Chapter Text

BOOK IV: Pawns

Chapter 5

His Final Mission

October 31st, 1979

The firelight danced along the walls of Lestrange Manor’s grand dining hall, casting crooked shadows over the long, dark table. The air was heavy with smoke and the quiet hum of wards—ancient enchantments woven into the very bones of the house. The Inner Circle sat in silence, arranged like chess pieces around their king, each one a cold figure, calculating and still.

Regulus sat near the centre, his posture impeccable, hands folded neatly in his lap. Beside him, Dolohov twirled his wand with a kind of idle precision, the tip occasionally sparking. He could easily imagine Barty sitting among them, as his boyfriend—or lately more a friend?—had claimed in his letters he would soon. Regulus wanted to scream at him not to.

The scent of damp wool, dried blood, and burning wax made Regulus feel faintly ill, but he betrayed nothing. He was practiced now—mask, mask, always the mask.

A month had passed since his father’s death. Orion Black, Lord of the House of Black, had finally succumbed to the quiet decay that had gnawed at his heart for years. The mantle had passed. Lord Regulus Arcturus Black. A title that settled around his shoulders like a too-heavy cloak.

And yet, in this hall, surrounded by so many voices and flickering candlelight, Regulus had never felt more alone.

The Dark Lord’s voice echoed from the far end of the table, mid-monologue. Regulus hadn’t heard the beginning—he’d trained himself to appear alert while his mind drifted. He couldn’t afford to show anything but interest, however hollow.

The speech tapered off, the words sliding into a long silence. Several followers exchanged glances. Some bowed their heads. One by one, they rose.

"You may go," the Dark Lord said finally, his voice silken, deceptive in its gentleness.

Chairs scraped the floor as the Inner Circle dispersed like smoke. Robes swished, wands vanished into sleeves, whispered words lingered in the air. Dolohov rose beside Regulus, nudged his arm in silent farewell, and followed the others out.

Regulus made to rise—

"Regulus," the Dark Lord said softly, almost fondly. “Stay.”

His blood iced. He remained seated, spine stiff. He didn’t look back.

He heard the final door close behind the last follower, and then soft, deliberate footsteps approached from behind.

A pause.

Then the voice, low and close now. “My brother, Regulus.”

Regulus’s jaw twitched, but he kept his eyes on the candle in front of him. The use of ‘brother’ from this man turned his stomach.

“I offer my condolences for your father’s passing.”

The words were hollow. Polite. They meant nothing.

Regulus inclined his head once. “Thank you, my Lord.”

There was a smile in the silence that followed. He could hear it, even if he didn’t see it.

“Yet with loss comes opportunity,” the Dark Lord murmured. “The House of Black remains a great and powerful ally. And you—Lord Black now—shall prove that legacy endures.”

Regulus swallowed. He kept his voice steady. “How may I serve?”

“I require something of you,” the Dark Lord said. The voice came closer still. Regulus could feel the presence looming just behind his chair. “Your most loyal servant.”

Regulus blinked once.

“My house-elf?” he asked, the syllables dry as ash.

“Yes,” came the answer, smooth as oil. “A simple task. But he will serve a purpose far greater than himself. And I trust that, as his master, you will allow it.”

Regulus nodded slowly. “Of course.”

“Excellent,” the Dark Lord said. “Then have him ready. I shall call for him tomorrow.”

There was a pause, and then the man stepped away, robes whispering across the stone floor like a closing curtain.

Regulus sat frozen, candlelight trembling in the silence around him. His fingers curled against the wood of the table.

The mask held.

But inside, something began to scream.

The sky above the North Pennines was bruised with dusk, clouds gathering low and heavy on the horizon, threatening rain. Remus knelt near his campfire, rolling up his blanket and packing his satchel with methodical calm. The chill in the air did little to bite him these days—his body had long since adapted to rough terrain and long nights alone.

It had been nearly a month since he found this pack.

A month of patience. A month of camping just outside their territory. A month of approaching slowly, without a wand in hand, showing he meant no harm.

And yet he was still only tolerated.

The clearing where they congregated was little more than a ruin of stone walls overgrown with moss and brambles, hidden deep in the forest where no Muggle eyes ever wandered. Remus had learned not to flinch when he crossed the old boundary wards—painful and raw at first, they now only thrummed faintly through his bones like a low bassline.

They hadn’t attacked him.

But they hadn’t trusted him either.

Today, Norman had returned to speak with him again. The older werewolf was stocky and bald, with a silver beard and laugh lines worn deep despite the shadows under his eyes. He always brought Remus some stale bread or roasted rabbit, sharing it like a friendly neighbour.

Norman had a kindness in him that Remus couldn’t quite reconcile with his loyalties.

“How many of you are there?” Remus had asked this morning, gently probing.

“Forty-eight, give or take,” Norman had replied, gnawing at a bit of meat. “Few don’t stay for every moon. And we’ve had pups joining recently.”

Remus had paused. “Children?”

“Aye,” Norman said, as if that were perfectly ordinary. “Most of us were sired young. Easier that way. They grow up pack. They don’t know what they’re missin’.”

Remus’s mouth had gone dry. His own memories flooded back—his mother’s screams, his father’s panicked shouting, the pain and confusion of his first transformations.

He had been five.

“You like being a werewolf?” Remus asked quietly, fingers twitching around his tea cup.

Norman had chuckled. “Better than the office job I had. Always felt like a freak. Now I’ve got a family. A leader who protects us. Feeds us. Treats us like people.”

Remus nodded slowly, the back of his neck prickling. “Your alpha,” he said, heart thudding. “Was it… always him?”

Norman looked at him with shining eyes. “Greyback sired all of us. He made this pack. Brought us out of hiding. He’s been gone, but…” His face lit up. “He’s coming back tonight.”

Remus stared at him. The world tilted beneath his feet.

Greyback.

The name rang like a curse in his skull. The man who had changed his life with a single bite. The one who haunted every full moon, every scarred inch of his skin. The one who preyed on children—on him—to spread his ‘gift.’

Remus’s hand clenched around the edge of his cloak.

He was surrounded.

No backup. No wand at the ready. No hope of fleeing without drawing attention.

Greyback was returning tonight.

And Remus was deep in the den.

November 3rd, 1979

His room was quiet, save for the relentless scratching of quill on parchment. Scrolls lay rolled out in overlapping layers across the carpet, and the sour scent of melted candle wax hung heavy in the still air. Ink stained Regulus’s right hand, blotched along the side of his pinkie and wrist, where he leaned into his furious notes.

He’d been awake for over a day.

The flickering lamplight illuminated the spidery script in the centre of his notebook—the words he had copied from Herpo’s ancient verse.

What’s torn through death, shall never die,
as root in clay or silver lie.
A name, a breath, a drop of bone—
let flesh decay, but soul live on.

He had dismissed it as nonsense when he first translated it. Now it chilled his bones. A soul split and tethered to an object… or objects.

The locket was not simply hidden. It was protected, as if it were a heart locked behind bone and blood. Kreacher had confirmed as much. The poor elf had only returned by the force of Regulus’s orders—soaked in salt water, teeth marks along his arms, eyes wild with horror. It had taken a full day for him to recover enough to speak.

Voldemort had left him there to die.

Regulus couldn’t stop picturing it: the gleam of that basin, the green potion swirling like poison-laced memories, the shrieking lake full of cursed corpses. Kreacher had choked on the description, and Regulus had nearly been sick.

This was not about politics. Not about blood or power.

It was about immortality.

And if the Dark Lord could not die—if his soul was split in two pieces—then this madness would never end. Ever.

Regulus stared down at his hands, picking at his cuticles in desperation. He needed somebody to talk to. But Sirius had given up on him long ago and Pandora was on the other side of the hemisphere.

He didn’t hear the tapping at first. Soft, delicate. Then more insistent.

He blinked, rising from his desk and crossing to the frost-bitten window.

A crow tapped against the glass.

Not just any crow.

“Mor?” he breathed, heart seizing in his chest.

With a flick of his wand, the window creaked open, and the November wind rushed in, carrying dried leaves and bone-deep chill.

Mor hopped in with practiced grace, black feathers gleaming like polished obsidian. The familiar landed on the back of a chair and gave a low caw—nothing loud, just… present.

Regulus crossed to him slowly, and with hands gentler than they had been in weeks, reached to scratch the bird’s neck. Mor tilted his head to allow it.

“I thought you were in Canada,” he murmured. “With Panda.” Another caw, this one softer.

Regulus glanced back out the window, where three more crows watched from the bare branches of the apple tree below. “Of course,” he said, voice brittle. “You wouldn't leave your own kind behind.”

He sat down heavily beside the bird, the candlelight flickering shadows across his hollow cheeks. His mind was still racing. “Can I pretend, just for a moment… that you’re her?”

Mor blinked.

“I think I’ve done something… irreversible.” He laughed softly, bitterly. “Or I’m about to, anyway.”

Silence.

“I gave Kreacher to him.” His fingers curled into his palm. “But I made him promise to come back to me. And he did. He came back.”

Regulus looked at the bird, truly looked, as if he could see Pandora through its eyes.

“I have to destroy it. The locket.” He took a trembling breath. “I know it’s a piece of his soul. A Horcrux. That’s what the texts call it.”

Mor cawed, low and sharp.

“You agree then,” Regulus whispered. “There’s no other way.”

His voice dropped further. “I won’t come back, will I?”

The crow was quiet this time. No caw, no movement. Just a soft flutter of wings and a sorrowful stillness.

Regulus didn’t expect anything else.

He deliberated for a couple of minutes. He didn't want to die. He wanted to live. Where Sirius had traded his safety for freedom, Regulus had given up his freedom to be safe.

But if he was honest with himself, he hadn't lived a day in a while.

Maybe his death would mean something, where his life hadn't.

A deep breath was all it took to decide.

He stood and crossed to the writing desk again, hands suddenly steady as he reached for parchment.

Panda,
I need your help with something. Please contact my house-elf Kreacher as soon as you are available. — Reggie

He rolled the note tightly, bound it with string, and held it out. “Take this to her, Mor. Please. When she returns.”

The crow hopped forward, gently clasping the note in its beak, and with a flap of wings and a final glance, leapt out into the cold sky.

Regulus watched until the bird vanished into the dusk.

Then he turned back to the desk and retrieved another piece of parchment.

To the Dark Lord—
I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.
I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.
— R.A.B.

He folded it neatly, slid it into the hollow of his silver prefect badge, and transformed it into a locket with a soft tap of his wand. He held it up, inspecting the workmanship. It would do.

The house around him was still, too still. Regulus breathed it in one last time.

With slow steps, he moved to his bed. On the edge, the black dog plush stared at him with button eyes, worn but intact.

He picked it up and walked across the hall, opening Sirius’s old room.

The lion plush sat in its usual place. He placed the black dog next to it.

Together. As they should be.

Maybe, when Voldemort was defeated, Sirius could find a way to forgive him.

On an afterthought, he took of his father's ring and wedged it between them.

“Kreacher,” he whispered, and the air shifted.

The hour had come.

The wind howled past her ears, cold and sharp with late autumn bite, but Mia barely felt it. Her arms wrapped tightly around Sirius’s waist, fingers clinging to the folds of his leather jacket, she leaned into his back as the motorbike roared beneath them, its magic thrumming like a living thing.

The world blurred in streaks of gold and green as they sped through the countryside, rolling hills rushing past under the dull grey sky. Her hair, pulled into a messy braid, whipped against her cheek, and the scent of pine and damp leaves filled her lungs.

“You’re squeezing the life out of me, love,” Sirius called over his shoulder, his voice barely audible above the engine. “I haven’t even hit full speed yet.”

Mia poked him in the side, making him yelp in mock protest, but didn’t loosen her grip.

“Are you having fun though?” he asked, softer this time.

She nodded into his back. He chuckled, and the warmth of it rumbled through her hands.

“I haven’t shown you the best part yet,” he said, voice low and conspiratorial. “Ready to fly?”

“Wait—” she began, but it was too late. With a powerful lurch, the motorbike lifted off the road, leaving the solid ground behind. The engine’s snarl deepened as they shot upwards into the open sky.

Mia let out a startled eep and clung to Sirius like a barnacle, her eyes squeezed shut.

He laughed. “You should open your eyes for the full experience.”

“How do you even know they’re closed?” she grumbled into his shoulder.

“Because if they were open,” he replied, “you’d have gasped by now.”

She hesitated.

“Come on, Potter,” he coaxed, grin audible in his tone. “You won’t fall. I’ve got you.”

She exhaled slowly. “Only because it’s your day.”

And she opened her eyes.

The gasp came unbidden.

Beneath them stretched the countryside, a vast tapestry of orange, amber, and fading green. Fields and hedgerows carved up the land like patchwork, and in the west, the sun dipped low, casting the hills in molten light. Clouds blushed with colour, streaks of crimson and violet threading the pale blue sky.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

“Told you so,” Sirius said smugly, his voice softer now, more reverent.

Mia rested her chin briefly on his shoulder, letting the silence stretch between them, full of wind and sky and the illusion that, just for a while, the war didn’t exist.

They didn’t speak again until they touched down on the grassy slope behind Potter Manor, near the old garden shed. The engine quieted, and the magic hummed down to a soft purr.

But the warmth of the ride faded quickly.

Sirius swung one leg over and climbed off, his expression tight and distracted. Mia lingered for a moment, sensing the shift.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, climbing down beside him. “Something on your mind?”

He hesitated, then gave a half-shrug, gaze focused on the horizon. “Just thinking.”

She tilted her head. “About what?”

He didn’t meet her eyes. “About Reggie—Regulus. He came to our flat. A year ago.”

Mia’s heart leapt. “He did?” Her voice was too bright, too hopeful.

Sirius’s tone was not. “Yeah. Don’t know what the bloody Death Eater was thinking, showing up like that.”

Mia’s face fell. “You… you didn’t talk to him?”

Sirius turned on her, something hard flashing in his eyes. “What was there to say? That I’m proud of him for taking the Mark? For selling himself to Voldemort?”

She flinched at the bitterness in his voice. “But he came to you. Isn’t that what you wanted? A chance to talk?”

“That was before I knew for certain,” Sirius snapped, “before I saw the damn Mark on his arm.”

Mia crossed her arms, frustration bubbling. “You were supposed to listen. Just listen, Sirius!”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘supposed to’?”

She hesitated, but her guilt and anger warred too violently to stop now. “I asked Narcissa. I told her you’d want to see him.”

Sirius’s voice dropped to a dangerous low. “You what?”

“I just thought—” she began.

“You thought you could meddle in my family?” His voice cracked like a whip. “My family, Mia. You think you get to fix what’s beyond fixing?”

“I care about you!” she yelled back, fists clenched. “And I know you care about him, whether you admit it or not!”

His laughter was hollow, disbelieving. “I never asked for your help. I never wanted you involved.”

“And what, Sirius? You’d rather stay angry and alone than risk having a bloody conversation?”

"IT WAS NONE OF YOUR CONCERN!"

Their voices echoed off the garden walls, the fading light casting long shadows between them.

Both were heavily breathing, staring at each other. Mia felt her eyes burn, but pressed her teeth together, forcing her tears back.

They had fought before, over ridiculous things. It came with living together in a small space. But this was different.

Never before had Sirius used this tone on her.

And never had she been this angry with him either, even though a part of her knew she possibly had overstepped boundaries.

How had the perfect evening turned out this way?

Sirius grabbed the handlebars of his motorbike, pushing it roughly toward the shed. “I’m not in the mood to celebrate anymore,” he muttered. “Tell James we’ll wait till Moony’s back.”

She didn’t move as he disappeared into the shed, didn’t call after him.

She stood alone in the garden as the last light of the sun vanished behind the hills.

When she finally turned, it was not toward the Ridgeway flat, but toward the side door of the Manor. Toward her old room.

Tonight, she needed silence.

And time to think.

No sound but the faint lap of water against stone of the island. No air moved. Even the sea’s roar at the cave’s mouth felt miles away. The basin before him glowed faintly, casting an unnatural green light across the smooth stone and Regulus’s pale, drawn face.

Kreacher knelt at his side, silent now but visibly shaking. The elf’s large eyes never left him, wide with terror and pleading. "Master Regulus, please—"

“I know.” Regulus’s voice cracked. He couldn’t look at Kreacher. "But I must."

The goblet sat ready beside the basin, untouched, as if mocking him.

He reached for it once—and paused.

His fingers hovered just inches away, curled into a trembling half-fist. His chest was tight, every breath shallow. A strange, echoing pulse throbbed behind his ribs, louder than his heartbeat.

This will hurt. Kreacher had described the effects through shudders and sobs: the screaming thirst, the hallucinations, the madness.

This will kill me. That part Regulus hadn’t admitted aloud. Not even to himself.

But someone had to do it.

His hand moved. Deliberate. Controlled.

He lifted the goblet.

Kreacher whimpered softly behind him.

Regulus inhaled once—sharp and steady. “For what it’s worth, I hope you’re right, Panda,” he whispered, and then, louder: “Cheers to you, Sirius.”

And he drank.

The first swallow burned like acid, ripping through his throat. His knees buckled.

The goblet clattered from his hand and refilled itself.

Kreacher screamed his name.

But Regulus only reached, blindly, for the next.

November 4th, 1979

Mia loomed over him, demanding to know, why he couldn't talk about things like a responsible adult, while cradling an odd looking Regulus-baby in her arms.

And then suddenly Mia grew a beak and started pecking at him, hitting an invisible wall with an annoyingly loud, rhythmic sound.

The world was spinning. Not in a dramatic, stormy sort of way, but in a slow, sickly swirl of stale firewhiskey and regret.

Sirius groaned and buried his face in the pillow. The sunlight stabbing through the curtains was much too cheerful for how miserable he felt. His head throbbed like a marching band had taken up residence behind his eyes, and his tongue was dry as sandpaper.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. He only remembered the fight. The bitter words. Mia’s face, hurt and furious in equal measure. Her side of the bed was empty, she hadn't returned that night.

Then the sound came again—soft but insistent.

Tap.
Tap.
TAP-TAP-TAP.

He cracked one eye open again and squinted toward the window.

A large black owl was hurling itself against the glass, red-tinged eyes gleaming with fury. Its beak scraped and tapped with such force the pane rattled in its frame.

Sirius blinked blearily. “Bugger off…”

The owl let out a shriek and slammed its whole body into the window again.

It took him longer than it should have to register the familiar sheen of those feathers. That cold, crimson stare. His stomach twisted.

Walburga's owl.

How did she even know, where he lived?

He sat up far too quickly and the room tipped like a capsizing ship. Swearing under his breath, he staggered to the window and yanked it open.

The bird didn’t wait. It dropped a folded scrap of parchment onto the floor and launched back into the sky without so much as a hoot of goodbye.

Sirius stared after it, dumbstruck.

Then, carefully, he picked up the parchment. It wasn’t sealed. No wax. No signature. Just his name scrawled in neat, angular handwriting.

Still half-asleep, he scanned it. The words sank slowly through the haze. And then all at once.

The air in the room turned thin. He took a step, then lurched. Pain surged through his gut and chest, and he barely made it to the bathroom in time.

Kneeling over the toilet, Sirius retched violently. Again and again, until there was nothing left but acid and agony.

Mia paced her old bedroom in Potter Manor, arms folded tightly across her chest. The storm of last night had given way to an overcast silence that mirrored the ache pressing against her ribs. She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Sirius, standing stiff by the motorbike, anger radiating off him like heat. His words still clung to her skin like ash.

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against the cool windowpane. The garden below was quiet, wet leaves scattered like broken thoughts along the path. She’d only wanted to help. Wanted to mend something that had shattered between brothers who, deep down, still cared for one another. But maybe she had pushed too hard.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

“Don’t wait for me, Jamie,” she called, not turning around.

The doorknob twitched. She had locked it from the inside.

“I’ll get some leftovers later,” she tried again, more insistently. She didn’t want to talk.

A pause. Then a voice, quieter than she had ever heard it from him:
“It’s me.”

Mia turned at once. “Sirius?”

No answer. Just the sound of something—a body—lowering against the other side of the door. The creak of floorboards beneath his weight.

She hovered a moment, unsure. Then she stepped forward and sat down with her back to the wood, mirroring him.

Silence fell. Not tense this time, but aching. Breathing, but barely.

“I’m sorry,” they both said at the same time.

Mia let out a soft, broken laugh. “What do you mean?” she asked. “You were right. It wasn’t my place.”

“No,” Sirius murmured, voice hoarse. “You were right. I should’ve talked to him. I should’ve—”

He cut himself off, and she heard his breath hitch. Her heart squeezed.

Gently, she reached up and turned the key in the lock, then pulled the door open a few inches. Sirius was there, slumped against the frame, eyes red-rimmed, dark hair tangled. He looked nothing like the cocky boy who flew through autumn skies on a motorbike. He looked like a man unravelled.

He met her gaze, and in that moment, she knew something was terribly wrong.

“Sirius?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

His lip wobbled. He tried to speak, but all he managed was three ragged words:
“He is dead.”