Chapter Text
When Regulus Black is nine years old, he freezes to death atop his brother’s trunk.
Winters are cold in 12 Grimmauld Place, despite the magic. Regulus would only learn years later, well into his teen years, that magic is supposed to be warm --a gentle crackling or tepid spark-- because to him, it has always been bitter.
Walburga and Orion are entertainers foremost, always occupied and pleasant to their greatest extent. Although menacing, they live to please and to satisfy the people around them, placed comfortably under the boots of their superiors. They uphold the family name, the Black reputation, by surviving within the cracks-- cowardice, betrayal, and a robust bout of madness runs thoroughly through the family line, thick as blood. Which is why, perhaps, the Blacks tend to release their frustrations on those below them. House elves, blood-traitors, muggles. Their children.
Walburga especially resents her place within society. She has never been a powerful witch-- she only bears a powerful name, and still; her authority was earned through not much more than decent obedience. She is nothing without the pleasure of those around her.
When Sirius was born, she did love him. She never stopped. But it becomes overshadowed, perhaps by her frustrations; or perhaps by her cynicism and growing exasperation with the way things were. Her son grows to be strong, and a lot like her-- he takes her eyes, her nose, her vigour. But he is below her, a squirming child; and Walburga is sick of being below others.
Regulus takes after Orion, and inherits his weakness. Like his father, he is small, passive and restrained. While Walburga and Sirius are born to lead, Orion and Regulus are born to follow. And so, Regulus does. He babbles behind his brother constantly, despite just over eighteen months between them, valuing Sirius above the moon and stars. At nine years old, Regulus would toddle over a bridge if it meant Sirius were beside him.
Which is why, by the bannister of the third floor, Regulus has crowded by the stairs with his older brother and swore his commitment to whatever ridiculous scheme Sirius has fathomed. Their parents are entertaining a party and the children have been sent to their rooms. Sirius, ever the secessionist, strongly resents this idea.
“Come on, Reggie,” Sirius whispers, as they listen to guests bustle beneath them. “She won’t even notice.”
“We won’t make it to dinner,” Regulus complains. “And Kreacher will notice, he always finds me before meals to let me try them.”
Sirius scoffs. “He doesn’t let me try anything. He’s practically half-goblin with how rude he is!” He glares down the stairs, as if Kreacher is at the bottom, listening. “It doesn’t matter. This is our chance to escape.”
Regulus agrees, of course. At that age, any arguments are futile, and Sirius knows it. So they pack their trunks, despite neither really knowing how, and tip-toe down the stairs and through the elves’ sections of the house. Their trunks trail behind them with successive thunks , cracking against each step, impossibly loud.
Their quarters and kitchens are always vehemently avoided by Walburga and Orion; dull and dishevelled in contrast to the unkempt house. The boys often find themselves using those spaces as a recluse; Kreacher seems to despise Sirius, for whatever reason, but he is quite fond of Regulus.
They make it about a block down the street before their mother apparates a foot behind them. She yanks Sirius’ arm, and his trunk slips from his grasp and crashes unceremoniously onto the icy ground, almost silent. A blink later, she’s gone, snapped right back out of existence. Regulus stares at the space where she had been, and at the marks her pointy boots left in the snow, and waits.
He could run. There’s a decrepit dread, much older than Regulus himself, leaning familiarly over his shoulder, breath cold and biting. Whatever instincts he has left, that had yet to be caned out of him for the sake of formality, warn simply to leave . And yet he stays, sitting atop Sirius’ abandoned trunk, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. Waiting for Sirius to come back to continue their adventure, or maybe for Walburga to blink behind him and disapparate him back too.
He does not walk home, even though he knows the way by heart. He fears a worse punishment if he does, if he interrupts the party. The sun sets early, the soaring townhouses hiding it quickly, creating a box of shadows and quiescence for Regulus to stew in. Muggles, too oblivious for their own good, keep stopping to ask if he’s alright. Regulus never replies, quite petrified, but decides that he’ll later tell Sirius he fought off the muggles with a terrifyingly wonderful display of power, enough to light up the whole of London.
By now, he must have missed dinner, so perhaps Kreacher will be looking for him. But he’s not allowed off the premises unless ordered or running errands, so Regulus fears it is up to his parents to come find him-- and as the cold creeps slyly, maliciously, his hope of that dwindles quite wistfully.
Regulus is used to the cold. His house, and even his room, are never filled with any warmth. Kreacher tries, knowing how susceptible Regulus can be to a chill, but can never quite make the house warm enough. Walburga seems unbothered by it, and Orion obeys his wife’s demands, so neither move to ever improve the everpresent rigidness in the house.
Eventually, and quite wisely, Regulus decides to dig through Sirius’ trunk in search of a coat. He finds his brother’s formal robes, and since they are much too large he can wrap them around himself like a blanket. It helps a little with the biting cool, enough to make a difference, so he resigns to watch the stars for a while, wondering who is coming to get him, watching his family gleam in the inky blackness. His own star is missing tonight. It isn’t out as much as the others, he’s noticed-- but Sirius is bright as ever, shining with pride.
The night continues, temperatures dropping. Regulus curls up atop the trunk.
He cannot remember falling asleep, but he must have, because he awakes the next day to his father beside him, eyes rounded with concern. He’s in his own bed, and it’s warm for the first time in his life-- he can feel a simple heating spell surrounding his room. Orion pushes his hair back, smiling softly, as Regulus blinks blearily at his surroundings.
“It’s all alright, mon fils, ” Orion whispers. “You’re alright.”
Regulus nods, always agreeing. He knows, though, somewhere primal, somewhere inherent. Perhaps it’s his magic that tells him-- perhaps it warns him that he’s lost a part of his soul, now, that he’s paid a solemn price for that warmth. That he will be paying that price for the rest of his life, indebted to Death itself.
Regulus lives his entire life on spare time. And, at nine years old, the night he froze-- that is the first time he is aware of it.
*****
The second time Regulus Black dies, he is eighteen, and it is much less peaceful.
It’s nothing like falling asleep. The Inferni are merciless, animalistic; although, he cannot blame them. It is in their nature to destroy, to tear and kill and eat-- just as it is in his to obey and to cower. The only brave thing he ever does in his life also happens to be the last.
He is scared, though. Terrified. His fear has never left him-- not as he got older, and not as his parents wilted away. It became staggering once he discovered the Horcrux. A simple remark; a threat to some, and Regulus’ whole life unravelled.
“My power is eternal,” the Dark Lord had said . “As am I.”
It meant nothing to the room. Certainly not to Rosier, who had made some forgettable comment and was too busy squawking in his seat to contemplate the implications of the Dark Lord’s words. But Regulus is an intelligent person, and always has been-- the Sorting Hat would have coaxed him into Ravenclaw if not for the weight of his mother’s demands hovering over his shoulder.
He’d read it in the Blacks’ copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art, which Orion kept locked in the third drawer of his own desk. Horcruxes are an unusual phenomenon, despite their power. Any respectable wizard would refuse to even utter the name-- but not men like Voldemort; not men like Regulus, both of whom seek the restraints of their own power. Regulus wonders, sometimes, what it would take for him to truly pursue the Dark Lord’s same goals. Is it just a twinge in personality that keeps them separated? That keeps the Dark Lord a merciless perpetrator, and Regulus a docile follower?
That, too, scares him. He feels like a child, afraid of the dark, as he travels to the cave. As he slices his palm, offering his blood, he does not feel brave. He feels mind-numbingly, stagnantly scared.
Kreacher returning to him, quivering and muttering, had introduced Regulus to a rage he was unfamiliar with. Even once Sirius left, and when he turned from ignoring his younger brother in the halls to declaring his outright hatred, Regulus had not ever felt the fury he felt upon seeing Kreacher. The guilt, too, which may have been his main motivation-- it begun to eat away at him, and at the sluggishness that always had subdued him, revealing raw muscle and flesh; Regulus was ready to face whatever he could, with this rage and this guilt mingling inside of him.
The boat rocks precariously as he approaches the island. Regulus is half-sure it’s been enchanted to flip; to send him and his house elf tumbling into the murky depths below and trap him beneath the water. But it delivers him to shore safely, albeit damply, and returns to bob innocently by the shore.
“Up there, Master Black,” Kreacher says, voice still trembling. “The Dark Lord has made Kreacher drink the potion, Sir. Kreacher will drink it again, Sir, for you.”
“You’re too kind to me, Kreacher,” Regulus replies. “You always have been.”
“You’re a good boy, Master Black. Very, very good, very behaved. Kreacher thinks it has been an honour to serve you, Sir.”
Regulus has never been a brave person, or a very good one. Which is why he thinks about it, just for a moment-- Kreacher can escape, he can survive. He has before. Perhaps only house elves can survive the potion, and Regulus is doomed if he attempts to drink it?
But he cannot imagine putting Kreacher through that, especially not again. And, if this potion is his doom, is that so awful? He is young, but not innocent. He has committed atrocities worth several lifetimes, and, worse-- without a semblance of belief in what he was doing. Regulus is a coward above all else, and if this one brave act is his doom-- perhaps he deserves it.
The potion itself tastes like nothing. Just water, really. Regulus isn’t sure what he expected-- maybe he wanted it to burn, wanted it to be unbearable, so the threat could feel real. But it doesn’t. It feels like water, smooth and fluid.
Soon, he sees his mother. He sees Sirius, Evan, Barty, the Dark Lord; even James Potter makes an appearance, with his broomstick and taunting smile. Severus Snape leans down to hiss in Regulus’ ear, voice overlapping with that of his father’s, lilted thickly with an accent roughened by a countryside childhood, a childhood that Orion grasped and defended animalistically despite its fruitlessness.
“Your blood-traitor brother finally leave you, Reggie?” Severus sneers.
“Peux-tu sentir, mon fils, cette souffrance?” Orion asks, who couldn’t speak English towards the end.
A skeletal figure hovers over him, hand extended, sparse cloak melding with the darkness. “Your debt, mon fils. Will you ever repay it?”
Regulus has no words. He must be speaking, his throat hoarse; he feels his hands twisting in fabric; hears himself begging.
“Master Black must drink,” Kreacher insists. “Master Black has ordered Kreacher to make him drink. Please, Sir, not much is left.”
He finishes the potion. He feels the locket in his hands. He knows, he knows he has achieved something-- has done something good, for the first time in his life.
He sighs, chest aching, and turns to the side. His throat itches, his tongue dry, and the dreary water seems to call to him.
Regulus Black is an intelligent person.
He lifts a trembling hand, letting it grace over the water, barely disturbing it--
Regulus Black is an intelligent person, and always has been, but his death is entirely his fault.
The water ripples, and a pale hand, blearily white, shoots upwards, skin peeling and frayed and hideously frightening. Regulus stumbles backwards, crawling up the island, barely processing Kreacher’s distressed shouts.
“Home,” he heaves. “Home, Kreacher, Grimmauld--”
A blink, and Kreacher disappears. Regulus exhales sharply, breath blown from his lungs, and falls forward onto his hands.
“No,” he whines. “Kreacher, Kreacher, don’t-- you can’t--”
Kreacher reappears. Regulus gasps, clutching at the elf, at that old sagging fabric in which poor Kreacher is surely cold, eyes wide and pleading.
“Kreacher apparated, Sir, Kreacher is sorry, Kreacher does not know why Master Black did not come with him--”
Just like that, Regulus deflates. The fight blows from him with a swift, quiet rush. Kreacher cannot leave with Regulus. Kreacher should not be able to leave at all. Wizards cannot apparate from the cave, of course, so why would Regulus be able to?
He takes Kreacher’s hand, gently, and places the locket in his palm. “Kreacher,” he whispers, as if sharing a secret. “Take this. Take this, and destroy it, however you can. And --this is an order, Kreacher-- do not tell any of my family. Not a single Black, nor a cousin, no one can know about this. Now go back to Grimmauld Place, please, and get me-- get me a quill and some parchment. Just a small piece.”
Kreacher stares, eyes glazed.
“Now, Kreacher,” Regulus urges, and Kreacher disappears a moment later.
Regulus never does fare well alone. Though he has spent his years isolated, whether locked in his room, or forgotten or abandoned, loneliness has always been his most debilitating ailment. In his later years, after he left Hogwarts, he disengaged himself. He drew away from Evan and Barty, and even from Kreacher. He supposes he was used to it. Yet, loneliness never hurts any less.
The Inferni are growing closer, growling and snapping. The sound of tearing and ripping flesh as they crawl over one another grows louder and more frantic, as they fracture and disjoint themselves upon the rocks.
Kreacher returns, and Regulus scribbles a note. He needs Voldemort to know what he has done-- that it was Regulus that destroyed a part of him. Once he has folded it into a replica locket he had transfigured from a rock, he places it back inside the goblet, feeling distantly nauseous as the potion reappears.
“Do as I say,” he orders as he hands the locket back to Kreacher. “And believe me, please-- you’ve always been a good friend. Thank you.”
Kreacher, who would usually argue, just nods resolutely at Regulus’ words. “Kreacher has been honoured, Master Black. Kreacher thanks you, Master Black.”
And with a crack, Kreacher is gone.
Regulus knows he can fight. He is powerful, he knows of the Inferni’s weaknesses. Fire, he vaguely remembers, can keep them away. He could try, if he really wants to.
But he is tired. And he figures that this one act, although not a renewal, is still good. Still, despite all his acceptance, this stubborn need Regulus has to find peace , it hurts. The Inferni pull at his skin and bone with a desperate hunger, clawing at him as he struggles. Their fingers, sharp and unforgiving, bone on bone, drag him to the water, pulling him beneath the surface, and the light disappears instantly.
Now, all he can think about is that darkness. He can't even see the Inferni as they destroy him, as they take every last piece-- he can just feel them, surrounded by coldness and blackness and blood like he’s always deserved.
They don’t kill him, in the end. Water fills his lungs, and the pressure in his skull grows until it releases; almost painless. He’s not sure he deserves such a small mercy, but figures it’s a fitting death.
A moment of stillness passes.
The fight, the rage, the guilt float vividly in the water, pooling at the disturbed surface of the lake, streaking and twirling beautifully.
Then, Regulus awakes with a jolt, water clogging his throat, and finds himself drowning on the Hogwarts Express. He gasps, jerking forward, and throws up directly onto Barty Crouch Jr’s shoes.
“Reg!” Barty shrieks, drawing away, as Regulus fights for air.
It isn’t sick-up, really-- just water. Regulust keeps retching, the water burning in his lungs, feeling as if it’s leaking through a dozen tears carved through his chest by Inferni fingers.
Evan Rosier is by his side in an instant, arms around his shoulders. “Merlin, Reg, are you alright? Hungover already?”
Regulus claws at his chest, feeling for slashes and wounds, still heaving. He pats himself down, searching for marks from the Inferni. Is this the afterlife, then? A cramped compartment with his Death Eater friends, half dead and half mad?
“Is that blood--? What have you done, Reg?” Evan is asking, crowding his vision, face swimming in and out of focus.
Regulus draws in one, agonising breath, letting Evan take his hand and inspect it. The cut he had made, the sacrifice, is still there-- bleeding steadily, as if fresh.
“Merlin, Reg, what is wrong with you?” Barty demands, hastily changing his socks.
A thought dawns on Regulus. “The potion,” he chokes. “Is this the potion? Is this-- was it all fake? Am I still-- am I still there? I should be dead, Ev, the Inferni--”
“Reg,” Evan says, speaking softly. “Reg, what potion? Did you have something? Tell us what, we can get you to Pomfrey as soon as we arrive--”
“Pomfrey?” Regulus repeats, voice strained.
“Pomfrey, yeah,” Evan nods. “Your hand, Reg. And you’re sick. You were fine a second ago.”
Regulus shakes his head. “No. No, no, I’m dead, Evan. I’m dead, I died, I don’t-- what am I doing here?”
Evan looks panicked, his face flushed. “What do you mean? Did you upset your parents? They’re not going to kill you, Reg, they wouldn’t do that--”
“They did, though,” Regulus breathes. “That night they left me. I lost something, Evan. A part of me. And now Death’s gotten me back.”
“What’s he talking about?” Barty says, losing concentration from cleaning his shoes.
Evan presses a hand to Regulus’ forehead, who squirms away from the touch. “He’s got a fever, I think,” he replies. “It’s pretty bad, I don’t… do we need to get help, or something?”
“What, do we get Sirius?” Barty suggests, voice hesitant.
Regulus nearly throws up again at the name. The last he heard of his brother, he was trusted in Dumbledore’s ranks, a valued soldier. They met eyes, once, at the same battle that left Evan splayed lifelessly across the ground, killed for something he never really believed in.
“Merlin,” he moans. “I need to-- I can’t--” He shakes his head, struggling to find words, and instead shoots up and out of the compartment.
He half expects there to be nothing outside, or some fiery ring or bright light. Those ridiculous muggle concepts of Hell and eternal torture list in his mind for a moment. Instead, it’s just the train walkway-- the same one he had stalked each year on his way to and from school. He looks down, eyeing his robes, and notices that they’re his school ones-- green tie and all.
Regulus is on his way to Hogwarts.
He shuffles down the train, shoving past students and paying no mind. A few shout obscenities, others familiarities-- but it all blurs together into one jumble of unintelligible, nonsensical madness. The train feels as if it’s going forever, and perhaps it is if none of it is real. Regulus still hasn’t figured that out, and is quite intensely pondering the subject when he bumps into a familiar figure.
“Woah, Black,” James Potter laughs, holding his hands in mock surrender. “There’s no rush, mate.”
“Isn’t my brother ‘Black’?” Regulus snaps, mostly on instinct.
James shrugs, face twisting awkwardly. “Well, not really, I suppose. Not anymore.”
Regulus furrows his brow, confused, and--
Oh.
He studies James, eyeing his hair, his glasses, the twinkle in his eyes. This James is considerably different than the one he’d last seen-- than the Auror, the member of the Order, the powerful wizard that flung curses without hesitance. This James is younger, brighter, and wearing a Gryffindor uniform.
“Oh,” he says, aloud this time. “It’s 1976, isn’t it? First term.”
James cocks his head. “Of course, Reggie.” He smiles, but it fades the longer he looks at Regulus. “You alright?”
“Fine,” Regulus rasps, not making a great effort to make that statement appear true.
“James?” Another voice calls, and Regulus finds himself wishing for any form of torture other than this. “Did you find--” Sirius pauses, eyes widening at the sight of his brother. “You alright, Reggie?”
“Like you care?” Regulus scoffs, shoving past Potter.
Sirius grabs his shoulder before he can pass him as well, dropping his hand to grasp at his brother’s forearm, holding him back. “What-- is that blood?”
Regulus looks down, cringing at the state of his uniform. There are smudges of blood staining the white shirt, probably from when he had checked for scratches. He still can’t feel any-- just the sacrifice, which remains a dull stinging, distantly grasping at his attention.
He looks back up, meeting his brother’s eyes. He cannot remember much of what happened after his brother left, truthfully. He lost his teen years in a haze of mostly alcohol-induced forgetfulness. He’d tweaked a few potions, too, and let most of his days fade from his conscience, spent in focus of anything but his own reality. His parents didn’t seem to mind. They expected him to be leaving school after fifth year, anyway, to take the Mark.
That, unfortunately, he does remember.
“I’m fine,” he insists, moving to continue his walk. Maybe if he goes far enough, he’ll loop back around and find Evan and Barty. Maybe the train never ends.
Sirius lifts his brother’s hand, studying the cut. “How’d you do this, Reggie?”
Regulus blinks, staring at Sirius oddly. His memory is strained, sure, but he’s never remembered a fondness like this, especially not after Sirius left. Even before that, their relationship ended the second Regulus was sorted, the second Sirius decided he’d chosen his parents over his brother.
Sirius raises his wand, holding Regulus’ arm when he tries to pull back. “ Episkey .”
The cut remains unchanged. Regulus feels a sort of satisfaction as he watches his brother try again, and again, while blood pools and drips from his palm.
Finally, he tugs his hand back. “Leave it, Sirius.”
Sirius looks at him, eyes wide; almost pleading. “What happened, Reg? You can tell me.”
Regulus knows he isn’t just asking about the cut, or about the dazed look in his brother’s eyes. He’s asking about the summer. About his parents. About what happened after Sirius left him there to fend for himself.
What Regulus remembers of that summer writhes beneath a fog, obscured but not forgotten. Walburga had been cruel, which was not unusual, but Regulus was the forgotten child. The spare. Her passion had always been directed towards Sirius, and it was only her negligence that spared Regulus.
She was overtaken when Sirius left.
Regulus could no longer hide. His summers had always been spent in the kitchen, chatting with Kreacher, or in his father’s study, intently huddled over a book while Orion wrote at his desk. The night Sirius left, she came for him immediately-- she would not have another failure of a son, she had said. Regulus would take the Mark in the winter, and prove himself a valuable heir.
His summer was filled with lessons. Although Regulus preferred not to think of them, he admittedly valued the tricks he had learned. He hardly lost a duel after that.
Perhaps this --meeting his brother on a train, just months after he left-- is unfinished business. Perhaps Regulus is flitting through his greatest regrets, reliving them, having the chance to redo them.
If none of this is real, he figures, why should he bite his tongue?
“Truthfully,” he starts, composing himself. “You left me in that house, and you did not come back. I waited, you know. Mother burned your name from the tapestry, and I took over your duties as heir, while you played house with the Potters and with the brother you chose. We both made our choices, Sirius, but you’ve never taken responsibility for yours.”
Sirius, mouth agape, shakes his head. “Choices? Regulus, what--”
“I didn’t choose the person I became,” Regulus snaps. “I was eleven years old. The Sorting Hat is not a predecessor of fate, or of decency. It’s a stupid tradition, which you let unbecome us.”
He hears Sirius calling his name behind him, and then James’ voice as he tries to coax Sirius back into their compartment, but doesn't turn back to look. He keeps walking, walking, walking, passing and ignoring dozens of chattering students.
At the very end, he’s not sure what he’s expecting. But, somehow, the door to the driver’s carriage is not it.
The train has ended. He turns back, seeing the hall twist out of his line of sight. Should he go back, then? Is he supposed to just wander this train for the rest of his eternity?
Outside, greenery flashes by, hills and trees and rocks stretching forever over the horizon. It all looks real, as it passes. The train rumbling beneath his feet feels real, as well as the distant babbling and laughter of his peers, and the far-off scent of the sweets cart.
But people do not come back from the dead. Not even wizards-- not even Blacks. And, if someone could bring Regulus back, then who? His father is dead, his mother mad; his brother despises him, and his friends and cousins are either gone or insane. He’s betrayed the Dark Lord, who will surely notice the disturbance of his Horcrux. If Kreacher ever does destroy the locket, the Dark Lord will surely realise it was Regulus who found it, especially once he discovers the decoy.
No one would bring him back, even if they could. And his will, surely, did not have the strength to drag him back to his fifth year, before everything went awry. By the end, he had given up. He did not want to go back.
He considers, for a moment, if this is truly a chance. Some gift from the universe, and the possibility to rewrite his greatest regrets. To refuse the Dark Mark, and actually talk to Sirius, and finish school like he should have.
He can find the Horcrux, too, years earlier. Voldemort only added the potion days before Regulus found it. The locket could still be there, relatively unguarded, if he has any luck.
His throat tightens, heart thumping wildly in his chest. He feels as if something is clawing at him from the inside. What if this is a chance, and not just some delusion-- could he truly begin again? He has not had one semblance of a blessing in his entire life-- how could he believe he does now?
He stumbles backwards and turns on his heel, clumsily wandering back down the hallway. He has to go somewhere-- anywhere.
A skinny hand shoots out from a compartment, tugging him sharply to the side. Regulus nearly falls flat on his face, saved only by Barty’s quick grasp on his shoulder.
“Merlin’s beard!” Barty swears, swatting at Regulus’ arm. “We were looking for you forever! We thought Sirius had turned you into a toad!”
He casts a quick cleaning charm, tottering at the sight of Regulus’ robes like a worried mother. Barty gently pushes him into the seat, straightening his shirt as if fixing a doll. Regulus almost finds himself smiling, the old fondness he had for his friend reemerging from deep within his chest. This boy, kind and funny, will be forgotten in not so many years.
“Where’s Evan?” Regulus asks as Barty draws the curtains shut.
“Fretting,” Barty replies, shrugging. “Probably pulling his hair out. You know how he gets.”
Regulus nods absently as Barty sits down next to him, studying him with a clenched jaw.
“Feeling better?”
Regulus is not, but he hums in affirmation anyway, leaning against the window.
After a quick glance at the compartment door, Barty leans forward, reaching out to smooth Regulus’ dishevelled hair. He lets a few curls coil around his finger, brushing them out.
Regulus remembers that they never spoke of moments like this. It never went far, really. Just affection; quiet intimacy. But Regulus missed it, once he lost Barty to the Dark Lord. He had never felt tenderness like that before.
“I missed you,” he admits.
Barty freezes, then lets his hand trail down the side of Regulus’ face. “You can always visit me, you know. You don’t have to stay there. Or, we could both run away and live with Evan.”
Regulus nods, turning towards the window. The version of Barty before him could never predict what he would become. What they would all lose. This Barty is wide-eyed, rebellious, and desperate to appease whoever he can. In a few years, he’ll be nothing-- just a crazed soldier, eyes and mind rattled, driven over and over again to his limit.
Regulus knows, this time, that he has to protect him. He has to save him. If none of them had become Death Eaters, they would have been alright-- Barty would have been sane; Evan alive. Regulus wouldn’t be rotting in a black lake.
“I’m going to be different, Barty,” he says instead of answering. “I’m going to fix everything.”
Barty’s brow twitches, the hint of a question, but he doesn’t push. Instead, his thumb trails beneath Regulus’ eye, a light pressure, and he pulls him forwards to hook Regulus’ head beneath his chin. Regulus, who hasn’t felt the presence of another person like this besides the crazed malice of the inferni, freezes-- then lets himself melt despite his instincts, fingers curling into Barty’s robes. Before, he had been so determined to be cold, to be inhuman, that whatever he’d had with Barty died as they entered their fifth year. He was so afraid of what would happen if he succumbed to all his feelings, so he didn’t allow for any-- and Barty wilted, a little, and then drifted away, and Regulus never got him back.
It’s a while before Barty decides he feels guilty enough about Evan being all alone, worried out of his mind, and leaves to go find him. When they return, Regulus doesn’t speak a word of his summer, or of what had happened-- but he listens as they speak about theirs’, and tries to offer some semblance of a smile when they laugh.
If this truly is a chance to renew himself, to start afresh, Regulus is not going to waste it-- at the very least, he will save his friends.
*****
Hogwarts is almost exactly as he remembered it.
When Regulus looks back on his time in school, it appears in a dreamy haze, as if he’d imagined it all in a deep sleep. It felt like too much to be true, at times; every element of it, and all its magic, always felt otherworldly. Even to a pureblood wizard.
There is one difference, though-- something he had never noticed. Skeletal creatures are drawing the carts that always pulled themselves. Regulus eyes the one in front of him, curiously, watching its muscles and bones move beneath thin, leathery skin, its long face tilted towards the forest floor.
“A Thestral,” he whispers, resisting the urge to run his hand down the length of its bony spine.
“A what, Reg?” Barty asks, an arrogant whine lacing his voice-- he always acts like that around other students.
Evan’s brow twitches, eyes narrowing. “You can see them?”
Regulus nods distractedly.
“Merlin, what are you two going on about?” Barty gripes. “What are you staring at the ground for, Reg?”
“There’s a Thestral there, you toad,” Evan scoffs. “You can only see them when you’ve witnessed death. They pull the carts.”
Barty pales, shooting a nervous glance in the Thestrals’ direction. “That’s glum,” he mutters, scooting away.
Evan clicks his tongue and whacks him on the arm. “He’s never seen them before,” he hisses, raising his brow at Regulus. “Until now. ”
Barty’s eyes widen, and he nods slowly, mouth forming an oh . “Something happen, then, Regulus? Over the summer?”
He seems nervous to be asking. Regulus shrugs, because, honestly, too much had happened for them to know. He’s definitely witnessed death-- he’s caused it. He’s experienced it. He is closer to it than their fifteen-year-old selves can understand.
Regulus meets Evan’s eye. It isn’t long before he’ll die. He wonders if Evan knows, somewhere deep down, that he will never make it to eighteen. Maybe he expects a full life ahead of him, filled with regret and passion and pointless time. Regulus isn’t sure which is worse.
The castle looms before them, larger than life and ever-imposing. Regulus runs his hand along the Thestral’s neck as the students trickle out of the carts, keeping the creature in mind. It is evidence, at least, that his future has changed him-- and that, perhaps, he can change his future.