During his rather short & tumultuous lifetime, Regulus A. Black could rather confidently say that very little startled him anymore, and this fact remained true even in death; including the six years since his untimely and gruesome end. Where his days had once been filled with a certain level of nail-biting espionage that came with the territory of being a Death Eater underling; they were now filled with a sort of melancholy that seemed to only trail after ghosts & those who lingered long after the fact (at least, that is what he could ascertain from his own experiences and the few ghosts that he had observed during the stone halls of Hogwarts).

Then again, when he really thought about it, this was only true for the fresher ghouls. This was not the case for other such spirits like Peeves the Poltergeist, (who seemed to be an altogether whole other creature) or Gryffindor's Nearly Headless Nick or Slytherin's own Bloody Baron. If memory served, these spirits hadn't worn the same shroud that Regulus seemed to wear most days, instead they haunted the halls of the school with a sort of mundane glee. But perhaps that was because many of them had been so long dead that they could no longer remember what it had been like to live? It was something that made sense; that they had the luxury to forget such a thing.

Most of his days—both in life & in the afterlife—were spent in isolation, not because Regulus preferred to be alone with his darkening thoughts, but because no one, save for his ever-loyal house-elf could be bothered to track him down. And even then, Kreacher could not always find it in himself to approach the haunted cavern with its sticky magicks oozing out like toxic waste, even if it was the final resting place of his most beloved master. Nor could he always escape the tightening grip of his current masters (the surviving members of the Ancient & Most Noble House of Black; what remained of them, anyway) just to come commune with the young ghost.

It was this fact alone that Regulus found himself, on more than one occasion, lamenting on the idea of ghosts "living" together—haunting together—in a place that they had claimed as their home. Perhaps that was the reason there had been so many hauntings at Hogwarts? Because this realm of loneliness was fucking suffocating to exist within, day-in and day-out. Regulus would know, it was his current reality. Which was why he was always so excited when his little house-elf came to visit. Stuck in this place, it was through Kreacher that Regulus was able to learn what had happened in his absence. The end of the war, the prophecy not quite fulfilled, the defeat of the Dark Lord, the capture of his Death Eaters and so on & so forth. Much had changed, but still, much had stayed the same.

Unfortunately for the dead wizard, it was something that could only happen on occasion as Kreacher had other duties to attend to within their household, but when Kreacher was able to leave the Black home, the ever-loyal house-elf would visit The Cave that still frightened him so. With knees knocking and fingers clenched into the front of his pillowcase shroud, he would approach this terrifying place (one that was filled with so much death), because it was the only place in which he could see his beloved master time and time, again.

When someone did eventually venture this far out, there were usually either drunk or lost. Mayhaps they were explorative children on a day trip who were intent on (dis)proving whether or not the cavern was as haunted as it was supposed to be (it was). And more than once, Regulus had found himself having to corral those wayward strangers back towards the main stretch of the beach, through any means necessary because he would be damned if he let another child drown in that lake of inferi just like he had; just like so many others had. Besides, it was getting rather crowded in that cave of theirs.

So, on this day, six years after his death (since Regulus had dared to step more than a few paces into the clawing dark of the cavern in which he unwillingly called his resting place. Down there in the dark waters, where his body alongside so many others, rested beneath the waves. Only breaching through the oily surface when this place felt threatened; only coming to life with that foul magic which animated those yellowed bones he had once called his, only moving in jaggedly jointed movements when prompted by that dark wizard whom he had once called his Dark Lord), that he was presented with the sight of something new. It was a something that piqued his interest in a way that it hadn't been piqued in a long time; something that worried at his unbeating heart with fluttered butterfly beats.

Regulus, confident in his unshakability, had experienced only a few things that surprised him anymore—he could practically the number of those instances on his hands, alone—but this? This was certainly to be one of those times. Wandering along the edges of the rock pools that bordered either side of the cavern, the ghost had expected to find perhaps a wayward shellfish clinging to the rocks or an upturned starfish scrambling to right itself. Maybe there would be the usual crumpled beer can wedged in between a crag in the rocks, battered by the sea. Or a collection of half-burnt cigarettes that had been stained soggy by the all-encompassing pools in which they lay.

What he had not expected to find was a young witch—one whom his house-elf seemed to know rather well—a witch, mind you, that Kreacher stubbornly refused to call by name. Instead, Kreacher kept referring to the witch by the offensive title of "Mudblood" instead of her aforementioned name, Jean. Clearly, she was not pureblooded (for that kind of status demanded a certain level of respect, no matter whom she may have of been), nor was she halfblooded (for those of that blood were of a similar calibre, if a little lesser than their pureblooded betters). Which really only left the option of muggleborn (hence the title), but strangely enough, the slur didn't seem to faze her like the other muggleborns Regulus had known during his life. What a strange witch.

Brown curls framed a soft face and brown eyes searched the dark cavern with a sort of intelligence that he had not seen in a long time (because the inferi or the other ghoulish children in this place weren't exactly known for their conversational skills). Jean confidently stepped into the cavern like she didn't have a care in the world, and she moved with this sort of grace that wasn't found in the ladies of the court, but of the numerous felines who had wandered Hogwarts' halls. If he didn't know any better, he would've of said that she could feel the magic that lived within that dark place, and that it was pulling her further in.

Regulus couldn't be quite sure as to what had urged him to call out to her when he did. This strange witch wasn't the first person to wander in here and she likely wouldn't be the last, but most of the time a simple ghostly wail or moan was enough to send people packing back to the safety of the sandy beach. But not this witch. There was just something…magnetic about her, about the way she moved, that Regulus couldn't help but reach out; voice hoarse from lack of use as transparent fingers reached out to grace the space between them. Perhaps it was because this was the first time in a long time that he had interacted with someone outside of Kreacher, someone who was just as magical as himself? Someone who was more or less the same age as him? Muggleborn or not, Regulus wanted—no, needed—to know just what she was doing here and why she seemed to be so familiar with his house-elf. For surely, if Kreacher had met the strange itch before, he would've of mentioned meeting the "Mudblood" in one of his previous visits, if he had.

Drawing his outstretched hand back into himself, Regulus languished on the borders of the cavern and he contented himself with watching the pair stare at each other like mousers focused on their prey. Head propped up by the leg that was bent close to his chest, with hands loosely clasped around his ankles and a fond smile curled up at the corners of his lips, despite himself. He looked almost picture-perfectly serene, painted by that backdrop of a grey morning sky. Regulus couldn't speak for the mysterious with, but as for Kreacher, he had forgotten the last time that the house-elf had done something so…carefree as staring down a stubborn child without emphasising his reprimand with a slap or an unobtrusive pinch of magic. He wondered what kind of witch—muggleborn or otherwise—could get such a rise out of his elf. It puzzled him, just as much as it intrigued him; but Regulus had always held this reverent love for puzzles.

The ghost's gaze flickered back & forth between the witch and the elf as he tried to figure out just what was going on and just who she was to said elf. She must've had connections to know Kreacher so well despite her status, because Regulus couldn't fathom how else she might know his elf. Looking at those two in question, Regulus found the pair to be a complete juxtaposition to each other; with her clean visage peppered with clinging grains of sand & water-wrinkled toes. In comparison to Kreacher's soot-speckled figure and leather-wrapped face. The only obvious sign of differences in their statuses was the Black family mark imprinted upon Kreacher's chest, denoting his long-lived servitude to the family and the shiny golden locket that was draped around his neck. They very same one that had cost Regulus his life, and the one in which he had ordered the elf to destroy with his dying breath.

And just like every other time before, when Regulus' gaze roved over his little house-elf (anyone with eyes could see that Kreacher was loyal to a fault with the youngest Black heir, despite being bound to the family, as a whole), his eyes landed upon that blasted locket around the house-elf's neck. It sat there, just as it had been since he had ordered Kreacher to leave, just as he had used his last dying breath to tell him to take Slytherin's Locket and run; to destroy it should the Dark Lord ever decide to return to this place and share his wrath with them, for the discovery of the fake locket left in its place. But despite the clear command to leave the cavern and destroy the locket, even as Regulus was pulled down in to the deep, dark waters by the inferi where the bodies of once-innocent muggles lay waiting and ravenous.

Swallowing an unneeded breath as his tongue darted out to wet transparent lips, Regulus called out to the unsuspecting witch once more. "Witch! How're you so familiar with my elf?"

"Circe's tits!" She swore at the sudden call, catching her off guard.

Definitely a witch. Regulus smothered a laugh, noting the harsh swear that fell from her lips.

"Ack!" An undignified yelp echoed about the cave as Jean stumbled over herself in an attempt to both get up & right herself, only to end up falling ass over kettle off of the rock in which they perched and into the cool waters below.

"Master!" Kreacher chirped in turn, sound far more alive than ever as he hurried back out of The Cave and over to where said ghost lay sunning himself on the rocks.

"So cold…!" Jean mumbled to herself in the meantime as she scrambled out of the cool waters and back onto dry land, looking for all the world like a wet cat.

"Kreacher" He greeted the house-elf, not unkindly, "What brings you here on this day?"

Although the question was directed towards the house-elf, his gaze had not removed itself from the sight of the rather wet witch before him. Soaked as she was, Jean paid neither ghost nor elf any attention, as she focused on drying herself off with a mumbled drying charm and settled back against the craggy schist behind her. Needless to say, that with her attention occupied, she did not notice how Regulus had seemingly turned to stone across from her. And he had.

Regulus' mouth had dried up at the sight of her, all thoughts tumbling to an incoherent stop as his gaze rover hungrily over the witch. He knew that muggleborns (and, in turn, muggles) dressed far more provocatively than that of their pureblooded counterparts, but this was something else. If he had been alive, Regulus had no doubt that his cheeks would've of quickly coloured as lewd thoughts danced in his mind as he drank in the sight of her. Flimsy cloth had turned transparent with the added layer of water, making them cling to her shaken form and hiding nothing from him. It was only for a brief moment, but it was all the time that Regulus need to imprint the image into his brain (although he had been dead for six years, he was still technically still a teenager, so it was only natural).

"…Master! Master!" Kreacher persisted, practically lapping at Regulus' heels.

"Yes, yes, what is it?" Regulus eventually tuned back into the house-elf's incessant pesters.

"The Mudblood won't leave Master's place! Kreacher has tried everything!" He tattled, earning an unimpressed and narrow-eyed glare from said witch across the way.

"Mm, yes, that is something that, I myself, find curious" Regulus hummed in agreement, reassuringly ruffling the house-elf's weathered crown. Raising his voice, he turned back to Jean who was now watching them closely. "Tell me witch, who are you and what are you doing in this place?"

"Uh, I—I'm Jean" She replied, eyes darting back and forth between the two Black familials.

"Jean who?"

"…Jean Granger" She swallowed thickly, before replying.

Granger? He quirked a brow in interest. There were no Grangers in his peer group, nor that of his brother's, but it was still a well-known name; well, at least partially. This was, in part, thanks to the infamous potioneer by the name of Hector Dagworth-Granger.

Perhaps the two were related (if distantly)? If that were the case, then his assumptions that she must've had connections to know a house-elf of their esteemed House were true. The muggle-loving House of Dagworth-Granger was an old one (but not as old as the Blacks, of course), so it was possible that after several generations of squibs and muggles, that the existence of a muggleborn in a House so old wasn't that far out of the realm of possibility. Still, it was strange. Another strange piece to the already strange puzzle.

"Well, Jean Granger, what are you doing here?" Regulus asked, brow quirked in her direction.

"…Who are you?" Jean replied instead, answering his question with one of her own.

"Boorish little thing, aren't you?" He mused, smirking at the quickly colouring cheeks as they were painted puce in her frustration.

"I am not a thing!" She hissed, "I am a person! A-a witch—!"

"—Yes, yes you are" He nodded, satisfied that she had (unwillingly) cemented something else that he had known to be true. That she was, in fact, magical just like him. "Very well, it's only common courtesy to return the gesture in kind, I s'pose. I am Regulus Black"

"R.A.B…" She breathed in realisation, eyes going wide as they darted down to the glinting locket looped around Kreacher's neck, before flickering back up to him.

It was the locket—The locket, as in Slytherin's Locket—which sat nestled in the folds of Kreacher's dirty cloth. It was the locket that had been the cause of his master's death, the one which had been replaced with a fake and that slip of a note which had been initialled 'R.A.B.' It was the horcrux that had started their horrible hunt all those years ago (not the first one, mind you, because that honour belonged to the skewered diary which Harry had destroyed in their second year whilst she had been petrified).

"…W-what?" Regulus choked. He wasn't sure if he had heard her right.

"R.A.B" Jean repeated, this time with more certainty, "You're R.A.B"

"How do you know that?!" He demanded, snapping upright as suspicion gleamed from every inch of his ghostly body. Lips pinched, body taut, brows furrowed and unblinking gaze locked onto the witch before him.

"U-um…" She was suddenly very nervous (and cursing her lack of a wand) at his sudden change in demeanour. Jean knew—like it was engraved into her brain—that terrible things could happen to those who meddled with time, and no one—not even the dead—could truly say where a ghoul's loyalties lay.

"Answer me, witch!" Regulus pursued, "How do you know that?"

"Um…good guess?"

Their unimpressed glares told her that her sheepish smile was no less convincing.