Chapter Text
When Regulus was younger, he loved the springtime.
The summer scorched him, autumn foreshadowed short days and long nights, and winter burned his pale skin with cold, sharp winds. But spring was different; it was warm, but not harsh enough to warrant cooling charms; it birthed flowers and weeds, no matter how short lived they’d be when summer came; and it held a sort of unique artistry that only the juice of fresh peaches and the harbouring of seashells could provide.
It was light.
He used to enjoy dipping his toes into the lake on the cusp of spring, and squealing every time his brother threw clumps of seaweed at him while grinning toothily. The water was cool, but not too cool. Warm, but not too warm.
They would visit their small villa in Le Porge, France, the one that mother didn’t like because of its quaintness. Regulus loved the villa because it meant Sirius and him could share the attic together.
Regulus would have liked to see the next year’s spring, for it was only a few months away, but the idea of waiting so long made the coldness in his chest grow.
The cold had been there for a long time. It burrowed a small alcove in the hollow of his lungs so that each breath felt like ice on his tongue, then curled around the bars of his ribcage until the numbness consumed him.
Perhaps that was why he could barely feel the cold of the lake around him. The blunt nails clawing at his skin were agony, and yet the ice turning his fingers blue didn’t even register.
The cold had been there for a long time, and in a way it made the lake feel like home. Like the empty halls of Grimmauld Place, hollow and lifeless. The building didn’t breathe anymore, it didn’t pulse with an ancient magic like it did when he was younger and Sirius was still around.
Perhaps Sirius had been what kept the cold out. He had always been something akin to a flame in their household. Violent and brash, scorching the carpets with his angry stomps and staining the dining table with the ash that escaped his lips with each scream. And yet warm; the comforting hearth that they used to roast marshmallows in, the all-encompassing heat from a tight hug, the pocket of warmth between them when they curled into Sirius’ bed together and pretended that they couldn’t hear their mother’s screams downstairs.
The warmth, the warmth, the warmth.
It left with Sirius, and the cold was eager to take its place. It hugged the walls and buried into the cabinets, freezing over their fragile china and hardening the floorboards so that they creaked at every step.
Regulus wished for warmth, then, as he watched the green glow from the water’s surface disappear into darkness. He wished for the hearth, and the heat, and the warmth— the warmth, the warmth, the warmth.
But instead he had the familiar cold. The breaking of his skin. The pressure of the lake.
He remembered times before, in that moment. Of quidditch pitches, the glint of the snitch and the cheers as he was lifted onto someone’s shoulder in celebration. Of exploding snap on the floor of their dorm room, ground scattered with stolen sweets as a cigarette was passed around. Of those spring holidays in France, with his toes in the sand and seashells making his pockets heavy. Of muggle vinyls and complicated machines, being pulled into silly dances without their parents knowing.
The times before…
Before when? Before he realised the Dark Lord’s secret? Before he was Marked? Before Sirius ran away? Before Evan died and Barty left?
And for a moment, Regulus thought he could feel it; the warmth, the warmth, the warmth.
It sparked in his chest, something hot and unforgiving, something that said home and before.
He thought he heard it, then, too. “Hello, little brother.” It was a whisper, young and fragile. “Hello.”
Regulus reached out, and the inferi reached back. A claw traced the soft flesh of his wrist, and the water bled scarlet.
“I’m Sirius, your big brother. Do you know what that means, Reg-oo-luss?” Reg-oo-luss, because a boy so young couldn’t wrap his tongue around the syllables all that well. “It means I’m your protector. It means I’ll never let anything happen to you. Never ever.”
It felt like a promise, even when Regulus was facing his dreadful demise. He wished that the owner of the voice was better at keeping their promises.
Then they whispered, and it felt like warm honey on his tongue. “I promise.”
He swallowed the honey, and it glowed in his stomach. Churned, sang, warmed.
The warmth.
“Wake up.”
The warmth.
“Open your eyes.”
The warmth.
“Wake up.”
When Regulus’ eyelids parted, he was met with a familiar face. Small, pale, not yet smattered with the freckles that Hogwarts blessed them with. A jaw not yet sharpened, cheeks full with youth and bare of any smile creases.
“Sirius,” Regulus whispered, his voice barely catching in the air between them.
The boy smiled, far too young and far too happy to see him.
“Come,” Sirius insisted quietly.
His hand was gripped tightly, as he was whisked away through the halls of Grimmauld Place. Standing, he realised he wasn’t quite right. His legs were too short, his limbs too thin, hair too long. The sudden shift in height set him off balance as his mind adjusted, his feet tripping over themselves momentarily.
“Hurry,” the older brother hushed. “Or we’ll miss it.”
Regulus’ brows pinched. “Miss what?”
Sirius turned around for a second, lips stretching out into a grin. His dimples weren’t as deep as Regulus recalled.
They rushed through the halls, and everything felt so strange. The walls were breathing, pulsing with magic. The house was alive again.
“Come, come,” said Sirius, pressing a finger over his own lips to signal him to be quiet.
Suddenly, they were crouching under a window sill, the glass looking through to the backyard. Sirius popped his head over, and Regulus followed. His eyes barely peeked over the window sill, but he could clearly see the people outside; cloaks pooling into the darkness as if they were made out of pure shadows, silver masks that glinted slightly in the dull glow of the house, their mother’s cool eyes watching as someone kneeled before the Dark Lord.
“Sirius,” Regulus whispered, voice fragile in the stale air. “Ri, we should go.”
He turned, ready to crawl away, when his wrist was gripped by a small hand. Sirius yanked him back beside him, his smile stretching a bit too far across his cheeks.
“Watch.”
“I don’t want to.”
Steel eyes darkened into charcoal, and Regulus thought for a moment that he was looking at their mother. But still, a red smile tore across Sirius’ face like a harsh cutting curse.
“Watch,” his brother repeated.
Regulus tore his eyes away from his brother, looking outside like he was told to. The yard no longer looked like Grimmauld Place, instead like the Lestrange Manor. The hedges were cut to perfection, pathways drawn into the grass for as far as the eye could see. They were positioned in a clearing, and the Dark Lord stood in the centre.
The man was as attractive as Regulus remembered. Blood red eyes seemed to glow in the dark, framed by thick eyelashes and strong eyebrows. The Dark Lord was nothing if not alluring; like a spider waiting in its web for you to get caught, those around him like a moth drawn to a flame— like a thirsty man crawling to a lake, unaware of what lay beneath the surface.
The horcrux was probably how he managed to look so young all those years.
The Dark Lord had all the features of a Black, and yet he looked nothing like them. None of the French features, nothing that made him stand out. His hair was black, but short and straight. There was beauty in his pale skin and sharp lines, the angles of his face making him look like the purest of aristocrats, and his hands seemed perfect for playing the piano.
No wonder he gained followers so easily.
“That’s me,” he whispered when he finally realised who was kneeling at the Dark Lord’s feet.
His older self had his head tilted up by a bone-white wand, throat bare and pale in the moonlight. He looked tired, and Regulus vaguely recalled the many nights he spent awake before his Marking.
He watched as other-him was pulled onto his feet, an elegant hand gripping tightly at his wrist. Regulus could almost feel it now; the burning, the flood of painpainpain, the effort it took to not scream in agony.
He wanted to look away, but Sirius didn’t let him. “Watch.”
Regulus didn’t want to watch. He didn’t want to watch him make the second biggest mistake of his life all over again.
“Only the second?” asked Sirius, and Regulus startled when he turned to see an older version of his brother.
He looked to be in his teens now, with longer hair and newly sunkissed skin. They no longer crouched by the window sill, instead standing in the middle of Sirius’ room. Lewd posters were stuck up on his walls, everything so obnoxiously red and gold that Regulus didn’t know how he could sleep with it constantly in his eyes.
“How—”
Sirius took a step forward, eyes closed off despite him always being the more emotional of the two. “And the biggest mistake?”
Regulus stumbled back into the closed door. “What do you think, brother?”
Sirius’ head cocked to the side. “What is your greatest mistake?”
There were so many possible answers, but only one made Regulus lower his eyes in shame.
“Not leaving with you,” he admitted quietly.
When he looked up to search Sirius’ eyes for a reaction, the boy was no longer there. The room swirled around him, and the shadows grew until everything turned black.
“Sirius?” he called out. His voice echoed into the distance, endless. Panic tugged at his vocal chords. “Sirius?”
“Calling for my help, little brother?”
The man who stepped out of the darkness was no longer his brother. He was older, paler than he’d ever been since before Hogwarts, and gaunt around the face. His hair was knotted and wet, and it clung to the sides of his face like black paint.
Sirius was shivering, his eyes a dull green. His skin was grey, limbs skeletal.
Regulus shook his head, stepping back. His brother looked exactly like one of the monsters who were pulling him to his death.
“Sirius—”
“You’re calling for my help? Why would I help you, if you’ve never returned the favour?” Sirius hissed, tongue dripping with a paralytic venom. “All the times I’ve asked for you to help me, just for you to ignore me— you think I’ll help you after that?”
And Regulus didn’t know what to say. It was true. He’d never helped Sirius when he needed it, at least not when it mattered most.
The dittany he snuck into the other’s room, the food he’d smuggle into the attic when Sirius was locked up there, the silent company after a bad fight with mother. What did any of it matter when the damage had already been done? He never stopped their mother, never blocked their father’s punches or stood in the way of a curse, never screamed and shouted for them to stop like Sirius would have. He never helped.
A cool laugh rippled through the still darkness. “Exactly. You never helped, Reggie.”
But the name was wrong. Tauntingly sweet, like some sort of bitter joke that Regulus didn’t really understand the humour in.
“I tried—”
“Tried? You tried?” Sirius stressed incredulously. “Tried to what? To push me into leaving? To make me hate you?”
“You don’t mean that,” Regulus whispered, because Sirius couldn’t.
He couldn’t possibly hate him. Not after everything—
“After you let them torture me? Regulus, how could I not hate you?” scoffed the older boy— man. He looked like a man, an empty and gaunt and dead man. “You betrayed me over and over again, chose them over me, you took the Mark and killed people, Regulus! How could I possibly not hate you!?”
Regulus shook his head. He didn’t know. He didn’t know.
“I… I got you out, though,” he tried weakly. “I got you out.”
Sirius stared at him with empty eyes. “You didn’t get me out. The reason I even stayed for so long was because of you. I thought all of it was worth it if it meant I could protect you, but you didn’t even deserve that much. You don’t deserve anything.”
And when he took his next breath, he choked on green.
(‘To the Dark Lord’)
(“—why don’t you run back to your muggle-lover boyfriend? I never did want you around—”)
(“Kreacher, you must listen to me—”)
(‘I know I will be dead long before you read this’)
(“You just make everything worse! My life would be so much better without you in it.”)
(“Kreacher, you must listen to me—”)
(‘But I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret’)
(“The Dark Lord will be pleased with your loyalty, Regulus. I always knew you would do the right thing eventually.”)
(“I need to finish it. Even if you have to force it down my throat— I need to finish it .”)
(‘I have stolen the real horcrux’)
(“Brother? Brother? You are no brother of mine! Not when you still believe what they say—”)
(“Swap them. And then you take it and you destroy it, Kreacher. You don’t tell anyone, you hear me. Mother? Father? You can’t tell them . They’ll be in danger if you do.”)
(‘And intend to destroy it as soon as I can’)
(“Your brother could have been successful, Regulus. Are you listening? If only he hadn’t run off to that Potter boy. Then we’d have a son to be proud of. Sirius Black.”)
(“Do anything you can to destroy it. Kreacher, you must listen to me—”)
(‘I face death in the hope that when you meet your match’)
(“You destroyed whatever remains we had of brotherhood when you were sorted into Slytherin with the rest of those evil bastards— ”)
(“—destroy it, Kreacher. Promise me—”)
(‘You will be mortal once more.’)
(“Promise me, Sirius? Promise me you won’t leave me behind?”)
(“—promise me—”)
(‘— R.A.B’)
(“I promise, little brother.”)
━━━━━━━━━
Regulus’ eyes swum with phosphenes. They flickered across his vision like light through stained-glass windows, twinkling stars blanketing the night sky.
Everything bled a bright white.
It was so bright that he had to squeeze his eyes shut again, before his headache worsened. There was a hammer pounding against his skull, pressure so tight in his temples that Regulus thought for a second that a giant was crushing his head in its big hand.
Memories sprung from the surface of his mind and the abrupt realisation of what had just occurred—
(“Promise me, Kreacher” — hands pulling him down, down down — “you must listen to me” — throat burning for water, for release — “destroy it” — cold water numbing the frenzied panic.)
—had him reeling forward, stomach emptying its contents onto the floor. There were ghosts on his skin. Skeletal fingers pushing into the dips of his spine and circling the bones of his wrists. As if the undead still had him in their grasps at the bottom of the lake—
“Merlin’s beard, Black. Give some warning, why don’t you?”
Regulus looked up so quickly he thought he might have gotten whiplash. The sun scorched over the House towers of the Quidditch pitch, forcing him to squint. There were three figures standing in front of him, two to his left and one kneeling to his side. The sun drew a silhouette of the figures’ bodies, along with the brooms—
“Am I dead?” Regulus spoke up before he even realised, eyes still trained on the broomsticks . He was in Hogwarts, on the Quidditch pitch. How—
“Calm down, Black, you only fell off your broom,” one of the figures — David Flint, keeper on the Slytherin team — chuffed out. The others laughed along with him and Regulus’ eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Flint left in Regulus’ seventh year, finishing at the same time as—
“Wha— what date is it today?” Regulus questioned once he’d found his voice again.
Emma Vanity — team captain until 1977 — frowned in concern. “You alright, Black? Seems you hit your head harder than we thought.”
“Um, no, I just— what—”
“Deep breaths. Maybe you should take a break.”
Regulus didn’t understand the concern. “No— what happened? How am I—”
“Burke sent a bludger right your way when you weren’t looking,” Dorcas Meadowes explained, elbowing said player in the ribs.
Dorcas. Dorcas.
“I already apologised , Meadowes. Lay off, why don’t you,” Sophie retorted. Sophie Burke— who, along with her family, were killed in Regulus’ seventh year.
“Oh Merlin,” he muttered, unable to maintain his usual blank expression. “I’m dead.”
“What are you on about, Black?” Dorcas questioned incredulously. “You’re not bloody dead. Cyrus, what’s he on about?”
Cyrus Avery, who was crouched beside him, stared intensely at Regulus for a moment before shaking his head softly. “We should probably get you to the hospital wing before you pass out or something.”
Cyrus Avery… who should have a large scar cutting through his eye. Regulus knew that because he was there when it bloody happened.
“No, I’m— I’m fine. Just… What day is it?” Regulus asked again, growing more desperate for an answer.
Cyrus frowned in concern. “October 6th. Look, I’m going to take you to Madam Pomfrey—”
“The year, Cyrus, the year,” the young Black interrupted, voice sharp in order to hide the desperation rising in his throat.
“You’ve been knocked crazy, Black,” Mulciber sneered.
“Bloody hell, you definitely need to go to Madam Pomfrey. Avery, Meadowes, would you—”
Cyrus and Dorcas nodded as they helped him to his feet and began ushering him off the field. Regulus’ mind was still reeling from the idea of possibly being in the past to brush them off.
Luckily they didn’t run into any Gryffindors on the way to the hospital wing (because that would really be the end of him). His dignity wasn’t completely lost, at least. He barely registered Madam Pomfrey sitting him down in one of the hospital beds, a drink being raised to his mouth.
The feeling of liquid against his lips made him flinch (—the potion, Kreacher having to force it down his throat, thick under his tongue, like slime—) but Pomfrey didn’t seem to notice. Or at least didn’t care.
“It’s 1977,” Dorcas offered, eyes blank. There was an undertone of curiosity, whether it was bad or good was beyond Regulus. “Since you seemed so eager to know. October 6th, 1977. Look, did you forget because you got whacked in the head or—”
“Give him a second, Dorcas,” Cyrus cut her off calmly.
1977. More than two years— he was more than two years in the past. He was sixteen. Regulus didn’t quite understand how something so peculiar could occur. Time-magic had always been highly hypothetical, based on a few estimations and anecdotal experiences— it wasn’t real, was it?
Bad things happened to those who tampered with magic. What was to become of him because of this?
“Can I— can I stay here for the remainder of the day?” Regulus asked Madam Pomfrey. His mother would curse him for the stutter.
She raised her thin, grey eyebrows. “Yes, well I would hope so! A bludger to the head? You seekers always seem to get into such trouble. Too distracted, I’d say.”
“I think that’s just Regulus himself, madam,” Dorcas said with a smirk.
It felt weird seeing Dorcas again. She was so young, younger than the last time Regulus had seen her on the opposite side of the battlefield. Her box braids were pulled back into a ponytail for quidditch practice, still long like they were before the war began. The soft concern to her eyes felt almost foreign to him.
Cyrus felt more familiar, for some reason. Even without the large scar, he still felt… normal. It felt as though Regulus was merely looking at an old image of him; the muggle type that Barty liked to take for some odd reason. The slight ginger tinge to his pale hair, the freckles that made him look like a Prewett or Weasley more than anything else. It was all familiar.
“You want us to stay with you, Regulus? Emma might hex us for skipping the rest of practice but I’m sure she’d understand,” Cyrus offered.
“No, I’m good,” Regulus responded. “... Thank you, though.”
The strawberry blonde nodded with a tight smile, elbowing Dorcas in the side, who offered a glare in response before following the other out of the hospital wing.
“See you at supper!” Cyrus called.
In the silence of the hospital wing, Regulus found a familiar sense of loneliness.
His hunt for the Dark Lord’s horcrux had resulted in a constant feeling of cold and bitter emptiness. Burying himself in the distractions of books and research and work had always come most easily to the second Black heir. The feeling of accomplishment and productivity that knowledge provided him was something that made Regulus question whether he was actually supposed to be sorted into Ravenclaw.
The small pride in educating himself helped fill the empty thoughts of uselessness, a lost cause, never being worthy, not smart enough to find the horcrux that always seemed to plague his mind.
The reminder of the horcrux had Regulus scrambling for his pockets and neck. Had all that been for nothing, had he died for nothing? He patted down his clothing, ran his hands across his limbs and chest but— nothing.
It was gone. He didn’t have the horcrux because he hadn’t had the bloody thing in his sixth year.
Regulus was going to fucking scream.
All of that— abandoning mother, disappearing from the world, dying — had been for nothing. Because time travel didn’t fucking work like that.
“I saw you got a nasty-looking bruise on your arm as well, Monsieur Black.”
Madam Pomfrey’s return had Regulus flinching violently.
“Left arm, s'il vous plaît,” she ordered simply, holding out her hand to see his arm.
But the reminder of the Dark Mark had Regulus hesitating. She would freak if she saw it—
“Oh, drop the tough boy act, Monsieur Black. You’ve been in here enough times,” Poppy scolded lightly, grabbing Regulus’ left arm.
Before he could stop, she lifted the sleeve and his eyes widened in anticipation of a gasp. But—
His dark brows furrowed. He was tired of being surprised, but running his eyes across the dull Dark Mark filled him with a sense of startled relief. Because the Dark Mark — if you could even call it that anymore — had paled to something akin to a birthmark or scar tissue. It blotched smoothly across his left forearm, a stark contrast to the mark he was once familiar with.
He almost laughed at the sight.
He had a slight expectation for it to have disappeared completely, since he was now sixteen. He’d been marked the day following his seventeenth birthday. Although its continued existence — however faint — confirmed Regulus’ beliefs on how intertwined the Dark Mark was to the bearer’s magical core. For the Mark to stand the change in time, it would have had to be so strongly bound with his core that it was almost a part of it. The idea made Regulus shiver.
“Hm,” Poppy hummed. “Some bruise-gel will do the job.”
Regulus didn’t have the heart to explain that it wasn’t a bruise but instead the ghost of the Dark Mark which had been intertwined with his soul on his next birthday. Yeah, try to explain that one.
Madam Pomfrey had pretty much left him to rest after applying the bruise-gel. At least she would probably attribute the silence to his concussion instead of the overcrowding thoughts running around his head like a broken Muggle record player. It was difficult, but he spent most of the afternoon coming to terms with the fact that he had, in fact, travelled two years into the past.
And there were things he now had to process that he hadn’t acknowledged in a while.
His father was technically still alive in this time, which filled Regulus with more of a sense of dread rather than excitement. He loved his father, but it made it a bit more complicated again.
It wasn’t as if he had even processed his father’s passing to begin with. It was easier to bottle the fall out of Orion Black’s death than have to mourn, or let it distract him from his horcrux hunt. And he had expected to die with that mess still bottled up.
All the pressure and worries and grief he had kept a lock on… he was supposed to die with it. It was supposed to drown with him in the lake. But now he had to think about it.
It wasn’t just Orion, either. Going back to 1977 meant that Barty hadn’t yet tipped over into the deep end. It meant that Benjy Fenwick hadn’t been killed, and that Regulus hadn’t received the Mark yet. And it meant that Evan hadn’t—
Evan.
He’d still been alive. Evan Rosier was still alive in their sixth year, hadn’t been murdered by that blasted Auror, Alastor Moody, yet.
All of a sudden, Regulus wanted to throw up again. Evan was alive.
He never had the time to say goodbye to his friend before he’d…
No, that was— It wasn’t important.
He could ignore it. Put it in a box and seal it close, place it on the highest shelf so he couldn’t reach it. Not important.
Because he had another problem. The horcrux.
And it wasn’t just any problem. It was the biggest bloody problem.
Because he didn’t have it. And he’d have to go to the lake all over again to retrieve it. Merlin’s saggy tits, why did the universe hate him?
And he didn’t have any of the research he had collected because he technically hadn’t found it yet as of 1977. So he had to write his notes again, run over everything that went wrong, and he should probably work out how to actually destroy it this time…
This time.
The thought was so ridiculous that Regulus was still half convinced that he was dreaming. Because he was in the past. He had died and then woken up in 1977 because the universe hated him, and he could never do anything right, and he could never just pause for a bloody moment.
He sighed, swallowing, looking down at his left wrist once more.
The bruise stared back.
Perhaps the horcrux wasn’t the only thing he could do differently this time.
[ … ]
Walking through the Hogwarts corridors was odd.
The threat of the Wizarding War and the Dark Lord’s reign hadn’t quite reached the walls of Hogwarts yet, and Regulus could feel an air of carelessness despite the underlying tension. It was so vastly different from the young Black’s last encounter with the school, where the majority of the Slytherin house had claimed allegiance to the Dark Lord and many other students had gone into hiding.
The war had yet to become personal at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Even so, there were still the usual inter-house rivalries that he was used to. He recalled the hostility increasing strongly in his sixth year, when the first students were given the Dark Mark. Because those marks had been confirmation of everything that people stereotyped Slytherins as; evil, murderers, prejudiced.
And those stereotypes may have been correct, but only for a portion of the house. Not that anyone else cared for the reality that an entire quarter of Hogwarts could have variety between their beliefs and characters.
No, no, no, all Slytherins were wannabe Death Eaters. It was unbelievably idiotic.
It was October now, before Christmas. Bella was already Marked, Cissy was already married off to Lucius. Mulciber was to get Marked in a few months time.
And after Mulciber was marked, more students followed. Goyle, Nott, Rowle, Carrow, Snape, Flint… Barty, Evan… Regulus himself. In a few months time, Hogwarts would be its own breed of battlefield.
Regulus spent the remainder of the evening buried deep in books. Not too uncommon, if he were to be completely honest with himself. He searched as far as he could for any information on time-magic, but the Hogwarts library wasn’t as well-informed as Regulus had hoped.
He understood that Professors couldn’t exactly encourage time-magic, but the limited range of books was severely disappointing. There were a few textbooks on time-turners and the instabilities of travelling through time — which Regulus flicked through impatiently and carelessly — although they were highly structured around the natural laws. He didn’t think his current predicament abided by the natural laws in any way.
He knew that anything on dark objects was almost a lost cause in the Hogwarts library. Even the restricted section barely touched on horcruxes, and most of it was just “don’t make them”. Right. Thanks, Parksley B. Maupe. Your extensive education on horcruxes in your novel ‘ Dark Objects and Their Most Severe Consequence’ was so incredibly insightful and helpful.
Even if there was some level of logical continuity behind Regulus’ circumstances, it wouldn’t be explained in the books provided at Hogwarts. They pretty much said on the first page that if you meddle with time, you will inevitably die a painful and gruesome death, which would most likely involve being ripped apart by the very structures of physics and the natural law.
There was the case of Eloise Mintumble who, when experimenting with time magic, travelled back to 1404. Regulus cringed when he read what became of her and the people she encountered.
“Black,” a male voice cut sharply through Regulus’ cloud of thoughts.
He looked up at the older student, an elegant eyebrow raised in impatient questioning. “Yes?”
“Were you planning on spending supper buried in a book?” the Slytherin inquired rhetorically, before walking away.
Regulus muttered a low tempus , and startled at the time displayed. Fifteen past six, in the evening. Supper had already started.
He shut the book he had been reading, and collected the few texts that promised at least some level of insight, before quickly borrowing them and departing from the library.
The corridors still rang with a glowing warmth, and Regulus found it incredibly disorientating as he continuously passed students he knew to be dead, missing or in hiding. There were no quickly averted glances in his direction or fastened paces as people walked past, contrary to his last year in which people thought Slytherins would murder them in the halls if they merely looked at them wrong.
The Great Hall was busy and loud when he entered, room bustling with energy that once again made Regulus furrow his brows at the contrast to what he knew (whispers, side-glances, disappearing students). He sat down without being noticed, placing the small pile of books beside him so that nobody would try to sit there.
Footsteps drew closer, before two glossy shoes were caught passing behind him.
There was an audible grin in Barty’s voice as he slid into the spot next to him, feet on either side of the bench so that he was more straddling it than anything else.
“Little Reggie,” he sang. “I heard you got your head knocked sideways by Burke at practice today.”
“Don’t call me Reggie,” Regulus snapped back instinctually. “And I’m fine, just a concussion.”
It took him a few seconds to register just who he was talking to.
Barty.
He looked at the older boy beside him, eyes slightly wider as he took him in. He looked… better. Not as gaunt and grey, skin the warm bronze that had always made him look much kinder. The freckles across his cheekbones weren’t yet interrupted by pale scars, and the dangerous glint to his hazel eyes seemed more mischievous than unhinged, which felt odd to see.
A good odd, Regulus nodded to himself. A nice odd.
“Time magic?” another voice questioned as the stack of books beside him were lifted onto the table so someone could sit in their place. “Has that bludger knocked out the small amount of self-preservation that you had left?”
The young Black froze, a shiver running down to the base of his spine when he registered who had spoken. Rosier. Evan.
And maybe dying and losing the horcrux had been worth it, because he’d do it over and over again if it meant he had a chance to see Evan again.
“Evan,” he breathed out without thinking.
The older boy raised a brow. “Yeah?”
But Regulus didn’t listen.
Rather, he was too focused on the boy’s face; the perfectly trimmed hair and ocean-blue eyes that Regulus had missed so dearly. The beauty mark just next to the tail of his left brow was still there, as was the scar through his lip from a fight that took place in their second year. He was still sharp lines and angles, softened by his young age.
Still Evan. Still alive.
“Um,” Regulus murmured oh-so-elegantly.
Barty snorted. “Merlin, are you sure it was just a mild concussion?”
He blinked. “What? Oh, yeah, it was just…”
Evan frowned slightly. “Are you okay, mate?”
“Yeah, fine. Just hit my head.”
“More like almost snapped your neck,” Cyrus Avery corrected as he sat across from the trio. “It was bloody amazing.”
Evan offered a deadpan look in response.
Cyrus snorted, ginger-ish hair bobbing as he shook his head. “Calm down, Evan, no harm meant from it.”
“I swear I heard a crack,” Dorcas added helpfully, sliding over from where she had been talking to Flint.
Regulus rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
“You passed out from the fall, knob head. You didn’t witness it.”
“So?”
Dorcas didn’t have a response, and Regulus snorted.
“Did you do the Runes homework?” Cyrus asked after a moment of silence, chewing on a piece of steak.
Did he?
Regulus had no clue whether he’d done it, but he was usually on top of things so he probably had.
Barty interrupted what would have been his response. “Why? Need to copy off Reggie again?”
“Don’t call me Reggie.”
The brunette ignored him, still looking at Cyrus.
Cyrus just grinned, taking an obnoxiously dramatic bite of his steak. “That’s exactly why I asked, Crouch.”
“Skiver,” Barty scoffed.
“You’re just jealous that you don’t do Ancient Runes and can’t copy his homework.”
“I’m glad to hear I’m so greatly appreciated,” Regulus drawled.
Evan curled an arm around the black haired boy with a playful smirk, pulling him close despite the sudden tension between Regulus’ shoulder blades.
“Of course we appreciate you, Reggie,” the blonde cooed. “You’re our little baby Black.”
And Merlin, Regulus hadn’t heard that name in a while.
Baby Black. Eugh. The nickname still repulsed him after so many years of use.
“I hate you.”
“Nah, you love us,” Barty added, leaning into Regulus’ other side.
He didn’t have the guts to agree, nor the heart to lie. He did love them, but he’d only realised it after Barty had tipped off the deep end, and Cyrus had fully committed himself to the Dark Lord’s cause, and Dorcas had changed sides, and Evan had—
Yeah.
Regulus shook his head instead.
“You’re both idiots.”
“Stop being so disgusting,” Dorcas scoffed from across the table. “Just kiss already and move on.”
But Barty made up for his sudden awkward stiffness with a barking laugh that could almost rival Sirius’. It echoed around the hall obnoxiously, and Regulus kind of wanted to shut him the hell up before people started looking at them.
Evan was blushing from next to him, but chuckled lightly while Regulus rolled his eyes. He reached for one of the food platters to distract himself from Cyrus and Dorcas’ teasing, but couldn’t bring himself to eat any of it.
He had… missed this.
To begin with, Regulus hadn’t partaken in any sort of friendly encounter in almost a year. It was either meetings under the Dark Lord’s request, events under some pureblood family, missions which usually ended up with a nasty encounter with Aurors, or… what else?
He had Kreacher, and the hollow walls of Grimmauld Place while mother chased a forgotten love down to the bottom of one-too-many wine bottles. He had the company of books from Orion’s dust-blanketed office, their spines wethered and gold embellishments almost worn off to the point that some titles were basically indecipherable. He had the knowledge of an old box of muggle vinyls beneath the empty bed of a silent room.
And that had been it.
Regulus hadn’t had time for much else, other than cramming some sort of facade of normality in between his deep dives into the obsession of horcruxes and how to destroy them. Well… he hadn’t looked on the ‘how to destroy them’ side of things as much as he probably should have.
(He hadn’t been planning to survive, either, so anything that came after finding the horcrux, he’d hoped to throw in the air and see where it landed. Or not see where it landed… since he’d be dead.)
But with Evan’s thigh brushing his every once in a while and Barty’s ever-so-loud presence at his other side; with Cyrus’ never-ending eating spree and Dorcas’ dramatic eye rolls that were betrayed by the permanent, amused quirk to the corner of her lips; with all of it, it felt like home.
Or whatever home was supposed to be. Regulus didn’t know, to be completely honest.
As he looked up, a tiny smile still tugging absentmindedly at his lips, his eyes met with a figure across the room at the Gryffindor table—
His smile dropped almost immediately, Sirius’ doing the same as they stared at one another. And those steel eyes, which were almost an exact replica to his own, made his mind flash with bright memories.
(“Calling for my help, little brother?”)
Regulus’ hand tightened, nails biting small crescents into his palms.
It was pure agony to him that the first thing he could think was he looks just as perfect as the last time Regulus saw him. Perfect, because how else was one to describe Sirius Orion Black?
The more handsome brother, the more regal one, the one with warmer eyes and a nicer smile. Because no matter what Sirius did, he was always the Perfect one. Regulus was the sensible one, the quiet one, the good plan B. But Sirius was the attractive one, the strong one, the heir that would have worked so well if they hadn’t been forced to resort to the spare.
When Regulus was younger he had grown out his hair so it was like Sirius’, because maybe it was the hair that made him look better. But Sirius’ hair was wavy and thick and textured (typical of the Black family), while Regulus’ hair was straight and silky and would often slip out of hair ties because of how soft it was.
Regulus had long realised that trying to look like Sirius was a useless feat. They already looked so alike, and yet he’d been so insistent to the contrary when he was younger.
(“Regulus, how could I not hate you?”)
He watched as Sirius’ eyes narrowed into a fiery glare. It was so familiar, and Regulus hated how it almost felt like home; like before things went to even shittier shit and Regulus fucking died.
Because Sirius’ eyes felt like home, no matter how similar they were to Walburga’s. Mother’s eyes were dark in a way that felt like getting lost in a black sandstorm, where everything was too much and yet too empty and all-too-alone. But Sirius’ eyes were dark in a way that felt like the smoke from the main living room’s fireplace, where they’d sit beside each other and roast marshmallows that they’d stolen from the cupboard, whispering stories as though they couldn’t hear their father pacing angrily in his study upstairs.
And if Sirius’ eyes were the dark smoke from a warm and comforting fire, then Regulus’ eyes were the ice that frosted over the settled ash once the sun left with Summer’s kiss.
Regulus never liked Summer. Nor did he like Winter, either.
(“You betrayed me over and over again, chose them over me, you took the Mark and killed people, Regulus!”)
The youngest brother felt his heart clench painfully.
(“How could I possibly not hate you!?”)
Metal filled his taste buds from where he bit his tongue. The last memory he had of Sirius was the hallucinations in the cave. Before that… Regulus couldn’t even remember. In a duel, where Regulus was masked and Sirius didn’t hold back on him? The last time on Platform 9¾ before Sirius was graduating?
The older Black hadn’t even offered Regulus a glance, and he recalled the overwhelming disappointment at not being able to feel safe one last time; to not get just a fraction of a second in the home that was his older brother’s eyes.
(“You’re just a pathetic little coward. I don’t have time for traitors like you.”)
Sirius’ friends sat by his side, loud and obnoxious and everything that Sirius had ever wanted. They were perfect for him, even Regulus knew it. Sirius was Regulus’ home, but the marauders were Sirius’ home. His chosen family.
(“I thought all of it was worth it if it meant I could protect you, but you didn’t even deserve that much. You don’t deserve anything.”)
They all seemed to notice Sirius’ sudden silence at once. The group of Gryffindors turned to look, and Regulus felt bitterness wrap its cold hand around his throat. There was judgement in their eyes, a burning resentment towards him for how he’d hurt Sirius—
(“You’re not my fucking brother.”)
—and Regulus steeled himself, expression falling back into blank disinterest before anyone noticed the glossy pain that had begun to show through.
He was fine. Focus on the horcrux.
Regulus had always been good at being fine.
━━━━━━━━━
“Where did Neil go? I haven’t seen him since practice,” Dorcas asked with a slight pinch to her brows.
Nathaniel ‘Neil’ Wilkes, currently a sixth year. Last Regulus heard, the boy was off with his newly-wed, pureblood sweetheart. The Dark Lord had threatened his family, and Neil had taken the Mark to protect them.
Dorcas looked at Regulus from where she was hanging upside-down over the armrest of the couch, a waterfall of black braids pooling on the carpet underneath from how long it was. He cringed at the thought of dust picking up from the carpet and getting caught in it, but didn’t say anything.
Regulus himself was seated on the floor, leaning back against one of the lounge chairs while he wrote down notes for the homework that Cyrus never did. It was pretty easy, considering he was technically a year ahead in all his classes.
Besides, Ancient Runes were pretty much a breeze for those in the Black family (the rumours around their blood rituals didn’t come from nowhere).
Barty had thrown himself across the other common room couch, forearm laying across his eyes dramatically. He hadn’t spoken in a bit, but Regulus knew he wasn’t sleeping from the way his foot would bounce subtly in a steady rhythm.
“Dunno,” Evan shrugged from where he was rolling a cigarette by the window, as though he were keeping the smoke out of the room despite the fact that the windows led to the Great Lake.
Regulus didn’t look at the window for too long, the ghostly touch of inferi making him shudder uncomfortably.
“Last I heard, he was snogging Fawley in the hidden classroom behind Selky Yibet’s portrait,” the blonde continued, tapping his fag on the window sill to compact the tobacco inside.
“Says who?” Cyrus replied.
“Says Selky Yibet’s portrait.”
Barty scoffed. “Bloody gabbler.”
So he was awake, Regulus snorted to himself.
“But Fawley? Really?” asked Cyrus incredulously, waving off the cigarette when Evan offered it to him. “What happened to Flint?”
Regulus didn’t have the heart to say that Neil and Flint weren’t ever anything beyond physical comfort. Before Neil was forced into marrying a pureblood girl and Flint entered Voldemort’s inner circle, of course.
(At least that’s what Flint said one evening while they were drunk on their parents’ strongest firewhiskey, trying to find an answer to why they were doing what they were doing at the bottom of their bottles. Regulus hadn’t missed the boy’s wistful expression as he stared upwards, glossy-eyed, and the stars reflected back across his pupils.)
“They’ve been on and off ever since March,” Dorcas replied. “Haven’t you noticed?”
“I’m not into voyeurism, no. But good for you.”
The girl made a disgusted face. “Sod off, Avery.”
Cyrus chuckled. “I didn’t realise Neil was into the whole preppy look.”
“What?” Regulus started sarcastically. “You think he chose Fawley for any reason other than to piss Flint off? Fawley and Flint have hated each other since third year. Neil chose Fawley to make him jealous.”
“Oh.”
“Pay attention, you twat,” Regulus scolded. “I’m not doing your homework for nothing.”
Cyrus pouted dramatically. “But Reggie…” he whined. “You’re so much better at it than me.”
“Don’t call me Reggie,” the black haired boy snapped, before sighing. “And the whole point is that eventually you won’t need my help.”
“Will you guide me?” the strawberry blonde smirked.
Regulus glanced at him, his expression deadpan. He was throwing a pillow at the boy before he could even raise his hands in defence, and didn’t bother to give him more attention than that.
Barty chuckled. “Bloody hell, Avery, don’t make him kill you.”
Cyrus picked up the pillow that had been thrown at him, smacking it across Barty’s face. The taller boy grabbed his wrist before he could move away though, and offered a short glare.
Even if their actions were playful, the clear message of don’t fucking touch me was delivered clearly enough. They all brushed over it, used to Barty’s lack of playful acceptance towards being hit or shoved by his friends.
Cyrus pursed his lips, taking the pillow back.
“I just don’t think Neil should be playing with fire like that,” the freckled boy shrugged, filling the momentary silence. “Flint can get scary when he’s angry.”
Dorcas rolled her eyes. “David Flint would never raise his hand against someone he’s in a relationship with.”
Rosier hummed. “Not since that thing with his parents.”
“Would you even call it a relationship?” Evan rolled his eyes. “Those two are useless.”
“You’re just holding a grudge from when they accidently fucked on your bed instead of Neil’s.”
Evan offered an incredulous glare towards Barty. “No shit, you tosser. They fucked on my bed.”
Regulus stifled a laugh.
The room fell silent once more, except for the quiet breathing from Evan as he let smoke escape his pursed lips, and the scratching of Regulus’ quill against parchment.
Cyrus leaned closer to him, watching as he wrote. Regulus could feel his breath brush his neck, and wanted to push him away, but ignored the discomfort and instead focused on the homework.
“Say, Reggie,” the strawberry blonde started, ignoring the muttered ‘don’t call me Reggie’. “Could you help me with potions too?”
Regulus scoffed. “You’re pathetic.”
“Lazy sod,” Barty huffed. “Reg isn’t your little homework slave.”
“But we’re doing that stupid stuff on counter-agents for poisons and stuff, and it doesn’t make sense,” he whined.
“That’s because you never paid attention last year when we went through the topic the first time.”
“Can you blame me? What’s the point of learning fifty different potions to reverse the effects of different poisons when you can just shove a bezoar down their throat and sing happy days?”
Regulus paused.
“I’m pretty sure singing happy days isn’t a part of that process,” Dorcas was saying, but Regulus wasn’t paying attention.
“Bezoars…” he whispered.
“Yes!” Cyrus threw his hands up in exasperation. “Bezoars, the solution to basically every poison! Why would we have to memorise the balancing properties of Figwort root, or the alkalinity of Irukandji jellyfish blubber—”
“Bezoars!” Regulus exclaimed, interrupting Cyrus’ annoyed rant. He looked to the other boy with wide eyes. “Cyrus, you are a bloody genius!”
The strawberry blonde blinked. “What?”
“Bezoars! If anything is going to counteract a mystery potion, then it’s going to be a bezoar!”
“Uh… yes?”
“I’m an idiot,” Regulus scoffed, standing up smoothly. “All that time I spent trying to figure out what the potion could possibly be— I didn’t need the recipe if bezoars neutralise most potions anyway!”
He didn’t notice the others’ confused glances at one another, instead rushing up the stairs to his dorm as quickly as he could without tripping.
“Do you know what in Salazar’s name he’s talking about?” Cyrus whispered.
Evan shrugged, and Dorcas rolled her eyes.
“I don’t question that boy anymore,” she murmured before slamming her face down into a couch pillow.
Regulus ran to his bed as soon as the door to his dorm opened, digging through his bedside table.
“Where the fuck…” he murmured, running a hand through his dark hair.
He picked at his open trunk, then his cupboard, but found everywhere empty.
Where the fuck did he put it when he was in sixth year?
Like a lumos lighting in his mind, he rushed over to his four-post bed and lifted his pillow to reveal his journal.
It was a small and well-loved thing, the black moleskin cover in pristine condition despite the pages being yellowed and wavy from water-damage. On the spine was the imprinted mark of “R.A.B”.
He took apart the protection charms and runes pressed into the leather, before flipping it open.
There were pages of packed-in writing, some with less than a few words. Sketches were sprinkled throughout, and small ripped sheets fell out from between other pages.
But he opened to a blank page somewhere in the middle of the journal, grabbing the quill and ink that were in his drawer and opening the pot with his teeth. His writing was messier than it should have been, and he could only imagine what his mother would have said if she’d seen it.
(She’d have probably forced him to use one of those blasted blood quills as punishment.)
POTION PROBLEM
- BEZOARS COUNTERACT ANYTHING
- TWO; ONE BEFORE AND ONE AFTER?
- HOW TO INGEST IF RESISTING WHILE UNDER INFLUENCE?
- WHERE TO FIND; GRIMMAULD PLACE, SLUGHORN’S STOREROOM
Regulus wished he had his old journal that held all the notes he needed. He recalled it being overloaded with (probably useless) information about every tiny thing.
There had been charts of the symptoms that Kreacher had explained and observations he’d made, all with possible causes and ingredients. Actually experiencing it should have provided him with more information, but it really just made it more difficult.
SYMPTOMS
- EXCRUCIATING PAIN (BURNING)
- HALLUCINATIONS; VISUAL, AUDITORY, OLFACTORY, TACTILE (?)
- INTENSE THIRST
- DIZZINESS, NAUSEA, LIGHT-HEADEDNESS, HEADACHE
- INCREASE IN HEART RATE
He couldn’t remember too many of the symptoms before he was pulled underwater by inferi, of course. And it was difficult to tell how much of the pain had been from the potion and how much had been from his skin being torn open.
That was another thing that he found odd. The injuries.
The phantom sensation of both sharp and blunt nails digging into his until it broke had never really left him, and followed closely behind the occasional feeling of slime and seaweed surrounding him.
And yet there were no marks.
No scars, no marks that even suggested they might have once been there. It was to be expected, since he was technically in his sixteen-year-old-self’s body, but it still didn’t feel right.
It didn’t feel like his body. Especially without the Mark or the injuries he’d gained in his time serving the Dark Lord. He felt almost guilty at the idea that all his mistakes had been erased, like he deserved to have them stain his body because of what they meant.
Guilt, he scoffed internally. What an idiotic emotion.
(An all-too-familiar emotion, to be fair.)
But he didn’t have time for guilt. It was stupid and useless and never got him anywhere.
He had a mission; to destroy the horcrux and render the Dark Lord mortal once more. Perhaps things would go right this time.
The first question was how he was going to get to the cave this time. He supposed he could Apparate there, since he was now familiar with the location, but the Ministry would be alerted of it. He also couldn’t Apparate from within Hogwarts. Perhaps he could use Kreacher’s help.
The second question was how he was supposed to get his hands on a bezoar. Going home to get one would take far too long, since students weren’t allowed to go home outside of holidays unless it was an emergency. So the second option was raiding Slughorn’s store room.
It was risky but manageable, and Regulus would rather risk getting sent to detention than wait months for Yule holidays.
The third question was how in the ever-loving-fuck he was supposed to survive this time. Would he even have to survive? If he got the horcrux out to someone who could destroy it, then he didn’t really need to survive, did he?
But then it begs the question; who else could he trust?
He wasn’t putting Kreacher through that shit again, even though in this time, the house elf hadn’t experienced it yet. He wasn’t trusting that blasted idiot Dumbledore, either, since Regulus knew without a doubt that the bastard would risk anything to get what he wants (even lives, if it came to it). He wasn’t trusting anyone in the Black family, nor was he trusting his blood supremacist friends.
Blood supremacist friends, he reminded himself.
They didn’t seem like it, and Regulus supposed that that’s what made it even worse. They didn’t seem evil, especially not when they were throwing pillows at each other and gossiping about who was snogging who. But Regulus knew that whatever beliefs they had now would fester into something a lot worse.
Unless he could change that.
No. No. Not doing that.
It wasn’t his problem how his friends turned out. Besides, he had more important matters to tend to. Like how in Salazar’s name he was going to smuggle a few bezoars from Slughorn’s store room.
━━━━━━━━━
It was the next day that Regulus approached Severus Snape.
The sun had only just risen, painting the library in a buttery glow and drawing lattices on the ground from the windows.
At this time, there were only a few students occupying the space. Most were Ravenclaws, but Regulus knew that Lily Evans was probably tucked into the back, perhaps with Remus Lupin at her side.
“Snape,” Regulus greeted plainly.
He sat down, his books thudding on the table. Snape stared at them, deadpan, before looking up to meet the younger boy’s eyes. He didn’t look amused.
“Black. What do you want?”
Regulus tried not to roll his eyes at the other’s lack of politeness, and instead interlocked his hands on the table in front of him as if he were proposing a very serious business deal.
“I require your help.”
“Is that so?” Snape raised a single brow.
Regulus nodded. “Yes.”
“On what?”
“Potions.”
Snape stares at him for a moment before sighing, closing the book he was scribbling in. Ironically, he had been writing in a potions textbook; Advanced Potion Making by Libatius Borage.
“Yes?” the seventh-year prompted, voice as monotone and disinterested as always.
Regulus nodded in premature gratitude. “I’ve been looking into bezoars, and I wanted to know if there was a way to transform it into a liquid form while still maintaining its properties. I know that they are often used in antidotal potions, however I understand that their efficiency is lessened in the dissolving process. So? Do you have any insight?”
Snape was silent, before he scrunched his nose.
“Why would you need it in a liquid form?”
“It would be easier to consume, would it not?” Regulus raised a brow. “Besides, I can’t imagine that swallowing an entire stone while suffering effects from a potentially harmful potion would be an easy feat.”
The older boy hummed. “I suppose you’re correct. No potions master has ever been able to maintain the properties of a bezoar stone when changing its form, but… I can always try and look into it.”
Regulus nodded in thanks, although was mildly disappointed. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped.
“What do I get out of this, Black?” Snape asked next.
The younger boy chewed the inside of his cheek. “You want a payment?”
Snape did a bad job of hiding his smirk. “Of course.”
Regulus exhaled through his nose. He didn’t like owing people things. It was unpredictable and usually wound up with something going very, very wrong.
But he’d have to suck it up, he supposed.
“Alright,” he nodded. “I owe you a favour then.”
“How do I know you won’t just back out?”
Regulus scowled. “A Black always pays his debts.”
Snape narrowed his eyes for a moment, before sighing. “Alright. I try my best to find a way to create a potion version of a bezoar, and you owe me a favour.”
He nodded.
“Any favour,” the older boy added.
Regulus wanted to hex that bloody smirk off the git’s face, but he held his tongue and restrained his hand from moving to the wand in his pocket.
His jaw was clenched as he muttered out, “deal.”
“Pleasure doing business with you,” hummed Snape with a satisfied smirk.
He stretched his hand across the table, and Regulus grimaced at it.
“Mm,” the younger boy hummed in displeasure, taking the hand and shaking it reluctantly.
[ … ]
“I heard that you went to talk to Snape this morning,” Cyrus hummed as he sat next to Regulus, ignoring Evan who tried to shove him off the bench.
“Says who?” Regulus answered absentmindedly.
“Says the Wrackspurts in your ears,” the strawberry-blonde joked, twinkling his fingers as if to imitate the Wrackspurts’ supposed sparkly appearance.
Regulus scoffed, shoving his hands away when they came near his face. “You can’t actually believe that nonsense.”
“Of course not,” Cyrus grimaced, as if it was a direct insult to him. “But that’s not the point. What were you doing with Snape?”
“Half-blood git,” Barty scoffed. “Thinks he’s better than everyone else.”
“He may be a git, but he’s superb at potions. I needed to ask him a question,” the younger boy explained.
Evan made a disgusted face. He seemed disgruntled at not being able to sit next to Regulus.
“Potions,” he said. “Disgusting.”
An elbow dug into Regulus’ ribs, and he turned to see Barty looking at him with a raised brow. A basket of bread was in his hand, tilted forward to offer it over.
Regulus would have shook his head and said no, but Barty seemed to be in one of his no-bullshit moods. He reluctantly grabbed a bread roll, putting it down on his plate but not touching it any further.
He could hear Barty scoff. “Eat, idiot.”
“Not hungry.”
“Bullshit.”
They stared at each other for a moment before Regulus gave up. He pulled a piece off the bread roll, eating it plain. Barty didn’t seem enthused over his choice, but made no further comment.
“I don’t know why you’d bother with Snape,” Evan shook his head.
“Why does it matter to you so much?”
“He gives me a weird feeling.”
Dorcas snorted. “A weird feeling, you say?”
Evan reached for her back, tugging her hair down. She yelped, shoving him back.
Barty merely rolled his eyes. “Stop it,” he scoffed. “People are looking.”
When Regulus glanced around, he noticed that some students were, in fact, looking at them. It was only a few Slytherins, however, since the other Houses were much more accustomed to such behaviours.
Some of the older Slytherins sneered.
Evan noticed the dirty look that Rowle was giving him, and flipped him off in response. Regulus resisted the urge to snort when Rowle blinked, as if he’d never been flipped off before.
“I don’t care what they think,” said Dorcas, brushing her fingers through her braids to untangle the twists that Evan had formed.
“Well, you should,” Barty replied firmly. “Our reputations matter now, and He isn’t going to respect us if we’re acting childish, is he?”
Everything suddenly grew cold.
Regulus felt his entire body tense, his jaw clenching momentarily before he forced himself to relax once more. Cyrus stared at Barty blankly for a moment, before sighing and continuing to eat.
He, Regulus thought.
Barty didn’t even have to use the Dark Lord’s name, and they already knew who he was talking about.
Regulus hadn’t even been thinking very much about the Dark Lord, outside of his horcrux. He had almost forgotten that the war was much bigger than just the small, Slytherin locket that was hidden in the cave.
How could you forget that? he scoffed to himself. You’re really just ignoring everything you did in the war? All the people you killed? The houses you burned down?
“Right,” said Evan.
Regulus snapped back to reality.
“Reputations. Reggie won’t need much help with that, will he?” the blonde grinned, wiggling his brows. “The Black heir. Basically a free entry ticket into His inner circle.”
He thought he might be sick.
Free entry ticket.
And that’s what it had been, right? Although it was more like a one-way ticket that was forced into his hand.
You chose it.
His jaw clenched.
“Don’t call me Reggie,” he replied quietly once the silence had grown too long.
The curious look that Barty offered him went unnoticed.