Chapter Text
December 6, 1978
Regulus Black struggles with staying put under duress: he isn’t faring much better than the jittery leaves swaying in the gentle wind, carrying the scent of the approaching winter.
It isn’t exactly duress he is under. At least, not currently. Unless duress can be applied by one onto one’s own self. As he worries at the creased cuff of his shirt extending past his robe, he considers that a very real possibility.
He reaches into his pocket, for the lack of anything better to occupy himself with, and glances at his pocket watch: his brother is late. He doesn’t need the steadily ticking hands to tell him that, but he is starting to grow tired of only paying mind to his own nervous patrolling on the perimeter of the park that the season has rendered wholly bare.
The middle of the park houses an old, derelict fountain with leafless vines running all over it. It is the sort of ethereal sight he would normally appreciate, might even make a conscious effort to commit the twists and turns of it to memory, but now his eyes merely flit over it, barely registering the caged bird fashioned of stone at the top of the fountain.
The morning dew transformed the cobblestones around the fountain slippery and treacherous so he sticks to the shadows of the nearby trees. Besides, it isn’t wise to parade around in communal spaces if you are supposed to be a dead man. And Regulus Black—rather reluctantly—belongs to this group of individuals.
The tattered pocket watch disappears under his robes.
A rustle from the other side of the clearing disturbs his already plenty disturbed thoughts. He would like to think he would recognise his brother’s heavy footfalls anywhere, but instead of finding out the painful (and potentially lethal) way that he overestimates his own capabilities, he simply slips behind the trunk of the closest tree and holds his breath with his hand firmly planted over his wand sheath. He should be able to get the jump on whoever is approaching. Or at least he hopes so.
As a bird starts singing a familiar tune, Sirius calls out for him. “Regulus?”
Regulus lets a quiet, relieved huff escape him, but he does not let go of his wand—in his experience it’s the type of mistake only people whose expiration dates are around the corner make. Which isn’t necessarily untrue for him, but he’d like to believe that an extension can be applied in certain special circumstances.
His insistence on keeping his wand at the ready at all times is also partly due to the fact that Sirius and he aren’t exactly on what one might refer to as good terms. It’s a small miracle Sirius showed up. For a second time now. The first time left some things to be desired—such as basic decency, but he doesn’t think he is in a position to complain.
Regulus ducks his head just the tiniest bit to accommodate his growing unease, and then speaks up in a clear voice, revealing his already questionable hiding place. “Are you alone?”
“Not exactly.”
Not exactly. Regulus frowns, his heart suddenly beating violently against his ribcage—or perhaps it has been making its escape attempt the whole time, he was just too preoccupied to notice.
In the next moments of tense silence, Regulus considers what it might feel like to have his brother betray him just like he did barely two years ago. He has to admit that poetic justice does have its charms, but he doesn’t exactly feel like falling under them in the present moment.
“It’s me,” another voice says finally.
Regulus only has one split second to pretend he doesn’t recognise it. He honestly should have seen this coming. Perhaps lately he has gotten a little too confident in his evaluations and expectations of the future, not accounting for the way things like to stray off course. Or perhaps he did not dare to think of certain possibilities.
“What is he doing here?” Regulus spits once he gets his bearings, his fingers surreptitiously slipping under his wand sheath in an attempt to ground himself with the help of the familiar texture of the wood.
He tries to remind himself that he is in control. He promptly fails. It isn’t a surprise, nonetheless it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Nothing that won’t be discussable if you aren’t hiding behind a tree,” Sirius replies with a little too much bile in his voice for Regulus’ taste.
“Your boyfriend can go home, we don’t need him,” Regulus retorts, unable to stop the words from leaving his lips: they are bolstered by sticky contempt.
Despite his reluctance, he is far too conscious of how ridiculous he probably looks with a tree as his sole cover. He adjusts his robe, absentmindedly patting the pocket where his pocket watch resides, and steps out into the open in a single stride.
“My boyfriend can go wherever he pleases. And I am afraid, he pleases to be right here,” Sirius says, the invisible yet unambiguous underscoring of the first two words making Regulus’ stomach turn. He knows he is the one who put them into Sirius’ mouth, but that doesn’t make him any less sick.
Regulus gives the two men one long look from the tops of their heads down until the tips of their toes, letting his gaze settle on anything he regards as worthy of more than a brief glance.
Sirius is not dressed for the weather: he is wearing a colorful shirt with something muggle plastered over it, clashing with his dark, rugged leather jacket, which hangs open at the front. As the gusts pick up, the jacket flutters around him.
His jeans are full of deliberate holes and uneven tears: Regulus assumes they were fashioned like this by Sirius himself.
His brother is every bit of the same flawless mess as he was when he charmed some ice for a black eye Regulus was sporting, and when years later he turned away from Regulus’ bruised face. Everything about him screams home in a suffocatingly intimate way.
James Potter is exactly like how Regulus remembers him. Not that he has been given many chances to forget him. He is towering over Sirius, his dark robes covering most of what Regulus assumes to be his favourite crimson sweater. The curls frame his face as if they were on a mission to escape in at least ten directions—some more successfully than others.
Regulus has to dig his fingernails into his palm to stop himself from retreating behind the tree. His legs twitch involuntarily, refusing to obey.
As he replays their conversation from the previous day, he is quite confident he told Sirius not to trust anyone with this plan of his. He doesn’t find it advisable to go around flaunting that you know a way to take down the Dark Lord. Or that your Death Eater brother, who is supposed to be dead, is very much alive.
“What is he doing here?” Regulus repeats bluntly, his eyes now firmly locked on Sirius’ leather boots. He is not sure he can make it through this conversation if he has to maintain eye contact for its entirety.
“He is here because you are going to do an Unbreakable Vow. If you want us to believe your Horcrux story, we need a guarantee you aren’t going to scurry back to your master the moment we turn our backs.”
Regulus isn’t stupid: he expected his brother to propose an Unbreakable Vow. Or perhaps some Veritaserum. Trust is not to be given freely in times of war. Especially if your brother was in league with blood purists for a year or two, doing Merlin-knows-what.
He was merely hoping the vow could be done with one less person. Surely it has to have some options. Having to find three people in total to perform a single spell sounds rather inefficient.
He is about to voice his concerns, but then thinks better of it. He needs to keep an eye on his brother, and his plan doesn't have a high chance of success if he is forced to do it alone: however infuriating, he needs help. Preferably a brother shaped help, not a James Potter shaped one, but it seems like these two never stopped coming in a single package. He would rather not dwell on the feelings that accompany this revelation.
Regulus can feel Sirius’ eyes boring into him, searching for any sign of hesitation. Regulus is determined not to give any. Or at least, anymore than what he has already given.
“Okay,” Regulus says simply and fiercely.
“You are doing it with me,” James interjects quickly as if he has been waiting for his turn to speak.
Regulus’ gaze inadvertently flicks to him. An uncomfortable heat rises within him. James’ face has long become unreadable to him.
He must have misheard.
“You are conducting it,” Regulus states, his mind refusing to entertain any other option.
He must have misheard.
“I am conducting it,” Sirius adds, not bothering to explain further.
Regulus is unable to tear his gaze from James who is also proving rather unhelpful when it comes to clarifications.
“May I inquire, why?” Regulus manages to organise some words into a sentence when the initial shock wears off.
“Blood magic,” James says as if that clears anything up.
Regulus suddenly remembers hating them and their pretend superiority with a burning passion. He wishes it was still acceptable at their age to hurl things at each other’s heads.
“Of course, blood magic,” Regulus repeats with sarcasm dripping from every word. He cannot help it: his vitriol wasn’t one he was born in control of, and his breeding made it an impossibility to ever master.
“Watch the attitude,” Sirius snaps, one of his eyebrows arching judgmentally, his distaste for Regulus distorting his features. Regulus tries his best to ignore the stinging in his chest at the sight. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it—at least on some level. He hasn’t exactly made all the right choices as his brother likes to classify his own journey.
“Raw blood magic like the vow can be circumvented between family members,” James says finally, not bothering to defuse the situation between the brothers as he so often used to do. Regulus’ eyes linger on him no matter how loudly his brain demands him to finally look away. He never was good at listening to it when it came to James Potter.
“And as you and Sirius are brothers—” James adds hesitantly when Regulus doesn’t answer immediately. Perhaps he assumes Regulus has suffered some permanent brain damage since they have last seen each other.
“I am well aware, Potter,” Regulus interrupts sharply.
His anger surges against the ridges of its confine and threatens to spill over to drown all three of them—he is not entirely sure that he didn’t cause it himself by calling James Potter. At least there is one thing Sirius and he share: their uncontainable rage.
“So are you willing to do it or should we leave, Reggie?” Sirius says, his voice dripping with disdain. He emphasises the childhood nickname “Reggie” with a sneer that pierces Regulus like a shard of glass left carelessly on the ground, leaving him feeling bare and raw. He has nearly forgotten the power his brother’s words have over him.
Regulus knows his brother isn’t going to leave. Learning from one’s mistakes is his brother’s strong suit. It’s one of the things they do not share. Still, he relents, storing his anger away for some later point in time.
“Fine. Let’s do it.”
At the ripe age of eighteen (turned: three days prior), Regulus is of the firm opinion that his hatred for surprises is not going to wane. On the contrary. Especially for surprises wrapped in a neat bow with James Potter written all over them. He thinks he had enough for a lifetime. Or maybe even two.
James Potter, who unknowingly (unknowingly if Regulus was in a generous mood and assumed the best; on purpose and maliciously on bad days that stretched past the tangible horizons) twisted his very being around Regulus’ throat like bloodthirsty vines, thorns sinking into skin until Regulus was unable to tell if they had always been a part of him.
James Potter, who pulled Regulus aside when no one was watching, and declared that he knew something must have happened, something must have changed. He was the first and last person who didn’t immediately classify him as a lost cause; as if Regulus becoming a Death Eater had always been the predetermined option. It made Regulus falter in his conviction. Being seen by James Potter was the kind of weakness Regulus couldn’t afford to have.
James Potter, who spared his life only months ago, his wand pointed straight at Regulus on the ground—then his arms lifting him up to carry him somewhere safe. No words spoken, glances barely exchanged.
Of course, James Potter doesn’t know how many lives he condemned by saving one. Maybe if he knew, he would have made a different choice.
Suddenly, Regulus’ willingness to bind himself to James Potter decreases drastically. He appears to be a living, breathing reminder of everything Regulus wishes to scratch clean off his skin until there is nothing but blood and bone left.
The protest is already on his lips, arguments and disagreements forming once again, but then James steps closer, rolling his sleeve up, revealing his dark skin and Regulus is left merely staring at him. Regulus feels a visceral need to drag his sleeve back down over his arm to hide anything not required to be on display. If he could, he would drape something over his entire face as well because that is where the golden glasses frame his eyes—so dark that the pupils are nearly impossible to discern unless one stands mere inches away. For a disorienting moment Regulus nonsensically wonders how many people have seen James Potter’s pupils.
A bird starts a new song and another one joins it in a halfhearted attempt to replicate it. Regulus feels the snake shift on his forearm.
He thinks another major oversight in the Unbreakable Vow department is the fact that you have to be actively touching. Regulus decidedly hates someone else’ skin on his own a little more than surprises.
With a resigned sigh, Regulus rolls up his sleeve as well, revealing the Dark Mark, and the bloody wounds his fingernails have left in the past days. James sucks in a sharp breath at the sight: he is staring at Regulus’ exposed arm with a barely concealed mixture of horror and disbelief. Regulus is unsure whether it is the scars or the mark that have stolen the air from his lungs. He settles on the combination of both.
He can feel the heat of James' gaze prickling against his skin like a thousand tiny needles. He pushes aside the nagging thoughts that creep into his mind: he is in no mood to wonder how disgusting James might find him. He does not think he would like the answer.
Perhaps James wouldn’t have hesitated to kill him if he had seen him like this before. But this was not the Regulus he remembered when he decided to spare him.
Sirius joins James, his wand at the ready. Now they are barely out of arm’s reach. Their proximity fills Regulus with more agitation than he would like to admit.
“James will ask you three questions, and you just have to answer with 'I will',” Sirius explains, his tone all business as he lays out the simple rules of this life binding game.
Regulus nods curtly while James’ gaze remains fixed on the Dark Mark etched into Regulus' skin, leaving Regulus on the brink of nausea.
His head buzzes with fabricated white noise as Sirius presents the questions with a practised rhythm. He thinks they must have rehearsed the lines multiple times last night after they parted while Regulus lay awake in his uncomfortable bed. Practiced and revised till perfection. Regulus does not register much of their contents.
He wishes he could concentrate, but it seems like James Potter and his brother’s effect on him has not diminished over the years. But it might simply have to do with the fact that binding his life to James Potter wasn’t on the list of things he was expecting to be doing in this life. Or the next one.
“I am fine with those,” Regulus blurts out instantly once Sirius is finished.
Sirius glances at him doubtfully. “You have time to think.”
“I am fine with those,” Regulus reiterates more grimly this time, each word forcing its way past the coil of anxiety tightening in his chest.
His body feels like it is rebelling against the moment, and he is almost certain he will be sick. He wishes James would stop looking at his arm like it might leap at him any moment and swallow him whole.
“Alright,” Sirius says, his voice laced with uncertainty as he gestures for Regulus to step closer.
Regulus forces his legs to obey, taking one step. And then another. The sun is slowly rising above the scarce canopy of the park’s trees.
With deliberate care, Sirius reaches out to grasp Regulus’ arm, guiding it above James’. Regulus fights the overwhelming urge to tear his arm from his brother’s hold.
Sirius positions Regulus’ hand just below James’ elbow, ensuring that the Dark Mark rests concealed, facing downwards against the immaculate canvas of James’ skin. Regulus' self inflicted wounds ache—raw and pulsating. He would not be surprised if James pulled away in revulsion but he does not move. Regulus is not bold enough to look at his face until it is absolutely necessary: he keeps his eyes averted, focusing instead on the dull pain radiating from his arm.
It occurs to Regulus that perhaps they should have gone to somewhere more private. This doesn’t feel like a public-park-kind-of-occasion. He thinks it too late to mention it now.
James grasps Regulus’ arm between his fingers—they effortlessly encircle it, their grip settling just below his elbow.
In response, Regulus instinctively clasps his hand around James’ sturdy arm. In stark contrast, Regulus finds that he can barely wrap his fingers around the upper portion of James’ forearm. He feels impossibly meaningless as he looks at their intertwined arms.
His wounds burn more intensely the longer he thinks about them, and he feels like the snake is stretching and contracting, trying to dig its way over to James’ unmarked skin. Regulus wants to wrench his arm out of James’ embrace so the snake cannot defile him. It takes him a moment to calm down and not try chewing his arm off.
This was a bad idea.
“Are you ready?” Sirius asks, and his voice is dull, thudding in Regulus’ head. He tries to nod, only hoping he succeeds.
This was a bad idea.
Everything outside their arms and the snake slithering against them, fighting to poison James too, is muffled into white noise, filling his mind to the brim.
“Eye contact is required, I am afraid, Regulus,” Sirius says, and Regulus mindlessly follows the instructions, looking up at James Potter’s face after avoiding it for what feels like an eternity.
He isn’t sure what he expects but it isn’t what awaits him. There is a faint smile playing on James’ lips now that the burden of Regulus' exposed arm no longer commands his full attention, consuming and feasting on it. Regulus is not in a position anymore where he would be able to tell if it’s because he thinks Regulus deserves it, or if he is merely trying to provide a flicker of encouragement. Regulus has to pull his tongue between his teeth to stop himself from screaming at him to flee and yank his arm away before it’s too late—before the serpent finds a way to crawl onto him.
He does not return the smile. Based on the revulsion creeping up in the back of his throat he estimates that he is going to vomit within the next five minutes.
Defying the Dark Lord (and other powerful people who had no preference for nicknames) in theory sounded much easier. Practice always proves more difficult for Regulus. His calculations certainly included no James Potters. Especially in such a vicinity.
Sirius is pointing his wand at their arms in one second and in the next one it glows a deep crimson: tendrils of flame flicker to life, stretching hungrily toward the binding of their arms. Regulus thinks Sirius might have said something, but his brain is too fuzzy to register it.
“Will you, Regulus Arcturus Black, to the best of your ability, assist us in hunting down the Horcruxes in an attempt to bring about the destruction of the Dark Lord, Voldemort?” James asks, his gaze piercing through Regulus, leaving him feeling naked, the sharp wind playing on his bare skin.
“I will,” Regulus breathes, his fingers instinctively tightening around James’ arm as a ribbon of flame ignites, wrapping around them like a living vine.
The heat surges and tethers them together, drawing blood from both of them. Regulus suppresses a pained sound—it’s probably the least amount of pain he has felt in a while so it isn’t too much of a challenge.
James barely appears to have noticed the cut.
“Will you remain loyal to this cause, never uttering a word to anyone you know to be an agent of the Dark Lord, Voldemort?” James’ grip reciprocates, tightening, providing Regulus with a semblance of strength.
“I will,” Regulus manages to respond, and another thin flame spirals into existence like a loose wire and wounds around their arms.
Regulus can feel his skin break under the pressure of the spell and blood flow from the fresh wound. He wonders if it mixes with James’.
“Will you stand by us should it prove necessary, protecting Sirius Orion Black, James Fleamont Potter, Peter Oliver Pettigrew, and Remus John Lupin to the best of your ability against the agents of the Dark Lord, Voldemort?” James says finally, and Regulus’ legs wobble, threatening to betray him at the last moment.
He has all together forgotten about Lupin and Pettigrew. Regulus suspects Sirius might have mentioned them a second ago while his brain refused to retain any information. He isn’t sure this part of the vow is such a grand idea.
“I will,” Regulus ends up saying before he can give too much thought to this decidedly bad choice. A third vine emerges.
For a brief second Regulus reconsiders his plan. But he knows it’s too late now: it’s just a fleeting thought from another life where he does not have to deceive them. “Will you, James Fleamont Potter, to the best of your ability, assist me in this endeavour to vanquish the Dark Lord, Voldemort, and do everything within your power to prevent your own death, as well as that of Sirius Orion Black throughout this process?”
James’ expression shifts, surprise flickering in his eyes, and Sirius seems ready to intercede, already pulling his wand back. But before Sirius can properly react, James is quicker, resolute.
“I will. Finish the spell, Sirius,” James orders, even as Sirius looks at him with worry imminent on his face.
A fourth tongue of flame wraps around them, vivid and bright.
For the first time Regulus is thankful it is James on the other side of the vow. It might not have been part of his expectations, but it might just prove to be the push needed to send the correct pieces tumbling over. He knows how the story is supposed to end, but the details leading up to it are still blurry and just out of reach: Voldemort’s supposed identity, the Selwyn twins involvement, the location of horcruxes, the destruction of said horcruxes, and last but not least, making sure all of these come with the least amount of casualties.
“Do it," James commands again, not taking his eyes off Regulus.
Sirius hesitates, an argument brewing on his lips, but ultimately, he relents, waving his wand again. The red flames metamorphose into a bright golden hue, tying their arms together tightly before vanishing into an explosive flash of light. The world spins violently around Regulus, the trees distort, and the fountain disappears as the golden glare momentarily blinds them all. In a sudden rush, he tears his arm from James' grasp, stumbling backwards as his legs finally give way beneath him: he falls to the ground, his stomach revolting violently as he begins to vomit.
Only colourless liquid escapes his stomach. His throat burns from the acid, and he coughs. It takes him a moment to notice that he is not the only one vomiting and coughing on all fours. He glances up through tears and spots Sirius patting James’ back as his stomach produces a much more varied selection of food. Regulus gags again and spits on the ground. He turns away from his brother and James, rubbing his tears away.
The birds are no longer singing. Maybe Regulus’ mark has not only poisoned James, but everything around them.
Poisoned James.
Regulus’ eyes shoot to James’ forearm, searching for any sign of harm: it appears intact and spotless except for four thin lines, the remnants of their vow. James is heaving, but no snake is slithering on his body—there is no visible sign of the venom Regulus carries on his skin and inside of him.
Regulus is too disoriented to form any thoughts beyond this, so when Sirius crosses over to him and attempts to drag him upright by his elbow, he has no idea what’s going on for long seconds. Gravity proves more powerful: Sirius loses the battle, and Regulus remains on the ground, somewhat more dishevelled than when he first got there.
“What the fuck?” Regulus manages, voice hoarse from the vomiting. He tries to scramble away from Sirius.
“Exactly. What the fuck was that, Reggie? And why the fuck are you two throwing up now?”
Sirius aggressively gestures between James and Regulus but all Regulus can hear is Reggie, Reggie, Reggie. A broken record playing endlessly.
His head is throbbing, and his insides are being reduced to mere ash as his brother’s tongue bumps into his hard palate to pronounce his childhood nickname. He feels like it burns through him, licking at his organs, threatening to consume him. He just wishes the fire would hurry up and incinerate him already. He hunches over and vomits up more nothing.
After what feels like far too much dry heaving, he finally falls back on his heels, his eyes closed, his palms aching from holding his weight up on the rough ground.
“What the fuck happened?” Sirius asks again, his tone no less hostile than a minute ago. It appears that Regulus’ condition did not soften his heart.
Regulus wonders if James is fine. He assumes so as Sirius has seems to have left him to his own devices, and that does not happen often. Expect maybe when Sirius is feeling vengeful enough to abandon him.
He slowly blinks his eyes open, and waits until his vision focuses on his brother, standing above him, his body blocking the light of the rising sun from Regulus. He thinks some warmth on his face would be immensely helpful right now.
It takes him another moment to locate James, kneeling behind Sirius, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The sight makes Regulus’ insides perform uncomfortable twists and turns.
“Bloody great idea this vow of yours,” Regulus croaks.
“It wasn’t supposed to include a fourth fucking part! It’s your bloody great idea that did this,” Sirius barks, his voice rising to dangerously high levels of volume for Regulus’ ears. It sounds more like desperation than actual conviction.
“You didn’t say I couldn’t add my own to it,” Regulus says, his eyes still on James. James finally looks back at him.
Sirius doesn’t seem to appreciate Regulus’ take on the topic. “Oh, you think this is funny, Regulus?”
There is a moment where Regulus almost replies something angry and sharp, but then he notices the way James’ chest seems to rise and deplete at the same time Regulus’ does. He thinks it is an odd thing to notice, and he shakes his head to chase the thought away, but as he sucks in a sudden short breath, he watches James Potter do the same.
Regulus freezes, his eyes glued to James’ dark sweater underneath his robe and the way it moves as James inhales and exhales. He can feel his own breathing follow the same pattern. Regulus Black and James Potter are breathing in synch.
Regulus looks up at James’ face and sees recognition as James’ eyes lose focus, staring in the general direction of Regulus. The park fades, time stretches, and in that brief instant, it's just the two of them, bound by the same air circulating in their veins.
Regulus needs to get the fuck out of here.
“We should get out of here. A guy goes for a morning run every day here,” Regulus mumbles, his voice trailing off.
He scouted the place for multiple days: he fails to mention that the guy normally shows up in approximately three hours.
“Wait,” James says, standing up, cleaning his palms of debris by rubbing them together.
He waves his hand and his vomit disappears. Non-verbal, wandless. Regulus should not be surprised but it takes effort to school his face into neutrality. He has seen his brother and James perform dandy pieces of magic for years, he just never realised it would become such an offhanded practice.
James does not look like he has just been throwing up for a solid five minutes, and he does not look like how Regulus feels. Most importantly, he also does not look like somebody who is going to keep their synchronised breathing concealed from Sirius. Regulus is in stark disagreement with at least the latter part of this.
Wait, don’t, Regulus thinks the moment James opens his mouth again. The wince that follows, taking over James’ features for a brief second, might be the aftermath of the vow and puking, but Regulus cannot help the feeling that James might just have heard him. It would be another odd thing to think if it wasn’t happening right after the events of the last half an hour.
“What?” Sirius presses when James’ lips remain stubbornly stationary.
Sirius takes a tentative step towards James, his arm stretched out as if to catch James if he was to fall over. Regulus can faintly recall a time when Sirius’ first worry wouldn’t have been James.
Regulus watches James make the decision: it’s a slow blink, a flutter of eyelashes, a gaze dropped to the ground for a fleeting second, and then a look at Regulus that he cannot quite decipher.
“Don’t freak out, but I think this vow thing is a little more than what we expected,” James says, addressing Sirius, who already has his hands on James’ skewed glasses, adjusting them to perfect straightness. Regulus thinks he likes the skewed look better.
“Well, yes, obviously, since Reggie here decided to pull a last minute change. Which you agreed to, might I add.” Despite his words, Sirius seems not to be the least bit upset with James. It was always James’ privilege to get away with virtually anything.
“Yes, so there’s that, of course. And then there’s…” James points at Regulus on the ground and then at himself. Sirius follows the movement with his eyes, not any less confused than when the sentence started.
“Yes, there’s you and Regulus. Did the vow damage your brain? There’s not a lot left to damage, you should be careful,” Sirius says, babbling to defuse the tension. Regulus has not seen this skill in action for quite a while now: it seems to work immediately. James laughs, his face lighting up.
James Potter is laughing when presumably their souls just got merged. His soul with a Death Eater’s.
James Potter is laughing when Regulus knows for a fact that only in the last six months they have lost over six Order members. Regulus tries not to think of his involvement in them, and how quickly the knowledge would extinguish James’ deep and hearty laughter.
“James and I are breathing in synch,” Regulus says suddenly, against his better judgement. He is not sure if it was actually his idea or James’. It seems to be flowing into each other, mixing together until the individual pieces are indistinguishable.
Perhaps it was the jagged jealousy caused by the way James’ face lit up at his brother’s words. Regulus never had much authority over the grudge he held against the two of them.
Sirius’ eyebrows pay a visit to his hairline, and he looks at James for an explanation, whose laughter abruptly cuts off at Regulus’ declaration.
“Yeah, that,” James agrees, approaching Regulus.
For a brief moment Regulus is reminded of the scene where James decided not to take his life, standing over him, his eyes full of something Regulus once had on the tip of his tongue.
James extends his arm in his direction and Regulus only hesitates for a second before taking it. James pulls him upright. His fingers are cool and firm around Regulus’ hand: they are gone as soon as Regulus is standing. Regulus is thankful for it: he had enough touching for a decade.
He hopes the back of his robe isn’t dirty. He can’t exactly check. He is aware of what an absurd worry it is, but he can’t help it.
“Yeah, that? What does that even mean?” Sirius demands, looking between the two.
“Not sure. I think I can sort of hear him in my head too. Or feel him. Or something. It’s rather weird,” James says conversationally, as if he was announcing his plans for the evening.
He steps behind Regulus.
Regulus tenses, his jaw clenching as he loses sight of James. The instinct to whirl around is all encompassing for a second until James’ hands run down his back. Regulus stops breathing.
It’s another moment before it finally clicks: James Potter is cleaning his robes.
Sirius seems just as shocked as he is, which is to say his mouth hangs open for a long second and then it snaps shut with an audible click as his brows furrow.
“Hope you are happy, Reggie,” Sirius spits, resentment, and something bitter and sticky coating every word. Regulus is far too familiar with the latter: it’s not often that Sirius gets to experience it. It makes a tiny, foul part of Regulus hum contentedly.
“I didn’t do this,” Regulus snaps, trying to put distance between himself and James. James lets him. “Do I need to remind you that this was your idea? I could have done the vow with you. But no, it had to be with your boyfriend,” he hisses, glaring.
The anger bubbling just beneath the surface he carefully stored away seems to be breaking free and there is nothing Regulus can do to stop it. The teeth of his rage have a mind of their own, digging themselves into anything they can get close to: tearing and chewing on both willing and unwilling flesh.
“You are the one who made him vow too!”
“He could have said no!”
“Guys—”
“Don’t put this on James, you scheming snake!”
“Oh, we are doing insults now? Very creative.”
“Guys, come on—”
“I am sick and tired of you ruining everything. There is not a single thing you touch that remains intact!”
“Oh, I damaged your boyfriend? I didn't mean to break your toy. I am so sorry.”
“I am not a toy!”
“Of course you aren’t, don’t listen to him, James.”
“He can listen to what he wants!”
“Guys—”
There’s a branch breaking somewhere nearby, and their heads snap in the direction of the sound at the same time. Suddenly the argument is altogether forgotten. Regulus isn’t sure if it’s he or James who is holding their breath.
“Let’s get out of here,” Sirius suggests, his arm extending in James and Regulus’ direction. Both of them take it without a question, and in a swirl of colours their bodies disappear.
As the sun emerges fully behind the trees, painting the clearing and the fountain in an orange hue, a small rodent, one that could fit in one’s palm, peeks out from behind a tree, its eyes fixed on the spot where the three men whirled out of existence.
*
One of the many reasons people find Remus Lupin a pleasant person to be around is that he always arrives on time. Not fifteen minutes earlier or an hour later. Both incredibly impolite in his humble opinion.
He assumes this might be the reason why Dumbledore has left the door of his office slightly ajar, simply not accounting for the possibility that Remus might arrive five crucial minutes earlier than expected. It makes Remus’ skin crawl, but exceptions have to be made sometimes. Especially if your best friends are meeting a dead Death Eater.
Exceptions are also widely considered to be one of the main components of surprises. Remus has an unnatural fondness for those: or at least when he is the one doing the surprising. Naturally, if he is the one being surprised it is less of a thrill. Especially if it concerns birthday presents.
Under the current circumstances, Remus suspects that Dumbledore would surely be rather startled if he pulled his door further open and found a bent over Remus Lupin plastered to it. His face might be worth the consequences.
However, currently it is Remus who is being properly surprised. This must be at least the fifth time in a row in the last couple of days, starting with a dead brother’s letter to Sirius, and then Sirius’ insistence on actually meeting said brother. Twice.
“So you think this star… it refers to him? What does it say exactly?” The voice on the other side of the door is unmistakable with its raspy and guttural lows, and gravelly and cracked highs: Alastor Moody.
The young man also had a handful of unanticipated tricks up his sleeve when Remus first met him: namely his unimaginable skills with which he could easily defeat James and Sirius simultaneously. Remus never imagined anybody even standing a chance against either, let alone both at the same time.
Alastor seems to have, however, found his match in a Death Eater only a couple of months prior who took, what he calls, “his better eye”. Remus decidedly thinks that his new, mechanically magical eye that spins around creeply in its newfound socket is his better eye, but he never bothered to argue.
“A black star must die, and the sun must find its way back to the morning sky,” Dumbledore replies in a low voice: Remus has to strain to understand him.
There’s a beat of silence before Alastor speaks again. “Just repeat the whole thing for me.”
“To defy the Dark Lord—”
“Wait,” Alastor grumbles, interrupting Dumbledore harshly.
Remus does not even have time to think about how impolite that was, let alone react when the door flies open, revealing him in a position between a half-hearted bow and a distant cousin of a crouch. For a brief second it crosses his mind to foolishly pretend his money has just fallen from his clumsy hands, but as his gaze finds Alastor’ ever-spinning eye, he sees no point in an attempt at deception. The man will see right through him. No coin in sight anyway.
“Good morning,” Remus ends up saying, straightening up as if it was just another routine Wednesday where they catch him eavesdropping on them.
“Lupin,” Alastor snarls as a greeting. It is not meant as an offense, Remus knows, it is simply just how Alastor talks. Or maybe right now it is meant as one, but it is quite impossible to tell.
“Mr Lupin! Good morning,” Dumbledore says warmly, leaning against his desk. It is not meant as a welcoming gesture, it is just simply how Dumbledore talks. Remus assumes that currently it is to be understood as the opposite.
It takes a moment for Remus to register the third figure in the office: Kingsley Shacklebolt, standing by the window, his dark silhouette illuminated by the slowly rising sun. The only person whom Remus has seen fight Alastor who had any chance of an actual victory. He lost, of course, but Remus saw the potential.
Remus suddenly becomes very aware that he is staring down the three most powerful wizards he knows. And they probably aren’t exactly happy with him.
“Lupin,” Kingsley nods in his direction, seemingly barely paying any mind to him. “Well, I suppose, we will have to come back to finish this discussion then, Albus.”
“The kid can wait,” Alastor barks.
The kid. Remus is quite confident Alastor barely has five years on him. He can’t exactly remember when the man graduated Hogwarts, but he distinctly recalls seeing him around with Kingsley by his side.
“Mr Lupin can stay for the discussion,” Dumbledore says. He is rewarded with three pairs of eyes (one of these only in possession of one naturally occurring eye so perhaps the term ‘pair’ is generous in his case) each in a different stage of confusion.
Remus has never once spoken to Dumbledore about matters that actually mattered. He is usually instructed by Kingsley or Alastor to safeguard potion ingredients. Or transport locked crates. Or stand guard at various dubious locations. Always without an explanation, always just ordered around like a pawn on a vast playing field. If he ever dared demand more details; any information; some clarification, he was shut down with “the less you know, the better, kid”.
James and Sirius used to take this power imbalance rather unwell right until Peter was shipped off to Merlin knows-where and no matter how fervently they argued against it, Dumbledore would not budge. Even when Lily banged fists against tables, it achieved nothing. Remus thinks that was the moment they all realised that they could not even protect the few things of importance: each other.
“Albus, are you sure this is a good idea?” Kingsley asks, tearing Remus from his thoughts which are sure to feast on his sanity if not kept in check.
“The kid doesn’t need to know,” Alastor says, shaking his head—his better eye follows the motion in an unsettling defiance.
“I am afraid he does,” Dumbledore says, earning himself another set of raised eyebrows.
This would normally be the moment Remus would excuse himself and apologise for the disruption, but he finds that Dumbledore tends to keep them in the dark far too much for his liking, so he decides it is only fair if he is finally let in on some Order secrets. It is about damn time they aren’t considered kids anymore.
Remus doesn’t take any particular enjoyment in war, but he is of the opinion that if it’s here, they might as well fight it.
He watches as Kingsley’ eyebrows slowly retreat to their original position, some kind of realisation visibly dawning on him. Remus is unable to tell what that realisation might be.
“Albus, he is friends with—” Alastor starts, but before he could finish, Kingsley strides over to him and places a firm hand on his shoulder. The words die on Alastor’s lips immediately.
“He isn’t going to agree to it,” Kingsley says, addressing Dumbledore. Remus doesn’t have to be told that this ‘he’ beyond a doubt refers to him.
“Maybe,” Dumbledore admits quietly.
“And if he doesn’t?” Kingsley prompts—his tone suggests he already knows the answer to the question he is posing.
Remus tries his best to get an inkling of what is being discussed about him right in front of him, but he comes up empty handed. He was always good at listening quietly while people conveniently overlooked his presence: however, right now, this skill seems to fall short of expectations.
Dumbledore appears to be considering Kingsley’s words. It feels more like a pretence than real deliberation. “He has to.”
Kingsley shoots a look in Alastor’s direction that Remus is almost positive can be translated to ‘Alastor is not going to like this’. Remus is still not sure what this is. Alastor appears almost as lost as he is, but he remains silent.
“Your call,” Kingsley says eventually, retreating to his initial position.
The three men stand in a triangle—Kingsley at the window by the eastern wall, Dumbledore at his desk in the middle, and Alastor by the bookshelves crammed with strange artifacts—and Remus cannot help but feel threatened by having to enter this arrangement. He isn’t about to show it though.
“May I ask what this invitation is about?” Remus ends up saying when he finally sees it fit to interject himself into the conversation.
The carefully wrapped letter bearing the Hogwarts crest—a request for Remus’ presence in the morning—was another surprise yesterday, along with Sirius’ proposition of an Unbreakable Vow (as James’ father’s Veritaserum stash proved to be impenetrable even for them and it’s not like they had a week to brew a potion). Remus isn’t strictly against the latter: he is, however, strictly against the simple fact that these two things were keen on happening at the exact same time. So now Remus is stuck with three vaguely (perhaps the word vaguely is questionable, Remus thinks) threatening men in an enclosed space while his friends are perhaps falling prey to a Death Eater trap. Not their brightest Marauders plan. Not the most foolproof either.
“Yes, Mr Lupin, certainly. Come in and please close the door behind yourself. We wouldn’t want somebody eavesdropping,” Dumbledore says, a faint smile playing on his lips. Remus thinks the man’s face was not designed with the possibility of joy in mind so the smile tugs at his lips in an unnatural way, distorting his features.
Remus somewhat reluctantly follows the instructions, pushing the door shut as he enters the office. It feels like he is being sealed inside with a finality that he does not much appreciate. He tries to remind himself that these men are on his side, and that Dumbledore called in more than one special favours just for him, but the tightening in his chest seemingly cannot be convinced by something as inconsequential as reasons.
He owes his life to Dumbledore—he clings to this thought as he steps forward.
“Mr Shacklebolt, Mr Moody, and I were just discussing a peculiar prophecy that is certainly of interest to you,” Dumbledore says, gesturing at one of the four chairs in front of him. Remus shakes his head: he feels at disadvantage already, he does not need the three men looking down at him.
“No need for formalities, Albus,” Alastor mutters irritably, crossing his arms over his chest.
“As you wish, Alastor,” Dumbledore nods, reaching behind himself and producing a bowl of sweets wrapped in all the colours Remus could ever imagine. And a couple more. “Sweets, Mr Lupin?”
“No, thank you,” Remus says stiffly, glancing at Kingsley standing motionless, peering through the glass at the seemingly boundless grounds of Hogwarts.
Remus catches a glimpse of the top of the Whomping Willow: the sight of its gnarled branches reaching for the sky provide an unnerving comfort. He hasn’t been near it for over two years.
“You are more of a chocolate person, if I recall correctly,” Dumbledore adds conversationally.
Remus knows when he is being worked. Normally, it wouldn’t be much of a challenge to turn it on the other person, but he suspects it might not be as easy as a couple of well-timed compliments with Dumbledore.
“You recall correctly,” Remus says, tearing his eyes from the tree to assess the room more closely.
He suspects his closest ally in the upcoming discussion is going to be Alastor. At least if Kingsley’ hesitance about him is anything to go by. He isn’t sure yet what he requires the alliance for, but he isn’t about to turn down a gift freely given.
“I am afraid my chocolate supply is running low, not sure I have anything to offer,” Dumbledore says, smiling apologetically.
Remus thinks he heard enough about his own sweet preferences. “You mentioned a prophecy.”
Remus knows a thing or two about prophecies: they are quite unreliable, and, more often than not, entirely undecipherable. Most of the time you end up ensuring their inevitability by trying to prevent them, or you find out what they meant after the foretold event has already occurred. It is part of the reason no one really bothers with them too much within the wizarding community.
Remus, for example, knows for a fact that the now deceased Death Eater who took Alastor’s eye has a sister who can tell the future with disturbing accuracy. Remus has seen it in action many times: a riddle, some confusion, and a week later the realisation that the future has already become the past, and it was always outside of their control. She says that time is a circle and you can never know at which point you are currently standing. Remus has, frankly, no idea what that is supposed to mean.
For how overwhelmingly useless seeing the future seems to be, the price to be paid for it doesn’t feel quite balanced: a seer is always stillborn, tethering on the edge of life and death, stuck in a limbo where their fate is decided. Some make it, overcome whatever trial is in store for them, but not all of them are so lucky. Remus sometimes wonders what it must be like to arrive into a world that is not willing to give you life, unless you prove yourself worthy; unless you play by its cruel rules.
“Yes, a prophecy. I am sure you are familiar with Pandora Rosier. Lovegood, now. Recently married,” Dumbledore says, stopping Remus from further pondering the life of a seer—or the lack thereof.
Remus’ eyes flick to Alastor: Pandora is the sister of the Death Eater who left Alastor permanently in need of a magical eye.
Alastor’s expression remains neutral at the mention of Pandora.
Remus thinks his friendship with Pandora shouldn’t be something that damages Alastor’s potential alliance to him: Pandora isn’t her brother, if anything, it seems like she is supplying their side with vague prophecies.
“Yes. I attended the wedding,” Remus says after some quick contemplation, nodding.
It was a rushed ceremony, just like everything is nowadays. One can never know when the killing curse will find them: it is better to get everything you can out of the way before that. Falling in love, friendships, breakups, marriages, making babies, divorces.
“Wonderful. I am also sure you are aware of her… peculiar talents.”
“She can see things.”
“That she can,” Dumbledore says, nodding along. “Her husband brought her to me a few days ago. She wasn’t… well. Xenophilius said she had been having dreams.”
“Dreams,” Remus repeats when Dumbledore doesn’t continue.
Remus also has dreams sometimes: it doesn’t sound like a reason for worry. Though he assumes there is most likely more to Pandora’s dreams than to his—dancing chocolate frogs and singing hippogriffs might be a sign of something, but he doubts they are of the future.
“Increasingly violent ones. Possible futures, shifting. She doesn’t normally have them in this capacity,” Dumbledore clarifies.
Remus thinks it is only natural that somebody with the affinity to see into the future would have violent visions in times of war. There is not much more to war than violence.
“I suspect you are aware that her predictions can be tricky at times. When Xenophilius brought her to me, she kept repeating the same thing. A prophecy of sorts. And I think I might just know what this one means. It was a little clearer than you would expect.”
Alastor makes a sound that Remus interprets as disdain, but Dumbledore ignores him.
“What was it?” Remus asks, filling his role as the kid finding out about the wonders of the world with eagerness. He isn’t sure about what angle he should take here yet, and this one seems the safest bet.
Dumbledore swiftly clears his throat, as if preparing for an important speech. Alastor makes another sound, quite similar to the previous one.
“To defy the Dark Lord, the one with the power to do so must be born. The tides are shifting, the winds are changing, and his birth becomes uncertain. A black star must die, and the sun must find its way back to the morning sky so flowers can bloom: the sun shall abandon its star in its need and turn to lilies in its sorrow. Only then can the Chosen One topple the Dark Lord’s empire.”
Context clues were always Remus’ strong suit, but he finds that even without practice this one isn’t much of a riddle. He wasn’t invited here to discuss anything—he is here to contribute to his friend’s doom.
Remus expects surprise and shock, but all he gets is a yawning emptiness stretching within his chest. War has turned him into something even he doesn’t recognise.
But even the lack of outrage cannot suppress the instinct to sink his claws into whatever dares to threaten his friends. To tear it limb from limb until there’s nothing left but regret and adrenaline rushing through his veins.
“You want to kill Sirius,” Remus says, the words ringing empty.
“Prophecies don’t work like that. If it is meant to happen, it will, no matter what we do,” Dumbledore says gently.
“Letting it happen, standing by. Somehow that sounds to me like exactly what I said. You want to kill him.”
“Interpretations vary when it comes to prophecies, I suppose,” Dumbledore says as if he was teaching in front of a bunch of first years slow on the uptake. “Did you crack the rest of it?”
Remus feels like he is being called on in class when all he wants to do is sink into his seat until he disappears—worst of all, most of his classmates have their hands raised. It’s cruel and unnecessary.
“It’s about someone's kid?” It comes out as a question, and he immediately wishes he said it with more confidence. He knows he is playing a losing game, but he isn’t willing to go down without a fight. He gulps down some air. “James and Lily’s.”
“That’s our assumption,” Dumbledore says sombrely. Remus thinks it feels practiced and forced.
“Assumption. A guess,” Remus says plainly, not trying too hard to mask the disapproval in his voice.
He glances at Alastor who nods along to Remus’ words.
“Whatever you want from me, you can forget it,” Remus continues, emboldened by the support.
“All we ask is that you keep us informed,” Dumbledore says simply.
“Informed?” Remus asks, baffled.
“Do Mr Potter and Mr Black have a romantic relationship?” Dumbledore’s words are slow and controlled as they reach Remus’ ears.
Remus does not enjoy the implications of the prophecy spelled out for him.
“You don’t have to protect them from us, we have seen those two before. They are basically joined at the hip. We just want to know,” Kingsley interjects, drawing Remus’ attention from Dumbledore.
“I—” Remus starts, but promptly snaps his mouth shut.
If he knows one thing at all in the whole entire universe, it’s that James was never the type of person who could maintain relationships within the confines of predefined borders. There is nothing and everything romantic about how James loves. A force, a storm, a hurricane consuming everything in its path it deems worthy: Sirius being perhaps the most treasured of those things.
Remus thinks of himself as a man capable of far less nuance: the wild jealousy at the mere thought gnaws at him mercilessly.
“I fear you have to be more specific,” Remus says dryly, his voice tight, yet deliberately even.
“Well… did Mr Potter and Mr Black ever appear to be anything more than friends?” Dumbledore asks possibly the most ludicrous question under present circumstances.
Remus isn’t sure how to voice how glaringly obvious the answer is to this. “I thought Kingsley just confirmed that.”
“I suppose he did,” Dumbledore replies, scratching his chin.
Kingsley and Dumbledore exchange a meaningful look.
Dumbledore tries it again. “Do you think Mr Black could pose a threat to a potential relationship Mr Potter might have in the future?”
No.
Yes.
Remus nods rigidly.
“Well, that explains it,” Kingsley sighs, relieved.
Remus does not think relief suits the occasion: all he can taste and smell is iron and rust. Of the past, the present, and future. It paints everything a shade of red.
“You cannot seriously be counting on a vague prophecy that might, potentially, perhaps mean something.”
“We cannot risk not taking this into account,” Dumbledore points out, and Kingsley makes a noise of agreement.
A confused laugh escapes Remus. “So what? We wait until Sirius dies? Until James and Lily have a baby? Until this baby grows up so she can actually do something other than drool and fall over?”
“Sometimes the best we can do is wait for an opportunity to present itself,” Dumbledore says. Remus finds it hard to believe that the man does actually think like that, but perhaps it shouldn’t be shocking after all the standing around they seem to be doing instead of fighting a war.
“In the last year we lost ten people. Ten. Last I checked Lily and James aren’t in the process of baby making so what are we looking at? Maybe sixteen more years if the kid is born with their combined talents? A hundred and sixty people sacrificed based on rubbish? If we are lucky,” Remus says, the words stumbling out rushed and messy.
“We aren’t putting everything on this,” Kingsley sighs wearily as if Remus was pestering him about dinner plans.
Remus shakes his head incredulously. “Well, that’s comforting.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. Just make sure you keep us up to date on how… things are going. If you can, push James and Lily. Gently. Make that sixteen years fifteen,” Kingsley says.
“And let Sirius die. If I can, perhaps shove him under a train myself,” Remus retorts bitterly.
“We are, of course, not asking that of you,” Dumbledore says before Kingsley could reply. “Just help us out here. As you said, this is not a short term plan. It cannot hurt to consider all our options.”
Remus isn’t sure Dumbledore understands what he is asking of him: betrayal. Worse—deception and scheming.
And if that wasn’t enough, Remus does not think he can hold this much jealousy within the edges of his body. It is bound to deluge.
Yes, he owes this man his life. He does not owe his friends' lives to him.
“They deserve to know,” Remus says simply.
“And then what, Lupin? After you tell them? You try to keep Black alive? He might die in a bloody heart attack even if you run to the ends of the world. And do correct me if I am wrong, but I cannot see Black or Potter running anywhere,” Kingsley snaps, his right hand clutching the windowsill with whitened knuckles.
“We will figure something out,” Remus says, his determination and conviction based on years of successful Marauders conspiracies—some quite unsuccessful, but those are easy to gloss over when looking back at them.
“We have no time for this, Albus,” Alastor says tersely. “He won’t cooperate, and we can’t let him run back to Potter and Black. If you don’t want a repeat performance of the other boy, we have to do something.”
Remus always prided himself on his quick wit and precise estimation of where a situation was headed. Admittedly, for the sixth time in the last three days, Remus is left surprised. Perhaps he should have been more perceptive of their willingness to sacrifice him and his friends. He is suddenly very aware that his overconfidence might have betrayed him, along with Alastor. He is not sure which one he is more bitter about.
He has no idea who this other boy Alastor mentioned might be, but he suspects he isn’t spending his days on a beach with cocktails.
His gaze flicks to Dumbledore, the man who ensured he could have anything close to a normal childhood. He isn’t stupid, though. Not anymore. Perhaps there was a time when he thought it was charity; when he thought he was deserving of this. That notion has long dissolved into reality. Remus is an asset: a tool Dumbledore intends to use. A werewolf on their side, a beast to command. He was able to avoid it so far, but it was only a matter of time before his time came like Peter’s. Perhaps he won’t be used how Dumbledore originally intended it, but he will be used nonetheless.
He stiffens, his hand inching toward his wand, hidden beneath his robes. He considers his chances of winning a duel against any of these men separately less than zero. He considers his chances of getting away a little above zero.
He reaches for his wand, his fingertips barely grazing the hard wood before it is already within Dumbledore’s grasp.
“Mr Lupin, we do not intend to hurt you,” Dumbledore says softly, his blue eyes calm, his tone almost bemused. He places Remus’ wand on the desk behind him, right next to the bowl full of sweets.
Remus thinks running might be cowardly and embarrassing, but it also might be enough of a shock for the men to grant him a sufficient amount of time to make it down the stairs onto the corridors—hopefully, full of students wandering about. He wishes Dumbledore didn’t make him close the door: it will cost him precious seconds to tear open.
He braces himself, his muscles tightening, his body coiled up, ready to spring.
“Don’t even try it,” Kingsley says, waving his hand at the door. It locks with an audible click. “Don’t embarrass yourself, Lupin. We aren’t in school anymore.”
Remus feels the urge to inform him that he is quite mistaken and they are indeed in school. He decides it would be a little too petty considering the circumstances.
“It will be a quick process,” Dumbledore assures him, his voice steady and gentle as he rises to his full height, pushing himself away from his desk. He steps closer, his wand glinting softly in the light as it hovers just above Remus’ temple.
Remus thinks this must have been his plan from the get-go. He knew Remus couldn’t be convinced. It was, however, unmistakably convenient that Alastor brought the solution up, and it wasn’t Dumbledore who had to say it.
“I don’t allow it,” Remus says through gritted teeth.
Left with no other options Remus ducks and lunges toward the desk, his eyes locked onto his wand that lies within reach. He does not make it far; in a heartbeat, he collapses to the floor, his arm frozen in an extended position, still reaching for his wand. To his credit, he did manage to knock over the bowl of sweets, the pieces scattering across the floor.
From the corner of his eye, he can see Alastor’s boots. His anticipated ally did not live up to the expectations. On the contrary.
Dumbledore crouches down beside him, picking up a piece of sweet from the rug, and popping it in his mouth. “I am afraid this is not up for debate, Mr Lupin.”
*
Godric’s Hollow is a small town nestled between two sizable hills, their slopes guarding the town from both the winter winds and the gentle warmth of the early morning sun. Regulus can clearly make out its church towering over the residual buildings and a small cemetery.
Sirius releases Regulus’ hand but his fingers linger on James’. Regulus tries his best not to notice.
He is still lightheaded from the vow and the apparition did no favours for his well-being. He tastes acid.
They remain stationary on a ridge that overlooks the town, the wind biting against their faces, and Regulus could swear he can see the houses spinning and the tombstones awkwardly leaning against each other for support.
“Welcome to Godric’s Hollow,” Sirius says finally, letting his gaze travel over the town as if he was seeing it for the first time; as if he was in Regulus’ shoes. What he appears to be quite unaware of is that Regulus has sat on this very ridge more often than he would care to admit. It was unnecessarily dangerous, but some days were harder to get through than others.
“Lovely place,” Regulus mutters, glad to have escaped the argument from earlier. If Sirius does not bring it up, he might be able to restrain himself from continuing it.
“James’ parents live here, we are staying with them. For now, at least,” Sirius explains what Regulus already knows.
Regulus nods dutifully, and tries his best to avoid looking at James. He isn’t sure what to make of the fact that apparently James Potter hasn’t informed Sirius that he told Regulus their exact location in case he ever decided on abandoning the blood purist movement. If Regulus showing up here from time to time was risky, then James telling a Death Eater their whereabouts was downright stupid and reckless.
After another long moment where all three of them take in the town in its entirety, James takes off and they follow him, descending towards the edge of town. The surrounding forest is still thick around them here, but the shadows of the night are well on their way of dissolving, creeping back from the dirt road to the trees as the sun slowly rises above the hills.
“They are out during the day, normally. We thought it would probably be best if they didn’t know about you and… well, the plan,” James adds, not looking at Regulus. Regulus does not mind it as much as he normally does.
“Pettigrew and Lupin both stay with you?” Regulus asks, already dreading the answer. Being in his brother’s presence is overwhelming, adding James Potter to the mix is stretching limits he didn’t know he had; add any more and he might not survive.
“Ideally,” James says bitterly. “Peter is… he isn’t around. Hasn’t been for weeks now.”
“Then why was he in the vow?” Regulus asks the obvious question, but it seems to be the wrong one. James glances over his shoulder, and exchanges a look with Sirius. Regulus does not like it one bit.
“He will be back,” Sirius says curtly.
“Are you really staying in a basement?” James asks, suddenly turning his head towards Regulus.
For a brief moment Regulus is not sure if it’s just an attempt to change the topic, but based on James’ expression, it seems to be a subject that weighs greatly on his heart. Regulus finds it somewhat comical what James can get worked up about. Unbreakable Vows with presumably dead Death Eaters resulting in dubious connections are seemingly perfectly fine, but said Death Eater living in a basement is decidedly disagreeable.
“Yes.”
The basement he’s been calling home for a while now is foul, dank, and Regulus’ worst nightmare. That is, of course, being generous, it does not even come close to Regulus’ best nightmares, but he still despises it. Being on the run requires an amount of sacrifice; first and foremost the comfort of an actual accommodation.
“He can stay with us,” Sirius says, addressing James as if Regulus wasn’t even there.
“Not here,” Regulus blurts out, eliciting another look between James and Sirius.
“Not here. But we already worked something out,” James says, once again not bothering to elaborate. Regulus suspects this might not actually be due to them being rude on purpose: it might simply be caused by the fact that both Sirius and James expect everybody to read their minds like they do with each other.
So Regulus tries. If he is right, James did hear him at the park. He made it sound like Regulus was inside of his head.
He shuts his eyes tightly, letting his feet guide him.
James, he thinks.
Nothing.
Well, it was worth a try.
He opens his eyes and suddenly, he is hit with a picture of a couch. No, it’s a window and a figure blocking the light. No, it’s a fireplace and Sirius is sitting right next to it. There’s something in his hands, a book. No, he is sleeping. In a bed. There never was a fireplace.
Regulus gasps, and James yelps as if he was pinched. Both of them stop dead in their tracks. Sirius halts, his neutral expression not yet caught up with the events.
“Don’t do that again,” James deadpans, his head snapping to Regulus.
“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to,” Regulus lies, his heart overwhelmed with longing. He is not sure it is his own.
“What happened?” Sirius asks, his eyes darting between the two of them, his brows raised appropriately high now that he had a second to adjust.
Regulus can feel James’ memories becoming his own, and then they are gone just as fast as they came. In a heartbeat. No, less.
“He is in my head, as I said,” James says, the words not exactly sounding like his own.
He has still not taken his eyes off Regulus, and suddenly it crosses Regulus’ mind that this bond might not be one-sided. Maybe James is currently reading his thoughts.
The panic that crawls up his spine is oppressive and crushing: he severs the eye contact, desperately hoping that it might be enough to get James out of his head. If he was there in the first place. He cannot feel it, but it might just be due to Regulus’ limited magical abilities.
“What does that even mean?” Sirius demands, his displeasure nearly palpable in the air itself.
“Remember when we tried Legilimency? It feels like that, just approximately ten times worse. He just tramples in here,” James hisses, and Regulus is now a hundred percent confident he does not sound like himself. He sounds like Regulus.
Sirius tentatively glances at Regulus, and it is enough to confirm his suspicion: Sirius can hear it too.
“Alright, mate, perhaps Occlumency will work here, too, then. And Regulus promises not to go trampling into your head. Right?”
It seems like when faced with two Reguluses, Sirius will automatically slide into a peacekeeper role. Or perhaps it is only for James’ benefit.
“Right, Reggie?” Sirius presses when Regulus proves to still be too stunned to speak.
“Right,” Regulus manages.
James turns and continues on without another word. Sirius lingers a moment, his lips parting as if to say something, but then he thinks better of it and starts after James. Regulus can do nothing but follow.
He figures it isn’t the ideal time to ask about the alternative place James and Sirius had in mind for them to stay. He wonders if they will send him back to the basement instead, after all. Regulus would have no right to blame them.
He notices the way James sticks to the edge of the town while traversing it, his hand never travelling far from where his wand lies hidden. Sirius seems to be more relaxed: clearly, he is as fearless as ever with James around.
Regulus would have walked past the Potter’s house mainly because there simply wasn’t any house. It is clearly enchanted the same way Grimmauld place is: between two picket fenced properties lies nothing. At least until you aren’t told otherwise. Even if he had come this close to it before, he would have found nothing.
“Right here,” Sirius says, drawing Regulus’ attention to another set of picket fences emerging from the ground.
A lightly creaking gate follows and then trees. Too many to count. All of them bare, prepared for their winter slumber. A gravel road appears from thin air, James already walking down on it, the crushed stones crunching under his feet.
Sirius gestures to him to follow as some stairs materialise with a front door on top of them. There isn’t a house and there suddenly is. Regulus cannot help himself and swallow hard at the way the place seems to be the exact opposite of everything he has ever known: a rustic roof with mismatched tiles on top of wooden logs that don’t seem to be the product of the same tree make up the exterior with windows wide and high enough to function as doors—everything intoxicatingly intimate, worn-in, and inviting.
Regulus doesn’t have to be told to know that this is where James Potter was moulded into the person he is. With its incompatible pieces fitting together just right, with its great big windows surely letting in enough light to chase the shadows even from the darkest corners, with its warmth radiating from every nook and cranny: it is everything James Potter is.
Regulus never found it hard to believe that Sirius ran away from their family and duties, but suddenly, it seems like an impossibility to ever having believed that he wouldn’t. Not when he finally knows, really knows, what waited for his brother. What could have been his as well.
James pushes the door open and a gust of warm air hits Regulus straight in the face: the scent of orange and rosemary fills his nose. The exact same smell that accompanies James wherever he goes.
“Welcome home,” James says as he holds the door open for Sirius and Regulus, his voice positively more James now.
Home. But not Regulus’. Never his.
Regulus still avoids eye contact as he steps inside.
There’s a staircase straight ahead, numerous paintings hanging on the corridor leading up to it, furniture in countless designs that clash with each other in the room on their left, and as expected, grand windows letting the morning light freely roam around the space, leaving no darkness untouched. The Potter’s house is a study in the beauty of disorder and dissonance.
“Parents should be back in the evening so we have plenty of time to pack up. I, for one, need a shower and a toothbrush,” James informs them, closing the door and waving his hand at it. The motion is followed by a soft click of a lock. “I assume you aren’t hiding a suitcase under your robe?” he asks. It takes a moment for Regulus to register that James is addressing him—he is far too occupied with trying to absorb everything around him.
“You assume wrong,” Regulus says finally, patting his pocket.
Sirius told him to come prepared in case he could arrange a place for him, and Regulus was rather eager to be rid of the basement he spent the last months in. He did not have many things, but they fit in a reasonably sized backpack that he simply had to enchant to fit into the palm of his hand. Now it keeps his pocket watch and emergency knife company.
“Love being proven wrong,” James adds, kicking his shoes off. Sirius is already on his way towards the staircase, his boots left forgotten by the door.
“He really doesn’t,” Sirius comments, a conspiratory smile tugging at his lips.
“I am trying to be a bigger person,” James shoots back.
Regulus isn’t sure exactly where he fits into all this. Not anymore.
“I could use a shower, too,” Regulus says, clearing his throat.
“You can use the bathroom upstairs, Sirius will show you.”
Regulus nods tersely, the words thank and you dying somewhere between his upbringing and his inability to express most things.
James disappears into the room on the left, calling for Moony. Remus Lupin. Regulus used to consider him a friend. A reluctant one, but a friend nonetheless. He isn’t too keen on having to face him: Remus was never the type of person you could cross, and not expect consequences. Regulus has seen his stiff and ragged edges, and it wasn’t something that one would look forward to having a repeat experience of. He suspects that this time he will be standing on the painful side of it.
Regulus gets rid of his boots before Remus could spontaneously emerge from a cupboard, and catches up with Sirius who is already half way up to the second story. A painting waves at Regulus and another one in a straw hat calls him a handsome young man. The paintings in his house usually tell him to stand up straight, and to ensure no harm befalls the Black family name. Some even comment on his brother occasionally. He hates those the most. He sometimes ponders what they might be thinking now that the last Black has also gone from their halls. Maybe Kreacher keeps them company. Regulus tries his best not to think of him.
Sirius does not wait up for him, running ahead and skipping every second stair. Regulus picks up his pace to follow. He’d prefer not getting accidentally lost in the Potter’s house. Who knows what it might hold. Magical houses can be tricky bastards, especially if they don't like you.
Regulus catches up to Sirius at the top, slightly out of breath.
Without warning Sirius whips around and grabs his arm in a swift motion, yanking him close enough that their faces are barely an inch away. Sirius looks down at him with nothing promising in his gaze. Regulus stares at him with confusion and a slightly rising panic, his body instinctively trying to get some reasonable amount of space between them. He tugs on his arm, but Sirius holds him firmly in place.
“What are you doing?” Regulus asks, making a last half-hearted attempt to free himself from his brother’s grip. Sirius’ fingers remain locked around his forearm.
“I know it, Regulus. I know it, and I am warning you now to stay away from him,” Sirius says, his voice barely rising above a whisper. Regulus thinks it is somehow worse than if he was shouting.
Regulus, of course, knows what he means. Frankly, it never was his priority to keep it hidden from his brother, whom he considered the only person to be trusted and relied upon.
He contemplates playing dumb. It is not like he came here with the intention of… well, the intention of doing something that would involve James Potter in any capacity. He specifically requested Sirius not to tell anyone—which he appears to have immediately failed. Honestly, it is his fault.
Suddenly, he can feel the familiar rage growing in his ribcage, forcing him to bite down on his tongue. It doesn’t seem to be enough.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have let me do the vow with him, then,” Regulus spits, pulling on his arm again, unsuccessfully.
“Stay the fuck away from him, Reggie,” Sirius repeats, his face lighting up with something eerily similar to what is blossoming in Regulus’ chest.
“Would love to, but I am afraid I am in his head. Perhaps not the only place that I will be in,” Regulus says, the words spilling out of him along with his anger. It pools around their feet and it threatens to swallow them both, when Sirius raises his free hand.
Regulus knows what’s coming: he is all too familiar. A sentence that he shouldn’t have said, a flicker of disgust, a raised arm, and then pain. All of his senses scream at him to fight back or at least cover his face, but he just defiantly glares at his brother. If Sirius wants to follow their father down this path, Regulus will watch him do it.
Sirius looks at him with pure hatred, not even attempting to mask it. He lowers his arm and lets go of Regulus.
“I am not him,” Sirius says, his jaw clenching. Regulus isn’t sure which one of us he is trying to convince.
“Neither am I.”
They aren’t their parents. They are worse. Regulus certainly is. He thinks Sirius is up for debate, for now.
“He deserves better. Believe me, if I had known how the vow would go, I wouldn’t have suggested it,” Sirius adds far calmer than a second ago, taking a step back, giving Regulus a chance to finally properly inhale for the first time since he started up the stairs. He is unsure if his lungs ache from the rage spreading in them or from the lack of oxygen.
The lump in his throat forms as soon as the first few words reach his ears.
He deserves better.
It's not like Regulus doesn’t know that. He doesn’t need to be reminded, thank you very much.
“I didn’t come here to steal your boyfriend, however surprising. In case you have forgotten, let me remind you, that I told you to keep your mouth shut about this. It was supposed to be the two of us only.” The words come out more strained than he intends them to, and he can only hope Sirius doesn’t notice.
“Bathroom at the end of the hallway. Towels in the left cupboard,” Sirius says, turning his back on Regulus. He was always good at ejecting himself from arguments at the most blood boiling moments.
Regulus' hand clenches into a fist involuntarily. Before he can retort something half-unwarranted, Sirius disappears into a room, the door shutting behind him with a loud thud.
“Fuck you,” Regulus mutters under his breath.
It isn’t like he actively chose James Potter to consume his every waking thought when they were just kids. If anything, his brother’s stories and letters about him forced him down the road of daydreaming of a boy he hadn’t even met back then.
A friend. For both Sirius and Regulus. That was the dream James Potter was unknowingly offering, and it made both brothers equally intoxicated. It even worked out for a little while. It certainly had its ups and downs, but it was something Regulus wasn’t willing to let go off. Until he was.
With nothing left to do but either stand angrily in the hallway of the second story of the Potter’s house, or go to the bathroom to take a shower to wash off the stench of his own stomach bile, he decides on the latter.
His attempts to dissociate are somewhat successful as he undresses and steps into the shower. He takes good care to avoid his reflection, always judgemental and cruel, making him stumble over his very own thoughts and string them together in an incomprehensible way. Over the last two years he has learnt that it’s easier if he doesn’t have to face himself.
He turns the shower to the hottest setting—after some fiddling because the Potter’s shower seems to be one of those that are dead set on doing the polar opposite of what you want it to—and takes pleasure in the way the water scalds his skin, leaving it red and raw. He expects the heat to burn through him and wash away his thoughts, but as he lets his head fall back and his eyes roll back, the picture of Sirius in front of a fireplace flashes into his mind. It’s a fireplace Regulus is familiar with: he has spent countless hours in front of it with James by his side. It seems like he wasn’t the only one.
He groans and buries his head in his hands, the water running down his curls, soaking them.
His forearm burns where his fingernails and the vow have left their markings.
It’s not the first time he feels like a caged beast inside his own body, thrashing against the confines of his flesh, but it’s the first time he isn’t wearing this flesh alone. Perhaps it should be a comforting thing, but all Regulus feels is repulsion. Being perceived might just be one of those things that Regulus Black utterly despises.
He isn’t sure if being perceived even begins to describe having his life, thoughts and breathing bound to another person. He is painfully aware that the only cure to this particular predicament is death. His, James’, or Voldemort’s—the latter decidedly harder to achieve than the rest.
He steps out of the shower, not feeling any cleaner than when he entered it.
He brushes his teeth with the toothbrush he brought along and gets dressed: even his own clothes hang loosely on his frame, but he cannot be bothered to charm them. At least the taste of puke is out of his mouth.
All the while his reflection tries to catch his eye, but Regulus is an expert at ignoring it without much strain.
He wonders how he could possibly ensure to keep his thoughts hidden from James. If he can trample in his head, the only thing holding back James from doing the same is his honor and Regulus isn’t familiar enough with the concept to rely on it.
James is far too advanced of a wizard: perhaps he could even navigate his mind and find out whatever he’d like. Their alliance wouldn’t be long lasting like that.
Regulus knows he needs a plan of action, a way to ensure it doesn’t happen, but he is getting particularly tired of plans. He wishes something for once did not require ten steps of deception and five counts of murder.
Sirius is still nowhere to be seen when Regulus emerges from the bathroom, his hair dripping onto his shirt. It is moderately annoying, but the fabric is thick enough to swallow the droplets.
Regulus locates the door Sirius disappeared behind, and knocks his fist against it with more force than required.
When a reasonable five seconds pass, he does it again.
No answer.
He calls Sirius’ name the next time his palm meets the cool wood.
He tries the handle. Locked.
He considers opening the door with a spell. He decides against it.
When Sirius fails to acknowledge his presence even after the sixth knock and the door remains stubbornly closed, Regulus is faced with the bitter realisation that he will have to look for James Potter. He could shout for him, but he does not feel up for hearing his voice anything above conversational volume.
“Fuck you,” Regulus mutters to the door, which thankfully realises it was directed at Sirius and does not take offense.
He brushes the wet curls out of his face: he could go back to the bathroom and align them perfectly, drying each with a careful spell, but frankly, he could not care any less about his appearance. It’s not like dry hair would improve it significantly.
He knocks his knuckles against the door one more time: not as a request to be let inside, more like as a resigned measure to signal his departure. Sirius does not seem to take notice of this either.
He walks down the hallway and the staircase greets him at the exact same spot he left it. This cannot be said for most magical houses so it eases the knot in Regulus’ stomach marginally. At least he won’t have to wander around aimlessly for a couple of hours before someone comes to his rescue.
He barely gets to the bottom of it, lost in thought, considering how he should inquire about his future living arrangements when the front door flies open. He doesn’t have time to react, but thankfully, the person bursting in is just as surprised as he is. At least, initially.
There is a long second where Regulus doesn’t realise he is about to get cursed. It’s only luck that saves him from a nasty Stupify in the middle of the chest.
He ducks and his forehead barely misses the intricately shaped newel post: Regulus thinks it is supposed to resemble a wolf in a forest. Any other time he might spend some time musing over it, but as the spell grazes his shoulder, it becomes abundantly clear that it might not be the ideal occasion for this.
He isn’t going to be able to dodge the next one, and he doesn’t have enough time to reach for his wand. His best chance is talking.
“Evans! I am not here to—”
“Stupify!”
The spell hits him just under his chin, sending him flying until his flight is abruptly cut off by the wall right behind him. The paintings by the staircase rattle, some voicing their dissatisfaction. Regulus’ consciousness slips away just as James appears at the edge of his vision, clutching his chest, panting.
“What in Merlin’s—”
Regulus dreams of a rodent curled up by a blooming flower under a nonsensical sky full of stars, the Moon, and the Sun.