By the time April came around, he was able to sit through most of his classes – though remembering what was said in them was another story – and could hand in at least some of his assignments with the help of his cheating supplies. It helped him greatly to have something to focus on. He'd sit at the table in the Common Room for hours just focusing on his homework and trying to make it look as if he really put in the work. This left less time for other things and, more importantly, other thoughts.

The first Saturday of the month arrived and Regulus was surprised to find himself and others ushered towards Hogsmeade Station after breakfast. It took him far longer than it should have to realise what was going on, to remember he hadn't signed up to stay behind at the school. To remember that these were the Easter Holidays and they were going home.

He climbed onto the train and stared straight ahead, ignoring the other students passing by. He hadn't really conversed with his parents or the Malfoys or anyone at all about what the plans were for Easter. All letters still lay unopened on his bedside table. What if no-one was there to pick him up? He wanted to get up and go back to the castle to take all those letters with him to see if anything was said about this in them, but it was too late. The train already started to move.

There were others in the compartement with him. Barty had entered only moments after the train started to move and he'd brought two boys with him, boys Regulus didn't recognise. Boys who were likely Hufflepuffs as well, though he wasn't sure what made him say that. He didn't care. He wasn't there to make friends, he was there to go home, or to go to London at least.

Then the train pulled up to the station. He looked out of the window to see if he saw anyone familiar, but it was hard to differentiate the faces. What if he had to stay at Platform 9 all Easter? On the other hand... what would it matter? He'd feel empty and disoriented, no matter where he'd end up.

The other boys got up and dragged their heavy trunks with them as they left the train. Regulus wanted to follow their example but he hadn't packed anything. He only had what he had on him now. That meant he had not even a quill, ink, or parchment to write on in case he was stranded on the platform... How unprepared could he be? It had all just been so sudden.

There was nothing more to be done about it now.

He waited on the platform. He waited for someone to approach him, for someone to come near, for someone to take him. Then someone did, and that someone was his father, and his father gently took his arm and asked him something, and Regulus just nodded. He followed his father and saw his mother and he felt nothing. He had expected to feel joy, or relief, sadness, even—not to feel nothing. To feel the same as he had for weeks. These were his parents and he hadn't seen them in months... it was supposed to be emotional, was it not? But the emotional side of his brain seemed to be broken for good.

He heard his father say something about them needing to take the Floo Network to go home, and he heard his mother ask him if everything was all right. He answered he was fine, and he followed them to the fireplaces. Mother went first. Father was up next. He asked him something before he went. Was he really fine? Yes, he was. He had eaten, just this morning. He'd had enough water, too, hadn't he? He was fine. Fine enough, at least.

Father left through the green flames. It was Regulus' turn now, so he stepped into the fireplace and took the Floo powder. "Grimmauld Place, number twelve."

He was sent flying. He was spinning, or the world was, or both. He closed his eyes, but everything still spun. He stumbled onto the hard, cold floor when he arrived. He lay still, his forehead warming up. The pressure that was building was starting to get painful. It hurt, and hurt, and—there was something on his shoulder. A hand. He was pulled in a sitting position. Father pressed a damp cloth against his forehead. The pressure lessened. The cloth was removed. Father muttered a spell and the warmth increased, then went away entirely. Again came the question of if he was feeling all right, and again he answered he was fine. Because he was. The pain was gone, so he was fine.

He was taken to a chair and sat down at the table, food stalled out in front of him. He ate. He drank. He did not speak and when dinner came to an end, he went straight to bed. He was tired, he said. Just tired. It had been a long trip. He didn't mention he'd been tired for three months straight, three months that felt so short yet so long, so empty yet so full... full of bad things... bad thoughts...

Once in bed, he quickly found his sleep. When he woke up again the world was bright. He looked up. The clock told him it was almost noon. Had he really slept that long? Kreacher stood in the corner of his room. He greeted him, and Regulus greeted the elf back. There was some breakfast downstairs, the elf said. But he'd have to take a bath first. So to the bathroom he went, and he waited for the water to get hot. He undressed – he was still wearing his school robes, how tired had he been last night? – and entered the bathtub, and the water was relaxing against his skin. He could stay there forever. It calmed his mind. It calmed his senses. It was much better than the showers they had in Hogwarts. Much, much better.

He dried off and dressed himself, then went down to the dining room where his mother sat. The table was set for an elaborate meal. Father wasn't there. He didn't ask. He didn't ask where Father was, nor did he ask why they had allowed him to come home, he didn't ask anything. He simply sat down and ate some buns and scrambled eggs and jam on toast. He drank some pumpkin juice and then he was all done. He went back upstairs without talking to his mother. And once back upstairs, he just stared out of the window. He wasn't even thinking. He just was.

The following day started in much the same fashion, although he had not even noticed he was home, at first, for there was no Kreacher to remind him. He was just going through the motions; getting dressed, combing his hair, washing his face... he only realised where he was when he exited his room and saw Sirius' door. Was Sirius home? Of course he wasn't. Why would he be? He never came home.

He, again, went downstairs and he, again, sat at the breakfast table. He, again, said nothing. He just nibbled on his bread and jam. Of course he saw his parents – both, this time – sitting opposite him. He knew they cast him worried looks, but he kept to himself. He was not in the mood to talk. He was not in the mood to do anything, and they seemed to respect this; they had Kreacher clean off the table and then retreated to the drawing room. Regulus remained seated. He did not know what else to do. He could go back to his room again and stare out of the window again. He could stay here and stare at the table. He could stare at anything he wanted, but that was all there was to do, because other activities just didn't interest him. He couldn't even work on homework as he'd left his stuff at Hogwarts.

The day after was Tuesday, a fact he only knew because Father mentioned it when they sat at the breakfast table together. This time Mother was absent. He still didn't ask. He nodded at Father's question of if he'd slept well, and shook his head when he was asked if he had any plans for the day. Father said they could make plans. They could do something. They could have fun, just the two of them. He didn't have plans either... and perhaps they could've. In another world, they might've. But now? He shook his head. Avery was gone. Why would he want to do something if Avery was gone? Father asked him why he'd said no, but he just kept quiet. Father wouldn't understand. Father hadn't even wanted to see him at Christmas, and now he was all 'let's make plans!'...? it didn't add up. No, he just wasn't in the mood.

Wednesday came around and he just stayed in bed, even when Kreacher pressured him to go downstairs. He stayed in bed all day and didn't eat. Avery was dead.

Thursday arrived and Father was the one who stood by his bed, not Kreacher. And unlike Kreacher, Father wouldn't take no for an answer. So Regulus went downstairs, and Father made him eat and drink, and afterwards, Father made him bathe and get dressed and then, Father took him outside. Fresh air would do him good, that's what he said, and Regulus couldn't argue with that. Fresh air...

He walked with Father along the Muggle road they lived on. He walked with him in silence. He walked until he was overcome by nausea and had to stop, and leaned against the brick wall of one of the other houses in the street. He was dizzy and felt as if he was about to be sick.

Again Father asked, "Are you all right?" but this time Regulus couldn't find the words to answer. "Regulus..."

He looked up at Father, who held out his hand for him. He ignored the hand. He leaned against Father's body, exchanging the brick wall for the softness of his robes. They were velvety and brushed against his face with every breath he took. The nausea lessened and he became aware of the pain in his head, the pain in his limbs, the pain in his stomach. The pain was everywhere and it was unbearable. Every bone in his body was aching.

He felt Father's hand brush through his hair and heard him whisper something that was drowned out by the noise of his own heartbeat in his ears. He snuggled closer, taking in his scent, wishing he could be little again. Father didn't stop him. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes and stain Father's robes, but he couldn't cry, because he wasn't little, he was twelve and he was at Hogwarts and he'd met Avery and they'd been close. Everyone had been right. They'd been close. They'd been close and now he was dead. Gone. The End. There was no coming back from death. And his being dead was what pulled at his insides, it was what pulled at the strings of his heart with crushing force. It's what burst through his head and caused tears to trickle down his face. It's what shook his burning limbs and ceased his breathing. He wheezed, gasped for air—stop it, stop it, stop it! He couldn't be crying. Not here. Not now.

"It's all right," Father said, his voice both distant and nearby. "He was your friend."

How did he know? The Daily Prophet. Of course. They'd all known. How had he not known? Nobody ever told him anything. The tears still flowed from his eyes and there was no stopping them, no matter how hard he tried, now matter how much anger and frustration overtook his feelings of sadness... the tears kept coming, and Father only made it worse by caressing his back when Regulus knew he just had to calm down. He had to calm down! But his body wouldn't cooperate, and the tears kept streaming down his face even when his breathing stabilised.

He only stopped crying when there were no more tears left to spill, or that's how it felt. His eyes were burning. His head felt as if it was being split in two. He pulled back, embarrassed, looking up at Father's face and expecting to see annoyance. There was nothing there. His face stood blank. That was almost worse.

"Are you done?" he asked.

Regulus nodded. Tears no longer came from his eyes so yes, he was done, no matter how awful he felt. He was done being a baby. He was ready to be a Black.

But Father only pulled farther away and started to walk again, faster than he had before, when they'd been walking together. Regulus hurried after him, but he was weak and every step echoed in the back of his head. He could not go as fast. Still, he tried; he wasn't going to just be in the middle of these Muggle streets on his own. Not again. He followed Father until he reached number twelve, having walked a full circle. Father let him into the house, then turned around and promptly left again.

When he woke up the following morning, he was exhausted. He didn't even remember going to bed, or falling asleep. He just remembered his never-ending stream of tears. He'd just bawled his eyes out after he came back home and that was that. Now his body still hurt all over and he struggled to be as calm as he'd felt prior to his outburst yesterday. He wanted nothing more than to drift off into nothingness again.

He didn't go down for breakfast, nor lunch, nor dinner... he hoped to catch some sleep, but he couldn't, and nobody asked for him to come out of bed—something he wouldn't have cared about just two days ago, or even just yestarday morning, but which only added to the aching feeling in his chest now. The feeling that just wouldn't let go of him. The half-nausea he had to cope with. The knot in his stomach. The overwhelming sense of dread... He forced himself to get up and wobbled over to the bathroom to take a nice, long bath. It had worked before, so why not now? And it did work, at least a little bit.

But then it was Saturday again, and he'd been home a full week, and tomorrow was Easter, and he had no idea how that happened. It all sneaked up on him. He sat at the breakfast table because this morning, they had come for him, they had dragged him out of bed, the both of them had. And now he sat opposite Mother and Father and tried to force some porridge down as they talked amongst themselves... until Father called his name and Regulus looked up, putting his spoon back into the still full bowl.

"You still need to fill out the classes you want to take," said Father, holding out the slip. It must've been sent home, because Regulus hadn't brought it with him.

"I don't care."

"Then we'll choose," he said, looking over at Mother who nodded approvingly at this comment.

"Fine. I don't care." He focused on his porridge again, trying to empty the bowl, as Mother and Father busied themselves with the slip. He really didn't care. How could he, with Avery dead? Classes were the least of his concern now.

He managed to finish his porridge and disappeared, both from the tabel to go upstairs, as from his own mind. He'd been present for long enough... And then it was Easter Sunday and Grandmother Irma stopped by in the morning, carrying a small package. It was for him, she said. A little gift. To make it up.

It was a book. Some silly book. Fiction. About some young wizards going on adventures across the fairy tales of old, with the wizard and his hairy heart and the rabbit and whatever. It was extremely childish, but he thanked her anyway. She left soon after. Couldn't keep the husband waiting, she said.

Monday he had his form ready. Arithmancy, Study of Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures. He hadn't even questioned it being three classes instead of the minimum of two. He didn't care.

The day after, he spent reading the new book he'd been given. He wasn't much of a reader but he wanted to show his grandmother he understood she just wanted him to have something to do. In truth it was hard to focus. The letters danced around on the paper and the storyline wasn't making any sense. He read the same passage five times before giving up on the book altogether and spent the rest of the day chasing Kreacher around the house and seeing if he could help. He was so bored and desperate for some action that even cleaning was preferable to sitting and 'reading'. But there wasn't, and he retreated, lying in bed for the rest of the day. He was slowly wasting away.

On Wednesday there was an owl for him, tapping angrily on the window. He let it in, gave it a treat, and stuffed the letter away without even looking at the sender. He'd read it eventually, or so he told himself. When he had the time.

He woke up early on Thursday. Kreacher woke him with the announcement that Bellatrix was there for him, an announcement that took him a few minutes to understand—a few minutes in which Bellatrix had walked up to his room, to his bed, and threatened him with her wand, inches away from his face.

Regulus looked at her, but didn't move. He was quite comfortable in his bed and wasn't about to give that up. Bellatrix seemed to realise that, as her expression went from playful to serious in seconds. "Regulus?"

Instead of responding, he turned in his bed to face the wall.

"Regulus, you need to wake up," she insisted, leaning over him. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the covers over his head, trying to block her out. "We can't practise if you're asleep."

"I'm not asleep."

"We can't practise if you're in bed."

"Then let's not practise."

"Life doesn't stop just because you're tired. Get up. Duel me."

He felt her retreat from the bed, and lay still, bracing himself for the inevitable. The last time he refused, he had ended up on the floor, unable to move...

But nothing happened. What was Bella planning? He didn't dare move, fearing it was what she was waiting for, that it was what would set her off, that she'd strike at the slightest movement. His nose was getting itchy from the covers brushing past it when he breathed, so he held his breath in an attempt to stop it. But he couldn't hold his breath forever. He exhaled, and the covers tickled his nose again, and it became too much to bear. He just couldn't hold it any longer. He gave in. He scratched. He moved.

Nothing happened.

Propping himself up on his elbows, peering out from beneath the covers, he looked around the room. Bellatrix was gone. Curiosity got the better of him, and he climbed out of bed. He checked the bathroom, Sirius' bedroom, the closet down the hall... He searched every room on every floor, but she was nowhere to be found. Had he imagined her? Annoyed with himself, he trudged back up the stairs. Their house was far from tiny and he'd just spent upwards of twenty minutes looking for a figment of his own imagination!

But there she was, back in his room, sitting at his desk, twirling her curly hair around her fingers. "There you are."

"Here I am," he replied. "Where did you go?"

"It worked, didn't it?" she said, a sly smile playing on her lips. "You're out of bed."

"That's not an answer."

"Cheeky, are we? I told you what I wanted. Here." His wand lay in her open palm. Why did she always get a hold of his wand?

"I'm not in the mood."

"It doesn't matter if you're in the mood or not. A good duelist is always ready."

"I'm not a good duelist. I'm tired. I just want to go back to bed, I-"

"Oh, you just want to go back to bed?" she interrupted. "Silly me, I thought you were out for revenge."

He froze. "Revenge?"

Bellatrix leaned forward, eyes glittering with a dark enthusiasm. "Yes, revenge. Or have you changed your mind? Perhaps you're happy to lie in bed, letting others fight in your stead?"

"I haven't... changed my mind, I mean. I just… I need time."

Bellatrix's expression hardened. She stood, crossed the room in two strides, and thrust the wand into his chest. "Time is a luxury we don't have, Regulus. They are out there, plotting against us. Against you. Every moment you waste is a moment they gain."

"You don't understand," he said quietly, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Oh, but I do, dear cousin," Bellatrix replied. "You think you're the only one who's lost someone? We are all fighting for something."

"That's not what I-"

"Your little sulk won't bring him back."

"And you think dueling you is going to help me avenge him?"

"It'll make you stronger, at the very least. And if you want revenge, you need to be strong. And that means you have to practise. It means getting up even when you're tired, even when you don't want to. Do you understand, Regulus?"

He nodded.

"Then prove it," Bellatrix said, taking a few steps back again. "Show me that you're not just some tired, sniveling boy. Show me that you can be the man who avenges his friend. Duel with me."

He raised his wand. She bowed, but he did not. "Expelliarmus!" he shouted, and the scarlet light flashed through the room, and Bella was knocked backwards, her wand flying through the air. He caught it. He actually caught her wand. He stared at it for longer than he should've; when he looked back at Bellatrix again, she was no longer pressed against the back wall, but comfortably standing with her arms crossed, a big grin on her face.

But he caught it. He caught her wand. He had disarmed her. Surely that had to count as practice?

"Give me back my wand, Regulus," she said sweetly.

"I caught it."

"I know you did, after you ignored proper etiquette, I should add."

"Did those Aurors use proper etiquette when murdering Avery, then? Did they bow before they blew it all up?"

A laugh escaped her lips. "No. No, you're right. They did not."

"So why should I?"

She uncrossed her arms. "All right. Take me out. If you think yourself to be on the same level as those Aurors..."

"Take you out?"

She laughed again. "Yes—real battles also aren't won in the way duels are. That is why they eschew the etiquette. That is why they must. It's a kill-or-be-killed situation."

"I'm not killing you, if that's what you mean."

"Of course you're not. You couldn't if you tried. So give me back my wand or find a way to take me out."

Regulus thought, and thought hard. Take her out... an idea washed over him, one that had him grinning before he even cast the spell: "Petrificus Totalus!"

She stiffened, though not to the extent he'd been over Christmas. She could still move her eyes, blink, even make little sounds. And she did make sounds, sounds Regulus couldn't make out. She did blink and move her eyes. She still stood upright.

Regulus approached her, his heart thumping in his throat. She stood so still. It was unnerving to see her eyes following him, but unnerving was all it was. She couldn't do anything. Not only did he have her wand, she was frozen. He was nearly there now, inching closer—he could feel her breath brush against his skin and he came to a stop. He looked her in the eye, briefly, before looking away, down at the floor where her feet were frozen into place, then up to her arms which found themselves in an unfortunate position. At least he'd been lying down.

What now? He could leave her there. He could go back to bed. He had technically taken her out now, no? He looked up at her again, but her face was unreadable. Of course it was. He'd frozen it into place. "I took you out," he murmured. Because he did. Bellatrix didn't deny it. She didn't make a sound.

He stepped backwards again and put her wand down upon his desk. He didn't want to keep it. It'd just been so exciting to have his spell work. But he'd cheated. And he hadn't really taken her out, she'd just been waiting for him to do something. That wasn't the same. It wasn't remotely close to being the same. It was easy to take out a willing target.

"Do you know the counter-curse?"

There came no answer, which wasn't all that surprising. He couldn't look it up in his books either, with them being in his dorm at school. "Wait here," he said, before mentally slapping himself for it. "Err, I'll get Father."

He left his room again and headed for the drawing room, where either of his parents were likely to be. It was empty, but as he was about to go downstairs to look in the dining room (the next location they often frequented at this time of day, after all, it was about time for breakfast now, wasn't it?), he heard Father's voice.

"... necessary for-"

"Necessary?!" That was Mother. "The boy's twelve, there's absolutely no necessity-"

"You forget the times we live in, Walburga. Believe me, I'm the last person to agree to these things. Let that be very clear. You were the one-"

"Me?!" she screeched. "It was Bellatrix who started this all, not me! Orion! ORION!"

But the front door slammed shut and that could only mean one thing; Father left the building. Mother was in no state to ask for help either. Judging by the ruckus he heard downstairs she was destroying the hall. He wasn't feeling up to being estroyed alongside it.

He went back upstairs, to his room, where Bellatrix still stood in the same position as before. "They were fighting," he admitted. "Father left, Mother's... well, you know how she is. I'm not sure I can help... I know, I know what you want to say, that I did this and I need to fix it, but..." he sighed. He just couldn't fix it. He just couldn't.

He sat down on his bed, then felt guilty for sitting when she had to stand and stood up again. He paced the room. There had to be something he could do? Anything?

"Kreacher!" He yelled his idea out-loud, surprised by his own ingenuity.

Kreacher appeared afore him and bowed deeply.

"Kreacher, can you free Bellatrix?" he asked, and he held his breath as the elf looked Bella up and down, before nodding (his large ears flapping all about) and snapping his fingers. And Bellatrix's eyes widened and her eyebrows raised. Her lips curled into a smile and her arms fell to her sides. She took a few steps towards the desk and grabbed her wand.

Regulus watched her as she turned to face him, the smile gone now. "So what have we learnt?" she asked, as if none of this had just happened.

"Stick to etiquette."

"Well, yes, for now. With enough practice you'll be able to go your own way. But you need the knowledge first. The experience. The power. You can't just jump into the lake unable to swim and expect you'll make it out unscathed."

"I know..."

"You did well today," she said, surprising him. "You're improving. As long as you keep this up-"

"I will."

"We'll see about that, but if you do, you can go places."

"Go places? Go where?"

"Wherever you want, dear cousin, but remember: the Dark Lord does not accept weakness."

His breath hitched in his throat. "The Dark Lord?"

She smiled. "You heard me."