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, no Beta

Rating: T

Word Count: 5204

Author's Note: Guys, this chapter was haaaard. And nothing really happens here. Cuz I don't know what should happen. On another note, I just graduated from high-school and am in the middle of my exam month so yea. Instead of studying, I was writing this. Yesterday it was my native language (basic and extended level), today it was maths (basic only), tomorrow it's English (b+e), all of them written. Then, on Monday I've got spoken English, the next day I'm taking a practical test to get my driving license. And then on the 13th I've got written geography. AND THEN, on the 18th, I've got spoken exam of my native tongue (Polish, for anyone interested). It's fuckin' awful. I'm so exhausted, my head's going to pop randomly soon. Wish me luck, keep your fingers crossed for me, do some voodoo things, chant some creepy songs for me so that I pass (with good results)? Yaaaa, see any mistakes, point them out. (And thanks for all the reviews, favs and follows, it's really encouraging and all XD)

Chapter 4

It was All Hallows Eve so Kreacher really outdid himself and set the whole table in the dining room. The room itself still was a little dusty but the house elf started snapping his fingers the moment they entered the house so most of it was cleaned already. The old elf hummed in approval and cast a few more cleaning and air freshening charms. Then he waved his crooked fingers one last time and some candles situated around the room and the table (floating, of course, bringing back memories of Hogwarts) lit up quickly. A few more candles floated closer to the full table, casting more light on it.

The curtains were still drawn over the windows and a few of them were covering the places where he knew were some of the Family Paintings. He could have sighed in relief. He just didn't want to deal with this whole situation quite yet. He wanted to gather his thoughts first before his dead family members bombarded him with questions.

Moments after he was seated, a few floating pumpkins with carved out faces appeared around the room. Regulus was delighted, he remembered telling Kreacher all about them when he was visiting over Yule on his first year at Hogwarts, how brilliant and fun they looked. And how his mother would never allow them to have anything like this in their house, ever, no matter that it wasn't a Muggle custom but a wizarding one. It was childish and immature and his mother was of the opinion that her children came out of her womb as miniaturized versions of her and the other Black Olds (meaning grouchy and boring and screeching about Blood Traitors and such) and so didn't require any kind of joy in their lives. Regulus' lip curled at the thought while his eyes dimmed a little but Kreacher must have noticed because soon there was a healthy piece of pumpkin pie on his plate and a desert fork in his hand.

He slowly looked at the elf at his side and fought a smile at the expression of pure innocence on his friend's face (it looked hilarious because Kreacher didn't know how to look innocent, his big tennis-ball-eyes were blinking lazily and a reluctant smirk was pulling at the corner of his lips, he looked anything but innocent, coupled with the general face of the elf, which was suspicious to anyone who didn't know him (that is everyone besides Regulus but he himself couldn't exactly say that the elf didn't look suspicious, he did, very much so in fact) and it was plainly visible that the elf was, in fact, guilty).

"Desert before the main course, Kreacher?" He drawled. Mother would be displeased, he didn't add (Mother would have been displeased, because she was dead so she would have been) because he knew all too well how it would work on his friend (body gone rigid, eyes shuttering, lips pressing into a flat line, hands twisting nervously at the hem of his old pillowcase). Fortunately, the elf knew exactly what he was doing and could recognize good-natured ribbing when he heard one. And could respond to it with something other than deference and a bowed head. Regulus was proud of the progress, once upon a time the elf would have gone to slam the door on his fingers for a comment like this one.

"What Mistress won't see, won't hurt her," explained the elf, with a long finger pressed to his mouth in a gesture for silence. A childish part of Regulus swelled in happiness because that was the thing he loved mist about his friend. After Sirius went to Hogwarts (and before that, too) Kreacher was the one who played games with him if Sirius got bored of him. It was Kreacher who sneaked him some food when he was ordered to his room without a meal for misbehaving. It was Kreacher who always had time for him, Kreacher who tried helping him with homework, even if the elf didn't understand a thing about Magical Theory for the Wizards.

And he was doing it again, being helpful and friendly and trying to be funny to cheer him up. So Regulus was grateful and relieved because even if he abandoned his friend to his mother (quite an awful fate, if he did say so himself and he knew what he was saying, Sirius left him behind too, even if he had someone (it was Kreacher) with him still, he understood a little bit of the things that happened to Kreacher), and then, after she died (was he relieved or was he relieved, Merlin he was an awful son wasn't he) Kreacher was all on his own. Time didn't spare him, he mused, pensive. The wrinkles were worse and the skin of the elf was more paper-thin and pale, his back apperared to be even more hunched than what he remembered. There also appeared to be new scars all over his hands but Regulus carefully avoided looking at them because he felt guilt well up in him like a tsunami.

...

When Kreacher stuffed him full of food and was moderately satisfied with the amount he nearly shoved down Regulus' throat, he practically shooed Regulus out of the kitchen and upstairs. Regulus didn't complain because he felt exhaustion dragging his limbs down and his eyes shut the whole time and after drinking a glass of warm milk with honey (Kreacher, that sneak, he always made it when Regulus couldn't sleep as a child and it always managed to lull him back right away, he knew it would have this effect on him, he did it on purpose) he craved sleep. He just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up.

Which is why he forgot about the stupid coat hanger. The stupid cursed coat hanger. So he tripped and while he caught himself on the wall, the stupid cursed object cluttered loudly to the ground.

He winced.

And then curtains flew open with a whoosh and a screech resembling that of a banshee filled the hallway, "WHO DARES POLLUTE THE ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK WITH THEIR MUDBLOODED INCOMPETENCE!"

He could feel his pulse speeding up and his blood turning to ice simultaneously. He knew of only one person with such a healthy pair of lungs (unfortunate, that… he was a horrible son, he knew). His eyes immediately flickered towards the source of the voice and after a few tense seconds, he slowly relaxed again.

Because it was only a portrait. He breathed out a silent sigh, relief nearly sending him to his knees. She wasn't here, she was still- dead.

He nearly cringed. How callous. How... ungrateful of him. A woman who raised him was dead and he was glad for it. Such behavior wouldn't be tolerated by her. Or rather, wouldn't have.

If she was alive. But she wasn't. Well, nothing he could do about that. He thought about all the Dark rituals and Blood Arts and Magic in general. Or at least, he admitted reluctantly, nothing he would do about this. He didn't want to do anything about this. He wouldn't raise the dead even if she was the one asking.

(He carefully ignored the voice in his head telling him that he would have done everything in his power to please her, once. He didn't need her approval now. He was a grown man, forty-five years old, and even if those years didn't count, he was an adult already in the eyes of Magical World, as he has already passed his seventeenth birthday before his stupid quest nearly killed him.)

So he wasn't afraid of her. Not one bit.

The screaming continued and he would have been impressed by all the creative insults (his mother was clearly a Slytherin and a smart one at that) if not for the fact that they were aimed at him. And the fact that it was his mother hurling them at him. And of course, the fact that he was on the receiving end of her lectures and screeching disciplining for years so it was nothing new or enlightening to him.

As it was, he was uncomfortable and beginning to lose the little confidence he gained when he realized that she was dead and, therefore, couldn't hurt him. She clearly could, as demonstrated by the nearly gaping chasm that opened up again in his chest when his Family did something to isolate him again. Like leave him behind (Sirius), ignore him completely (practically everyone) or cast some pretty nasty curses for discipline (Mother, most often). There was also the resentment curling in his stomach about how his Family practically gave his soul to Voldemort in exchange for, well, nothing really. They didn't get anything in exchange for making him an eternal slave to that man (was he even a man, that monster). Not prestige (they already had that) not money (they also had plenty of this). Only more reasons for someone (read: him) to feel grudge. And lose money ("It's for the cause, Regulus,don't be greedy,it's unbecoming of a Pureblood, the Dark Lord requires it, it is a necessary sacrifice and in the end it doesn't put a dent in our vaults").

He finally attempted to interrupt her, "Mother-" and she quieted immediately, looking at him with wide eyes, her face twisted in a snarl as whatever insult she was delivering froze on her lips. She looked bewildered. There was a stunned pause as she considered him and he floundered (mentally, on the outside he was unmoved, his face could have been carved from marble and his eyes of steel) for something to say.

In the end he didn't need to say anything as she suddenly smiled, sharp and jagged, and leaned in, as if it would make a difference when she was just a painting. It did make a difference, he thought, feeling more nervous, she used to do that a lot when she was still alive. This whole towering over someone, looking down her nose at them, chin up and smiling a smile that always managed to terrify the recipient of it.

Come to think of it, all her smiles terrified him. It wasn't the fact that they didn't reach her eyes or whatever, oh they did. But she was not a good woman, her contentment (not happiness, never happiness, Regulus didn't think she ever was or could ever be truly happy, she didn't seem capable of such basic human emotion, he thought, because she seemed untouchable) depended on the amount of respect given to their kind, prestige of the Black Family and suffering or humiliation of Mudbloods and their supporters. Those were the only things that made her smile (besides the parodies of smiles she gave when social norms called for it, greeting people, being in public and chattering with fellow Purebloods).

And those were also things that Regulus really didn't like. He didn't like acting as the pride of the House of Black, didn't like trying to uphold the greatness and all the other bullock things they told him their family was. He didn't like being the center of attention. But to keep the Black name in the spotlight, he needed to.

He also didn't particularly like causing damage to others. It didn't matter whether they were Mudbloods or Blood Traitors, Regulus simply didn't want to harm them. It wasn't that he was too soft or that it made him sick, no. He was used to Crucios being thrown at him in his own home, it didn't turn him into meek pansy, it made him stronger. (He knew that he shouldn't approve of the way his parents raised him, knew on some level that it wasn't how it was supposed to be, Sirius told him as much. Of the ever wonderful Potters and their bright house and no curses being blasted at his friend, James. He knew all that but it still didn't change the fact that this was the only childhood he had and the only one he remembered. So he was glad, in some way, for them being so tough on him because it allowed him to grow into the person he was that day, although what kind of person he became wasn't quite clear to him and was something he didn't want to exploit quite yet.)

He could hurt others, of course he could. He remembered all these Death Eater meetings where someone brought a Mudbloods or eight and the whole meeting was adjourned with the accompanying screams of the tortured Muggles. Participation in throwing curses and jinxes was strongly advised, otherwise you were called a coward and a weakling. Of course Regulus took part in those activities ("Uphold the Family name, Regulus, don't shame the House, Regulus, isn't their squealing annoying, like pigs, are they not, quieten them, Regulus").

He shook himself free of the memories when he heard his mother start talking again.

"Regulus," she crooned, nearly pressing herself against the canvas of her painting in her leaning forward, towards him. "My boy, my son, returned. Finally returned," her eyes were glinting, the streak of madness has never been so clear to him as it was right then, her smile stretching painfully from ear to ear, looking as if it could cut through Dragonhide.

He attempted a smile, failed and tried for a weak quirk of lips, up and gone the next instant. She certainly noticed, considering the look on her face, excitement and hunger clear in her wide eyes and an even wider grin.

"My son has returned from his mission. His mission which was assigned to him by our Lord. The Dark Lord himself," there was a dreamy look on her face that soon transformed into something more familiar to him. Her features stilled and then twisted and warped, her nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing. The corners of her mouth tugged down and she started turning red, a vein clearly visible on her forehead even under her grey hair. She laid her hand on her neck, where her artery was pulsing and soon she looked exactly as he remembered her right before she struck with her wand. She looked furious. "But the Mudbloods won, my son's mission was for nothing! BECAUSE THE MUDBLOODS CAME OUT ON TOP AND WE WERE PUSHED ASIDE! ALL THE TRADITION AND CULTURE, BURNED AND DISREGARDED BECAUSE THE FILTH THINK THEMSELVES BETTER THAN US! THE PRESUMPTUOUS LEECHES! THEY DARE..." and off she went. Regulus stood there for a moment looking at her calmly, tiredness overtaking him. He glanced around quickly, noting all the eyes that were locked on his form, quiet now that they knew that it wasn't some random Mudblood that invaded their home but the rightful son of the Blacks.

He wondered what to do. Agree with his mother and spin a tale about some mission for the Dark Lord?

Or tell her the truth?

He pondered this while she ranted bitterly about the Mudblood supporters winning and came to a conclusion that he shouldn't hide it. She wasn't here anymore, she couldn't punish him, could only yell herself hoarse, if magical pictures could, and... He considered the painting for a while, and he was technically Lord Black now, wasn't he? He could take her down. The painting, that is. And if the spells were too strong for him (he doubted it, he may have been young for a Death Eater but he wasn't one of the grunts, that was Goyles and Crabbs, he was heir Black back then, and quite intelligent too, if he did say so himself, his Ancient Runes and Arithmancy were both his strong subjects, not that he was bad at many things with the possible exception of Fortune Telling but that was hogwash anyway, only real Seers could see anything so teaching the Arts to normal wizards was a waste of time, and, possibly also, Herbiology, he never could be counted as someone with the green thumb, in fact, it was quite the opposite) he could always call on Kreacher. The elf would do his bidding, even if it was taking down a portrait of his old Mistress. He might consider it in bad taste (Regulus himself was slightly displeased with himself but at the same time couldn't really bring himself to care) but in the end, the old servant liked Regulus, was his friend, so he would do as asked.

But as he didn't want to deal with this quite now, he decided to just go along with whatever elaborate scheme his mother cooked up for his absence and nodded along.

Then he interrupted, "Mother, I will certainly be willing to discuss the details of my mission," his mouth twisted in amusement. "But as you see, I'm currently in quite poor state and would like to refresh myself and rest for a while. It was a tiring journey," here he gestured gently to his hair and face and also his clothing.

His mother was quiet, silver eyes roving over his appearance, taking in all the purple, the painted face, the metal embedded in his ears and face and finally the Muggle jumpsuit. Her whole face scrunched up again and she looked ready to start yelling again, this time at him not the Muggles, but then she took a deep, stuttering breath and managed not to. Regulus was seriously really impressed. It was a once-in-a-lifetime happenstance, his mother actually not screeching bloody murder and instead taking measured breaths and calming herself. He would certainly try to preserve this memory, maybe visit it later in a Pensieve in order to further marvel at it.

"Yes," she drew the word out like it was psychically painful for her to agree with him. "You are quite right. Do use the bathroom. I will not be having any sort of conversation with anyone who looks like such heathen. Even if it is my son," she sneered dismissively and Regulus dipped his head.

"Of course," old hag, he added spitefully in his head. "Mother. I will, mother."

He waited a second longer and when she didn't say anything more, he gave her a curt nod and started climbing the stairs. Many eyes followed his ascend but their owners burst into chatter only when he disappeared around the corner. He snorted mentally, the paintings were always such gossips but with the addition of the Olds who he personally knew once upon a time, they were certainly having a field day down there.

He will see about that bath now, he deserved that at least.

It seemed that Kreacher also cleaned up the bathroom and laid out the towels for him. The only thing left to do was prepare the bath. He did just that, filling the tub nearly to the brim and adding a few magical aromas and relaxants. Then he took off his shoes and the jumpsuit. When he was finally naked he walked over to the mirror to get a better look at his face and pull out all the metal piercings. After that, he finally stepped into the tub and allowed himself to relax for what felt like the first time in forever.

He sunk a little deeper and deeper, taking a deep breath and submerging wholly, he needed his face and hair cleaned too, after all.

...

When he finished soaking nearly an hour later, he walked to the mirror again and looked at himself. The makeup on his face was smudged but mostly gone. His hair wasn't sticking up all over the place now, instead lying flat, which may have been the effect of water dragging it down but it was still purple. He raked a hand through it and winced when he came upon a scab on the back of his head. He touched it gently, it was still a little tender but no longer hurt. He forgot all about it even though it was one of the first things that happened to him in this new life (that he remembered) when he woke up at that little flat. He felt embarrassment well up in him, he actually tripped in the bathroom when he saw his reflection, back then. His legs gave out on him and he fell, banging his head on the white floor tiles.

It was a surprise that he didn't black out from that. Salazar, but he was so clumsy. Since when was he such a lumbering idiot? He experienced some accidents in his younger teens, when he was hitting growth spurts, limbs ungainly and suddenly too long, too different and heavy. But nothing on this magnitude! He sometimes moved a little awkwardly but that was the extent of it. He didn't trip or slip or anything. He just didn't. So the slip in that apartment and here, with the coat hanger was a novelty for him.

His hand stopped prodding at the healing (and he knew that magic was pretty mysterious and all but he didn't use any healing charms so the damage shouldn't heal this quickly, it was a little unnerving but he wrote it off as some wandless or accidental magic) bump and he returned to the perusal of his body. It was coated in scars, all of them pale and faded but still there. He traced one carefully, across his throat, water slipping down his body and onto the floor as he didn't bother with a towel. It looked like someone tried to cut off his head but didn't quite succeed. The scar was thin but long, nearly from ear to ear and Regulus shuddered because it was a hit that was deadly. He may have died from this and he didn't even remember it.

He touched another one, over his heart, a stab wound if he got it right, puncture mark spanning two inches. From a knife? He turned around so that his back faced the mirror and looked at it. No, something longer, a sword perhaps (or a dagger?), he mused, more curious than anything. Someone run him through with a sword.

What an interesting day, he thought hysterically. By the time he finally pulled himself away from examining his body (he didn't even get to study all the scars in close detail, he didn't really have the strength to go over them and think about the cause for each one), he was dry, only his hair was still dripping the occasional drop of water.

He looked around and discovered that he had nothing to wear now. And as he wasn't about to grab the dirty jumpsuit and muddy boots and put them on, he glanced around for something that could be used instead. Kreacher didn't bring him any clothes but he wasn't angry about it, the elf was old and had quite a scare that day. And he cooked up such a feast, cleaned the rooms and was most likely still cleaning up after the meal. He couldn't fault his friend because he himself didn't make a request for clothes to be brought to him.

He donned a fluffy, white bathrobe hanging by the door and grabbed a towel, lazily rubbing his hair, drying it. He carefully gathered his previous clothes and shoes, taking care in keeping them away from himself and the bathrobe as he didn't want to dirty either of the two.

He didn't have any slippers so he went barefoot, opening the door to the bathroom and slipping out. He made his way to his old room. It was a relief that on the way to his room there was next to none paintings. It was a small reprieve but a reprieve nonetheless.

...

He arrived at his room a moment later but hesitated before entering. It was his room, yes, but he was gone for a long time. Maybe it was remodeled and turned into a guestroom or even a storage? Distaste filled him at the thought and his arm snapped out to take hold of the doorknob. He pushed the door with a little more force than truly necessary, apprehensive of any changes his old room may have gone through.

His shoulders relaxed as his eyes landed on the inside though, and he felt himself becoming lighter. A small chuckle escaped past his lips as he took in the view.

Because absolutely nothing changed. His bed was made, true, and he didn't remember doing it himself but Kreacher always did it when Regulus didn't get to. But his walls were filled with scraps of newspapers, pictures and singular pieces of information about the Dark Lord and his supporters. Most were innocuous, nothing that could incriminate him as someone who was digging too deep, looking into the Dark Lord's past, only some of the articles about raids on Muggle towns and killing Mudbloods themselves. Something that would indicate that Regulus was only a fanatically obsessed boy. The more important, more dangerous information was hidden, warded six way to hell and back and may already be gone. (He had some failsafes, one of them was that if anyone without his authorization tried to access the papers, all of them would be burned (the files, not the person… but he may change that), there were backups and backups of backups but Regulus was pretty sure that any information he managed to scrounge wouldn't matter now anyway as Voldemort was already dead.)

His desk also looked to be untouched by time, papers and school assignments stacked together. An ink pot standing a little ways away, a quill lying beside it, sharp and ready to be used again. There was a course book open, he neared it and saw that it was Transfiguration Level Six, a bit of parchment rolled up beside it. He reached out and unfurled it and saw the beginnings of an essay about Animagi. He obviously didn't finish it. He pulled out his chair and sat in it heavily, feeling drained all of sudden. The bath took a lot of pressure off his back and shoulders but he could feel it setting back because, because Salazar. He didn't even finish school. Didn't even write his NEWTs. Didn't even get to sit his end of the Sixth year exams.

Curse it all. He didn't manage to finish his Hogwarts education. So what does he do now? Does he come back? Will he be welcomed back? Or will they chase him off, alert the Aurors about the Death Eater and the Department of Mysteries about a new alchemy genius, maker of a new Philosopher Stone. Nicholas Flamell wannabe or something along these lines. Yeah, no.

Or was it too late for Hogwarts for him? Did all these years count and he would be deemed too old?

He snorted, shoving those thoughts away. For now, he would only worry about the near future, there was no use in thinking about maybes.

His bookcase was as he remembered, full, with mismatched books, scrolls shoved in every available space, with seemingly no order to the placement of the texts. He forbid Kreacher from arranging them in alphabetical (or any other kind of) order because while others may not see a rule to this (madness), he himself knew exactly where everything was.

Besides that, the room was absolutely spotless. There wasn't even a speck of dust to be seen, apparently Kreacher took very good care of his things even after the elf was sure of his death. His heart swelled, that was one person that would always stand by him, no matter what, and Regulus could certainly appreciate that.

He ambled closer to his dresser, more than ready to hop into some comfortable clothes and get some shuteye. He opens the door to the floor-to-ceiling wardrobe and steps into it, the inside being magically enlarged. He dithers a moment, trying to remember where he put all his sleeping clothes.

...

When he emerges from the dresser it is with frustrated exhaustion that he dumps all his ripped sleeping shirts on the floor, them being too small to fit him property. It seemed he has grown a little in the time he was away. He looked down and pulled, irritated, at his trousers. They were too short now, ending two inches above his ankles.

He scowled, normally (not that growing a few inches in one night was normal for him, magic was weird but it didn't work like that) he would have just gone shopping if he outgrew something. But he was tired and it was late, the shops most likely closed. Plus, he sneered, the fact that he was a Death Eater that came back from dead wasn't something that he needed to flaunt (yet). He could have just cast an enlarging charm at them (the way those who couldn't afford to buy new clothes, Blood Traitors such as the Weasleys, did, he shuddered) but he didn't have a wand on him. His was lost somewhere in that cave, amongst the Inferi. He wasn't too keen on getting back there, even if the goal was to get it back.

Then, the last option would be-

"Master Regulus," Kreacher, of course. The elf, bless him, seemed to become aware of his predicament in just a few short moments and immediately cast an enlarging charm on the powder blue garments. Regulus huffed a thank you and turned to the bed. He stopped though when he heard a choked sound come from his oldest friend. He turned, slowly and aching for rest, and cast his half lidded eyes on the elf.

"What is it, Kreacher?" He asked, crouching down and propping his arm on the floor, lest he plants his face in the wood. The elf was looking a little watery around the eyes again and he sent him an encouraging smile.

"Master Regulus is hurt!" The elf wailed, throwing himself forward and Regulus startled, hand immediately going to the back of his head. Kreacher stood before him, eyes glassy and nose running (again) so he smiled awkwardly and lightly patted the elf on the shoulder.

"It's already healed, see? Nothing serious at all," he shrugged. It actually was healed. He didn't even feel it anymore. Kreacher looked unconvinced so he decided to indulge him. "Look, you can cast an examining charm on me but tomorrow, alright? I'm rather tired after the day we've just had." And he was, he could sleep for the next ten years (actually no, take that back, he slept enough years already, let's say, about, 12 hours, yes, he could sleep the next twelve hours).

He stood up and stumbled off in the direction of his bed, the covers conveniently pulled down so he could sit down immediately. He yawned, not even bothering with maintaining any etiquette besides half shielding his mouth with a lazy hand. He pulled his legs up on the bed and was immediately covered with his quilt. He glanced at Kreacher out of the corner of his eye, the other half of his face mashed into the pillow, and gave a sleepy hum, thanking for the assistance. The elf, standing in the doorway now, tipped his head and slowly closed the door.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep in seconds flat.