Summary: When he didn't remember and then suddenly he did and wished to forget again. Or where Regulus survives, hits his head and becomes the Cloud Arcobaleno.
Disclaimer: Neither Harry Potter nor Katekyo Hitman Reborn is mine.
Warnings: Language, Reborn, others I'm not sure of, absolutely NO pairings
Rating: T
Word Count: 4484
Author's Note: If you have some ideas about this story or any of my other ones, please review or PM me because I'm kind of in a ditch right now. I had some ideas but I would like to read what you would like to see (not sure if I will do it but just reading it might help). So yeah. This chapter is mainly Regulus thinking about the past and absolutely zero action. Awful, I know. Anyway, if you see some mistakes, please kindly point them out to me.
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Chapter 2
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"Well, " he started, a little hysterically but more grounded than he was a few minutes before, "Well."
He relocated to the living room of the apartment and was looking around, searching for some kind of clue. What clue? He didn't know yet, something that may explain, even if just a little.
His eyes strayed to the stains on the coffee table and the rug underneath. Then to the muddy footprints on the wooden floor, the dust that was practically everywhere and the multiple spiderwebs near the ceiling of the room.
There was an aquarium in the corner of the room. It was quite big but when Regulus looked at it, he didn't see any fish swimming in it. So, an empty aquarium, because why not. What the hell was going on. He came closer to it and peered into it, squinting at the small castle standing proudly at the center of it. There was something there...
With newfound curiosity, he reached into the tank, hand drifting to the small building. The sleeve of his jumpsuit was getting soaked but he ignored it, his eyes focused on the aquarium. He reached deeper and-
Promptly started screeching as something latched onto his hand. He pulled it out of the tank with the speed of light and started shaking it, trying to dislodge the thing clinging onto it. When it didn't work, his scream petered out into a small whimper and his flailing slowly stopped. He held his arm away from his body and tried leaning back from it as far as possible. Of course, it didn't really work, what with it being his arm.
He stopped trying to get rid of the something and looked at it properly. It was… an octopus. A small, red thing, its head bulbous and its tentacles sticking to his flesh and it was disgusting and he was cringing but it was also kind of, adorable? He was confused and weirded out and there were a thousand ridiculous thoughts in his head and none of them explained why he was kind of okay with such a puke-inducing thing clinging onto him. He slowly went back to the aquarium and pried (with great effort and some coaxing and what, it needed to be coaxed and calmed and actually understood him?) the thing loose, putting it back in its tank and backing away quickly.
He turned his attention back to the flat (but kept an extra sharp eye on the animal, just in case, feeling shivers wrack his body as he could feel it watching him with those neon green eyes, creepy).
It was dirty and disgusting here and Regulus wanted to sneer at the Muggles and their filthy selves. He wanted to curse them all. He did. He really, really did. He wanted to.
Instead, he thought he might just cry. It was a good thing he was alone because he would have been ashamed (and he would have shamed his House) when somebody heard the pitiful whine that escaped his lips and trained off into silence again. He was in a muggle flat, dressed in muggle clothes. He hoped that that was all. He hoped that there wasn't, for example, a Muggle itself around here.
He wanted to cry so bad. Sirius would have laughed himself sick and his mother would have screeched herself hoarse and his father would have been so silent that he may have been dead instead. And Kreacher would have- Kreacher! Merlin's beard!
"K-Kreacher!" He calls, stuttering over the name like some Mudblooded imbecile. He immediately hates himself a little for that mistake. His mother would have had his head, oh she would have...
He waits for a tense few seconds and just as he's prepared to call again, with panic squeezing his heart in a steel like grip, a 'pop' sounds from behind him.
He whirls around, eyes wide, mouth open and fists clenched but doesn't even have time to choke out anything that might have found its way into his momentarily empty mind. Because.
Because Kreacher is standing there, in front of him, twisting his long, scarred fingers back and forth and his huge tennis ball eyes are looking at him with such wonder and just a little bit of fear and Regulus, Regulus just stands there like an idiot. He doesn't know what to do and what to say. It's been he-didn't-know-how-long and the last time he spoke to his friend was when he was delirious with pain and dying and being dragged underwater by the Inferi.
And so he thinks back to his childhood and slowly lowers himself into his knee before the little house elf, who looks like he's going to cry, eyes teary and nose runny.
"Master Regulus..." he croaks, voice cracking, then bows his head and closes his eyes. Tears slip down to his nose where they gather and fall onto the floor. Regulus starts forward, hands hovering uselessly above the hunched back clad in a dirty pillowcase. But when his first (and probably only, Slytherin doesn't make friends, only allies and of the two Black brothers it was Sirius who was the chatty and open one, the one who made friends as easily as he breathed) friend starts sobbing, Regulus doesn't hesitate and gathers him in his arms.
Kreacher doesn't even try to protest, long and thin fingers clenching his bike jumpsuit. And perhaps that is indication enough of Kreacher's mental and emotional state because the elf never actually allowed himself to wail and cling and sob like this. He bickered with Sirius and was a bitter and cheeky little bugger, grumpy and grumbling but never crying. Never like this. Never did he allow himself to be held in Regulus' arms after a beating, or a disciplining curse from Regulus' parents or a tumble down the stairs, courtesy of Sirius. He sometimes let the younger Black to cast a healing charm (though Regulus suspected that it was because Kreacher didn't want to make him feel bad, so he indulged him) but never did he want to be hugged or embraced. He was always citing about propriety and servants and duties.
But he was a friend. Regulus didn't see him for Merlin only knows how long and no one was even here so damn it all to hell, he will hug Kreacher until the end of the world if he wants to.
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By the time they both calmed down (Regulus wasn't an emotionless brick wall, he had feelings too, and in this case, it was quite a lot of feelings. And tears. Yes. There was quite a lot of tears.), it was dark outside. Regulus furrowed his brows at that, the time didn't really matter since he didn't know what time it was when they laid eyes on each other so whatever.
He let out a shuddering breath, wiped his face on his shoulder (because his arms were otherwise occupied with clutching on to Kreacher like he was a lifeline) and stood up, slowly making his way over to the sofa, which was cluttered with magazines about the Muggle machines and parts of some motorcycles (he could only assume that the parts were meant for or from the bike standing by the wall behind him, and why was there a motorcycle in the apartment in the first place). He used one hand to support his friend (it wasn't a particularly demanding task, as Kreacher was incredibly light and bony, it made him look at the elf with worry etched on his features) and the other to sweep everything off the couch. He plopped himself down on it, arranging Kreacher in his lap. Then he reached for a conveniently nearby placed blanked and pulled it off the back of the couch and over his shoulders, curling up and bundling himself and Kreacher up.
He felt like a child. It was a good feeling.
He cleared his throat and called, "Kreacher..."
The sniffles coming from the elf stopped momentarily and the servant raised his head, meeting Regulus' purple (they were supposed to be silver why weren't they, what was going on) eyes with his own washed out blue.
"Master Regulus, is yous truly here, Master Regulus?" He croaked, gaze roaming about Regulus' features, taking in his face with great reverence. His tone was full of hope, his lips forming a small, disbelieving smile.
And Regulus, pureblood and brought up as the scion (the spare, his mind whispers traitorous, Sirius was the heir) of a Noble House, with his immaculate manners and book-perfect savoir vivre, chokes around a sob, wipes his nose on his sleeve and says, "Y-Yea, it's really me, Kreacher, my friend." And that sends the both of them into sniffing fits again, so Regulus resolves to just shut his mouth and not to say anything more.
Of course, the whole idea worked for about two minutes before he started getting impatient and antsy. He shifted in place and felt Kreacher tighten his hands in his jumpsuit. He stilled but after ten seconds squirmed again and heard a small huff coming from the house elf, who extracted himself from Regulus arms and scooted back on the couch, looking like he wanted to stand at attention but Regulus quickly darted out a hand to stop him. The elf seemed to tear up a little more but he took a deep breath and calmed.
"Kreacher-" he started again, not sure what to say. "What-" he really had no idea how to phrase everything he wanted to say into coherent sentences so he decided to just go with something easy. "What year is it?" Or maybe not so easy after all.
After a long pause, a quick sweep of Regulus' figure once more, the elf carefully answers, "It is the year 2007, the 31 of October, Master Regulus. Yous have been gone since 1979."
Regulus slowly mulls over the fact that he doesn't remember twenty-eight years of his life, that he still feels like he did when he was eighteen, that he still looks like he did when he was eighteen (even if it's a Muggle punk teenager without taste and with selective blindness, the shape of his features is still the same and the Mark is still there, washed-out but still). His brain processes the fact that he feels like the events in the cave happened just yesterday. And maybe they did, for him. But, guessing by all the new, unknown to him scars stretching across his body, the one in control of this body clearly wasn't petrified or preserved for nearly three whole decades. The one in control was clearly doing something. Was living his life. In his body. Without Regulus' permission. Or knowledge.
Because Regulus doesn't remember a thing from the past twenty-eight years. Nothing at all. Like he just went to sleep in the cave and woke up here.
It was horrifying.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and fingers moving haphazardly through his hair. What was he going to do? Was Voldemort still alive? Was Sirius? Was his family? Was the war over or was it still waging?
It hurt. Thinking hurt. His head felt like it was going to burst from all these thoughts and he just didn't know and-
He felt a sharp pull at his scalp, realized that he was tugging at his hair again and slowly unclenched his fists. He lifted his eyes from where they were glued to the dirty purple rug under his feet and settled his gaze on Kreacher again.
He straightened, shoving all that emotional bullshit to the back of his mind, deciding to deal with it never and focused all his attention on his ally. His only link to the past and to the Wizarding World. His friend.
And after finally steeling himself, plowed on with the questions, not mincing his words in the slightest and asking directly about everything.
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Alright, Regulus was a healthy and young looking forty-six year old, no big deal. He may even say that it was the effect of good genes. Yeah, he could just say that. No.
"I'm a middle aged man in a teenage body with purple hair. My life is a magnificently fucked up mess," he said absently and stunned himself into silence because what. Since when did he curse. He was above such primitive methods of relieving emotions. He was the son of the most ancient and-
And what the fuck, he was going to curse if he wanted, there wasn't any Walburgas around here. He glanced around suddenly suspicious, his fingers twitching for a wand that wasn't there. No, no sign of her.
Twenty-eight years ago he went into that cave with the knowledge that he won't come out. He was so sure of it. He was convinced that it was the end. He saw clearly that death was inevitable and accepted that. Welcomed it, even.
He was the undesirable one. Sirius was the heir. He was only the spare, he knew. He knew that his parents looked at him and wished for him to be Sirius because while he was a quiet and agreeable shadow, his elder brother was a shining star, always talking and pulling everyone into his orbit. That was how the heir was supposed to act, always the center of attention, the one who talks, the one who leads. They just wanted Sirius to agree with them, like Regulus always did. Unfortunately, when he did it, in search of approval, it brought only pain and derision because you can't just follow, Regulus, you are a Black, and Blacks don't follow but are followed!
He knew that, he did, but he really wasn't a social person and by the time Sirius was announced to be a Gryffindor (bringing dishonour to the Family, associating with Mudbloods and Blood Traitors), it was already too late for Regulus to change (pretend) that he was in any way interested in social interactions between himself and his peers.
Sirius was the life of the parties (play dates) their parents arranged with other purebloods. Regulus was the quiet presence on the side, reading or just observing while Sirius made up fun games and told great stories.
But as much as his mother complained about him following, it wasn't really the case. He was attached to Sirius, yes, but he wasn't following, just, drifting.
It was always like that, Sirius being the loud one, people always looking at him and Regulus standing by, looking over but never joining, staying back, alone. It never bothered him, he was the most comfortable when alone, and while his Family didn't exactly like that, they never interfered. They tried throwing scathing remarks at him (why did Sirius have to turn out to be such a Mudblood lover, he was the perfect heir and at least try to be more like your brother) but not pressuring.
Regulus didn't mind much (it was how it has always been, him being measured to the greatness that is his elder brother). And then he was fourteen and Sirius has just left home (left him, left Regulus to rot, ran away, didn't look back, betrayed him, the traitor) and they presented him to the Dark Lord like a gift and he was officially accepted into the ranks of the Death Eaters and his forearm was marked with Voldemort's magic. And suddenly he started to mind very much. Because it was his life and he didn't get to choose, didn't have a fighting chance, didn't have any say in this. He was handed over on a silver platter and his Family was bowing to this man (do not slouch, Regulus, back straight, Blacks bow to no one).
He was caged from all sides and he didn't like it. Not. One. Bit. That was when he started planning to break free. And to do that, he needed to get rid of the Dark Mark. He needed to get rid of Voldemort. He needed a guarantee that when (if) he managed to defeat (hopefully kill) the Dark Lord, he would have an excuse for his actions. Others can't think that he was a traitor so he needed to make Voldemort look like a traitor.
So he started gathering newspaper articles, photographs, letters (when he actually dared to break into his mother's drawers) and other things. Little things, some were innocent others not so, alone they were useless but together, oh together. When he hung them on his walls and looked at the picture they made, that's when things started to pick up.
Voldemort started his activities some years ago, he was older than twenty (somewhere between twenty and fifty, it was hard to guess, magic did some weird things to the normal process of aging and it was always a hit or miss, he was). Wise, incredibly intelligent and cunning, with distinct features (perfect everything, from the shape of his jaw, strong but not too masculine, to the very last lock on his head, curled just right, exactly as the fashion dictated) and a Perselmouth. He freely admitted to knowing Hogwarts and its teachers, throwing references about the Houses (high probability that he attended there to school) and referring to himself as the heir of Slytherin (even higher possibility of him being taught there).
So Regulus scrambled to search for anyone who matched the description. It wasn't anyone from the Noble Families, he was sure, as he was introduced to nearly everyone who was worthy of the Blacks association. And those that weren't (those are Blood Traitors, Regulus, my boy, they betrayed our kind, supporters of that bumbling fool, Dumbledore and his filthy ideas) were usually pointed out as the person you don't want to talk to, Regulus, trust your mother, boy.
So that left him with the option of the Dark Lord being a half blood or a Mudblood. It still shocked him, the sheer audacity of the man. Here was a Mudblood ruling over those of pure blood. Despite this eye-opening discovery, he continued his search for the wizard. His efforts weren't futile. Because he soon learned that there was a record of exactly one death in Hogwarts in the last sixty years. Exactly one, petrified female student, unpopular and disliked, someone who wouldn't be missed, whose absence wouldn't be noticed because she was just so unimportant.
(Was her death on purpose or was it a mistake. Was it planned or was it an accident. Was it Voldemort.)
There were also reports of the Chamber of Secrets being open and a monster going around the school, petrifying students (not permanently, unlike the girl, Myrtle Elizabeth Warren, who died on the 13 June) in the same year – 1943.
But the perpetrator was captured and it was Rubeus Hagrid, the Gatekeeper, the half-giant. The theory that that oaf was the heir send him into hysterics, he couldn't look the man in the face for days without his mouth twitching. So he looked further and found it. The one who captured the perpetrator, his name was Tom Riddle. The boy with Special Services to the School, the prefect and Head Boy.
Regulus was pretty set on him being Voldemort and after looking through some old photos in Slughorn's office and finding the man's middle name, he knew deep in his bones that it was him. Tom Marvolo Riddle, whose name made an anagram 'I am Lord Voldemort', it couldn't be more obvious. Why didn't everyone know that? In the end, it wasn't that hard to guess, it was a combination of logic and luck that he found out, but mostly logic. Then he remembered that most of the Wizarding World didn't use such things as logic and all made sense. They were just imbeciles. Idiots who didn't know any better. But now he knew better and didn't know what to do with that knowledge. It was useless to him, in the end, as he was significantly weaker that the Dark Lord, he couldn't defeat him. He needed something, some trump card. Something he could hold over the man, something incredibly important to him, that he could use as a bait.
And then, as if the very heavens heard his pleas, the opportunity presented itself, the Dark Lord requested Krecher for testing his defenses on some place. And when the elf returned sobbing and injured, he knew that he needed to go there. Whatever was there, the defenses guarding it were strong and clearly meant to protect something important.
Meant to kill. And kill they nearly did. He faced death with the firm conviction in mind that it was the last time he faced anything, that it was the end. He was prepared for it… not really, he was terrified and so, so afraid and was there something beyond this world or was there just nothingness and pain and–
But he survived. He didn't know how or why. As he was thinking, his lips pursed into a flat line and his eyes glazed over and in no time at all Kreacher was wailing about how he didn't know that Master Regulus was alive, he followed the instructions and took the locker and – and Regulus had to keep Kreacher from knocking himself out when the elf started beating his head against the wall, screaming about how he failed his Master, bad elf, bad, bad, bad.
He knelt down and grabbed his friend by the shoulders, keeping him at arm's length and looked him in the eye.
"We've been over this already," he said, his voice stern but not unkind. "You tried, didn't you?" He waited patiently for the frantic nodding and plowed on, "This boy, Harry Potter, he destroyed it, didn't he? And all the other Horcruxes."
He felt mildly ill again, Horcruxes, as in plural. There were supposedly seven soul pieces, eight of you count the one who was sentient and started the Second Wizarding War.
Kreacher bobbed his head up and down in agreement and looking at him with hope in his eyes though, so he had to say something more.
"I'm proud of you," he settled on, feeling both bitter (he never heard something like that aimed his way) and well, proud (Kreacher was brave and stubborn and loyal). And he was really happy to call someone like that a friend. Because Kreacher was determined to do his best for Regulus, because Regulus was his friend too, and he asked it of him as his dying wish.
It was unfair of him, he knew, to use his last words to order Kreacher to do something so clearly out of his league (and Voldemort was out of his league, out of everyone's league, except perhaps Dumbledore and, it seems, Harry Potter). He could have used his last breath (or at least what he was convinced was his last breath) to say 'thank you' or 'you're my first friend' or something. But he used it to beg a house elf to destroy a piece of jewelry, to finish what he started, to end the Dark Lord. He put all the world's weight on these skinny shoulders and it must have been awful for Kreacher, knowing that he tried everything and couldn't, just couldn't fulfill a dying wish of a boy he looked after since the day Regulus was born.
Looking down, he smiled absently when he felt the long, crooked fingers grab onto his forearms and give a reassuring squeeze. Kreacher was looking at him with the familiar adoration, eyes big and full of wonderment and lips almost painfully pulling up at the corners.
"Is Master Regulus hungry?" He asked, and Regulus opened his mouth to say no, they had much to discuss yet, but was interrupted by the gurgling sound coming from his stomach. He looked to up to see that there appeared to be a small smile on the house elf's wrinkled face and he himself couldn't resist the small grin that popped up on his own face out of nowhere.
Then he remembered something and turned to the aquarium situated in the corner of the living room. He walked over and stuck his hand in the water, feeling vaguely nauseous when the slimy creature immediately latched onto him. He looked back at Kreacher, snorted at the incredulous expression on his face and reached out his free hand to him.
"Let's go home, Kreacher. Then, you can cook me a breakfast fit for kings," and he laughed, even as he was whisked away from the small Muggle flat.
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"Naaah, Lal, are you ready to go?"
"I was ready ten minutes ago."
"What? No! You were still packing!"
"No, I was already waiting."
"I clearly saw you fluttering about and shoving clothes into your suitca-"
"Shut up, Colonelo. Moron."
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"Reborn! Why do we have to go too? I'm not a Boss yet!"
"Stop your whining, Dame-Tsuna. It's the annual Vongola Christmas ball. As the heir to the hosting Family, your presence is required."
"Can't they just not host the ball?"
"It's tradition. Everyone is looking forward to the yearly Snow Battle, too."
"B-battle?! No way! We just got some peace and quiet! What stupid tradition is it?!"
"Shut up, Dame-Tsuna, or I will shoot you." Bang.
"HIEEEE! You just did, Reborn!"
"Chaos."
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"Boss! The old man sent an invitation to the annual Christmas party! Are we going?" Crash. "VOOOOOOIII! DID YOU JUST THROW A FUCKING TEQUILA AT ME, SHITTY BOSS?!"
"Shut your filthy mouth, shark trash."
"Vooooi!"
"Muuu, the Arcobaleno are all coming this year too, it would be a waste of money not to show up when the household prepared for all possible outcomes from the Snow Battle. It would also help in relieving stress."
"Shut up! The boss is thinking, don't interrupt hi-" Crash.
"Shishishishishi!"
"Fuck you, Levi you fucking perv!"
"Ara, Squ-chan, don't be a meany to poor little Levi~!"
"Stay silent, piece of trash. Of course we will be there, maybe the old fart will finally kick the bucket in a corner from heart failure or something," snort. "Now get me some steak, shark trash."
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"Princess-"
"I know, Gamma. Tell them that the Giglio Nero-"
"And me, don't forget about meeeee, Yuni-chaaan~!"
"-and Byakuran will be there."
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"The Annual Vongola Christmas Party? Hmm, shall I clear my schedule for that matter or not. That Reborn wanted us to meet there but I do not wish to follow his orders. But then, Yuni will be unhappy because she said that she is currently in need of some relax and wishes to see the Arcobaleno. Hmm-"
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"What do you think, Lichi? Ball with the Vongola? It's a good thing they sent the invitation with about a month and a half to spare. Thanks to that, we have time to prepare. I wonder how are the others doing. The last time we saw each other was during the Battle of the Rainbow, after all."
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