The next time Harry opened his eyes, he was in an unfamiliar room illuminated only by the pale moonlight, in an unfamiliar bed, with a duvet tucked around him. This time, he could not explain away the events of the day as a dream, as no one had ever tucked him in. Besides, Slithers was there, coiled next to the footboard. Her eyes were open and unseeing, and Harry's chest constricted, the image of Greyback's dead eyes stark and clear in his mind.
"Slithers?" he touched her with a shaking hand.
She stirred, tongue peeking from her mouth. "Gerroff! 'm ssssleeping."
Harry sagged back into the pillow in relief, feeling stupid. Right. Slithers didn't have eyelids.
His mouth tasted as if someone had died there, which was fitting the theme of the last few days. The rush of panic left him wide awake, so he might as well do something about it. The was a strip of light under the door, so Bill had to be up as well. Harry got up and pushed the door open.
Bill and Regulus Black were standing in the kitchenette, both soaking wet. Black was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt of some band called Weird Sisters. His throat was mangled even further, as was his left hand; deep tears ran along a faded tattoo of a snake—and was it a skull? The expression on his face was the most aware Harry had seen on him so far.
"Hello, Regulus," he said, because it felt weird still calling him Black after everything.
Regulus gave a grunt in response.
"Go back to sleep, Harry," Bill said gently. "You've had a long and traumatic day, and using magic must have exhausted you even further. There's a reason kids get their wands at eleven."
"I don't think I'll be able to," Harry said honestly.
Bill sighed. "Let's make some cocoa, then."
"Can I use the bathroom? My mouth feels disgusting."
Bill looked hesitant.
"Or I can just—"
"No, of course, you can. It's a bit of a mess right now, that's all."
The bathroom didn't look like a mess. It looked like a crime scene. The walls had bloody handprints, and the puddles on the floor were more dirt than water. Discarded clothes were piled in the tub, reeking of iron and wet dog, topped with the scarf that used to be red and gold. It had reverted to its previous state but was all but ruined now. Two claws and a fang were lined up on the washbasin next to the soap bar, tangled in coarse, inhuman hairs.
Bill snatched a mint-green jar and the newer-looking one of the two toothbrushes standing in the glass. "It's safe to say we should use the kitchen sink for now."
"Can't you just magic it clean?" Harry asked, remembering the ease with which Bill vanished his mess earlier. Gee, how embarrassing.
"Werewolf blood is as spell-resistant as the rest of them," said Bill. "I'm afraid I'll have to do it the hard way."
The toothpaste must be magical, and not just because it came in a jar reminiscent of his aunt's expensive creams rather than a store-brand tube. It hit his mouth with a menthol explosion and produced ungodly amounts of foam, which Harry struggled to spit with his suddenly numbed lips. He had the most bizarre sensation of his teeth painlessly dissolving.
"Did you use it on Regulus?" he asked, or at least attempted to. What actually came out was closer to "D'you ue i' on 'e'u'us?".
"Hm?" Bill looked up from the stovetop where he had been stirring the pot of cocoa. He even used some fancy powder and not an instant one.
Maybe another rinse. Harry repeated the question, clearer this time.
"I used the Mouth-Soaping Charm. Mum would cast it on me and Charlie on occasion when we mouthed off too much." Bill's eyes widened suddenly. "Don't worry, she never uses anything like that on the younger kids."
Regulus was sitting on the barstool, fiddling with Harry's car. The way he tugged at the parts filled Harry with irritation. It wasn't a dirty floorboard.
"Here." He took the car out of Regulus's hands and showed him how to turn it into a robot. "You do it like that. Gently."
Regulus gave him an affirmative grunt. His fingers bore some cuts and gashes, but that didn't seem to bother him, and nor did his disfigured left forearm.
"Your tattoo is ruined," Harry said, giving a closer look at the faded remains of it. Yes, that was definitely a skull. "I'm sorry about that."
"Don't be," Bill said forcefully. He put a cup of steaming cocoa in front of Harry and looked at the tattoo in disgust. "It's a Dark Mark."
"What's a Dark Mark?" Harry asked, sipping the cocoa. It tasted as good as it smelled.
"A symbol of You-Know-Who—an evil wizard who terrorised Britain until a decade ago."
"Why do people call him that? What's his real name?"
Bill grimaced. "Voldemort. Or at least that's what he went by; I can't imagine his parents, whoever they were, named him that. Lord Voldemort."
Regulus's gave a full-body flinch.
"Most people would react like that, although maybe for slightly different reasons than our own little Death Eater here," Bill said, scowling at Regulus. "Many believe that if you call evil by its name, even in the privacy of your own home, the evil might start listening. A superstition, but you'll find that when it comes to magic, most superstitions have some basis in reality."
"But you said 'a decade ago'. Is he dead, or in prison? And why does your friend Kingsley think I defeated him somehow? That's obviously some sort of mistake."
Bill sighed. "It is not. The night your parents died—"
"The car crash?"
"Is that what your aunt told you? No, they were, ahm, they were murdered."
Harry's breath caught. "By this Voldemo—You-Know-Who?"
"Yes. Lily and James Potter were part of the resistance movement, but went into hiding when they got you."
"He still found them, though."
"Yes. A close friend betrayed them. He is in prison now, for life," Bill added.
A wave of suffocating hatred for this unknown person rose to Harry's throat. If not for him, he could have been a normal boy, living with parents who loved him. He took another sip, mainly to keep his hands busy, but it now felt tasteless in his mouth. "So how did I defeat this evil wizard?" he asked. "And what does 'defeat' even mean? Is he dead? Did I kill him?" Was he a killer since the age of one, Harry thought in alarm.
Regulus, who had been listening to the conversation and looking between Harry and Bill with a furrowed brow, as if trying hard to understand a language he wasn't fluent in, suddenly became agitated. "Da… Lo… can… can't die," he said, pushing out every word as if it caused him pain.
"Tough luck for you and your Death Eater mates, but—"
"No, no." Regulus shook his head furiously. "He… can NOT… kill'd," he struggled to enunciate. "Ho… hox… hor's…" He tried to repeat the last word several more times, sounding like an asthmatic crow in its dying throes, but it didn't become any more comprehensible. With a desperate look, he held the toy car close to his chest, then presented it to Bill and pushed it away on the counter.
"I feel like something should ring a bell here, but I've never been good at pantomime." Bill frowned. "You're claiming You-Know-Who cannot be killed. This is actually something the Headmaster has been saying all this time. That You-Know-Who isn't dead but severely weakened, waiting for an opportunity to return."
Knowing his luck, of course his parents' killer was alive. "What exactly happened? Did my magic accidentally cause a bannister to fall on his head, just like it brought me to Regulus earlier today?"
Bill snorted, but then his face lost all humour again. "Nobody knows how you did it, so your guess is as good as mine. There were no witnesses. All we know is that You-Know-Who sent a Killing Curse at you, and it rebounded, killing—or as good as killing—him instead. No one survived this curse before, but you got away with no injuries other than this scar on your forehead."
Those dreams of the colour green and maniacal laughter. Maybe they were more than just dreams. Harry touched his scar, the slightly raised tissue in the shape of a lightning bolt familiar under his fingers. "If there were no witnesses, how do they know it was me who did anything at all, and not some magic my parents used before they died?"
"Good question. The Headmaster handled it, and he's the most powerful and knowledgeable wizard in Britain. There are a variety of methods he could use to deduce what happened, and he likely forgot more of them than I know of. It could have been something like capturing a magical afterimage with a special mercury potion—he's an alchemist after all, worked with the Flamels—or he could access your memories with Legilimency."
"He could have read my mind?"
"Hopefully that's not what happened. Legilimency would be extremely traumatic magic to use on a toddler, even by someone as proficient as the Headmaster. And it's nothing as precise as mind-reading, especially with a mind so young. It could have given him a general picture, though." Bill paused. "I'm probably overthinking it, anyway. He might've simply looked at your scar and assumed the most obvious scenario."
"So this Headmaster might know what really happened."
"I suppose he does. We can ask him, but between us, don't expect him to give you a full and honest answer."
"I deserve to know," Harry said indignantly. "Besides, I don't want people to think I did something as a baby that I didn't do, and my mum or dad likely did instead."
"Too late for that." Bill smiled, a little sadly. "You're famous in our world. They call you the Boy Who Lived."
"What a stupid name." Harry made a face.
"It is what it is. Far from the worst to come out of the British wizarding press, believe me."
Regulus reached out and patted Harry's arm awkwardly.
"Does that mean you regret working for the evil wizard?" Harry asked crossly. "You should. What did Voldemort—You-Know-Who even want?"
"He preached blood purity—too many wizards are still prejudiced against Muggle-borns, Half-Bloods and anyone not entirely human, even if they won't outright say it in polite company. His ideas resonated with old families and new money. Not all of them, of course, but enough to hurl the country into chaos and terror. Many good people died opposing them, including your parents and my uncles." Bill paused, his face clouded. "Ultimately, what You Know Who truly wanted was power. And he used any means to get it."
"I hope he'll rot in whatever hole he's hiding now."
Regulus grunted affirmatively.
Harry turned away from him. "I don't want to talk to you. How could you join a man like that?" He finished the long-cold cocoa in one gulp and struggled to hold back a yawn.
"Go back to sleep," Bill said, looking at the greying sky over London.
Suddenly Harry couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. He trudged to the bedroom and fell back into the bed, to dream a familiar dream about a flying motorcycle.
The Muggle world had always looked so alien from the windows of 12 Grimmauld Place, and it looked infinitely more so now, Regulus noted as he rested by the window. So monochrome, although that might be a lingering after-effect of his mindless state combined with the sunless early morning. People wearing bizarre fashions, always in a hurry to some place or another; metal contraptions wooshing by past the looming, impersonal architecture. His brother's contrarian nature was always drawn to it, whether genuinely or out of his ever-present desire to spite his family. Regulus doubted even Sirius could tell the difference himself.
Sirius was hot-headed and blind to a great many things as he followed his upside-down path. The path that led him to the right side of history, whereas Regulus had been left on the wrong one. He had seen it suddenly, clearly and a moment too late, just as the Dark Lord's brand seeped into his skin. Unlike his brother, he was able to admit to his mistakes. He hadn't gone to Sirius then as he perhaps should have, because his brother would never be gracious in his victory.
Where was Sirius now? Why wasn't he here, with the orphaned son of the man he regarded as his true family over Regulus?
Regulus refused to entertain the idea that his brother was dead. Perhaps his absence had something to do with the friend who betrayed the Potters that Bill mentioned. With the exception of his brother, Potter had always surrounded himself shortsightedly with the worst ilk of sycophants and hangers-on, and at least one was bound to turn out a traitor. Regulus could ask Bill, now that he was the most lucid since the cave and could maintain passable communication, except on the most important matter. But the answer could hardly be anything good, so he didn't. Sirius always believed him a coward, and perhaps he was. He would stay in blissful ignorance for a little bit longer.
Blissful ignorance, indeed. His thoughts had always been too loud, at times overwhelmingly so in his head. And now he spent his days as a mindless beast, following base instincts instead of a path of reason. There was something to be said about the simplicity of this state of being, a primal bloodlust, the satisfaction of a successful hunt as his opponent lies bloodied and overpowered.
The brain matter he consumed did not just taste good, it tasted like pure magic. Regulus was not in the habit of fooling himself. He saw it for the lifesping it was, bringing his mind back, one victim at a time. Even now, so soon after feeding, he felt a faint echo of hunger, never satisfied. But hunger was an urge he had learned to control and suppress years ago, so there was nothing new. He tried not to think of all his past slip-ups. Any slip-up now couldn't be easily remedied by a sip of the Vomit-Inducing Potion.
How fortunate that he hadn't killed anyone he truly regretted yet. Greyback had been a monster, and McNair even more so, despite being a Pureblood from a good family, albeit one that had fallen on hard times at the turn of the century. In the few months of his ill-begotten service to the Dark Lord, he had seen enough of the man. The butcher. Although perhaps it was not that surprising. Whatever else blood carried, it was certainly not virtues, if Regulus' own family was any indication.
As for that Muggle relative of Harry's, he had been by all appearances a reprehensible brute, and Harry seemed to be more upset about Regulus' Dark Mark than the death of that man. With him out of the way, Harry could finally be introduced to proper wizarding society. Really, Regulus did him a favour.
How ironic that he brought more justice to the world as a brain-rotted Inferius than as the second heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. What would Mother think?
If she was still alive, she had surely long succumbed to her madness. Otherwise, she would strike him from the Family Tree in disgust and with no hesitation or regret. Would she pretend to not know him or try to lock him up in the rusty iron maiden gathering dust in the attic to avoid the shame he would bring on the family? Would she think that his condition was her punishment for what she had done to Father? Surely not that. Nothing was ever her fault—a trait she had passed on to Sirius.
Bill came back, all fire and movement. He had put his damp hair together in a messy bun, and the freckles on his face were like the constellations that the Black family was so fond of. He narrowed his eyes at Regulus suspiciously. "You're looking more aware again. Did you fake it just to get out of cleaning the bathroom?"
Regulus had not, if only because it had not occurred to him that it was something he was expected to do. He had never cleaned a bathroom in his life, and he was not going to start after death. The truth of the matter was, his awareness ebbed and flowed.
"Next time, clean up your messes yourself. I'm not your house elf, rich boy." Bill scowled.
The thought of Kreacher saddened Regulus. How was his old friend doing with only Mother, or, worse, Sirius for company?
"Are you still rich?" Bill mused as he deposited a stack of books and parchments on the coffee table. "Probably, cause you might be dead, but your brother is not coming back, so your inheritance prospects are looking up."
Curious. This meant Mother was dead, and Sirius alive but not around. Regulus firmly locked all his complicated feelings about his mother to unpack on another day, or possibly never. As for Sirius… Bill did not sound too fond of him, which could mean that his brother had done something terrible or simply had been his brash and offensive self in a conversation; both options were equally likely. Regulus did not ask.
He abandoned the window and its disquieting Muggle world, now fully awakened with the sun high in the sky, and moved to look at what Bill was working on over his shoulder. A complicated arithmantic equation, as it turned out; something Regulus himself had never had a mind for despite miracling an E on his O.W.L.s.
Bill looked up at him. "This is to break the wards on your cave," he explained. "Clean things up and prevent more dead with even less brains than you've got from walking around. Am I right that there are more?"
Regulus nodded; there were many, many more. But those were not like him, dragged under the dark waters in the moment of unconsciousness, as the poison had coursed through his veins. They were all proper Inferi, enchanted and placed in the lake by the Dark Lord himself. Their souls were long gone.
"What about the thing that you were guarding?" Bill asked, sounding as if he did not expect Regulus to answer. But Regulus had no loyalty to the Dark Lord anymore.
"Not… there," he croaked. "Took it."
"You stole from You-Know-Who? Is that why you're…" Bill trailed off and made a vague gesture at him.
Dead. Forsaken. An insane, bloodthirsty beast. Regulus could fill in the gaps. He shook his head. "Ne'er… knew."
"Huh. There must be some story here. What was it?"
He tried to tell Bill again, but his mouth would not shape around the harsh syllables. A sigh of frustration escaped his lips.
"Can you write it?" Bill pushed a parchment and a quill to him.
Regulus sat next to him, an awkward sequence of uncoordinated movements. His body was a perfect killing machine now, strong and inhumanly powerful, but then the simplest thing like sitting stumped it. Writing was even worse. Slowly, he managed big wobbly letters, worse than a young child's—seven letters designed to ensure immortality but brought him death.
"This word does ring a bell." Bill tugged his claw earring; how au courant.
What would Bill know of a concept so obscure and abhorrent? He did not strike Regulus as someone whose mother had read him a nineteenth-century translation of Herpo the Foul the way other parents read their children the Tales of Beedle the Bard. Walburga Black had been obsessed with death. She had no interest in evading it, not at all; she would rather have met it in all its countless faces. She had revelled in macabre descriptions of human sacrifice rituals, necromancy and the darkest blood magic, reading her favourite parts out loud as she caressed her divination skull. Regulus had been deathly afraid of that skull as a child. He used to have nightmares about it devouring him, especially after his brother had sneaked the thing into his bed when he was seven. But crying about it would only draw Mother's ire and Sirius's mockery.
To tell the truth, not all of it was revolting, not like Mother's other favourite reading material, the memoir of Elizabeth Báthory. Herpo might have been a perverse and wicked man, but he was also a poet. Regulus had enjoyed the passages about the beauty of the ancient Aegean Sea, the quiet charm of olive tree groves, the loveliness of wild-curled Athenian boys. Despite any attempts of his Mother to foster an appreciation for the Dark in her sons, the only thing Herpo had inspired in him was the desire to travel to Greece after he finished his schooling.
He should have followed that plan instead of joining the ranks of the Dark Lord and getting himself killed.
Bill stood up to get a vial from one of the many boxes scattered around the room. "I wrote to an expert about specialised recipes that might work for you, but for now, let's see if a Flesh-Mending Potion would be any help."
One good thing about deathly pallor was never flushing red with humiliation again, as Regulus's skin had been so prone to do. He had resigned himself to living in Sirius's shadow—a younger, quieter, plainer brother—but who would ever look at him willingly now that he was dead and disfigured?
Cool fingers touched his neck, and he averted his eyes from the disgust and pity that were surely there on Bill's handsome face. Perhaps the mindlessness was a blessing, Regulus thought as he welcomed the fog that rose in his head, tinting his vision with grey.