Note 1: Thank you all for your wonderful feedback! Here, as promised, part B of the unexpected chapter. Try not to shake Regulus too hard by the end of this. He really tries.

Note 2: The articles quoted in this chapter are of course entirely made up; I only borrowed the names of the newspapers.

As always, I really look forward to reading what you think :)

Warnings: Scars, past suicide attempt, death by drowning, weird unprocessed grief. But then, you did read all the way here, so…


Blackpool, Part 5 ¾ B / 6


The week before Christmas, Regulus enters the Deputy Headmistress's office to put his name on the list of students staying over the break. McGonagall is grading essays, a stack of parchment to her left, a second stack of parchment to her right. The latter is liberally decorated in red ink. She acknowledges him with a curt nod.

He signs his name slowly, middle name and all, trying not to be too obvious about scanning the rest of the list. Several other names catch his attention, among them all five of his roommates – Merlin, so much for a bit of peace and quiet over the break. But further up, the very first entry is –

Sirius Black.

Regulus hesitates. Maybe he should go home this year. It'll be the first Christmas break without Sirius, so quiet is almost guaranteed even if peace isn't – but privacy-wise, Hogwarts is definitely the lesser evil. Ah, well, it's a big castle. He can always avoid his brother.

The faint sounds of essay grading have ceased a while ago, and when Regulus finally picks up on that, he looks up from the list to find McGonagall watching him.

"Have a biscuit, Black," she says.

"Pardon?" In his defence, this is not how their interactions usually go.

McGonagall points at a tartan tin on her desk. "Biscuit," she says. "It's nearly Christmas, Mr Black. Work with me here."

Regulus obediently reaches into the tin, fishes out one of the crumbly ginger nuts in there, and pops it into his mouth. The biscuit is surprisingly dusty, and he starts coughing.

"Oh dear me," says McGonagall, who is observing him like a hawk. "Here, have a cup of tea."

There's a tea set on a nearby table, and a wave of McGonagall's wand has the teapot pouring steaming tea into two cups. She doesn't ask. Milk, no sugar, apparently that's how he takes his tea now.

Regulus, still coughing, is forced by the rules of politeness to sit down in a straight-backed armchair, blowing on his cup of too-hot tea and wondering what in the name of sanity just happened.

"Mr Black," says McGonagall. "Is there anything you would like to talk about?"

"No, thank you, Professor," he says politely. "Why?"

McGonagall nods at the list on her desk. "I can't help but noticing," she says, "that you've signed up to stay at Hogwarts for the third Christmas in a row. Is Professor Slughorn still not happy with your Potions work?"

"I told him I fancied becoming a Healer," says Regulus, wishing he'd have made this lie McGonagall-proof. Alas.

"I see," says McGonagall. "I must say I'm surprised. The men in your family do not usually commit themselves to learning a profession, do they?"

Translation: They usually spend their time managing their considerable riches, meddling with politics, and amassing ill-advised collections of Dark Artefacts.

"Professor," says Regulus, flicking on a pleasant smile, "I wouldn't have pegged you a socialist."

She smiles back, but thinly. "Some circumstances just bring it out in me."

After taking a dignified sip of her tea, she adds, "Fairly noticeable bird, bringing you letters every Friday. What is it, a carrion crow?"

Regulus lets his face settle into a mask of friendly indifference before he answers. "A rook," he says. "The beak is different, and the colour isn't quite the same shade of black."

"Yes, I remember seeing that bird a lot when your cousin Bellatrix was still a student here," says McGonagall with all the subtlety of a Bludger to the face.

"Do you," says Regulus. He neglects to tell her that Nyx, the rook, is on its seventh incarnation. Bella keeps killing them.

McGonagall sighs at his deliberate obtuseness, or maybe just at the world in general. "Mr Black, the purpose of this conversation is not to discuss the taxonomy of the Corvidae family," she says. "We know some of our students have been… approached."

Regulus takes another polite sip of his tea. "Approached by whom, Professor?"

"An obscure political fraction seeking blood purity and the repeal of the International Statute of Secrecy," says McGonagall. "They are thought to be responsible for more than forty deaths in the last six years."

"That is terrible," says Regulus, going as blank as he dares.

"We also know," adds McGonagall, "that some of these students have been threatened with harm to themselves or their families, should they refuse to swear their allegiance – or should they seek help."

"How do you know that, then, Professor?" says Regulus.

She ignores him. "The political fraction in question calls itself the Death Eaters."

Regulus gives it a fraction of a second before he replies. "You have got to be joking."

"I wish," says McGonagall. She takes off her square glasses to give him a stare that is, impossibly, even more piercing. "Our headmaster," she says, "has always prided himself on the fact that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."

Regulus allows himself to lift one eyebrow. Just one. This moment is worth the countless hours he has spent in front of a mirror to perfect the move. "Really?" he says.

"But you have to ask for it, Mr Black," says McGonagall.

Frankly, it seems like a technicality to Regulus, but what does he know. "Bella is my cousin," he reminds her. "She writes to me regarding matters of the family."

"You don't have to ask right now," says McGonagall. "But you'll have to ask before you set things in motion you will regret."

There's a tense sort of silence between them now. Regulus somehow manages to drain his tea, which is still rather on the wrong side of scalding. He doesn't know even what he's going to say until he opens his mouth to speak –

And that's when James Potter barges into the office. "Morning, Professor," he says, and Regulus breathes a sigh of relief.

"Potter, you will get out, wait for ten minutes, and then you will knock," says McGonagall. "I am busy."

"Actually, I was just about to leave," says Regulus.

"Ah, young Regulus Betelgeuse," says Potter. "Don't panic, Professor, this'll only take a sec." He snatches the sign-up sheet and deftly strikes out Sirius's name from the list of students staying at Hogwarts over Christmas.

"Made up, have we?" says McGonagall. "Oh, well. I commend you for your magnanimity, though I shall miss the peace and quiet in Gryffindor Tower."

"Oh, he doesn't know yet," says Potter. "But my parents will kill me if I don't bring him home for his first real Christmas."

"Oh, have some tact, Potter," snaps McGonagall.

"What?" says Potter. "I told him he could come, too! Ages ago!"

They're clearly talking about Regulus. He neglects to inform Potter that he has roughly ninety-nine problems, exactly none of which will be solved by spending Christmas with his ex-brother and the estranged best friend of said ex-brother.

Regulus rises from his armchair. "May I be excused, Professor?" he says.

"Mr Black," says McGonagall. "I will expect you this time next week to discuss your Transfiguration marks."

How on earth did he deserve that one? Regulus wonders. "Why, Professor?" he says. "What's wrong with them?"

She shrugs. "Nothing much. They're just not quite what I would expect for someone striving to become a Healer."

"Ah," he says. Really, he has to become a whole lot better at lying.

McGonagall gives him a thin smile. "Dismissed, Mr Black."

As Regulus slips past Potter through the door, feeling thoroughly exhausted, he hears McGonagall heave a deep sigh and say, "Have a biscuit, Potter."


Over the Christmas break, the status of Regulus's diary shifts from somewhat incriminating to actual liability.

By Boxing Day, Regulus is confident he could probably write the unofficial biography of the Dark Lord. He even has a name picked out: Wolf in Wolf's Clothing. Or Career in the Shadows.

Or maybe I Am Lord Voldemort. The anagram in particular tickles him. It's just so unexpectedly… nerdy? As if it had been picked by a teen.

Only yesterday Regulus had seen the name for the first time, on a corroded medal in the trophy room. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Right time frame, right house, and, even better, all the other Slytherins from that era can be accounted for (after all, Regulus is related to roughly ninety per cent of them). When he'd written the name into his diary, the anagram had become obvious almost instantly, as if the letters had re-arranged themselves in front of his eyes. He wonders what the Dark Lord would have to say about it today. He wonders if anyone ever dared ask.

No, Regulus definitely can't leave that diary lying around anymore.

Still, it's a surprisingly short biography for a man who is about to turn fifty less than a week from now. Regulus has gone through the Hogwarts Library's archive of old Daily Prophet issues, armed with keyword spells and the sort of patience one learns in O.W.L. level Ancient Runes. (He's queried The Quibbler and Witch Weekly, too, and can say with confidence that the Dark Lord has never been accused of a secret identity as a rock star, nor has he won the Most Charming Smile Award.) The Dark Lord's rise is marked by disappearances, unexplained deaths, explained deaths –and always, the unwavering devotion of his followers.

There is something about him, however, that journalists do not seem to get a handle on – they don't draw connections, there's no order, no structure. Between their articles and Bella's letters, Regulus has two dozen puzzle pieces, scattered across thirty years.

That's not even one a year. So where's that Slytherin ambition that Bella praises in her letters?

A growl in his stomach reminds him that he's nearly forgotten about breakfast again. Walking down the corridor to the Great Hall, he tries to look like he's not running mental loops around the inexorable rise of the most inventive Dark Wizard since Grindelwald. Deputy Headmistress McGonagall seems to have a sixth sense for that sort of thing.

Breakfast turns out to be leftovers from the Christmas feast, and he snatches a piece of fruitcake and a cup of coffee, intending to hurry so he can get back to his research, when –

Kaah.

That damn rook again. Under the not quite hidden attention of McGonagall, Regulus takes the letter from Nyx, feeds her the rawest bit of meat he can find in a hurry – a slightly undercooked piece of sausage - and then leans back, unrolling the parchment like a man who doesn't have anything to hide.

Two pages in, Regulus can't help but whistle through his teeth. "Inventive," he says.

"Anything interesting?" says Snape, who has stayed back for reasons unknown, his nose buried in what is clearly a N.E.W.T. level Defence textbook.

"My dear cousin really doesn't like Muggles," says Regulus under his breath. It's possibly the first time in his life he misses the usual hustle and bustle of the Great Hall during term.

Snape laughs. "Who does?"

"It's probably illegal to hate them this much," murmurs Regulus. He's just had another idea.

Because who else doesn't like Muggles?

The Dark Lord.

And who else also has newspapers?

Muggles. (Regulus is fairly sure about this one.)

So, he reasons, if the two have ever clashed…

He stuffs the rest of the fruitcake in his mouth, not exactly in line with his Ancient and Noble table manners, washes it down with black coffee, and rushes to the library.

The Hogwarts Library doesn't have its own Muggle newspaper archive, but it mirrors the one at the British Library, which is just as good. The sheer volume is somewhat off-putting – why do Muggles need so many different periodicals? he wonders – but be it intuition or sheer dumb luck, it doesn't even take Regulus until lunch to get somewhere.

The Times and The Guardian do not yield anything.

The Daily Mail, in 1971, published a somewhat sensationalist list of the 14 Most Chilling Unsolved Murders of the 20th Century. Sensing instinctively that this is the sort of list the Dark Lord's pastimes tend to turn up in, Regulus follows up on all fourteen in local newspapers.

It's number twelve that draws him in, or rather, the accompanying photograph: A grey sea lapping at a bleak, empty beach, frozen still in time. That landscape feels utterly familiar; he could have sworn it was Brighton, but no. He even doublechecks. No. 12: The Mystery of Blackpool Beach, says the Daily Mail.

The same photograph is printed in the Blackpool Gazette, in its 1st July 1966 issue. Additionally, it has the following to say on the matter:

A child has been found dead on Blackpool beach Saturday morning, say police. The boy, presumably aged seven to nine, is thought to have drowned. He has not yet been reported missing. Lancashire Police are asking the public to come forward with any information that may lead to the identification of the child or his parents. The boy is described as dark-haired, fair-skinned, and wearing expensive, foreign clothes.

And, a few weeks later:

In the case of the drowned boy whose body was washed up on Blackpool beach on the 27th, police are investigating several lines of enquiry after numerous tips from the public. Weeks after his mysterious death, the boy has still not been reported missing. An autopsy has confirmed the cause of death as drowning, yielding no evidence of a crime, "which does not mean a crime has not been committed," say police. Meanwhile, the case has sparked a widespread response among locals and tourists alike. Around sixty people attended the child's burial at Layton Cemetery, and many more left flowers and letters at the grave. "It's just a tragedy," says Edith Hawthorne, aged sixty-four, of North Shore. "Where are the parents? That's what I want to know."

Regulus copies down both articles in his diary. It's almost certainly a dead end, he thinks. Drowning? Not the Dark Lord's style. Clearly a Muggle death in a Muggle town.

But the words look different in his careful cursive, alien and familiar both. Like there's a second story hidden underneath the first, very nearly shining through.

It's a peculiar feeling: Like he's cheating. Like he found a shortcut home, through the crazy neighbour's garden. He underlines some of the words:

- found dead on Blackpool beach -

- thought to have drowned. He -

- reported missing. Lancashire Police are -

- "Where are the parents? That's what I –

Since he's already in the Muggle part of the library, he goes and looks up "police".

Then he goes and looks up "autopsy".

After that, he needs a lie-down.


In the weeks to follow, the research doesn't ever truly let go of him. Regulus wonders if he can interview the Dark Lord without selling his soul first. He wonders if he can get Bella to write even more letters. His collection of newspaper cut-outs tops even Mulciber's creepy obsession with the Holyhead Harpies. When Regulus showers in the morning, he thinks of a dead family in York, and ponders whether Muggles would confuse Avada Kedavra for carbon monoxide poisoning. When he buttons his robes, he speculates whether a collapsed chalk cliff near Dover implies Dark Magic or just erosion. When he sits in Ancient Runes, he writes little notes to himself, wondering whether an unsolved murder in Bournemouth in early 1959 and an attack in Southampton two months later could possibly be related.

Right now, Regulus is running, taking the long way around the Black Lake, because if he does any more sitting around in the library, he can probably kiss his Quidditch captaincy goodbye. Today, he finds his brain vaguely stuck on the whole immortality thing again – it's impossible, he tells himself as he turns off the trail towards the rockier bits on the lake's north shore, it's impossible and someone as brilliant as the Dark Lord is wasting his time on the impossible, it doesn't make sense -

It's like once he's started, he can't stop. The information has taken root in his brain, shuffling and rearranging itself. Every time he opens his diary, he notices something else, a connection, an inky thread between incidents. He would probably dream of it, too – would dream of glowing Dark Marks over ruined cottages, of bodies with their eyes wide open, of a dark-haired child washed up on the beach of Blackpool. But the Dreamless Sleep Potion takes care of that.

Regulus wishes there were someone to bounce ideas off, because he is still not entirely convinced he's not going crazy. The Grim had been a pretty good listener, considering, but the dog hasn't turned up since the day Regulus called him a spy – which probably proves that point. Still, he thinks. Someone to listen. Someone to understand

"Not you, though," he mutters under his breath, when his pursuer finally catches up with him.

James Potter is still not particularly graceful when he's not airborne. He runs like a young deer: Half his energy goes into the bounce. Regulus acknowledges him with a nod.

"Morning, Betelgeuse," says Potter.

Isn't there some sort of unwritten rule that one does not talk to fellow runners on the wrong side of seven a.m.?

Or, in fact, run alongside them at all? Potter must have missed it.

As it turns out, his new-found running buddy doesn't even have the questionable subtlety of one Deputy Headmistress McGonagall. "Been talking to your brother lately?"

Regulus rolls his eyes and speeds up. But as dorky as Potter looks, he is fairly fit – barely breathing heavier despite the considerable incline. He keeps pace easily.

"I don't think you understand how this disownment thing works," Regulus says.

"I just wondered." Potter manages to shrug while jumping easily from rock to rock. "You seem to be on a subtle crusade to get the rest of us to talk to him."

There's really nothing Regulus can say to this except, "What."

"You suggested to me and Peter that we, and I quote, sort this the fuck out among ourselves," says Potter. At least he's out of breath now, and his words come in short bursts. "You asked Remus what it would take for him to talk to Sirius again. By your standards, that's effort."

Ah. So Lupin told him about that little encounter.

"Reminds me," says Regulus. "Did Sirius apologise to Lupin?"

"It's a complicated thing to apologise for," says Potter. "But he made a start." They're almost at the top of the rocky incline when he adds, "The thing is, he's not exactly talking to us, either. I usually turn around here."

Potter comes to a stop, and despite himself, Regulus stops with him. He surveys the steep, cragged descent in front of them, more cliff than trail if one doesn't know where one puts one's feet.

"But that's the best part," says Regulus.

"If you want to twist your ankle, maybe," says Potter.

Regulus shrugs. "Some Gryffindor," he mutters, and sets off.

To Potter's credit, he comes straight after him, matching his speed, even though he hasn't spent a hundred runs mapping out every rock, nook, and cranny. Some Gryffindor, indeed.

Potter even attempts to continue the conversation. "I mean, it's not this whole dramatic 'not talking' thing anymore," he says, punctuated by hasty breaths. "He's just so insanely busy. Library and schoolwork and who knows what research, and of course, he's up to his neck in detention, and –"

"What do you want, Potter?" snaps Regulus. Listening to Potter really saps the fun out of this whole free-fall tumble. He'd been looking forward to this bit for the last three miles.

"I want to ask you something," says Potter. "I'm not sure there's anyone else who'd know the answer."

They're on flat ground again, but it's rougher here, the trail not as meticulously maintained as on the other side.

"Let me guess," says Regulus. "I'm going to be offended somehow."

"Like that's new," says Potter.

Then he pauses.

Then he says something that makes Regulus come to a dead halt.

"Say that again," says Regulus.

"Sirius got a tattoo over Christmas," says Potter.

No, thinks Regulus. No, this can't be. Absolutely not.

"What," he says.

"On his arm."

Regulus feels a lot more out of breath than he should rightfully be when he asks, "Where – whereabouts on his arm –"

It probably says a lot about the way Potter sees the world that he doesn't even attempt to use his words, instead grabs Regulus's left arm – and Regulus just allows it, immobilised by what is not quite nausea, just a general feeling of Oh god no.

Potter turns over his arm and points a calloused finger at the inside of Regulus's wrist.

Well. That gets awkward quickly. Potter actually jumps back when he realises what he's done.

"It's not contagious," says Regulus, pulling back his arm and with it the evidence of a night that cut his life in halves. Foggy, forgettable first half, comparatively coherent second. Except for the whole going crazy bit.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry," says Potter. "Didn't think that one through."

But Potter is not surprised. Why is he not surprised? "Did Sirius tell you?" says Regulus.

"He told me about the Black family curse," says Potter. "I didn't know that meant you. Why didn't you get rid of them?"

How Evans hasn't fed him to the Giant Squid yet, Regulus may never know. He refrains from offering his opinion on what body part Potter could stand to get rid of, and says, "Because Scar-Ex Potion tastes like athlete's foot." Someone like Potter is clearly not going to understand the sort of life that requires frequent, visible reminders.

Speaking of which. "Can we discuss Sirius's tattoo now?" says Regulus. "What is it?"

Because if it happens to be a skull and serpent, he has about four pounds of newspaper cut-outs to set on fire. Preferably on Sirius's bed.

"It's barely anything," says Potter. "It's just three dots and he refused to explain."

"So obviously you thought it was some Dark Magic thing and went to bother me about it," says Regulus. "Or a cult thing. Or a trademark Black insanity thing. Thanks, I guess."

Despite the sarcasm, he feels as if his free fall has been slowed considerably by an unexpected parachute. Three dots, he thinks. No way that means anything.

"Well, he is going through a hard time," says Potter. "An entirely self-inflicted hard time, but there you go."

Regulus sighs, picks up a stick, and hands it to Potter. "Draw them," he says, and is met with confusion, so he clarifies, "in the sand."

"I told you, it's just three –"

"Draw them."

Potter takes the stick with a dubious expression, but he does poke three dots into the wet sand. "There you go," he says. "I'm no Picasso, but –"

Regulus stares. Then he laughs. "Seriously, Potter? You thought this was Dark Magic?"

"Or trademark Black insanity," says Potter. "Still haven't ruled it out."

"Do you know him at all?" says Regulus. "It's a constellation, moron."

Potter stares at the sand. Then his eyes go wide. "Oh," he says.

"The Summer Triangle," says Regulus, pointing at the acute triangle laid out in front of them. Deneb, Vega, and –"

Damn it. Gone again.

"Altair," supplies Potter.

"Yeah, that one."

"…Why?"

"Beats me," says Regulus. "Maybe he started out with Canis Major and then realised tattoos are painful."

Potter actually laughs. Which is when Regulus realises he is shaking.

No wonder, he thinks. They've been standing here for entirely too long on this frigid morning in March. A sharp wind has come up, and his sweaty shirt is sticking to his skin.

"Should be getting on," he says. "Tell you what, I'll give you a head start."

"Why?" says Potter.

"Because you'll need it, Potter," says Regulus.

Potter shrugs and says, "All right, Black. Thanks." He sets off, his capability of holding polite conversations with Slytherins obviously depleted.

Regulus waits until Potter is well on his way. Then he gets his shrunken diary out of a pocket – he is not letting that thing out of sight, ever, again –, opens a fresh page, and draws three dots, an acute triangle: Deneb, Vega, and the third.


The time has come for some field research. After much deliberation, Regulus decides to start with the most recent of the 14 Most Chilling Unsolved Murders of the 20th Century. Most Dark Magic decays over time – probably for the better, or the world would be full of curses – and he wants, needs to find something. Something that proves that he is not crazy yet. Thus, on the first of April, 1977, Regulus gets special permission from Professor Slughorn to see his elderly, ailing, and thoroughly non-existent Great Uncle Betelgeuse in Lancashire.

No. 12: The Mystery of Blackpool Beach, he thinks. Here goes nothing.

Regulus Floos into the Holloway Inn, a tiny wizarding place just off Watson Road. He steps out to find – not at all what he expected. For some reason – maybe the long, damp Scottish winter - he'd pictured a languid, bright summer day, the air wavering with heat and full of smells – chips, fried fish, algae, salt. Instead, Blackpool is barely recuperating from the last winter, full of potholes and sharp winds.

But what chills him most is the familiarity of the place, every corner he turns, layers and layers of déjà vu, broken up sharply by the occasional new building. It reminds him of Brighton, in a way Brighton never did.

When he reaches the shore, Regulus draws up his hood against the icy wind, the spray of the sea. He walks the length of the beach, south to north. The tide is at its lowest point, the sand bare and exposed.

But something is not quite right. The Muggle map he borrowed from the innkeeper must be old, he thinks – very old. It certainly looks old. Certainly not older, however, than any of the four piers he passes, only three of which are on the map: South Pier, Central Pier, North Pier.

Odd.

The fourth pier is different. The haunting familiarity of Blackpool seems to be concentrated here, between Central and North Pier – but still, Regulus can hardly look at it. His attention keeps getting caught up in meaningless details – the foam on the waves, the sand that collects in his boots, the icy wind that keeps blowing off his hood.

It's easier when he fixates on the sea instead, keeping the pier just in the corner of his eye. Now he notes Victorian metalwork, exposed in the low tide. Well-kept, but ancient wooden planks. No railings.

So the pier may be rather unremarkable – quite literally, even - but Regulus is not going to gloss over the fact there's an unmapped pier right by the site the child was found, washed ashore nearly eleven years ago, at the height of the tourist season.

Is this the Dark Lord's doing? he wonders. Hiding an entire pier in plain sight? … To make sure he'd find the place later? From what Regulus has cobbled together, it doesn't seem quite his style. The Dark Lord enjoys attention – for his work, if not his person - he scares and bullies and awes.

Or maybe that's what Regulus believes because it's exactly what he would notice. If the Dark Lord starts hiding things – well, that can't be good news, Regulus thinks.

Or maybe it's a coincidence and this is just some wizarding family's private pier – but very few families have the sort of old money that would get them the permits necessary to hide something this big in a Muggle neighbourhood. Off the top of his hat, Regulus can think of three, maybe four. The Malfoys, the Shafiqs, the Lestranges. The Blacks, obviously.

He gets out his diary. Grabbing the self-inking quill inelegantly between icy fingers – once again, it's not a day for calligraphy – he notes down these thoughts.

When he looks up, it's to the strongest déjà vu yet – wet sand beneath his feet, an empty sky above, and a steel-grey hungry sea in front. The incoming tide has started lapping away at his footprints, the beach again a blank, malleable slate - and for a moment, there's only this terrible now, no past, no future. That one night on the roof of Grimmauld Place.

He flees the beach, then, and lets his feet carry him to Layton Cemetery. By the time he gets there, he wishes he'd taken Muggle Studies, just so he'd know how to take a bus.

Layton Cemetery looks like another dead end. The place seems entirely too Muggle for someone like the Dark Lord – witches and wizards prefer burials under trees, or in the cool depths of a mausoleum, or at sea. Not in neat little rows on a flat wide piece of land, surrounded by terraced houses and noisy Muggle traffic.

But if the Dark Lord were to murder a child, would he care where it was buried?

It takes him a while to find the anonymous grave. The headstone is simple, likely paid for by the council, or donations. The inscription reads Sweet Dreams, Dear Child in loopy cursive, together with the day the body was found: 27th June 1966, almost eleven years ago. He'd almost certainly be of age now. Regulus tries to imagine him, from the sparse descriptors in one of the articles: Short for his age, skinny, dark-haired and bright-eyed – but if he couldn't imagine him as a child, than imagining him as an adult is impossible.

There's no way Regulus can get away with using magic, not here, in the middle of off-season Blackpool. He looks around him, but other than an elderly lady in the distance, he's alone, so he sprinkles a handful of powdered unicorn horn over the grave. If there are any remnants of Dark Magic, the particles should be repelled.

They are not. Instead, they settle, glittering in the air as they sink down, down, unheeded by the April winds, drawn to the grave as if they could diffuse through it, to the remains beneath. (Dust, thinks Regulus, suddenly nauseous. Earth, ashes, dust. If only. A frame of bones, a suit of skin, hands that perhaps played the piano, a mouth that laughed and told stories, eyes that once gazed at the stars. All gone.)

Is it a trick? Regulus can't believe it. He sinks down on his knees, yielding to a sudden desire to touch, to reach through – his hand on the granite, he recalls how Dark Magic feels, it's in every corner of Grimmauld Place – but there's none of that here.

No magic, that is. None at all. Not even the simple magic of trees, or rocks by the seaside. Not even the misunderstood magic of Muggles, that they wield and form into things they call inspiration, genius, love – it's like this here, this grave, is a black hole in the fabric of magic; the one place in Blackpool and maybe the entire world where it is completely absent.

But there is darkness. No magic, then, just darkness. It flashes like a bad memory: Something slipping, resigned, defeated, tingling under his fingertips, at the base of his skull, not unlike the time he touched the Holloway rod: Fear, no, panic, smothered in heavy waves, laid to uneasy rest.

He knows that feeling intimately: Drowning.

No, worse, he thinks. Drowned.

But how, he thinks, trying to tell himself this is just another Potions assignment. Gather the data. Find the connections. Infer, resolve, conclude. How could he find something so familiar, in a town he's never been to? Why is it calling to him?

There's an answer here, he knows, somewhere just beneath the headstone, where he can't go. It feels maddeningly close, as close as if it were in his own head, like an answer just on the tip of his tongue – but it's not coming to him.

He resolves to go find a café of some sorts, to rest and think and write down his observations, when he sees it. A smudge of chalk on the side of the headstone, where it's protected from the worst of the rain.

Not much. Just three dots. A constellation, moron.

Sirius was here.

It's a feeling not unlike the apex of a Wronski Feint: High speed, stop, start over again. Sirius is on the same trail, Voldemort's trail, and not only that, he's ahead of him. Sirius will look at his little brother and say, Twelve, just take it, step in the way of Regulus's bad luck, and laugh afterwards.

Not this time, brother, he thinks. Not this time.


On the first day of the Easter holidays, Regulus absconds from the Hogwarts Express somewhere in Bedfordshire. He takes in the landscape, supposes it could be charming in summer. Maybe even now, if spring so far hadn't been such a soggy, miserable affair.

His exit from Hogwarts hadn't been as smooth as he'd hoped. This very morning, McGonagall had actually come up to inform him he'd forgotten to sign up to stay at Hogwarts.

He supposes it's odd. All his classmates are staying, it's O.W.L. year, after all. "I was hoping to peruse my family's library for studying," he'd told McGonagall. "It is quite extensive."

McGonagall had laughed. "So I've been told," she'd said.

Then, surprisingly, she'd called him a bright student with a promising future, and to write if he needed any help, with Transfiguration or otherwise.

Regulus had thanked her politely. So much for his plan to leave as inconspicuously as possible.

He scans the hand-drawn map Bella has sent in her most recent letter – it'll be impossible to find Lestrange Manor without it – and sets off a narrow country lane. It's a weird place for Bella to live – he associates her with sprawling, putrid cities, London or Los Angeles or Hong Kong. This, he thinks, is positively quaint.

Quiet.

Boring.

At the manor, he is led to the parlour by a terrified young house elf named Ella – they're all terrified, and they're all young, mainly because house elves don't grow old in Lestrange Manor – where Bella is sprawled dramatically across a delicate chaise longue.

"I've been expecting you," she declaims.

"… So you got my message, then?" says Regulus politely. "Hello, cousin."

"No, I mean –" says Bella, and snaps up like a spring that uncoils, revealing her fatigue a mere feint. She reminds him so much of Sirius he thinks he could cry.

"I've been expecting you since before Christmas," she says, now crouching on the chaise longue, hair wild and eyes feral. "You're late, cousin."

"Apologies," says Regulus. "It is an important decision."

"It's the easiest decision in the world!"

"And I have an answer for you," says Regulus.

Bella leans back against the armrest. "Maybe I don't want it anymore," she whines. "Maybe you've dawdled too long. You think the Dark Lord needs laggards and doubters? Scaredy cats and weaklings and kids playing dress-up? No, I think we're going with the alternative I proposed."

Funny, Regulus thinks weakly. Funny how, along the way, everyone kept offering a way out. Sirius. McGonagall. Even Potter. Even Bella.

Yet here he is. "The answer is yes," he says, before his panic gets the better of him. Because Bella's proposed alternative is, frankly, terrible.

"Ha! I knew it," shouts Bella with unmistakeable glee. Then her eyes narrow again. "What on earth took you so long?"

"It's a yes, but," says Regulus. "You were right, Bella. I was scared." He hesitates. "I am scared. I'm sorry."

"What on earth are you scared of?" snaps Bella. "Glory? Brilliance? A place in the history books? "

"I'm not strong, like you," says Regulus, almost whispering now. The whole thing is really starting to get to him. "I am weak. I am scared that he will know. That he will not accept me."

He takes a deep breath, then steps forward, draws back his sleeves. "You see?" he says. "There is no way he won't know, if he decides to honour me with his mark."

He'd never before thought he'd use his scars to win an argument, as dubious a victory as this is.

Bella laughs. "Oh, I see. The old Black course. Thank Merlin it never got me."

She does seem shaken, though, and probably with good reason. From what Regulus knows about the Dark Lord, if she brings him in, any weakness he shows will reflect back on her. He can only hope she won't let that happen.

"Don't you worry," she says, finally. "Just being in His presence will change you. No more fear. No more pain. No more – " she searches his face, a touch of suspicion in her eyes. "Scruples? Well. We'll have none of that. Until you get there, though –" and here, her face brightens up. "Nothing a bit of Occlumency can't fix. I'll teach you, of course."

Regulus breathes out. "Thank you," he says.

"In fact," she says, retrieving the crooked twig she calls a wand from somewhere in her lacy black dress, "We'll start right now. Legilimens!"

He almost tumbles backwards under the force of her mind. How could he have thought himself ready for this? He's not.

Surprisingly, he doesn't have to be. There's nothing to hide, not where she looks. Not his diligent research, his growing preoccupation with the rise of the Dark Lord. Bella had said that to know Him is to love Him – and Regulus had made sure he'd know him.

She queries Sirius, of course, but Sirius is dead to him; he hasn't talked to him in nearly half a year.

And finally, she looks for – what? An image flashes up in his mind, as vivid as if he were standing there: The photograph from the Blackpool Gazette? Regulus freezes in what is quite possibly terror – but Bella is used to terror, and it doesn't tell her anything. She grabs hold of him, and together they turn inside the photograph, three hundred sixty degrees.

But the beach is empty, the sky is empty, the sea – alas – is empty.

"Oh, this will do, this will do quite nicely," she says, and giggles. "You will be His by June."


To be continued.