When the potion first trickled down his throat, his first thought was, this isn't so bad. It burned on its way down, creating an unpleasant pool in his stomach, but it was almost… bland. Nothing.
Then it began to burn everywhere.
His throat felt like it was on fire and the word water escaped from his lips before he even knew what was happening. His stomach felt heavy like lead and he fell to his knees, clutching his abdomen. Images began to flash before his eyes, images that he had vowed never to revisit. Sirius's younger face, scrunched up in anger and disappointment, so much like his mother in some ways and at the same time so different, yelling words, words, final words that he would ever say to Regulus. The same as them, he'd said. Stupid, blind, selfish bastard who only cared about pureblood supremacy. Regulus had heard the words before from Sirius's lips, but they were always directed at their mother, who was more used to the verbal violence that her oldest son inflicted on her. To neither's credit, she'd never failed to retaliate in kind…
You're not my brother anymore. Never speak to me again.
And then Sirius slammed the door of the house and never came back.
Regulus was aware of his mouth moving, forming words that he could vaguely hear, but he wasn't sure what those words were. Kreacher was still with him, the old, faithful house-elf beside himself with worry, but who was cursed to obey his master's orders even when he himself had no desire to. He held the cup to Regulus's lips and Regulus took another long gulp, his will inside him somewhere forcing him.
The image of his brother morphed into something feminine. The dark hair grew longer, the sharp lines grew softer. The crease between her dark brows formed as she struggled to keep her emotions at bay, but it was a lost battle. Her eyes grew wet with tears. Soft lips trembled. The Regulus Black I fell in love with would have never done what you've done, they said, and all Regulus wanted to do was to run to her arms and beg her for her forgiveness. But she held him at the wandpoint, her hands remarkably steady as though the decision was already made in her mind. I don't know who you are anymore.
"No more," he croaked, but Kreacher urged him to drink again and now he was too weak to resist. Different faces flashed across his mind: the terrified eyes of a woman when she saw his Death Eater mask amist the burning house, her arms shielding her newborn daughter. The spell came from his wand before he could even discern the spell he'd cast and the woman fell limp. The baby began to cry, a loud, shrill scream that burned through his ears. A round, pudgy face looked up at the silver mask, and there was nothing but fear in her eyes. A man's body contorted at an angle that no human body should, and Regulus had caused it, caused the crack he'd heard in the spine, the utter defeat in the man's face that had gone pale with pain, and somewhere in the back of his mind Regulus knew that he should stop it, knew that the pain was making the old man delirious, but he remembered the pain of punishment, the unforgivable curse cast by the Dark Lord upon his own servant, and told himself to keep going. But that pain could not excuse the sounds he was ignoring as he shut his eyes tightly, blocking out the screams of Muggle women who had the misfortune to survive the attacks as his colleagues—his friends—grunted in animalistic pleasure. Why didn't he stop them—tell them it was wrong—why couldn't he—but his body felt too heavy, too hot, and the thirst growing beyond unbearable—
He could not remember moving to the edge of the island. He only felt water between his fingers, the touch of Inferi cool and reassuring, welcoming him to join them in the water, and Regulus complied, his grip on his wand loosening, his body slowly being encompassed in a cool, comfortable blanket. A moment of sanity returned to him and he knew he was going to die. His last moment. Then the potion kicked in again and his vision darkened under water. His mind was bursting from his skull, threatening to leave him entirely, his reason and logic running away from him. The grip on his arms and legs tightened and his skin felt like it was being electrocuted, forcing his mouth open in a silent scream. There was no light, no warmth, nothing but pain and coldness and more pain and Regulus couldn't tell if this was reality or not. His grandfather had once told him that all wizards go to afterlife after they died, but he wasn't sure if he believed him. He closed his eyes, letting his faculties shut down, one by one. The end.
A ray of light came from above, imperceptible among the dense mass of darkness that enveloped him. The ray grew brighter and brighter until it became large enough to light the entire cave, casting shadows on the dubious forms of the Inferi, penetrating the depths of the lake until every last pebble on the bottom squinted their never-opened eyes. Regulus was fast loosing consciousness, not daring to take one last look at the world, knowing that there was nothing waiting for him in the end, but the white brightness lit the world behind his eyes and warmth began to return to his body—perhaps his grandfather had been right after all.
Then he lost all semblance of thought.
The discomfort. That was the first sensation.
The cause of the discomfort soon became apparent; his skin was burning.
Not physically burning, Regulus hoped. That would be a terrible life to live in afterlife. He supposed he deserved it, in some ways. He'd never thought that he would have to suffer in afterlife as well, though.
His back was also stiff and his body was supported by a hard surface of some kind. How odd. Afterlife turned out to be a lot more realistic than he thought. Regulus tried to move his fingers, but there was no energy in his body. His head hurt terribly and his throat felt as dry as first-quality parchment. So the divine arbitrator had decided to punish him with eternal thirst as well. What a fate.
"Awake, are you?"
The voice did not sound grand or majestic or even all that strong. Regulus shifted his eyes behind his eyelids, trying to locate the source of the sound. There was faint rustling and moving about from his left side. Then the surface supporting his body gave weight as something pressed down from the left.
"Can you hear me?" the voice said again. Male, Regulus decided. Probably not young, either. He tried to respond, but the only sound he managed to create was a weak breath coming from his mouth.
"That's a yes," the man muttered, and Regulus felt something cool and smooth press against his lower lip. What was it? His lips were soon met with cold liquid and he opened his mouth eagerly, letting the water trickle down his throat and chin and jaw. Soon the pressure was gone and there wasn't any more water. His head fell back against the pillow and his breath was ragged. The sound coming from his throat was stronger now. He concentrated on his eyelids, trying to locate them.
A set of eyes was watching him carefully, eyes lined by age and experience and sadness. Regulus tried to look back at them, but his grasp on his surroundings was hazy. He tried to focus his eyes on the man's face, but it felt too contrived and his eyes began to close on their own accord once again…
The next time he came to it was to the sensation of hotness. His skin was slick with sweat and there was a heavy weight on his body, pressing him down. He opened his eyes wildly and tried to sit up, but his arms were too weak to support him. He leaned against the head of the bed, his hands numb against the bedsheets.
An old man was in front of the fireplace tending to the fire. Regulus remembered a question, some sort of a question that he'd heard in his sleep, but he couldn't remember what. The old man turned around and looked at him.
"Who are you?" the voice came out barely a whisper, and his throat scratched painfully. Regulus tried to swallow, but there was no moisture in his mouth. The man advanced toward him and his grip on the bedsheets tightened. But the man didn't do anything besides pouring water from a jug into a cup and handing it silently to Regulus, who took it warily. His arms were shaking. Wordlessly, he took a cautious sip. It was refreshing. He downed the remainder in one gulp. The old man took the cup from his hands and refilled it. Regulus didn't take it this time.
"Who are you?" he asked again. This certainly did not feel like afterlife.
"I could ask you the same question," the man asked. His voice wasn't gravelly, but it was not smooth, either.
"How did you find me?" If the man had found him in the cave it could only mean that he was a wizard. But the man did not look magical; in fact, as far from it as any Muggle could be. So how was it possible that—
"You were washed up on the shore." The man pointed at a direction that Regulus didn't understand. "I was going up to get my boat ready."
Regulus stared at him, uncomprehending. "The shore?" he repeated dumbly.
"Aye," the man said. "Not from the area then, are you?" It didn't seem like he was expecting an answer.
"Where am I?" Regulus asked. The man told him. Regulus shook his head.
"Was there anyone else?" Regulus asked. "Anyone around? I—"
"It was four in the morning, lad," the man said. "There wasn't anyone around." Regulus slumped back on his pillow, all the frantic energy leaving him.
"I'm alive, then," he murmured. His mind was in jumbles.
The man's eyes narrowed. "Were you expecting otherwise?" he asked. Regulus didn't answer. The man watched him carefully.
"Listen, lad," he said. "What's your name?"
Regulus looked back at him. The man couldn't be over seventy, he surmised, but his hair was completely gray and his eyes were drooping slightly. The lips had thinned due to the years and his weathered face showed prominent cheeks. Regulus doubted that the man was a servant of Voldemort. But he didn't know anything right now, and he couldn't afford to be careless now.
"Alex," he said the first name that came to his mind. "Alex… Watson." He couldn't tell if the man believed him or not.
"Well then, Mr. Watson," he said. "Would you mind telling me what you were doing in the middle of the sea in the dead of night?"
Regulus ransacked his mind for an answer. A believable, reasonable, bloody understandable reason as to how he ended up in the sea.
"I don't know," he said honestly.
That particular autumn passed quickly. Regulus spent a better part of a month falling asleep, waking up briefly to eat or drink before falling asleep again, and did not actually venture outside the house until November, when he had gained enough strength to walk around by himself. The old man said something about therapy, but Regulus would hear none of it, knowing that it would put more burden on the old man. Instead he went out for long walks on the beach and tried swimming a couple of times but the wind was icy and he was thinner than he had ever been.
The old man's name was Peter Gray. He was sixty, he said, and was a veteran of World War Two. Now he resided in the little village where he grew up, and led his boat out into the sea every dawn with a couple of other fishermen. He did not say anything about his family or children, but Regulus saw pictures on the mantelpiece in the livingroom, pictures of a family and children who resembled their father. But he didn't ask and Peter didn't say.
In December Peter managed to drag Regulus to the nearest town to see a doctor about his right hand. Regulus had resisted, knowing that whatever technology the doctor could impress him with wouldn't be sufficient to analyze the dark magic performed on the Inferi that injured him. His hand was intact, the doctors decided. The muscles were in place—mostly—and might even grow back. He might not have feeling in certain spots, but the loss, he was told, could have been bigger and he should consider himself lucky. As to the cause of the injury the doctor couldn't tell and Regulus didn't offer information. Peter suggested getting a treatment for the hand and Regulus declined, instead asking the doctor about exercises he could do by himself. The doctor seemed rather moved at the familial display of consideration for one another (for that was the impression that Peter and Regulus had silently agreed upon to make, Regulus having, for one thing, no legal document as proof of his existence) and gave him a long list of things that he could try at home.
By February Regulus was strong enough (and less useless, Peter commented, than he had been) to help the old man with his livelihood, waking up at the crack of dawn every morning to start the engine of the fishing boat with a few other people. He was the youngest in the group. He had gathered, from bits and pieces of information he heard from the villagers, that Peter once had a wife and two children, both of whom had left the village to pursue more exciting careers. The wife died of an illness soon after and the children rarely came to visit. Still Peter hadn't said anything and Regulus didn't ask.
The water was still quite cold in March, but Regulus learned that swimming helped dispel the cold from his body. He was still thin and, even though his torso had a wiry-sort of look from helping Peter, he was still weak. His right hand now responded to his command, but he had yet to pick up an object with it under a minute. Best to forge on, then.
Summer came and passed quickly. Several visitors who had come to enjoy the attractions of an unknown seaside regarded Regulus with curious eyes as the young man walked past by them, dressed shabbily in Peter's son's old clothes. Regulus paid them no attention, focusing on his goal. He didn't want to interact with people, didn't want to intermingle as he had to previously, did not want them to see the dark emptiness that he himself saw every morning when he looked into the mirror. Numbness had overcome pain but shame remained.
He could move as he used to in September—exactly as he used to, that was, save for his right hand, which was still stubbornly refusing to heal as quickly as the rest of his body. He was aware that he couldn't stay in the village for much longer, couldn't impose himself on the old man much longer, but didn't know how he would proceed from where he was. Peter had offered to pay him for his services and Regulus had refused on the grounds that Peter had been letting Regulus stay with him all these months, but that hadn't stopped the old man from leaving a white envelop on his bed table every fortnight or so. The money, Regulus knew, would be enough to get him out of this village to London, but he was without a wand and had no means to disguise himself and no place to stay without alerting someone that he was, in fact, alive.
And the Dark Lord could not know that he was alive. Under any circumstances.
So September ended in indecision, followed by October and November. He'd been living on borrowed time for over a year. December came unceremoniously and Regulus began to wonder if he had lost the resolve to continue.
Peter, on the other hand, had been in a relatively good mood. It was the holidays, he said, and unlike last year, they could make a proper celebration out of it; perhaps even go to the village church to join the annual party. Regulus made a halfhearted joke at this but Peter was undeterred. And it was during one of these evenings that a knock came from the door.
Regulus had been preparing to brew tea as was their evening ritual. Peter looked up from his newspaper (he didn't have the time to read it in the morning) and adjusted his glasses.
"I'll get it," he said. Regulus nodded.
Footsteps padded down the hallway to the door and Regulus heard a few words of exchange. The door shut and two pairs of footsteps carried themselves to the livingroom. Peter soon entered the kitchen.
"A lad's motorbike ran out of fuel," Peter said without preamble. "I think he should stay for a while. Could you make tea for one more person?"
"Sure," Regulus said, and Peter patted him on his shoulder.
"I'm going to check the back yard." Regulus shook his head. There had been a suspicious increase in the number of oddities that appeared on Peter's backyard—a flower, sometimes, or a book of poetry. He'd even seen a pan of freshly baked scones. Peter had given Regulus sly looks whenever they found the gifts but Regulus didn't want to receive them. He couldn't be ungracious about them, he knew, but they all felt misdelivered. Such attention should be bestowed upon people amongst the living, not the dead...
Having poured warm water into the teapot, Regulus placed the cups on the tray and brought them out to the livingroom to meet the guest. When he stepped on the doorway he heard rather than saw someone start in surprise.
"Bloody hell!"
Regulus stood on the doorway, holding the tray with a tea set. Transfixed.
The man in front of him stood up. Who was that? The shaggy, long hair, the leather jacket, the faint smell of gasoline. They all somehow felt familiar. His chiseled, aristocratic face. Two gray eyes that he had to face every day in the mirror, under black eyebrows that were now widened and rounded in surprise.
Something in his heart sank. And then lifted. Could it be?
Peter had meanwhile come back from his back yard. "Alex, no need to worry—apparently Suzie left another bottle at the back door—hoping for another glimpse, no doubt—" he chuckled, then looked up between them. "Is there something wrong?"
Sirius was, as always, the first to speak. "You," he said, pointing at Regulus. Regulus didn't know what to do, what to say. He stood there, eyes wide—in what, terror? Fear? He didn't know—and stayed, lips opening, closing, opening again ever so slightly.
"You," Sirius's voice was much weaker this time. Regulus was finally able to move.
"Hello, Sirius," he said, knowing the words were inadequate, knowing full well that there was much they had left unsaid, that a simple greeting such as this could only be cruel. But what else could he say? "Long time no s—"
His words were knocked out of his mouth as Sirius strode across the room in the typical bold Sirius way and landed a punch on his jaw. Regulus staggered back, the tray falling from his hands and clattering to the floor. The cups shattered. Peter shouted something, something about why the strange man was hitting him, what was happening, and Regulus was aware of this, aware of this all, in the dim background of his mind, but what stood in front of him was Sirius, who had meanwhile knocked him to the ground and was now pummeling him with all he seemed to have. He straddled Regulus's chest, his left hand lifting Regulus by his collar. Blow after blow on his nose, his cheeks. Pain, Regulus registered slowly. Wasn't this pain?
"Say something, you stupid git!" Sirius yelled. Regulus grabbed onto his wrists.
"I would if I could safely open my mouth for two seconds," Regulus said dryly. Why was his tone so dry? Why wasn't he worked up like Sirius?
Sirius let out a growl of frustration. "You. Only you would say something like that right now," he said, raising his fist again. Thankfully—or was it a thankful occasion?—Peter intervened.
"Stop it," he snapped, pulling Sirius off of him. Regulus sat up slowly, aware of something warm trickling down his face. Tears? No. It was blood. "I don't know who you are, but this is no way to treat—"
"He's my brother!" Sirius was still yelling at him. "HE'S MY DAMNED YOUNGER BROTHER!"
Peter decided that it would be most prudent to leave them alone after this short revelation. He wordlessly handed Regulus and Sirius a pack of frozen peas and carrots—Sirius's fist, it seemed, was in only a slightly better state than Regulus's nose—and, muttering vaguely about picking some strawberries from the garden, left. Regulus knew that they hadn't planted strawberries and that strawberries never bore fruit in December, but decided not to mention this. He silently thanked Peter who wordlessly patted Regulus on the shoulder on his way out. Somehow this reassured him more than anything else.
Sirius, meanwhile, had discreetly reparo'ed the tea set and was trying to find the best place to put it.
"He'll notice, you know," Regulus said. "No matter what you do."
"Shut up or your nose will stay that way forever." Regulus checked the nearby window. His nose, aside from being bloody, was also crooked at an odd angle. He decided not to argue further.
"Damn it," Sirius swore.
"I'll put it in the top cabinet," Regulus said tiredly. "He won't notice until much later."
Sirius turned around. "So you know your way around here, huh?" his voice was layered with irritation and boiling emotion that was barely hidden beneath the surface. Regulus merely stared back into his eyes silently. Sirius swore again.
"So," Sirius said, sitting down across from him.
"So."
"I would ask you if you really are Regulus, but it's downright impossible to find someone as annoying as you, so I'll skip the questioning."
"Duly appreciated." Sirius grit his teeth. Regulus looked away. He didn't want to sound this way. But he couldn't figure out another way he could talk to his brother. Was there any way that Regulus could convey to him that he was—
What? That he hated that Sirius left him? That he was remorseful for his decisions? What use was it telling him those things? And looking at his older brother, lively and strong and energetic as ever, his fingers constantly fidgeting in uneasy restlessness, Regulus couldn't help but give into the temptation of acting out his previous role as a smartass younger brother who could get a rise out of his older brother like nobody else. Then maybe nothing would have changed—maybe, he wouldn't feel as horrible as he did.
"So explain," Sirius spat out.
Regulus considered. "Which part? It's been five years since we've talked at all."
"You're supposed to be dead," Sirius pointed at him with a shaky finger. "You're supposed to be dead."
"Yes, well, I suspect that in your mind I was supposed to have died five years ago," Regulus snapped, stung by the accusation in Sirius's voice. "Sorry to be of such an inconvenience."
"You—" Sirius's face began to gain its particular shade of red that Regulus was unfortunately far too familiar with. He'd seen it often during one of the verbal matches between his mother and brother. "Don't make me out as the villain, you've always done this, act as though I'm the one who's done something wrong—"
"Like you were any different?" Hostility rose up in him, age-old and repressed. "Always blaming Mother for every misfortune that happened to cross your way, denouncing your family after having done nothing, nothing, Sirius, for any of us—just exactly what did you expect?"
"Having done nothing? You talk as if I owed my parents something. All they've done was to punish me when they couldn't understand me and punish me some more when they could. I owe them nothing. Not one fucking bloody thing." Sirius hissed and Regulus cringed inwardly at the venom in his voice. But the venom, instead of making him cower, made him bolder, blinder. More aggravated than he had been in years.
"You bloody hypocrite," he bit out. "All you've done since I can remember was to tell Mother what a horrible person she was, leaving me to clean up your mess. They didn't mark you as the bad son, Sirius, you did when you gave up on them. When you chose your own family for your convenience and left all of us to pick up the pieces. So stop being such an entitled bastard—"
"What did you just call me?" Sirius's voice was quiet, far too quiet.
"I called you an entitled bastard!" Regulus yelled. "You think I'm wrong? So you didn't like our parents. Hell, I didn't like our parents. Do you think I was happy whenever Mother was in one of her episodes? Or whenever Father came home late smelling of some other women? But I didn't leave them just because I didn't like what I saw. But no, the great Sirius Black couldn't stand the fact that you had to suffer a little because our parents were less than perfect. Oh, I'm sorry," Regulus sneered. "My parents. I forgot that we aren't your family any longer. You've made that perfectly clear."
Sirius's face was now positively purple. "You're the one to talk," he seethed. "Mother never yelled at you whenever you misbehaved. Mother never called you a mistake and she never threatened to kill you if you stepped a toe out of line—"
Regulus's answering laugh was almost hysterical. "You think I was left alone? Who do you think always got the blame for not looking after his older brother, Sirius? Do you think that Mother blamed herself? And you had your friends, your family. I didn't even have a proper brother." His voice cracked at the last word and Regulus looked away, upset. He had no intention of letting his brother see that it hurt. It hurt when Sirius left. But Sirius didn't need to know that. He probably gloated his great escape to his friends.
Sirius just stared at him, his eyes still fiery from the argument but his lips not as vicious as they had been, as though he was caught in an internal argument that he couldn't figure out.
"You became a Death Eater," he said at last with a note of finality.
"Brilliant deduction," Regulus shot back. Sirius's eyes narrowed.
"Don't make this harder than it has to be, Reg," he said.
Regulus glared back. "And what, may I ask, is this?"
"I don't bloody know!" Sirius yelled. "I just imagined that, if I ever got to talk to you again, we wouldn't start fighting. Again."
"Really?" Regulus crossed his arms in front of him. "I never imagined it any other way."
Their eyes met. Then something broke loose—the tension in the room, perhaps, or the grudging worry they had for each other the last few years. Regulus had no way of knowing if his brother was alive. The last time he'd checked, Voldemort was still at large, his brother was as stupid and reckless as ever, risking his neck for the Order, and neither side showed any signs of stopping. Now his brother was here, flesh and blood, in front of him. He began to laugh, a silent cough, his lips pulling themselves back unwillingly. A stream of air gushed from his mouth and he hacked into his chest.
"Don't laugh!" Sirius shouted, and that made the situation feel even more ridiculous. A reluctant smile appeared on his face. "Alright, I get why you're laughing but seriously—" at the hackneyed pun Regulus began to double over and even Sirius seemed unable to resist the charm of the pun on his own name. He let out a bark-like laugh and soon the two crouched over on the sofa, laughing. Regulus's stomach hurt.
Gradually, however, the laugher subsided. Regulus looked around, much more sobered. He sighed.
"Give me your wand," he muttered, holding his hand out to Sirius. Sirius looked up at him, befuddled.
"What?"
"Your wand," Regulus said. "I realize how fond you are of broken noses, but I'm not."
Sirius rolled his eyes. "You think I can't perform a simple healing spell?" he asked, drawing his wand out. He tapped Regulus's nose and Regulus felt the familiar cold and hot sensation. He twitched his nose reflexively. All seemed to be in order.
"Thanks," he said, making a move to go out.
"Oi, where do you think you're going?" Sirius asked.
"To tell Peter that it's safe to come in," Regulus said drily. "He'll be relieved to know that his living room is still intact."
Peter took the news with his typical wooden sort of a grace and invited Sirius to dinner. Regulus went about the kitchen, preparing something simple—onion soup, he decided, would be warm and suitable. It still felt odd sometimes to hold a knife in his hand for the purpose of cooking, but he was almost used to it; besides, Peter seemed rather pleased when Regulus learned how to cook. Sirius watched with a raised eyebrow from the table as he chatted avidly with Peter about their childhood.
"So, Sirius," Peter said, examining the older brother with a considerable amount of curiosity. The old man had been used to seeing Regulus as a thin, weak sort of a young man and was surprised to find the older brother so energetic and strapping. "That is your real name, isn't it?"
"Unfortunately," Sirius said good-naturedly. "My parents had a really bad sense when it came to names."
"Sirius Black," Peter mused. "Funny, that is. Your brother told me that his name was Alex Watson."
Sirius gave Regulus a significant look. Regulus focused his eyes solely on the onions.
"Did he?" Sirius asked airily. "I don't blame him. The poor bugger. He was worse off than I was, you know: Regulus Black."
Regulus's eyes widened. It was fine for Sirius to go around and announce his presence everywhere, but Regulus couldn't afford to be discovered. He tried to give Sirius some sort of a signal to stop talking, but it seemed that Sirius, too, was steadfastly ignoring him.
"Regulus, eh?" Peter now gave Regulus a look and Regulus tried to smile in a trustworthy way, certain that he had failed.
"I'm sorry, Peter," he said. "I didn't know where I was, and I wasn't sure if, well—"
Peter's eyebrows rose. "If you could trust me?" he asked casually, but Regulus thought there was a slight injury in his voice.
"No," he lied. "If I was safe where I was. I'm sorry that I lied to you." Peter seemed to mull this over. Then, a teasing glint appeared in his eyes.
"Regulus," he said. That's one fancy name. Who's Alex Watson, then?"
"No one," Regulus quickly said. Simultaneously, Sirius said, "His girlfriend." The grin on his face told Regulus that Sirius was indeed enjoying this very much.
"Girlfriend?" Peter's lips quirked upward. Regulus wanted to crawl into the fireplace and burn with the log. "Wouldn't your girlfriend be worried that you've been gone for so long?"
"She's an ex-girlfriend," Regulus muttered, stirring the soup in the pot. He felt the sudden urge not to give Sirius any soup.
"And her surname isn't Watson, it's Wilson," Sirius said, ignoring him. "Watson was a dunderhead who was in—in the same year as us. When we were at—er—"
"Secondary school," Regulus quickly filled in for him. Sirius had barely managed to catch himself at 'Watson' who had been, Regulus was quite sure, a Hufflepuff. "We all went to the same school together."
"Really?" Peter began to set the table and Sirius got up, trying to help. "So you're going to a university, then?" he asked Sirius. Sirius looked rather lost.
"Actually, I'm sort of working," he said, scratching his head. "In training, I suppose you could say. It's sort of a—a research facility." His face cleared. "That's it. A research facility for, erm, toys."
"Toys?" Peter and Regulus simultaneously. Peter's eyebrows rose again.
"You seem surprised," he said to Regulus—rather admonishingly, it seemed. Regulus retrieved several bowls from the cupboards.
"We've been out of contact," Regulus hastily said. "He must have gotten his job recently."
"Yes!" Sirius sounded a bit too eager with the story, but Regulus had no way of telling him this. "That's it. Exactly. Spiffingly so." Peter gave Regulus an odd look and Regulus shrugged, saying silently: he's always that way. For all his time spent in Muggle Studies, Sirius seemed to have forgotten most of his lessons.
The rest of the dinner went slightly more smoothly. Peter asked Sirius a thousand questions about his job, his friends, and what Regulus was like as a child. Both of them seemed intent on revealing as many embarrassing details about Regulus's life as possible and Regulus endured the affair with a not-so-amused smile on his face. When they'd eaten to their satisfaction, Regulus cleared the table and began to wash the dishes. Sirius loomed nearby, looking at him curiously.
"You can help, you know," Regulus said snappily. Sirius shrugged, lounging back in his chair.
"Nah," he said. "I do enough cleaning on my own."
"Flat in London?" Regulus quoted from the dinner conversation. He never knew that Sirius had been living by himself...
"Yup," he said. They weren't able to say anything more, however, because Peter came in at that moment with a thick blanket in his hand.
"Sirius," he said. "I've cleared Elizabeth's room a bit—my daughter. It hasn't been used in a while, so you might find it a little dusty."
"That's more than perfect," Sirius said, standing up. He took the blanket from Peter's arms. "Thank you, Peter."
Peter shrugged. "It's late—I'm going to sleep. Don't forget to turn off all the lights before you go to bed." The last sentence was directed at Regulus, who rolled his eyes.
"I know," he said. "Good night." Peter patted both brothers on the shoulders before leaving. Regulus soon finished washing the dishes and, re-checking that both the front and back doors were securely locked, began to climb up the stairs to his bedroom. Sirius silently followed.
"Is this my room?" Sirius asked, pointing at the room opposite from Regulus's.
"Yes," Regulus said. He looked around. "But come in here for a second."
Sirius's brows furrowed, but he said, "Alright." Regulus shut the door behind them and locked the door for a good measure.
"We need to talk," Regulus said urgently. The questions have been burning in his mind since he'd calmed down enough to think properly, but they didn't have a chance to talk all evening. He sat down on the bed and Sirius leaned against the desk, crossing his arms.
"What?"
"The Dark Lord, Voldemort," Regulus blurted out, trying to find the best way to begin. "You made it sound like he's been gone for a while." Sirius's eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"Yeah," he said. "You mean you didn't know?"
"I've been out of touch with the world since I disappeared. You might have noticed—this is a rather isolated village." Muggle village, Regulus added, and the daily newspaper Peter read every morning was unenlightening, at best.
"Well, he's been gone since Halloween," Sirius answered with an odd smile. "Funny that you wouldn't know that. Every Death Eater—" he stopped, looking both guilty and wary. Regulus smiled humorlessly.
"They've been tried, I assume," Regulus said. Sirius snorted.
"All that we could think of, anyway," he said. "Half of them have been pardoned, you know. Pleaded innocent on grounds of being imperiused, if you can believe it."
"The ones who were imperiused wouldn't have been branded with a Dark Mark," Regulus said matter-of-factly. "The Dark Lord marked only those whom he intended to use as servants for a lifetime.
"Lovely testimony, that," Sirius said, rolling his eyes. Regulus wanted to tell him that this was no light matter—that, sooner or later, Regulus would also have to stand in court and defend his actions. But this was obviously not the time for that and—he had something to do.
"Voldemort isn't dead," Regulus said.
Sirius frowned. "Of course he is. He died at the Battle of Lestrange Manor."
"How did he die?" Regulus asked.
"Burned to the ground."
"Are you certain?"
"Even Dumbledore agrees—Voldemort died. He did that funny thing with his wand, too. You know, checking for residuals of life, and stuff." Sirius might have been good with simplifying things, but he wasn't good with dealing with complicated things by themselves, either. Regulus resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"Voldemort isn't dead," he repeated. "And I have proof."
Sirius regarded him. "How do you know?" he asked.
"I'll be brief. He created Horcruxes. Several of them, in fact. In essence, he split his soul and contained pieces of them in object for safekeeping until further time came when he would need to regenerate." Regulus paused. "And, if you're correct, such time would be now."
Sirius just stared at his face. Regulus frowned.
"Come now, I know you avoid reading about Dark Arts, but even you must realize that, theoretically speaking, Horcruxes aren't impossible." This seemed to shake Sirius out of his reverie.
"Not impossible, I suppose, but—" he looked at Regulus, disbelieving. "He couldn't have. He possibly couldn't have."
"He has and he will try to come back." Regulus stated simply. Sirius seemed struck by the confidence in his tone.
"You said you had proof," he said finally.
"Well, to be exact, I don't have proof. Kreacher does."
"I don't follow."
Regulus hesitated. "Voldemort hid one Horcrux in a cave. I didn't know it at a time, but he requested a house-elf for that purpose and I volunteered Kreacher. I asked Kreacher to take me with him back to the cave so that I could see it for myself. Kreacher has the Horcrux now."
Sirius regarded him silently for a while. "Is that what happened to you?" he asked.
Regulus twitched. "What?" he asked.
"Is that what happened?" Sirius repeated. "Before you disappeared, I mean. You went on some rogue mission to retrieve the Horcrux against the Dark Lord?"
The twitch became more prominent now. Regulus didn't like the question. "So what?" he asked.
Sirius was looking him in a way that he never had before and Regulus wished that they were back to having a shouting match. That would be much simpler. "They said you'd sort of… gotten in over your head. That you got scared of what he was about to do and ran away."
"Well," Regulus said drily. "I did run away. And, if I'm being honest, learning about Horcurxes wasn't exactly a picnic, either."
"But—" Sirius frowned. "Reg, does anyone else know about this?"
Regulus shook his head. "No. No. I checked every possible leak. No one knows. I sent Dumbledore bits of my research—not sure if he received them, though."
Sirius looked at him with his eyes wide. "Reg," he said. "What are you going to do?"
Regulus frowned at his brother. "I thought the answer would have been obvious, with you being the brave Gryffindor," he said. "We're going to find the Horcruxes and destroy them all, of course." Regulus knew about the prophecy—the Chosen One, as it was whispered amongst the higher levels of Death Eaters who had heard of Snape's report. Perhaps he ought to let the nature take its course—let fate do its work. But if a couple lives, however few, could be saved by his actions, then perhaps fate had better take a different course.
Sirius, meanwhile, was looking at Regulus with a torn expression. It was as if he didn't know whether to call Regulus bonkers or a genius.
"Know how to do it?" Sirius asked.
"Nope."
"Know where they are?"
"Nope."
"Know what they look like?"
Regulus gave his older brother a look. "Only if." He sighed at his lap. "I have a faint idea, but it's just a hunch, and we would need to do a considerable amount of investigation."
Sirius shrugged. "Alright," he said. "Just one question."
Regulus rubbed his eyes tiredly. "What?"
"What changed?"
Regulus stilled in his position, his eyes wary. He'd been expecting the question since dinner, but he still didn't have any satisfying explanations for him. Quite possibly because he didn't know himself exactly what it was that he wanted. What changed? Nothing, really; the world around him was the same as ever. Perhaps it was the sight of her tears that had undone the first knot, followed by many series of events including Kreacher that all unraveled a tight Gordion knot of his heart that Regulus had decided to stow away. What changed? But what made him decide that he couldn't take it longer? Regulus wasn't ready to ask himself the question.
"Go to sleep, Sirius," Regulus said, letting his back hit the mattress. "I'm tired and we'll have a long day tomorrow."
