Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In a seaside cave that smells of death, a figure washes upon the rocky shore. Emerald waves lap at bloody ankles as grey eyes flutter open.

Weary and confused, seventeen-year-old Regulus Black realises the impossible.

He is, inexplicably, alive.

Regulus rolls over and tries to stand, but everything hurts so bad; the gesture is aborted and jerky. His throat is burning and his lungs are full of water and he still feels the ghosts of others’ prising fingers.

“Kreacher, return,” he begs, voice coming out as nothing more than a garbled whimper.

A pop, and his loyal elf returns. And the last thing Regulus sees before he very gracefully passes out is Kreacher’s shocked face.

Some indeterminable amount of time later, Regulus dips back into consciousness with a distinct feeling of warmth and blissful numbness. Slowly, he inches into a sitting position, shifting a woollen blanket with hand-embroidered stars such that it falls to his lap. He’s laying upon the leather settee in father’s office.

By habit, he looks down at his left arm. The damnable dark mark—the one he’d regretted getting near-instantly—is living up to its name, all dark red ink upon his pale skin, but the claw marks are certainly new.

With a shaking finger, Regulus traces the angry pink slashes and comes away with a cool gooey substance on his finger. A slight sniff reveals it to be dittany.

“Master should not be touching his wounds after Kreacher patched them up,” says a chiding voice.

Startled, Regulus drops his hand guiltily and looks around the room until his eyes meet the elf’s.

“Sorry, Kreacher,” Regulus says with no small degree of embarrassment. He worries the hem of the woollen blanket with idle hands, now covered in crisscrossing marks. “Thank you for this; I feel a lot better. Will the claw marks go away?”

Kreacher gives him a prideful kind of look. “Kreacher lives to serve the noble and most ancient House of Black, he does. The marks will scar, but Kreacher tried to relieve the pain and minimise appearances for good master."

“That’ll have to do, then.” Regulus nods. “And how long was I… in there?”

“It’s not been a day since we went to that cave,” Kreacher says.

(Assuming nothing has drastically changed in under twenty-four hours, this means mother is alive and well.)

“Alright,” Regulus says thoughtfully. Time to plot. “Then I’ll first need you to retrieve my wand from my bedside. Mother will simply have to bury an empty coffin; I’ll be needing it more than her.” He pauses. “Of course, it’s vital everyone thinks I’m dead, so you may have to tamper with the Tapestry. Oh! And could you also fetch a discreet breakfast? And do all this without arousing mother’s suspicions or sharing anything with her?”

Kreacher readily nods at the orders. They will surely be much easier for the elf to carry out than the ones that Regulus had thought were his last.

After Kreacher disapparates to carry out the tasks, Regulus slumps against the arm of the settee and worries over the future, a foreign luxury he’d not the ability to for the past few years. He’s free to decide for himself now (well, aside from the binding magic of the dark mark, but perhaps he could figure that out with his abundance of free time). Of course, the fact that he hasn’t sat his N.E.W.T.s—and obviously won’t be able to anytime soon—severely limits his options.

Regardless, seeing as surviving was decidedly not his intention (no matter what his letter may have implied), he’d better think up a plan of action—and quickly.

While he’s still thinking, Kreacher returns, balancing a meagre breakfast, Regulus’s wand, and good news. “The tapestry has declared master Regulus dead, so Kreacher did not tamper with it. This is all the breakfast Kreacher could sneak without alerting mistress.”

“Brill, Kreacher,” Regulus says with a genuine smile, tucking his wand into a pocket of his tattered robes. He collects the breakfast from the elf and places it on the side table before turning back to Kreacher. “Thank you so much. Now return to her before mother gets suspicious. Remember my orders not to speak a word of any of this to any of the family.”

Kreacher bows and disapparates. And Regulus takes a bite of slightly burnt toast and thinks about his options.

For one, there’s always France. It would be difficult, but not impossible to escape to the Continent and hang around at one of the Black family properties. And Regulus, of course, speaks fluent French. However, on top of it being risky to go international during wartime, Black family properties are warded exceptionally well against everyone but family. Ergo, he would risk one of his more… unsavoury family members coming across the hiding spot, an encounter he’d no chance at surviving.

He could also hide around Grimmauld Place and wait until mother dies before assuming regular occupancy. In his paranoia, father set up wards that keep everyone out but the immediate family, and Sirius would sooner eat his broom than step foot in Grimmauld once more. The only flaw in that is that mother is the most stubborn woman Regulus has ever met (which is certainly saying something), and, like a cockroach, the world will surely be consumed by the expanding Sun before Walburga Black allows herself to be taken by death.

Really, the only rational option is perhaps Regulus’s daftest (which is saying something given his near-death experience the night prior). But the hiding-in-plain-sight plan might just have to be it. He could slip easily into muggle London from Grimmauld. And it’s certainly the last place that a Death Eater would deign to enter, much less search for Regulus (if word even ever gets out he’s alive). While far from the most appealing idea, it’s the most easily achievable and the most out-of-character. Of course, he’ll need a clever disguise to pull this off… 

Regulus looks at father’s reading glasses beside him on the bedside table and nibbles at the toast thoughtfully.

…Well, if it worked for Clark Kent?

Under Kreacher’s expert care, Regulus slowly recovers. The inferi scars fade to a barely noticeable milky white. And, more importantly, after copious amounts of research, he even manages to use a clever little rune array and some blood to throttle the Protean charm of the dark mark. It’s not perfect, and he’ll probably be wearing long sleeves for a while yet, but it works.

Eventually having declared himself recovered enough to make his second escape from Grimmauld (and having said his goodbyes to Kreacher, of course), Regulus stands around in another one of the rooms that mother would never enter, Sirius’s bedroom. He figures that being the great muggle-lover he is, Sirius will have had some inkling of what muggles wear and he could… borrow some of his forgotten clothes to blend in. 

Unfortunately, Sirius left the room in quite a state. Regulus has to fish around through a variety of increasingly questionable objects to get to anything remotely useful. He kicks a Quaffle with a large bite taken out of it and decides he really doesn’t want to know what the backstory for any of this mess is. 

Eventually, though, Regulus throws together something that resembles what he’s seen Sirius lazing about Hogwarts wearing: a scruffy leather jacket and a tie-dye muggle band shirt. He’s definitely not about to lower himself to nick Sirius’s trousers, so Regulus puts on a pair of his own tartan chinos.

He tucks the overlarge muggle shirt into his trousers and throws the jacket over the ensemble. After ringing his eyes with some thoughtful eyeliner and pulling his hair back into a low bun, Regulus decides this is good enough.

For the final touch, he returns to father’s study and perches the old wire-rimmed reading glasses upon his nose. Fortunately, the prescription is very weak and has no real effect on his vision. 

And, once more, Regulus Black creeps sideways down the stairs in that nearly silent way he’d mastered long ago.

Barely sparing a backward glance to the old troll leg or the darkened halls, Regulus exits the gates of Grimmauld once more and disappears into muggle London.

Having never been forced into the degrading and plebeian position of seeking employment, Regulus is not familiar with the ritual of the ‘interview’ (muggle or magical).

Getting the interview is easy enough: blank pieces of parchment with very strong charms on them and a hearty disregard for the Statute can get one surprisingly far. But when it comes to the actual interviewing part, Regulus is completely baffled.

This bafflement is only compounded by the fact that he’s never actually interacted with a muggle before, and he’s still rather concerned that they’ll tie him down and steal his magic. 

“Well, Mr Black,” says his first interviewer, a middle-aged woman with greying brown hair in a blue cardigan, “It says here that you have graduated with a Master’s Degree in Library Science. And you’ve a very impressive record.”

Tapping his fingers against his knee, Regulus nods and pretends he’s done absolutely any of that. And that he’s not just watching the muggle shuffle around blank pieces of parchment.

“You do seem young, and I won’t pretend to be privy to the youth’s fashion. But I do believe it goes without saying that, if hired, you’ll be coming to work in more… professional attire.”

Regulus frowns minutely. What could possibly be wrong with his muggle outfit?

“Of course,” he reassures her. “I’m just borrowing my older brother’s clothes because I recently… lost all of mine in a… fire?”

“I see.” Her expression softens a bit. “Well, it was very kind of him to take you in, even if he couldn’t supply proper interview clothing.”

“Oh, no, he didn’t take me in,” Regulus corrects her, “I nicked them. The last time I saw him, he said in no uncertain terms that he’d blast me to smithereens if we ever met again.”

“Why do you want this job?” asks the fourth interviewer.

“I like books,” Regulus says exasperatedly. 

“And just how old are you, exactly?” 

Regulus curses his babyface. “Seventeen.”

A pause. “How could you have possibly earned all these qualifications by seventeen?”

“Er… I am a very advanced student?”

“These documents all seem to be in order,” the muggle says sceptically. Regulus is used to scepticism by now, seeing as this is his eleventh interview. “A few questions and we’ll consider you for the position. First, what is your experience with, and philosophy regarding, customer service?”

“Oh, I know a whole lot about service, trust me.” Regulus nods agreeably. “I served in a fantastical murder cult for about a year, balancing that with full-time enrolment. As for my personal philosophy?” Regulus pauses to think. “I say the more painless the better. My cousin Bellatrix is fond of torturing her victims before killing them, and don't even get me started on Barty’s fascination with turning people inside out. But I think the best way to serve the customer’s desires is to kill them as painlessly as possible.”

By the time his seventeenth interview comes around, Regulus is incredibly frazzled. Who knew it was so hard to land a job with no qualifications or experience whatsoever? Definitely not him.

And that’s why, as he’s being led into the break room for an interview, Regulus apologetically flicks a Confundus charm at the wizened old muggle woman.

“Dear me,” the would-be-interviewer says faintly, touching her forehead with the back of a varicose hand. She turns to Regulus in a daze. “What are we doing back here? What’s happening?”

“We were just wrapping up our interview,” Regulus offers. “You were very impressed with my qualifications and offered me the position on the spot.”

“Oh, of course.” She nods a bit stupidly.

“And, um, you were so impressed that you hired me at double the advertised rate?”

“Yes, of course,” the muggle says absently. “That sounds about right… Thank you…?” She pauses for his name.

“Regulus Black.”

“Welcome, then, Mr Black, to the Little Whinging Library.”

“Thank you.” Regulus shakes her outstretched hand. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it here.”

Chapter Text

Regulus starts the same morning he’s hired, going through the peculiar process of ‘orientation’. His boss, who he’s learnt is called Helen, first takes him on a tour of the library. She shows him around the adult’s section and the children’s section, explaining relevant library history and various architectural quirks along the way.

After showing him around, she pauses in front of the aquarium in the children’s section, looking completely out of place amongst the brightly coloured furniture. “Well,” she says, looking expectant, “there you have it! What do you think, love?”

“It is certainly a library,” he says diplomatically, wishing she’d step away from the fish tank so maintaining eye contact wouldn’t be quite so difficult.

“Indeed,” she says, looking suddenly awkward. She wrings her hands together before abruptly changing topic. “Shall we take lunch?”

Not exactly sensing a choice in the matter, Regulus follows her downstairs and to the break room.

It’s a white room that’s terribly clean, especially when compared to the grubby children’s section. He peers around the room as subtly as he can manage, unfamiliar with the odd muggle knick-knacks on the counter. Still, he tampers his curiosity and, dragging a hard chair across a threadbare carpet, takes a seat at a white table.

His boss, whose name he’s already forgotten, sits down opposite him, having retrieved a lunch pail from a big white box. “I wasn’t anticipating I’d fill the position today,” she admits, “so I’ve not prepared anything for you to eat. If you brought money, there’s a vending machine over there.”

She gestures at some peculiar box in the corner.

“Oh, it’s quite alright,” he assures her, scooting his chair subtly away so he’s not within arm’s reach, “I’ve no money and I’m used to not eating much.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, for her eyes narrow at once. “You’ll be having half of my sandwich and I’ll hear no protest.”

She takes an aluminium-wrapped sandwich from the pail and splits it into two roughly even portions. “Cheese and onion,” she explains, sliding half to him.

Regulus warily picks it up from the table and gives it a tentative sniff. It doesn’t smell off. Actually, it smells rather good. Still, he then checks for poison, because one can never be too sure. His boss looks at him oddly. Regulus is just glad that growing up with Trixie meant he very quickly mastered the art of nonverbally and wandlessly checking for poison in his food.

He takes a cautious bite. Then another. And before long, he’s polished off half the sandwich.

“This is delicious,” Regulus says. “Have you any pumpkin juice, for refreshment?”

“Pumpkin juice?” she repeats owlishly.

“Yes, the orange stuff? Made from, well, pumpkins?” He clarifies awkwardly.

“We have a coffee machine and a kettle.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, feeling a bit too awkward to even bother with trying to explain that he’s no idea what those are, or even what they look like.

A pause.

“Would you like tea?” she asks, seemingly taking pity on him.

“Yes, please.” He nods hurriedly.

Regulus watches his boss fill a metallic pot with tap water before setting it on a strange area of the counter with raised circular portions. She sits back down to resume her sandwich in the meantime, and Regulus continues eating too. However, he can’t keep his eyes off of the counter, where the circle is slowly turning red. And after a few minutes, the odd little pot on the odd now-red circle begins whistling. It’s a soft sound at first, but it soon grows to an uncomfortable and shrill noise.

“Shouldn’t you stop it? Is it hurting?” he asks. Presumably, the red circle is hot, and the pot is feeling it. If the muggles are leaving sentient metal pots on hot patches just to fix tea, they are leagues crueller than Regulus ever thought!

“The kettle, love?” His boss looks concerned now. She doesn’t seem very nasty, so maybe she just hadn’t thought about the pot feeling pain before. Silly muggles.

“It’s making little agonised noises,” Regulus points out. “Like when cousin Bellatrix gets ahold of a mu—blood trai—err—someone.”

“Are you having me on? I'm too old for this behaviour,” she says wearily, balling up the now-empty aluminium wrap.

“I wouldn’t joke about such a matter,” Regulus argues. At this point, he has half a mind to go and rescue the pot himself.

“It’s whistling because it’s getting hot. It’s not alive.” She blinks.

Regulus is still not convinced, and he’s about to debate further, but a strange rattling noise interrupts him. “Dearie me, kettle’s done,” his boss says, rising from her chair with her aluminium ball. She tosses the rubbish into the bin before turning back to the section of counter that the kettle is trapped and now shaking upon.

She reaches into the cabinets above the counter and retrieves a ceramic teapot (which is at least familiar to Regulus) and a box of teabags… Ugh, teabags.

His boss puts three teabags into the teapot and thankfully rescues the kettle, pouring the hot water into the ceramic pot.

She puts a cosy on the pot and sets an egg timer before busying herself with retrieving a container and placing it on the counter.

She sits back down and, after a few minutes, the egg timer makes a dinging noise.

With a sigh, she rises once more. “Shall I be mother?”

Regulus nods and watches her pour out the tea into two cups while he finishes off his portion of sandwich. “How do you take your tea?” she asks, opening the milk.

Kreacher always made Regulus’s tea, and all he really knows about his favourite cuppa is that it’s imported, expensive, and terribly sugary. 

“I’ll take it as you’re having it,” he decides, settling on the safest option. Who knows what strange condiments muggles add to their tea? Especially since they apparently don’t have pumpkin juice! Why, Lucius would have a fit if he were here.

She pours an identical cup and returns to the white table, placing the cup in front of Regulus. He takes a cautious sip and is disappointed. The tea is bland and much too bitter for his tastes.

Thankfully, his boss does not ask his opinion, and Regulus keeps his thoughts to himself, sadly sipping on the mediocre brew all the while.

“We’ll be having a staff meeting after this,” his boss says casually, once she’s finished with her cup.

“Should I have prepared in any way?” Regulus frets.

“Oh, no, nothing like that, dear. It’s an informal meeting, so you can meet your new colleagues. And vice versa, of course.”

“Alright,” Regulus says, taking a long sip from his teacup and wishing it were any good (or any more alcoholic, at the least).

A room full of muggles. He’s got this.

There is a knock at the break room door. “Come on in,” says his boss merrily, and a muggle man with closely cropped black hair steps inside.

On second thought, he’s not got this.

His boss stands from her chair and walks over to the man, turning back to look expectantly at Regulus. Reluctantly, Regulus rises from his chair and crosses the room.

“Regulus, this is Jim, who insists on arriving early to every meeting,” his boss explains.

“Punctuality is important,” the muggle man chidingly tells Regulus’s boss. He turns to Regulus and offers his hand. “Jim Burton.”

Regulus shakes the proffered hand, pretending he’s at one of mother’s dinner parties and not in a dinky muggle break room. “Black. Regulus Black.”

“A Bond fan, I see!” The muggle looks appreciative, and doesn’t notice Regulus taking the opportunity to discreetly wipe his palm off on Sirius’s jacket. “Have you seen Moonraker yet?”

Has Regulus stumbled upon some secret muggle code? Whatever could the man be referring to? Better to be safe than sorry, Regulus supposes, if this could out him.

“Of course,” Regulus says. “Obviously.” He adds, like a fool.

“Moore was brilliant, wasn’t he? The Bond girl wasn’t very fit, but it didn’t detract any from the plot, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, definitely. I absolutely know exactly what you mean,” Regulus bullshits. Luckily, the man doesn’t notice a thing, and he wanders off and pulls out a seat at the white table.

Before long, a few other muggles have filed in. Thankfully, there are only about six people, all chattering politely amongst themselves. Regulus is still standing by the door with his boss, but she soon walks over to the table, and he figures he ought to follow.

“Good afternoon, everyone!” she says cheerfully, clasping her hands together. “It is good to see everyone is well.”

The group make assorted murmuring noises of assent.

“Now, we have a new employee here! Regulus, why don’t you introduce yourself?” she gestures at Regulus, who is standing purposelessly to her right.

Oh no.

“Erm, hullo,” he says with a graceless wave. Why are they all staring at him so expectantly? Merlin. “I’m Regulus Black, and I was hired on as a Librarian this morning.”

“Oh, come on now, Regulus, don’t be shy,” his boss chuckles. “Do share a bit more.”

Regulus is fairly confident that the frequent topics of boastful Death Eater party conversation will not be appropriate here, to put it lightly. That, unfortunately, leaves him with scant else to say. “I like books,” he tries. “And cats.”

He is spared from divulging more as his boss mercifully gestures towards an empty chair. Regulus perches at the edge of the chair, ready to bolt for the door if anyone makes any sudden movements.

His boss then goes around the table and makes everyone introduce themselves. In turn, Regulus suspiciously glances at each one of them. None of them seem very dangerous, but mother always said that’s how muggles get you.

After everyone’s done with introductions, his boss takes control of the meeting once more. “Thank you everyone. I, of course, am Helen Cardiff, the Library Director.” She winks. “And now that introducing our new employee is out of the way, I have a couple of announcements…”

Regulus dutifully proceeds to ignore said announcements in favour of doing what he does best when bored: shuffling through his Occlumency shields and staring off into space.

The meeting is eventually adjourned, and the lot of them clear out. Regulus relaxes. He wouldn’t have had a good time meeting and being around that many magical folk at once, much less a bunch of strange muggles!

“Regulus?” comes a voice from his right, butchering his name horribly. Regulus nearly jumps from his chair. “Sorry for startling you.”

Regulus looks wearily up at the muggle who spoke, leaning away as casually as he dares. She is a kind-faced middle-aged brunette, but he can’t for the life of him remember what she’s called. “It’s Regulus,” he says, pronouncing his name slowly.

“Regulus?” she tries again, sounding apologetic.

“Regulus,” he corrects in a suffering tone. “How about you just… don’t refer to me.”

“I’ll call you Reg,” she decides, ignoring his last comment. “If you don’t remember, I’m Tracey and I manage the archives. As part of your orientation today, Helen's having me show you some important files.”

“Important files?” Regulus echoes, standing from his chair.

“You’ll see! Come along, now,” she says cheerfully, leading him from the break room and up from the ground floor to the first.

Once there, they walk to a closed door, and she begins trying keys off of a key ring. After the first three failed keys, Regulus thinks about sending an Alohamora at the damn door and ending her misery. However, her general air of exuberance gives him pause. Must be a strange muggle thing, enjoying the monotonous struggle of such mundanities as trying keys.

Eventually, after what must have been half a dozen keys, she manages to unlock the door at last.

“Here we are,” she announces, opening the door. She flicks some switch out of Regulus’s line of vision, and the dark room becomes illuminated. He sees no sconces lining the walls, nor any gas lamps, but when he looks up, there are odd panels of light on the ceiling providing light. 

Huh.

Regulus resists the urge to rush over to the switch and examine it, instead turning to listen to his colleague, who stands by a side filer looking completely unbothered by the occurrence.

“This here holds our files on library policy,” she says, giving the filer an appreciative pat. “You’ll want to peruse these and familiarise yourself with our rules. I believe Helen explained some of them during your tour earlier, but I always find that re-reading information helps it stick.”

“I’m quite inclined to agree,” he confesses.

She smiles at him and reaches into the top drawer. Though it’s crammed full of papers, she’s able to quickly locate the one she’s looking for. “Alright, Reg, first we have information on scheduling, taking breaks, clocking out, all that,” she explains, turning and dumping two folders into his hands.

She slams the drawer and bends over to open the bottom drawer. “General library policy,” she says, reaching up to place a large binder crammed with papers on top of the folders, “Rules, customer interactions, the works.”

“A guide to using the Plessey book issue system for new arrivals,” she holds a small paperback over her shoulder and continues leafing through the files. She holds out another book, “And a guide to our new microcomputer system.”

“Finally, our new employee manual,” she says, tossing a small book over her shoulder without looking. Regulus awkwardly bends at the knee to catch the book on top of his small stack of materials.

His colleague closes the cabinet and turns to face him. “Will this hold over our newest book liker?”

“Perhaps for a time,” Regulus says, shifting his grip on the papers.

“I’ll take it,” she replies with a smile. “Let’s get out of this cold room, and I’ll show you how to work the reception desk.”

They step out of the room, and she locks the door behind him. “Interacting with the public is an important part of your job,” she explains as the pair walk to the desk. “For this next part of orientation, I’ll act out the role of library patron while you sit behind the desk and try to assist me.”

Regulus nods. The task sounds straightforward enough.

“Well, go on then,” she says, gesturing at the reception desk.

Regulus sets the reading materials down on the end of the desk, a bit aways from the two of them. He walks around to the other side of the desk and inspects the chair. It doesn’t seem very sturdy, as, for some reason, the muggles put it on wheels. But his colleague is giving him such an expectant look that Regulus gingerly pulls out the chair and sits down.

To test the functionality, he experimentally kicks at the ground with his heel. The chair goes backwards, and Regulus suppresses a rather undignified squeak. Judging by his colleague's raised eyebrow and look of amusement, he does not suppress it well enough.

Abashedly, he pushes back forward and comes to a stop behind the desk. It’s a scuffed old thing that’s clearly seen better days, much different from father’s mahogany desk. Sitting on the desk are various objects, from muggle writing utensils to bookmarks. But what most catches Regulus’s eye is the white box. It’s a peculiar thing, with a big black display and a series of lettered buttons attached to it.

“We recently upgraded to computers. Jim works with the mainframe computer, and we’ve outfitted all of the desks with microcomputers,” his colleague says, noticing his lingering glance. “We’ve been working on digitising our card catalogue and setting up a better system for book borrowing.”

“How fascinating,” Regulus says.

“Isn’t it?” His colleague smiles. A pause, wherein Regulus begins to test how far back he can lean in the chair. “I almost forgot what we were here for, silly me,” she chuckles. “Ready to start?”

Regulus leans a bit more. “Yes, let’s do it.”

“Alright,” she says, shaking out her hands as if she’s preparing for some great task. “I’m going to ask some quick questions in order to assess your starting point. Then I’ll help train you on how to deal with these common questions.”

Regulus nods and inches back in the chair.

“I need a new library card,” she says simply.

“Sorry?” he says, having no clue what a ‘library card’ is.

She doesn’t bother to elaborate, instead continuing with another question. “How do I check out a book?”

“Well, generally, you start by taking it off of the shelf,” Regulus tries. “Then you examine the cover and read off the dust flap.”

“Can my son feed the fish in the children’s section?”

“Absolutely n—” The word ‘not’ becomes a yelp of surprise as Regulus leans back just a bit more and the chair topples over, sending him crashing.

“I’m alright,” he calls up from the floor.

“Reg," his colleague says, "all I can say is that it looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me."

At the end of the day, he goes to the reception desk to clock out with his papers (including a book he’d snuck on muggle inventions) tucked precariously under one arm. His new boss is sitting behind the desk. 

“How was the rest of your first day?” she asks.

“It went well,” Regulus says. “Quite hot in this jacket, but I held up.”

She looks at him, and Regulus can sense the unanswered question. 

“It’s the only one I have. Since— Since the fire,” Regulus elaborates sheepishly, reusing the tale he’d spun.

The muggle nods before abruptly reaching into the drawers and fiddling with something out of Regulus’s line of vision.

She reemerges with an envelope and presses it into Regulus’s free hand. “Today’s wages,” she explains, at the politely puzzled expression on his face.

“But, I—”

“I’ll not be hearing any protests from you,” the muggle says, wagging her pinky finger. “Don’t get used to this, you’ll receive your wages monthly from now on.”

“Then thank you.” Regulus pockets the envelope.

“I’d better see you looking smart tomorrow,” she warns with a smile. “There is a lovely shop that does clothing, just up the road from here.”

“When shall I come in?”

“I’ve scheduled you for half nine,” she says, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

After loading up on clothing from the store that his boss recommended, Regulus steps out onto the pavement and promptly realises he has nowhere to stay for the night.

Maybe he should’ve given this plan more thought.

If he were any more amoral, Regulus might seriously consider popping into a B&B and using a Confoundus on the proprietor. Unfortunately, he already feels spectacularly guilty about everything that he’s done up to this point.

There is, however, a park opposite the store.

He truly cannot believe he’s doing this. He does not want to do this. Still, he crosses the road at the zebra crossing, sits on a wooden bench, and tries to get his life together.

Whilst rearranging his meagre belongings, a stray cat strides up to him. A touch startled, Regulus flings the Animagus reversal spell at it. The cat merely blinks at him in response. It’s a cute cat, with short black fur and white paws.

“Hullo,” he says cautiously. Regulus tucks the locket away at the bottom of his carrier bag and bends over to allow the cat to sniff his hand.

The cat flicks its tail.

“You’re a very pretty cat,” he informs it, sitting back up. “I had a kitten once.”

The cat tilts its head as if asking him what happened next.

“Well, he was a secret, you see? And we were quite close until Cousin Bellatrix found him hidden in my wardrobe and snapped his neck,” he says sheepishly.

The cat doesn’t react at all to that statement, obviously, because it’s a damn cat, and he is a lonely fool.

“Merlin,” Regulus despairs, burying his head in his hands and displacing his reading glasses. “What has my life come to? Of all the ruddy things, I blew all of my first pay packet on new clothes, and now I’m dossing down in a park and talking to a cat.”

The cat curls up on his shoes, purring loudly. “That’s hardly helping,” he complains, folding father’s old reading glasses and placing them into the carrier bag.

With a sigh, Regulus picks up the cat and places it (her?) on his lap. He feels around her neck for a collar or some other form of feline identification. There’s nothing there.

He frowns. If nobody else has done it yet, then he obviously must take it upon himself to name the cat. He doesn’t want to sound foolish when he tells the muggles at work about his new friend upon inevitably being forced into small talk. It’s definitely not because he’s getting attached to the animal nestled on his lap. “I’ll call you Lyra,” he decides.

It’s a good name. Lyra should appreciate that he’s giving her such a dignified name.

While Lyra sleeps, Regulus peruses the materials from the library. He skims through the library manuals, not exactly in the mood to read about more protocol right after his first day. But, the book he’d checked out on muggle inventions? Now that is interesting. Mother always told Regulus about how unrefined the muggles are. But it seems that, in lieu of magic, they’d turned to innovation and invention. Some of their inventions are even more refined than what their wizarding counterparts are (this whole ‘electricity’ business, for one). And, while their inventions are no substitute for having magic, it appears the muggles have coped in their own ways. It certainly gives him much to ruminate on.

He stops reading only when the moon hangs in the sky, and he can no longer make out the words on the pages.

“Goodnight, Lyra,” he sighs, bunching up Sirius’s jacket. With luck, it’ll provide some degree of pillow-adjacent comfort throughout the night.

Regulus disillusions himself and curls up on the park bench.

On his second day of work, Regulus walks in wearing the fledgling beginnings of his muggle wardrobe and with a cheap satchel containing all of his belongings thrown over his shoulder. Thankfully, he doesn’t look like he slept fitfully in a park, as a quick Scourgify worked wonders.

He walks up to the reception desk to clock in; his boss is sitting behind the counter. His boss looks him over in his smart cable knit jumper and tweed blazer, and gives an appreciative nod. “Isn’t that better?” she says.

“Much,” Regulus says, and it is. Although the ensemble is nearly as hot as Sirius’s leather jacket—especially on a stifling day like today—the outfit is much more ‘him’ and the long sleeves are necessary. His arms are in an utterly lamentable state, all blood runes, ruined Dark Mark, and inferi scars as they are.

“That’s good,” his boss says as Regulus swipes in. “To pass an announcement along, the Red Cross is hosting a blood drive here tomorrow, if you would like to donate blood.”

“No thanks, I don’t want anyone stealing my blood,” Regulus says nervously, backing away from the reception desk and hurrying off.

Seriously, what purpose do these ‘Red Cross’ people have with his blood, anyway? Muggles are so bizarre!

“I’ll kill you,” the grey-haired muggle woman threatens, pointing a spindly finger at Regulus.

“It is a twelve pound fine, madame.”

“Riff raff! The nerve of today’s youth!” The muggle accuses shrilly. “You’re not long for this planet, I promise you that!”

Regulus looks at her very flatly. A lifetime of dealing with Bellatrix, and one learns to handle terrifying women. The main lesson he’s picked up is to not make any sudden movements, as to prevent them from cottoning onto your fear… Not that he fears the muggle, of course.

The muggle verbally berates him for a few minutes longer, during which time Regulus shuffles through his Occlumency shields out of boredom and reflects. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been so worried about the job if he’d known it consisted largely of hanging around bookstacks and getting yelled at! Truly the skills Regulus had honed since childhood are coming quite in handy.

When the muggle finally stalks off, Regulus’s boss walks over and congratulates him on his handling of the situation. “Like a seasoned professional,” she says appreciatively, “Can’t believe you’ve no prior experience.”

“May I a pay rise, perchance?” Regulus tries.

“Not a chance, love,” his boss says, and walks off once more.

“Oh, Salazar,” Regulus hisses, waving his injured foot around in the air with much melodrama.

Spectacularly, he’d managed to drop a stack of hardcover books on his poor feet. His oxfords and his ego are both scuffed.

“What was that?” the brunette woman (Tracey? Stacey? No, definitely Tracey) asks, hurrying over.

“Nothing,” Regulus says in an entirely unconvincing manner.

The pair collect the books together in awkward silence. Tracey’s hand nearly brushes his, and he flinches once more.

“Come along, Lyra,” Regulus tells the cat. “I’ve purchased us a flat.”

(Indeed, after much scrimping and saving, Regulus managed to afford advance rent and a tenancy deposit for a muggle flat in town. It’s nothing special yet, but he thinks he’ll be able to spruce it up alright with certain enchantments.)

“Oh, come off it, Lyra,” Regulus says as the cat turns from him in clear disinterest. “This is very immature behaviour.”

After much coaxing, the cat comes with Regulus to his new flat.

(Libraries have always been a place of comfort for Regulus, something that thankfully didn’t change when making the transition from the magical to muggle world.)

(The Black library offered a good place to ignore the latest arguement between Sirius and mother, or to gen up on Horcruxes.)

(The Hogwarts library offered comfort for when Regulus felt lonely, or for when he was determined to avoid the latest mischief from Sirius and his merry band.)

(And the Little Whinging library offers refuge from the magical world, and helps him earn a living.)

“I need a new borrower’s card,” the man explains, sliding an application across the desk.

Regulus peers at it over his reading glasses. “This all appears to be in order. Have you proof of address?”

“No,” the man says, “I’m new in town.”

“Right,” Regulus says. He leans over and reaches into the desk drawers, retrieving a biro and a blank Little Whinging postcard.

He slides them across the desk to the man. “Address this to yourself,” he instructs.

The man seems confused but complies, scribbling an address. When he’s done, Regulus plucks the postcard from the table and inspects it. “Wow, would you look at that, now we have proof of address.”

“Is that allowed?” The man looks slightly uncomfortable.

“It’s not not allowed,” Regulus says, filling out a new library card with the man’s information. He hands it to him. “Enjoy the library.”

On a typical Tuesday morning, grey and dull, Regulus leaves his flat and walks to work. He always walks to work, having never really gotten the hang of the terrifying muggle contraption called the ‘automobile’.

But, seeing a mass of clearly wizarding figures in black cloaks in the middle of the road shatters his bubble of mugglish security. A million thoughts run through his head at once.

(Has he finally been discovered by the Death Eaters? Are they here to finish off the job?)

(Or, worse, are they plainclothes Aurors, here to chuck him in Azkaban for once being a Death Eater?)

Regulus carefully palms his wand. He doesn’t have many options. He can apparate away, but they’ll know where he lives if they’ve an iota of competence. He’ll only be delaying the inevitable confrontation. Hopefully he can bluff them. He grits his teeth and walks directly towards the lot of them.

As he approaches, one of the figures, a visibly intoxicated middle-aged wizard, beams brightly at him. “Och, Muggle boy,” he slurs cheerfully, “Hear the news?”

News? Regulus hasn’t heard a peep from the Wizarding World since his “death". Unfortunately for his breakfast entertainment, having the Prophet delivered to his flat poses a major security risk… Unless, of course, this is some odd way of throwing him off before arresting him. But who would send a pissed Scotsman after him?

Regulus keeps his wand in his hand, strategically out of the man’s sight. “What news?” he demands.

“Why, You Know Who! The big bastart has died! It’s time to go out and celebrate! We're free frae him!”

Regulus is left reeling. He’d not felt the disappearance of Voldemort through his Dark Mark, thankfully, as his bastardised rune array has held up quite well. But, Voldemort? Dead? Seeing as the man’s Horcrux is very much intact and under numerous nasty pieces of spellwork at Regulus's flat, he must be lying low for now.

“What did him in?” he asks the man in a low voice. “How was he… defeated?”

The man’s gaze flits deliberately to Regulus’s right hand, in which he holds his wand in a tight fist. “Och, a wizarding laddie.” (Regulus resents that. He is freshly twenty, thank you very much.) “‘Twas the Potters, their son Harry. A pure shan that James and Lily died, aye, but Harry survived and killt off You Know Who. Braw, isn't it?”

Before Regulus can say a word to that, the man turns back to his companion, a pretty black witch, and strikes up a conversation.

Regulus tucks his wand back up his sleeve and walks to work, as he’s clearly not going to get any more information from the man. It’s during times like this that he wishes he’d still a subscription to the Daily Prophet, and that his being dead to the wizarding world wasn’t quite so convenient.

Chapter Text

Regulus Black’s personal office is that of a scholar, in that it is an inordinate, lived-in disaster only he can navigate. Strewn about the room are various hardbacks that never made their way back to a shelf; pinned up on every bit of wall are scraps of paper with harried script.

At the sycamore desk pushed beneath the window upon the far wall, Regulus sits and glares at a silver locket. Held limply between gloved fingers, the emerald inlay twinkles menacingly in the morning sunlight trickling through sheer curtains.

Unfortunately for Regulus, the methods for disposing of such an unsavoury artefact have been lost. Rather, perhaps they’ve never been recorded, for who would attempt to turn back after going through the gruesome process of making one? Or, more likely, what sane person would willingly subject themselves to the continued presence of such an abomination, even if to destroy it? Though it really doesn’t matter how the information was lost. Either way, his prior research in the Black family library before he elegantly bowed out of the wizarding world nearly one decade ago turned up no such help in the matter.

So, when it comes to the matter of destruction, Regulus is, per usual, on his own, an utterly lamentable position that often leads to terrible decisions.

He blows a lock of hair from the centre of his forehead and carefully levels his wand with the locket.

“Rictusempra,” he tries, batting the silver tickling charm at the locket with his free hand.

Unsurprisingly, nothing happens… Although, it would be rather funny if the key to destroying a Horcrux would be found in the tickling curse of all the preposterous things.

Regulus glances at his watch, and, noting the time, decides to call it a morning. He drops the locket back into its box and slams the lid. Peeling off the leather glove, his left hand still feels… tainted; the muggle material offered slim protection. He wishes he’d some dragonhide gloves for proper protection, but Regulus is hardly keen on hopping over to Diagon Alley—war or no war—so he’ll suffer through it. Still, though, knowing this is the case does not dampen his desire to rush to the tap and scrub his hand with copious amounts of soap.

He balls up his left hand into a fist and holds it carefully above the desk as if allowing it to contact any foreign surface would contaminate the other. And, with his right, Regulus picks up a stubby pencil and carefully crosses out a loopy word on a list pinned upon the wall. 

The failures are stacking up, despite his many efforts, and Regulus is not sure for how much longer he’ll be able to come up with creative ideas.

Later that same day, whilst shelving books in the children’s section, Regulus spots a small boy with a shock of familiarly wayward black hair and firmly tells himself that he’s absolutely not going to get involved in this in any way.

That resolution lasts all of a second when, upon second glance, he notices the boy is wearing overlarge castoffs and appears remarkably skinny.

Regulus instead decides to keep an eye on him.

The boy sits in the children’s section of the library all day long, occasionally pulling books from the shelves or looking at the fish swimming in their tank. He sits alone all the while, Regulus not seeing hide nor hair of any adult or friend. 

The time comes when it’s half 5 in the afternoon, and the boy has still not left. The library is closing, so Regulus reluctantly approaches him.

“Harry?” Regulus says stupidly, the name falling from his mouth before he even has a chance to think it through.

The boy looks up at him with surprise and suspicion, which is entirely warranted given that Regulus just used his name, a name he shouldn’t know as a 'muggle' librarian and random stranger… And, of course, that’s assuming Regulus’s guess is right in the first place. Though, he has no reason to doubt the boy’s parentage. Up close, the boy is a near-replica of a younger James Potter, barring his eyes and his thin face (definitely Lily’s traits).

“Who are you?” Harry says, seemingly too flummoxed to bother with the niceties. “How do you know my name?”

“I’m Regulus.” Regulus gestures to his nametag. “And I knew your parents.”

“You were friends?” Harry looks so intrigued at the mere mention of Potter and Lily that it’s a touch concerning.

‘Friends’ is a very strong word.

“Something like that,” Regulus says dismissively, leaning upon a bookstack. “Look, lad, you’ve been here all day. We’re closing soon. Are your guardians coming to pick you up?”

“No. I should walk back.” Harry rises from his colourful seat with a worried expression, as if he’d lost track of time and dreads the consequences of a late return.

“I can’t in good conscience let you walk home alone,” Regulus says with a sigh. “I’m closing up, how about I walk you home?”

“Are you sure?” Harry protests weakly, and Regulus is certain the boy will give in. He’d benefit from a hearty amount of Black-family patented fear of strangers, but, seeing as Regulus is decidedly not going to attack him, he won’t yet chastise the boy for it. “I don’t want to be a bother, mister.”

“It’s no matter,” Regulus assures the boy. “Go wait by the front entrance, and don’t leave without me.”

Regulus busies himself closing up, working as quickly as he can (and using a bit of subtle wandwork to hurry the process along when nobody’s around). He clocks out at the reception desk, and he and Harry exit the library.

The pair walk Harry home together in silence. Harry occasionally sneaks glances up at Regulus, as if he can’t believe he’s real. 

“Something on your mind?” Regulus asks, readjusting the strap of his leather satchel.

A pause.

“How’d you know my parents?”

“We went to the same boarding school, if you know what I mean,” Regulus says with a wry smile and a wink.

Judging by the blank expression on Harry’s face, Regulus does not, in fact, think Harry knows what he means.

“Hogwarts?” he tries.

“Er— Never heard of it,” Harry says. “Sorry,” he adds quickly.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for.” Regulus scoffs. “I can’t believe those muggles you live with didn’t tell you anything about, well, anything.” (This is, of course, a guess, but Regulus figures a magical family would've at least told the boy about Hogwarts.)

“Muggles?”

“Non-magical folk like your relatives.”

“Magic isn’t real,” denies Harry automatically, as if repeating an oft-heard phrase.

“Yes it is,” Regulus says. “I’m magical, you’re magical… You’re a wizard, Harry.”

“I’m a what?” Harry gasps.

“A wizard, Harry,” Regulus repeats. “Have you ever made anything unusual happen? Any strange occurrences?”

“Well…” Harry hesitates. “There was this one time when I turned my teacher’s hair blue, but that doesn’t mean— Does it?”

“Yes, it does,” Regulus says gently. “Accidental magic is very common among children of your age.”

Harry looks owlishly at Regulus. 

“Look,” Regulus says, “how about I prove magic is real?”

The pair stop walking in the middle of the empty road. After a quick Homenum Revelio turns up nothing, Regulus raises his wand and casts the first spell that comes to mind.

“Expecto Patronum,” he intones. 

(And yes, maybe he does want to show off a bit, but it’s not like he’s been around any witches or wizards in nearly a decade.)

Harry looks at the silvery lion with amazement. He reaches out with a small hand, and the lion rubs its chin upon it. “Wow,” Harry says. He looks from the lion to Regulus. “And… I can do this too?”

“With enough practise.” Regulus watches the lion run in slow circles. “Your parents were dab hands with magic. I imagine you’ll be much the same.”

“When do I start?” Harry demands.

“Well,” Regulus says thoughtfully, “you’re not supposed to start until you go off to Hogwarts, that’s the wizarding school. Hogwarts takes first years after your eleventh birthday. But in pureb—families like mine, we all started well before eleven.”

“Will you teach me?” Harry asks, staring up at Regulus through taped-up glasses and with a determined set to his mouth.

“It’s complicated,” Regulus says slowly. “I’m supposed to be dead, and you’re not supposed to know any magic until you’re eleven.”

“Dead?”

“Like I said, complicated story.” Regulus waves his wand and dispels the Patronus. “I’ll think about it,” he offers. “Come back to the library tomorrow?”

“Oh, I’d come back either way,” Harry says casually as the pair begin to walk again. “It’s the perfect place to hide from Dudley. Dunno why I didn’t think of it sooner.”

“Who’s Dudley?”

“My cousin,” Harry explains. “He hates books.”

“Now that’s just a shame,” Regulus tuts.

Harry laughs, a shy and small sort of noise.

The pair walk until they eventually emerge into a neighbourhood. It is not homelike, what, with its sanitised, cookie-cutter houses and suspiciously neat gardens. The entire area is by far the most mundane, least magical place that Regulus has ever been. He’s almost impressed.

Harry sets off towards a house as nondescript as the rest of the lot, and Regulus makes to follow him, but the most queer of occurrences transpires.

He freezes in place, having bumped right into an exceptionally strong ward.

“Regulus?” Harry stops walking. “You alright?”

Regulus ignores the boy and pokes at the ward with his wand. It’s a warning ward against unintentional intruders. He reaches out a bit farther, and his wand bumps into a blood ward so strong that he can taste it. This one is much less kind, designed to crush the one unlucky enough to try to cross it.

“This is as far as I can go,” Regulus declares.

Harry looks at him quizzically.

“Right, I've made up my mind now. I'll teach you. First magic lesson starts now,” Regulus says, raising his left pointer finger. “Wards. Come back here.”

Harry returns to Regulus’s side, looking expectantly up at him. Regulus raises his wand again and pokes at the ward. This time, he pushes a bit of magic into it in order to colour it. A wash of yellow expands from the point in space where Regulus pokes the ward, tracing a dome shape that fades out into empty air after a few metres. 

“Did you see that?” (Harry nods.) “That was a ward. In essence, a ward uses magic to keep certain people out. I’d need to examine the rune array to determine precisely what type of ward this is. My guess is that it’s a blanket ward, though. This means it will keep out any witches or wizards, preventing them from stepping foot onto the property. I’d reckon Dumbledore set it up to protect you.”

Regulus deliberately omits the second blood ward. Harry really, really does not need to know about that quite yet. Or, at least, he supposes that’s the case. It’s the type of thing Bellatrix would’ve gleefully explained in great detail when Regulus was Harry’s age, so he supposes it mustn’t be appropriate…

Harry takes in the new information readily but hesitates before speaking once more. “What’s a rune array?”

“It’s a series of runes arranged in a very deliberate way in order to create a certain magical effect. Runes are most commonly used for wards by everyday witches and wizards, but there’s a lot more they can be used for,” Regulus explains, citing his third-year textbook near-verbatim. “I’d be happy to show you the runic alphabet when you visit the library tomorrow. It was always my favourite subject at Hogwarts.”

“I’d like that,” Harry says. “And who’s Dumb Door?”

“Dumbledore,” Regulus corrects. “He’s the headmaster of Hogwarts, the school I mentioned earlier. Like I said, I think he set up these wards. I’d imagine he’s also responsible for your… living arrangements.”

Harry scowls. “Can’t Dumbledore take the ward down? What if I want you to visit?”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Regulus says simply. The boy looks at him. “You shouldn’t take down protections against strangers. You don’t know who will hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me,” Harry insists with the forceful naïvity of a child. “You were my parents’ friend and you walked me home and told me about magic and let me ask questions.”

“I certainly won’t hurt you, that much is true,” he says gently. “But you don’t know who else is out there. Be careful, Harry Potter.”

Regulus looks at the boy a moment longer to ensure the message has set in before he disapparates with a nearly silent pop.

The next day, Harry returns to the library as promised, bounding up to the desk in the adult section with much excitement.

Regulus retrieves a notebook and a biro from the desk, and leads the boy to one of the oak tables. He sits opposite Harry.

“The study of Ancient Runes is a fascinating one,” begins Regulus, sketching out ansuz. “We’ll start at the beginning. According to Norse legend, these very runes came from the Well of Urd. The Norns, who control human fate, used these runes to carry said fate up Yggdrasil—the tree of life—to the nine worlds amidst its branches.”

Regulus pauses, carefully drawing the fourth line of the hagalaz. “As you can imagine, they’re quite important. So important, in fact, that the father of the Norse gods, Odin, impaled himself with his own spear in an attempt to understand their meaning.”

“Wait, the Norse gods are real?” Harry asks, looking rather as if one more shock might shut him down entirely.

Regulus blinks. “Uh— no.”

He probably should’ve started with that.

“They’re just stories. But the important thing to take away is that runes have inherent magical meaning. Even the muggles understood this, having witnessed Norse mages using runes. You see, these were the days when witches and wizards didn’t have to hide from muggles. The muggles tried to imitate the magic, carving runes into stones to try and establish communication with the dead.”

“Did it work?” Harry asks, looking a touch hopeful.

“No,” Regulus says, realising what Harry’s hinting at. “There is no known method—magical or otherwise—to communicate with the dead.” He hates putting it so bluntly, but it wouldn’t be wise to foster any false hope.

“Oh,” Harry says.

“Anyway,” Regulus says awkwardly, writing out the final line in algiz, “This is the standard runic alphabet. It’s known as Elder Futhark, not to be confused with Younger Futhark. Each of these runes has a unique name and magical meaning. Shall we go through them?”

Harry nods, and Regulus begins his explanation, starting with ansuz’s creative and thought-centric properties. He proceeds in much the same fashion, going through the rows he’s written out. Upon reaching sowilo, however, Harry interrupts. 

“Could you explain that one a bit more?” He asks. “Please?” he tacks on.

Regulus looks at Harry in a bit of confusion, but then he notices it. A thin scar on the boy’s forehead, shaped exactly like a lightning bolt symbol. Or, rather, like sowilo. Harry notices where Regulus’s eye has gone and tries flattening his fringe over the scar.

“Where’d you get that?” Regulus asks, though he has the sneaking suspicion he already knows. 

Sowilo, after all, is the wand movement for the killing curse.

“I got it in the car crash that killed my parents,” Harry explains. “But it looks just like that rune.”

“I don’t think I’m the right person to tell you this, as I don’t know all of the details,” Regulus says. “However, I can tell you for certain that your parents didn’t die in a car crash.”

“What happened?” Harry asks anxiously.

“They were murdered by a very bad wizard,” Regulus puts it plainly. “He tried to kill you too, but for some reason, you survived.”

“But— how?”

“That I don’t know,” Regulus says apologetically. “But I do know about sowilo. It’s a rune of guidance and honour. It symbolises the sun and the soul, and in an array, can be used for protection and life-giving.” And the fact that Harry has it upon his forehead after surviving what must have been the killing curse (Voldemort's favourite spell) is rather curious, indeed.

Harry says no more, and Regulus takes that as a sign to carry on with his explanation, which he does.

“Shall I demonstrate a basic runic array?” Regulus asks once he’s walked Harry through the alphabet.

Harry’s eyes widen, surely remembering the Patronus that Regulus showed him. The boy’s amazement at magic is to be expected, but still bizarre to witness for one who grew up surrounded by it. “Yes, please.” At least he remembers his manners.

“I must warn you this won’t be as visually impressive as what I showed you yesterday,” Regulus says carefully.

“That’s fine,” the boy replies hurriedly.

“Alright.” Regulus flips to the next page of the notebook and draws out three runes. “This is a simple array for general protection and good health. It’s one of the first ones that students learn in Ancient Runes.”

Regulus taps the letters from left to right. “Ansuz, laguz, uruz, or ‘alu’. I could explain more of the Arithmancy behind it, but I don’t think that will be necessary. All you should know is that the numerology is potent, making for a strong, but easy to remember, formula.”

Harry, indeed, does not look nearly as impressed by the runic array as he did the Patronus charm. But he does seem to understand the concepts, and Regulus will take what he can get. And while for now, he’s sticking to the basics, Regulus expects he’ll be able to ramp up the pace soon enough. From what he’s seen, Harry’s sharp enough, and he wasn’t lying when he told the boy that Potter and Lily were good. But the crux of the matter is Harry simply isn’t yet prepared for Hogwarts, and probably would never have been had he been stuck with his muggle relatives for company. Luckily for Harry, however, he has Regulus (however accidentally the arrangement may have started off). While he’s never sat his N.E.W.T.s or done any of that nonsense, Regulus does know a thing or two that he can pass on in order to help the boy survive. And survival must be the game, for he can’t imagine that Voldemort will lie low forever knowing that the boy who humiliated him will return to the magical world once more.

Hence, magical lessons.

All caught up in his thoughts like he is, Regulus doesn’t hear her approach from behind.

“Reg!” says a cheerful voice. “I was down in the Archives and— Who’s this?”

Regulus turns wide-eyed in his chair to see Tracey, who is peering down at the two of them with a look of polite perplexion. “Oh,” he starts, “Uh—“

“I’m Harry,” Harry interrupts.

“Right,” says Tracey, narrowing her eyes minutely, and Regulus becomes acutely aware of how bad this might look.

“Harry’s my—“ (Regulus pauses, having not thought this sentence through.)

“Nephew,” Harry supplies.

“Indeed,” Regulus says drily. “Harry’s my nephew. He’s just moved to the area, really, so I’m showing him around.”

Tracey tries to peer at the notebook, and Regulus hurriedly slams it shut before turning back to face her with a tight smile.

“How sweet,” Tracey says kindly, all suspicion abandoned. “Well, then! I’ll just leave you two to carry on.”

“Thank you, Tracey,” Regulus sighs, eyes following her to ensure she’s left before turning back to Harry. “Nephew? Really?”

He can see the vague resemblance, and certainly applauds Harry’s quick thinking, but Regulus can’t deny he’s flustered at the implication of his having a closer relation to James Potter than the standard pureblood relation.

“Better than Uncle Vernon. He yells a lot,” Harry says, seemingly unaware that that’s very much not normal…

At least, Regulus doesn’t think it’s normal, because it rather resembles something he’d say about his own family around that age. Not exactly a good sign.

The more that Regulus hears about his situation, the more he’s tempted to spirit Harry away from his relatives.

Alas, that is called kidnapping, and kidnapping is a very severe crime. If ever discovered to be alive, Regulus is facing an uphill battle with his last name and family reputation alone. So, however tempting they may be, he probably shouldn’t commit additional crimes.

Unfortunately.

Chapter Text

In his sitting room, Regulus absentmindedly strokes Lyra’s fur as he flips through a book. He worked late today, and he’s knackered. But, it’s relaxing enough to sit on the cream-coloured settee with a book, amber glow cast upon its pages by the candle he’s lit. He supposes that yes, he could use a muggle lightbulb, but muggle lightbulbs don’t smell like warm vanilla, now do they?

“This seems like rubbish,” he says, flipping a page of the book with one hand.

Lyra purrs, ever the conversationalist.

“I mean, ‘Friendly Farmer Drives Combine’? Whatever does that have to do with parenting?”

The cat rubs her head against his left hand.

“You’re right,” he says with a sigh, readjusting his hand to better pet his needy cat, “it’s probably a metaphor.”

Not a very useful one, as he knows nothing of farming, but a metaphor nonetheless… Alas! Why must all these parenting books deal in metaphors? All he wants is to learn how to approach Harry’s lessons. And, as no books exist on the topic of how to be a dodgy magical mentor, he’s been trying parenting books instead. But they’ve all been utterly useless! Regulus tosses the parenting book onto the side table.

Trial and error it is.

“For your next lesson, let’s cover Apparition,” Regulus says. “It’s the quickest and most common form of magical transportation for the skilled traveller.”

“What is it?” Harry looks intrigued enough.

The two of them are sitting in a secluded corner in the Non-Fiction shelves of the adult’s section. It's a rather slow day at the library, fortunately. Regulus leans against the nearest shelf, his left elbow jutting somewhat uncomfortably into a John Lennon biography. Harry is sat in a hunched position on the bottom rung of a ladder, arms hanging over his knees.

“You can think of it as a form of instantaneous travel,” Regulus says, gesturing lazily with his dangling left hand. “I exist here, right? But with Apparition, I can, in the blink of an eye, cease existence here and, down to the atom, re-materialise somewhere else, without any consideration of the in-between. In essence, I can be here one moment, and elsewhere in another. This can be achieved without any special materials, or without going to any special location, so it’s rather convenient.”

Harry looks somewhat like the minutiae of Regulus’s description have gone over his head. Perhaps Regulus should try to make his vocabulary more age-appropriate? It’s not like he’s been around children much, to be fair. And the parenting books weren’t much help on that front. Or, maybe Harry should read more… Yes, that’s it. Regulus makes a mental note to give him book recommendations.

“Like teleportation?” Harry says.

“I suppose.” Regulus inclines his head thoughtfully. Huh. That’s a much more elegant way to put it.

“Anyway,” Regulus rhythmically taps the bookshelf with his fingertips, creating a dull metallic noise. “Apparition’s regulated by the Ministry, much like the muggle government regulates driving licences. When students turn seventeen, they have the ability to take an Apparition programme and test for their licence.”

“You have to be seventeen to Apparate?” Harry asks. Clearly, he’s excited to try and— how did he put it again? Teleport? Yes, clearly Harry is excited to teleport for the first time.

“Not exactly.” Regulus pauses. Well, the parenting books did say that children learn well from example. “A practical demonstration, perhaps? To liven it up?”

Before Harry has a chance to react, Regulus grabs his hand and Apparates them behind the building with a small pop.

Regulus squints momentarily at the sudden change in lighting (it’s a bright summer day), but he’s certainly faring better than Harry, who has taken on an unnaturally green tinge.

Regulus carries on with his explanation, pacing back and forth with his pointer finger in the air. “You see, Harry, Apparation can be used to transport additional passengers, even if they happen to be underaged or without a licence. This is called Side-Along Apparition. It doesn’t require the magical power or consent of the Apparatee, so anyone could really take you anywhere using it. 

“Side-Along Apparition is a much more unpleasant experience than singular Apparition. I’ve heard it described as feeling much like one is being forced into sausage casing. I think I’d agree with that assessment, having been Side-Alonged a few times in my day.”

“Harry? Are you alright?” The boy has been uncharacteristically silent throughout his explanation. Regulus would expect him to have some matter of query by now. Regulus turns and looks at Harry, who is politely doubled over on the pavement. Harry promptly collapses onto the ground.

“Shite,” Regulus says, wide-eyed. Perhaps he overdid it?

“You’d think we don’t offer free bookmarks,” says one of Regulus’s colleagues in horror.

She straightens up, turning away from the book drop to face him.

Regulus incredulously stares at the slice of Billy Bear Ham dangling limply from her pinched fingers.

“Can you tell me about my parents?” Harry asks one day, cornering Regulus in an aisle. “You so owe me for that teleportation lesson.”

“Apparition,” Regulus idly corrects. “And that was a good lesson for you to learn. It’s important to stay on your guard at all times. Surely you’ll remember that from now on. Otherwise, I may be tempted to repeat that lesson.”

Harry affixes him with an unimpressed look. It rather resembles the one he’d see Lily give Severus at times… And isn’t that a scary thought!

“But, yes, absolutely,” Regulus says quickly. “I’ll tell you about them.”

Of course Harry would want to know more about his parents. Regulus supposes Harry’s nasty muggle relatives wouldn’t be inclined to speak much on the matter. Before speaking once more, Regulus gathers his thoughts. “Let’s see… You’ll be hearing this a lot, so I suppose I’ll be the first to say it. Your father, James, looked quite similar to yourself.”

“Really?” Harry says.

“Really.” Regulus nods. “Aside from your eyes. That’s all Lily.”

“My mum?”

How terrible that Harry doesn’t even know the name of his own mother. Regulus has half a mind to march up to his muggles’ front door and interrogate them on whatever they were thinking, keeping such a thing from him. Unluckily for him—and luckily for them—Dumbledore warded the whole place rather nicely.

“Yes,” he says at last. “She had your green eyes, but with auburn hair. She was studious and rather pretty, and I think about half of Hogwarts’ students fancied her at some point.” He chuckles at the memory of it. “My friend Sev especially.”

Oh, what fond times he had with Severus, witnessing him hopelessly pining after Lily! Certainly free entertainment, to be sure. That being said, Regulus does wonder whatever happened to his friend after the war ended… Hopefully he’s happy somewhere, off doing something he loves.

“I got to personally know your mother during patrols, mainly,” Regulus says thoughtfully. “She was Head Girl and I was Prefect.”

“What about my dad?” Harry asks, readily soaking up all the information Regulus is providing about his parents. Regulus suspects that, if they were in chairs right now, Harry’d be at the edge of his. As it is, however, Harry stands around excitedly (if such a thing is at all possible).

“While he was never Prefect, he was Head Boy in his seventh year. That’s because he was Quidditch Captain, which is a position roughly on par with Prefect that qualified him for that promotion. He was quite the Chaser.”

“What’s Quidditch? And a Chaser?”

Regulus’s eye twitches at the great tragedy of it all.

Regulus flips a page in the book and points at a diagram with a biro. “And that’s why muggles—“

“Uncle Reg?” Harry interjects.

“Merlin, no. If you must, call me Uncle Regulus,” Regulus corrects him, draping his arm across the back of his chair. “I utterly loathe ‘Reg’. You sound like Tracey.” Or Sirius.

And perhaps that was the wrong thing to say, for Harry’s face lights up with a positively devilish smile, his question seemingly forgotten.

“Alright, Uncle Reg,” Harry says, looking up at him with an overly innocent expression.

Regulus resists the urge to drop his head onto the book and perhaps melt into a puddle.

“Now, there are many electives offered at Hogwarts, but you needn’t concern yourself with choosing one until your third year,” Regulus says. “The standard electives are Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Divination, Care of Magical Creatures, and Muggle Studies,” Regulus counts them off on his fingers. “Besides that, Alchemy, Ancient Studies, and Advanced Arithmancy are available for sixth and seventh years.”

“What’d you take?” Harry asks.

“I took Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Divination,” Regulus explains. “I didn't ask her, but mother wouldn’t’ve let me take Muggle Studies,” (and too bad about that, for it likely would’ve been a great help in those early years). “And I didn’t have room in my schedule for Care of Magical Creatures.”

“Oh. Is Arithmancy like maths?” Harry tries, taking a stab at the first unknown name. Regulus mentally applauds his word association.

“Somewhat,” Regulus says. “It’s closer to Divination, really. Some maths, like Algebra, but mostly plenty of Numerology— that is, using numbers to predict the future.”

“And what’s Divination?” Harry queries.

“Divination?” Regulus says. “Terribly fascinating subject, in my opinion. It’s all about the different methods that we can use to predict the future. Why, if I only had my Tarot Cards so I could show you a proper reading!”

Regulus briefly laments the loss of his poor deck—the pretty one with the purple and green and gold leafing—which sits collecting dust back in Grimmauld. Maybe he’ll buy a set of muggle Tarot Cards to use instead?

“Anyway, enough of that. Shall I briefly run you through the subjects? We can start with Care of Magical Creatures, if you’d like? I know your father always liked that subject…”

“Sir,” Regulus says tiredly, “You’re drunk.”

It’s been a long week, so Regulus really can’t blame the man for being pissed, but he’d rather he not be pissed in the middle of the library’s children’s section.

“I’m not drunk,” the man denies wildly, a bold move for one positively reeking of alcohol. “Could a drunk man do this?”

He clambers unsteadily onto the colourful table, rising to his feet with his arms stuck out for balance. Triumphantly, he sticks up a double two-fingered salute and gives a celebratory whoop.

He then proceeds to fall over.

“Now the tricky thing about Runes is that they must be carved into some magical material,” Regulus declares. “Otherwise they shan’t work. It’s the only way to get any effect out of them.”

“Magical material?” Harry asks, swinging his legs at his chair.

“Specific rocks or the flesh of a magical being,” Regulus says. “Rocks are more common for their ease of access, but they should be from a magically ambient location, like Hogwarts, or from a speciality shop that enchants them. Flesh of a magical being can be that of a wizard, centaur, hippogriff, et cetera. As long as Runes can be carved into their skin—be they alive or freshly dead.”

“Can’t they just use magic paper or something?” Harry blanches.

“No such thing.” Regulus shakes his head. “Parchment is used commonly in the wizarding world, but it isn’t inherently magical. However, writing technically carves into the surface. So, if the caster wants to power runes written on parchment, they should shed a bit of blood over it and use their wand to activate it.”

“The more I hear, the more I’m not sure I like Runes,” Harry admits, looking simultaneously bored and disgusted. Weak stomach on this lad, indeed.

“I suppose Runes aren’t for everyone.” Regulus sighs. Especially not for ten-year-olds, apparently. Hopefully, Harry will develop an appreciation for the subject as he gets older. Regulus could use someone to talk to about it.

The two look at each other for an uncomfortably long amount of time, the lesson awkwardly cut off. Regulus clears his throat and folds his arms at the table. Clearly, he needs a more exciting subject for his next lesson. Lucky Harry, for Regulus has just the subject!

“So,” Regulus says with much merriment, clasping his hands in front of him. “Shall we cover the Unforgivables next?”

Chapter Text

“Uncle Reg,” calls a gleeful Harry, running into the aisle where Regulus is reshelving.

“I told you not to call me that.” Regulus rolls his eyes. “And no running in the library, you cheeky monkey.”

“But it’s important,” Harry whinges. “Look what came in the post!”

Regulus sets down the book and turns to give Harry his full attention. The boy is waving an envelope of thick parchment. “Oh! Brilliant, Harry,” Regulus says. “How’d you manage to sneak that out from under your relatives’ noses?”

“Well, I recognised it at once when retrieving the post, so I slid it under my cupboard door as I passed by on the way back to the kitchen,” Harry explains in one breath.

“Oh, how cunning of you,” Regulus teases.

Harry laughs. “Hey, stop it, jerk,” he says with no bite. “Shall we open this?”

“Absolutely,” Regulus says, peering over Harry’s shoulder. “You know, I’m honoured you chose to open the letter with me. It’s tradition to open it with your family.”

“You’re my family,” Harry replies at once. “Who else would I open it with? Uncle Vernon?”

Regulus just might cry. Sure, he’s pretty sure he hated James Potter, and, of course, he was ambivalent towards Lily Evans at best. But their son Harry is probably the most important person in his new muggle-ish life.

“Go on, then,” he says, dabbing inconspicuously at his eye with a sleeve.

Harry tears the seal and begins to read aloud. “‘Dear Mr Potter, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.’” Harry pauses to skim over the rest of the letter. “It talks about books next. Where and with who am I supposed to get books? Also I need to return owl to accept my spot. Don’t suppose you got an owl you’ve been hiding all these years?”

Regulus is almost impressed at the rapid-fire pace of Harry’s questioning.

“No luck on that secret owl, sorry,” Regulus says. “I don’t buy into introducing invasive species of owls. But you can rent one in Diagon. Normally they have a professor take you shopping, but it doesn’t seem they’ll be sending one for you since the letter came in the post. The assumption is that your parents or guardian would take you to Diagon Alley. Of course, I think it’s fair to say that neither of those are likely, though.”

“Would you take me, then?” Harry asks.

“I can’t just waltz into Diagon Alley with the surely-famous Harry Potter,” Regulus points out. “You’re famous, and I’m supposed to be dead.”

“What if we went under disguise?” Harry tries. “Please?”

“Oh,” Regulus says. A moment. “That might just work… Alright, next lesson: glamours. There are many different methods of magical disguise, but glamours are the quickest.”

Recognising when he’s about to hear a lecture, Harry patiently sits upon a stack of books as Regulus flicks up a Muggle-Repelling Charm. Regulus turns back to him.

“Watch this,” he instructs Harry. 

Regulus perches his reading glasses at the end of his nose and crouches down in front of Harry. He points his wand between his eyes and whispers an incantation.

“Whoa!” Harry says, watching Regulus’s eyes change colours, flipping through a rainbow of colours before settling on his natural grey upon cancellation of the spell.

Regulus pushes up his glasses once more.

“That was a glamour,” Regulus explains, straightening up. “The eye-colour change that I showed you is just one of many variations on the glamour. You can change virtually any physical feature if you know the right spell. Using glamours in combination, you can appear a different person entirely. Of course, there are downsides to using glamours. Can you think of some?”

“Well,” Harry thinks, “If someone thinks you’re using glamours, they could cast Finite Incantatem and get rid of them.”

“Very true, good job,” Regulus praises him. “Any others?”

Harry pauses. “Is it possible to see through glamours?”

“Is it?”

“I’d guess so, yes.”

“You’d be right, then.” Regulus nods, sitting on a bookstack opposite Harr. “Anyone can see through a glamour with the right artefact. We needn’t worry about that in Diagon Alley, though.”

“Why not?” Harry asks.

“Well, for one, these artefacts are exceptionally expensive, and few families can afford them. The ones that can afford them don’t usually bother to purchase them, because glamours are hardly a major problem. The ones who can afford and do use them are typically regarded as overly paranoid.” (Like father.)

“Makes sense,” Harry says thoughtfully. “What else, then?”

“Glamours only temporary, so they should be renewed—depending on their strength—every few hours or daily. And some parts of the body are harder to use a glamour on than others. Eye colour is exceptionally difficult; the eye is a fickle organ.”

“Would hair be the easiest to change?”

“Correct.” Regulus nods. “Are you ready to be glamoured up?”

“What, now?” Harry startles.

“Well, now’s as good a time as any.” Regulus stands.

“Aren’t you working right now?”

“Oh, they won’t notice me sneak off for a bit, I’ll make certain of it. And what could possibly be more important than getting you your supplies? We could even practise a bit of magic with your new wand before the Trace is applied.”

The idea of doing proper magic with a wand is enough to sway Harry from his vague concerns about Regulus’s continued employment. Harry stands excitedly.

“Alright, I’ll disguise you first,” Regulus says. “We needn’t do a lot for you, nobody will recognise you with just a couple of changes. Now hold still.”

Regulus waves his wand around Harry’s features, explaining what he’s doing as he does it. When he’s finished, he’s looking at a boy with dirty blond hair, ordinary brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles.

He conjures a mirror and holds it in front of Harry, who looks amazed, pulling at his new blond locks. “Wow!”

Regulus smiles. “You’re good to go. It’ll take a bit longer for me to mess with my features. My family was very… prolific.”

He leans closer in to the mirror he conjured and messes around with his features. Regulus shortens his nose, making it a bit more squashed. He hides his moles and scars with carefully placed freckles. He sharpens his cheekbones, giving him less of a baby-faced look. And, of course, he lightens the signature Black family hair to a dirty blond and turns his grey eyes brown. When he’s done, he’s left facing a stranger who looks enough like an older relative of Harry’s glamoured form that he won’t be questioned.

Regulus flicks his wand, dispelling the Muggle-Repelling Charm, and grabs Harry’s hand. The two of them Apparate into an alley a few minutes away from the library.

“Ugh, I hate it when you do that,” Harry complains.

“You’ve got to stay on your guard at all times!” Regulus chides, leading the pair from the alley and onto the pavement. “Ready to give our glamours a spin?”

Harry looks around.

“There’s nothing here,” Harry states the obvious.

“Not yet, there isn’t.” Regulus flicks his wand into his palm. “Next lesson! The Knight Bus.”

He holds out his wand.

The ensuing BANG startles them both. Regulus has never actually taken the Knight Bus before, for incredibly obvious reasons, and he’d not expected it to be quite so loud… Or so bright.

Blinking away the light, Regulus stares in mild horror at the triple-decker purple bus that has spun into existence in front of the pair of them.

Before either of them have the chance to speak, a conductor in a similarly purple uniform leaps from the bus and reads from a script.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this evening.”

Stan Shunpike, Regulus notices, is barely old enough to be doing this job, a spotty youth who looks fresh out of Hogwarts.

“Thank you, Stan,” Regulus says, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “We’ll need to get to London. Fare?”

“Eleven Sickles each, but if ‘choo be wanting ‘ot chocolate, it’s firteen. Fifteen for an ‘ot water bottle an’ a toofbrush in the colour of your choosing.”

“We'll be taking the simple fare,” Regulus says, rummaging around in his trouser pocket with his spare hand and pulling out a few Sickles. “Will this cover it?”

“Looks enouf.” Stan nods and moves aside.

Regulus and Harry board the Knight Bus and are led to a brass bedstead towards the middle of the bus. Regulus sits gingerly upon the edge of the bed, not entirely trusting it to not be infected with any matter of disease. Harry has no such qualms, leaning upon the bed appreciatively.

With another BANG, the Knight Bus is off, swerving in and out of traffic, scattering whatever unfortunate objects that happen to be in its path. Harry looks faintly green as the ride carries on, and Regulus can’t imagine he looks much better right now, clutching the brass bedpost like he is.

After making a few stops, each punctuated with a BANG, the conductor seems to remember Regulus and Harry’s existence. “Whereabouts in London?” Shunpike asks.

“Diagon Alley, please,” Regulus says faintly, still hugging the bedpost.

“‘Old on tight, then…”

With another BANG, the Knight Bus is ambling down Charing Cross Road. The bus skids to a stop in front of the Leaky Cauldron; the pair of them are unceremoniously dumped from the bus and onto the pavement. 

Regulus sits up with an undignified groan. “Well,” he says weakly. “What have we learnt from that lesson?”

“Always use the Floo Network if you can’t Apparate?” Harry replies faintly.

“I’m inclined to agree with you.”

Regulus stands, still seeing stars. “Right… Shall we head in, then?”

“This grubby old place?”

“Oh, come off it,” Regulus tuts. His snobbery must be rubbing off on Harry. “Don’t trust everything you see.” (A pause.) “But, yes, this grubby old place.”

The pair of them enter the Leaky Cauldron. It’s busy as usual, with all sorts of interesting people sitting around chattering on shabby barstools. Regulus steers Harry quickly through the bar. Neither of them are recognisable at the moment, so they make it to the back and through the door without incident.

In the barren courtyard, Regulus thrice taps the third brick from the left with his wand. The archway into Diagon Alley opens, revealing a long cobbled street packed with all sorts of magical stores.

“Welcome,” says Regulus, arms outstretched, “to Diagon Alley!”

Regulus smiles smugly at Harry’s look of amazement, a look he’ll probably never tire of seeing. The pair set off down the street, Harry’s head pivoting and gaze flitting from exciting sight to exciting sight.

“We’ll be needing to retrieve your money first,” Regulus explains, steering Harry down the street lest he loses him to a new broomstick display or some other brightly coloured trap.

Before long, the two of them reach Gringotts. The snowy white building is exactly as Regulus remembers: familiar in appearance and imposing in size.

They walk through both sets of doors and into a vast marble hall. Regulus makes for the nearest counter in the nearest corner, a bit aways from the next closest human patron.

“All right?” Regulus greets the cashier. Then, in a low voice, “We’ll need to be making a withdrawal from Mr Harry Potter’s vault, please.”

The goblin looks up at him disinterestedly. Perfect. Regulus always appreciated goblins’ absolute apathy when it comes to human matters. “You have his key, sir?”

“No, we’ll be needing a new copy.” He thinks about it for a moment. “And it’ll be best to change out the key to ensure others can’t access his vault.”

“We’ll need confirmation of identity. That, along with the new key will incur additional fees.”

“Of course.” Regulus nods, not expecting anything different.

“Very well. I will have someone take you down to the vault. The new key will be made after the vault is opened.” The cashier goblin turns and calls for another goblin, Griphook.

Griphook takes Regulus and Harry towards one of the doors that leads off the hall. He opens the door and allows the pair to step into the narrow stone passageway first. The goblin whistles. A small minecart hurtles up the tracks and comes to a stop in front of them. They climb in, and they’re off.

“How will the vault be opened without a key?” Harry asks Griphook as the cart rattles down a maze of left and right turns.

“With your blood, of course,” Griphook says, turning to face the boy with a nasty grin.

“Oh,” Harry says faintly.

“It’ll be okay,” Regulus says. “Just a little finger prick, really.”

Harry nods but doesn’t look much reassured. The cart continues to descend until, at last, it stops before a small door in the wall. The three of them clamber out.

“Your hand, Mr Potter,” instructs Griphook, gesturing towards the door.

Harry holds out his hand and carefully touches the door. The door pierces his palm. “Ouch,” he hisses, reflexively retracting his wounded hand.

“You know,” Regulus says, “In my childhood home, we had very similar security measures on our front door.”

“Really?” Harry sucks on his injured palm.

“Really.” Regulus nods. “Mother would never do this though.”

Regulus gently grabs Harry’s hand and waves his wand over it; the injury knits itself up at once. 

“Thank you,” Harry says, examining his newly-healed hand.

“Don’t mention it,” Regulus replies. “Now, let’s have a look at the famed Potter fortune, shall we?”

Whilst the wizards were talking, Griphook had busied himself with the matter of opening the door. By the time Regulus heals Harry’s hand and the pair look up, the door is sliding open with a hiss and a rather dramatic quantity of smoke.

And, if he were to be completely honest, Regulus had expected more. However, Harry’s expression is one of such amazement that he’s hardly wont to burst his bubble.

“Remember our lessons on wizard money?” Regulus nudges the boy.

“Of course.” Harry rolls his eyes, loading coins into a velvet bag. “The gold ones are Galleons, seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon, and twenty-nine bronze Knuts to a Sickle.”

“Correct.” Regulus nods.

Harry busies himself gathering handfuls of coins. Once the bag is appreciatively full, the lot of them head back up to the surface.

Once they step off the cart, Griphook leads them back to the goblin that Regulus had initially spoken to. The pair have a small but rapid exchange in Gobbledegook before the cashier goblin turns to Regulus. “We will be mailing the new key out to Mr Harry James Potter. The old copies of the key will cease working immediately.”

“Thank you,” Regulus says. He leads Harry from Gringotts and into the sunlight outside. “Now, let’s rent an owl before we forget to accept your spot.”

Harry nods, and the pair set off down the street. Regulus steers Harry into the owl rental business. Regulus has never been the biggest fan of owl post, quite preferring to have Kreacher hand-deliver his correspondence. Much better for the ecosystem and his sanity. Still, though, this is all for Harry’s sake, so Regulus scrunches up his nose and deals with the smell and mess.

He walks to the front counter, keeping a careful eye on the ground as to not step upon owl droppings.

The owner, a bald old man, smiles when Regulus approaches, revealing what seems to be twice the usual amount of teeth. “Welcome, welcome.” He steeples his fingers. “You be renting an owl? Preferences?”

“Yes, we’ll need to be sending off a letter,” Regulus confirms. “Any variety will do. We’ll be purchasing parchment and borrowing a self-inking quill as well, please.”

The man nods and bends behind the counter, rustling about until he retrieves a fresh sheet of parchment and a quill. He slides them across the counter and directs the pair of them to a desk surrounded on three sides by flimsy walls.

An owl is perched upon the end of the desk. It stares at Harry with beady eyes as he pens his letter to Hogwarts.

Once the letter is deemed acceptable by Regulus, he rolls it into a tight scroll and helps Harry tie it to the bird’s leg.

“To Hogwarts,” Regulus tells the bird. It tilts its head at him, hoots, and flies off through the large window towards the back of the store.

On their way out, Regulus pays the shopkeeper a few Sickles for the rental. 

“Let’s get your uniform next,” he tells Harry as the pair set off down the street once more. “We’ll be going to Madam Malkin’s. She’s a dab hand at school uniforms; most of the families get their clothes from her.”

“Most?” Harry asks.

“Well, some families, like mine, prefer to go to… shall we say fancier establishments. But, that’s really much too frivolous an expense, so don’t worry about it.”

The two of them enter Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, the bell above the door ringing to announce their entry. After greeting Madam Malkin, and before Regulus can even speak, she leads Harry to the back to be fitted.

Regulus patiently sits on a stool near the front door, scooping up a magazine from a table to read whilst he waits.

At some point during his wait, the bell chimes again, and a witch walks in, balancing a stack of boxed wands.

Regulus stares. It’s his favourite cousin, Narcissa. She’s over a decade older, of course, in her mid-thirties by now, but she looks much the same as he remembers, with her long blonde hair and perfect posture. She turns to face him, probably noticing he’s been staring.

“Can I help you?” Narcissa says in a haughty tone, looking down her nose at him as if he’s a particularly disgusting bug. He’d never had that look aimed at him before, and Regulus must admit that it’s entirely effective.

Regulus flushes and looks away, muttering some nonsense apology. He can’t exactly explain that he’s not staring in a creepy, ‘I find you attractive’ way, but in a ‘you’re my favourite older-cousin and I rather miss you after faking my untimely death’ way… Yeah, he can see that going over well.

Narcissa sniffs, clearly not deeming him worth her time, and she turns back, seemingly waiting for someone.

Regulus glumly returns to the magazine he’s been flipping through, the latest edition of Transfiguration Monthly.

He looks up from the magazine once more when a pale boy emerges from the back of the shop. He’s not Harry in glamour, though, for his hair is the same shiny blond colour as Lucius Malfoy’s and his eyes a watery blue. Narcissa greets him with a one-armed hug, and the kid turns pink in embarrassment. 

With a start, Regulus realises who he’s looking at. Cissa’s kid, the one with whom she’d been pregnant before Regulus’s ‘death’. The child that was supposed to be his godson.

Regulus averts his gaze and stares back at the magazine, lest Narcissa hex him this time, but the words are swimming on the page. Once he’s watched the pair of them leave from the corner of his eye, Regulus sighs a sigh of relief.

Thankfully, Harry soon returns from the back as well. After paying for the robes, the two of them decide to purchase books next.

On the way, and with some made-up excuse, Regulus naturally interrogates him about what he thought of the other child he met at Madam Malkin’s. Harry explains how he’d used the knowledge that Regulus imparted about Quidditch and Hogwarts in order to get by in the conversation, but that he thought the kid was rather full of himself. And of course he is. Regulus would expect nothing different from Lucius Malfoy’s eldest child.

The two of them arrive at Flourish and Blotts, and Regulus smiles when he enters the shop. The bookstore was always Regulus’s favourite stop in Diagon Alley growing up, and he’s glad to see that Harry is much the same way. The pair spend hours looking at all the books, and Harry is excited the whole while… Although, seeing as Harry spends most of his summers hanging around in a library, how couldn’t he turn out like this?

The list of books that Harry tries to buy grows concerningly long, so Regulus limits Harry to three books in addition to his school books. Of course, he only picks out his three titles after an hour of deliberation. After he helps Harry pay for a book curses and counter-curses, an illustrated encyclopedia of magical creatures, and a copy of Hogwarts: A History, the two of them cross the street to the Apothecary.

Harry seems to be endlessly fascinated by this place as well, flitting from jars to barrels of potions ingredients with glee. As for Regulus, he is just glad that no potions are being brewed out in the front of the store. He’s not seen a potion since that night, and he’s not exactly keen to get on doing that anytime soon.

Regulus purchases Harry the basic package of potions ingredients and turns back to notice the boy eyeing a gold cauldron.

“Can I buy this one?”

“Why in the world would you need a solid gold cauldron?” Regulus raises a very sensible question.

“I like gold?” Harry tries.

Regulus sighs in a long-suffering way. “Potions were never my strong suit, but I have been on the receiving end of one of Sev’s long rants about cauldron type and quality… Your potions professor will have a fit. And not to mention your peers will think you’ve a massive ego if you show up with a gold cauldron. You should just get the standard pewter variety.”

Harry, being very well acquainted with Regulus’s stories about Severus, and certainly not wanting to be seen as having a big ego, takes the statement at face value and immediately ceases his pursuit of the gold cauldron. Though Harry does send it a lingering, apologetic glance as they pick out a pewter one.

After sorting out the potions ingredients and cauldron, Regulus and Harry purchase a nice set of scales, a collapsible brass telescope, and a trunk to hold their purchases.

Regulus floats the trunk behind them as they walk together. “One final item on your list,” Regulus says, peering over the Hogwarts supplies list. Neat little ticks made with the owl rental shop’s self-inking quill sit beside each item on the list but one… 

“My wand!” Harry says excitedly.

“Saved the best for last, of course,” Regulus says, pausing in front of a squat building. “And here we are! Ollivanders.”

Regulus points out the peeling gold lettering over the door, which spells out the shop name.

“Listen, Harry,” Regulus says very seriously. “Ollivander gives me the creeps.” (Harry sniggers.) “Oi! Don’t laugh at me before you meet the bloke.

“But all this to say, you’ll need to go in alone to get your wand. You’ll be just fine, but Ollivander is exceptionally perceptive and I don’t trust him to not suss me out immediately.”

Harry nods, understanding how important Regulus’s cover is to him, and with one backwards glance enters Ollivanders.

While he waits, Regulus studies his watch, a Black family heirloom and the present he received upon his seventeenth birthday. He tuts at the time; it’s getting quite late.

And, soon enough, Harry getting his wand is taking so long that Regulus has half a mind to march into the shop and see if he’s gotten lost in the stacks of wands or something equally daunting. He nearly rushes in, Ollivander be damned, but is thwarted once the bell rings, and from Ollivanders Harry emerges.

“Well?” Regulus says expectantly.

“Yeah, he knew who I was at once,” Harry says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “He seemed amused, though.”

Regulus pauses. “That’s certainly better than the alternative.”

Harry nods. “Ollivander did say something a bit peculiar about my wand having a brother. What’s a brother wand?”

“A brother wand?” Regulus echoes.

“Yeah, like when two wands have core feathers from the same phoenix.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” Regulus admits. “Wandlore is a form of magic that’s kept very secret, only shared between apprentices and their masters, or between family members in the craft.”

“Oh, suppose you can’t tell me much then.”

“Nope,” Regulus says apologetically. “But you can tell me all about what Ollivander told you if you’d like.”

Harry perks up at this and begins explaining his eleven-inch holly and phoenix feather wand. By the time he’s finished, the pair of them have stepped back through the archway and walked through the Leaky Cauldron. The sun is already setting, and Regulus feels a bit bad that the shopping adventure took this long. Harry seems happy enough, though, and that’s what matters.

“We’ll not be riding the Knight Bus again, right?” Harry asks.

“Absolutely not.”

Harry breathes a sigh of relief, and, honestly? Regulus feels rather the same.

“Grab my hand and hold tight to your trunk,” Regulus instructs.

Harry complies, and the two of them Apparate into Magnolia Crescent. Regulus would’ve done it without asking, of course, but it would be a shame if Harry’s new supplies got lost because he wasn’t prepared.

“I trust you can return to the Dursleys from here?”

“I trust you’ll still be a massive nag when I turn up to the library tomorrow?” Harry snarks with no real bite.

“Wow, I’m wounded, Mr Potter,” Regulus says, placing a hand over his heart. “Mortally, perhaps.”

“I’ll speak at the funeral,” Harry says dryly, setting off towards Privet Drive with his trunk in tow.

He appears to be struggling with the weight of it, so Regulus very kindly sends a shrinking charm at it. Harry looks utterly baffled at the suddenly tiny trunk, which he pinches between two careful fingers. “You’ll undo this, right?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to find out?”

Regulus disapparates before Harry can throw a rock at him or dole out whatever brutish punishment he sees fit.

As promised, throughout August, Regulus teaches Harry some basic spells with his new wand, rather neglecting his occupation in the process. The muggles never notice (indeed, they never have), but Regulus does feel the slightest amount of guilt over using his time to mentor Harry.

Emphasis on it being a very slight amount of guilt, however, for Harry should be prepared as best as possible for when Voldemort targets him again, and Regulus has no doubt he shall. He’s just thankful that the Trace is not applied to first-years until they go to Hogwarts.

On the 1st of September, Regulus takes Harry to King’s Cross Station because Harry hasn’t a clue where Platform 9 3/4 is, and his muggles refuse to take him.

Regulus is in disguise again, albeit one that’s much more subtle than the previous glamour. Harry’s himself today, and the two of them look similar enough at first glance. Regulus just tied his hair back in a messy way that he’d never have settled for back when he was still in the wizarding world, smoothed out his scars, and put on father’s old reading glasses. A simple disguise, but one that has served him well thus far.

The two of them arrive early enough that the families on the Platform are few and far between. A purposeful decision, of course, to ensure Regulus has plenty of time to try and give Harry a proper pep talk before he departs.

“I’ve never actually seen anyone off at 9 3/4,” Regulus admits to Harry, who looks up at him, holding his trunk nervously. “Mother never let me onto the Platform until it was time for me to go myself. I never got to see off my older brother because she said I’d embarrass the family name and all that.

“You won’t embarrass the Potter name, though, I promise.” Regulus smiles reassuringly. “James and Lily would be so proud of you.”

Harry nods sheepishly and studies his feet.

“Can I write to you?” Harry looks up and asks, face pink.

“Of course,” Regulus says, surprised Harry even asked. “I’d love to hear all about the learning you get up to at Hogwarts. Just borrow one of the school owls up in the Owlery. It’s at the top of the West Tower.”

“Got it!” Harry says. “I’ll be keeping those owls busy, you’ll hear all about Hogwarts!”

“I’d be remiss if I didn’t.” Regulus considers the length of Harry’s writing. “When you return for the summer, you can tell me everything that’s happened, so don’t feel pressured to send me a novel with each correspondence. The poor school owls don’t deserve that burden.”

Harry scrunches up his nose. “I can be a bit long-winded…”

“And that will serve you well when writing essays. It’s better to pare down your essays than struggle to pad them out.”

“Right.” Harry nods.

The scarlet train whistles behind Harry.

“You’d best be off,” Regulus mutters, conscious of the growing crowd around them.

“I guess this is goodbye, then, Uncle R,” Harry says, remembering Regulus’s stern warning to not mention his real name in the wizarding world, but still insisting on some version of his nickname.

“Goodbye, Harry,” Regulus says, impulsively reaching down and engulfing Harry in an awkward hug.

Neither of their families were particularly touchy-feely, and Regulus’s only experience with hugging is watching Sirius hug his friends. Suffice to say, the affair is awkward. But Harry laughs and relaxes in his arms, and Regulus considers that a job well done.

Regulus watches Harry board the Hogwarts express with eyes that threaten to well up with tears. He’s so damn proud of the boy that Harry is. He can’t take credit for all of it, of course, but he sure wishes he could.

Regulus sniffs very minutely and very dignifiedly.

A plump red-headed woman who arrived some time ago leans over conspiratorially and whispers to Regulus. “The first time is always the hardest. It gets better, dear.”

“Er—thank you,” Regulus says awkwardly.

The woman pats his arm.

Chapter Text

Uncle R,

First night at Hogwarts! I’m writing to you from my dormitory before bed. I’m already in my pyjamas and everything! It’s cosy up here in the towers… Oh yeah, I got Sorted Gryfindor Gryffindor like mum and dad. The hat took its time to decide. Dunno why you couldn’t have told me it’s only an old hat. Ron, who I met on the train… he’s very nice, had me frightened I’d be fighting a troll or something dreadful. I also met that boy Malfoy again, he’s a proper twat. Luckily he’s in Slytherin, so I don’t think I’ll be seeing much of him.

Professor Dumbledore gave a rather strange speech at the banquet, something about a forbidden corridor? And there was this hook-nosed teacher Snape who made my scar hurt, strangely enough… I think he must dislike me. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong!

Anyway, I’m knackered, so I’ll be ending my letter here. I’ll be sure to write after week 1 of lessons. Sending the letter off with a school owl in the morning.

— Harry

Harry,

It sounds like you’re settling in all right. Congratulations on Gryffindor!

Of course I couldn’t tell you about the Sorting Hat! It’s old tradition, I could hardly stomach spoiling it for you. Besides, before I came to Hogwarts for the first time, I nagged my older brother about it so much he eventually told me we were to slay a Chimaera (never mind that only one witch has ever killed one). Really— you got off lightly compared to that.

I wouldn’t count on not seeing Malfoy much; the Headmaster seems to enjoy putting Gryffindors and Slytherins together for classes… And speaking of Professor Dumbledore, his speech sounds alarming. I’d rather not see you in any danger. Do promise me you’ll not be investigating?

There is a Professor called Snape? Does he have black hair and a near-permanent scowl? What does he teach??

Anyway, I think I’ll have to be cutting this letter off here; it does seem you’ve picked an owl with a knack for nipping fingers.

I look forward to hearing all about your lessons, etc.,

R

Uncle R,

Trust me, I’ll not investigate the corridor. Me and Ron got on the wrong side of Filch on our very first morning because we’d accidentally tried prising open the entrance to that forbidden corridor! He threatened to lock us in the dungeons!

& yes, that sounds like Snape. He’s dreadful! Do you know him? I think he hates me, he’s so unfair. I lost two points for Gryffindor in the first Potions lesson alone! After all that happened I met Hagrid, the Grounds keeper. That gave me more to think about than my lessons. He seemed to know something about Snape that he didn’t want to tell me. And, I learnt of a Gringotts break-in that happened on my birthday. Do you think that happened when we were there? It’s all so strange!

My other lessons aren’t nearly as exciting or terrible. Herbology and Astronomy and History of Magic are all boring. So are my other classes, but I think they’ll be interesting when we aren’t talking about theory all the time.

— Harry

Harry,

I’m glad to hear you’ll not be pursuing that corridor. As for Filch? He’s been threatening students with the dungeons since I was in my first year but has never acted upon it as far as I’m aware. Still, I’d recommend exercising caution around him.

Never mind my knowing your Professor Snape. You needn’t concern yourself with the unimportant details. Now, you’re probably not wrong about him hating you, unfortunately, but if it’s any consolation, it’s not because of anything you’ve done. Snape and your father had an… interesting relationship, so to speak. They loathed one another, and I’m afraid in your father’s absence, Professor Snape has turned that loathing to you. I can’t ever imagine he’d resort to outright violence or anything of that sort, so if you study hard, come to lessons prepared, and don’t rise to his verbal taunts, you’d ought to be fine. Do keep me updated, though.

As tempting as it may be to concern yourself with the mysterious break-in, do stay focused on your lessons. I’ve no doubt the proper authorities will be on the case. The timing was likely a coincidence.

It’s good you’re ahead in your coursework. I do believe I might have a solution to your boredom— which is only fair, seeing as it’s my fault you’re bored in the first place. Have you considered advancing your studies on your own? The Hogwarts Library is one of the best magical libraries in Western Europe. It’d do you well to take full advantage of it... and I’m not just saying that because I’m a librarian, promise. I’m sure you’ll be able to find material more to the level you’re at now. 

Sincerely,

R

Uncle R,

I’ll keep your solution in mind. Sorry I’m writing to you late, this week’s been rather busy. I’ve spent much of it worrying about flying lessons. We have them with the Slytherins, so it looks like you were right about Professor Dumbledore forcing us together. Ugh.

First flying lessons were Thursday. It was all very exciting even though not much flying got done because Neville Longbottom (have I mentioned him yet?) fell off his broomstick quick. He had a Rememberball Remembrall from his grandmum, which Malfoy stole, and I caught it so Professor McGonnagall put me in the Quidditch team as a Seeker! I dunno when training starts, but I’m excited to get going!

Say, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about three-headed dogs, would you? Maybe how to get past them? Just wondering… Plans on how to get back at Malfoy would also be appreciated.

— Harry

Harry,

I question Professor McGonagall’s decision to place a first-year in the House Quidditch team, but I suppose precautions are strict at this level of competition, so you’ll be safe playing. Honestly, I might just be mother-henning. You’ll be perfectly fine. Congratulations, and be sure to update me on how your first match goes! I’ll be rooting for you. And to clarify, I mean ‘you’, as in Harry Potter, not ‘you’ as in the Gryffindor Quidditch team. 

A gentle suggestion: maybe spend more time reading and studying in preparation for your lessons than focusing on petty revenge and Cerberuses? 

Sincerely,

R

Uncle R,

I appreciate the support. But you do realise that by rooting for me, you’re still rooting for the Gryffindor team, right??

Anyway, McGonagall sent me a new broomstick since I don’t have one. A Nimbus Two Thousand! I guess that doesn’t mean anything to you, but it’s the best broomstick around. I flew around on it while waiting for Wood and it’s fantastic. Wood’s the Gryffindor Keeper and the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He tried telling me the rules, but I quickly explained I already know how to play, and we got to skip the boring stuff. I got right into catching the Snitch until it got too dark and we had to practise with golf balls.

Quidditch practice is going to be three evenings a week, so I might be busy. Don’t worry, I’ll be keeping my nose out of trouble!

— Harry

Uncle R,

I can’t believe it’s been two months! It’s Hallowe’en already by the time I’m writing. It’s strange how I miss you and Little Whinging yet still don’t want to leave Hogwarts.

Since you wanted to hear more about my lessons: today in Charms, we learnt to make objects fly. Everyone’s been dying to try it, including me. It was tricky, but I got it on my third attempt. Hermione Granger got it on her first try. Ron was miffed about that because he’d been having trouble, and he got a bit of a temper about it all which resulted in Hermione running to the toilets, crying.

At the Hallowe’en Feast, I had to abandon my jacket potato when Professor Quirrell came in yelling about a troll in the dungeons. We stopped by the toilets and warned Hermione about the troll before heading to the common room. Hermione was grateful, and we all became friends.

I’m actually sending this with her owl. Hermione doesn’t send letters to her parents on the same days I send you letters, so she said she’s happy to let me borrow her owl. Her name is Hedwig, and she’s really nice. And I don’t think she’ll nip at your fingers like the school owls!

— Harry

Harry,

I understand how you’re feeling. Hogwarts is amazing, isn’t it? If you’d like to get away for a bit, however, consider returning to Little Whinging to celebrate Christmas with me. Of course, I understand if you have plans with Ron or Hermione already, but it’d be nice to see you again before summer.

I’m sorry to hear about your jacket potato, but at least you didn’t run into the troll and could retrieve Hermione without incident! Speaking of, if she’s anything like her owl, do consider keeping her around. Snowy owls aren’t the most conspicuous, nor are they endemic to Britain, but Hedwig is very smart and well behaved… I suppose I shouldn’t complain much. Hopefully no Muggles notice anything amiss.

Anyway, please do consider my offer,

R

Uncle R,

Hermione is going skiing with her family, but Ron’s staying at Hogwarts because his parents are visiting his brother. I was going to stay here with Ron, but celebrating back at Little Whinging sounds like great fun. If you’re sure, I’d like to come.

At the weekend, I had my first Quidditch match! I caught the Snitch and Gryffindor won, but the match was a bit thrilling. I ended up catching the Snitch with my mouth because my broomstick was jinxed and bucking. Ron and Hermione saw Snape cursing it. Apparently he was muttering and didn’t take his eyes off me. I didn’t see anything, naturally, but I trust them. Hagrid said Snape wouldn’t do that, but I dunno. He’s gotten worse during Potions lessons.

Also, do you know who Nicolas Flamel is?

— Harry

Harry,

Yes, I’m certain (otherwise I wouldn’t’ve offered)! I’ve been working on the protections around my flat, and this is a good way to test them… Not that I only invited you to test the wards, of course. I’ll be at King’s Cross at 20.30 on the 21st in anticipation of your arrival.

First, my commendations on your doubtless exciting performance in your first Quidditch match. Second, I’m surprised to hear this about Sev your Professor Snape. I didn’t think he’d resort to cursing your broomstick or anything like that…

Nicholas Flamel? I must say, when I suggested you find material more to your level, I didn’t exactly mean to go poking around alchemy— and certainly not the Philosopher’s Stone of all things! Where did you even read about Flamel?

See you soon,

R

“Flat, sweet flat,” Regulus says jokingly, unlocking the door and swinging it open wide. The dramatics of the reveal are much dampened by the complete darkness inside. His tone turns more serious. “Come in, but you’ll need to wait in the mat well for a bit. Do not move.”

“What is it?” Harry says with concern, trying to look around as if to spy some hidden trap. It’s much too dark to see anything, however.

Regulus flips the light switch down, illuminating the area, and gets to work, poking around under a settee cushion with his wand.

“I need to key you into the wards,” Regulus explains from the other room, sitting to better mess with the wardstone under the cushion. “Lest they suffocate you.”

“Carry on, then!” Harry says nervously, presumably not looking forward to being suffocated by Regulus’s wards. Wise. “Please, give it your full attention!”

“Working on it,” Regulus says, gently holding his wand between his teeth as he fiddles with the wardstone. “You see, I’m using a strand of your hair to key you into the wards, which are anchored here. They’ll recognise you as a non-hostile entity and allow you passage to the rest of the flat— aside from my office.”

“When’d you get my hair?” Harry sounds scandalised by the notion of it. Regulus retrieves his wand from between his teeth and pokes at the cushion.

“Got it while we were walking here. You’d think my lessons on staying alert would’ve set in by now.” Regulus rolls his eyes and waves his wand around a bit more.

Regulus stands again, righting the cushion once more. “All done. I’ll show you to your room now so you can put your things down.”

Harry takes a tentative step forward, as if he wasn’t expecting Regulus’s ward update to work properly. When one step becomes two, and he does not keel over dead, his shoulders slump, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Rather melodramatic there,” Regulus comments dryly. “Come along now.”

Regulus leads Harry down the hall and into the guest room. He turns the light on. The room is not much of note, with plain white walls and furniture in light greens and creams, but it is adequate. Lyra basks beneath the window, her black fur blue in the moonlight, but she rises upon seeing Regulus enter.

“It’s way bigger inside your flat than it is on the outside,” Harry comments, looking around the room appreciatively. Lyra quietly pads over to Regulus.

“The joys of magic.” Regulus spreads his arms and waggles his fingers. “Pocket dimensions, Harry.”

“Does that mean I can practise magic here?” asks Harry, eyeing the cat whilst setting his trunk onto the guest room floor.

“I don’t see why not,” Regulus says, scooping Lyra from the floor and petting her absently. “This place is warded to the seventh hell.”

“Brilliant,” Harry says.

“But for now… The grand tour, shall we?”

Despite any misgivings Regulus may have privately harboured about hosting Harry given, well, everything, a few relaxing days tick by and Christmas morning arrives quietly and peacefully. 

The morning is unusually frosty, and the wind blowing through the trees and hitting the windows seems brisk. Even so, there is no snow on the ground nor in the skies when Regulus wakes. He dons a chunky knit jumper and heads to the kitchen.

Somewhat blearily, he rustles about in the cupboard overhead and retrieves a thick bar of dark chocolate and a knife. Methodically, he chops chocolate shavings over a small saucepan at the worktop.

After all that, he sets the saucepan onto the hob and carefully adds milk from the fridge. He turns the cooker on to a low heat and stirs it for a while, getting lost in the repetitiveness of the motion, and not hearing Harry come in.

“What are you making?” Harry asks, his voice laced with sleep.

“Drinking chocolate,” Regulus explains, watching as Harry slides onto a stool behind the breakfast bar, looking interested. “It was my favourite winter drink growing up.”

Harry makes a noncommittal sort of noise, and Regulus turns back to his task. The chocolate is well blended at this point, and so he slowly raises the heat whilst stirring. With his free hand, he reaches back into an overhead cupboard and carefully takes down two ceramic mugs, which clink together as he lowers them onto the worktop. He removes the saucepan from the heat of the hob and carefully pours out the hot drink, dividing it evenly between the two mugs.

“All right, then,” Regulus says, carefully putting down one mug full of drinking chocolate in front of Harry, “here you have it.”

He too sits at the bar, blowing gently on the surface of the dark drink and warming his hands by holding the mug. A sip.

“Gah,” he says with immediate regret, “burnt my tongue.”

Even so, the small bit he tasted of the drink was thick and rich, and the bittersweetness of the chocolate makes it all the more pleasant. He turns to Harry.

“Harry, if you’d like, we can go open your presents now and wait for the drinking chocolate to cool off.”

Harry looks somewhat surprised, as if he’d not been expecting to receive anything for Christmas. “I’ve got some presents?”

“Of course,” he replies. “Some owls came by last night and dropped off a few parcels worth.”

“Oh,” Harry says, “well in that case…”

Regulus takes Harry to the sitting room, which is appropriately cosy and warm given the frost nipping at the window panes outside. A large green fir tree stands in the corner of the beige room, warmly decorated with an eclectic assortment of small white electric lights, bright tinsel, chocolate coins, strings of beads, and colourful glass baubles.

It’s the farthest cry from the Black Christmas tradition he can manage: a purposeful departure from the carefully arranged, cold, and monochrome trees of Regulus’s youth that always left Christmas feeling utterly suffocating.

Beneath the tree lie a small assortment of parcels, clustered around the base. Harry immediately crosses the room and sits excitedly on the carpet. Regulus sets the mugs of drinking chocolate upon the wooden mantelpiece, and the cups end up carefully nestled betwixt the Christmas cards he’d received from various colleagues.

“You can go on and start opening them, if you’d like,” Regulus says, retrieving two pieces of dried firewood from next to the fireplace. He sets them on the grate and reaches up to open the flue.

“I can wait. Do you need help?”

“Sure,” Regulus says, twisting the flue open. “D’you know how to build a fire the Muggle way?”

“Er— no.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”

Regulus leads Harry through the steps of making a fire, through crumpling newspaper for tinder and placing kindling on top; through carefully placing more firewood and cheating by lighting it with his wand. At last, the fire flickers into life. Regulus rearranges the logs with the brass poker and the flames begin to steadily grow.

Figuring they’d ought to be cooled off plenty by now, Regulus grabs the drinking chocolate from the mantelpiece and hands Harry his mug.

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” Regulus says. He takes a sip, and it tastes like home.

“Happy Christmas,” Harry replies with a smile. “Now, presents, or are we just going to stand and stare at the fire all day?”

Regulus laughs. “All right, let’s have at it.”

Harry sits again on the carpet, albeit this time it’s less of a plop-down and more of a careful sit-down. He takes a sip from the mug and places it onto the carpet next to him. Regulus sits down too, cross-legged.

“Hagrid got me something,” Harry says, reading from the top parcel. He carefully unwraps the thick brown paper from around the present.

Harry pulls out a wooden flute, roughly cut and clearly whittled by Hagrid himself. He gives it a test blow, producing a somewhat shrill hooting sort of noise.

He sets it aside and opens the next present, a very lumpy parcel that simply says ‘For Harry Potter’ in rounded scrawl. Harry unwraps a thick, hand-knitted jumper in an emerald green colour, as well as a large box of homemade fudge.

“Well, look at that, we can match,” Regulus comments.

“Yours isn’t even green,” Harry says, putting on the jumper anyway. 

Harry unwraps the next present. “More sweets!” he says, sounding rather pleased as he pulls out a large box of Chocolate Frogs from Hermione.

“Next one’s mine,” Regulus says.

It is a decently sized box, wrapped in gold and white paper. Harry unwraps it and opens the box, revealing a variety of magical gifts.

“How’d you get this?” he asks.

“Oh, it was nothing, I just sent Hedwig to Diagon Alley with orders for you.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, setting aside a smaller selection box containing Treacle fudge and other sweets.

Harry also gets out a small stack of books from the bottom of the bigger box and piles the volumes next to him. New Theory of Numerology… The Dark Arts Outsmarted… He Flew Like a Madman… 

Harry flips through a few pages of the last book.

“One last present, Harry.” Regulus points at the last parcel, which Harry picks up surprisingly easy. It must be light.

Harry unwraps it, and a fluid, silvery grey cloak falls to the floor, laying in gleaming folds. A letter flutters out.

“An Invisibility Cloak,” Regulus comments. “Try it.”

Harry slides his arm through a sleeve of the Cloak, and sure enough, his arm disappears from sight. Regulus has never seen an Invisibility Cloak that worked so seamlessly; most of the time, even if one pays top Galleon, a fuzzy outline is still visible. 

Peculiar. 

“What does the letter say?”

Harry plucks the letter from the carpet. “It says ‘your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well. A Very Merry Christmas to you’.”

Uncle R,

Sorry for not writing sooner, but Wood’s been keeping us busy with Quidditch. It was worth it though, because I won the match for Gryffindor in what must’ve been five minutes. Since we beat Hufflepuff, we’ve overtaken Slytherin in the House Championship. It’s the first time in seven years!

— Harry

Harry,

Very impressive! Have you begun revising for your exams yet? They may be ten weeks away, but the sooner you start, the better. These things have a tendency to sneak up on you. I’d recommend colour-coding your notes.

R

Uncle R,

I’ve been revising with Ron and Hermione, don’t worry!

— Harry

Regulus worries, especially when Harry doesn’t send a letter in about a month— even before exams start.

So, he decides he’d ought to pick up Harry for himself. He arrives at King’s Cross and waits on the Muggle side, pretending to be keenly interested in the muggle locomotive drawing closer to platform nine. Regulus very carefully keeps an eye out for any movement from the metal barrier between platforms nine and ten, and after several groups of students exit, so too does Harry.

Looking no worse for wear, Harry passes through the gateway accompanied by a gangling ginger boy and a brown-haired girl that he quickly assumes are Ron and Hermione.

“There he is, Mum, there he is, look!” says a young girl who looks rather like Ron with her bright red hair. She points at Harry, “Harry Potter! Look, Mum! I can see—“

An equally red-headed and somewhat familiar-looking woman quickly shushes the girl. “Be quiet, Ginny,” she says, “and it’s rude to point.”

She turns her attention to Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“Busy year?”

“Very,” Harry replies. “Thanks for the fudge and the jumper, Mrs Weasley.”

“Oh, it was nothing, dear,” she says.

“Are you ready, Harry?” Regulus asks, somewhat accidentally interrupting the conversation.

“You must be Harry’s family!” says Mrs Weasley.

“In a manner of speaking,” Regulus says vaguely. “It’s nice to meet you all. Harry, take your time with your good-byes if you need to.”

“See you over the summer,” Harry says to Ron and Hermione, seemingly having already said much of his goodbyes. “I don’t have any way to send out post, but if you send me your owls, I’ll reply.”

“Hope you have a good holiday,” says Hermione. “You’ll be seeing Hedwig plenty, promise.”

Harry gives the two of them a small wave, and he and Regulus set off, walking through King’s Cross.

“How were your exams?” Regulus asks after they’re out of earshot of everyone else.

“They went well,” Harry says. “Potions and History went poorly, but I got top marks in Transfiguration and Defence.”

“Very nice,” Regulus says. He pauses. “Did anything else happen? You’ve not sent a letter in a while, I was getting a bit worried you wouldn’t show up at all.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry says easily, dragging his trunk behind him, “Professor Quirrell was evil the entire time and had Voldemort under his turban. So, I burnt him to death with the power of my mother’s love.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Chapter Text

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Regulus says in his customer service voice. “I haven’t a clue why anyone would do this.”

“It’s an outrage,” the young woman wails, waving the defiled romantic novel around. Some vandal had gone through and scribbled out all of the curse words. Curiously enough, however, the explicit sex scenes had been left intact. “I want a refund!”

“Miss,” Regulus says with a pained smile, “you borrowed the book for free.”

She frowns. “Now listen here, I’ve just had surgery, I’ll have you know! I’m delicate, and— and fragile!”

Regulus resists the urge to sigh. “So, you’d like a ‘refund’ for—?”

“As compensation,” she sniffs, “for the trauma this has inflicted.”

“Some trauma,” Regulus mutters.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Seeing she’s getting nowhere at all, the woman stomps off, muttering about finding his manager. Decidedly unworried, and very much glad she’s out of his hair, Regulus is about to turn back to his cataloguing when he spots Harry sitting glumly at a table.

“Ah, Harry,” Regulus says, “what’re you up to over there?”

Harry stands and approaches the L-shaped desk. “Right now, I’m just staying out of Aunt Petunia’s way so she can clean.”

“And after that? I can’t imagine they’ve anything planned for tonight…?”

“A dinner party,” Harry says unpleasantly. “Some drill deal.”

“Am I correct to assume you’re not invited?”

“Yeah. I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” Harry says, sounding as if he’d repeated those lines several times already.

Regulus frowns. He’d really ought to see if there isn’t anything he can do about those awfully nasty Dursleys. “That’s dreadful. If you’d like to hang around here until closing, we can have a small birthday dinner at my flat after my shift?”

“What?” Harry asks.

To be fair, Regulus is somewhat surprised he’s gone and offered, too. So much for his security… Harry’s making him soft, dammit.

“Well, Christmas went off all right, so I think my wards are up to snuff. One more evening couldn’t hurt.” Regulus pauses. “Mind you, I don’t have much in the way of food prepared,”—(meaning he’s nothing at all, really)—, “but I’d imagine anything would be more pleasant than spending your birthday pretending you ‘don’t exist’.”

“Oh, that wasn’t it. Honestly, that sounds great,” Harry says with a smile. “It’s just, I almost thought you’d forgot my birthday, too, seeing as all my friends haven’t even written to me.”

“Really?” That seems somewhat out of character, given how close they’d all seemed at the end of first year. “They must have good reason.”

“Or maybe they’ve forgotten me,” Harry says glumly.

“Nonsense, Harry,” Regulus says reassuringly. “Now, I’ve still some new arrivals left, but if you pull up a chair, we can discuss dinner whilst I catalogue them?” 

Harry drags over a chair and the two get to discussing the options, starting with…

“… Cottage pie. It’s a fine dinner, really,” Regulus says, opening the refrigerator door. “Not to be confused with shepherd’s pie. The difference is in the mince filling.”

He pulls out the minced beef. “You see, it’s not made with lamb. Nothing wrong with beef, though.” He gathers the other ingredients as he continues, “Anyway, there’s also a layer of potatoes, and it’s topped with cheese, of course. It’s a great recipe I got from Helen before she retired. You’ll love it. It’ll take a bit to prepare, so maybe get a book to read or find some other way to occupy yourself.”

Regulus quickly prepares the mince with vegetables, then the mash, combining them into the baking dish and topping it with a hearty sprinkling of cheese. He slides it into the preheated oven and sets a timer.

He turns back to see Harry sat at the breakfast bar, flipping through a very old and outdated potions mag. “It’ll be ready in about an hour,” Regulus says, “if you’d like—“

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. The visitor arrives with a pop.

The house-elf immediately dips into a bow, overlong nose brushing the dining room floor. It straightens up and moves to speak, but, recognising the elf’s bat-like ears, raggedy pillowcase attire, and somewhat nervous demeanour, Regulus beats him to it.

“Dobby?” Regulus says, shocked the Malfoys’ house-elf has appeared in the middle of his flat.

Of course, he’d rather deliberately left a loophole in the wards allowing house-elves to appear, just in case Kreacher ever saw fit to return for any reason. However, he’d frankly not been anticipating anyone else would ever arrive. After all, who would send a house-elf to visit Regulus Black, dead for thirteen years?

Now, Harry Potter, on the other hand?

Yes, it was probably inevitable someone would try to send a house-elf to Harry. And, with Harry being here now, and perhaps even becoming a more frequent visitor in the future, Regulus should probably fix that.

“Sir knows Dobby, but Dobby isn’t knowing sirs,” Dobby mutters, tugging at his ears, looking somewhat distressed.

“How do you know him?” Harry asks, looking curiously at Dobby.

“We’ll discuss that later, Harry,” Regulus says, giving Dobby a look. “But, uh, seriously, Dobby?”

Regulus isn’t sure whether he should be offended or not. Surely he’s not that unmemorable.

“Should Dobby be knowing you?” Dobby frowns at him with complete irrecognition… Is it the reading glasses?

Regulus almost replies that he’d certainly ought to, before remembering he’s supposed to be dead. “Probably not,” he instead says, “don’t worry about it. Er— why are you here, anyway?”

Dobby’s attention snaps to Harry. “Harry Potter!” he says. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir… Such an honour it is!”

Harry looks rather embarrassed, but stutters out his thanks.

“Dobby has come to tell you, sir… it is difficult, sir… Dobby wonders where to begin…”

“Sit down,” Harry offers, gesturing at the stool next to him at the breakfast bar.

At once, Dobby bursts into loud tears, evidently not used to such treatment. Regulus winces, more at the treatment Dobby’s surely had to endure from Lucius Malfoy than at the noise.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, looking worried, “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.”

“Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard—like an equal—,” the elf chokingly says, looking at Harry with an expression of watery adoration.

“You can’t have met many decent wizards,” Harry says. And, considering Dobby is bound to the Malfoy house, Regulus agrees with that assessment.

The elf jerkily shakes his head in agreement before leaping up and scrambling onto the worktop.

“Dobby!” Regulus says sharply, throwing his arm out and catching the elf across the chest before he reaches the window. “Don’t punish yourself. You didn’t speak ill of your Family.”

Even after being reassured, the elf looks somewhat cross-eyed. Regulus manoeuvres him into a sitting position on the breakfast bar. 

“Can’t anyone help him? Can’t we?” Harry asks.

Before Regulus can reply, Dobby dissolves again into gracious wails, blubbering about Harry’s goodness.

Harry, pink in the face, quickly downplays Dobby’s praise, but after bringing up Hermione, he abruptly stops.  

Dobby appears reverent at this point, however. “Harry Potter is humble and modest,” he whispers, eyes shining, “Harry Potter speaks not of his triumph over He Who Must Not Be Named.”

“Voldemort?” Harry says automatically.

The house-elf immediately protests, at which point Harry backtracks and urges him to tell what he came to tell.

“Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him,” Dobby says hoarsely, “Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.”

Harry, of course, protests. “I’ve got to go back,” he argues, “I belong in your world— at Hogwarts.”

“No, no, no,” Dobby squeaks, shaking his head vigorously. “If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger.”

Well, judging off the events of Harry’s first year, Regulus is inclined to agree with the elf on that point.

“There is a plot,” Dobby says in a hushed voice. “A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year. Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!”

By the end of his small speech, Dobby is shaking.

“I don’t think he can tell us much more about the plot,” Regulus says, cutting off the start of Harry’s questioning. If Harry asks much more of the elf, he’s afraid Dobby will begin bashing his head upon the nearest hard surface.

“But I’ve got to go back to Hogwarts,” Harry says instead. “It’s the only place I’ve got— well, I think I’ve got—friends my age.”

“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” Dobby says slyly.

“Uncle Reg said they’ve likely been— hang on,” Harry says, frowning, “how do you know my friends haven’t been writing to me? Have you been stopping my letters?”

“Dobby did it for the best,” he protests. “Dobby has them here, sir.”

Dobby reaches into the filthy pillowcase he’s wearing and pulls out a thick wad of envelopes. He makes his excuses, but Harry grabs for the letters across the breakfast bar. Dobby slides off the worktop and out of reach.

“Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his word that he will not return to Hogwarts. Say you won’t go back, sir!”

“No,” Harry says angrily, “give me my friends’ letters!”

“Now, you two,” Regulus intervenes, carefully standing between them, “let’s be civil.”

“He stole my post,” Harry argues, gesturing at the unapologetic elf. “Those are supposed to be mine!”

“Dobby did it for Harry Potter’s safety,” said unapologetic elf says, clutching the letters closer.

Regulus tries his best to reason with him. “Dobby, you needn’t make a fuss over it, just return the letters. Harry already knows you’ve taken them and that his friends want him back at Hogwarts. They’ll hardly influence his decision to go or not.”

“Say you won’t go back, Harry Potter.”

“I need to go back!”

“Then Dobby won’t return them, sir.”

Having had quite enough of this, Regulus sighs and palms his wand with the flick of his wrist. Jabbing at the post Dobby holds, he wordlessly Accio’s the lot of them.

Dobby blinks, looking from his now-empty hands to the letters Regulus now holds. “Now, listen sir, Harry Potter mustn’t—“

The cooker dings.

Regulus awkwardly tucks the letters into a pocket. “Er— Would you like to stay for dinner?”

Uncle R,

At Diagon Alley with the Weasleys now. Sending this letter quickly with a rented owl. Supply shopping went well, though getting here didn’t. I messed up with the Floo and ended up in Knockturn Alley. Not to worry, got out fast thanks to Hagrid.

Aside from that, while shopping for books, Mr Malfoy and Mr Weasley had a proper brawl. It was exciting.

Anyway, I should probably send this off. Going back to The Burrow. Might not send another letter this August, but I’ll be having great fun until term begins. Hopefully I don’t mess up the Floo powder returning there.

— Harry

Harry,

I’m glad to hear you didn’t get into any sort of trouble in Knockturn Alley. It can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. You’ll get better with the Floo the more you practise. As for the fight, I must confess I’d never thought the famed Malfoy-Weasley feud would ever come to blows. I’m surprised! Honestly, I’d expect Lucius to think that below him.

Do remember what we’ve spoken about: be sure to tell me these important things this year. If you end up fighting another troll or rescuing another dragon, I would like to hear in a timely manner this time. Don’t go looking for trouble, of course, but if you find you must, please let me know. I confess I do worry I’ve given off the wrong impression about my role here— I’d like to hear about everything you get up to, not only your lessons. 

All right, I’ll cease my nagging. Remember to leave early for King’s Cross!

Sincerely,

R

Uncle R,

I think leaving early is easier said than done with the Weasleys. Me and Ron were running behind, and the barrier to Platform 9 3/4 sealed itself. We borrowed Mr Weasley’s flying car and got to Hogwarts all right, but we landed in the Whomping Willow and Ron snapped his wand on accident.

We could’ve been expelled, and I suspect if he could, Snape would do it himself. But McGonagall only gave us detention. Hermione doesn’t seem pleased, so she’ll probably be cross tomorrow. Luckily Hedwig isn’t cross, she’s letting me send this letter.

— Harry

Harry,

You’ve probably been lectured plenty for this, so I’ll keep this short and tell you the first option that comes to mind isn’t always the best one. Please, think before you act.

I hope your first week of lessons goes well, and that the DADA professor is competent this year.

Sincerely,

R

Uncle R,

Lessons have been something of a mix so far. Herbology seems like it’ll be more interesting this year, we’re in Greenhouse Three with the interesting and dangerous plants! On the first day we learnt about Mandrakes. After that, we had Transfiguration, which was a bit more difficult because I’m somewhat out of practice, even with your help. I do think it could’ve gone worse though.

Defence was in the afternoon today, and it was awful. The DADA professor this year is Gilderoy Lockhart, who’s obsessed with fame, and convinced I’m much the same. We started our first lessons with a quiz all about him, then he released Cornish Pixies on us. Hermione seems convinced he’s some genius, but I don’t buy it.

— Harry

Each letter that Harry sends him during his second year at Hogwarts only serves to make Regulus more nervous.

It’s amazing how quickly the Philosopher’s Stone kerfuffle of last year is overshadowed by some mystery beast in the fabled Chamber of Secrets and the news that Harry’s a parselmouth.

And, once Harry sends a letter revealing the beast was a basilisk living in the pipes, controlled by the diary of one Tom Marvolo Riddle (alias Lord Voldemort), Regulus swears up the sort of storm that would make even Sirius blush.

Who in their right mind would make multiple Horcruxes?

(Oh, wait, he’s forgetting Voldemort’s not in his right mind. The man’s an egotistical madman somehow charming enough to amass a small faction of dedicated Purebloods willing to do anything up to—and including—committing murder for him. Merlin.)

Regulus uncaps a biro, pulls out a blank piece of paper, and carefully considers his words.

Early summer once again finds Regulus shelving books and waiting around for Harry to enter the library. And when Regulus spies a familiar boy walking towards him, he forgets all notions of decorum and scoops Harry up in a hug.

“Harry James Potter, I have half a mind to ship you abroad to Beauxbatons or something,” Regulus murmurs, pulling from the hug and examining Harry at arm’s length. The boy seems perfectly fine, somehow having survived a confrontation with a fully-grown basilisk and coming out the other side looking no worse for the wear. “I don’t remember Hogwarts being quite so dangerous in my day.”

“Well, I imagine Hogwarts was much safer with the Founders around,” Harry quips weakly.

“Oh, hush,” Regulus says with no real bite. “Listen, did you bring the… material I asked you for?”

Harry nods and reaches into his trouser pockets. “You so owe me for this. I had to go back to that grimy old chamber and milk a huge snake corpse.”

He hands Regulus a small vial.

“A very noble sacrifice,” Regulus says, examining the substance within… Basilisk venom.

Basilisk venom is highly concentrated: even one drop of it could be what he’s looking for to destroy the locket. Regulus grins a bit stupidly at the vial, for his nearly a decade-and-a-half effort to destroy the locket might come to fruition at last. Harry knows nothing of Regulus’s effort, though, and looks distinctly uncomfortable at the way Regulus is smiling fondly at the vial of highly concentrated venom.

“Can I ask what exactly you’ll be using that on?” Harry asks weakly.

“Oh, you needn’t know yet,” Regulus says, tucking the vial into a blazer pocket. “I’ll not be killing anyone… Wait, that’s not true.” He tries again, “I’ll not be killing anyone you’ll be upset to see go?”

“Uncle Reg,” Harry whinges, “You can’t just kill people.”

“Harry, if you knew who I was working towards killing, you’d try to award me an Order of Merlin, First Class, trust me.”

“All right,” Harry says with a stiff nod. “I shan’t prise any more. Plausible deniability and all that.”

“Good.” Regulus nods. “Very cunning. Are you certain you aren’t actually a Slytherin?”

Harry groans dramatically.

Later that night, Regulus sits in his office, which is still as messy and lived-in as ever. Dangling the locket from one hand and holding the dropper of the basilisk venom vial in the other, Regulus can barely breathe, lest he mucks this up.

With a trembling hand, he squeezes the dropper to a minuscule degree, releasing just a single drop of the venom. It lands in the middle of the locket, and the thing physically shudders beneath it. The locket screams, an agonisingly human sound that makes Regulus wince, but it lasts only a moment before it’s over. The locket looks much the same, but the suffocating feeling of oppression it inspired has dispersed.

He shakes the locket a bit, weighing it in his hand. It feels lighter, for all its soullessness. Regulus debates it for a moment, but throws it around his neck. He nearly died for this damn thing, then spent over a decade trying to destroy it. He deserves to wear it around like a trophy, thank you very much. 

Regulus stoppers the vial of basilisk venom, glad he asked Harry for much more than he thought he’d need, for it seems as though he has more work to do. Regulus crosses the room to a blank blackboard. He holds chalk in one hand and fiddles absently with the locket around his neck with the other.

When he’s done writing, the board details all he knows.

HORCRUX HUNT

Slytherin’s Locket (1979) / Kimmeridge (Dorset) - Destroyed by RAB (1993) - Basilisk Venom

Riddle’s/Voldemort’s Diary (?) - Destroyed by HJP (1993) - Basilisk Venom

 

… WHO IS TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE?

And he sure wishes he knew more.

When Regulus walks into the break room one late July morning, he’s only going in with the singular intention of slamming back a cup of the strongest black coffee he can get his hands on. Unfortunately, socialisation is also on the agenda because it’s apparently ‘rude’ to ignore people when they speak to you. And Regulus is nothing if not polite.

“Good morning,” greets one of his colleagues, Tracey, a middle-aged brunette who’s always been kind to Regulus. She is sat at a plastic white table and sipping a drink whilst watching the news.

“Tracey,” he mutters, crossing the room to the coffee machine. “G’morning.”

“Blasted muggle machinery,” Regulus whispers, fiddling with the loathsome coffee machine. Oh, how he misses the days when Kreacher would fix for him his favourite cup of imported tea! But, drinking rubbish muggle tea just made him miss Kreacher, so Regulus tactically switched to the inferior morning drink of coffee some time ago. The worst part of it all (even worse than the cheap and sickly instant drink itself, or the fact that he cannot divine from coffee grounds) has to be the preparation process. What agony!

“What was that?” Tracey inquires.

“Nothing!”

Tracey hums in a very sceptical manner but thankfully does not press further.

Regulus wraps up preparing his cup and fiddles with the plastic lid, perhaps the most evil of muggle inventions. The damnable things never manage to fit onto the cup just right, despite supposedly being fitted to the cup’s exact measurements in the product creation process. After a bout of clever manoeuvring, and many a muttered curse, the lid is eventually firmly on the cup.

He sits opposite Tracey and blows into the little hole in the lid to cool the drink.

Tracey is watching the television in alarm. Her gaze flits back and forth from the screen to Regulus. Regulus takes a tentative sip of coffee to steel himself and looks at the television. And he nearly spits out his coffee, for on the news is his older brother.

The picture of Sirius that the news is using is clearly a cropped picture of an Azkaban mugshot. He’s snarling and looks half-mad in the picture, the sort of expression he expects from Trixie more so than he does Sirius. 

Sirius clearly had a rough go in Azkaban, looking closer to his mid-forties than his thirties. His hair, the shiny hair that he prided himself on in Hogwarts, is matted and untrimmed; his cheeks are unnaturally hollow. Despite this wasting away, the family resemblance is plain and evident, something that it appears Tracey has noticed.

“This bloke, Sirius Black,” Tracey says, watching the muggle Prime Minister vaguely explain that Sirius has escaped a high-security prison (so, definitely Azkaban), and that the investigation is currently under wraps. “Any relation?”

“None whatsoever,” Regulus says weakly, “but isn’t that quite the coincidence.”

When Regulus spies Harry later that day, he half-expects the boy to interrogate him about Sirius. In Harry’s position, he’d certainly want to know more about this mysterious convict who greatly resembles his neighbourhood librarian. He doesn’t expect a frazzled Harry to run up to him with a trunk in tow.

“I blew up my aunt!” Harry says frantically. “I don’t know where else to go!”

“Hold on.” Regulus holds up a hand. “You blew up your aunt?”

“Not like an explosion, like a balloon.” The boy tugs at his hair. “Look, is my wording really that important? I’ll be expelled for this!”

“The Ministry won’t expel you for accidental magic, especially not when it’s so easily reversible,” Regulus explains patiently, placing a hand upon Harry’s shoulder. “Now, let’s calm down, shall we?”

Harry sucks in a flustered breath. “All right, I’m calm.” (He is obviously not calm.) “Can I stay with you?” The sentence comes out as one breathless word.

“What?”

“Well, I can hardly go back to the Dursleys, they’ll not be having me back after this! Can I just stay with you, at least until term starts? Maybe they’ll let me back next summer.”

“All right,” Regulus says. Again, he should really look into doing something about those Dursleys.

“Thank you so much. And, er, could you sign this too?” Harry tries, dropping his trunk and sheepishly holding out a piece of parchment.

Regulus plucks it from Harry’s hands and reads the Hogsmeade permission slip. “Harry Potter, I, Regulus, am not your guardian so I cannot possibly sign this.” Regulus pauses for dramatic effect and takes in Harry’s disappointed expression for a beat. “As myself, that is.”

A befuddled Harry watches as Regulus dips behind the scuffed reception desk and grabs a biro. Carefully disguising his loopy handwriting, Regulus signs a crisp, angled “P. Dursley”. He hands it back to Harry.

“Brill,” Harry says. “This actually looks like an adult wrote it! It doesn’t even remotely resemble Aunt Petunia’s signature, mind you, but it’s not like anybody will know.”

Regulus shrugs. (He’s been working on that sort of thing. Shrugging, and all those other little gestures mother told him were improper when he was growing up.) “How about we skip this place and head back to my flat before the Ministry realises you’ve done magic at—and left—the Dursleys’?”

“Aren’t you on the clock?”

“Yes,” Regulus says, grabbing his blazer from its spot draped over the chair and throwing it on, “But what’re they going to do about it? I’m the best damn employee this place has.”

Harry looks very, very doubtful of this claim, but he complies and grabs his trunk.

Chapter Text

Regulus and Harry exit the library and step into the comfortable summer evening. Regulus sets pace, walking briskly along the pavement. After all, it wouldn’t do him very much good at all for the Ministry to investigate the case of missing Harry and to discover the boy in present company.

It is, however, only a bit up the road when Regulus first realises something isn’t right. He turns his head as soon as he thinks he spots it, but the black shape that darted from a bush to another disappears into the next as soon as he spots it.

Somewhat unsettled, he picks up the pace a bit.

If Regulus were on his own, he’d likely investigate the shape that’s been rather steadily tailing the two of them. However, because Harry is with him, he refrains from acknowledging it at all. Best not to provoke the figure, especially given it seems content to watch for now.

Luckily, the walk back is quick, and the two soon arrive at his flat, the bushes occasional rustling the only indication the figure continues to follow.

“All right, Harry,” he says in a low voice, unlocking the door, “go on in and get settled. I’ve something to handle out here, then I’ll be in right behind you.”

He subtly palms his wand and steps back onto the pavement once Harry’s inside.

While it’s obviously not ideal he had to lead the figure to his flat, Regulus figures he can always use Obliviate… Or, even better yet, perhaps it’s some hungry stray he’s been entirely too paranoid about. He looks around to ensure there’s nobody around before speaking.

“You can come out now,” he informs a nearby bush.

A dog steps out of it. Regulus frowns, taking a cautious step back. It’s a rather bearish, unfamiliar black dog with lights that almost glow under the streetlight and, while he doesn’t know his dogs well, he suspects it to be a Newfoundland.

It’s between blinks that the dog is replaced by a man. A very familiar man, whose face had been on muggle broadcasts earlier in the week and who was once an impossibly distant teen he’d lived in the shadow of.

In tattered Azkaban robes and in need of a good shave, Sirius Black stares down his younger brother for the first time in over a decade. The two look at each other rather awkwardly. Or, at least it feels awkward to Regulus.

Sirius speaks first, voice somewhat hoarse. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Azkaban?” Regulus immediately counters.

Then, on a moment of reflection, he realises Sirius recognised him… And here he’d been beginning to think his disguise foolproof.

(Even so, Sirius is no fool. He’s foolhardy and reckless, yes, but though he may not always put it to good use, there is a sharp intellect rattling around in his head somewhere.)

“It’s a long story,” Sirius deflects. “I haven’t the time to—“

“In that case, it’d better be a good one, then,” Regulus says.

He won’t deny he’s been curious about when and how Sirius’d landed himself in Azkaban. Although Sirius’d never been the best at telling stories… Hopefully he’s worked on that in Azkaban.

“I really should be going— I only wanted a look,” Sirius protests.

“Nope. You’re not getting out of this,” Regulus says. “Only, not here,” he adds, thinking of Harry just inside.

Though he thinks it highly unlikely Sirius’ll turn out to have become some manner of bloodthirsty maniac, Regulus would hardly be able to forgive himself if something happens to Harry because he didn’t take the proper precautions. And, he’s sure the boy can take care of himself for the time it takes for the two to have a little chat.

“I don’t think—“

Regulus sighs. It’s not as if he’s particularly enthusiastic about this either, but he at least understands when to admit something needs being done.

Banking on the idea Sirius’d rushed from Azkaban without retrieving his wand (or any wand), Regulus points his wand at his older brother in what he hopes come across as a vaguely threatening manner. Inclining his head, he gestures down the road in the direction of the neighbourhood park. Sirius sourly eyes the wand and reluctantly complies.

The park, although small, is bisected by a road and has a rather pitiful play arena surrounded by neatly trimmed grass. It is as empty as the surrounding streets, and the park gate is locked, though it is hardly any trouble to step over it. Sirius sits on a swing. Regulus sends up the handy little muffling spell Severus taught him in fifth year. 

“Well?”

Sirius sighs petulantly. “Reckon I’m being held hostage here until I squeal?”

“I wouldn’t word it that way, but I think we need to talk, yes.”

“Why should I trust you?” Sirius counters.

“I defected from— well, you know. And the Tapestry’d said I’d died after what I did, I took the opportunity to leave.”

“You left the family?”

Regulus nods. “The Family and the wizarding world.”

“So,” Sirius says slowly, “you expect me to believe you finally realised how fucked that family is, double-crossed Voldemort somehow, picked up the world’s worst disguise, and have been living among the muggles?”

“When you put it that way, it sounds highly unrealistic.”

“Only because it is highly unrealistic,” Sirius says. “Can’t you prove it?”

“How?” Regulus asks. “Isn’t my being here in clearly mugglish clothes enough for you?”

“Not really.”

“What, do you want to see my non-existent Dark Mark or something?”

“Your what?”

“Dark Mark?”

Did the Order not know about the Dark Mark? He’d’ve thought they would have noticed the conspicuously identical marks on captured or killed Death Eaters’ forearms.

“Th’fuck’s that?”

“The world’s most regrettable tattoo,” he says solemnly. “It has an inbuilt Protean charm connecting the bearer to the Dar— Voldemort. It’s how he kept tabs on everyone. Fascinating charm-work, but a clear liability once I’d defected.”

“All right?”

“Do you want an in-depth explanation of the double threefold runic matrices I used to throttle the connection?” Regulus perks up.

“Merlin, no,” Sirius says. “We’re wasting time. Suppose I’ll trust you… for now.”

“Thank you,” Regulus says, relieved. “Your trust is not misplaced.”

Sirius sends him a very doubtful look. “You first,” he says.

“I beg your pardon?”

“‘I beg your’— Merlin,” Sirius repeats, shaking his head. “No, but seriously, you’re going first.”

“What exactly do you want to hear?”

“You know, how you ended up here, looking like a posh specky git.”

“Suppose it was all part of my plan—“

“Your plan was to take a leaf from Clark Kent’s book? Get a pair of spectacles and fuck off?”

“If you keep interrupting, we’ll hardly get anywhere,” Regulus points out, crossing his arms. “But, if you really must know, it was your influence that inspired that part of my plan. You surely haven’t forgot Spring Term of ’75.”

Now that was truly unbearable. Someone—James or Andy or whoever—provided Sirius with muggle comic books, and he’d spent months talking the ears off of anyone in earshot.

“I can’t believe that works,” Sirius says despairingly.

“It’s amusing.”

“It’s… a little amusing,” Sirius says, sounding a bit begrudging. “Go on then.”

“Well, I guess the story starts after you’d left. You see, mother wasn’t about to let me get out of doing my duties to the Family. Voldemort wanted a Black, and he didn’t seem to care which one. I, of course, was happy to oblige. Eager to please, loyal, a coward, what have you… 

“So, of course, Trixie was ‘in’ at this point, as was Cissa’s husband, Lucius. They’d send me letters at Hogwarts telling me our parents would be proud of me for once. After a bit of this, I’d quite happily agreed to meet with this ‘Dark Lord’. He was impressed with my marks and interest in darker magic, not to mention the Family vaults.

“After getting his Mark, it was all right for a while. I’d learnt all sorts of arcane magics, and extrajudicial activities were kept on the down-low. But, eventually, I wasn’t doing enough for them. They wanted more. Trixie would say ‘Reggie, dear, Crucio this muggle filth’, and Evan would corner me after Charms and say ‘Hey Regulus, wanna burn down these blood traitors’ home this weekend?’.

“It just kept getting worse, but I was stuck at that point. So, I half-heartedly followed along, only ever doing the bare minimum to keep Voldemort’s ire off of me. But, I kept searching for a way out, that moment when I could escape and maybe flee to one of our summer homes on the continent…”

Sirius gives him a very unimpressed look.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Sirius, we can’t all be beastly like you. No matter, that way out finally came in ’79. February. I… should be vague about the details here, but he— he hurt Kreacher. Discarded Kreacher like old rubbish. I know you don’t care for him, Sirius, but it was awful.

“Because of this, I figured out his secret. He’s immortal because of a nasty bit of magic. Terribly dark magic, even by the Family’s standards. And, for once, I decided to be brave; strike some sort of blow against him.

“I needed my singular act of rebellion to mean something, even if I was destined to die in the process… Because, well, someone had to do something about it, and only Voldemort and I knew his secret.

“I nearly died,” (understatement of the year), “but somehow—I still don’t know how—I didn’t. So, I got my wits about me, evaluated my options, and decided the best approach was the hiding-in-plain-sight technique.”

Sirius makes a guffawing noise of disbelief.

“It’s clever,” he insists, “nobody’d suspect it of me. But, yes, I’ve rented a flat, got a job, all that tosh. Been hiding out here ever since.”

He’s purposefully vague on the details toward the end. He isn’t sure he wants to tell Sirius about Harry yet— no small part of that being because Regulus can’t imagine how humorous he’ll find it. And though he did see the two of them walking together, hopefully the dim evening made it hard for Sirius to recognise Harry.

Sirius looks contemplative. “Damn,” he says at last. “Maybe I shouldn’t have spent all those years going around telling everyone that you tried backing out but got yourself killed by Voldemort’s minions because you were a numpty coward who got in over his head.”

“You’ve WHAT?” Regulus squeaks.

“Never mind that,” Sirius says hurriedly.

“Actually, I think we should circle back to th—“

“Nope,” Sirius says, “we’ll actually never mention that again.”

“Sure,” Regulus says, like a liar. “We can move on. Your turn.”

Sirius appears instantly glummer. “Right.”

“What brings you here?”

As far as Regulus knows, Sirius hasn’t any particular ties to Little Whinging except for him. And he’d hardly consider himself to be anywhere near the top of Sirius’s mental list of ‘people to visit after escaping Azkaban’.

“I wanted to just… catch a glimpse of Harry—which I noticed you’ve neglected to mention knowing—before heading up north to… to.” His face darkens, and he rises from the swing he’d been sitting rather idly on. “I need to kill that— that fucking traitor! Merlin, how’d I forget myself!”

“Whoa there, you’re not going anywhere. Sit back down,” Regulus urges, grabbing Sirius by the sleeve of his tattered prisoner’s garb and sitting him back down. “What traitor?”

“Peter,” he says with a scowl. “He’s at Hogwarts.”

“Pettigrew?” Regulus frowns, not entirely following. “He left at the same time as you.”

“He’s a rat.”

“I think we’ve established he’s some sort of traitor.”

“No, he’s an actual rat,” Sirius sighs, running a hand through his greasy hair. “He’s the reason I was in Azkaban, why Lily and James are… dead.”

“An Animagus?” He tries to connect the dots but fails. “I’ll admit you’ve lost me entirely.”

“An Animagus, and their Secret Keeper. I pretended it was me, and the only people who knew were Lily, James, Peter, and me. I persuaded them to use Peter as Secret Keeper instead of me at the last moment. And then they… they died. I’m to blame for it.”

“So, the Potters went into hiding for whatever reason,” Regulus tries. “They needed protection under the Fidelius charm. You claimed to be the Secret Keeper, but it was actually Peter, likely on Polyjuice potion.”

“Thought it’d be bloody clever,” he says, gritting out the last word. “Bit of mischief like the old days.”

“But it backfired.”

Sirius laughs drily. “He sold them to Voldemort as soon as he could. Their home in Godric’s Hollow was destroyed, and they were killed… And I realised what I’d done.”

“I don’t think it’s your fault. He was one of your oldest—“

“No, I should’ve known. He loved following people around… us around… And he was so impossibly cruel…”

“And you were arrested at the home?” Regulus prompts, trying to steer the conversation back on track.

Sirius shakes his head. “I had to go after him. I needed to kill him for what he did to— to Lily and James. He’d gone, but I tracked him down to Leeds…

“I confronted him on the street… It was the middle of the day. There were so many muggles around. He— he caused some manner of explosion. Blew the street up. Killed about a dozen of them… And escaped into the sewers like the cowardly little rat he is.

“Ministry showed up and tossed me into Azkaban, incompetent bastards… no trial or anything.”

“Why escape now?”

Sirius reaches into his robes and retrieves a crumpled piece of newspaper. A family of beaming redheads—the Weasleys—stand in front of the Great Pyramids. He points at one of the younger boys, a gangling boy Regulus recognises as Ron from their brief interaction. There, on his shoulder, is a rat.

“That’s Peter?” Regulus says somewhat incredulously.

“I’d recognise him anywhere.”

Regulus nods, willing to accept that. “So what were you planning on doing about it?”

“He’ll be at Hogwarts this autumn… I intend to meet him there.”

“You want to catch him at Hogwarts?” Regulus says slowly. “Do you even have a wand?”

He’s fairly certain he knows the answer to this one.

“No…”

“Pray-tell how you are planning on taking him in, exactly?”

Sirius looks suddenly rather sheepish. “Er, well… I was going to murder him, actually.”

“In Hogwarts? What good would that do?”

“I’d be avenging Lily and James’s deaths.”

“What about proving your innocence? Committing murder will hardly help clear your name.”

“I don’t care about clearing my name,” Sirius says snappishly. “The Ministry’s so incompetent they’ll still have me Kissed on sight— even if I hand-delivered the traitor with a bow on his head.”

“I still don’t think that’s the way to go about it. Why don’t you come to my flat and get cleaned up? Then, we can discuss what we’re doing about Pettigrew.”

“We? Since when was this a we thing? Who said I’m going anywhere with you?”

“I did, isn’t that enough?”

“Not really.”

“Look, you said you wanted to see Harry, right? Before heading up north?”

“Yes, he’s my godson… But, what does this have to do with—“

“Harry’s back at my flat.” Regulus says, strategically turning away from Sirius and starting toward his flat. “You’d really leave him alone with big bad Death Eater me and head on your merry way without checking he’s safe?”

“You said you defected!” Sirius says, though he’s looking a bit worried now.

“I could be lying,” Regulus calls over his shoulder.

“This is manipulation, and I’m only coming to make sure Harry’s all right,” Sirius complains, though he rises from the swing and hurriedly follows. “Oi! Wait up a bit, won’t you!”

“How about you hurry!”

“No, seriously, wait.”

Something in his voice makes Regulus stop and turn around. Sirius has his arms outstretched, almost as if he wants a… hug. Regulus tucks his wand up his sleeve, raises his own arms, and Sirius closes the distance between them.

And then—

“Ow!” he yelps, raising his hand to his cheek, where Sirius punched him. “Really mature—“

He’s swiftly cut off by a real hug.

“Oh,” Regulus says, bringing up his own arms to reciprocate the gesture.

Sirius smells like wet dog and garbage, and his arms are little more than skin and bone, but the hug is comforting… He’s never been hugged by Sirius before—mostly because such gestures were never taught at Grimmauld—and he knows Sirius learnt from James and his fellow Gryffindors. They were good teachers, he concludes.

“I’ve… missed you,” Sirius mutters.

“Harry’s just fine,” Regulus admits.

“I know that.” Sirius lets go. “I’d still like to see for myself. Godfatherly duties and all.”

“Right.” Regulus nods. “‘Godfatherly duties’.”

Sirius hops the park gate with great enthusiasm. “Lead the way, then!”

Regulus rubs his smarting cheek with a small smile. A bruise is sure to form there: he can almost see the splotchy purple patch of angry skin on tomorrow’s reflection. 

All in all, however, he thinks that went rather well.