room was swirls of colour and thick beams of light stabbing into his eye sockets, blending together in one bright, indecipherable mess. 

Thwack. Thwack.

"Fuck -" He croaked, scrambling back from his assailant, scrabbling for his wand in his robes only to find empty, lint filled pockets and a scrap of frayed paper. Unable to find any handy weapon of defence in his thick cloak (why on earth was he sleeping in this thing?), he resorted to desperate, more undignified measures, raising his hands in supplication. "Stop! Please! Ugh -"

Thwack.

He fell off the bed, right at a pair of pink, fuzzy slippered feet, nose mere inches away from the beady eyes of a comically stuffed rabbit's head perched atop one shoe. He didn't think it was real. He hoped it wasn't real. Squinting, he tried to discern the finer details of the stuffing, when -

Thwack.

"Ah! What the fuck -"

As his vision swam and he nearly puked the contents of his poor, abused stomach onto the fancy carpet, he grew vaguely aware of a voice berating him from far above. 

"- were you thinking? Do you have any idea what this will do to your reputation? To mine? Right after we vouched for your character in front of the entire country, too! Oh, I could just -" The end of her sentence dissolved into a wordless growl of frustration. 

Timorously, he raised his head, wincing at the influx of harsh, bright light, only to find his own cousin standing over him, brandishing a tightly rolled newspaper like a battle axe. She caught him looking and glared at him so furiously that he almost found himself wishing Lucius were here, if only to stand between his irate, clearly deranged wife and her latest innocent victim.

He grimaced. Wishing for Lucius? Things must be more dire than he'd realised.

"Well, don't just lie there! Get up!"

Gingerly propping himself up on his elbows, he chanced another sly glance upwards, preemptively cringing away in the face of another good, solid whack to the back of his head by her unconventional (yet devastatingly efficient) weapon. Fortunately, her attention had seemingly strayed towards the actual contents of the paper, a crease marring her perfectly even brows as she skimmed the news, indignation and disbelief warring for superiority on her face.

He promptly took the chance to slither away, stopping only when his back hit the sideboard, banging his elbow on the bedpost in his haste, and he cursed his luck and whichever money grabbing carpenter had thought it profitable to sell the bed without the officially mandated cushioning charms (really, what if Cissy's child hit their head?), and once he was at what he boldly deemed an acceptable way out of range, he cleared his throat, wincing sharply at how dry it was. "What in the name of Merlin is wrong with you?" He croaked, sounding like a desiccated chainsmoker with at least a few centuries worth of grizzled experience under his belt.

She whirled on him, expression so appalled that he couldn't quite stop a mildly hysterical laugh from bubbling out his throat, which only served to make her more enraged than ever.

"Wrong with me?" She seethed. "What on earth is wrong with you?"

Light burned his retinas, increasing the steady throbbing in his head, and he blinked at the sudden vehemence in her tone. "Excuse me? I'm not the one waking my guests by attempting to mug them with a newspaper." A sudden thought occurred to him, and he continued before she could get a word in edgeways. "Why am I here? Shouldn't I be home?" He inquired querulously.

Her mouth fell open. "You don't even remember? You little drunkard -" She broke off, taking a deep breath and making a marked effort to control her voice. "What do you remember about last night? Think, Regulus, think."

"Last night?" He shook his head, nonplussed. "What about it? The party -" He stopped, memories rushing back like water through a dam, and realised pretty soon how genuinely, massively fucked he was.

He remembered the announcement, ripples of joy and warmth and hope making their way through the crowd, his cousin and her husband firmly at its centre, beaming so brightly it almost hurt to see, a funny squashed sort of feeling behind his ribs, like his heart had twisted itself into knots and was reaching upwards and trying to crawl into his throat, filling it with a massive lump, and he remembered wishing with an unprecedented sort of certainty -

What did he wish?

He couldn't remember, or even if he did, there was just no way to put it into words, no way to explain it to an outsider or rationalise it even to himself, for it wasn't so much of wishing as it was yearning, longing, a desperate, reckless sort of hope rising in his chest, a myriad little whispers and faint, tiny voices tangling together and entwining to form the shape of one shameful, rarely spoken word -

Please. 

Please, please, please.

He remembered Sienna, Sienna with her sheet of straight, glossy black hair and slightly lopsided nose, rosebud lips and sultry Italian accent, smiling prettily up at him from their little nook on the side of the room -

He remembered trying to focus on her face, swirling the bubbly golden liquid absentmindedly in his glass, trying to look her in the eyes but looking past her instead, past the band and the tables and the guests to the blonde girl whirling around the room in the arms of some Sleekeazy using prick, flowers in her hair matching her periwinkle dress, aquamarines inlaid in a delicate gold necklace nestled on her sternum, bringing out the blue in her eyes -

He remembered the shadows flitting across the dance floor, skirts twirling and cloaks billowing, hands on shoulders and on waists, cupping faces and in hair -

He remembered Evan pulling them into an anteroom of sorts, bribing Dobby to bring them a couple cases of the best fire whiskey in return for the promise of a glowing review of his service to the master of the house, their own unofficial party of sorts while guests continued schmoozing in the main room, fifteen or so of the young and the bored sprawled on divans and settees and getting themselves drunk, drunk, so very drunk -

He remembered catching Dora's eye while Evan conducted some inane drinking game, raising his glass to take a long draw for something she knew very well he'd never done, daring her to say a word, only she did the same herself, and it became a game of sorts, drinking in a blatant violation of the rules only the other could catch, eyeing each other over the rims of their crystal glasses -

He remembered drifting upstairs, laughing freely with some boy he couldn't quite remember the name of, the odd, mismatched company making a fair bit of noise trying to navigate the deserted back staircase, giggling and having to catch themselves on banisters, on each other -

He remembered dancing in some lengthy corridor, only dancing would be a generous term for what they were doing, for all they seemed to be capable of was jumping up and down like maniacs or swaying dangerously to some seductively crooning wizard pop Theo Rowle had managed to coax out of one of the many stuffy portraits adorning the walls, though how, he'd never know -

He remembered snagging Dora's wrist after their hundredth or so prolonged, weirdly electric eye contact, pulling her into this very room and out onto the balcony and -

"Oh, no." He groaned, burying his head in his hands. "Oh, no."

"That's all you have to say?" She all but shrieked. "She's betrothed, you buffoon! To that fool, of all people! Albert Fawley? Really? How the fuck did you manage that?"

He groaned again, head filled with cotton, and closed his eyes at the onslaught. "Why do you care?" He mumbled scratchily. He'd kill for some water, he reflected distractedly, perhaps some toast -

His eyes flew open. "How do you know that?" He yelped, voice an octave higher than usual, staring at her wide eyed. 

"Who doesn't know, nitwit!" She yelled, flinging the paper at his head, which he managed to catch without looking away from her enraged face (Seeker reflexes really did come in handy, sometimes). "Go on! Look through it, come on!"

He frowned. "What?"

She marched over, snatching it from his still outstretched hands, tearing through the pages so furiously he feared they'd rip, till she found whatever she was looking for and shoved it into his face. Screwing up his eyes, he tried in vain to decipher the blocky text, gave up, and turned to her helplessly. "Can't read."

"Oh, for goodness' sake." She withdrew her wand from the sleeve of her pristine white robe and tapped it on the paper. "There."

Clear as day, he could hear an androgynous voice speaking with diction even his father would be proud of.

Rosier daughter cheating on betrothed with Heir Black? Fawleys shocked, 'dismayed'

It was his turn to grab the paper, gaping at the lurid image splashed across half the page, two shadowy figures kissing each other against the balcony's dangerously low railing, breaking apart and coming together again in the photo's never ending loop, replaying over and over again for the nation's entertainment.

His mouth opened and closed several times like a fish before blurting out, guiltily and like a child caught breaking a vase, "This isn't me!"

She glared pointedly at the signet ring glinting on his hand, the same hand which was repetitively pushing itself into the girl's hair and catching the scanty light most spectacularly. "Oh, really?" She replied, tone dripping venom. "You fool!" 

Wringing her hands, she turned to pace the floor, muttering to herself anxiously and suddenly looking like she was about to cry. "Right after we declared you godfather, too." She bemoaned, casting her eyes upwards for a glimpse of some higher power which could possibly be their saving grace but finding only the vaguely demonic fresco of nightmarish creatures and strategically naked witches and wizards cavorting in some dark, gnarly wood instead. (He thought it was that forest in Romania - the one with the trees misshapen courtesy of the giant armies which trampled through it on their way to war decades ago - though why the Malfoys had deemed it appropriate decoration for an otherwise bland guest room was beyond him.)

Casting his eyes back at the paper, he tentatively tapped the body of the article, and the voice started off again, in perfect Queen's English.

Pandora Estelle Rosier, firstborn and only daughter of trade magnet Marcus Rosier (fifth in line to the ancestral Rosier empire), was recently betrothed to Albert Maurice Fawley (only son of Heir Fawley and his natural successor) in a quiet ceremony at the former's country estate last Saturday. Since then, the couple had been sporadically spotted together, mostly at the course for winged polo in Sussex. Sources close to the family say that the couple are due to be engaged any day now, and that both families wanted a simple, austere ceremony 'appropriate to the horrific, trying times our world is faced with now'.

While this reporter had noted that the pair were oddly detached for teenagers freshly in love, never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that something far more scandalous may be going on behind the scenes.

Heir Black, recently named godfather of his firstborn child by Heir Malfoy in an extravagant celebration at Malfoy Manor last night, was spotted in a passionate embrace with the already spoken for Miss Rosier at the very same celebration at which he was so honoured by being declared 'an excellent example for our child' by Lady Malfoy herself.

An anonymous Hogwarts student reveals that this comes as no surprise to the majority of the student population. "We always thought they were dating, like. Cuz they were always attached at the hip and allat. Never thought we'd see her engaged to someone else, but it makes a whole lotta sense now, if you ask me."

When asked about Heir Black, the student revealed -

"Give me that." She snapped, ripping it out of his hands and folding it with brisk, vigorous gestures. "No need to read all of it."

He didn't bother protesting. 

After a moment, she cast him a pitying glance, uncharacteristic anger evaporated as soon as it came. "Well. Nothing to be done now, I suppose." Sighing, she turned towards the door, then paused, glancing back at him over her shoulder. "Get dressed, Reg. Change out of those ridiculous clothes."

He made a face. "Why?"

She hesitated, then turned to face him fully again. "Your first lesson with the Dark Lord is today."

Chapter Text

Barging into the office with long, surefooted strides on the heels of some poor, underpaid grunt on his way to the daily harassment of being forced to work with idiots like Rita Skeeter, she let the frosted glass door (muffled with at least four different varieties of muffling and anti-eavesdropping charms, some of which happened to be legitimate, while others were decidedly not, not if she could hear the sordid details of Bobby's affair with his freshly graduated secretary all the way from the other end of the lobby) swing carelessly shut behind her perfectly straight back. 

A hush descended on the employees as she strode in, opting either to avert their eyes or gape, or in a few daring cases (the most notable of which being Molly Prewett, all the way from her rickety little desk at the back of the office), glare at her with the rage of a thousand suns in their beady little eyes. She reckoned word of her nocturnal activities must have made the rounds - possibly even faster than the juicy bit about Bobby and his extramarital activities - and that the people, the righteous public, the good citizens of this magnificent country, had collectively declared her a monster for the same. A monster! For ridding the filth that stalks their lands, that eats their money, that steals their magic and puts them out of business, out of jobs. The filth that had disguised itself so well as their equals that even eradicating it seemed a sin in the eyes of those who were content to sit back and let those dirty halfbreeds poison their magic, Mother Magic, she who gave them life -

No matter. They couldn't touch her if they didn't have proof, and not for a fair bit after that, either. Roddy would make sure of it.

She marched through the cubicles, identical blocks of sad grey plywood adorned with the occasional cheerfully waving family and wilting flowers in dingy vases in an unsuccessful attempt to make the office feel more like a healthy workplace and less like a gaol. No, she amended. Even a gaol gave you meals, and yard time too, she supposed - not that she had any intention of experiencing the wonders of prison amenities any time soon, of course. Merlin forbid!

Someone cleared their throat. 

She spun slowly on her heel, arching her eyebrow at the terrified looking skimpy blonde secretary in front of her (was this Bobby's illicit lover?). "Yes?" She prompted, just as if she owned the office and all the people in it - which she could, if she wished to acquire ownership of a paper with about as much credibility as those porny rags Rabastan loved to leave strewn all over their house whenever he visited, which was unfortunately all the damn time. Fortunately for the Lestrange vault, she happened to possess more common sense than Skeeter typically credited her with, and the Prophet's ownership remained safely with whosoever it was made their money off of the public's undying curiosity. Some inferior Pureblood family, if she remembered correctly. Miller? Mew? Not Sacred 28, but enough generations had passed without dirt marrying into their family for them to be considered second rate Purebloods. Enough to avoid the wrath of their Lord. New money.

"Can I help you?" Affair Girl squeaked, eyes darting between her flinty eyes, her curly, wild strands escaping her precarious up-do, and her breasts, which were in danger of spilling out of their dangerously low-cut black dress. Possibly inappropriate office attire, but Bellatrix liked to dress her best for revenge. "You can, actually." She began haughtily. "You can tell that Skeeter bitch to haul her flat little ass out here, stat."

Affair Girl actually gasped.

On second thought, she didn't seem to have the type of guts it took to have an affair with her own boss - besides, the girl had stared at her breasts long enough to map them, which seemed decidedly gay - and in return for the ego boost, she made sure to give her the smile, complete with fluttering eyelashes and a subtle wink.

Cutie blinked. Swallowed. Her hands twitched at her side, rising up to tuck her hair behind her ear, only to think better of the action and drop it halfway through. Shame.

"I - I can take you to her office, Madam Lestrange." She spoke in a quivering voice. "If you'd like."

She pretended to consider it. "Are her legs in working order?"

Cutie frowned, clueless. "Yes?"

"Then what, pray tell, is the problem in bringing her out here? Too common for Her Majesty?"

Cutie looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her up. "O-Of course, Madam. I mean Lady. I mean my Lady -" Swallowing, she made a funny little bobbing motion with her head - was that supposed to be a bow? - and scampered off in the opposite direction. Oh, she was adorable.

During the five minute long interlude it took her adoring fan to make the round trip to the ogre's den, she made a show of fanning herself, fixing her makeup in a little mirror kept on the desk of some pudgy, middle-aged brunette executive, smudging her lipstick just the teensiest bit - it drove Roddy crazy, most of the time - and did an excellent overall job of acting like an airhead trophy wife with more money than sense.

When Cutie returned, it was with a dismayed expression that instantly set her on edge.

"Miss -" She began, but she spoke over her. "She wants me to come see her, is that it?" She snapped.

Cringing, she nodded. 

She sighed. "Sounds like her." Tossing the mirror back onto the desk, causing the employee to flinch away like she'd give her the plague if she came too close, she turned, giving her full attention to the contrite secretary. "Lead the way, Miss....?"

"Daniels." She chirped. "Madison Daniels."

Halfblood. 

Outwardly, she didn't let a shred of her sudden repulsion show on her face. Smiling pleasantly, she started in the same direction as the secretary had earlier, making a conscious effort not to brush shoulders with the girl obediently trailing after her.

Filthy halfbreed.

Soon enough, they came to a stop in front of an oaken door, indistinguishable from the ten or so identical others lining the corridor, save the tiny plaque at eye level stating the name and position of the occupant of each room in tiny, ornate black letters. 

RITA SKEETER

Gossip Correspondent

"This is it." She piped up from her place a respectable few paces behind her. 

Be gracious, she reminded herself. Forcing a smile onto her face, she turned and regarded the fidgeting girl. "Thank you, Madison." 

"You're welcome." She beamed, all nerves from earlier forgotten. Hurting her now would be a bit like kicking a trusting puppy, and Bellatrix was reluctant to do it for the sole reason that there was simply no need to make an enemy of a girl she'd likely never see again. Not that she'd ever had much of a problem kicking puppies - dogs were dirty creatures, snarling and snapping whenever she got too close - and puppies got on her nerves, what with how soft and stupid they were, how fragile, how helpless. She'd never had much patience for the weak and destitute - Cissy had always been much more for that sort of thing. 

Holding her tongue, she merely smiled at her again before entering the office without bothering to knock.

It was a pretty cushy office, comparatively - the flimsy cubicles had been swapped for a modest little wooden desk, a bookshelf, and a floor-to-ceiling window giving a spectacular view of the dingy brick wall opposite. Her dragonhide boots made imprints on the dusty beige carpet as she stalked into the room, eyes locked on the woman reclining in the chair behind it. 

"Skeeter." She said, clipped.

She didn't respond, motioning instead to the dangerously teetering chair on the other side of the desk. Like she was the Minister of bloody Magic!

A notice board took up most of the left wall, covered with steadily fading clippings and pieces, all authored by the prince-nez sporting woman seated across from her. Prince-nez? What was she, eighty? To her chagrin, she spotted the morning's infamous articles pinned right in the middle of the board, partially covering a full page spread about the cheating scandals in some winged polo race or the other - one of the Prewett twins had been accused of rigging the race, if she recalled correctly, though these races were an absolute bore - she almost wanted to thank Prewett for finally bringing some spice into the sport's stuffy life.

Flopping down onto the chair, she let out a low, insolent whistle. "Nice pad."

It was not, in fact, nice. There was mould on the walls and water stains on the ceiling, but it seemed to do the trick, Skeeter's antagonistic expression changing into something less hostile and more smug. "Thank you. I was promoted this year."

She cocked her head. "Promoted? Really?"

At her proud answering nod, she pouted. "That's strange. I wasn't aware they rewarded their employees for lying to the nation."

Skeeter raised an eyebrow, still smug. "Who said anything about lying? I assure you, all my stories are perfectly legitimate. Easily verifiable, as well."

The nerve of this bitch.

She considered the desk, lazily tracing the grains in the wood with one ringed finger. "Purely factual, you mean?"

She inclined her head. "Exactly."

"I see. So my being -" She inspected the paper a couple of feet to the left of her head, held in place with a little yellow pin. "- 'belligerent', and 'certifiably insane' is a fact too, then?"

"Like I said." She drew her words out. "Purely factual."

She regarded her cooly; Bellatrix stared back. "And what of my cousin? Didn't you describe him as - hm, let's see - 'dumber than a mountain troll, and twice as slow'? Or was your favourite line 'illiterate, entitled nincompoop who swans around Hogwarts like he owns it'?" She shook her head incredulously. "He does own it, you know. If you're going to spread rumours, you might as well do your homework first. The Blacks are on the Board of Directors, actually." 

"The Board -" She snapped. "- is an organisation. A body. No individual can claim to possess sole ownership of the school, for all members have an equal share."

She waved her hand. "Technicalities. Who did you even interview for that piece, anyway? Some salty broad he rejected? No, wait - it was some Seeker he beat at Quidditch, wasn't it? That statement reeks of jealously."

"Actually, I didn't interview anyone."

"What, one of your underlings did it for you?"

"No, because I didn't write that piece."

She stared at her blankly. "Excuse me?"

Skeeter rose, gently detaching the article from the board, and passed it to Bellatrix, holding the paper by the tips of her fingers, taking care not to let her hand brush against her own, something she tried to ignore but stung anyway. "See? Anonymous."

She glanced back up at her, shocked. "Is that even legal? How -" Her voice failed her. She could've sworn Skeeter had written that piece -

She met her gaze, suddenly furious. "Don't you fucking lie to me, Skeeter. Your nasty little fingerprints are all over this."

A pause.

Blue eyes meeting black.

Perhaps sensing that she wasn't going to let this go anytime soon, Skeeter sighed. A heavy, weary sigh. "I'll go get my boss."

Bobby Gerald, professional adulterer and Editor-in-Chief of The Daily Prophet, was a comically thin, balding man in his mid-forties with a perpetually flushed expression and vague, wandering eyes. Looking at him gave her a deep, acute sense of depression. The audacity to cheat on his wife with a face like that! And what was the secretary, blind?

"Lady Lestrange." He began in a wavering monotone. "I assure you, our sources are all reliable, trustworthy, and unbiased. As for the identity of the reporter, we have kept it anonymous for a reason -"

"To protect her." She surmised, flicking her head towards the third occupant of the room. 

"As I have already told you, I cannot comment on the identity of the reporter -"

"Why not?" She challenged. "If your article is truly as faultless as you claim, then what are you afraid of? Go public! Publish it in something other than the gossip pages!"

He continued doggedly. "It is precisely because of reactions like yours that such sensitive information is -"

She let out a scathing laugh. "Oh, come on, Bobby!" He winced a little at the informality, but she took no notice. "What's so sensitive about a name? Everyone knows it's her, anyway!"

Skeeter cut in quietly. "Perhaps you should ask your leader what's so sensitive about a name, Bellatrix."

Silence.

Did she just -

"Just what -" She began, venom dripping from every syllable. "- are you trying to -"

Bobby interjected hastily. "She meant nothing by it, of course. Ignore her. The female temperament, you know. As I was saying -"

Her head whipped towards him. "I -" She spoke frostily. "- am a female as well, you nincompoop."

He cringed. "Well, yes -"

She ground her teeth and redirected the conversation. "Do you mean to say that you simply won't tell me who wrote this piece?"

He stared back at her levelly. "That's exactly what I'm saying, yes."

She saw red. "That's what you're saying, huh? That's what you're saying?" She snarled, pushing back her chair to stand abruptly and slam her palms down on the paper still spread neatly across the chipped table, right on Rosier girl's pretty face. (How her bumbling fool of a cousin had managed to score her was something she'd wonder till the end of time.) Gratifyingly, he appeared disconcerted at her sudden flame in temper, glancing at Skeeter for reinforcements, only to find a studiedly blank, unsurprised look decorating her ugly mug, which, just like everything else about this godforsaken office, rubbed her the wrong way. Just who did the bitch think she was? Giving him that bored, I-told-you-so-Bobby look like all she'd expected from the woman in front of her was a screaming match and half a braincell, like working in the press like the plebeian she was somehow made her better than those who didn't have to scrape by on half a Knut a month.

"Do you know who I am?" She spat. "Who my husband is? He'll -"

"Yes, run along to your husband." She broke in, finally glancing up from her gaudy, inch long talons. (Purple? Honestly, she had no class. Bellatrix wouldn't be caught dead wearing those, but then again, she wouldn't be caught dead, period.) "That's all your unimaginative little brain can think of doing, isn't it? Run to your big-shot husband and beg him to throw money at your problems because you can't be bothered to solve them yourself."

His jaw dropped.

Skeeter, on the other hand, was glaring at her with such pure hatred that she felt like crying.

Crying?

No.

Bellatrix Black Lestrange did not cry. She did not weep or sob or wail or whatever it was she so desperately wished to do in moments of weakness, in moments like these. So she did what she did best.

She screamed blue murder.

Chapter Text

It started, as most things did, with a dream.

Not the kind held together by duct tape and misplaced, idealistic hope cradled by children who still believed the world owed them something, but the kind that seeped in through the gaps in window shutters and the crack between closet doors, the kind that crawled out from under the bed and through cracks in the plaster to creep in through one's ears and nose to entrap their poor, unsuspecting, dozing mind in a dream so crazed that all they're left with in the morning is a scratchy throat and hot, tight eyes; eyes which were the wellspring of the faded, dried tracks carving through their cheeks. All they're left with is the ache in their chest and the lingering sourness in their mouth, both of which faded rapidly in the harsh, indifferent light of day. In the end, their only souvenir of the night is a dull curiosity as to what it was that had ensnared them in its nightmarish magic, coupled with a faint, not fully realised gratitude that their brain had suppressed it to the depths of its reservoirs, leaving them free to go about their day without the crippling fear which had been so familiar to them in their unconscious state.

Pandora Rosier, however, had never been blessed with such selective amnesia. She possessed the unique and unfortunate ability to remember all her dreams in great detail, just as if each were scenes trapped in one of those globes Maeve kept on her nightstand back at school, just waiting to be shaken to come back to vivid, terrifying life.

From where she sat on the highest, most coveted bench right below the tented canopy covering one of the Quidditch stands (wars had been fought, won and lost over these seats - mostly lost), she could see all the way to the edges of the Forbidden Forest, the jagged, menacing outline of its trees contrasting sharply with the hazy, bluish grey mountains of the Scottish Highlands slumbering peacefully in the distance. As she watched, the edges of the Forest seemed to be creeping slowly, almost imperceptibly, up the slope, towards the school and towards Dora. In her strangely languid dream world, she found this to be no cause for concern. 

Wind whispered through the stands, billowing through and inflating the checkered, weather worn cloth that dressed the wood on which the seats were mounted, lifting banners and swirling around the flags that decorated the tops of each stand. Looking around, she tried to find some indication, some identifying marker of the stand she currently hosted, seated in the place usually reserved for the top rungs of the social hierarchy, but could find nothing. Even when she walked over (in slow motion, like swimming through honey) to the bottom of the stand, craning her neck and twisting her body dangerously against the rickety wooden railing to catch a glimpse of the canopy, all she could see was a vast, undulating blankness - white cloth draped over the rotting framework and shimmering in the sun, shining directly into her eyes and forcing her to avert them to the pitch.

Curiously enough, the banners and patterns on each of the stands were turning a stark, blinding white, each of the four House colours being washed away in a steady, gleaming wave, red and green and blue and yellow all swirling together to form white in a blatant violation of colour theory. In the moment, though, it made perfect sense, this gradual erasure of the superficial boundaries concocted by the school administration to segregate students as they liked, only this segregation was veiled in the appealing guise of being sorted according to unfairly narrow minded, absolutist qualities at the tender age of eleven. 

The grounds were deserted, as was the Pumpkin Patch. No smoke rose in spirals above Hagrid's hut. No first years loitered around the Whomping Willow, eyeing it with poorly concealed fear and desperate curiosity. No students hosted picnics in the grounds and no couples strolled along the forest's edge. There was no sound, save the rustling of the now unbiased banners in the ever-present, unceasing wind. The lake shimmered like an unbroken mirror in the merciless glare of the sun, the Giant Squid having decided to terrorise creatures in the depths of the lake for once instead of terrified lower years. All was quiet. All was still. Absently, she turned her gaze skywards.

There, floating above the pitch, far enough above that he looked tiny despite the height the stands afforded her, was a figure on a broom in the enormous azure sky. She watched him, mesmerised, though the figure had yet to do much more than swoop lazily through the air or practice a halfhearted turn or two, all the while scanning the sky instead of the pitch, face turned towards the infinite blue dome. Light shone around the edges of the figure, turning his silhouette into a black, vaguely human shaped void hovering a few hundred feet above the empty grounds.

There was no way she could know with any certainty who the person was - the only distinguishable feature, apart from his (?) abject lack of long hair, was the smooth, groomed end of his broomstick, indicating that the specimen was not rooted out the depths of their school's shed and was, in fact, a fairly new model. Admittedly, this didn't narrow her options very much - most of her peers possessed a Comet, if not a Cleansweep or a Nimbus - but she knew that broom. She knew its rider.

Regulus. 

Regulus, Regulus, Regulus.

She knew it just as well as if she were on the broom with him in the cloudless sky, as if she was close enough to see the silver threads shimmering in his Slytherin Quidditch sweater and the tiniest cowlick in his eyebrow, the mole on the inside of his left ring finger and the occasional tiny white streak on his nails.

She observed him for a while, content to just watch him idly circle around the pitch, never looking down, face always turned up, up, up. The scent of freshly cut grass wafted up on the breeze, and with it the faintest nauseating undertone of roadkill. As was ordained by the strange, murky logic which governed dreams, Dora found nothing questionable about the odour.

Without warning, the wind picked up, whistling through the stands and billowing through her lacy white sleeves, and she looked down, surprised to see that she wasn't wearing her school robes, or her school... anything, really. Instead, she seemed to be dressed in a white cotton frock with pink lace trimmings and little bows she might have worn when she was eight, and she noted in amazement that the foot she stuck out from below the skirt flowing in the breeze was clad in the pink, silky ballet pumps Uncle Matthias had gotten her from his short lived stint in Italian society for her seventh (eighth?) birthday and which she'd subsequently worn everywhere since, till their seams burst and their soles begged for mercy.

Cautiously, she lifted her right hand to place on the dusty wood.

It was small, and pink. On her wrist was one of the misshapen flower bracelets she'd made with feverish enthusiasm that long ago dreamlike spring in France. Petals detached from the steadily disintegrating flowers, swirling in the eddies down to her feet.

1969. Her eighth spring. The spring she'd first met him.

Slowly, almost gingerly, she lifted her gaze from the long forgotten footwear, nostalgia swelling in her ribcage, inexplicable sadness an anchor dragging her heart down, down, down; down to the very same shoes she'd once revered yet tossed out only the year previous. Treasure turned trash in violent disregard of her own wishes.  

She had the strangest urge to beg herself for forgiveness.

She looked out over the grounds again, turning her hopelessly entangled emotions over in her mind. And froze.

Those mountains - 

The wall of blue, which had only a few minutes previous been partially obscured by a healthy thicket of gnarled, entwined trees, suddenly appeared - closer, somehow. Less distant, less tranquil and more menacing, looming over the grounds and casting a deep, dark shadow on the grass, which was bright green in that oversaturated way dreams so often had, dreams in which the grass was greener not only on the other side but on both sides, on all sides, for this was her world, no matter how skewed and unpredictable and downright terrifying; it was hers and she was proud of it. She'd always felt more at home in the mysterious land of sleep than the mundane, bustling land of the living, and she could only hope that death would afford her the same honor.

The rotting odour worsened. She screwed up her nose.

A shuffling sound pervaded the air, the sound of bare feet dragging against the floor, the sound of flesh on flesh, coupled with grunts and moans and yelps, revolting in its carnality, and disgust flared deep in her chest, coupled with the deeper under stirrings of desire. She tried to move, to turn and catch a glimpse of whatever perverted freak show was carrying on in the stands behind her, but found her shoes rooted to the floor, strangled in the tight grasp of purple flowered vines creeping steadily out the wooden planks. Her hand was similarly glued to the railing, fingers splayed against the dusty cedar. The only part of her which still possessed the faculty of movement seemed to be her head, which swivelled anxiously in every direction for a saviour and ultimately settled on the figure floating up above.

Regulus had finally stopped his half hearted routine and was now staring fixedly at the sky, and dream sight was a peculiar, peculiar thing, for she could see the expression of total concentration on his face, the white knuckled grip with which he clutched the broom, the fervid gleam in his eyes with which he regarded a seemingly unremarkable patch of sky, sky which moments ago had been blue and light and the kind of sky witnessed more commonly in paintings of Alpine countrysides but was now darkening steadily, a stormfront creeping in opposite the fast approaching range.

The shuffling grew closer.

Closer. Closer.

And stopped beside her.

She didn't dare turn and see who (what?) it was that had deemed her worthy of its attention, but out the corner of her eye, she could spot a dark, vaguely humanoid shape leaning on the banister a few feet away, poorly attempting to mirror her pose but giving the impression of a jerky marionette on strings instead. Something brushed against her shoulder on her other side, and she did her utmost to jerk away but ultimately couldn't, revulsion crossing her features at the weirdly slimy touch, the crushing weight of total helplessness on her childlike shoulders. 

The stands opposite her began to fill as well, tiny dark figures shambling among the splintering benches, milling about and coming occasionally to the railing to peer dumbly up at the sole player drifting high above the pitch. 

Help me, she thought frantically, trying to aim her thoughts at him in some useless, desperate attempt at telepathy, but he paid her no mind, still scrutinising the same patch of sky, gazing up at it in single minded focus. 

A hand latched itself around her wrist.

A mouldering, rotting, bloated hand, with gaping holes in its blackened skin through which bone peeked cheekily out. Maggots traversed across its surface, preparing themselves to bridge the gap and journey to the newer, more fertile land of her younger self's hand.

She screamed. 

Perhaps it was the touch, cold and wet and slimy like a frog, only with none of the endearing ribbits or round, glossy eyes. Perhaps it was the shock, coursing through her veins like icy water, jolting her to sudden, lurching life. Either way, when she attempted to move this time, she succeeded, tearing her bruised, dripping hand from the corpse's surprisingly strong grip. Eyes wide and terrified, she whipped her head around, bracing herself for whichever cadaver stood by her side, only to scream again at its eerily grinning skull and huge, empty eye sockets, skin blue and bloated and stretched tight like a drumskin across its horrendous face. 

Inferi.

Inferi, on her left and on her right, behind her and across the pitch, crammed like sardines in a tin in the very stands where students sat and booed and cheered like their life depended on it, throwing popcorn and candy onto the pitch like it'd somehow sway the match in their preferred team's favour. 

Horrified, she backed up against the railing, shrinking into herself in an effort to avoid their attention, but they paid her no mind, eyeing the pitch and the lone rider greedily, desperately. 

Hungrily.

She spun back towards the pitch, eyes seeking him out frantically, only to freeze for the second time in as many minutes as something fell from the sky. 

Glinting. Golden. 

For a moment, she thought it was the snitch, but the size was all wrong, and where the snitch reflected sunlight into the Seeker's eye this seemed to absorb it, to swallow it whole, shimmering like oil on water as it sucked and bent the rapidly diminishing sunlight towards itself as it hurtled down to the pitch.

A locket, something whispered in the back of her mind. The locket.

He dove. 

Like stage actors which had been waiting for a cue, the Inferi screeched and hooted in horrible, disused gravelly voices and began to rappel down the sides of the stands in reckless abandon, jumping and shimmying down the cloth as they made for the rider with clawing fingers. 

No.

No, no, no.

She gripped the railing, leaning forward as far as she dared as she yelled at him, begged him to stop, to let the fucking locket go and execute one of his famous hairpin turns, to go back to the safety and solitude of the blue expanse above, but he continued doggedly on, apparently having not noticed the Inferi or simply unbothered by them for reasons best known to himself.

Time slowed. 

He caught the locket.

The Inferi caught him.

"Oh, Dora." A singsong voice yelled directly into her ear. Groaning, she slid her eyes open.

Felix's gleeful, round face momentarily hovered a few inches above her own before sticking out a tongue and promptly dancing away. "Mummy wants to see you. You're in so much trouble." He cooed, evidently delighted at the prospect.

Trouble?

Memories began trickling in.

The party. The balcony.

The engagement.

On second thoughts, perhaps the Inferi weren't so bad after all.

Chapter Text

Leaning in the shadows against the dingy, soot stained wall native to seedy little alleys everywhere, he regarded the shop opposite with a keen eye, taking in the terribly shabby plight of the once pristine storefront, the faded, crooked gold lettering on a sign which had once been dusted without fail every single day (and he should know, for he'd been the one doing the dusting), the artefacts in the windows which had once been backlit by carefully arranged candles and decorated with strategically placed black roses but were now bedecked only by matted cobwebs and the looming cover of darkness. 

Borgin and Burkes.

Half his life he'd wasted here, working under the beady eye of the senior Mr. Borgin (Mr. Burke deemed the shop to be far below his standards, visiting only when it was time to collect his profits and shake his cane at the unfortunate employees, grumbling about the expense even though what he paid them wasn't even strictly minimum wage), and knowing as he did that Mr. Borgin had passed only an year after Tom had left his employment there upon fulfilment of his heart's desires, he wasn't surprised to see the derelict state of the previously imposing shop. Borgin Jr. couldn't care less for the trade and the less Burke had to spend on its upkeep, the better. Besides, the customers that frequented the store cared less for grandstanding and more for anonymity and the authenticity of the products, both of which, despite their faults, Borgin and Burke had provided for decades. He was half convinced people would buy from them even if they began selling trinkets from under a rickety wooden bench like some shifty hedge witch enterprise, so long as the store's discreet stamp (a clever combination of both the owners' magical signatures) marked its packaging. 

It was here he'd pursued the lost and the forgotten, the myths and the legends, and it was here he'd managed to lay his hands on three of the founding relics of the castle he'd called home. Once he was confident Borgin had served his purpose and that the shop held no mysterious allure for him anymore, he'd left, handing in his resignation and walking out with three of the most sought after magical artefacts in the world clanking together in his robes. He'd left, and he'd never looked back. He'd left to ensure that the shop's infamous anonymity hadn't rubbed off on him, to ensure that he hadn't faded conveniently away like their buyer records, to begin making his mark on the world, starting with making sure that an untimely death wouldn't put an end to his plans forever. 

Starting with his horcruxes.

As was the case with most of life's recurring experiences (though this particular one might just be unique even in its singularity), the first horcrux had been the hardest.

The diary.

An inch thick and six times as long, faux leather bound and adorned with tarnished gilt corner protectors, embossed with his name in tacky, crooked gold letters on the back by some reluctant, sour faced clerk in the Vauxhall shop where he'd bought it, over three decades and a lifetime ago. Tom Marvolo Riddle.

He'd never written in it, of course - what was he, some Dear Diary worshipping pansy who glowered self importantly over the top of the book while furiously scribbling his grievances onto the page like that'd somehow magically fix his life? Oh, no. The only reason he'd bought that diary in the first place had been to experience the novelty of owning something which hadn't been passed through ten other grubby hands first, something which belonged purely, solely to him, complete with his name writ large on the cover, a contingency measure unfortunately necessary in a struggling orphanage filled to the brim with the thieving and the penniless. Not that a few poorly pasted chrome letters could stop the particularly inspired, of course, but his reputation preceded him and the diary remained in his possession throughout the rest of his stay at Wool's Orphanage. And when the time finally came to take the first step into his illustrious career of being a complete and total pain in Dumbledore's pathetic arse, it seemed only right to honor the first (and only) worldly possession he could afford then by entrusting it with the tiniest sliver of his soul (or the only salvageable, loveable, worthy portion of his horrible, blackened heart if you asked Alphard, but he found to his satisfaction that very few people did) to cradle within its aging, blank pages.

In spite of his best efforts at preservation, even inanimate objects are not immune to the worst effects of time, and over the years its binding had frayed and its pages yellowed, curling up at the corners and turning an unappealing, rusty shade, crumbling into the abyss, into that cesspit of anonymity to which every ordinary man heretofore had succumbed, time stealing away even the faintest breath of his name till the only mark he left on this world was a flat, uninspired tombstone and a few wilting flowers placed by his ungrateful progeny. Just another life, just another death. Just another man, another mere mortal to tread the soft earth and watch the unforgiving tide, rolling in and out of harbours indistinguishable, mercilessly marking the progress of time with a grim, tired sense of duty. 

Time. The silent enemy. The only enemy muggles and wizards alike refused to recognise, the enemy which in their ignorance they considered a gift, the enemy which stole into their lives and deepened the lines on their faces and took the very breath from their lungs, hunching their backs and stealing their beauty till they were no more than a withered husk of what they had been, of what they could have been, in time, if only it hadn't insisted on putting them in the ground when their lives had only just begun.

Tom refused. He would not shut his eyes and his ears and hope it'd pass him by, hope something as impersonal as time would find it in its heart to give him another day, another month, another year. He wouldn't ignore the ache in his joints and the whisper in the back of his head telling him soon, telling him it's time, telling him to give up. Lie down. Close your eyes and let God take you home.

He'd been religious, once.

The matron at his orphanage was a devout Catholic and had forced every child, save the newborn and the bedridden, to attend the local church every Sunday and suffer, heavy eyed and fidgeting, through several interminable hours of indecipherable sermons and warbling, off tune hymns. The Reverend had been a cross eyed old man with liver spotted hands which patted the orphan's head every Sunday like clockwork, giving them a gap toothed, sympathetic smile as he shook hands with the matron and told her how he admired 'the goodness of her heart' for 'taking them in', like they were shivering strays she'd plucked off the roadside. And perhaps they were, in a way, but that didn't mean Tom appreciated the reminder.

As a Hogwarts student, he'd slipped in and out of the role of pious Christian seamlessly, scholarship student at an exclusive Catholic boarding school in front of his matron and a halfblood with little to no ties to the Muggle world in front of his peers. It was easy, really. It wasn't like he'd held much stock in worship in the first place. Problems, he'd learnt, didn't vanish into thin air by bowing your head and screwing up your eyes and wishing some higher power would come and take your pain away. It was lazy. It was foolish. Tom had vowed never to be either again.

So he went to the sermons and sat in the same pew and hummed the same hymns, year after year after year, and wondered what it was he could do to achieve even a fraction if such idolisation, such devotion, such reverence that people lived in a perpetual state of fear of something that merely threatened to exist, something so intangible and impalpable, yet ever present and impossibly heavy, as the hand of God.

Tom feared no God. He wanted to be God.

So he took his soul, blackened and shrivelled and worthless, and saved it the pain of being weighed on the scales at Last Judgement and being inevitably found wanting, and began searching for ways to save it, to preserve it, to keep it with himself and himself on this earth for as long as humanly possible, only he wouldn't be human at the end of it, would he? He'd be something better.

Immortal.

So came the book - Secrets of the Darkest Art, and with it the Slug Club meetings, and the hanging around outside Slughorn's door, the endless toadying and ingratiating himself with the old slug, simpering and fawning till the opportune moment arose (after endless scraping and over half a bottle of firewhiskey) and he could question him to his heart's content. And after that? Well, there was simply no way to go but up.

Myrtle Warren had been the type of girl who gave other Ravenclaws a bad name, what with her glasses forever askew on her bulbous nose and her copious acne, coupled with which her whining voice and top scores made her the poster child of the intellectually superior yet horribly, hopelessly unpopular.

She'd also been a mudblood.

It struck him as especially strange, the sheer number of people who walked around after her death weeping and wailing and bemoaning her name, dabbing at their eyes with embroidered handkerchiefs and employing shrill falsettos as they claimed to the reporters that Myrtle had been their 'dear friend' who'd be 'sorely missed'. It was almost enough to make him feel sorry for her.

Almost. 

In truth, it had never been his intention to kill her - the Basilisk had been given free reign on which student it wished to make its victim, so long as they were a mudblood - but Myrtle had simply been in the wrong place on the wrong day at the wrong time. He'd only just finished giving the snake its instructions, eyes fixed firmly on the dingy bathroom floor (he'd made sure to dry it with a charm before summoning the beast), when out she came, emerging suspiciously from her stall in a bathroom he'd sworn had been deserted a minute ago. He'd sensed more than seen her death - the rush of air past his face as the Basilisk whipped its head to regard the intruder with its deadly, luminous orbs, the soft thud on the floor as she keeled over almost instantly, the scraping of its scales on the floor as it slithered over, poised to strike with its venom laced fangs - and it was only his frankly astonishing presence of mind which enabled him to snap at it that its purpose was fulfilled as he rushed out the door and ran to his dorm after dragging her body into the stall, digging through his trunk for the book and the stuff as Alphie watched from his bed, face unreadable.

What followed was an indecipherable blur, a vortex of colour and sound and the tangy, iron taste of blood, flickering candles throwing light onto the tiles and Myrtle's cooling body lying in the middle of a pentagram drawn with his own blood. Chanting, low and long and loud, bounced off the walls and swirled around his head. Rituals. Sacrifices. 

Looking back, he's shocked at how he managed to go about all this uninterrupted, not a single girl entering the washroom over the course of the next few hours, not a single teacher or Prefect coming to investigate Myrtle's uncharacteristic absence, not a soul wondering where's Tom, where's Myrtle, why aren't they at dinner, are they together, dating or simply fucking, why would he fuck her, class topper bunking with a Slytherin Prefect -

He supposed Alphie must have had something to do with it, no matter how vehemently he denied the same upon being questioned later on. It was either that, or the female population of Hogwarts had suffered an unprecedented, inexplicable bout of constipation that magically went away the moment he cleared up the scene and vanished back to his dorm, woozy headed and stumbling, for Olive Hornby to enter the stall and find Myrtle's lifeless body moments later. Tom, being of sound mind if not soul, was inclined to believe the former.

In the end, the procedure hadn't been half as bad as Secrets of the Darkest Art had led him to believe - sure, he was seeing spots and his vision failed at intermittent intervals over the period of the following few weeks, and he developed the unhealthy habit of staring into space for hours at a time - but the process itself had been relatively tame as compared to the revolting, disgustingly lurid images churning in his overactive imagination, images he'd fought to keep out of his brain during his classes with the seemingly benign Dumbledore, with his half moon spectacles and piercing, all seeing blue eyes. 

"He's a Legilimens, you know." Alphard said gravely. The time was half past two in the night. The year was 1941. Their third year. Alphard was sitting on the bed while Tom was lying on the floor, eyes heavy lidded and drowsy, valiantly fighting to stay awake simply because their conversation was so interesting. But all their conversations were, then. 

His eyes snapped open. "Who, Dumbles?"

He looked down upon him with a seriousness which at the time felt rather disproportionate to the situation. "Yes. Father told me." 

Now, this was new. Alphie never talked about his father if he could help it. Sitting up, he opened his mouth to speak, but felt his words dry up at the look on his face.

"My Lord." 

Jolting, he turned to face the intruders, two hooded figures standing a few paces away, heads inclined deferentially. He himself was under the cover of half a dozen different glamours, yet he glanced around quickly, trying to ascertain if any nearby had caught the odd moniker. What was the fool thinking? In public?

Well, an eye for an eye, or however the saying went. "Lucius." He had the minute, savage satisfaction of seeing his shoulders stiffen ever so slightly before relaxing again. Power hungry fucker. He hadn't given the boy the same treatment simply because he wasn't fool enough to go about stating Tom's actual honorific and subsequently his identity in areas like these. "You're late." He added on a whim, though he wasn't, not really, but Lucius Malfoy and the Pureblood populace in general possessed the singular ability to get under his skin. It was necessity that bound them together, funds and advancement, and while he agreed wholeheartedly with their assessment of the less pure, it ranked significantly below his own goals.

He was treated to the sweet, sweet sight of Malfoy apologising for a charge that ought not to have been his, and after waving a magnanimous hand in dismissal, turned to the boy. "Shall we?"

He gave a wary nod.

They set off at a leisurely pace through the squalid little twists and turns of an alley he doubted the boy had ever set eyes upon before. He took him on a little tour of the surrounding area (which the boy watched with all the interest of some coloniser setting foot in exotic, foreign lands) before leading them back to the wall in front of his former workplace. It was only then that he spoke.

"What do you see here, boy?"

A pause.

"Illegality."

He laughed. "What else?"

"Danger."

Man of few words, apparently. "And?"

A longer pause.

"I don't know, sir."

He sighed. "Culture, boy, culture."

He cocked his head inquisitively. Taking it as his cue, Tom elaborated. "See those cards in that case over there?"

Dutifully, the boy looked. In the grimy shop window of the now dilapidated shop was a rather tricky display of fifty two playing cards, each suit arranged in a tiny rose, tied together in a bouquet by a frayed maroon ribbon. It might almost have been beautiful, if not for the questionable dried stains marring their lovely illustrations. 

"Is that..." He began, and seemed able to get no further. 

"Blood." He supplied. "Do you know how this came to be?"

He shook his head. 

"Would you like to know?"

A nod this time, though one could sense its reluctance from here till Timbuktu.

"Well, that's too bad. No one knows."

He glanced at him incredulously. "Surely someone does, sir."

"No one. That's what makes it a front row piece, right there - it has a magical signature, and a strong one, at that - but not a single soul knows what it was meant to do, and no one is willing to bet. That, and the fact it screeches if a buyer gets too near." The bane of Borgin's life, it'd been - no sooner than he threw it out did the deck begin shouting and screaming and letting the world know what Borgin did at night, which was something no prisoner in Azkaban should have to suffer through, let alone innocents living in a poverty stricken neighbourhood at six in the morning. "The last time I visited this shop -" He continued. "- was sometime in the late fifties. The deck was here then, and it's here now."

"It keeps me up at night, you know - what happened to it? Who was killed? Whose honor was slighted? Was it justified, or the work of a maniac?" 

He watched, curious.

He kept this up for a while - one artefact after another, each recovered under mysterious circumstances, each the possessor of a uniquely strong enchantment, each with a history and a story but deemed illegal by the Ministry simply because its magic wasn't the bland, whitewashed version mages were used to today. He could practically feel the boy's interest piquing with every half finished story, every myth and every open ended tale. 

Culture. History. Significance.

He appealed to the boy's higher sensibilities, tweaked his speech a bit and gave it a little personalised flair, and watched with satisfaction as his manner grew more relaxed, more open; as he waited with bated breath for the next gory tale, as he became more and more indignant at the sorry plight of such wondrous objects. Purebloods, he'd learnt, loved to hear about their glorious heritage and the various imagined slights against their honour. 

When he deemed the boy sufficiently riled, he rested a hand on his shoulder. "You see, son -" He noted with amusement how his back straightened, how his chin tilted up a little, perhaps having shitty fathers was just a Black trait. "- for our future, for our glorious, wonderful future, I don't just need soldiers. I don't just need brutes who know fifty different ways to kill a man. I need scholars. Historians. I need people who know the value of our past, of our heritage, of our roots; for bloodstained and depraved though our ancestors may have been, they knew the importance of power, of raw, unfettered power, and they were not afraid to wield it, to make good use of the gifts given to them by the great Lady Magic herself, for they were not ashamed of their power but proud of it. Proud of their descent, of their purity. Proud of their abilities, strong like good French wine and not the watered down piss they serve at bars in this hellhole."

"When we win -" He spoke in a low, stirring tone brimming with surety, skewering him with a piercing gaze. "- I need men, good, worthy men, to help formulate policies and educate the masses, to restore our world to its former grandeur, to become a leading face of the government and beloved of the people. I am going to build a museum -" He began walking, steering the boy away from the shop; he complied, limp like a puppet and mesmerised by his hollow, practised rhetoric. "- in which I shall display all the obscure marvels of magic, all the artefacts banned and shunned simply for the crime of being too different, too dangerous; and I want you to help me out, boy."

"M-Me?" He stammered. "I - surely Lucius would -"

He waved a hand. "Lucius is far too jaded, too wrapped up in dreams of his own importance to think of the good of the Wizarding World as a whole. You, on the other hand, are young, fresh, unbiased, and despite what Karkaroff seems to think, just the type of man we need in our revolution. Not everyone can be a hero, 'tis true. But one does not always need brawn or the ability to out-talk everyone in the room to be great." He regarded the boy opposite. "Don't you want to be great, Regulus?"

At his nervous, darting glances at their admittedly menacing surroundings, he laughed. "Worry not, Black, we are under the cover of more muffling charms than one puts on the bedroom door on their wedding night. So, I shall ask you this once, and only once, more. Do you want to be great, boy?"

"Yes." He breathed. "Of course, yes."

He smiled, pleased. "Good. Now, what I need you to do, is travel the country. Take a companion. Go abroad, if you wish. Find me something unique, something extraordinary. Something of the like not a wizard nor a witch can dream of possessing. Bring me the rarities of our world, of our heritage, and you shall be richly rewarded."

Now, Tom wasn't a sentimental fool, nor was he an overly paranoid one. But as the years passed, there seemed to be an itch in his chest, an itch he couldn't scratch, an itch that whispered what if, what if, what if.

Five had never been his lucky number, anyway.

No. Tom would have six. His life insured, six times over.

Six horcruxes. 

Chapter Text

Chewing mechanically, he speared yet another piece of impossibly tender chicken on his fork - coq au vin was Kreacher's speciality, though he couldn't help but wish he didn't make it quite as often, or at least not when mother was home (a wish unlikely to be fulfilled any time soon, for Kreacher lived to serve his mistress, and what better way to impress her than his above average braising skills?). It wasn't that he didn't like the dish, no. It was just that it had the strangest effect of making his normally vivacious (if a tad insouciant) mother uncharacteristically melancholy, and melancholy was the absolute last thing he needed her to be at the moment. The news would have been hard enough to deliver under normal circumstances, but telling her now was just begging for a shouting match, or worse, a teary, incoherent tirade. 

He stabbed vengefully at his food, glaring at the (admittedly delicious) fare which dared depress his mother so, and snuck a glance at the lone two other occupants of the gigantic room. His father, predictably, was devouring his food with rapid, single minded focus (although he didn't appear to derive any pleasure from it - basic nourishment was below the notice of Lord Black, as was simple happiness, though frankly he'd be surprised if his father knew the meaning of the word at all). His mother, on the other hand, was twirling her fork moodily in one hand whilst she stared into the depths of her plate like she wished to drown herself in the inch or so of gravy which coated the porcelain.

What was it about coq au vin? Honestly, her condition reminded him a bit of seasonal depression, only instead of rain it was Kreacher's famous red wine sauce which hammered from the sky, streaming down the slate tiled roof and eaves of No. 12, Grimmauld Place into the gutter to flow to the ground, dripping from the roof's edges onto the wrought iron railing leading to the forbidding front door, drip drip drip -

Looking towards the end of the table, he took the rare opportunity to study this man, this mammoth of a presence, this monolith of self assured power and influence, this giant of a man brimming with confidence reduced to a figure which looked downright diminutive in face of the portraits hanging on the wall, life sized ancestors peering gloomily down on yet another generation of Blacks, silently passing judgement and evaluating their descendants and coming to the satisfying, ego boosting conclusion that they'd been far better, superior, even, at their duties than this measly generation ever had hopes of being. 

His father took another bite, dwarfed by his own family and the sheer mountain of heritage on his shoulders, a legacy he bore with twice the grace than Regulus ever would, not even when he was the one seated on that throne like chair in some ridiculous reversal of their roles, his father rotting in his casket in the massive Black family plot in their wizarding cemetery in northern France; not even when Regulus was head of the family, sitting at the end of the table with his miserable wife on his right and his own ungrateful progeny on his left, staring down the ridiculously long dining table and looking his unhappy marriage and his own inadequacy in the face in a tired reenactment of a play which had been staged since the beginning of time and would be running till its very end, a play with no beginning and no end.

It was a scene his father would have called his honour, his duty, immutable and unshakeable, set in stone and forever unchanging. His brother The traitor would have called it hell.

Regulus?

Regulus didn't know what to call it.

It was strange, he reflected gloomily, how an act as simple as breathing, an act that meant life, something whose loss was mourned and arrival celebrated, could feel so suffocating, so difficult; how the stifling atmosphere and the miserable company he currently kept - something irrelevant which rationally should have no effect on his physical wellbeing whatsoever - could make even the basic life function feel like a chore. The human body was nothing but sinew and muscle and blood, arteries and veins and Merlin-only-knew what else pumping and beating and performing their thankless job to keep him alive, just a sack of meat with no sentience of itself whatsoever, so why did his chest feel so tight when he was nervous? Why couldn't he breathe when he thought of - 

A realisation dawned on him like sunlight on the Quidditch pitch on practice mornings, creeping slowly across the grass and over the rugged mountains in the distance.

Perhaps it was Magic. 

Yes, he thought, slowly at first, but with steadily increasing surety afterwards. Yes, it was Magic. It was Magic that flowed through his veins and Magic that commanded this sack of meat to move, it was Magic that tied his soul to himself in some fundamental, intrinsic way; it was Magic which linked his poor body with ever fluctuating mental state. Emotions affected a mage's magic, and vice versa. It was common knowledge, it was the first thing he'd ever been taught, initially by his parents and his tutors and later during his very first year at Hogwarts; so why should his emotions not affect him physically when it was Magic which commandeered his ship, when it was Lady Magic who'd blessed his soul and breathed her spark into the mewling baby born not two weeks from this date over sixteen years ago?

Muggles didn't have that. Lady Magic hadn't deemed them worthy of her gifts. They didn't have her breath singing in their veins, they didn't know what it felt like to be gloriously, wondrously in touch with one's magic, to be at one, wholly and purely, with the fire in their blood.

They didn't have magic. It stood to reason that they didn't have emotions either, didn't it?

Pigs, he thought disgustedly. Dirty, filthy, pea brained pigs. They didn't deserve to have the planet's resources wasted on them, not when they had no more sense or intelligence than the average swine.

The Dark Lord had a mission, a cause, and it was a cause well worth pursuing, worth fighting for, dying for. It was a cause that would save their race, and it was a cause that had given him a sense of purpose, of direction. He was grateful, exceedingly so; not merely for the honour his Lord afforded him by appointing him a task less menial than dispatching the Lord's (numerous) enemies and far more respectable than Karkaroff's role as glorified hitman, a role he knew with deep rooted certainty would be dispensed with the moment the Lord's victory was secure, by end of year or summer after that; that too in case of the unlikely event Dumbledore's pesky little Order proved to be more trouble than they'd accounted for.

It didn't help that Karkaroff's claim to Moscow's magical throne was tenuous at best and downright illegitimate at worst - some pretty nasty rumours had been floated in the appropriate circles around the time of his recruitment to the cause, rumours of Veela ancestry as well as more disastrous, damning suggestions of muddied, impure blood; not to mention the more prevalent ones of the man's illegitimacy - but each had been squashed by the Russian with ruthless, frightening efficiency upon his ascension to the Lord's circle. The Karkaroffs were an old family, old and widespread and very firmly entrenched in tradition - old, arcane family magic and rituals under the full moon - but time had diluted their foreignness till they were no more than a once-great lineage grasping at power, aligning with the Lord in a desperate attempt at revival. Not to mention his daughter, the daughter few had actually seen, the daughter whose mother had conveniently died mere months after her birth, taking her own life in mysterious and downright bizarre circumstances. (Few people wished to die by having their head torn from their torso by giants. In fact, Regulus would go as far as to say that such people were nonexistent.)

Not a soul had seen her, not in England, at least; though Trixie liked to go around claiming she'd met - and greatly liked - the girl, a claim her family had discounted on the simple grounds that the girl was an infamous recluse. That, and Karkaroff was about as tyrannical a father as he was a leader. 

She'd never made an official appearance in society. She'd attended Durmstrang, yes, but not on a proper basis, at least according to Petrov (who was frustratingly tight lipped about his inexplicable contact with the elusive girl) - her father had the awful habit of sending her away at the slightest provocation and insisted she room in the staff wing, right under his crooked, fat nose. 

Regulus couldn't imagine that was a life worth living.

He was jolted out of his reverie by a flat cough, his father glaring pointedly at him over his perfectly groomed salt-and-pepper moustache, somehow managing to make perfectly clear his meaning without uttering a word. Formidable politician and gifted orator thought he may be, if there was one thing Orion Black feared in this world or the next, it was his own wife's screeching. 

Do I have to do it? He communicated silently, halfheartedly begging his father to step up and be a good husband for once in his life, come on, surely it can't be that hard - 

His answering glower was reply enough.

So he swallowed, gingerly set his fork down, and shifted ever so slightly to face his mother, who was still scowling at her unfortunate plate like it had seduced her husband, gotten her thrown out of her marriage and onto the streets without a Knut in her pocket, and murdered her children all at once. 

"Maman?" He began quietly, hastily amending it as soon as he saw his father narrowing his eyes in irritation. "I mean, Mother."

She hummed distractedly, reaching for her Pinot Noir as she turned an absentminded stare in his general direction. "What is it, Regulus?"

Sipping his own wine for courage, he decided simply to blurt it out at first go. "The Dark Lord has a task for me."

She frowned, finally devoting more of her attention to the conversation at hand. "Oh?"

Taking a deep breath, he dove into an explanation, taking care to impress on her the importance of the task, the honour bestowed upon him by the Lord, the favour and prestige he'd be blessed with should he perform it satisfactorily enough. Glossing over the fact that he'd likely be gone weeks (if not months) at a time in exotic locales to hunt for foreign (and likely cursed) treasure, treasure whose mere existence was a question mark in itself, he focused instead on the finer aspects of the task, on the museum he'd be helping fill and the culture he'd be preserving, on the legendary artefacts he'd be attempting to find and the relics he'd be uncovering. He tried to repeat the Lord's stirring speech as best he could from memory, though he feared it fell rather flat in this dark, shadowy room with his father eyeing him like a shark from across the table and his mother shaking her head in disbelief.  

"What on earth -" She began, incredulous. "Regulus, you fool!"

He gaped at her, nonplussed and more than a little hurt. "What?"

"Oh, Merlin -" She muttered, before whirling to glare daggers at her husband. "Haven't you seen fit to educate your son about this opportunity, hm?"

He took his own sweet time answering. "I was rather under the impression he was your son to educate, not mine."

"You -" She broke off with a frustrated growl before whipping her head around to face her son again. "Regulus, you idiot, what in Merlin's name did you do?"

"Nothing!" He yelped, astonished. "Why? Is something - Did I -"

"Darling, are you mad?" She all but shrieked. "Gallivanting around the countryside and Salazar knows where else after fairy tales! This isn't an honour, you buffoon!"

Absently, he noted that it was the second time someone had called him a buffoon in as many days. He must be doing something right. "But -"

"No buts! What are you going to do? What of your education? It's your NEWT year, Regulus! Do you want to remain illiterate for the rest of your life? You're nearly seventeen, you'll need a wife soon, an heir; you'll need to start learning the ropes from your father if you wish to take over the House's Lordship anytime soon! You have to present an irreproachable face to society! How are you going to do that if you'll be running amok in foreign lands after some children's bedtime story?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, woman." His father intervened, exasperated. "He'll be fine. I daresay he'll only have to do so for an year or two, perhaps even less if our Lord's fancy runs out before then."

She turned on him then. "You had something to do with this, did you not? What did you to do to anger the Dark Lord so to make him send your only son off on a fool's errand?"

He shook his head, annoyed. "Believe it or not, Walburga, this is an honour in the Lord's eyes. And, in a rare turn of events, it is one your son is uniquely well equipped to handle, so I suggest you get over your inhibitions as soon as possible."

"He could get hurt! He could get killed!" She exclaimed. "Do you not care at all for his wellbeing?"

"He'll be fine." He repeated forcefully. "There are none, in this country or abroad, who would dare lay a hand on Orion Black's son. So rest assured, my dear."

This endearment, coming from most husbands, would sound warm; would sound sweet and caring and reassure their spouses of their love and commitment. Coming from Orion Black, however, it merely sounded odd. Out of place. Dangerous, even.

Heavy silence prevailed for a moment. At last, his mother murmured bitterly. "You always did overestimate your importance, didn't you, Orion."

It wasn't intended as a question, but he answered it as one anyway. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you have the unfortunate habit of underestimating it, Walburga."

She didn't bother replying.

His father ate his chicken. She sipped her wine. 

He stared at his plate.

After a minute or so, she spoke, voice soft and intended for him alone. "When do you leave?"

"Two weeks." He answered promptly. "After my birthday. The Dark Lord wishes me to be of age before leaving."

"Your birthday, yes." She mused. "Weren't you born in July, darling?"

"No, Mother." He said quietly. "I was born on the nineteenth of June, remember?"

She frowned. 

His father scoffed. "Doesn't even remember her own son's birthday."

"Oh, and you do?"

And off they went again, going round and round in circles as they went for each other's jugulars with bloodthirsty enthusiasm. 

He made some scathing remark. She replied in kind. He shouted. She shrieked.

Regulus ate his chicken. 

Chapter Text

He sat slumped in an uncomfortable little rattan armchair in the Lestranges' fourth best parlour, facing the window and the overcast sky beyond, the clouds heavy and dark and bruised and pressing down on the palatial estate, which looked tiny and inconsequential in front of the sheer vastness of unbroken cloud cover looming over acres of elaborately landscaped grounds. His feet were propped up on the wicker table in the centre of the small room (there seemed to be a theme to the place, an attempt at making the room look homey and outdoorsy, though all the intricately woven straw seemed to accomplish was to give the viewer the faint sense of being trapped in some poverty stricken farmer's barn), inches from the plate of ripe red cherries heaped one on top of each other, their spindly little stalks bent almost double from the weight of supporting the fat, glistening maroon fruit. 

Trixie, predictably, had been the easiest to break the news to - he had only two or three more stops after this - and she'd taken it remarkably well, without a hint of the jealousy he'd feared would colour her expression once she found out about his admittedly rather strange assignment, though that was quite possibly due to the fact that she didn't consider it much of an honour at all. He couldn't help but have the niggling little suspicion that had she found his task the least bit desirable or attractive, she'd have had no qualms about going to the Lord and petitioning him to grace her with this favour instead, blood relations notwithstanding.

"Oh, that's practically a quest, isn't it, Rod? Like something out of those fairy tales Cissy loved when we were kids, how exciting. Do you think she'll terrorise the little brat with those horrible stories, too?" She wondered, his news already forgotten, raking a hand through her tousled, voluminous curls. She lay on the daybed opposite, head propped up on one elbow while she devoured the cherries with reckless abandon, caring nothing for the juice that dripped onto the beige fabric like the blood down his arm when the Dark Lord had sliced down his arm with that knife, when he'd kneeled before him in this very manor and bowed his head and waited with bated breath for the pain that was sure to come, only it'd been overwhelmed with euphoria, with the joy of acceptance.

Rodolphus was sat in a leather armchair positioned daringly close to the daybed (with the speed at which Trixie was inhaling those cherries, he didn't think it wise to exist within a few feet of her, not unless one fancied being sprayed by juice and pits and whatnot and looking like some cheap serial killer in a school play by the end of it). Regulus preferred to ignore his existence until provoked, which seemed to be a silent understanding the other man agreed with heartily. 

He smiled a little at the memory Trixie had evoked, remembering those hefty leather-bound books with their concerningly graphic illustrations (he'd loved to pore over those pictures before Hogwarts, even if they guaranteed a sleepless night or two) and Cissy reciting those horrid stories in a sinister monotone, blowing out all the candles and throwing a hand in their faces just to make them shriek. Trixie had been far too old for all this when the freak show was at its peak, so he was rather surprised to learn she remembered that era at all.

"Perhaps." He agreed. "Or, no, I don't think so. Cissy seems like the type to coddle her little baby and make sure everything goes the little Majesty's way."

"Speaking from experience, are we?" Rodolphus mumbled, reaching for a cherry himself.

He elected to ignore the statement. Trixie, fast losing interest in the subject of her sister's more macabre interests, returned to the topic at hand. "Forget about that. Reggie, I'm so curious. Just who will you be dragging along on this little world tour of yours?" She arched a brow in expectation. 

He frowned thoughtfully. "I don't know. Kreacher, perhaps?" He suggested. 

She groaned. "Not that dratted elf, Reggie, please. I thought you'd finally grown out of that phase. You know, Roddy, when Regulus here was an itty bitty little baby, he used to go down to the kitchens -"

"Shut up!" He yelped, throwing a well aimed cushion at her face. Laughing, she recovered. "- and crawl into the elf's dirty little lair -"

"Evan!" He yelled. "I'll take Evan. Or Barty." 

Rodolphus' head snapped in his direction, opening his mouth to speak over his wife's cackles. "The Crouch boy?" 

At his affirming nod, he laughed, genuinely delighted. "Crouch Sr. isn't aware, I take it?"

"Well, he hasn't taken the Mark yet." He hastily clarified. "But he's shown a keen interest in our cause."

He laughed again, throwing his head back and howling at the ceiling. "The Crouch boy! Old Barty's son! Good Lord, what I wouldn't give to see his face when he finds out -"

"You can't take him if he isn't a member, Regulus." She interjected, tone surprisingly steely. "We're in the midst of a war. Act like it."

He glared at her crimson stained hands, at her rumpled silk nightgown (it was well past noon), at the empty glasses littering the table. "Like you are, you mean?"

"I -" She flopped down onto her back. "- am on vacation."

"There are no vacations in war."  He and Rodolphus chimed in unison, then stared at each other in mild unease. 

She lifted her head to gaze at them, irritated. "Stop ganging up on me. Merlin, that was creepy as fuck."

They lapsed into silence for a moment.

Trixie continued stuffing her face. 

All of a sudden, her eyes widened almost comically, twin round little river stones inset in her pale face. "Ooh!" Without warning, she began swatting at her husband's arm, mumbling incoherently around her mouthful of cherries, glaring at them like she expected a hand to reach into her hellishly chaotic brain and pluck out whichever sadistic scheme she'd dreamed up now.

"What is it?" He grumbled, scooting his chair over towards the other end of the room. "Keep those damn claws to yourself, would you?"

In lieu of a response, she slashed her (admittedly rather threatening) nails spitefully in his direction, forcing him to retreat further with an exasperated growl. She turned towards her cousin next, gesturing wildly with her hands, and he cast a panicky glance at Rodolphus for some benevolent salvation, but the other man was, predictably, no help at all.

Glaring at her befuddled companions, she swallowed and spat out a couple of pulp covered pits with a vengeance. "Rabastan, you idiots." She ground out, swiping at her mouth. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. Rabastan. Reggie, for heaven's sake, do us all a favour and take him with you."

Shockingly enough, Rodolphus seemed to be seriously considering the ludicrous idea. "Hmm, yes, that would be nice." He agreed wistfully, staring into the middle distance. "We'd finally have the Manor to ourselves again, Bella. Imagine that."

"Oh, the novelty." She replied sardonically. "Alone in our own house. Imagine that."

Regulus squinted in confusion. "Doesn't he live on the coast somewhere? Bournemouth, if I'm not mistaken?"

Trixie scoffed derisively. "Ha! As if. That fucking villa's only for decoration, I tell you. No sooner than we send him packing does he turn up again, an hour or a day or - if Merlin is feeling particularly merciful - a nice, long, blissful week later. I love your brother, Roddy, truly I do, but if I have to see his eyesore of a mug here a day before Christmas, I swear I'll Avada him myself."

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think?" Rodolphus murmured, leaning back against the cushions. "He just gets lonely, is all."

"Then get a wife! Or find some boytoy, I don't give a damn! Stop lurking around here like some fucking ghoul that jumps out from behind the liquor cabinet every time I try to go get a bottle of wine!" Her husband leaned forward to put his hand on her arm in a dispassionate attempt to get his wife to calm down, but she seemed to have worked herself up into a rage. "He's nineteen, Rod! Nineteen! We'd been married a year by then! What on earth are your parents waiting for?"

He shrugged in disinterest. "They want him to marry for love, I think."

"Well, you can just go tell him that love won't find him in his own brother's rose garden!"

"If it helps," He intervened, trying to deescalate the situation. "He did say something about having tea with some girl when I met him last. Victoria Macmillan, I believe?"

"What, on the night of your initiation?" She asked sourly. "He went that Sunday, oh yes he did. Came back and said she had the personality of an omelette and that he'd rather die than date her. I know Victoria. She's far too good for the likes of him anyway."

"That's my brother you're talking about, Bellatrix. Mind your tongue."

"Whatever for? You know it's true, Rod, you know he does nothing but leech off your money and gamble it all away in those parlors in Paris -"

A breezy voice interrupted the diatribe. "Talking about me, my lovely Bellatrix?"

She took a deep breath, incandescent with fury, red spots rising high in her cheeks. "You -"

"Me." He agreed, giving her a sunny smile. This, unfortunately, was her last straw. 

"You see?" She cried hotly, turning towards Regulus as the devil himself dropped down onto the matching rattan chair next to her cousin. "Always here, always around, like some personal fucking stalker -"

"Stalkers are personal, darling, that's sort of their point. Besides, you'd be the last person I'd stalk, Bella dear. I do have standards, you know." 

"Where, in the gutter? I've had it with you, showing up uninvited at all odd hours -"

"Uninvited? I'm your husband's brother, I don't need a gold foiled invitation -"

"We don't want you here, Rab -"

The more they ribbed him, the more taunts Trixie threw, wildly gleeful to sink her newly sharpened claws into her unfortunate, flailing prey; the more Rabastan smiled, small and smug at first but wider and wider as his emotions ran the gamut from unbothered and mildly amused to offended and downright hurt; as his grin began to show more and more teeth and he looked less and less like the flamboyant man he so famously was and rather like an injured wolf baring his teeth at the enemy in the snow; the more Regulus pitied him. And while it was irrational and foolish and downright stupid to feel sorry for such a man - Rabastan was hardly someone to be pitied, not when he was the tormentor more oft than not, not when his current situation as victim was a rare, rare sight to see (there was a reason he'd been assigned to Karkaroff's team, and unlike Regulus, he didn't possess the convenient excuse of inexperience and age to explain away his mysterious relegation to one of the more distasteful teams in the Lord's arsenal). Added to this was the rather telling fact that despite over an year and a half spent diligently in his service, the Dark Lord had still not seen fit to grace his follower with the mark of his favour, the skull and the snake, deceptively simple and a bit crude and not out of place amongst the universal obscene graffiti defacing the vandalised storefronts of Old Diagon Alley. (Kreacher had taken them there, once, purely on accident - probably because Sirius the traitor had simply refused to shut his trap about some sweet he'd been obsessed with that year - pink coconut ice? - and had bamboozled the poor elf so much that he'd Flooed them to the Alley's older counterpart instead. Father had given him a day with his head in the oven for that - Regulus remembered dragging at his father's hand and howling for the unusually cruel punishment to be rescinded, although Sirius the traitor, predictably, hadn't cared a whit.)

Perhaps it was this lack of standing that enabled Trixie to bait him so, that emboldened her to be so boldly flippant with her only brother-in-law. Perhaps she simply wished to reassure herself of her superiority in this particular aspect by mirroring the disrespect Rabastan no doubt faced at the hands of the Lord and Karkaroff and anyone else remotely associated with the cause. Or perhaps she simply hated him. 

Either way, it made him wonder, albeit in a distant, unhurried sort of sense, what Trixie's demeanour would have been had Regulus himself been in Rab's unenviable position, had the Lord seen through the shiny veneer and realised how useless Regulus truly was, irreproachable from a distance but riddled with holes from every allegation and story and rumour about his - well, condition; barely able to read and write, failing at all his classes and duties and responsibilities, kissing girls who weren't his to kiss under the clandestine moonlight, simply because he'd been fool enough to let her go in the first place, because he'd ruined all his chances with her, just like he'd ruined all his chances with - 

It wouldn't have mattered, surely. She'd hardly cared about his embarrassment of an education, so surely such a scenario couldn't have been much different? 

She wouldn't have cared. It was Trixie, for fuck's sake. He'd have been fine. 

He'd have been fine.

Still, as he watched her gloating over his poor cousin-in-law, there was something -

On an impulse, he stepped into the fight, using a natural impasse in the argument to clear his throat and draw the attention of the other occupants of the room towards himself, who swung their heads in his direction in eerie synchronicity. He faltered for a moment but ploughed doggedly on, strangely determined to save the other man's hide. "Rabastan. I have a favour to ask of you, cousin."

Eyeing the younger boy with mild curiosity, Rab straightened his sleeves and motioned for him to go on. Without wasting a second for Trixie to interject with one of her notorious comments, he plunged into an explanation, parroting the same speech for what felt like the hundredth time, the same little bow-wrapped proposal so neatly presented to him by his Lord in the squalid little nooks of Knockturn Alley, shiny promises of museums and archives and the illustrious past falling a bit flat under the unimpressed gaze of the younger Lestrange brother, failing to hold up to closer inspection in the unforgiving light of day. The bow turned out to be faded and frayed while the shine of the proposal itself had worn off somewhat, silver giving way to an unappealing, tarnished black. 

"What, join my little cousin on a bumbling jaunt through the countryside?" He asked incredulously when Regulus was finished. "I don't see why not. Not like I have anything better to do with my time, isn't it?"

"Well, you don't. Not unless you call whoring and drinking a valuable pastime, which I certainly don't."

"Then it's a good thing nobody asked you, isn't it, Bellatrix?"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" He exclaimed, exasperated. "Trixie, cut it out. Rab, come on. Please. Do me a favour."

"There is no way -" He enunciated, clearly and slowly. "- come hell or high water that I'm going to aid you in your delusional quest to become the Lord's glorified courier. You want to end up a bloody postman, fine by me. Just don't drag me into it."

Motherfucking asshole.

Still he persevered. "I need someone to help me Apparate, you twit. The Lord will bless you with his favour."

Rabastan snorted. "That ship has sailed, I'm afraid."

"Oh, leave it, Regulus." She spoke breezily enough, but there was a glint in her eye that made him nervous. "I suppose I'll just have to send that letter after all." 

He glanced at Rabastan. The other man stared back, eyes narrowed.

Reluctantly rising to the obvious bait, Rab asked warily. "What letter?"

"Why, your marriage proposal to Victoria Macmillan, of course."

Chapter Text

She lay on her bed, one leg dangling off the rounded edge, head propped up on an uncommonly stiff bolster, an uncomfortable crick in her neck from the less than ideal position she found herself in, yet far too lazy to move and offer her poor neck the support it deserved. Holding the once crisp envelope between her forefinger and thumb, she gazed listlessly at the letter, contemplating drawing the sheet of careless, spidery sprawl out of its sleeve but ultimately deciding against it. She'd read it enough times to have learnt it by heart, anyway. Closing her eyes, she envisioned the worn page, creased and wrinkled from its many excursions into the light of day and back again, crumpled and folded and soft to the touch. 

Dear Miss Rosier,

I am pleased to inform you that I glanced through your application for the position and found it most satisfactory (and rather overqualified) for the same, though not very many apply for the post in the first place. Admittedly, it was your personal statement which moved me the most, for I feel you have a gift rarely witnessed in any of your kind, and certainly in none of ours - squibs have never been too famous for their magical gifts, as I'm sure you're aware, with my questionable talent being the long standing exception - but if you wish to apprentice under a poor madman like me, my lovely family will welcome you with open arms. As you may know, I accept children from all over the world with less than respectable quirks onto my little caravan, and we travel around the world in an effort to better understand their respective gifts; gifts which may be possessed only by one other person on this earth or, in all likelihood, by none at all. It will be rough - many a day we have to subsist on crusty bread and stale water, not to mention the very real threat posed by those shameless bandits - but if you are interested, and indeed, if you have time to spare, this journey might just take you exactly where you wish to be. Should your interest be piqued, send reply to this address latest by the twelfth of June. Twelfth of June, sweetheart, and no later - gypsies like us know not where we'll end up two whole weeks later - but I am extending my stay in your country in anticipation of your letter. Do not let this pressure you, dear girl, for this life is (understandably) not for everyone. If you do decide to throw your life and reputation away, know that I hold you in utmost admiration for the same. Waiting eagerly for your reply, 

Le Maître des Rêves

Exhaling harshly through her nose, she opened her eyes, rolling her head to look at the shimmering calendar on the far wall, noting the date which shone just a bit brighter than the others.

Twelfth June.

Two weeks since she'd received the letter, detaching it from the owl's leg with fumbling, heart soaring excitement. Two weeks since she'd sat on that horribly rigid chair in the Fawleys' expansive garden, squinting against the sun at the family she was about to be married into, unaware of or simply unable to understand the true consequences of such a decision, engaged at her mother's whims and wishes to a boy she'd never spoken a word to her entire life, a boy she was willing to lead on merely to spite someone she truly loved, someone who might've been the one seated across that table, in another life and another world, if only -

A week since the party; that party with its beaming mother-to-be and bubbly golden champagne, with Evan's misappropriated whiskey and those ridiculous drinking games, with drunken dances in the corridors to Lorcan d'Eath's sultry crooning echoing out of the portraits to everyone's shock and delight, with that balcony and -

Six days since that article came out, salacious and damning. Six days since she'd been banished in disgrace to the French Estate, away from the beady eyes of reporters and Julianna Fawley's death glare, forced to serve out her sentence in solitary confinement (save Nora and the arrayed wildlife). The goal behind such punishment was unclear, save her mother's mutterings of 'smoothing things over' and 'salvaging this train wreck'. Perhaps she was supposed to reflect on her actions and contemplate what a horrible, horrible daughter she was; but the only thing she had been contemplating in this heat was skinny dipping in the pond out of sheer boredom. 

It wasn't that she didn't feel guilty, per se - part of her knew just how important it was for her mother that this engagement took place without a hitch, that her only daughter was married into a good, respectable family, that the Rosiers gained yet another strategic alliance to back their questionable political endeavours. Most of her didn't care.

She hadn't wanted to marry that man in the first place.

Ungrateful, ungrateful, ungrateful. A voice chanted from the back of her mind. You're so ungrateful, you brat -

Felix, ever sanguine and thoroughly ungrasping of the gravity of the unseemly events which had just taken place, had cheerily and shamelessly begged her to relinquish her room to his care whilst she was gone; Dora, suffering from an acute bout of depression and having newly subscribed to the wondrous concept of nihilism, had (against her better judgement) agreed. Now, away from her mother's disappointed gaze and the stifling, oppressive atmosphere of the Manor and under the warm French sun, she couldn't imagine what foolishness had possessed her to do so, and upon regaining better sense, had sent a vaguely threatening letter to her idiotic brother forbidding him from setting a single foot in the door. Her brother, in true ten-year-old fashion, had promptly replied with a no and a polite fuck you rendered appropriate for his age by three darkly slashed, censoring dashes. She dreaded to think what that gremlin would turn her poor room into. An extra large terrarium, perhaps. And with the way things were, she doubted very much any objections were raised by her parents. Probably slipped him an extra salamander or two while he's at it, too.

One good thing about being forced to live alone - oh, who was she kidding? What wasn't good about living a peaceful, stress free, family free life in the almost unbelievably gorgeous countryside? She might just write to Felix and tell him to requisition her room permanently after all - was that she could listen to whatever crap she wanted on the wireless, blaring it at full volume for the pleasure of herself, Nora, and the birds. The Wizarding Wireless Network was considered, by and large, to be cheap, common trash by her father, a view unfortunately shared by the majority of her family members, but Dora had always rather liked the scratchy pop, so different from the stately classical pieces her parents so preferred - and if there was another reason she was listening to the Top 50 channel like her life depended on it, well, that was between herself and Merlin. 

Gazing at the ceiling, she let the woman's crooning voice slip through one ear and out the other, tracing the flowers cast in plaster on the domed fresco above with her eyes, roses and daffodils and sunflowers, ridiculously oversized butterflies hovering above their petals, boldly striped bees poised over them in anticipation of the sugary sweet nectar that was their beverage of choice. She remembered lying in this very spot, years and years and what seemed like millennia ago, gazing at the exact same fresco with the fulfilling satisfaction of a little girl who'd just gotten her way for the umpteenth time, paint fresh and drying on the butterflies she'd so deeply loved then. Now, all she felt when she regarded the fading insects was a vague sense of detachment, of separation; the fresco nothing more than another relic of her past, like the ballet pumps or those Winnie the Witch picture books she'd absolutely adored. Perhaps it was a tad bit pretentious to feel so grown up, so wise at the grand old age of sixteen, but Dora couldn't help but feel she'd surpassed it all somehow, like her childhood home was too small for her now, like there was nothing, absolutely nothing, within its confines that bound her to itself anymore, like all she wanted was to break down the walls and run screaming out into the world, away from her parents and fucking Albert Fawley and stupid, irritating, traitorous boys with murky charcoal eyes -

A knock on the door.

Two knocks, sharp yet simultaneously gentle, like whosoever it happened to be was using the very tips of their knuckles to define the sound.

Frowning, she sat up, legs tangling in the duvet. Nora wouldn't bother to knock.

Who could it be? Father? Mother?

No, they wouldn't. Felix? 

She snorted wryly at the last suggestion. Like that brat has knocked once in his life.

Padding over to the door on bare feet, she made to open it, but stopped at the last second for reasons best known to her base instincts. "Yes?" She called warily. "Who is it?"

A pause. 

"Me." The person said finally, and -

Oh. 

Oh.

She swallowed.

"What are you doing here?" She snapped, incredulous. "I'm not allowed to meet anyone, you know. Especially not you."

"I heard about your repose in the lovely rural countryside, yes." He agreed. "Completely voluntary, I presume?"

"Obviously." She said sardonically. "That doesn't answer my question, you twit."

She could just imagine him shrugging in that matter of fact way when he responded, quiet and self assured and utterly exasperating. "Asked Nora to let me in."

Her eyes widened a fraction. "That's it?"

"Er, yes?"

She laughed in disbelief. "She's not supposed to let anyone in, actually."

"Really?" She could hear him shifting his weight from foot to foot in the corridor beyond. "Is that why you aren't opening the door? Are you locked in?" He asked, mild concern colouring his voice, and she rolled her eyes hard. "No, you dolt."

"Could you please open the door, then?"

"No."

"Figures." He grumbled.

"I'll have a word with Nora not to be taken in by house elf whisperers." She said, mostly to herself, normally she'd be thrilled at her elf's uncharacteristic disobedience, but not when it involved him -

"House elf whisperers?" He asked, seemingly delighted, but like everything else in her dratted life, it rubbed her the wrong way. "Would you prefer halfbreed murderer?" She spoke frostily. "Or mudblood torturer, perhaps?"

What was she doing? She wondered distantly. Fighting with her brother, with her parents, with Fawley and his horrible family, and now with him, too?

Sometimes, she thought all she'd been put on this earth to do was to fight. 

Not like he doesn't deserve it, though; whispered the same insidious voice from the depths of her consciousness. What with all he's doing. All he's going to do.

When he spoke again, his voice was markedly cooler than before. "I'm leaving, Pandora."

She rested her forehead against the cold wood of the door, one hand still wrapped around the brass handle, and shut her eyes. "Did you really take all this trouble to come talk to me just to run at the first insult?" She clucked her tongue. "Not very brave of you, Regulus. What would your little Lord say?"

"Don't insult him." He spat. "You have no idea what he can do, Pandora. What he will do. None."

She placed a palm flat against the door. "Go on, then. Run back to him like a good little dog."

"Why do you hate him so much?" He asked, disbelieving. "All he's doing is for the good of our kind, Dora -"

"Because it's wrong!" She burst out, chest heaving, what was wrong with him? Unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable - "In what world is harming innocent people excusable, Reg?"

"I'm not doing this." He muttered, and she laughed, because laughing was all she had left in this world, wasn't it? Laughing in the face of the insanity that had so taken over the minds of each and every person she loved. "That's right. You can't do this, for you know that you're wrong!"

"Right and wrong are such relative terms, don't you think?" He mused, and she inhaled sharply, suddenly exhausted. "Whatever, Reg." She murmured thickly. "Do what you want to do. It's your fucking life to damn."

He said nothing.

She turned to go back to the little nest of cushions and her duvet, but was stopped by a simple, terrible, horrific statement. "I'm not coming back to Hogwarts."

She turned her neck so fast she almost sprained it. "What?"

"I'm leaving. For good."

"But - what - where will you go?" She asked numbly, blood pounding in her temples. 

"The Dark Lord has given me a task." He said simply. "I go to fulfil it."

"Where?" She asked, dread forming a pit in her belly. 

"Oh, I don't know." He said vaguely. "Here and there. Abroad, I suppose."

She stood, dumbstruck at the thought of a long, cold Regulus-free Hogwarts year ahead, an year she'd have no Dorcas, no Benjy -

"So I came to say goodbye." He said softly. "I won't see you for quite a bit, I think."

Still she said nothing. 

He sighed. "Goodbye, Dora."

Silence. 

She seemed to have lost the faculty of her voice, though her brain was whirring hard as ever, flicking through those horrid dreams which seemed to be increasing in intensity and number with every passing night, all of them starring the boy outside her door, all of them filled to the brim with corpses and inferi and Merlin knew what twisted, malignant, wicked creatures of the night -

Footsteps started up outside her door, receding with every passing second. 

She had to tell him. She had to warn him.

Wrenching her feet from their immobile positions on the wooden floor, she raced to the door, throwing it open and rushing out into the hall just as he turned the corner. "Regulus! Wait!" She cried, starting towards him and stopping abruptly as he rounded the corner again, expectant and more than a little surprised, and her heart twinged at the sight of that pale face and those eyes -

Yet when she opened her mouth, a warning wasn't what came out at all. "Come back tomorrow." 

His eyes widened, head tilting ever so slightly in shock. "What?"

"Tomorrow." She said, nodding faintly. "Come back tomorrow. Nora will let you in."

He stared at her, dubious, doubtless remembering the venom she'd spewed only minutes ago. 

"Please." She added, when it seemed he wouldn't agree.

He looked at her a moment longer, and she wondered what he saw. "Fine." He said distantly, turning on his heel and walking away with brisk, purposeful strides. "Tomorrow."

She stared at his back till he was gone, till the house was silent again, till even the echo of his footsteps had faded away to nothing. And she made her decision.

Running back into her room, she hunted around for parchment and a quill, sweeping a bunch of clutter off her writing desk and onto the floor, and sat down with a thump.

To

Le Maître des Rêves, she began, 

I'd be honoured to accompany you and yours on the trip as your apprentice. 

Best, 

Pandora Rosier

Chapter Text

Golden, late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the heart shaped leaves of the katsura tree canopy above, casting dappled shadows on the old stone courtyard and gleaming reflectively off the water bubbling from the decrepit fountain in the centre. The ancient, forgotten nook off the sprawling château (made veritably unmappable by centuries worth of expensive magical modifications and extension charms cast by its extravagant owners) was covered with dried leaves and bougainvillea petals, nature herself laying out a carpet for the rare intrusion of mortals upon her long held peace. From where they were draped over the crumbling, curving staircase near the back, he could see over the battered boundary wall to the vibrant green meadows beyond, acres and acres of sprawling pastures and fields, uninterrupted except for the occasional grazing horse or cow. One could just about make out the shimmering turquoise of the English Channel beyond the sparsely wooded cliffs in the distance, little dots crawling across the surface of the water, ships and boats carrying out bustling, incessant activities of the trade and commerce which was humanity's defining trait.

Objectively, it was the most beautiful view he’d ever laid his eyes on.

Unfortunately, he was not a very objective man.

How could he be, when Pandora Rosier was sitting right next to him?

"You’re staring." She spoke, carelessly flipping a page in the heavy, leather bound tome currently resting in her lap. He thought he’d seen it somewhere before, possibly in the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library (on the lovely, lovely day Barty had landed the entire sixth year boys' dorm the privilege of dusting and rearranging the positively diabolical books under the beady eye of the darling Mr. Filch), but seeing as he wasn’t a long nosed, perpetually pinched librarian who went by the name of Irma Pince, he didn’t bother commenting. That, and the less he had to look at those things, the better.

"Just admiring the view." He said quietly, instantly wanting to kick himself for the inane comment, for it sounded a bit too much like one of Barty's idiotic ideas of what constituted flirting - but however would Dora know which view he was referring to? He meant the countryside. Obviously.

"Well, you’re a good ninety degrees off. Do you need to get your vision checked? Maeve knows this one optician in Dublin, it’s where her parents took her after they realised she was practically blind."

His mouth curled up in amusement. "My eyesight is perfectly fine, thanks for asking."

She snorted. Regulus, seized with the sudden desire to continue this lighthearted back-and-forth that had become so very rare these past few months, blurted out the first question that came to mind. "How is Maeve?"

Her hand stilled. "Fine, I suppose."

He frowned a little at the phrasing. "You suppose? Aren't you certain?"

"No. Not really, anyway."

His lips tipped down in a confused sort of grimace. "Don't you two write?"

Sighing heavily, she turned another page, though he was fairly confident she hadn't read a word of the first. "No, Regulus. We don't."

He stared at her, feeling like he was missing a very vital piece of the puzzle. "Weren't you two best mates, or something?" He prodded tentatively.

"Or something." She repeated quietly. Without warning, her hand clenched into a fist, crumpling the page before relaxing with apparent effort.

He sat as still as he was able, getting the vague sense that he'd unwittingly poked a sore spot somehow. In the silence that followed, he could hear his own heartbeat, amplified in the almost unnatural stillness, every twitch and fidget and rustle of cloth against stone deafening in the secluded courtyard. Dora, on her part, had fixed her eyes very firmly on the page below, inspecting the worn vellum with steadfast, dogged determination, though her eyes didn't move an inch in the minutes after his apparent misstep.

He turned away, finally devoting his attention to the view - it really was something, far more appealing than the rain washed streets and dirty pavements that could be observed from Grimmauld's windows at any given time of the day (or year); and it was in this moment that he realised why his mother preferred to rush off to Normandy at the slightest excuse, why she loved Black Manor so much despite it being the stronghold of her own formidable in-laws. His mother was a force, to be sure, but she was a force which thrived in certain conditions, under specific circumstances; and to keep someone as spirited and ebullient as Walburga Black in the dark gloom of their London townhouse was akin to keeping a tropical bird in a gilded cage in the snowy Arctic. 

Regulus had never really minded their sombre habitat back when he was little - there was something inexplicably intriguing about the musty grandeur as an overly imaginative child - but as he aged, as he grew more and more resentful of his father's tyrannical influence, as childlike curiosity sharpened into cynicism, as Sirius left; the shadowy halls of their house resembled less and less a home and more and more a prison. Perhaps that was the reason his mother could be counted on to be out of the house at any given instant, the reason she was barely home, the reason she looked increasingly cornered the more time she spent trapped in the cage of her own making, and though he hadn't really understood it at first he thought he knew how it felt now.

If Pandora hadn't asked him to return today (to his abject shock and crippling, grudging relief) he'd probably have been there right now, either at Grimmauld halfheartedly tossing a snitch in his room or with his father at the Ministry, shadowing him as he'd been asked to do at the beginning of the summer by the Lord, trying to learn to tread the balance of power in the same surefooted way as Lord Black. Maybe he'd have been at the Lestranges', where Rab had got it in his head to teach him to Apparate, an irritating precondition if Regulus wished to take him along on his little jaunt.

In all likelihood he'd have been at someone's library, either the Mulcibers' or the Travers' or the Selwyns', the Notts' or the Crabbes' or the Goyles', hunting for any scrap, any shred of information about the relic the Lord wished them to pursue at once, with all urgency, and had to that aim instructed each and every member of his army to open their doors for the prerequisite search for information. Regulus hadn't dared reveal to his Lord that going through tomes and tomes of densely packed sentences wasn't really his strongest suit, and had instead suffered, squint eyed and resigned, through pages and pages of looping, indecipherable, dratted, damned, torturous text at a quarter his partner's speed. He could have used that spell Cissa taught him, he supposed - the one which made some disembodied, affected narrator plod through the book in a mind numbing monotone - but he didn't particularly want Rabastan to gain yet more proof of his incompetence to gleefully hold over his head. The Apparition and the curses were bad enough. His illiteracy would simply be the final nail on the coffin.

He slid his stare to the girl at his side, watching her out the corner of his eye. Had they been on better terms, he reflected wistfully, perhaps he could have begged her to help him out with the more scholarly aspects of the task, but as it was, the less said about his controversial status as the Lord's foot soldier, the better.

"I wrote her a few times, actually. In the beginning of the holidays." She said abruptly, still not looking at him.

He started, knocked out of his mental spiral. "Hmm?" He murmured distractedly. 

"Maeve." She said quietly. "I wrote her. She never replied."

He snapped his gaze towards her, brows furrowing. "Really? Well - I mean - are you sure she's all right?" 

"Why would you care?" She muttered bitterly. "Just another dirty half breed, isn't she?"

He exhaled, suddenly disgusted. "Give it a fucking rest, would you? Merlin."

"Why?" She pressed, relentless. "Owning up to your actions more difficult than you thought?"

"Like you're such a fucking saint."

"Comparatively, yes, I am."

He glared at her hatefully. "If you'd been in my position, you would have understood." He said venemously.

She snorted. "Oh, yes. The timeless excuse." She fell silent for a moment, and he mistakenly thought their little spat to be over, for now if not for ever, only for her to speak up again a second later, quiet and cloying and all too full of fake, malicious innocence. "Tell me, what was it your brother said to you when he left? Wasn't it something along those very lines?" She laughed airily. "Guess you are more like him than you thought, hm, Regulus?"

Rage overtook him then, fiery and red and all consuming, tempered by the masochistic sting of deep, deep betrayal. "Shut your fucking mouth." He snarled, sounding so very unlike himself that he almost stopped right there in shock, though Pandora didn't seem surprised at all. "That traitor is no brother of mine." He got up, dusting the seat of his pants, and started down the stairs, blood rushing in his ears, honestly, he'd had enough - 

"Where are you going?" She called from behind, and he whirled on her, furious. "Is that why you asked me to come back?" He asked, low and clipped. "So you could feel better about yourself? So you could pretend you're such a perfect human being? I'm not the one who cheated on my fucking fiancé, you -" He stopped, inhaling sharply.

She lifted her gaze, an angry glint in her eyes. "Cheating? You call that cheating? You're the one who kissed me, you fucking hypocrite!" She cried, distraught. 

His hands clenched into fists, and he stared somewhere to her left, suddenly finding the vine covered balustrade intensely interesting, studying the way bougainvillea wrapped around each and every inch of the railing. She continued staring at him, eyes hard and shiny, mouth screwed up obstinately. "Well?" She snapped. "I'm in literal purgatory because of you, asshole! I'm ruined! My parents hate me! My fiancé thinks I'm a whore! My family already thought I was a freak, they didn't need to add slut to the list as well!" 

He winced a little, bristling. "It's just a fucking kiss, Pandora! Merlin. Can you stop fucking overreacting? You - you've kissed more people! What about that weird drug dealer in the year above?" He snapped his fingers. "Xander! The half breed!"

She threw the book at him, and he dodged, gobsmacked. "His name was Xenophilius, shithead! And his blood status has nothing to do with anything, so shut the fuck up!"

They glowered at each other, faces pinched, shoulders rigid. 

There was a slight pause, during which he could hear the leaves rustling in the warm summer breeze, birds chirping incessantly (and far too cheerfully, in his humble opinion) from their little homes on the tree branches above.

Somewhere, a dog barked in the oppressive stillness.

He looked into her eyes, searching for something -

But, oh -

Those eyes.

Those damn eyes.

As he looked at those almond shaped eyes, framed by long, fluttering blond lashes so light they looked finely crusted with snow, he had the strangest sensation of drowning, drowning in her icy blue eyes that somehow managed to look so warm, so beautiful, so deep that the aforementioned English Channel felt like a bathtub in comparison, and even if she hated him and him her, even if there was nothing more he wanted to do than walk away, nursing his bitterness and a betrayal shaped wound to his heart, he couldn't move, couldn't look away, couldn't speak. 

Her gaze was similarly locked on his, and they both seemed to realise that they were staring at precisely the same instant, tearing their eyes away and focusing elsewhere. He looked out over the fields, staring absently at the cattle unbothered by the ugly war taking place in front of their round, dumb, bovine eyes. 

After a moment, he sat down again, back towards Pandora and elbows on his knees, the uneven stone of the steps digging uncomfortably into his tailbone.

He should leave. He should have left already, to be honest, but his shoes were rooted to the floor and he didn't quite have the energy to trek all the way down to the ground in this heat on a staircase which was a blatant safety hazard and quite frankly should have been demolished a decade ago.

Quiet settled over them, awkward and oppressive, heavy with the weight of all the things left both said and unsaid.

For a moment, just a moment, he wanted to blurt it all out. Lay all his cards out in the open, flay open his own soul and show her the messy, convoluted, disgustingly twisted insides. Tell her the truth, the truth and nothing but the truth, like he’d seen the witnesses swear in those court hearings Barty had dragged him to.

But.

What if she doesn’t –

No.

He wasn’t going to say anything.

Safer that way.

Wordlessly, he picked up the book from where it lay in an undignified heap near his feet and passed it back without bothering to look behind him. She took it carefully, gently, like she hadn't been the one hurling it at innocent visitors mere minutes ago, and he withheld a snort.

"I didn't mean -" He began sullenly, unable to stop himself from seeking her favour, unable to stop himself from gravitating back into her orbit and her hate despite there being no good reason for the same, but he couldn't bring himself to walk away, not when they'd been yoked to each other since they were eight, not when the other was all each had left in this world, for better or for worse.

"I'm sorry -" She spoke at the same time, lapsing into an uncomfortable silence at the sight of similar sentiments being issued from the very person she thought was a monster. Monster, hah! He thought uncharitably. Like a monster would say sorry. 

You didn't really say sorry, a voice that sounded uncomfortably like Sirius' the traitor's pointed out. You just said you didn't mean it.

Shut the ever-loving fuck up.

Clearing his throat, he asked the first thing he could think of. “What’re you reading?” 

The traitor guffawed. Reading? You're asking her about books? Oh, this is gold.

His cheeks reddened. No one fucking asked you. Go fuck your half breed boyfriend.

As the seconds ticked by and there was no response from the other girl, he twisted in his seat to look at her, only to find her knuckles white and clenched around the edges of the book, staring right back at him with a strange, conflicted expression on her face. 

He frowned. "What, is it one of those dark magic guides? Because if it is, you’re definitely expecting judgement from the wrong place –"

"No," She interrupted, voice curiously flat. "No, it isn’t anything of that sort. It's just -" She hesitated. "I don't know if I should tell you." She whispered, suddenly subdued.

"Why not?" He challenged, daring her to say it, daring her to say she didn't trust him, not anymore -

She shrugged.

He thought he could spot the barest hint of derision in her expression, of disdain, of disapproval, and he could feel that look cut right through all the rest and hit where it hurt most in a way all those words couldn't, because what were words? Words had never meant much, not to him, but actions and looks, on the other hand -  

This is bullshit. His conscious argued. I haven't done anything wrong.

Besides, she knew why he’d done what he’d done, and she, well, she –

She what? A cruel voice taunted from the back of his head. She supports you? She’s proud of you?

Well, no; he argued, but she understands why I had to –

Oh, she understands, alright. Sirius' The traitor's voice sneered. She understands that you’re a cowardly snake who’ll bend over backward for mummy and has a spine the consistency of custard.

That’s not fucking true. Don't bullshit me, Sirius. And then he stopped, heart leaping to his throat, since this was the first time in a long, long time that he'd even thought the traitor's name, and didn't the Sirius in his head know how wrong this was, how out of character -

But the traitor was relentless. Then what is it? Do you enjoy running around and burning people’s hard work to the ground? Do you cackle like Trixie when you find a new mudblood to torture? I bet it’s fun to be the powerful one for once. To be feared–

He cleared his throat, trying to shove the voice back to the recesses of his mind where it belonged. "Well, what are you reading, then?" He tried not to snap, but inexplicable hurt laced his words. There was a long pause, and he looked away.

It wasn’t that he felt she didn’t have a right to feel this way, exactly. On some level, he did; on some level, he understood. He knew that she hated him and felt disgusted by the things she thought he did after the sun went down and the people he supposedly hurt and the Mark on his arm. He knew that she'd never thought he could do something less than good, something undeniably a bit selfish, something most people feared and for good reason. But what they didn't know, what she didn't know, was just how great his Lord truly was, how just, how wise, how merciful, how good. She didn't know how the Lord was working tirelessly for the betterment of their kind. She hadn't met him. She'd know once she met him.

Once she met him, she'd realise.

So he didn't mind, really. She thought she hated him because she simply had no idea. Because Dumbledore and his cronies had brainwashed everyone so that people thought there were only two sides in war, the good and the bad, the Light and the Dark, Dumbledore and the Lord. 

No. 

They were both willing to do the same things, to go the same ends, to be as horrible and brutal as the other in order to win. The only difference was that his Lord didn't lie. That his Lord didn't hide his more unsavoury yet necessary decisions in the dark like that old fool did. That his Lord was unashamed, unafraid; for he knew he was leading the right side of history.

But.

But.

Despite whatever rationality his brain dredged up for the same, he still felt like he’d been punched in the gut every time he envisioned her saying all she'd spat; today, yesterday and in the weeks before; and though he didn't exactly blame her for it - he couldn't blame her - he hated her for it, just a little bit.

Just a little.

And maybe the thought of her ending their friendship made him feel irrationally, overwhelmingly betrayed; and maybe he knew it was only a matter of time, and maybe he was ready for it, even, in some distant sort of way; but what he didn't know was why.

"Dream interpretation."

He jumped, startled out of his morbid thoughts. "What?" He croaked.

"It’s – that’s what I’m trying to read up about. Dream interpretation."

He turned to face her again, admittedly a bit startled that she’d agreed to tell him, only to find her gazing out into the middle distance, eyes slightly unfocused, a small frown tugging at her mouth. He had the oddest urge to reach out and smooth it, brush it away with the tip of his finger.

What? No, bad thoughts. Concentrate.

He blinked, trying to focus. "Are you having strange dreams again? I thought they got better?"

"They did." She mused. "And they didn’t."

"Okay, you’ve lost me." He admitted.

The frown turned into a reluctant, tiny, secret smile, and his heart stuttered a little. "I think I’ve lost me too."

He huffed out a small, exasperated sigh, feigning irritation, though he was just eager for normalcy to resume, because fuck he missed her. "That doesn’t – I don’t think it works that way."

"It does!" She insisted. "You know, it’s just – the pixies."

The pixies.

"You’re quiet today." She declared abruptly, ceasing her skipping to whirl around and block his path. "I’m always quiet." He grumbled, trying – and failing – to sidestep her. "Well, quieter than usual, then."

He didn’t respond. What could he have said? It was his first day back after Winter Break, the majority of which he’d spent playing mediator between Sirius and their parents, which was about as exhausting as it sounded.

"What’s on your mind?" She asked him then, a bit too seriously for their grand age of thirteen, if he was being honest, but he responded perfunctorily. "Nothing."

She hummed in response, clearly not taking him seriously. "If you say so."

"It really is nothing, you know." He snapped, and she simply shrugged, clearly not believing a word. "Alright."

A few seconds passed. She continued looking at him flatly, head cocked in expectation, and he glared right back. He tried to move past her, but to no avail - what with the dexterity with which she was blocking his way, she'd have made a fine Keeper. He thanked the heavens that the Ravenclaw captain hadn't discovered this particular talent yet.

Breaking after only a few moments, he glowered. "Fine, maybe it’s not nothing! Happy now?"

Rolling her eyes, she murmured. "Not as happy as I will be when you figure out what’s going on in that head of yours."

"That’s rich, coming from you." He mumbled petulantly, but shut up when she gave him a look. 

"Sometimes," She began conversationally, "I feel like there’s a little bit of everything going on in my brain. Like, it’s not anything in particular, but it’s not nothing either, you know?"

He did know, and Merlin only knew what compelled him to add to the frankly strange conversation. "Like pixies."

Her eyes brightened. "Yes! Oh, and they're just running around and bumping into each other in my head, like they’re trying to win a race but can’t see the finish line." She watched him eagerly for a moment. "You get it, don't you?"

He'd never quite thought of it that way, but he did. "I suppose. Dora, we're late for Charms, c'mon -"

"D’you know what I do then?" She asked, ignoring him completely, and he sighed, resigned to whatever oddity was about to make its way from her mouth and warily curious for the same. He wouldn't admit it if she asked, but he quite liked hearing her talk. It was interesting. She was interesting. "No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me."

She grinned. "So, what I like to do -" She started, with ghoulish enthusiasm. "- is picture the pixies with amazingly buff bodies - y'know, like the ones in those porn magazines? But they all have McGonagall’s face. Ooh, and they’re running around starkers." She added, ignoring his choked sounds of protests. "Puts me right off whatever overthinking I’m doing." She finished serenely. "You’re welcome." In a singsong voice.

With that, she promptly walked off, leaving a spluttering, red faced Regulus in her wake. "You – what the fuck, Dora!"

Her laughter rang bright and clear over her shoulder as he struggled to catch up. "No, genuinely, what the fuck is wrong with you?" He groaned. "It’s – that’s a mental image I’m never getting out my head, you realise?" A particularly distressing thought occurred to him then. "Oh Merlin, what if McGonagall is a Legilimens? I don’t think I’ll be able to look at her in class again without thinking about this – I’m going to be expelled –"

"Oh, relax." She giggled, delighted. "If she was, I’d have been expelled a long time ago. She'd have been really hot when she was young - I think about it all the time."

He stared at her in acute disbelief. "Seriously?" He stopped and put his progressively reddening face in his hands. "Fuck you."

"Did you know your ears turn bright red when you blush?" She asked casually. "It’s kind of cute, to be honest."

Regulus, who’d lifted his head to glare at her, promptly dumped it back in his hands after hearing the second half of the statement.

"Fuck off."

She sniggered. "It worked, though." She pointed out. "You’re not thinking anymore."

"It did not." He mumbled. "It so did."

And if his heart had skipped a beat at her nonchalant declaration that she found him cute (alright, well, found his ears cute, but it was practically the same thing), it was none of her business.

And if she really had taken his mind off his lovely family for a bit, she didn't need to know that.

And if Regulus couldn’t quite look McGonagall in the eye for the next couple of Transfiguration lessons, that had nothing to do with her frankly ridiculous claims that their middle aged Transfiguration teacher was hot. Nothing to do with that at all.

Looking back, there was no way she hadn't simply made it up on the spot - it had been a bad Christmas that year, one of the worst he remembered, with Sirius the traitor pulling firmly away from their family - and she'd definitely said whatever ridiculous shit she could think of just to distract him, but it had worked, to be fair; and it was only in retrospect that he realised how kind she'd really been.

He couldn’t help but smile a bit at the memory, pulling one of his knees up and shifting to face her, abandoning any pretence of admiring the French countryside entirely. The memory had deflated his anger entirely, reminding him of a time he couldn't have imagined fighting with her in such a manner, and guilt dripped from every syllable as he spoke. "Maybe," He began, hesitantly. "Maybe I can help? If you like, I mean."

Salazar, he sounded like an idiot.

It irked him a bit, this cautious attitude he’d adopted, the way he hesitated to press like he never had before, not in her company, at least, but to his intense relief she did the same, both of them skirting around the elephant in the room like their lives depended on it. Maybe they just didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace, this false sense of hard won security, of balance they’d so painstakingly constructed, but he also didn’t think they had much of a choice to begin with. It was either while away their day here, insulated from the horrors of the war by the relentless sunshine and the desolate, gorgeous French Estate, or face the cold reality of their world across the Channel, and who in their right mind would pick the latter?

Somehow, he thought he’d be content to walk this tightrope forever, choosing his words carefully, not displaying his allegiances openly, if it meant he could stay here, with her, and spend the rest of his life in the same lazy summer haze that hung over them now.

He watched her then, watched the way her brow creased slightly, the way she bit her lip and hesitated, at clear war with herself over accepting his offer, and he waited with bated breath for her resolution. Tell me, he wanted to say. I’ll help you, I’ll always help you, I’ll take this burden off your back and bear it alone just so I can see you smile at me again, I’m sorry, please forgive me, all you need to do is say the word, just say it –

"Alright." A quiet admission, an acceptance of his helping hand, an olive branch, if you will.

Emboldened, he scooted closer. "What’re they about? Your dreams, I mean." He clarified.

She finally looked right at him, eyes absently wandering over his face but not really looking, not really there.

"Inferi." She said finally. "They’re always about inferi."

He looked her dead in the eyes, trying to ascertain whether she was joking (Inferi? He hadn’t heard that term since the time Cissy had thought it would be hilarious to read grotesque monster stories to her younger cousins right before their bedtime) but she seemed disconcertingly serious.

"Inferi." He repeated. "Right. I can see why you’d want that sorted out… Anything else that can help in the interpretation?"

Again, she hesitated.

"A cave." She whispered, eventually. "They live in the cave."

A vague, indefinable sense of foreboding crept over him, goosebumps rising on his arms despite the heat, hair prickling at the back of his neck. He shivered for no discernible reason.

He attributed it to the rather disturbing subject matter.

"A cave." He repeated, trying to focus. He was well aware of the fact that he sounded like Maeve Donovan’s parrot, but his mind had been wiped curiously blank.

She hummed in agreement, watching him carefully.

Almost too carefully.

He wanted to squirm under her scrutiny, but forced himself to maintain eye contact, grey eyes meeting blue.

"Right, anything else?" He asked.

She watched him for a moment longer, eyes flashing with something he couldn’t quite read – disappointment, maybe? – before her expression wiped clean, turning to look out at the distant ocean.

"No." She said, quietly. "No, nothing else."

He looked at her, trying to determine the truth of those words, but her face was closed off. Distant. Unreadable, or it would have been, had Regulus not known her for the better part of his life and recognised her face better than the one in the mirror. As it was, he could see the tension in her shoulders, the barely imperceptible tightening around her mouth, the way her eyes were preoccupied, far away like they always were when she was worrying about something. Whatever this was (and he’d known her long enough to trust that it was something, something important), it was clearly weighing on her deeply.

How long? He wanted to ask. How long has this been going on?

He'd never seen her so melancholy. It scared him, a bit.

"Alright, then." He said loudly, with a cheeriness he had no choice but to fake. He lifted himself up, brushing the dust off his trousers. She watched him curiously, if a trifle warily. "C’mon." He spoke, extending a hand. "Time, tide and Regulus Arcturus Black wait for no one."

She rolled her eyes. "Merlin, you're so annoying." To his relief, a small, if confused, smile tugged at her mouth. "You missed the second." She added drily.

"Regulus Arcturus Black the second, then." He corrected, still holding out his hand. "Well?" He prompted, with a confidence he did not entirely feel.

She shook her head, bemused. "Where are we going?"

"You’ll see."

He couldn’t quite help his small exhale of gratitude when she reached up one hand and placed it in his, sunlight glinting off her many rings and bracelets. He pulled her up, trying not to think about how her hand fit perfectly in his, how her slender fingers were ever so slightly thinner than his own, how warm her hand was –

She dropped it away, and his fingers tightened on instinct before forcibly relaxing. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, and gestured towards the crumbling, worn stone path. She fixed her vague, dreamy gaze on his own. "Where are we going?"

He flashed her a smile. "Let's go swimming."

Chapter Text

Juniper fading into pine, pine swirling into sage, sage into viridian and viridian into olive.

A veritable sea of greens, smearing into each other like wet paint on canvas in their murky reflections in the vast, still pond below. She traced their ruffled outline against the sky, leaves and twigs sticking out at odd angles, branches hanging dangerously low, some skimming the surface of the water while others jutted into the clear blue dome above. Logs lay half submerged on the banks, others floating on the shimmering surface farther out, cleaving through the water to the unknown depths beneath. Cicadas droned in the background, though the area was conspicuously absent of any bird calls, or any sounds of civilisation at all, really. 

Everything was golden, gleaming; untouched except by the gentle caress of the sun. The warm air carried with it the stale scent of stagnant water, coupled with the sweet, distinct smell of ripe apples emanating from the tree below which she found herself sprawled, long yellow grass skimming her skirt and leaving stains on the soft cotton. Her poor, abused book lay by her side, long forgotten and deposited on the loamy soil in favour of drowsing in the sun, finally enjoying a well earned rest after being flung at fascists' heads.

When Regulus had first put forth his rather surprising proposition of going swimming (with that idiotic, idiotic grin like that was somehow supposed to make a difference), she'd arched a brow, shocked; never in their nine years of peaceful coexistence (more recent disputes not taken into consideration) had he shown any proclivity for water, and in fact quite the opposite - he'd always sort of shied away from the Great Lake during their frequent meandering strolls through the grounds and not once had he partaken in any of the frequent picnics organised on its banks when the weather was agreeable, not to mention the ridiculous and frankly unbelievable excuses he was prone to spout the moment someone suggested skating on the frozen lake in the winter - but she (and everybody else) had put it down to the fact that he, in all probability, simply didn't know how to swim. It couldn't have been a fear of the water itself, not when his common room (and indeed, his very dorm) were located right beneath thousands of metric tonnes of murky water pressing down on flimsy glass and centuries old enchantments held together by spit, hope and dreams; the only barrier which kept the lake from flooding the dungeons like the Gryffindors undoubtedly prayed wholeheartedly to their pagan gods (James Potter at the height of his popularity came to mind) for.

Once the initial shock had worn off she'd merely shrugged, and they'd set off down the death trap of a staircase in the general direction of the pond which lay near the edge of the Rosier Estate. Predictably, he'd backtracked once they'd actually come within sight of the massive water body. 

"Er -" He glanced at her sheepishly. "I actually have to go meet Cissy after this, so...." 

She looked at him. He was standing right in the sun's path, its light lazily encircling his head in a hazy golden halo. 

"It's alright." She spoke, unbothered. 

He looked so relieved that even she was almost taken aback. "We'll swim another time."

She shrugged again. "Sure, Reg." She cast him a curious sideways look. "Whatever you say."

They'd settled down a little ways up the bank, far enough away from the glistening, unbroken surface for Regulus to sit without glancing like a nervous kitten at the water every other second. She'd begun to read her book again, flipping through the yellowed, stained, faded pages in a grim effort to find where she'd left off, but had given up almost as soon as she'd restarted; summer was in the air and warm, muggy heat on her skin, butterflies and bees fluttering from shrub to tree in an attempt to find the juiciest, worthiest flower.

She wondered distantly what had happened to the birds, why they'd packed their little nests up and shepherded their fledgelings away from the glade, this glade with its fathomless pond and darkly gleaming water, with its damson trees and thick, flat leaves; leaves across which crawled lacewings and snails and fat, hairy caterpillars dreaming of the day they'd be revealed to the world, dainty and transformed, dripping colour and elegance, fluttering about on the wings of happiness butterflies were so rumoured to possess in books and fairy tales alike. (Alright, so maybe she wasn't quite over her butterfly obsession like she'd thought. Sue her.)

Glancing towards the left, she gazed at the outline of the boy lying on the thick bed of grass a a few feet away, one arm tossed over his eyes, the other flung on the ground, fingers curling in the scratchy, dried blades in much the same way as his hair, ebony and stark against the meadow in more ways than one, wavy and shiny and softer than sin. She wanted to run her hands through it, twirl his curls around her fingers and feel its softness on her palms. She found it rather strange, how freely and playfully she'd been able to ruffle his hair when she'd had no particular desire for it, when childhood had extended - vast and unending - into the misty, golden horizon; when the gesture had had no particular meaning other than a deep sense of appreciation for someone who put up with her on a daily basis, when love hadn't been tainted by thoughts of his hands and his lips and his shirt, loose with sleeves rolled up and shirt unbuttoned far enough for her to catch a glimpse of his pale sternum. She looked away, longing twisting bitterly around her heart, and focused instead on the scene in front.

A rickety wooden pier extended a few metres across the surface of the pond, stopping abruptly, no doubt intended as a mooring point for the leaky, practically submerged vessel held to the post by a few pitiful strands of frayed rope. It really was gorgeous, in that dreamy, secluded countryside sort of way - she fancied she could hear murmurs carrying on the almost nonexistent breeze, longing sighs and pitiful, hopeless exclamations of oh, I hope summer never ends. Perhaps it was simply her imagination. Perhaps it was some remnant of the past, some similarly heartsick Rosier ancestor whispering from their grave. Perhaps she'd just gone mad. Whichever it was, she couldn't help but feel rather odd somehow, superimposed like a recently passed family member on a photograph by one of those shifty editors in Hogsmeade, with their outdated cameras and narrow little shops. 

She stared down at the soil, brown and crumbling, and thought of the people who'd laid their eyes on this very view years and decades and centuries ago, for surely someone had occupied the very spot they found themselves in now? Surely someone had raced across the pier and dived into the water, heedless of the creatures lurking beneath its deceptively calm surface; surely the boat had once been a mighty one, freshly varnished and painted, taken out every Sunday by laughing couples and squabbling children; surely a picnic had once been held, long and stretching late into the evening, till the light dimmed and the fireflies came out, a checkered blanket spread on grass long dead.

Or perhaps she really had just gone mad.

Felix would want to take it out, she thought suddenly and with irritable, strangely acute fondness. And it was true - no matter how ramshackle the boat, no matter how splintering or leaky the vessel, he'd have jumped at the chance to sail it again, heedless in his childlike enthusiasm of the varied dangers the task involved which would undoubtedly lead to loss of life and limb - not his life or his limbs, for the universe had gifted him the wonderfully useful talent of escaping his harebrained plots relatively unscathed in order to compensate for his pea sized brain - it was Dora who would (with her abject lack of any sort of good fortune whatsoever) inevitably end up dismembered and lurking in grisly pieces down by the muddy pond bed.

It was an odd thing, to realise she missed the very same brother whose existence she cursed with every stuck out tongue and misplaced possession, every poorly constructed booby trap and trivial argument, but she did; her brother was a pain in the ass but he was her brother, moreover he was a brother who'd be turning eleven soon enough and waltzing off to school, a new boy with a new life in which she'd have little to no place whatsoever. Had the brat been attending Hogwarts, she might've been of a bit more use - might've been able to help him with his school shopping, with his robes and his quills and his pet - but as it was, his schooling remained shrouded in uncertainty with every advancement of this dratted war, every rumour of rape and pillage and murder; since Pureblood though he may be, Felix was still a little boy, defenceless and lumped in by the righteous public with the wrong side of the war (no matter how hard Regulus tried to convince her and himself of the opposite). Pureblood enrolment was dropping at about the same rate as muggleborn enrolment, for who in their right mind would ship their eleven year old off to a castle in the middle of nowhere in the midst of a war? Not her mother, who'd been campaigning for Ilvermony like her life depended on it (and maybe her son's did, in her mind), though her father still leaned firmly towards Hogwarts, war or no war.

She'd even been there, once - back when she'd been in her mother's good graces and the engagement had still been going strong - on a tour led by some disinterested witch who'd showed them around the school (which was, to be fair, about double the size of Hogwarts and twice as loud). 

Reluctantly, she'd liked it. 

Rather a lot, actually.

After they'd finally returned to the blessed quietude of their London residence (woozy and weak at the knees from the horrors of intercontinental Floo turbulence), her father had wasted no time in declaring - gloomily and with an air that suggested he knew the battle to be a hopeless one but would fight it anyway, like a true martyr for the kingdom of his own opinion - that he'd rather have a Squib for a son than some obnoxious Yank who thought the sun shone out his ass; to which her mother had replied, succinctly and bitingly, that he'd clearly rather have no son at all if he was so willing to pack him off to fend for himself in the wild hinterlands. Her father had wisely refrained from pointing out that the hinterlands in question were home to one of the largest magical communities in Great Britain and had instead seemed to realise that he might as well start referring to his son as dude and swagger around wearing a cowboy hat, since at this point Merlin's second coming seemed more likely than her little brother attending Hogwarts' hallowed halls.

Felix, on his part, was largely unbothered by the war being waged around his education. 

She leaned against the wall, regarding the eclectic scene with an unimpressed expression. Drawers jutted out from the dresser, half open and in varying stages of disarray. Sleeves and pant legs gasped for air, peeking despairingly out from the jumble in the wardrobe, which was also (predictably) half open. A line of jumpers were tied to each other by their sleeves, one end of the makeshift rope lashed onto the brass handle of one of the aforementioned drawers while the other end flopped about uselessly on the carpet. The poor four poster's canopy had been torn almost entirely off its frame and now trailed unwillingly down to the floor to disappear beneath the (unmade) bed. Paint tubes (all nearly full, most missing their lids, a few with paint brushes sticking out their gaping mouths) lay haphazardly around the monstrosity that took up the centre of the room, a misshapen blob of lumpy paint decorating the canvas propped on the easel teetering dangerously to the side, one leg slipping off the book that had been unceremoniously used as a stand for the greater purpose of creating art, if art was what one could call the eyesore in front of her eyes (doubtful). The dubious artist in question had callously abandoned his masterpiece to the elements and was now prancing about the hazard of a room with a foot long laburnum twig clutched in one hand (purpose and origin unknown). 

He made his way over to the intruder, hopping and leaping merrily over the trash strewn on the floor, and jabbed the stick into her arm. In retaliation, she plucked it out of his grip (not without some difficulty) and threw it over her shoulder into the corridor beyond. What ensued was a rather undignified tussle (not entirely verbal) which ultimately resulted in Dora vanishing the stick and Felix preparing his very best, most innocent face to present his many grievances regarding his horribly cruel elder sister to their sympathetic parents. Before he could do just that, she grabbed his arm and dragged him over to the window seat, wrinkling her nose at the jam smears on the grey fabric, and told him in no uncertain terms to sit or she'd tell her mother who it really was that stole all her handkerchiefs (each scented with an insanely expensive perfume enchanted to take the form of whichever smell her company found most attractive, like some variant of Amortentia - to her surprise, her father hadn't said a word, not even when the more lecherous callers drooled after her like dogs after a bone) last year and buried them in random, indistinguishable positions out in the garden for reasons best known to himself. (Currently, the blame for the same lay with Nora, who'd apparently done so in a fit of misguided confusion. Her mother, conveniently forgetting the years of flawless service dished out by Nora and her predecessors for generations past, had graciously forgiven the elf with the patronising,"It's all right, elf, just this once. Mistakes are understandable, especially in, ah, lesser creatures.")

When she finally managed to circle back around to the reason she'd stepped foot in this war zone in the first place (after dozens of hissed threats and at least two tickle wars), his response was about as disappointing as she'd hoped it wouldn't be. "I don't know." He shrugged, supremely unconcerned with which continent he'd be spending the next seven years of his life on.

"Oh, come on." She groaned. "It's a simple question, Felix. Hogwarts or Ilvermony?"

He shrugged again, the picture of nonchalance. "Either."

She glared at him, irritation rising steadily. "You've got to have a preference, you twat."

"I don't." He whined. "Let go of me, Dora. And give me back my stick, or I'll tell Father!"

She pulled a face at him. "Yeah, right. He'd thank me, probably. Hogwarts or Ilvermony?"

"I don't care!" He growled, wrestling out of her grip. "Bugger off."

"What about your friends?" She persevered, ignoring the childish insult and grabbing onto his sleeve, refusing to let him go till he gave her an answer, plain and clear, just so she'd know which side to throw her lot behind in the budding conflict between their family. "Where are they going?"

He stopped wiggling and glared balefully at her. "Zahir isn't going to either of the two, Dora."

She frowned. "What, the Shafiq boy?" 

At his nod, she shook her head, nonplussed. "Where's he going, then?"

"His parents are sending him to Damavand, away from the war." He hesitated before continuing. "I asked Mother if I could go with him, but she said no." He finished, dismal.

"The Persian school?" She checked.

"Yeah. Can I go now?"

"No. What about your other friends? That blonde boy - Travers?"

"He isn't my friend."

She sighed. "What are you talking about? You play with him all the time."

He scowled. "Play? We don't play, we're not babies. We hang out. Merlin, what are you, a granny?"

"My apologies, sir." She said drily. "Hang out is an American phrase, by the way. Don't use it around Father unless you want to give him a stroke."

He shrugged, mutinous. "Whatever."

And that was about all she'd been able to get out of him in spite of repeated prodding, her normally chatty brother sullen and uncharacteristically withdrawn at the merest mention of either school, and though Dora felt a bit like she was missing something, something vital; she couldn't help but think that Ilvermony, with its large, whitewashed walls and huge, airy rooms, massive fields and huge metallic laboratories, innumerable hedges and endless geometric mazes was what fit her brother best - that, and its student populace was certainly loud enough to match his usual exuberance. Besides, its curriculum suited him better - Spellcrafting and Alchemy, Healing and Law were some of the many electives offered by the school, not to mention sports other than Quidditch, which was something Dora was severely jealous of.

But what did she know? Perhaps her brother was simply dying to attend Binn's class and suffer, bleary eyed and sneezing, through matches that somehow always took place during horrid, abysmal weather. She was half convinced they did it on purpose - she could see some people (like Regulus, for example) advocating for the same just to make their own life more difficult. She could almost imagine what he'd say - something along the lines of upping the stakes and making it more fun or some other equally concerning, half witted bullshit. She wouldn't necessarily call chasing a walnut sized speck across a stormy sky while avoiding bludgers hurtling along at Merlin only knew how many kilometres per hour fun, but to each his own, she supposed.

She smiled faintly at the thought, memory bittersweet, and turned slightly to look at the boy next to her, only to find his eyes open and staring at the sky, glazed and far away. He realised she was looking a second later, glancing at her quickly before refocusing on the sky. She'd asked him to return so she could warn him about the dreams she'd been having, the Inferi and something else, tugging at the edges of her attention; but now that they were here, under the leafy shade and nightmare dispelling light of the sun, her words dried up, stuck in her throat - what on earth could she possibly say? Be wary of reanimated corpses? Stay away from graveyards? Stay safe? Come back? Just come back, whatever it takes?

He glanced at her again, catching her eye. She stared back, helplessly ensnared. "This is it, then?"

He could have been referring to any number of things. He could have been referring to the view, to their conversation; to anything at all, really.

Still, when she spoke, she had to swallow around the lump in her throat, shards of glass wedged in her windpipe; words spoken with the brutal, shattering finality of goodbye. "Yeah, I guess so."

From somewhere beyond the tree line, the first bird of the afternoon emerged, wheeling in the cloudless sky before letting out a solitary, mournful cry. 

When he got up, she didn't try to stop him. 

Goodbye, Regulus.

Chapter Text

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He knew that. All this should have been was a mundane, routine shake-up; a little posturing, some wand waving, a few threats with an expression solemn enough for the victim to know they meant it. The crew was a skeletal one - him and Romanov, Morozov and Wagner, with Wilhelm and some dour, less important Crabbe guarding the perimeter - and the shopkeeper had never been one to give them trouble, being a wizened old man whose only concern seemed to preserving his overstuffed shop. Even his assistant - some lower Pureblood not listed in the Sacred 28 - had been perfectly pleasant the last few times they'd been here, even going so far as to offer them biscuits. They could've been poisoned, of course, but they'd had the unique pleasure of testing them out on the very same Crabbe (perhaps that was the rather valid reason for his grumpiness today) who'd had the misfortune of tagging along the last time they'd been here. He felt for the man, in a sense; but Crabbe was English and their hodgepodge army had the unspoken rule of disrespecting the English as much as permissibly possible. It wasn't anything personal - he was an ugly lump of a man, 'twas true, but it's not like the poor thing could help it - but Lady Magic had unfortunately seen fit to drop him in the land of unseasoned food, unnecessarily uptight mannerisms, and appalling weather; which was justification for a little bullying in and of itself.

Now, terrible though the English may be, there was one thing they did right, and that was, in fact, biscuits. He'd come to this shop with biscuits on his mind and been slapped in the face by betrayal instead. Fucking English.

All had seemed well when they'd entered the shop, a teetering monstrosity on stilts for no apparent reason in Old Diagon Alley; one of those antiques-and-collectables places where most of the junk was superstitious, hedge witch bullshit while the remaining (a minority, to be sure) was potent enough to blow Grindelwald's socks off. Family business, decently popular, low profile enough for more dubious activities but lacking the appropriate friends in high places which would have rendered it untouchable from the Lord's reach. As it was, they visited every so often to collect the monthly lump sum that gave the shop immunity from the widespread damage of war. A win-win, if you will.

For a bit, all proceeded as planned. Romanov made his way to the counter, Morozov at his side; while he and Wagner loitered a few paces behind. He remembered drawing Wagner's attention towards a tiny, naked woodland fairy nailed to a board. Wagner had made a face he couldn't see from behind the mandated silver mask, but couldn't quite stop his eyes from travelling down to her bare chest. He remembered shaking his head in mock disapproval, Wagner glaring back at him petulantly. The shopkeeper then fished a small burlap sack of coins from under his desk. He could practically see the galleons in Romanov's eyes, tinted red with lusty greed. The assistant hovered nearby, pretending to wave his wand at the relics to clean them while glancing over his shoulder every other second at the motley crew.

And all hell broke loose.

The shopkeeper ripped the drawstring open to release dozens of pixies into the stale air, tiny purple bodies whooping and hollering in their irritatingly high-pitched voices while swooping about the shop, shooting impish grins that promised legendary havoc at their shocked human audience. For reasons probably best left unexplained, most of them seemed to decide Morozov was the tastiest treat of all and promptly proceeded to descend on the man, who let out a squeal so beautifully girlish that he wished Karkaroff had been there to hear it. (Petrov blamed the hair. He'd fucking told Morozov it looked like a bird's nest, but did he listen? No.)

About a dozen shadowy figures leapt out from aisles Petrov swore had been uninhabited only seconds ago, brandishing wands and firing curses with an accuracy that left much to be desired, seeing as all but one streak of purple light missed their targets. (This victim of the only decently competent ambusher was, once again, Morozov; and Petrov began to wonder very seriously what he'd done in the past life to warrant this sort of comeuppance.) Most shocking of all, perhaps, was the assistant; who swivelled around from his nook and glared at them so furiously he thought he was attempting to slay them through force of sheer willpower alone.

Spellfire rattled against the shelves, sending potion vials hurtling down to smash into a thousand pieces and release noxious, eye-wateringly foul vapours into the stuffy shop. Romanov was the first to recover, ignoring his poor companion's plight and instead sending three deadly green streaks at the attackers with military precision. Petrov wondered - not for the first time - just how much hate Romanov held in his heart for their enemies to be able to cast not one, not two, but three Killing Curses in a row. Killing Curses weren't your average levitation charms. Casting them required mastery, purpose, intent; an Unforgivable could only be cast if the wizard truly meant it, mind and soul.

He'd only ever managed to cast them thrice himself. Once an Imperius, and twice the Cruciatus. 

He fired off an Incendio at the assistant who replied in kind, sending back a Rictumsempra with grave concentration. Fucking typical.

Getting rid of the man with a hastily cast Expulso, he glanced around, thankfully finding each soul occupied and locked in battle (presumably) to the death. A murky yellow sludge pooled by his feet, bubbling menacingly, a sizzling sound making itself heard even over the clamour in the shop. Stowing his wand in his robes - bad, bad idea in retrospect - he made the strategic executive decision to skedaddle. They don't need me, anyway.

The battle did seem pretty evenly matched, if only because Crabbe and Wilhelm had come racing in at the sound of Morozov's squeal, which turned out to be the only thing the fucker managed to accomplish, for he lay now in a heap near the counter with a group (herd? pride? troupe?) of pixies roosting triumphantly in his oversized trench coat and that horrible, horrible haircut.

He ducked behind a lopsided, particularly crammed shelf, perhaps hoping that he might be obscured from the bloodthirsty, self proclaimed vigilantes by the various vials and bowls and suspiciously cheery dolls that sat in prominent positions on the rack, leering up at all those foolish enough to peruse them and decide - in their unfortunate, endless, irredeemable ignorance - that they were merely objects to buy, to buy and to sell like they possessed no more sentience than the average butter knife when their eyes (large and painted and horribly lifelike) followed their witless owners across the room; when their hands (clunky and far too oversized for a doll that size) began twitching and shifting the moment one turned their back, moving a fraction closer to the axe that hung on the wall above their head with each passing day, with every routine sweep of the unseeing eye; reaching for their freedom, for death, for the crimson of blood to stain their porcelain cheeks a ruddy red, for his neck -

Cursing, he jerked back, evading the cherubic doll's now outstretched hand by the breadth of an eyelash, tripping over a stool the shop assistant had left in the aisle and tumbling into the shelf behind, toppling the majority of its contents and instantly squashing any hope - naive and half hearted though it may have been - of slithering out of the shop (and thus the battle) undetected. No less than three spells whizzed towards him at the deafening sound of vials breaking against the floor, and while he managed to evade them all - at the cheap cost of a sprained ankle - one of them turned out to be a particularly nasty Bombarda Maxima which sent two stories worth of shelving and ten trunkfuls worth of nasty trinkets down on his poor, unsuspecting head. By Merlin's grace - and some long forgotten, currently deeply appreciated primal instinct - he twisted to the side right before a half ton metal case descended on the spot where his head had been, landing on the floor with a horribly loud crash. He had just the time to hope forlornly that the owner had decent insurance (his father was particularly fond of Atlantis Actuaries) when he ended up on the floor himself, ears ringing, head feeling like it'd sustained a bludger to the back, heaven knew how many feet of shelving landing on his poor arms and legs and fixing him against the floor like a rare moth to a collector's mount.

All heads in the vicinity snapped towards him at the damning moment of impact like hounds which had smelled fresh, tasty blood; eyes glinting and wands still extended; curiously still and silent for the melee in which they'd been embroiled mere moments ago. Motionless, they stared at each other, him still on the floor with the others looming over him like harbingers of death, the flickering light cast by overturned candles and distant explosions throwing their faces into shadow, twisting each expression into a grotesque, monstrous leer; Death Eaters and Order members alike suspended in a strange, mutually understood equilibrium when - 

"There!" A questionably ginger Order member cried, hair like burning embers in the scantily lit shop, gesturing rather unnecessarily towards the boy sprawled on the floor like an upturned beetle with limbs tangled in the shelving, and he cursed as he tried to free a concerningly numb arm pinned under a squashed cardboard box containing Merlin only knew what (books, if the crushing weight was anything to go by); and that would have been the inglorious and untimely end of Mikhail Sergeyevich Petrov had Romanov not found it in his blackened heart to help a comrade out and cast an extraordinarily strong shield over both boy and bookshelf, the incandescent blue dome crackling with energy, and he made a mental note to return all the money he'd swindled from the poor man in poker, with interest. A hefty, hefty interest. 

Uselessly, he wrenched at his trapped arm, mindless panic filling his chest; and it took him a mortifyingly long time (long enough for Romanov to regret wasting his energy on him, perhaps) to realise he could simply levitate the box and hurl it off to the side, so he strained his other arm against a collapsed shelf to reach into his robes, only to find - 

"Fuck me." He spoke dazedly to no one in particular, vision swimming, hopelessness settling on his heart like the dead weight his body would be in its grave if he didn't do something soon; but what could he do when his probing fingers brushed not against his trusty, eleven inch runespoor-scale core wand but against multiple splintered fragments of aspen peering blearily out his torn pocket?

My wand, he thought nonsensically. It broke. And then he laughed, for the statement was one so obvious it was almost worthy of the frighteningly ginger man currently firing curses at some poor masked Death Eater's head. His father had been right, as always. Stupidity was catching.

He lay there, numb. Something warm trickled down his temple. He raised his free hand to inspect the mysterious liquid, ostensibly forgetting about the silver mask which currently hid his face, but found its movement impaired by a beam lying across his chest. Ouch, he thought sympathetically. That must've hurt, Petrov.

It did, he heard himself responding; but it's all in a day's work, you know. 

Oh? The voice cooed, sounding more and more like Yelena with every passing second. You're so brave, Petrov.

Well, he replied modestly; it'd take more than some wood to take me out of the game, y'know what I'm saying, darling? I mean, it was tough. Broke a few ribs. But I got right back up and beat the shit out of those Order motherfuckers.

The blue dome flickered momentarily before reforming, and in that split second his ears were assaulted by a barrage of noise, screams and shouts and the shattering of glass against unforgiving stone, the boom of a Confringo blast mingling with the slap of shoes against the shop floor as fighters dodged and weaved around hastily fired hexes. For a moment, the sudden wave of sound jarred him back to reality, fingers spasming by his side, legs twitching and head jerking wildly from side to side as he desperately tried to wriggle free, but the burst of enthusiasm was short lived as what little energy he possessed ran out and the wave of lucidity receded once again, Yelena's honeyed voice dragging him back to the shore and sun warmed sands of insanity.

Really? She asked admiringly. I knew my father was wrong about you.

Now, if Petrov had even an ounce of common sense, if he hadn't been concussed to high heaven and knocked mightily on the skull with a weighty, curio laden shelf; he might've realised that hearing Karkaroff's daughter denigrate even the most minute of his qualities was so improbable as to be impossible; and to hear her question Igor's judgement was, quite frankly, something Petrov would have eaten his hat and tap danced in pointy leprechaun shoes for. In public.

Concussed Petrov was, however, an idiot; so all he did was hum approvingly and smile a bit, preening, lashes fluttering as he sank further and further into the welcoming blanket of sleep. 

Don't sleep, you fool. She snapped, suddenly sounding a lot more like the girl he knew in actuality, and he frowned in consternation. 'M sleepy. He protested, exhaustion pressing down on his eyelids.  

Don't. She said urgently. Don't sleep. 

Don't sleep.

Don't sleep.

Don't -

The battle continued around him, flashes of light visible through his half closed eyes, the din of fighting muffled through the barrier that surrounded him. He didn't know how long he lay there, immobilised; time ceased to have any meaning, measured only by one laborious breath after another. Maybe he slept. He didn't know. 

The next time he opened his eyes, there was no shield. No battle.

Only silence.

Silence, broken by one gruff, irritated voice. "- mean, all of them got away? They were outnumbered two to one, you idiots!"

"Not all, sir." An anxious voice reassured him. Ginger man. He would have raised his head if he thought he were capable. "One was left behind."

When he spoke, his voice was bitterly ironic. "Not due to any skill displayed on your part, I'm assuming, Fabian." 

"Er -"

The other man sighed. "And where is this unfortunate soul, pray tell?"

"Right this way, Auror Moody."

Footsteps clumped against the floor. 

Closer. Closer. 

He shut his eyes.

A hand ripped the mask off his face, and his eyes reopened involuntarily, though they only managed slits. All he could make out was two blobs of colour swirling in the air above him, peering down with cold indifference.

At last, the man - Moody - spoke. "Bring him back to the Ministry."

Chapter Text

Trudging up a gravel pathway on a thirty degree incline in loafers with the midsummer sun beating down on his head had never been on Regulus' list of things he had to experience before he died, but there he was, shirt damp with sweat and hair sticking to his temples. (The top spot on the aforementioned list was currently occupied by observing Transylvania's Seeker in action, which was a sight his eyes had already been blessed with once before, back in '70 when China and Transylvania had reached the World Cup Final and Regulus had wheedled and begged and pleaded his way into attending the match; something his father had reluctantly agreed to after Walburga's determined advocacy for her second son's cause and Sirius' the traitor's sudden and miraculous change of heart and attitude towards a sport he'd heretofore shown little to no interest whatsoever. In a rare fit of magnanimity - or perhaps in slavery to the compulsion for dramatics inherent in each and every member of the House of Black - his father not only ended up securing for his family the best seats in the house, but actually went as far as to invite both teams to a banquet hosted at their ancestral Manor after the match. Transylvania had, in fact, lost the match; but witnessing China's exemplary performance in all sectors had soothed the sting in young Regulus' heart somewhat; and his father had watched in blatant, open mouthed amazement as his son proceeded to wedge himself between Seekers of opposing teams and accomplish the seemingly impossible - an almost civil conversation between Wei Xiang and Andrei Stan, with minimal insults and only one tongue trying curse flung at an offending party. Uncle Cygnus had jokingly begun referring to him as the Diplomat for quite a bit after the incident, which became a sort of running joke between the older children - if you read my diary, Cissa, I'll call the Diplomat on you or don't you borrow my owl without asking again, Trixie, or I swear to Merlin that I'll tell the Diplomat. The Diplomat in question, however, wished only to Seek for England as soon as possible and hopefully brain his tutor in the head, which were, admittedly, rather undiplomatic aspirations; but Regulus was but a boy.)

The memory made him smile, and he squinted up against the sun, remembering how it felt to fly on a broom a hundred feet from the ground, swooping and diving with reckless abandon and hollering till his lungs gave out, wind whipping his words away as soon as they issued from his throat and voice made thin by the altitude. His muscles burned, calves cramping, and he placed one foot in front of the other with an air of grim determination more commonly witnessed in soldiers with three kids and a pregnant wife back home. The mechanical task - though arduous - was almost cathartic, in a sense; he could simply switch his mind off and focus on hauling himself uphill, the distant visage of Malfoy Manor peeking out from over the crest and shimmering in the heat. The exertion was something he welcomed mightily, if only because it meant he wouldn't be totally out of shape and embarrass himself terribly on the pitch come September - being in the Lord's service was an honour, yes, but rather a sedentary one - to his disappointment, the Lord wished him to exploit his frankly below average mind and not his superior Quidditch skills; and what kind of a captain would he be if his broom couldn't even lift off the ground at tryouts? Not to mention all those pastries Kreacher seemed intent on stuffing them with morning, noon and night; if he wasn't careful he'd end up with a potbelly like Uncle Cygnus and then where would he be? Most of his summers past had been spent flying lazily about Black Manor and playing third rate pick-up games with Evan and Theo and the rest (Barty, much to his righteous indignation, had been banned from all such games for the foreseeable future since he happened to be about the sorest loser in the history of the sport, as evidenced by the precedent he'd set by transfiguring Theo's broom into worms after the latter had done what any good Keeper would do and hadn't let the Quaffle pass through the hoops); but what with how exceptionally busy his father had kept him this year, his Nimbus lay untouched in its cedar case below his bed, trembling forlornly and rattling the frame every so often as if to ensure its owner didn't forget about it entirely. He'd planned to take it for a spin this week, before he left, but some dratted thing or the other kept cropping up and his feet remained firmly planted on the ground, much to his irritation - all he'd been doing ever since the Lord had handed him his assignment a week prior was poring over books, books, books; books he didn't give two fucks about and books he didn't care to read, not to mention books he couldn't - and along with the Mark branded on his arm he'd been sporting the mother of all headaches ever since, letters and symbols swimming around behind his eyelids and haunting him even in his sleep, enlarging and contorting into grotesque apparitions that taunted him with Sirius' the traitor's voice, with his father's, with Mother's, Cissa's, Dora's -

At least you'll be able to play come the start of Seventh Year, he comforted himself, handily forgetting that there was going to be no Seventh Year, not for him; the Lord had made it crystal clear that he considered Hogwarts' education to be a criminal waste of time and would prefer (read: ordered) Regulus to abandon his schooling entirely. 

"The task I have given you is not an insignificant one, boy. Remember that." The Dark Lord leaned over his desk, eyes glinting as he regarded the boy kneeling demurely in front of him. 

Regulus dared not lift his gaze from the horribly Oriental carpet that his eyes currently choked feasted on. They were in the Lestranges' master study, which the Lord had requisitioned to serve as a sort of lair for his personal use. Regulus got the vague sense that Rodolphus was glad to see the last of the former Lord Lestrange's study, for if there was one thing father and son sparred on, frequently and publicly, it was the former's taste - in interior, entertainment, and women alike. Lady Lestrange had died an untimely death of Dragon Pox and Corvus Lestrange had wasted little time in proceeding to newer models, each younger, skimpier, and less credible than the last. Rodolphus had loved his mother. The same, unfortunately, could not be said for Corvus. 

"I am greatly honoured, my Lord, and forever indebted."

The Lord hummed, dissatisfied; he shifted and something fell off the desk, the smashing of porcelain against wood heard and not seen by the boy with his head bent. He exhaled, the sound measured and drawn out in its harshness. "I took a chance on you, Regulus. I went against Karkaroff, did I not? I tolerate his attempts to besmirch the soundness of my mind in the hope that when you return, the reward will be far greater than the risk I take by sending you and not, say, Karkaroff's own daughter." He stood up. "Is it foolish to entertain such hopes, boy?"

"No, my Lord." He murmured. "I will not fail you."

"Good." A short silence, broken soon enough by the man's irritable, "You're still kneeling, are you? Get up, child, you're spraining my neck."

Dutifully, he got to his feet, eyes still turned downwards. 

"You remember all we talked about, yes? The requirements?"

"Yes."

"Good, good. Follow them to the letter, Regulus. The requirements must be met. Purest of the pure. Don't bring me polluted artefacts. Don't water down our history. It is of utmost importance that the relics be untainted, untouched by muddied blood. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Lord."

He remembered thinking that the Lord seemed restless, distracted somewhat; he kept pacing the length of the room like a caged animal, strides long and lithe, movements precise and contained yet betraying deadly, coiled up power. "This should be your top priority, boy. None of that NEWTs nonsense. Don't rush the process. Such things...." He trailed off, eyes focused somewhere above his head. "Such things cannot be forced." He ultimately decided, words quiet; reverent, almost. 

He said nothing.

"You're leaving after your birthday, yes?"

He nodded.

"We'll meet after you return, then. This shall be our last meeting, Regulus. There are battles to fight - plans to make...." Again he trailed off, and in spite of his inexperience with the Lord's mannerisms, this momentary indecision couldn't help but strike him as odd; out of character for a man whose very currency was words.

The hesitation vanished almost as soon as it appeared, the Lord nodding once, twice; each time with more conviction than the last. "I wish you luck, child. Do not disappoint me."

He'd been almost pathetically relieved to learn he wouldn't have to return to Hogwarts this year, a relief so great it had dwarfed the glory of the task itself in comparison; he loved Hogwarts but only certain aspects of it, aspects that didn't involve being chained to a desk for most of the day and aspects that didn't feature the written word in all its prominence. His mother had tried (in vain) to make him 'see sense' and circumvent the Lord's wishes somehow, though she hadn't phrased it quite as boldly as that; but Regulus was adamant and resolutely refused to go back there, not for an year that entailed a mountain of cramming and tests branded Nastily Exhausting by the sadistic vultures education authorities themselves. His father, on the whole, seemed rather unbothered by it all, perhaps realising that a son who dropped out under mysterious circumstances and vanished off continent was a sight more respectable than one who failed his NEWTs like the halfwit he was (something Regulus knew with gloomy certainty to be inevitable, if only because he remembered the darkness of his joyless, lightless OWL days). 

Fifth Year had been unanimously and unequivocally declared to be the worst year of their lives by about every student he knew, though personally he didn't remember all that much of it, to be honest - half of it had been unremarkable and the other half had gone by in a sweaty, feverish blur of flipping pages and late night revisions and early morning Kitchen raids, not to mention weekends spent holed up in the Library and evenings whiled cross-eyed by the fire instead of wandering out on the grounds. His only faithful partner in this frantic six month cramming spell had been, to his shock, Barty; Evan didn't need to study to attain decently impressive marks and Dora simply didn't care, while Cassie Dorcas had stopped talking to them altogether by then. Barty was, surprisingly enough, a fairly tolerable study partner - he kept to himself and actually did his work with as much grim determination as he could muster, which turned out to be a surprising lot when he actually put his mind to it - but all feelings of camaraderie had abruptly vanished when he'd realised upon receiving their results that Barty had obtained a perfect twelve OWLs while he'd scraped by with barely passing grades in four, with T for Troll glaring up at him from their place in front of most of the other subjects. 

As he neared the crest of the hill, the gleaming golden gates of Malfoy Manor came into view at long last, the incline gradually levelling out and giving way to an almost flat path. He walked up it gratefully - there was only so much he could do in the name of exercise and this was, frankly, nearing his limit - and made a mental note to learn to Apparate so as not to end up in any more such situations. When he'd walked away from Dora on that grassy, sun-struck bank, feeling a vague sense of loss and the more heady one of finality, of a chapter closing; he'd conveniently forgotten that he'd have to re-enter the château in order to Floo to Cissa, and had skulked back in to subsequently find the kitchens in the house's bowels, with Nora perched on a knee-high stool to reach the counter and stirring a pot of what appeared to be rabbit stew, if the scent was any indication. All this effort eventually turned out to be totally useless; Malfoy Manor only opened its Floo to certain residences, and the Rosiers' forgotten French dwelling was not one of them. The absolute best she could do was send him to a pub a little ways out of Wiltshire and leave him to hitchhike the last few miles to the Malfoys' Estate in the scorching sun, the struggle of which wasn't anywhere near the embarrassment of tumbling out the dingy fireplace of a sleepy bar with the barkeep looking at him like he'd seen his mother's ghost - to be fair, Regulus had seemed a little out of place amidst the bar's straggling, scruffy patrons with his too-white shirt and polished shoes - and he didn't know who was more taken aback, him or the old man who'd grabbed hold of his sleeve and sat him down for a good ten minutes to lecture about the best ways to safeguard a garden against magical pests only to screech, jump up and splash him with his whiskey right in the middle of a detailed explanation about the best Billywig traps (a shame, as Regulus was just starting to get invested in the topic). As it turned out, the old man had thought he was his nephew, who'd died in an explosion back in '65 at a party 'wearing a shirt just like that, the poor thing'. He'd listened to the barkeep's explanation, mortified; they'd both kept apologising profusely, though really it was neither of their faults - the man who'd started this whole affair was now snoring peacefully with his head on the table behind them. He'd hurried out of the bar, cheeks flushed, and vowed never to use the fucking Floo again. 

He reached the gate, the ache in his knees fawningly grateful for respite, and leaned his forehead against its intricate bars in a typical lapse of judgement - the metal was burning up and he jumped back, yelping as he nursed his head with one clammy hand. Surveying the grounds beyond, he glanced around for some way to get Dobby to come and open the gate for him, but found none. Doubtless Cissa thought he'd be Flooing in directly, and what with the baby she'd taken to lying in bed most of the day anyway. Lucius probably wasn't home and he didn't even know the name of any elf who worked here, apart than Dobby. Speaking of which -

Clearing his throat, he spoke with as much authority he could muster. "Dobby!"

He waited.

A grasshopper chirped in the bush. 

The sun continued its merciless rampage. 

No one came. 

"Oh, Merlin." He mumbled, turning away and sliding down to the ground with his back against the gate, its heat muffled to an almost bearable warmth by the thick cotton of his shirt. What the fuck had he gotten himself into? Heart sinking, he came to the damning realisation that he should've just flooed to Grimmauld from the château and made his way to Malfoy Manor from there, but he just never thought, did he? 

He groaned, overcome with the sudden urge to bash his head against the foot thick boundary wall, and leaned his head back, slumping further into his puddle of self pity. Always me, isn't it?

He glared balefully up at the summer sky, blue and cloudless; some bird took flight from a nearby beech tree and started off towards the west, swooping around in lazy spirals before flying in earnest. From where he sat, he could see almost to the foot of the hill, the village he'd Flooed to earlier a distant clump of slumping houses. What could he do, squat on the ground and wait for some house elf with a heart to rescue him? 

He glanced over his shoulder at the desolate grounds. Yeah, he'd be sitting here till kingdom come. Dobby would come to open the gate and he'd find a baked potato smeared on the ground, all that remained of his poor, sunburnt body -

Crack. 

He startled at the telltale sound of Apparition, whirling around, scraping his side against the stone gatepost. Peering through the bars, he was shocked to see -

"Father?" He blurted, helplessly amazed. Maybe it's like one of those instinct things, he thought. Dragons know when their eggs are in danger. Perhaps Father -

A furrow formed between his father's brows. "Regulus?" He said slowly, like he couldn't quite believe it; the boy in question jumped to his feet, euphoric, saved -

"What in heaven's name have you been doing?" He cried, absolutely aghast, and it was only then that he realised what he must look like to an outsider - shoes muddied, shirt stained with grass from the Rosiers' lakeside and splattered with the whiskey the man in the pub had thrown at his face, not to mention the patches of sweat rendering it transparent at random intervals and causing it to stick to his body. The seat of his trousers was dusty and he must have looked quite the madman when he grinned with all his teeth at the horrified man on the other side of the fence. Thank Merlin. Thank fuck. 

"Can you open the gate, Father?" He asked casually. "I've been waiting for quite a bit." Alright, maybe quite a bit meant only five minutes, but who was going to tell him?

He stared at his son, speechless. It was a rare sight to witness and Regulus wished his mother had been there to see it. He stared back, daring his father to begin his usual blustering about improper conduct and yell at him for wasting his time in useless pursuits, but the man seemed well and truly dumbstruck. 

Not for long. 

"Have you lost your mind?" He exclaimed, looking about three seconds away from an aneurysm. "You - how - what in Merlin's name -" He fell silent, unable to find the words to express his disbelief.

He said nothing, but then again, he didn't need to. His father Apparated to the other side of the boundary and grabbed his shoulders himself. "I've had it with you, boy." he seethed, and Regulus wondered why every adult in his life seemed intent on calling him boy like he didn't have a name, an awfully pretentious one too, given to him by the very man in front of him, in fact -

To his surprise, the expected lecture never came. Shockingly, his father seemed to swallow his fury, holding himself back in a remarkable exercise of self restraint, and roughly let go of his shoulder, wiping his hand on his coat like he couldn't believe he'd touched the dirty boy in front of him. 

"Go back to Grimmauld." He said coldly. "Change. When you're ready, I'm taking you to the Ministry."

He frowned. "What?"

"Are you hard of hearing, boy?"

He amended his question. "Why?"

He sighed. "You -" He cast a disdainful glance at his second born. "- are going to give a press conference."

Chapter Text

Slouching in an uncomfortably rigid plastic chair in a dingy Ministry waiting room - if one could even call the glorified broom cupboard she was currently exiled to any manner of room, which was hard to do by even the most ambitious stretch of imagination - with a slapdash bandage on her left hand and a squished styrofoam cup in her right wasn't generally how Dorcas spent her average Tuesday evening, but she supposed one could never rely on the familiar in times which were, well, less than ideal. (By which she meant the war, and not the period cramps currently wreaking havoc on her spine, although in all fairness the former was far, far more preferable than the latter.)

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was located on the second level of the rabbit warren that was Great Britain's magical government and purportedly took up the entire floor, though she sincerely doubted anyone had ventured far enough off the well trodden path to be entirely sure - the Ministry was less an ordinary stone building and more a living, breathing, sprawling complex with a mind of its own - she'd swear on her nan's life that the route to the Auror Office changed ever so slightly each time she made the weary commute to the cubicle at which she spent most of her time, when she wasn't chasing down Russians outside questionably hygienic patisseries in the dead of night, that is.

An icy draft blew through the waiting room, though from where, she couldn't imagine - there was not a single window (excluding the illusioned variety, of course) or indeed any opening into the outside world for at least one whole floor and half a kilometre's worth of condensed earth and stone separating magical civil servants from their oblivious muggle counterparts up above. Perhaps Magical Maintenance was angling for a raise again, the bastards - she was one hundred percent sure those purple-robed idiots were the most overpaid employees in the history of this godforsaken country by virtue of sheer blackmail alone - their protests had never struck her as entirely legal, what with how often they released tornadoes into vital departments merely to make their (excessively foolish) point; but the Ministry famously turned a blind eye on all their shenanigans for reasons Dorcas could never understand. She'd have booted those fuckers after the first sandstorm in Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. 

Her eyes surveyed the room in yet another bored sweep, drinking in its contents for want of something better to do with her time. There was a tiny Floo grate in one corner, presumably for applicants to stick their heads in from the warmth and comfort of their living rooms to check on their loved ones and on the status of their bails and cases, to file reports and pleas with uncaring bureaucrats who didn't give a rat's arse about their poor Sandy or Johnny or Casey suffering in their stone cold jail cell. Aurors didn't arrest citizens often, but when they did, it was here, in this very waiting room, that their friends and spouses and relatives appeared to begin the legal process. Magical Law Enforcement Patrol were the ones who took care of the small fry, of petty criminals and low-level thugs, which was were Dorcas had been rotting before the Auror Office sent a deployment notice their way and her supervisor promptly returned a list with her name on the top of it. Dorcas Meadowes, written in loopy cursive handwriting with the air of a man glad to be rid of the troublemakers in his set. She hadn't been the only one to be graced with this honour, of course - Fabian Prewett and Hestia Jones had been transferred as well, along with Louisa Murray and Gina Caldwell - and after seeing Moody's face upon witnessing each ex-cop's expertise in one-on-one combat, she could confidently say he was regretting his decision to source his employees from the 'lower' police department. She wasn't a particularly good dueller herself, but she was cannon fodder and that was what Moody desperately needed more of, whether he wished to admit it out loud or not, and having five handy expendables to send into tricky situations at the forefront of the line up was so successful that the man had written another letter to the Patrol requesting twenty more losers. Hey, she didn't mind. These people paid better, at least.

Without warning, the banged-up door to the waiting room burst open, letting in three men, a cacophony of noise, and a stream of lilac paper airplanes. She startled, causing lukewarm coffee to slop over the hole in the cover and onto her hand. 

"- how'd Black catch wind of this? Those Russian fuckers haven't even adjusted to the dark in the cells yet -"

"I've told you once, Theseus, and I'll tell you again - there are informants everywhere, blast you, everywhere -"

She sat up straight, cup squished in her hand, eyes focused on the men. They hadn't seemed to notice her yet, Moody snatching an airplane out the air and crumpling it in his grizzled fist without bothering to read its contents. Theseus persevered. "We're well and truly fucked, aren't we? All Karkaroff has to do is suck a few dicks in the Wizengamot and all his blonde lackeys are going to swan out of here, scot free -"

"Do you always have to be so crass, Scamander? And all isn't lost yet, is it? We still have time, yes?"

"Oh, crass, am I? Why don't you just go and stick that -"

"Shut it, both of you." Moody grunted, having abducted another memo and actually deigned to open it for once. "We have bigger problems than your sensitivities, Scrimgeour." Wordlessly, he passed them the note. 

Theseus swore softly. Scrimgeour, on the other hand, appeared apoplectic. "A - A press conference?!" He burst, dismayed. "What the fuck kind of nonsense is this?"

Theseus tutted softly. "Language, Rufus." 

He wheeled on the brunet. "You motherfuc -"

"Ladies, ladies." Moody intervened, swivelling around. "Keep your knickers on." His eyes landed on Dorcas. "Meadowes. Did the labs come in from St. Mungo's?"

She stood up. "Yes, sir. No matches with any British citizens, as expected. Lucille said the hospital contacted St. Matrona's in Moscow for help with the samples but the administration was remarkably uncooperative -"

Theseus snorted. "I'll bet it was."

"- and refused to give out its patients' data without proper warrants and whatnot, which we don't have yet -"

"Wonderful." Scrimgeour ground out. "Absolutely wonderful."

"- not to mention we don't actually know if our captives are Russian, or German, or Slovenian -"

"So?" Moody prodded, impatient. "No help on that front, then?"

She took a breath. "No, sir. I did lodge the reports and fill out some forms for their arrests, but all we have on them without names is blackmail, assaulting officers of the law, and arson; none of which have particularly severe consequences in our judicial system."

"We have the Marks on their arms, don't we?" Scrimgeour appealed to Moody. "These Death Eaters are terrorists. Surely terrorism, at least, has severe consequences?"

He shook his head. "It isn't enough."

He frowned in disbelief. "What do you mean, it isn't enough? It's inked on their skin, in flesh and blood, tied to their soul -"

"As much as I appreciate the poetry, Rufus." He interjected. "This isn't the time or place. As for your question, it isn't enough because we don't have a decent grasp on Voldemort's magical signature yet. Without the magic bond, without the link, all we have is an ugly fucking tattoo."

He stared at Moody. "You're having me on, aren't you?"

"Nope. Without appropriate proof of magical bondage and damning evidence of tampering with one's soul by linkage to the so-called Dark Lord's, the Mark is simply a tattoo the defendant can claim is entirely innocent." He shoved yet another lilac sheet into Scrimgeour's flabbergasted face. "Legal Department says it won't hold up in a court of law."

"So, what, they're just petty criminals?" She couldn't help interrupting, although the sudden increase in attention made her cringe. "We went through so much trouble - and for what? They're just going to walk out of here?" She cried, rage mounting steadily. "That's - that's bullshit!"

They stared at her for a solid minute. At last, Theseus gestured at the squashed cup in her hand. "You going to drink that?"

She shook herself. "Uh, no. You can have it." She handed it over and watched in appalled fascination as he downed the monstrosity in one go.

He made a face. "Ugh, disgusting. Ministry Munchies, is it?" 

She nodded. The stand in front of the Fountain of Magical Brethren did booming business in a Ministry full of sleep deprived employees in spite of its frankly revolting coffee due to the simple fact that it was the only source of caffeine for miles. He shuddered and stared down at the container in regret. "What do they put in this thing?"

"Meadowes." Moody called, staring at her with an unreadable expression in his bulging eyes. "Black used to be your friend in school, didn't he?"

She stared at him in confusion. He knew she and Sirius and the rest had spent practically every moment of their last two years in Hogwarts together. "Yes?"

"Not our Black. The other one."

The other two men stared at her, shocked and intrigued in equal measure. Regulus Arcturus Black, Heir to House Black, friends with a lowly cop, a broke halfbreed such as Dorcas Meadowes? It simply did not compute. The math just didn't add up.

Dread rising in her chest, she nodded slowly. "Just till his fourth year." She clarified hastily. "And I wouldn't say friends. Acquaintances, maybe. Actually, no, not even that -"

He looked at her wryly. "Save your breath, girl. I know you were part of their little gang for quite a bit, yes?"

She narrowed her eyes. "How d'you know that?"

"A little birdie told me." At her answering scoff, he shook his head. "It's none of your damn business how I came to find out, Meadowes. Answer the fucking question."

She gazed at him, torn. Answering no would simply make her look like a liar, and a yes would automatically make her guilty in the famously objective eyes of the law enforcement. 

In the end, she went with a - "Yes."

He nodded, pleased. "Good. You're coming with me." 

Mute, she looked down at her feet, heart in her throat. Did he think her a traitor? An informant? Was he throwing her in a cell with the Russians? Taking her to be tortured? Was - 

"Relax, child." He said, amused. "I don't think you're a spy. If I did, you'd have been licking Azkaban's floors for a month now."

She glanced up sharply. He regarded her for another moment before turning back to Theseus and Scrimgeour, who'd been following the exchange like a tennis match. "Alert the press. Tell them about the captives. Leak the information to them, tell them outright, I don't care. Just make sure it gets out somehow. We don't want it to get brushed under the carpet again. And sell them the real deal, not whatever doctored account they're going to roll out at this dratted press conference."

They nodded.

"What're you lot waiting for, my boot to your backside?" He barked suddenly. "Get out of my sight, both of you. And remember -" He yelled after their scarpering backs. "Constant vigilance!"

The door swung shut. 

Her heart swelled with panic again.

He stared at her, and she didn't like the way he was looking at her. Calculating. Cunning, almost, like he'd figured something out and was about to use it to his full advantage. "Listen up, Meadowes. We -" He began making his way towards her, gait stumpy and unhurried. "- are going to attend a press conference, and you are going to be my little assistant. Got it?" 

"Assistant?" She asked, confused.

He waved a hand. "Reporter, then. Just do what I say and there's a promotion in it somewhere for you."

Her eyes widened against her will. 

And that was how Dorcas Meadowes ended up following Alastor Moody like a lost puppy around one of the Briefing Rooms on Level 4. There was a buzz in the air, a general atmosphere of anticipation, although Law Enforcement officials all bore a disgruntled expression at the Wizengamot's interference in a matter that very clearly fell under the DMLE's jurisdiction.

She only had the foggiest idea as to the press conference itself, though it didn't take a genius to deduce that it had something to do with the Russian captives and Regulus. It was how the two were connected that was giving her trouble. Moody ignored all her questions and she eventually stopped trying, choosing instead to eavesdrop on nearby conversations in an effort to find something out, to little success. Most people appeared about as confused as she was. 

All of a sudden, the lights over majority of the room dimmed ever so slightly, though the ones spotlighting the platform remained as bright as ever. Out of a hidden door in the back of the room came strolling the usual suspects - some senior Wizengamot officials she didn't know the name of, Orion Black, Barty Crouch Sr., a couple of DMLE officials who worked directly under Crouch like Gawain Robards and Colin Faraday. And at the end of this prestigious line up came -

Regulus. 

And he looked so -

Different.

Gone were the tousled black curls, the wavy hair found more often than not in a state of disarray, the errant locks flopping onto his forehead with every tilt and shake of the head. In their place was a slicked back hairstyle reminiscent of the one Lucius Malfoy and his band of cronies had sported when they'd used to haunt Hogwart's halls like a band of snotty, overly gelled, stuck-up ghosts trapped in an environment they very clearly disapproved of, if the sneers and sly jinxes aimed at the less fortunate members of their House were any indication (which, believe her, they were). Gone were the muddy Quidditch robes and baggy white shirts he donned in her memory, the grass stained pants and fingerless leather gloves she remembered him wearing, both on and off the pitch. Gone, all gone.

Instead, he seemed to be wearing robes which looked expensive enough to pay off her mum's mortgage, heavy and excessively formal and far too fancy and out of place amidst the scorched and torn garments of the law enforcement force, all burn marks and gouges and trailing threads remnants of a battle fought with his kind, for Dorcas wasn't naive enough to insist he had nothing to do with those bastards. Not anymore.

What shook her most, perhaps, was the look on his face, a face she remembered being more open, more innocent, perhaps; eyes she thought used to be lighter, brighter; a twitching mouth that had been equally liable to shift into a grin or a grimace at any given time. The bearer of that face was right in front of her now, just a few metres away from where she sat in the front rows, sitting at the long conference table on the hastily constructed stage in the middle of the hall between Orion Black and none other than Barty Crouch Sr. himself, staring straight ahead in blatant disregard of the odd little gathering on the floor in front of him. That face was still recognisable, in a sense - pale skin and eyes she assumed to be grey, though she couldn't quite tell under the glaring light of the spell globes someone had charmed to hover over the podium - but to her it seemed the face of a stranger, distorted somehow, twisted into a grim expression she couldn't really recall him ever wearing, bored and flinty and nothing at all like the boy she'd laughed with over breakfast in the Great Hall. 

Why was she so disappointed?

It wasn't like she hadn't seen this coming. 

It wasn't like she hadn't witnessed him becoming more and more like them, though he'd kept his mouth shut whenever she was around out of some cowardly, useless sense of empathy; and though he'd never come right out and said it, though he hadn't really partaken in any of the cruel jokes Mulciber and the rest used to play on muggleborns, on halfbloods, on people like her -

Sure, he'd never said anything. But he hadn't had to, had he?

His silence had been telling enough. 

Their silence had been telling enough. 

Flickering firelight glinted off the hangings in the Slytherin Common Room, gold trim popping out and blinding the eye of the viewer while dark green velvet blended into the shadows, only the vague outlines of writhing snakes embroidered onto the draperies visible to the naked eye. It was sometime after midnight and this was an impromptu gathering of sorts, students sprawled on settees and armchairs and, in their case, the floor; glasses and joints in some of the older kids' hands with the distinct sense of secrecy pervading the air. Their ragtag band had been the youngest there, despite Dorcas' two years of seniority over the rest; most of the members of the group were select sixth or seventh years, with the odd fifth year scattered throughout the array. Presiding over the assembly was none other than Narcissa Black, blue eyed and smirking, attached at the hip to her vile boyfriend, the slimy greaser in question looking out at his subjects with a genial eye. They'd been the senior-most members of the House then, Head Girl and Prefect (Malfoy had mercifully lost his bid for Head Boy to Hufflepuff's Freddie Pratchett, something he griped about endlessly to anyone who'd listen, furious at having lost to a 'mudblood'). Official positions or not, they most certainly were the undisputed king and queen of Slytherin house, at least, and Dorcas remembered feeling horribly out of place in their midst. The only reason they'd been invited over was Regulus' position as Narcissa's cousin and, to some extent, Evan and Pandora's status as Rosiers; Barty was a Pureblood but a Crouch, which wasn't much better than being a Potter, while Dorcas was worth less than the dirt beneath Narcissa's pristine white dragonhide boots. There hadn't been much purpose to the gathering as far as she could tell - the only thing they seemed to be doing was conversing about unimaginably dull topics while complimenting and insulting each other in the same breath. It might've almost been entertaining, had she not felt about as incongruous as McGonagall at a naked yoga retreat, and she spent her time sitting stiffly on the floor, trying to take up as little space as possible, dying to get up and leave but not daring to draw more attention than necessary to herself. Dora had her arm linked with hers, which should have been comforting but instead made her feel horribly stifled, skin prickling all over. She felt hot, too hot, like she was burning up inside; clumsy and far too ungainly for a place like this; the beat of her heart too loud, surely they could hear it? Surely they could hear the thoughts racing through her head, loud enough to drown even Priscilla Parkinson's screeching voice out? Her breath sounded loud and panting and deafening, and the harder she tried to remain still, the more she twitched, limbs and neck spasming at odd intervals, fingers jerking hard enough to draw the attention of the sixth years on the couch closest to where she was positioned on the carpet. Occasionally, someone's eyes would flick down at her and look away in disdain, as if disgusted by her mere proximity, subtle sneers and grimaces pulling at the corners of their mouths.

No one talked to her. No one so much as looked at her, save the aforementioned annoyed glances. No one. 

Not even Regulus, or Evan, or Barty. Not even Dora. 

Barty (in spite of his father's rather unsavoury reputation in these circles) was still a Pureblood; moreover, he was still Barty, and by the end of it they'd all deigned to include him in their little discourse, Narcissa going as far as to ask after his mother's health. Evan and Dora had been born and bred in this environment and sat at their feet without a care in the world, second years looking through some warped window at who they'd become in five years' time, elitist and snobbish with heads stuffed full of cotton. Regulus was, of course, doted on by the Head Girl, actively participating in the conversation and looked towards by even the seniors as some sort of flagship simply because of his last name, his blood, his status as second male heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Dorcas? Dorcas might as well have been a dog, or better yet, some ugly piece of furnishing installed by the designers in a misguided fit of inclusivity. And the worst part was, no one had seemed to notice. No one had seemed to care. Perhaps she could have expected that from Malfoy, from the Head Girl, from Abernathy Selwyn and Priscilla fucking Parkinson, but from Regulus? From Evan? From Dora? 

Orion Black cleared his throat. Smiled. "So? Shall we begin?"

Chapter Text

They Flooed into the Ministry on the back of a swirling green vortex, dizzying and nauseating and blinding yet mercifully brief. Stumbling a little, he peered blearily through the steadily dissipating smoky haze into the gigantic Atrium beyond, innumerable tiny figures scurrying about on the polished mahogany floor stretching interminably into the distance, the Fountain of Magical Brethren glinting in the shimmering light cast by sconces floating near the curved, midnight blue roof far above. Golden symbols floated across the ceiling - rapidly changing numbers blinking in and out next to magical stocks, graphs that climbed astronomically high only to dip dangerously low the very next second, currency exchange rates, glittering constellations which would be visible in the sky that night, tenders and announcements and a thousand other notices that doubtless made far more sense to those actually qualified for the same - and he watched people clamber out of the fireplaces lining the panelled walls and crane their necks hopefully at the heavens, only to groan in disappointment or let out a subdued cheer at the current status of their economic investments. Tearing his attention away from the celestial noticeboard, he turned his gaze downwards to scan the scene in front of him.

Two men stood right in front of their fireplace, staring directly at the pair framed within the large stone hearth in a manner that made it quite clear they'd been waiting for them and them alone (though how they knew which Floo portal they'd use was beyond him). His eyes darted towards his father in mild trepidation, but the man in question appeared thoroughly unbothered by the flat stares cast by the unnaturally still pair of figures a mere couple of paces away.

"And the vultures circle before the lamb is dead." He murmured, straightening his robes before staring cooly back at their reception committee. Stepping lightly out of the fireplace, he strode towards the men with a purposeful air, shaking their hands as he grew near. They bobbed their heads in the facsimile of a bow in acknowledgement of his father's status, though the one on the right seemed to do so with notable reluctance, straightening as soon as societally permissible. 

And the vultures circle before the lamb is dead.

He frowned a little at his father's back.

And the vultures -

Where had he heard that before?

Hogwarts, 1975. Fourth Year. 

The cold ridge of the round table dug into his ribs as he leaned forward, peering into the murky depths of the crystal ball assigned to his group in the half hearted hope of catching a glimpse of something which wasn't his own distorted reflection. While he did not, in fact, manage to see the future, he was treated to an unobstructed view up his own nostrils, which wasn't something any self respecting man should have to be subjected to, ever. "I don't see anything." He grumbled, leaning back and throwing his quill down with considerably more force than the simple gesture warranted. 

On his right, Benjy Fenwick hummed anxiously, twisting and turning his head till it made Regulus' own neck twinge in sympathy, tapping the glass with one long-nailed finger as if hoping to clear the fog within by politely asking it to get out of the way. "Oh! I think I see something -" Enthused, he jumped up, nearly knocking his stool over in the process; Regulus grabbed the tufted velvet seat before it could roll away down the carpeted steps and watched with wary curiosity as the other boy gazed intensely into the ball's depths. "I think that's skin - maybe someone's skin gets flayed off -"

He winced. How Fenwick hadn't ended up in Slytherin was something he wondered each time he was forced to interact with the nerve-ridden junkie. "You see it, Fenwick, not me. It's your skin on the line."

"Actually it looks like - it looks a bit like a finger, to be honest, and - oh." Disappointed, he sat back down, glowering at the girl opposite as she cackled and slid the middle finger she'd been pressing to the glass away from the ball and into the air. "Should have seen his face." She giggled, slumping lower into her armchair and propping her heeled feet on the unoccupied stool on her left. "Give it up, Benjy. Just scribble down some bullshit about foxes prancing in the forest or something. Or dead birds having a communion. He'll love that." 

"I don't think he'll believe that, Maeve." Benjy stressed, nails clicking rapidly on the grained wood. 

He stared at the curly haired girl in confusion. "What's a communion?"

She frowned. "Don't you know - oh, right. Pureblood." She spoke sourly. "Never you mind, pretty boy."

He shrugged, mildly miffed but far too bored to care. "Shall we just write nonsense for our readings, then?"

Without warning, Maeve swung her feet off the stool and pulled her chair closer to the table, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air. "Or -" She brought her hands together in triumph, wincing apologetically when the resounding clap attracted the scowling attention of the table next to them. "Oops, sorry. Right, as I was saying, we could just ask Dory, you idiots." The insult took on an odd shape in her Irish brogue, idiots sounding like eejits from her glistening, cherry red mouth. The same lip gloss had been liberally applied to her cheeks as well, giving the impression of a violently blushing bride, or perhaps one of those old fashioned dolls Aunt Lucy so loved. Or maybe a clown.

He glanced at the table a few metres behind Maeve, Dora's blonde head bobbing next to her cousin's near identical one and Barty's black spikes. He could've been sitting there, with his friends, muttering away to Evan or arm wrestling with Barty, the latter of whom seemed to be under the deluded impression that a summer of lifting weights gave him the license to flex his puny biceps in innocent civilians' faces at every given opportunity. Evan, predictably, had raised zero objections. Idiot. They weren't even that impressive. Granted, Regulus' arms were hardly the epitome of brawny themselves, but at least he didn't saunter around half naked in their dorm with his stick thin limbs on display. Idiot. It wouldn't be half as bad if his roommates could just stop eye fucking each other at every given opportunity, but restraint was hardly something either of them could be expected to exercise, not when the mouth watering (gag) exhibit of Barty's muscles was advertised for the world to see. Even now, the boy had his shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms placed pointedly on the table where they could be viewed by all. Merlin and Morgana. What a pair of idiots. He missed Dora. Poor thing was probably traumatised by whatever teenage mating ritual she was being forced to witness. Idiots. 

Maeve splayed her hands on the tabletop. "So? Cracking plan, isn't it?"

"Idiots." He blurted nonsensically, mind a million miles away, before shaking his head violently. "I mean, yes. Fine. Whatever."  

She raised a brow, but let it go. "Great. Benjy?"

Fenwick pouted. Regulus rolled his eyes. "I still think I saw something."

"I think we've established that something was Maeve's uncommonly polite gesture of goodwill, Benjy."

"No, no." He insisted. "Before that. I saw -" His brow furrowed in concentration. "I saw..."

He opened his mouth, ready to tell him to perhaps lay off the weed next time, only to be interrupted by a deep baritone. "My dear Mr. Fenwick. What did you see, son?"

He closed his eyes in despair. He was never getting to Dora's table now.

"Professor Walter!" Maeve chirped, just as if she hadn't been implying that the man was a sodding fool only moments ago. 

He swivelled in his seat, biting back a groan as the frail man seemed to take Maeve's exclamation for the invitation it wasn't and drifted closer, hovering over his shoulder as he squinted at the ball with bloodshot, kohl rimmed eyes. "That's a powerful instrument you've got there, children." He murmured, extending an arm to place a palm on the ball's surface, nodding sagely as if the contact alone had graced the man with a glimpse into their turbulent futures. "Very powerful indeed." Withdrawing his hand, he reached into his robes to pull out a pewter flask, taking a generous swig before hiding it away again. "What have you seen? What has it shown you? A tragic end for Miss Donovan, perhaps?"

Maeve blinked, speechless.

"Or was it a beacon of light in Mr. Fenwick's path, guiding him to his destiny?"  

Benjy, the fool, appeared enthralled. He stared glumly at the other boy's face. Guiding him to his stash of ecstasy, maybe.

"No, no. It was a cure for Mr. Black's affliction, wasn't it?"

His head snapped up, hands curling into fists beneath the desk. The curious gazes of the other two burned into his face. Did he -

No, he couldn't possibly know. Very few people did, after all. Most just thought he couldn't be bothered to study, rich and lazy and entitled. How could this man -

Perhaps the crackpot had some veracity to him after all. 

At their prolonged silence, he arched a brow. "No? None of the above?"

He glared balefully at the man. Maeve, whom their professor had sentenced to an untimely death, seemed to be of much the same mind. 

"We saw a finger." Benjy volunteered, glancing nervously between his companions. 

Professor Walter tilted his head. "Really? And what do you think it signified?"

"Hostility, perhaps?" Regulus answered drily, exchanging a wry glance with the redhead. Benjy, on the other hand, was frowning again. "As a matter of fact, Professor, I did see something else. It looked like - like -" He hesitated. 

"Take your time, Mr. Fenwick." He murmured, leaning forward. "Let the answer come to you." He took the previously empty seat to Maeve's left and settled down contentedly, showing no signs of leaving any time soon. Oh, Merlin. Dimly, he wondered what they'd done to anger Lady Magic so. He watched Benjy struggle internally with slight concern - clearly, some war was waging in his soul, perhaps between his mildly intoxicated, highly impressionable state and his three drops of common sense - while Walter watched with bated breath. "Easy does it, now. Feel the strings of Fate wrapping around you, child. Open your body to the vibrations of Destiny."

Rolling his eyes, he shifted in his chair, only for Walter to fling out an arm and grab his shoulder, pinning him in place. "What did you see, Benjy?"

"I saw -" He looked up, determination glinting in his eyes. "- a rotisserie chicken."

Silence reigned over the table. He exchanged a mortified glance with Maeve.

For once in his life, Professor Walter appeared taken aback. The grip on his shoulder loosened somewhat, before slackening entirely. "Oh. Ah?" He frowned, before masking his obvious disappointment with an enigmatic smile. "Well, the heart sees what it wants to see, dear."

"Does that mean he wants me dead?" Maeve whispered to him, giving a dirty look to the man that transformed into a beatific smile the second he turned his foggy gaze upon her. Regulus coughed.

"Perhaps I should read your fortunes, children." He mumbled, swaying a little on his seat. Enviously, he watched the rest of the class take full advantage of this blessed reprieve, balls pushed to the side and forgotten, half the class snoring at their tables while the other half charmed their quills to race each other about the room, stiff feathers dodging and weaving between the cluttered furniture. Their teacher seemed not to notice the melee his class was steadily devolving into. Occasionally, sympathetic glances were cast at the three by the rest of their classmates, gratitude shining in their eyes at having been spared the torture.

Professor Walter reached for the opaque crystal ball with clawing fingers, and he leaned back in spite of himself, suddenly and irrationally intimidated by the diminutive professor reeking of firewhiskey with three augurey feathers sticking out of his prematurely white hair at odd angles. When his hands closed around the round object, Regulus swore he saw the ball glow slightly. Perhaps Fenwick's overactive imagination was rubbing off on him.

He cradled the ball to his chest, chin dipped low, and began mumbling indistinctly to the indifferent globe in his arms. "Yes, yes - oh! The prophecy, yes.... A boy - the boy - but what of...." 

He trailed off, lapsing momentarily into silence before snapping his head up again to stare straight ahead. "Gone, all gone. Gone, gone, gone."

Even as they watched in apprehension, his breaths grew shorter, more frantic, hands fluttering on the ball's surface like curtains at a broken window in a gale. His eyes snapped first to Benjy, then to Maeve, and finally to Regulus; unseeing and abnormally wide. "Fragments of his soul's desire - the cliffs and the grail - the crown broken and the home destroyed - no, no, not a home, never a home -"

He fell silent. Regulus felt frozen in place. Chaos ensued in all directions - chatter rising in volume and spells growing ever bolder, the animated quills throwing all pretensions of fair play out the window and bumping into each other with all their might, hoping to throw their opponents off course - but in that moment it felt so far removed as to be a dream, or something happening in the next room or to someone else entirely.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he raised inexplicably saddened eyes to the skylight (covered with a gauzy black veil that defeated its purpose of letting in sunlight to quite a large extent). "And the vultures circle before the lamb is dead." His hands shook. "All as it ever was."

A bead of sweat trickled down his brow.

They waited for the next ominous pronouncement with bated breath, but all the man did was carefully set the globe back on the table and rise out of his seat, clapping his hands before snapping, "Class dismissed."

Regulus stared at his father's stolid figure, confusion whirling like a maelstrom in his mind, the vertigo of nostalgia roiling in his stomach and causing the world to tilt off balance. He hadn't thought of that wretched day in - well, forever. 

The odds that his famously unimaginative father were to somehow come up with the exact phrase his oddball of a Divination Professor had used three years ago weren't very convincing, to say the least, but he couldn't think of any other rational explanation that made a whit of sense. Coincidence. It had to be coincidence, right? Happened all the time. 

His father glanced to either side - presumably for the boy still standing dumbstruck in the hearth - and upon finding his usual dutiful servant absent, twisted back around and beckoned impatiently to his son to shift his lazy ass and park it over where the two men were clearly in some manner of distress, if all the fast talking and hand waving was any indication.

Jolting, he stepped out of the fireplace, taking care not to let his robes get caught on the rough stone edges, and hastened to his father. As he neared the three men, he crossed the cold barrier of a muffling spell with a squelch and winced as two harried voices barraged his ears at once, spilling over into each other in their urgency to convey exactly what the matter was.

"- two caught in Covent Gardens, one each in Camden and Old Diagon Alley -"

"- three out in Greenwich -"

"- they're in our holding cells for now, but Moody wants them shipped out to Azkaban as soon as possible -"

"- it's like the man has never heard of fair trial -"

"Gentlemen." His father interrupted blandly. "I assure you, Mr. Crouch has informed me of all developments - both unsavoury and otherwise - in great detail. Now, if you'll allow me to divert your attention for a few precious seconds, might I introduce you to my son, Heir Black."

Regulus took his cue and bowed ever so slightly. "Regulus Arcturus Black. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

The one on the left responded promptly. "Gawain Robards, at your service." 

"Colin Faraday. Likewise."

He eyed the pair, Robards a weedy man with a drooping, stringy moustache and hooded eyes and Faraday a plump specimen with a sour, pursed mouth and a dangerously wobbling double chin. Together, they made for an odd study in visual contrast, looking for all the world like a messily sketched duo in one of the picture books Cissy used to read to them as children. Vaguely comical appearances notwithstanding, it dawned on Regulus that the oily names spilling from their lips were ones he'd heard before, countless times, at dinners and in the drawing room, top DMLE officials who worked directly under Crouch, pen and paper men who rarely (if ever) stepped out into the field, yet controlled almost every aspect of the Department's functioning with an iron hand.

That wasn't to say they weren't corrupt, though. Very few people weren't.

Robards inhaled, flicking his eyes to his companion before rumbling. "All arrangements have been made, Lord Black. I trust the boy is ready?"

Foreboding prickled at the back of his neck. His father smiled tightly. "Oh, he will be, Gawain." One ringed hand came up to grasp his shoulder in a gesture that might've almost seemed fatherly, had Regulus been unable to feel his bones grinding together in his crushing grip. "He will be."

Chapter Text

Dispelling the muffling charm with a practised flick of his hand, Robards led the way to the Atrium's lift lobby with long, businesslike strides. Both his stout colleague and Orion Black seemed to face no difficulty in keeping up with the weedy man's rapid pace, though Regulus couldn't help but stumble a bit over his too-long robes as he struggled to keep up with the procession, bumping into a few disgruntled workers and mumbling hasty apologies under his breath.

Seven pediments peered bleakly over elevator shafts at the innumerable people thoughtlessly milling about the lobby without sparing the carved, weary stone a single glance, the round green-marbled floor crackling ever so slightly with tiny streaks of silver at each step of even the most lightweight commuter. Conversation rose and fell as people called to their friends and nodded at their bosses and chatted with their colleagues about the drama they'd just heard thirdhand from the undersecretary who worked for the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, and did they know that an anti-aging spell cast on one's buttocks only caused the unfortunate soul to lose complete control of their bowels? ("Merlin only knows how those chaps kept a straight face in that situation, eh, mate? Me, I think I'd have laughed my bollocks right off." "Laughed your bowels out, you mean!" "Y'know, you're not half as funny as you think you are, Ted." "Oh, fuck off. That what your wife tell you?") A group of woman on his right were huddled around a wildly sobbing lady clutching a laminated identity card in her fist and shaking their heads in collective sorrow. ("Worked here ten years, Katie has. You'd think they'd have more decency than to toss her on the street!") An anxious-looking man (rocking an appallingly bright ginger beard which would've made Dumbledore jealous) held out pamphlets with shaking, grimy hands in the faint hope that some passerby possessed a heart big enough to care for the endangered diricrawls in Mauritius (and was, preferably, fool enough to actually donate to whichever seedy charity he was here on behalf of).

Their beanpole of a guide finally slowed his brisk clip to a leisurely trot before coming to a halt in the centre of the lobby. Despite the evident rush, the horde of Ministry employees parted like the sea at his father's approach, eyeing his purple Wizengamot robes with a healthy mix of respect, fear and disdain. It probably wasn't all that common, he realised, for a parliament member to use the building's service lifts, or indeed, traverse through the Atrium in the first place - his father Flooed directly to a lounge reserved for the more financially endowed on Level 5 and was granted the liberty to Apparate within the Ministry, which was a privilege afforded to a select few, i.e., those who could pay for it. He knew that.

So why had his father arranged his meeting in the Atrium today, of all days?

A jovial cry rang through the crowded hall. "Colin! Gawain!"

Mildly curious, he turned his head; there, bobbing and weaving towards them through streams of passerby like a shark through a shoal of fish was one large dirty blonde head, tailed closely by a smaller, raven-haired man. One arm was flung straight into the tepid air like a flagpole, and fluttering at the end of said appendage was a hand waving enthusiastically over bustling heads at Regulus' disinterested companions. Dutifully, the possessors of the afore exclaimed names swivelled to face their incoming audience, albeit slowly and not without the exchange of a glance so withering that Regulus felt quite sure if he'd been the subject of such a look he'd have simply died of embarrassment in a ditch somewhere remote - perhaps on the outskirts of the accursed village through which he'd been forced to travel, in vain, to reach his pregnant cousin - and no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the man (pasty and blockish upon closer inspection) descended upon the poor DMLE officials like a starving vulture and wrung their hands with a force that rivalled the one with which Sirius the traitor gleefully sent bludgers at Slytherins' heads. 

"Cornelius." Gawain Robards murmured reluctantly, disengaging his crushed hand as politely as possible and wiping it discreetly on his robes. "You're looking well, my friend."

The man grinned, and Regulus couldn't help but feel an instant dislike take root in his soul at the sight of those teeth, small and pointy and unnaturally white. Perhaps he was just a victim of confirmation bias, or perhaps serving the Lord had turned him into a paranoid old nut already, but something about the man repulsed him to his core. Or maybe - and this was just a thought - it was simply the man's bowler hat (inexplicably coloured a horrific lime green). Lime green? What kind of heathen - "You too, Gawain, you too. Old Crouch not treating you too badly, then?"

Colin spoke up. "He is most just in his dealings, as always." Another look was exchanged, this one wry and inclusive of the portly man clutching the reprehensible hat to his plump chest. "Mila doing well, I hope?" 

Cornelius nodded happily, bouncing on his heels. "Yes, yes, she's fine. Rufus started walking last week. Benny's thrilled."

He inclined his head. "I'm sure he is. What about you, Cornelius? Any other little Fudges in the oven?"

The man merely smiled again, small and oily. "Merlin knows, Colin. And even if there aren't, my young nephew's quite enough for me. A handful, the little monkey is." He eyed the two men keenly. "Enough about me. As a matter of fact, I've heard Moody's gone and landed himself a pretty good collar, hm?"

Gawain frowned. "We can't comment in any official capacity, Cornelius. You know that."

He tsked impatiently. "Oh, come. Everyone's talking about it. Word gets around. You must know that, surely."

Regulus frowned a little at the man's insolent tone. He must be pretty important, to be able to talk to them like that.

An astute observation, a low voice mused. A pity such attention is never applied to one's studies, isn't it?

He froze. 

Wasn't that -

Before you attempt to gather your harebrained thoughts and frame one of your characteristically dim witted queries, Regulus, his father remarked acerbically; yes, it is indeed my voice in your head; and yes, I am, in fact, privy to each and every one of your dull ponderings - at the moment, that is.

His stomach dropped to the polished floor. Merlin, Morgana, and Lady Magic herself. Fuckfuckfuck -

Oh, for heaven's sake. He sounded disgusted. There isn't any need to make a fuss. I assure you, I have absolutely no interest in rooting through whatever debauchery you get up to at that school of yours. I've seen people tortured in Azkaban, child. I don't intend to add your depraved fantasies to my list of nightmares. Now, listen carefully. I'll only say this once. Don't make a scene. Continue to act like a gormless flobberworm and I'm sure no one will suspect a thing. 

As was the astoundingly cruel way of the world, the harder Regulus tried to keep his most embarrassing moments locked in the vault, the more his mind seemed to insist on propelling them to the forefront of his conscious, and he flushed a dark crimson as he made desperate efforts to abstain from thinking about that time they'd got ragingly drunk at Narcissa's party, the warmth of Dora's chapped lips against his own on that windswept balcony, that time last summer they'd gone swimming together and he'd seen white cotton drenched and rendered transparent and clinging to -

Listen to me, boy. His father growled. Karkaroff's men have been captured. Now, while this isn't particularly tragic in itself, what they might reveal about our organisation is.They're just grunts, yes - low level bouncers - but they know enough to point their fingers in the right direction and get Moody sniffing on our trail like a bloodhound. This is important, Regulus. More important than you think. And you, boy, are going to be the one to get us out of this mess.

Jolting, he snapped his head towards his father, but the man was smiling and shaking hands with some yellow-robed woman sporting a bouncy 'fro, the latter of whom was deathly oblivious to the fact that his father was hosting an entirely separate conversation as she spoke. Tell me, his father continued, what do you think our lovely Mr. Robards' view on the issue is?

He swung his gaze to the other side and focused on Robards' stringy moustache, not daring to meet his bloodshot eyes for fear that the man might somehow know he were the current object of discussion. In the end, he went with whichever answer felt the safest. I don't know. He responded tentatively, broadcasting the thought as loud and far as he could so his father might catch it.

Don't yell. He spoke irritably. I'll ask a simpler question, then. Is Robards a Pureblood? 

Regulus wracked his brain. Purebloods. He'd had a tutor in his childhood who'd taught him all about the sacred lineages of the world, both major and minor, but there were an astonishing lot of people on this planet claiming to be pure and he'd never made much of a habit of listening to his tutors anyway. Robards, Robards -

To his abject relief, the search turned something up from the recesses of his memory. Yes, he is. He confirmed. The Robards aren't Sacred 28, but they're a fairly old and respected lineage native to northeast Wales. A lesser Pureblood, but a worthy one just the same. 

Good, his father responded, seemingly pleased. And where do you think his sympathies lie, now that you're aware of his background?

With the Lord? He guessed.

With the Lord, Orion Black agreed. Which is ironic, considering the fact that he's one of the most recognisable names in a Department which panders to the ridiculous ideal that reclaiming one's own society is a crime. Odd, isn't it? He mused. Doesn't it make you wonder, boy? How many people are there in this very Ministry - in this very eyewash of a hallowed institution - who wish to align themselves with our Lord? Who can see the truth? Who know that a revolution is coming, and want to be part of it?

What of Faraday? He asked, acutely curious. And this man - Fudge?

Fudge is an idiot. He spoke dismissively. Fooling him will be like pulling wool over the eyes of a child - not due to any particular lack in intelligence on his part, but because he is, and always has been, wilfully ignorant. Greed is his only motivator. Get him a cushy corner office and he'll bend to your will like putty. Faraday, on the other hand.... His voice grew thoughtful. Now, there's a problem.

Why do you say that, sir? He asked respectfully. His father generally preferred his children to treat him like a visiting foreign dignitary instead of the man who'd held them in his arms when they were little.

Have you forgotten that I can read your mind, Regulus? He asked, amused. It doesn't matter that you're my blood, boy. You're still half my age, with less than half my intellect. I treat you as I would any child I am forced to interact with. What difference does it make that I rocked you to sleep on occasion? A child is still a child. The village idiot will remain the village idiot, regardless of whether he's my son or my daughter or my very own brother. Your mother - his voice adopted a sneer - coddles you enough for the both of us. 

He said nothing, chastened. 

As I was saying, his father continued, unaffected; Faraday is not a Pureblood. This doesn't have to mean that he's some self righteous Order vigilante, no. He is a halfbreed, after all, and quite a prosperous one at that - where have you seen the name Faraday before, Regulus? 

The tangent caught him off guard, and he spluttered mentally for a moment before recalling with some surprise - Pharmaceuticals. 

Generic medical potions, specifically. His father confirmed, satisfied. A lucrative industry. Your Uncle Cygnus is a major stakeholder in that market, you know. And it just so happens that Cygnus was the main investor in his firm back when Faraday Medicines was nothing but a couple of granny's home-brewed recipes in vials.  

He fell silent, leaving Regulus to spell out the implication on his own. He hazarded a guess. Blackmail?

Leverage. He corrected. Cygnus built him up. He can bring him down again. 

But he's a halfbreed. He said, nonplussed. The Lord -

- has an axe to grind with mudbloods and squibs, Regulus. Quota holders and useless, polluting filth with no real contribution to society whatsoever. I don't see why he'd have a problem with Faraday helping our cause in some minor capacity, especially not when his family tree is relatively clean as it is. We can't win this war on our own. We shall have to make peace with the lesser evil - select halfbreeds like Faraday and his sort. Do you understand?

Yes. He spoke numbly, mind reeling. 

Take that woman, for instance. He continued, and Regulus knew without doubt that he was referring to the yellow-robed lady walking out of the lobby, curls swinging with each step. Mudblood. She mustn't see neither hide nor hair of our campaign, not till it's too late and the reckoning is knocking on her door. She's a diplomat in the Department of International Magical Co-Operation, if you can believe it. Venom dripped from his tone. Filth. This is what we're sending out to represent our country?

Regulus kept quiet, supremely uncomfortable. He couldn't get the scene of his father talking to the poor woman out of his head, smiling and shaking hands and overall doing a bang-up job of acting like the lady was one of his favourite officials in the entire country. 

Deception is an art, boy. And it is one you, too, shall master before long. His father turned to face him at long last. Oh, and Regulus? 

Yes, sir?

Don't pity a mudblood in front of me ever again. 

He swallowed. The hair on the back of his neck rose under his father's unyielding glare. No, sir. 

He held his gaze for another moment before turning away in clear dismissal. That's all, boy. I shall be guiding you during the press conference. Do exactly as I say and you'll be fine. 

Without warning, his father's presence retracted from his head, and this time he could feel the absence, a breath of cold swooping in to take its place as his mind was restored fully to himself again. He shivered, shaken, and startled a bit as the crowd of workers surrounding them thronged towards the three arriving elevators in unison. The intricate golden grille which covered each entrance slid back and people began stuffing themselves into the metal boxes as an impersonal female voice announced the floor. Level 8, Atrium. Going down. 

He followed the three men mechanically as they entered the second elevator and watched, unsurprised, as people crowded themselves into corners and held up briefcases to avoid crushing his father's Wizengamot robes. The lift operator touched his hat and his father nodded benignly at the man and Regulus couldn't help but wonder what his blood status was, couldn't help but wonder if his father had already marked him for death in his mind, or if he looked at him and saw a potential ally. A potential cog in the Dark Lord's machinations.

He'd never felt so empty in his life.

Death. He jolted, disturbed. 

This was the first time he'd ever really thought -

He closed his eyes. 

Dora's cold face swam behind his eyelids.

That's the reality, though, isn't it? Death for the unworthy, or at the very least, something close to it. 

He'd always known that, on some level. This was just the first time he'd ever really allowed himself to dwell on it.

Truth.

Truth which wasn't dressed up in pretty words and flowery ideologies, in velvety smiles and the clink of galleons trading hands, in tinkling laughter at the expense of someone's life. Harsh, stoney, impassive truth.

The voice announced Level 4 and they got off first, presumably to head towards the Briefing Rooms in its East Wing. They entered one room and then another, looping round and round till he lost track, identical low voices exchanging identical greetings in a thousand identical halls, his father scheming with Robards about something or the other, occasionally glancing back to shoot Regulus a blank look.

He stared back wordlessly.

As he brought up the tail end of the procession that marched determinedly into the room from a door that materialised magically into the hall's rear wooden panels, his knees felt like water, shaky and so weak he felt mildly surprised that they hadn't collapsed under his weight already. He felt fairly certain that each and every occupant of Briefing Room No. 428 had a clear view of his frame vibrating under the ridiculously heavy robes his father had made him don, nerves twitchy and rubbed raw. His head was twinging with the beginnings of a raging headache as Sleekeazy gel pulled at the roots of his poor hair and pushed it down to stick to his head with a force which definitely wasn't healthy for his scalp, not if the couple crisp strands he'd surreptitiously pulled out on their walk here were any indication. 

He took his assigned seat under the harsh white light of the orbs floating over the stage, R. A. Black staring up at him in bold newspaper font from the metallic plaque on the long table, B. C. Crouch - Head, DMLE and O. R. Black - Lord, Wizengamot flanking it on both sides and providing it with much needed company. Both up and down the table, people took their seats with varying levels of stiffness depending on their ages, which surpassed the prodigious figure of 200 for some and hovered near the half decade mark for others; and Regulus noted with a shameful, ill-deserved sense of accomplishment that he was by far the youngest person with a place on this dais, let alone one between a Lord and the Department Head himself, and while doubtless it was due to absolutely no real effort on his side, he couldn't help but feel better, superior, almost, to the grunts sitting in their seats amidst a thousand other serfs fighting for crumbs while the top brass carved up the pie and stored it in their cellars for their greedy eyes to feast upon, because heaven forbid a working man get his well earned galleons and a place in his own society, and how dare Regulus think himself better for it?

Again, a distant sense of shame swelled in his heart like high tide off Normandy's coast, and he quashed the emotion before it took over his mind as well, consuming his thoughts and burrowing into his soul with whispers of what if Dora's right, and you're wrong, and this is all just a sham, just a filthy spoilt brat trying to play at being a man -

Shut your mouth, a voice in his brain snapped coldly, and if he didn't know better, he'd think it were his father again, slipping unsolicited into his head and sifting through his memories like papers on his desk at Grimmauld Place; but it wasn't his father, no matter how much it sounded like the man, abrasive and hostile.

It was his own self, which was almost worse.

You should be ashamed of yourself, Regulus. The voice hissed nastily. Such privilege and such opportunity and you still can't be bothered to make use of it. Social justice concerns you, hm? If the ideal - noble as it may be - did exist, you fool, you'd be among the first burnt at the stake. You don't like your place in the world? Well, neither did your brother. You can always follow in his footsteps, if you like. Go on. Have fun scraping in the mud with the blood traitor and all his ilk. That's all you're good for, isn't it? The very first time a spare has been given the chance to be just as good, if not better, than the heir; and he wants to waste it on mudbloods and commoners. A round of applause for Regulus Black, please! Second of his name and yet the world has never seen such a fool.

Clearing his throat, Orion Black leaned forward, smiling, and laced his hands on the spotless white linen. He spoke without bothering to raise his voice, perhaps knowing that some aide would have cast a sonorous charm on his throat the second he'd taken his seat. "So? Shall we begin?" 

Chapter Text

The faces of his audience members lay shrouded in darkness, but Orion grasped the moral capacities of politicians well enough to understand that corporeal darkness was but a pitiful manifestation of the evil that lurked within their hearts, evil intent on prising the world from the grasp of its true rulers, evil hellbent on handing their society on a silver platter over to the clutching hands of depravity operated by the impure, by vermin and filth -

Still, Orion didn't hold much stock in lumping people in a hive. It would hardly do to label each and every one of their viewers as muggle sympathiser, would it? Not when the rare exceptions to the rule still shone through the muck like pearls, like-minded individuals and organisations who recognised the sly, gradual takeover for what it was and had the guts to do something about it. To oppose it - if not publicly, then at the very least by appropriate backchannels which wormed their way up to the Dark Lord, rivers inevitably winding up in the infinite ocean of their Lord's power. 

The Dark Lord.

Slytherin's Heir. 

Arguably the greatest wizard the world had ever seen (discounting Grindelwald, of course - Gellert had always been in a class of his own).

All these extravagant titles begged a simple, innocent question. Where had the man come from?

He'd quite obviously been to Hogwarts at some point - his indulgent chuckles at the quips about Dumbledore that only a student could make cleared that up nicely - but it certainly hadn't been during Orion's time, or he'd have remembered. It hadn't been during Cygnus', either, or Walburga's - in fact, not a single soul Orion had dared pose this question to seemed to remember the Lord's alabaster face haunting the school's halls at all, which was rather strange in itself; the Lord couldn't be more than a decade older or younger than Orion himself, and that was when he was generous with his counting, so surely someone would recall his presence in their student life?

That was the strange thing. That was the hole. No one ever did.

He might've been willing to overlook this, might've been able to expel it from his brain and put it down to, say, some strange case of collective amnesia had he seen with his own two eyes some tangible evidence of the Lord's attendance; but it was rather hard to search for traces of an ex-student from over three decades ago whose birth name he simply did not know. 

He could just ask the Dark Lord outright, of course - heaven knew he saw enough of the man on a daily basis - but something inside his being, some survival instinct he thanked Merlin daily for being blessed with, told him that the only result said question would yield was his family clustered sobbing and weeping around his ebony coffin. The few members who could be bothered to put on a show for the papers, of course. Certainly not his wife. Or his son. Either way, Orion rather fancied being alive.

It wasn't that he doubted his identity, per se. The Lord had certainly proven himself over and over and over again with every miraculous feat of magic performed as a careless afterthought, with each visionary plot and scheme hatched from the comfort of Bellatrix's manor, with the ring which made an occasional appearance on his finger. 

Peverell's ring.

He knew that crest, had seen it enough times in crumbling historical accounts and mildewed documents and family grimoires - the circle inscribed within a triangle slashed by a line vertically across. The Peverell coat of arms.

Peverell. A family whose male line died out centuries ago. 

So how did the Dark Lord - a man, if he wasn't mistaken - come to be in possession of a ring which should've rightfully been lost to the shifting sands of time with the last Peverell Heir?

Perhaps the Peverells weren't as extinct as they liked the world to think, hm? It certainly explained why the Lord kept his identity so close to his chest, why he preferred titles and monikers over his family name, why anonymity was a value unusually prized for a man who wished to rule the world.

After all, the Lord had no need for common human things like names. 

Who he was did not matter to Orion. Not really. It was what he stood for that did, and their common stance on subjects that mattered alone made Orion ready to pledge his wand and his heart to the Lord's cause. It wasn't a few arbitrary syllables which bound them together, no. It was belief that did, wholehearted belief in the natural order of the world, an order Lady Magic had intended for her brethren, for the suckling infant magicians she’d first set loose in this wild, primitive world eons ago, a world which hadn’t yet been corrupted by those foul, loathsome cockroaches. A world where magic wasn’t stolen but given, freely, by the Lady to her children. 

Now, he wasn't a Seer. He wasn't good old Charlie Trelawney, much to Walburga's lovelorn despair. Orion knew not what the future held. He just hoped it would be a better one than the world faced today. And it would, if their Lord had anything to say about it.

He looked at his son, sweaty and shaking under the blankly judgemental stares of well over fifty people, the sheen of perspiration adorning his forehead gleaming under the harsh stage lights. His hands were shaking slightly as he curled them into fists below the table and Orion viewed his overly nervous state with the twinge of disappointment that often accompanied the sight of his younger son. Weak, hissed his subconscious. Weak, and foolish. A dangerous combination. 

He sighed internally. At the end of it, it was hardly the boy's fault. He simply wasn't - made for this life. Whatever ran through his veins - pure and worthy though it may be - was diluted, watered down; the essence weakened and spirit diminished. He could hardly expect him to act the Heir when the star he was born under had never charted this course in the first place. All he'd ever been meant to be was the dutiful spare, the loyal brother, the son trained to follow orders and ease the work behind the scenes while the real Heir faced the public, charismatic and confident in a way a boy built from scraps and leftover parts could never be.

Besides, he'd never been Orion's son to begin with. There was far too much of his mother in him, in his looks and his heart and his soul. 

He'd always belonged to her more than him. Always.

Bartemius blathered on in the background about their law enforcement force's bravery and the inevitable defeat of those Death Eater terrorists and how the Ministry wouldn't stand for such an attack on one of its founding principles. If it'd been anyone else, Orion might have laughed. As it was, he knew the senior Crouch well enough to realise that the man was deathly serious about his principles. Firm. Resolute. A pity he could never be swayed. His son, on the other hand...

Barty Crouch, Jr. The only one of Regulus' little friends that Orion felt even a tiny modicum of respect for - Rosier was a pussy, just like his son, and the less said about that off-putting girl, the better. Crouch had a spark in his eyes, the requisite hunger etched across his face to make it somewhere in the world, the face of someone unafraid to strike while the iron was hot. 

That boy had the makings of an Heir.

Regulus met his eyes apprehensively, and Orion realised with a dismal pang that the boy still wasn't aware of what he'd been brought here to do, and it was quite possibly his paternal duty to set his mind at rest and give him a rundown of his role in these useless proceedings, but he unfortunately wasn't really in the mood for handholding anymore. Besides, delving into his mind gave Orion a massive headache. He wasn't dipping his toe in those turbulent waters till he absolutely had to. 

Oh, Regulus. Poor, torn, gullible Regulus. 

Useless idiot, hissed the voice again. You're here to help him now. What happens when you aren't? When you're old and tired with one foot in the grave and he's still looking to you for guidance?

To that, he had no satisfactory answer, except the damning truth that lurked in the back of his mind. 

He will die. 

Inhaling sharply, he tried to put it out of his mind, tried to stop morbidly fantasising about his own son's death, tried to slow his fast-beating heart, but the whisper remained. Persistent. Unforgiving.

He will die. 

War was costly. Death was unsparing. Death did not care for worth. Regulus had endeared himself to the Lord too quick, too soon; and being close to the Lord was a risky wager to lay. It wasn't gaining the man's respect that was hardest, it was keeping it. A dangerous game with dangerous consequences. All it took was one ill-thought-out sentence, one simple misstep -

This had been the main reason Orion hadn't objected to Regulus' delegation to his ridiculous task - fool's errand though it may be - for it got him out of the country, and away from the action, and out of the Lord's orbit; most importantly, it bought him time.

Time he wasn't sure he could afford much more of.

He shook his head slightly. Such defeatist thoughts weren't becoming of the Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. He wasn't even that old, for Merlin's sake! He wasn't some paranoid old fuck who saw death in every portent. 

Strange. He'd never let his mind wander down this path when it had been Sirius at his side. 

Sirius. Oh, Sirius. 

His son, not Walburga's.

As always, at the thought of his former son's name, his mind fell down the rabbit hole that was Sirius' departure and all the myriad events leading up to it, consciousness picking at the memory like a scab.

He remembered thinking that the weather was most apt for the variety of theatrics that ensued - all manner of screams and shrieks and drunken, incoherent cries were complemented beautifully by peals of thunder which timed themselves most obligingly to the appropriate dramatic pauses in his son's rambling monologue; dying candlelight admired its flickering reflection in Sirius' wild, bloodshot eyes while flashes of lightening illuminated a face contorted in disgust, in hate - hate aimed like an arrow at his own family, his kin, his very own blood. 

His wife had shrunk with every enraged shake of the fist, every stamp of the foot and swig of the bottle dangling precariously from one pale, long-fingered hand, but all Orion could bring himself to feel upon witnessing this display was -

Contempt. 

Contempt for the boy he'd once dreamed the inheritance of an empire for, contempt for the child he'd once sat on his lap in his study and promised the world to, contempt for the son who'd once been everything he'd ever hoped for but had descended, bit by painful bit, into the swirling, sticky depths of corruption, corruption incited and incubated and encouraged by those filthy Potters, with their blood treachery and their depraved ideals and their honey-coated smiles. Did they not have a son of their own, he wondered, to whisper poison into his ears for? Why did they have to go and stick their dirty claws into his beautiful boy?

Most of all, he was contemptuous of himself, of the fool who'd mistakenly thought that the future of their House was safe in the hands of his eldest, the father who'd doted on his son enough not to realise that he'd been pulling wool over his eyes all along, the man who'd put his faith in his boy and trusted that when the time came, he'd slip into his role and assume his duties with an ease and passion and vigour which would make Orion Black proud.

Proud of his son.

Sirius, the golden son. Sirius, the perfect heir. Sirius, his dauntless little boy.

Sirius, the blood traitor. 

Even today, over two years later, he remained afflicted by insidious, accusatory little whispers that crawled into his ears and burrowed into his brain, whispers that said should've sent him to Durmstrang, should've withdrawn him from that fucking school the night of his Sorting, should've forbidden him from interacting with that Potter boy when he'd had the chance, should've kept a closer eye on him, should've knocked that nonsense out of him at the earliest, should've, should've, should've -

He still kept a picture of Sirius.

It was old, and a little dog eared, and had a watermark on the top left corner from the time he'd ordered Kreacher to bring him some wine and the dratted creature hadn't bothered to wipe the bottle down first. One of the first things Orion Black had gotten done after his son's characteristically melodramatic departure was his removal from any and all things that pertained the very family he'd been so eager to kick to the curb, be they albums or photographs or portraits or even the sight of his initials carved over the doorway to the kitchen. The scratchy, flakey, largely illegible S.O.B. engraved into plaster had been one of Sirius' first intentional displays of magic as a child, one which he himself had let stand in an imprudent fit of sentimentality.

Fool. If he'd been harder on the boy, maybe he wouldn't be out gallivanting with Order scum, playing at being a hero. Playing at being a man. As if shirking one's responsibilities was all it took to call oneself grown. 

Walburga had blasted him off the family tapestry herself, a week after he'd left, half a bottle in and a crumpled lace handkerchief clutched to her face, the clock in the corner of the room chiming a ghastly two in the morning as its owner fired spell after searing spell at the surprised silk. Part of him couldn't help but bristle at the sight, the part which could still feel the ghost of his child's weight in his arms, warm and surprisingly heavy and indescribably, inexplicably fragile; which could still see his son's smudgy handprint on his table's shiny lacquer, phantom palms grabbing at everything within arm's reach despite Orion's many stern rebuttals. This was the part which still paused sometimes on the fourth-floor landing outside his son's door and stared at the tarnished plaque reading Sirius which the brat had stuck to the wood with some variation of the Permanent Sticking Charm; the part which glanced towards Regulus with the wrong son's name perched on his lips, a name which was inevitably swallowed to the bitter taste of disappointment when he realised his mistake; the poisonous, disgusting part which weakened him enough that his hand sometimes moved of its own accord towards the catch inside the drawer second from the bottom on the left of his study and reached into a hidden compartment to draw the picture out, staring at the son he'd lost a long, long time before that infernal fight. 

Contrary to popular belief and any sense of self respect he may have once possessed, that infamous night had not been the last time Orion Black laid eyes upon his wayward son. In a move which would've doubtless sent Cygnus into hysterics, his wife into a shrieking fit, and his father to an early grave, he'd donned his very best mask of fatherly concern and contrition and set out to talk some sense into the prodigal son once and for all, family image be damned. 

If only he'd remembered how stubborn that boy could be.

"No." Sirius said bluntly, examining his fingernails (far too long to belong to any civilised creature and mystifyingly painted neon green). "You can go now."

He blinked, unsure if he'd perhaps misheard. "What did you just say to me? How dare you order me about -" With some effort, he reigned himself in, leaning back and breathing heavily through his nose. "What on earth is the matter with you, Sirius? Just where did I go wrong, hm? Merlin knows you asked for nothing, wanted for nothing -"

"Oh, I did want." He cut in blandly. "And I tried to ask. But what I wanted was something you simply weren't capable of giving, Father."

He regarded the boy opposite with mounting fury. "Oh, you asked, did you? That's funny, because I don't remember you being around to do much asking, boy. Tell me, where were you this time last year, hm?" He glared at his son. 

Sirius met his gaze, and his eyes - so like his own - were bored, dead; the overall impression was of some underpaid sales employee in Knockturn Alley who couldn't be bothered to deal with rowdy customers. Nonetheless, Orion ploughed on. "That's right. Here. You were here. On Christmas, you couldn't deign to spend time with your own family -"

He scoffed. "Family? You call that snake-pit a family?" Leaning forward, he growled. "Face it, Orion. Everybody hates everybody would like to stick a knife in everybody. The only thing you lot do care about is the colour of your pathetic, inbred, watery blood."

"Our blood -" He spoke darkly. "- is a matter of pride, boy, and I'll not have you going around -"

"Why are you here, then?" He broke in, exasperated. "Do you really want someone like me sullying your oh-so-noble blood? I'm an embarrassment to the family name, as Mother has so helpfully pointed out over the years - several times, in fact - so why don't you just go back to your hate-mongering -"

"I am here -" He gritted out. "- because you are my son. And I am here -" He raised his voice slightly as Sirius opened his mouth. "- because you are the Black Heir."

He threw his hands up in mock triumph. "There we have it! The real reason, ladies and gentlemen!" Slumping back, he muttered. "Fucking unbelievable."

"Tell me," He said frigidly. "Is there something wrong with what I said?"

Silence.

Orion interpreted it as a thaw in the hostilities. "Listen, child." He tried to sound supportive, understanding, compassionate, even. "You don't want to live at Grimmauld? Fine! That's not a problem, boy."

He snapped his head up, properly shocked for the first time. "It isn't?"

"Of course not." He performed the closest approximation to a smile he could make under these circumstances. "You're growing up, son. You want some independence? That's alright by me." 

Sirius stared at his father like he'd just sprouted two heads, belched, and told his son that Gryffindor was the worthiest of the four Founders. "I'll buy you a house wherever you want. London, Edinburgh, Leicester, whatever. Apartment, villa, a two fucking bedroom townhouse, you name it. Just say the word."

To his surprise, Sirius didn't appear anywhere near as ecstatic as Orion had thought he'd be at this news. Instead, he began shaking his head in what seemed like steadily dawning horror. "Don't you get it, old man? After all I said last night, too! I don't have anything against the fucking house, you sod! It's you I'm done with! You! All you Blacks with your petty politics and filthy schemes and cunning, small-minded little plots. You think I don't know which side you're going to ally yourself with in the war? Think I don't know of the genocide you're so proud of perpetrating? Do you think I'm a fool?" He spat.

Orion didn't move a muscle as he stared impassively at the furious blood traitor opposite. "I don't want anything to do with that life, alright? I'm done. Done!" Pushing his chair back with a mighty screech, he made to leave the table.

Orion tried the last trick in his book. "What of your brother, Sirius? You love him, do you not?"

Sirius froze. Orion pressed his advantage. "Are you going to cast him off like a secondhand robe as well?"

He could see the muscles in his back tensing. "As far as I'm concerned -" He spoke quietly. "Regulus can rot in hell like the rest of you."