Chapter Text
The Department of Mysteries had been quietly working with the Auror Office, combing through captured Death Eaters for weeks. Truth serum didn’t work on all of them—some had tongues sealed with dark magic or minds shredded by loyalty spells—but one had cracked. A minor recruit, forgotten by Voldemort the moment he joined.
From him, they learned two vital pieces of information.
One: the Slytherin locket Horcrux—unbeknownst to most of Voldemort’s followers—was being hidden in Thorfinn Rowle’s ancestral estate, nestled behind layers of pureblood protections. Hidden at his ancestral estate under the pretense of “Pureblood stewardship,” protected by enchantments only the Old Families could navigate.
Two: the Dark Lord had grown uneasy. Whispers of traitors, of vanished magical signatures, of unusual tracking spells in the air. He planned to move the locket to a place “none could reach” by the end of the month. The window was narrowing. If they didn’t act within the week, it would vanish beyond reach.
The Unspeakables and Aurors had one slim opportunity. A week from now, Rowle was hosting a grand Pureblood Ball—an annual, veiled celebration of supremacist tradition under the guise of social pageantry. If someone could get inside and locate the locket before the transfer…
Croaker stood at the center of the table, silver hair glinting under the ghost-light. Arcane projections shimmered above him: Rowle’s estate, the wards surrounding it, the known Death Eaters on the guest list of the upcoming Pureblood Ball.
“Rowle’s Ball is our only shot,” Croaker said. “Security will be high, but so will our chance to blend in. They won’t expect infiltration at a social event—especially from one of their own.”
He paused.
“We need someone who can move unnoticed among them.”
“I’ll go,” Regulus said, voice calm, certain.
The room shifted.
Barty leaned back in his chair, smirking. “You always did love theatrics.”
“It’s not theatrics,” Regulus said. “It’s blood. Mine is old enough for Rowle to bow his head to. I’ll get on the guest list—my name still means something to them.”
Croaker gave him a long look. “You’re volunteering to walk into a ballroom filled with Death Eaters, including Rowle himself, and steal a Horcrux from under their noses.”
In a quiet corridor outside the war room, Regulus leaned against the wall, eyes distant.
Petunia found him there. “You’re sure?”
“No,” he said softly. “But I have to try.”
Her voice dropped. “If the locket moves… if Voldemort senses even a whisper of betrayal—”
“He already suspects,” Regulus said. “He’ll move it regardless. This is our only chance.”
“You’ll bring it back?”
He nodded. “Or die trying.”
Regulus met his gaze. “I’m not asking for permission.”
“You’re not going alone,” Pandora cut in sharply.
“I didn’t plan to,” he said without turning. “I need people who can play their parts.”
Evan smirked. “Arrogant heir? Check.”
“Sweet, wide-eyed heir with secrets?” Pandora added with a smile.
Barty cracked his knuckles. “And the dangerous one they should never have let in the door.”
Croaker gave a rare smile. “Then it’s settled. You leave in five days. Dress to kill.”
In a quiet corridor outside the war room, Regulus leaned against the wall, eyes distant.
Petunia found him there. “You’re sure?”
“No,” he said softly. “But I have to try.”
Her voice dropped. “If the locket moves… if Voldemort senses even a whisper of betrayal—”
“He already suspects,” Regulus said. “He’ll move it regardless. This is our only chance.”
“You’ll bring it back?”
He nodded. “Or die trying.”
The Rowle estate is a grotesque display of pureblood wealth — baroque chandeliers, ancient magical tapestries whispering secrets, and charmed statues that stare too long. House-elves move like ghosts with silver trays. Everyone is in dress robes shimmering with ancestral enchantments. The Ball is a pretext: power deals, marriage arrangements, and whispers of raids circle the air like smoke.
The four step out of the Floo in staggered entrances. Regulus wears the Black family signet like a knife to the throat, aloof and perfect. Pandora glows cold and diamond-sharp in a Greengrass heirloom dress. Evan cuts a figure of careless beauty, and Barty oozes sly charm with a carefully loosened collar and his father's arrogant tilt of the chin.
Their invitations are unquestioned.
Pandora (smiling icily to the greeter): “The Rosier line still holds respect here, I trust?”
Greeter (bowing low): “We would be torn apart for anything less, Lady Pandora.”
They blend into the ballroom’s glittering nightmare. Regulus scans the perimeter — library down the left corridor, Rowle’s private study two floors up, and the master bedroom likely guarded by curses.
At the center of it all, Death Eaters linger like rot in silk, laughing too loud, drinking too much. The room feels tainted. Conversations reek of cruelty.
Rodolphus Lestrange brushes against Pandora like he owns her.
Rodolphus (mock-earnest): “You’ve grown, Rosier. Heard your parents are reviewing offers. I hope they still consider Lestrange blood fit for marriage.”
Pandora (dry): “Your blood, perhaps. Your mind? Still under review.”
Sylvana Selwyn (from across the room, smirking): “Play nice, Rolph. She bites.”
Pandora keeps her composure, but her fingers tighten around her charmed bracelet — layered with tracking runes and curse breakers.
Barty and Evan, meanwhile, flirt like snakes with the younger crowd of Death Eater initiates. Evan sidles up to Alecto Carrow, feigning boredom.
Evan (with a lazy smile): “Another raid in Knockturn? Honestly, it’s getting tedious. Don’t they have better blood to chase?”
Alecto: “Muggleborn sympathizers are like cockroaches — you burn the nest, they scatter. But this next one will make a statement.”
Barty (leaning in): “Statement like... what, wiping out an entire household? Or just maiming the kids this time?”
They laugh, the kind of laugh that curls the gut. But behind Barty’s eyes, calculation gleams.
While the main floor is a theater of pureblood power, the rest of the estate grows quieter as the party deepens into the night. Regulus slips away first — a whispered excuse about a headache. The others follow at staggered intervals.
The Library is first — warded, but with known ancestral sigils. Pandora neutralizes the lock with a rune chant half-whispered in Ancient Persian. Inside, they search shelves for possible decoys or magical maps. Evan finds a false drawer with a list of artifacts — the locket is marked “secured – master’s request”.
The Study is next. More dangerous. A portrait of a Rowle ancestor sneers as they enter.
Portrait: “Trespassing runs in your blood, Black.”
Regulus (calmly): “And cowardice runs in yours. Alert Rowle, and I’ll burn your frame while you sleep.”
They find ward keys and curse-breaker notes in a locked drawer — including a map of the manor. The locket is noted to be in the main bedroom, behind a shifting-wall concealment, charmed to shriek if opened by the unworthy.
The Bedroom is the final trial. Ward upon ward.
Barty takes lead now — he’s best with unstable charms. His father demanded excellence in all things cruel. As he unthreads a blood-activated sigil, Pandora stabilizes the collapsing ward, her bracelet humming dangerously.
Inside: a glass case, carved in serpentine blackwood, housing the Slytherin locket. A whisper presses against their minds — cold, clawing.
Evan (tense): “It’s talking to me.”
Pandora (focused): “Ignore it. It’s the soul piece trying to latch. It’s not strong enough yet.”
They swap the locket for the replica Regulus spent weeks enchanting. Identical in weight and cursed signature. Regulus holds the real one in dragonhide gloves, slipping it into the enchanted pocket of his robes.
Barty (grinning): “No alarms. No screams. No dark lord descending. That’s either brilliant — or terrifying.”
They return to the party like ghosts returning to flesh. Pandora dances with Alecto, her laughter edged with venom. Evan leans too close to Wilkes and whispers something that makes the man go pale. Barty clinks glasses with a Ministry official.
Regulus rejoins Thorfinn Rowle himself.
Rowle: “Didn’t expect to see you here, Black.”
Regulus (lightly): “Just keeping up appearances. After all, the House of Black still stands above the filth.”
Rowle: “Still time to make your loyalties clear.”
Regulus (quiet): “I already have.”
And with that, the four leave — one by one, blending into the departing crowd.
The locket pulses in Regulus’s pocket like a heartbeat too slow to be alive. Another Horcrux stolen. Another victory no one will know about.
But the war shifts slightly, in the dark.
After the Ball – The Department of Mysteries
Location: Ministry of Magic, Department of Mysteries
Time: 3:41 a.m., the night after the Pureblood Ball
Access granted via: a shadow corridor behind a locked Time-Turner vault, only visible to those marked by the Unspeakables
Regulus leads the way, his pace controlled, but there’s tension in his shoulders — like he’s bracing for a scream that hasn’t come yet. Behind him, Barty twirls a stolen Rowle cigar between his fingers; Evan’s jacket is scuffed from climbing through the manor’s defensive glamour net; Pandora’s heels click softly against the dark stone — the only sound she makes.
They pass through the veil of shadow that guards the inner halls of the Shadow Wing — a sub-chamber few even among Unspeakables know exists. The walls here breathe. The magic is old. Raw. Purposeful.
At the archway, Regulus lifts his hand. The Black family signet ring pulses once with ancient enchantment — not authority, but blood memory.
The door parts.
Inside waits Magister Aletheia, her face wrapped in enchanted veil-silk, her voice a triple echo when she speaks.
Aletheia: “You have it.”
Regulus (softly): “Confirmed. Slytherin’s locket. The soul fragment is still contained.”
Barty (grinning): “Nearly flirted it away to Rodolphus Lestrange. Pity — he’s a terrible kisser.”
Evan (to Pandora): “You’re the one who nearly stabbed Wilkes with your hairpin when he called you a ‘breeding project.’”
Pandora (cool): “And I still might.”
Regulus ignores the banter. He removes the locket from his inner robe, still sealed in the runed containment bag made of dragonhide, ritual silk, and spells Petunia created weeks ago.
He places it on the Obsidian Plinth at the center of the chamber.
The moment the bag touches the surface, the room groans — a sound like the universe sighing under strain. The plinth drinks in the magic and reveals the Horcrux.
The locket shudders. Screams whisper at the edge of hearing.
Aletheia: “Second confirmed. The first has been safely sealed in the Vault of Null.”
Regulus: “Where it can’t call to him?”
Aletheia: “Or to you.”
The Unspeakables around them are silent — shadows behind layers of magical distortion, faces hidden, identities erased. But respect hangs in the room. These were children, barely seventeen. They infiltrated a Death Eater sanctuary and stole from beneath Voldemort’s nose. Again.
Aletheia: “You are not agents. Not bound by oath. And yet...”
Regulus (quietly): “We are bound. Just not in the way you are.”
She inclines her head — acknowledgment, maybe admiration.
Aletheia: “Then say your truth, and let the Department take the weight.”
Each of them must speak. A witness-vow, binding the truth of the Horcrux’s recovery to time, magic, and memory.
Barty (hand on the plinth):
“I am Barty Crouch Jr., and I confirm this object was recovered from Thorfinn Rowle’s manor on June 15th, 1978, during the pureblood gathering. I kept lookout and performed defensive counter-charms during infiltration.”
Evan (solemnly):
“I am Evan Rosier. I secured intelligence on artifact location through infiltration and verified the locket’s magical aura pre-extraction.”
Pandora (stepping forward, her eyes oddly distant):
“I am Pandora Shafiq. I disarmed the security curses placed on the bedroom vault and maintained containment once the Horcrux was removed. The soul fragment responded to me. It knew I could see it.”
(Silence stretches. One of the Unspeakables behind the veil nods once, sharply.)
Regulus (final, steady):
“I am Regulus Arcturus Black, Shadow Unspeakable in training. I led the mission, and confirm this locket contains part of Voldemort’s soul. It is his. It is real. And it is no longer in his possession.”
The plinth seals the object in runes of Null — magic older than the Founders. The Horcrux disappears into the Department’s Unreached Vault, far beyond reach of time, space, or wand.
Aletheia (formally): “Mission complete. No names leave this room. No records exist. You have done the impossible.”
As they turn to leave, Pandora lingers. She looks to the plinth and murmurs under her breath, a warning or a prayer:
Pandora: “He’s going to feel it go missing soon. He’ll know.”
Regulus (without turning): “Let him. We’ll be gone before he can catch up.”
The sky is ink-blue when Regulus apparates at the edge of the property. Dew clings to the grass like sleeping stars, and the wards let him through without resistance — James must’ve added him to them months ago. He walks slowly toward the cottage, the weight of the Horcrux gone from his pocket, but not from his chest.
It smells like honey and ash — someone left the fireplace on overnight.
He doesn’t knock.
Inside, the little cottage is still asleep. There are notes from Lily pinned to every visible surface: reminders to plant calendula, lists of potion ingredients, a scribbled “James, please don’t forget the bread.” It’s a mess of books and teacups and love. Regulus steps into it like it’s a memory.
And then—
James (from the kitchen, sleep-rough): “You’re early. Or late. Depends how you see it.”
He’s shirtless in pajama pants, hair flattened strangely to one side. A mug floats toward Regulus with steam curling like a sigh.
Regulus (quietly): “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
James: “You didn’t. Lily said you’d come. Said you’d need a place to breathe after... whatever you just did.”
Regulus doesn’t answer. He just sips the tea and lets his knees buckle into a chair. The silence is soft. Alive.
A moment later, Lily pads in, wearing James’s jumper and thick socks, hair braided and sleep-tangled.
Lily (blinking at him, then smiling faintly): “You did it, didn’t you?”
Regulus: “Yes.”
She sits beside him, curling her legs beneath her, and reaches out. He doesn’t flinch when she brushes hair from his eyes.
Lily: “You look like death. Want toast?”
Regulus (soft huff): “I want time to stop. Just for a little while.”
And they give him that.
No talk of Horcruxes. No war.
Just the three of them. James pulling out a worn chess set. Lily singing softly under her breath while making eggs. Regulus curled on the threadbare sofa, listening to them bicker about who bewitched the bathroom mirror to tell James he was “a Gryffindor god.”
James: “It was charming.”
Lily: “It was egotistical.”
Regulus (murmuring): “I kind of liked it.”
They laugh, and it’s warm. Real.
Later, Regulus rests with his head in Lily’s lap while James leans against his side, their hands tangled over his chest. The sun is creeping through the curtains now, golden and sleepy.
James (quietly): “You don’t have to be strong here, Reg.”
Regulus (a whisper): “I’m tired.”
Lily: “Then rest. You’re safe.”
And for a little while, he believes her.
The sun is a sleepy orange by the time Regulus wakes again — his face buried against Lily’s hip, one of James’s arms slung across his middle like a lazy charm. There’s a quilt over them now, conjured somewhere between conversations, and the warmth of it is matched only by the smell of cinnamon toast drifting in from the kitchen.
Lily’s fingers comb idly through Regulus’s hair as she reads from a medical manual on her lap, muttering something about “counter-hexes and bone regrowth.” James stirs beside them, yawns into the curve of Regulus’s shoulder, and groans.
James: “Tell her I did not cry when I broke my femur last week.”
Lily (grinning): “You screamed like a banshee and hexed your trainer in the balls.”
Regulus (hoarse, amused): “Please tell me you did.”
James lifts his head with a mock-wounded look.
James: “He was laughing while I was bleeding internally, Reg.”
Lily: “It was a paper cut before you tripped down the stairs, love.”
James: “Three flights of stairs.”
Regulus snorts — the first real, open laugh he’s made in days. It bubbles out unexpectedly, and once he starts, he can’t stop. His face hides again in Lily’s lap, muffling the laughter, while James grins triumphantly.
James: “There it is. I told her I could get you to laugh.”
Lily: “Mm. I had five galleons on him crying instead.”
Regulus (muffled): “You both talk about me when I’m not here?”
Lily: “We only talk about you, Reg.”
Later, they sit around the kitchen table — three mugs of tea, buttered toast, leftover jam in the shape of a heart from Lily’s wandwork.
James: “We’re a menace at the Auror Academy. Every time they give me a partner, I end up dueling them by accident.”
Lily: “That’s because you duel everyone.”
James: “I’m testing their reflexes!”
Regulus raises an eyebrow over his teacup.
Regulus: “You dueled a paperweight last week.”
James: “It looked at me funny.”
Lily wheezes and spills tea over her notes. Regulus reaches out and wipes it up with his sleeve before she can grab a cloth, and she stares at him.
Lily (softly): “You’re letting yourself be soft with us again.”
Regulus: “I forgot how to be anything else here.”
James leans across the table and presses a kiss to Regulus’s temple. Lily sets her hand over Reg’s on the wood.
James (quietly): “You don’t have to do the world-saving thing alone, you know.”
Regulus: “I know. I just... don’t know how to let people help yet.”
Lily: “Then stay longer. Practice here. With us.”
Later, after Regulus helps Lily trim back the overgrown peppermint plants and James accidentally re-enchants a bee to dance instead of sting, they collapse in the garden’s long grass. It smells of mint and sunlight and earth.
James lies on his back with his head on Regulus’s stomach, playing with the chain of Regulus’s necklace absently between his fingers. Lily lies sideways, her hand tucked under Regulus’s shirt at his waist, thumb tracing little circles.
Regulus: “This is the most content I’ve been in months.”
James: “That’s the idea, darling.”
Lily: “You deserve happiness without needing to earn it.”
Regulus turns his head toward her, then to James. He touches each of them — James’s jaw, Lily’s cheek — and something in his expression breaks open.
Regulus: “I think... I feel happiest when I am with both of you.”
James (quietly): “Good. Because we want you here with us.”
Lily kisses his forehead, and James kisses his fingers. They don’t rush it. They just hold him, tangled together in grass and warmth, as the sun begins to dip again.
For a little while, it’s just them. No war. No Horcruxes. No masks.
Just Regulus, Lily, and James — safe in a moment that feels like a promise.
That night, long after dinner, after laughter and herbal tea and lingering glances
They don’t talk about it.
There’s no plan — just the quiet pull of bodies already orbiting one another.
It starts when James leans over Regulus on the couch, catching his mouth mid-laugh with a kiss — hot and sweet, tasting of orange peel and stolen breath. Regulus stiffens only for a heartbeat, then opens for him — soft lips, parted mouth, a hum that curls from somewhere deep.
Lily watches from the doorway, loose curls falling down her shoulders, a flush on her cheeks. When Regulus’s hand reaches blindly for her, she steps forward, wordless, and kneels beside them.
Lily (softly): “You don’t have to hold back anymore. Not with us.”
Regulus breathes in sharply as James presses kisses to his throat, and Lily’s hand cups his jaw — gentle, grounding. Her thumb brushes his bottom lip.
Regulus (barely a whisper): “I don’t know how to be touched like this.”
James: “Then let us show you.”
The bedroom is all golden lamplight and shadows dancing on stone walls. The bed is unmade, linen rumpled and inviting. The air tastes of rosemary from the little bundle Lily tied above the window for protection — a charm she cast by moonlight weeks ago, “just in case.”
They undress slowly — not out of caution, but reverence.
James peels Regulus’s outer robe off with a teasing slowness, mouth kissing along the newly bared shoulder. His hands are warm, rough in all the right places. He worships Regulus’s throat, his chest, the pale skin that never learned it could be wanted this way.
Lily undoes the buttons of Regulus’s shirt one by one, leaning in to kiss down the line she reveals. Her hands glide along his ribs, over his hips, mapping him like a spell she’s been dying to cast. She presses her forehead to his when his breath stutters.
Lily: “You’re not a weapon here, Regulus. You’re a person. You’re ours.”
That’s when Regulus melts.
Fully.
Unconditionally.
They take their time.
James kisses him slow and open-mouthed, groaning softly when Regulus fists his hands in his curls. Lily’s touch drifts lower, drawing small gasps from Regulus’s throat — not just from pleasure, but from disbelief. From the aching wonder of being wanted.
There are moans, yes. Breathless, trembling, edged with something fierce. But there’s also laughter — when James bites too hard and Regulus swats him, when Lily teases Regulus’s ear and he squirms and curses in French.
The three of them tangle like roots, like threads in an old tapestry. Each touch, each kiss, draws out a new part of Regulus that no one else has ever been allowed to see.
They move slowly, reverently, like they’re building a world out of skin and trust and heat. Like nothing else matters beyond this bed, these hands, these mouths.
James kisses down Regulus’s spine while Lily cradles his face and whispers:
Lily: “You’re not alone anymore.”
Regulus (choked): “Please don’t let this be a dream.”
James (kissing his lower back): “It’s real. And it’s only the beginning.”
Later, when the room is hushed and bodies are slick with sweat and sleepiness, Regulus lies between them — Lily curled at his front, James draped across his back. Their legs are tangled, skin to skin.
Their breathing syncs without effort.
James’s hand is over Regulus’s heart.
Lily’s lips brush his temple.
Regulus (barely audible): “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”
Lily: “You deserve every second of it.”
James: “And you’ll get a thousand more.”
Regulus drifts off safe. Touched. Loved.
And for once, the weight he carries doesn’t feel unbearable.