we few, we happy few

by poppyofthemilk

She never planned on befriending a Gryffindor—she still didn't. What starts as an ill-conceived plan to get James Potter to stop tormenting her spirals into reunifying the estranged Black brothers and accidentally sabotaging Lord Voldemort. (Or: How one Slytherin stumbled into saving the wizarding world and somehow got the Black brothers to have a civil conversation.)

12. Black Fortunes

AN: I know this site is going to the dogs, so please know that this story is cross-posted on AO3 for an easier read :)

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Do Not Touch

Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black

Ellis felt as if he'd left the box specifically for her, knowing that she would not only open the box, but take what was inside if she fancied doing so. She looked at Michael, eyes narrowed. "Did you look—"

"It says don't touch."

"Not even a peek?"

"Don't touch," repeated Michael. Ellis had never known an eleven-year-old to be so responsible. He was a prickly little shit, but Professor Slughorn had told her that he was also top of his class, so Ellis let the mouthiness slide. She found it amusing, if she were being honest.

They were the Room of Hidden Thing which Ellis thought was fitting given that Regulus was determined to hide these tutoring sessions from anyone. He was somewhere between the shelves, pursuing the items left behind by students' centuries past. Ellis had stolen a few things that caught her fancy already: a few books, a cursed dagger, an old diadem that would likely gain her some favor with the goblins at Gringotts. There was a centuries old model of the globe theater that looked like it was signed by William Shakespeare—her and Regulus were in the middle of an argument over ownership.

Peeking over her shoulder to make sure that he wasn't near, Ellis opened the box. There was nothing inside. She picked it up, running her hand inside to see if there was a secret compartment or some sort of trick, but it was an ordinary wooden box.

"I knew you'd—"

Ellis dropped the box with a clatter, spinning around, and hiding her hands behind her back. She felt much like she did when her mother found her rifling through her potions collection or when Hibbs caught her climbing the shelves in the wine cellar looking for sweets.

Regulus was smiling. He held his hand out. Ellis looked at it with a confused expression, before slipping her hand into his. Regulus tugged her out of the way and held his hand out again, "My galleon, Ainsley."

Michael, grumbling, reached into his pocket and slid the gold coin over to Regulus, who pocketed it with a smirk. "You're growing predictable, Selwyn."

Ellis, realizing that they'd bet on whether she'd open the box or not, flushed. "Prat."

He shrugged, "You have the look of a thief about you."

Ellis bristled at that. "I only wanted to know what was inside."

"If it were a snake waiting to bite, you would have regretted it."

Regulus tapped the box with this wand and then opened the top, revealing neatly wrapped Cauldron Cakes, Chocoballs, Exploding Bonbons, and Jelly Slugs. They all bore the logo of Sugarplum's Sweet Shop.

"Go on and have one," said Regulus, not looking at Michael as he made the offer. Ellis had already taken and unwrapped a cauldron cake, pinching bits of it off to eat. Michael didn't reach for any of the sweets. Was he worried that Regulus had done something to them? He was surprisingly polite and had not yet uttered the word mudblood. Ellis knew if he did, she'd send him straight to St. Mungo's or, if she was feeling particularly nasty, to Azkaban.

"Thanks, but I'm not one for sweets," said Michael, focusing on finishing up his transfiguration essay. "I like crisps better."

Ellis wanted some crisps too, now. Crisps weren't that common in the Wizarding World. Most of their snacks were stuck about a century behind the muggles and, for whatever reason, sweets were preferred among the British wizarding community. Ned liked to pop into the muggle town near Riverberry, where some of his primary school friends still lived, and go to town at the market.

"Regulus doesn't know what crisps are."

He rolled his eyes, "I do."

"You do?"

"Sirius. I also, unfortunately, happen to know what—" He cut himself off, glancing at Michael. "Never mind."

Michael was looking over at them with narrowed eyes, "Are you two…"

"Hmm?"

He shook his head violently, turning back to finish his work. "Nothing."

Ellis, ever eager to have a new toy to play with, asked, "How does it work?"

"Like a Vanishing Cabinet. It pulls from the box in my room. Kreacher makes sure to keep it stocked, so I don't need to go through the trouble of queuing at Honeydukes."

"A lord of the Noble House of Black cannot possibly queue for sweets," said Ellis, haughtily earning her a laugh. "Out of curiosity, how does one obtain the express permission of Regulus Arcturus Black?"

"By asking."

"That's all? No trolls to fight? No dragons to slay? Riddles to solve?"

"You can beg if you'd like."

"I'm done," Michael interrupted, tossing down his quill with an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes as Regulus shot him a sharp glare.

"Show me," Regulus ordered briskly, extending a hand.

Michael huffed but slid the parchment across the desk, slumping back in his chair as Regulus skimmed through it with lightning speed. His eyes flicked over the words, critical but wordless, before he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and pushed it back toward him.

"You're dismissed," Regulus said curtly, already reaching for his own books.

Michael didn't need to be told twice. He hopped up from his chair, stuffing his things into his bag with the frantic energy of someone eager to escape. As he turned to leave, though, he hesitated for just a second, glancing back at Regulus with reluctance.

He marched back and handed over a slim box to Regulus, who took it with a bit of surprise.

"Have a good birthday tomorrow," he said, voice casual but just earnest enough to be genuine.

Regulus glanced up, surprised by the sentiment but unwilling to acknowledge it. He merely arched a brow, offering the barest incline of his head in response. Michael grinned like he'd won and bolted before Regulus could change his mind about letting him go.

Ellis waited for the door to close and then disappear before hovering over Regulus as he unboxed the gift. "How did he even know it was your birthday?" she asked in a mock, whisper.

"As if you haven't been mentioning it all week."

"That's beside the point."

"What on earth would he even get me that I couldn't get myself?"

"Crisps, for one."

"I'm surprised you let him go without asking him to have some mailed to you. Merlin knows, you love eating muggle filth."

Inside the box lay a sleek watch, its black bezel encircling a matching black dial with silver hands and hour markers. Ellis, who had already known what the gift was, because she instructed Michael on the color scheme when he'd asked her, watched Regulus' face shift from surprise to admiration. He liked it.

"It's a Rolex," murmured Ellis. "Michael told me that he had an elder brother who worked for a big watch company. Their father sent him over there to help get the Royal Navy's contract sorted. I did tell him it was tradition, but he must've seen Dumbledore and thought wizards wear dozens at a time."

"I've never heard of the brand."

"It's a Swiss one." Ellis did not feel the need to explain that it was likely expensive—Regulus could tell. "You should write his family and tell them thank you even if you never use it."

She didn't expect him to try it on. At most, she thought he would offer Michael a polite nod during their next—and nearly last—tutoring session. But instead, Regulus took the watch from the box, examining it with a quiet sort of curiosity before undoing the buttons on the cuff of his sleeve.

Ellis felt a strange thrill of anticipation as he rolled the fabric up. She had always liked his hands—long, elegant fingers with a practiced sort of precision to them, the way he handled a quill or twirled his wand between them without thought. But now, her attention trailed up, lingering on the lovely definition of his forearm as his wrist flexed.

Thank Salazar for Quidditch.

He appeared slighter than Sirius, Regulus was broader than he seemed at first glance. Stronger. She wondered how strong.

The silver and black of the watch complemented the rings he wore. It fit him perfectly, of course—it would have been impossible for Michael to know his exact size, but Ellis had made certain. She watched as he twisted his wrist, testing the weight of it, the way the light caught on the polished face.

He looked over at her then, his storm-gray eyes searching hers. "How… how do you fix the time?"

Whatever she thought she knew of Regulus Black was nothing compared to all the things she had yet to learn.

---

THE NEXT DAY

(REGULUS BLACK)

---

"Happy Birthday," said Ellis. A small box was pushed his way. It was velvet and deep black, with a tiny silver plaque that read Grimlock & Varnelle. He was surprised she managed to wait until morning, having spent all yesterday chattering excitedly about cake. But Ellis did love birthdays and hers was a particularly big event in her family.

"Proposing, Selwyn?" he asked dryly, though he's grinning too widely for his tone to mean anything. He hadn't been expecting anything and, truthfully, had wished the day to pass by without much fanfare after the long night he'd had. But, Barty roused half the table into singing him 'Happy Birthday' that morning and even Evan chucked a shoddily wrapped present—a few tickets to Puddlemere's games and new dragonskin gloves.

"I'll take it back if you—"

Regulus caught her hand before she could finish, prying the box from her grip with ease. "I was hoping you'd be nice to me…being such a momentous day for me and all."

"They should haul the aurors here and have your wand snapped, not give you free reign over magic."

"Jealous, darling?" A slip of the tongue. "It's only a few more months until you're free of the Trace." His tone was light, teasing, as they both knew it had never truly stopped Ellis from using magic outside of school.

She blinked rapidly, and it took Regulus a moment to realize why. Her composure wavered for just a second—she had liked that. Rather than letting the moment slip away, he leaned in. His hand fell to her bare knee, where her stockings had begun to slide. His thumb ghosted over her bare skin as he met her gaze. "Thank you for the present."

"You haven't even opened it. And that's not really a present—it's more of a customary 'Let's not start a blood-feud because I didn't recognize the Noble House of Black's heir's birthday,' type thing. I'll give you the real one later."

"Two presents? I must've been born under a lucky star."

"Regulus is one of the brightest stars in the sky. The brightest in Leo, no?"

"Yes, but not as bright as Sirius." He couldn't help the bitter addition of, "I was never allowed to forget that."

"I wouldn't be able to tell you where Sirius was in the sky, but I do know where Regulus is."

"That's hardly an achievement. You thought Venus and Mercury were the same planet for three years."

"And not once did anyone correct me, so it really that important?"

No, it wasn't. None of it really was.

Inside the box was a ring, goblin-wrought and made of occamy-silver, shaped as a snake eating its own tail. The scaling on the snake was precise and delicate, and he could see the tiny fangs, dripping with a ruby bead of venom as it stretched its mouth to catch its own tail once again. It appeared small at first, but as he lifted it in his left hand, the metal stretched and adjusted to fit. He slid off his current ring, turning it between his fingers for a moment before replacing it with the new one.

He preferred silver over gold. Ellis always noticed such insignificant things. And he knew that Michael's watch had her hand in it too. He should have expected it, but it was such a small, specific detail—so unimportant—that it still caught him off guard. Gold, after all, was the proper display of wealth for someone of his status. The watch his parents had sent him bore a gold face with a black dragon-skin band. He would wear it because he was expected to, but it irked him slightly that they hadn't stopped to consider everything else he owned.

"Do you like it?"

Regulus shot her a dry look, "No, I put it on purely for amusement."

She sniffed, torn between irritation at his goading tone and satisfaction—sarcasm, after all, was as good as approval when it came to Regulus. "I'll excuse your rudeness since it's your birthday."

"Thank you," he said again, quieter this time. "Truly."

Not knowing what else to do, and perhaps a bit thrown off by the shift in his tone, Ellis shrugged, offering a vague, dismissive, "You don't need to thank me. I just saw it and thought of you."

It was a careless answer, the sort of thing one might say when handing off a trinket picked up in passing, but it gave away too much. Too much because Grimlock & Varnelle wasn't the kind of shop one simply stumbled upon, and certainly not the kind where one made impulsive purchases. It was old, exclusive, tucked away in London, catering only to those who knew to seek it out. She wouldn't have been there recently. Not without reason. Not without intention.

She must have bought it months ago.

Back when they weren't even speaking. Back when things had been colder, sharper. Back when they had exchanged nothing but sidelong glances in corridors and words meant to wound. When her posture around him had been tense with resentment, when he had told himself she didn't matter, when they had pretended not to care. They weren't that far removed from that time yet, but she had not brought it up once. Not wielded it against him. Never thrown it in his face.

Ellis was not the sort to let go of things easily—she held grudges with the same intensity that she held everything else. Nail marks left behind as scars. He expected, at some point, for her to remind him of it. But she hadn't.

And Regulus did not understand why.

He leaned down, his fingers grazing the soft fabric of her stockings as they slipped down her leg. He traced the delicate curve of her calf before gently pulling the stockings back into place. His fingertips lingered for a moment, smoothing out the fabric. He made the mistake of looking up at her. Regulus caught as he saw the way her pupils widened, deep and dark, swallowing the light. Her lips parted—just enough for him to imagine how they might feel against his own. The space between them felt smaller now.

"Since you're in such a benevolent mood, may I make a request?"

"That depends," Ellis replied.

"On?"

"How much effort it would require of me."

"None at all."

"Go on, then."

"I'd like it if you called me by my name."

She held his gaze, a flicker of mischief in her expression, before obliging. "Regulus," she murmured, his name slipping from in a breathless sigh. It shot through him like lightning, straight to his cock. He exhaled slowly, forcing his composure to hold, though he already knew he'd spend the rest of the day hard as steel, with nothing but his own hand for relief. And yet, he'd savor it—every damn second of it.

"Like that?" she asked, her voice dangerously close to satisfaction.

His hand flexed, but he smirked, nonetheless. "I'd rather you not use that particular tone in public."

"What tone?"

Before he could answer and perhaps act on the urge to kiss her, a heavy sigh interrupted them. Dirk Cresswell stood in all his glory in the doorway, shaking his head like a scolding spinster.

"It's nine-in-the-morning," said Cresswell, storming into the classroom. Was he a clock? What was his bloody obsession with the time? "How do you two wake up with all this energy?"

"Cresswell!" cheered Ellis. "Ten point—"

No, thought Regulus, don't reward the idiot. Throw him out. Send him to Filch so he can be strung up in the dungeons.

"Christ, Selwyn, you're going to get that badge taken away if you keep handing points out like that," interrupted Cresswell.

"I balance it out by taking them from Gryffindor," she said. "And I did learn about this Jesus fellow in Muggle Studies. It's rather touching that Muggles recognized a wizard as their one true savior from damnation. The whole resurrection bit screams of Draught of Living Death."

Cresswell paused in taking his books out and threw her a perplexed look. Regulus glowered, trying to silently tell the boy to get his things, get up and not enter the classroom until Albus Dumbledore did. Cresswell clearly had little social skills, because he chose instead to engage Ellis in conversation and throw off any flirting that was to happen. "I've heard you lot say God before—it's not just a muggle thing."

"Ah, that's the Malfoys doing." Ellis tipped her chair closer to Cresswell, whispering conspiratorially. "You see…back before the whole Statute of Secrecy nonsense, the Malfoys were part of the Royal Court and had to play the game to keep the King or Queen's favor, so they were Protestant or Catholic or whatever else they needed to be. It trickled down into the lingua franca. Though if you ask them, they'll deny any involvement whatsoever—even though all their wealth came from the muggle world."

"I did an internship at Gringotts over the summer. You'd be surprised how many pureblood families rely on the muggle world to keep up appearances."

"Careful who hears you say that," warned Ellis. "Certain people get offended at the suggestion that they've had any dealings with Muggles."

It went without saying that Regulus was in the group.

A beat of silence passed. Ellis was not lying. Even noble families like his own had made their money by…liberating…it from wealthy muggles and any reminder of that was immediately silenced. The Selwyns were so old that by the time his family emerged onto the social scene, no one knew where or how they'd gained their wealth. There were rumors that they had pools of pure gold in their vault that the Goblins borrowed in crises to make galleons.

Cresswell caught sight of the velvet box and tilted his head, diverting the topic back into safer territory, "Special occasion?"

"It's Regulus' Birthday. He's officially an adult today."

"Happy Birthday, Black."

Regulus, bitter at the interruption and mildly affronted that the Muggleborn had the audacity to address him, drawled coolly, "It was a far better one before you showed up."

Cresswell was unbothered, "I'm sure it was, mate. You two going to the Yule Ball together, then?"

"Regulus and I?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think you'd be better off without a tongue, Cresswell?"

"Don't be mean," said Ellis, sharply nudging his ankle.

"I had every intention to ask you in the proper manner, before…"Filthy mudblood likely wouldn't gain him any favors. "…before Cresswell decided to stick his foot up his mouth."

"Oh." Ellis looked both pleased and a little upset. "I wish I didn't know that. Now, it won't be as fun."

"I could always alter your memory."

Cresswell looked over at him horrified, "That's…that can go wrong in so many—"

Regulus let out a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as if Cresswell's mere presence was actively causing him physical distress. "I'm going to say this once and only once," he drawled, "Get up and go take a very long walk. Preferably in the opposite direction of me, and even more preferably, into the Black Lake."

Cresswell hesitated, looking between the two of them. Ellis had fallen rather silent, her previous amusement giving way to contemplation. The sharp, teasing glint in her eyes dimmed. Regulus himself had turned back to the ring on his finger, twisting it idly.

With a resigned sigh, Cresswell and muttered, "Alright, then."

Cresswell slinked out of the room, leaving Ellis and Regulus alone once more. Regulus flicked his wand at the door, locking it. There was a half-hour before class, and he didn't fancy getting interrupted again.

"What does a proper manner mean?" questioned Ellis, after a moment.

"We would've been alone for one—no audience."

"Like now."

"Yes, like now."

"And what else?"

His mouth edged toward a smile. "It would be after our dance lessons with the fifth years." Lily Evans forced that assignment on them during their inaugural Yule Ball committee meeting. Regulus found the muggleborn's meddling to be heavy-handed, but he couldn't deny that it worked in his favor. "The music would still be playing. A slow one, so we could take our time," he continued. "I'd ask if you'd want a dance."

Ellis remained silent, but her eyes darkened, attention wholly on him.

"We'd be a lot closer than we are now," Regulus murmured, dragging her chair closer until the space between them all but disappeared. "I'd be holding your hand." His hand entwined with hers. "You would be leaning against my chest. And after we'd danced for a while, long enough for you to realize how I skilled I am at it, I'd ask if you'd go to the ball with me."

His voice was barely a whisper now. "And hopefully, you would say yes."

"And here I thought I wasn't conducive to romance." Ellis' lips curled, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. She was throwing his own words back at him, and he knew, in that moment, that they'd hurt her. Again.

"Whoever said that is an absolute prat and ought to be thoroughly punished."

Ellis laughed, the sound winding through his chest, threading between his ribs.

"Though as I recall…you were looking for a dog recently." He couldn't help but smile as she scowled, "Ah, forgive me…a boyfriend…how is that going? I'm sure Hogwarts is teeming with poets composing sonnets about the exact green of your eyes."

"You could have volunteered."

"To be your dog? Me? Wagging my tail—"

"You don't seem to have a problem thinking with your tail. How is a dog any different?"

Regulus smirked, tilting his head slightly. "That's simply the burden of being born exceptionally well-endowed, Selwyn."

"I didn't ask."

"I'm letting you know."

He can see the split moment where she deliberated between biting on the bait he'd laid or throwing it back in his face. But, before she could make her decision, her gaze shifted from his face toward the door. The loss of her attention was again jarring—like plunging into ice-cold water, stripped of warmth before he even had the chance to brace for it.

Ellis cocked her head. "Open the door."

"What?"

"You locked the door," she reminded him. "Open it. Professor Dumbledore is outside, pressing his ear to the keyhole."

Indeed, the Headmaster and the rest of their classmates were gathered outside, attempting to eavesdrop after Dirk Cresswell had informed them the conversation inside had to do with the Yule Ball. But to their disappointment, when the door unlocked, Regulus and Ellis were seated at the front of the classroom, looking no different than usual except, perhaps, for the way they were sitting closer than ever. The distance that once spanned between them on the first day was now reduced to no more than a sliver.

"I'll have to ask Mr. Filch about oiling the locks, but it's very good to see that they're working properly," commented Professor Dumbledore, swinging his arms about in excitement in a set of mauve-pink robes that matched his rosy cheeks. "Ah, Regulus, Ellis, always nice to see our Slytherin prefects getting along and being punctual."

"Early birds, Professor."

"And a very Happy Birthday to you, Regulus," said Professor Dumbledore as he took his seat at the front of the classroom, blue eyes full of warmth. He had gotten less formal as the days went by, dropping their last names in favor of their first. "I do hope you enjoy it thoroughly."

It took Regulus a moment to answer as other well wishes poured in around him from his classmates, "I will, Professor."

Once everyone had settled, Dumbledore finished humming whatever tune was stuck in his head and brought out his latest round of sweets. It seemed he had a new batch to share every class, and by now, Regulus had resigned himself to the expectation that he'd be forced to try some Muggle confectionery against his will. He still fought against it, of course, but his protests had become less serious with each passing week.

"Maltesers? I've had those at the cinema," said Ellis, reaching for a handful.

"You've been to a cinema?" Burbage asked, intrigued. It had taken her time to recover from whatever hex Ellis had laid on her last year, but her tone had since warmed. Perhaps she'd realized that, between the two of them, Ellis was the kinder one—and had no qualms about hexing him if he crossed the line. "To see what?"

"That movie about the flying Muggle who got sick from space rocks. Ned chose it—you know Ned, right? My brother?" Ellis grinned, a flicker of fondness flashing across her face. Then, eager to show off her knowledge, she turned to Regulus. "A cinema is like a moving portrait, but longer and with sound."

"I've been before," said Regulus. With Sirius, of course. There hadn't been much else to do over the summer. And now, there was even less than nothing. He shifted, noticing Dumbledore's eyes watching him closely. He was always uncomfortable in these moments—trapped between Dumbledore and a classroom full of Muggleborns.

Cinemas. He'd railed against them every time, always with the same argument—that one of such noble blood did not defile himself with Muggle filth. But Sirius would hit him over the head, drag him along anyway. Regulus pretended not to enjoy it, went home, and worked on his little collage to the Dark Lord as if to cleanse himself of the temporary misdeed. But he often left with more questions than answers. Disturbing questions that he learned to swallow down and never speak of.

How did Muggles have moving pictures without potions? Why didn't wizards do more with movies? Why were all wizarding stories about the same things—meeting werewolves or searching for some strange magical creature? Muggle stories seemed so much…more.

After Sirius left, Regulus had clung even harder to the Dark Lord. This was the right path. The only path. Sirius had been a bad son and an even worse brother. I will be different. I'll put us back where we belong, just as the Dark Lord will put us back on top. It was easy to mistake the illusion of power in the Dark Lord's movement for strength.

All his life, he'd been the weaker one. Sirius was naturally gifted—more handsome, more charming, more confident. Regulus bent too easily. No more than a blade of grass. He wanted to be a knife. To be feared. To be everything Sirius wasn't. A Slytherin. A pureblood. A Death Eater. First, rather than second.

And though his parents had loved Sirius more, they had always wielded Regulus as a weapon against him, making him covet their recognition.

"Why don't wizards have films?" asked Burbage, pulling him from his thoughts.

"We do," Eldred Worple cut in, leaning over to look at Burbage. He gave his glasses a quick push up his nose and patted the edges of his carefully groomed mustache. "It's just that English wizards have always been far too refined for that sort of thing—their tastes lean toward the theater, you see—so the film industry never quite took off the way it has elsewhere. You can find wizarding cinemas in France and just about everywhere else these days. Riverberry's got one and there's another in that little enclave near Cairnmoore. Hardly a secret."

"Refined, is it? Ah, no—Ministry wouldn't part with so much as a single Knut to fund the likes of it," Doris Purkiss snorted, her accent thickening as she spoke. "Half the lot in there are nothing but stuffy, snobby swots like these two—" she waved a hand lazily toward him and Ellis, "—still clinging to the mad notion that Muggleborns are out stealing their bairns and swapping them for Squibs."

"And you're from Belfast," snapped Ellis, looking mightily upset at being called a swot. "Might as well call yourself a Loyalist and—"

"Oi!" Purkiss cried. "Don't be acting like you Fennish are any better now. Broke off from the whole Green Isle 'cause you couldn't handle it, could ya?"

"And there's a reason we've got our own seats, and you're still letting the English do the representing—"

"Oh, would you give it a rest? The Ministry's been around for centuries, and you lot are still whingeing about it like you were dragged into it kicking and screaming."

Ellis rolled her eyes, "We were," she muttered.

Regulus did not know much about the happenings in Ireland, though he was well aware—thanks to the papers—that attacks occurred there weekly. The Dark Lord had found opportunity in the Muggle Troubles, using the ongoing conflict as a convenient veil for his own operations. Likewise, the larger wizarding attacks were often dismissed by the Muggle Ministry as Nationalist bombings.

There was no shortage of hostility between the wizards of Fenn, who were loyal to the Republic, and the Northern Irish. The Isle of Fenn itself was said to have once been part of the Irish mainland, near Cork, until a powerful witch of great repute severed it from the island thousands of years ago. Now, it fell under the purview of the United Kingdom, though Fenn tried hard (and failed frequently) to claim independence. The question of Ireland must've tugged at an ancient wound. It certainly still struck a nerve with Ellis.

Dumbledore clapped his hands together, drawing their attention back to him. He smiled, seemingly delighted by the lively conversation. "Now, now," said Professor Dumbledore, adjusting his half-moon spectacles, "Today's lesson is a rather special one, indeed. I shall be guiding you all through the casting of the Patronus Charm."

"Shouldn't we learn that in DADA?" asked Worple.

"An excellent question indeed. But allow me to pose one in return—alchemy, at its core, is the art of transmutation, the transformation of one substance or energy into another, more refined state. Now, consider the Patronus Charm. Does it not do the same? It takes that which is most pure within us—our joy, our love—and transmutes it into a radiant force, a tangible shield against the darkness. Is that not, in its own way, a most profound kind of alchemy?"

"I…I guess."

"He's just throwing the word transmute in there," muttered Regulus below his breath.

Last week, Professor Dumbledore assigned them a three-foot essay on some obscure philosopher, only to set their work alight the moment it was handed in. He had smiled, entirely unbothered by their collective indignation, and declared that before one could begin the process of transmutation, "some things must first be lost before they can be remade."

Regulus had found the entire exercise to be an utter farce—sentimental drivel wrapped in cryptic nonsense—but, as it turned out, the lesson had not been without purpose. From the ashes of their wasted time and effort, they had been taught to craft an eternal flame, a fire that would never be extinguished. Ellis promptly sent her lantern home, a gift for Hibbs. Regulus, however, kept his. It sat by his bedside, casting a steady, flickering glow in the dark. He had little need for it himself, but it seemed to do a fine job of helping Evan sleep more soundly, and that, at least, made it worth keeping.

"Who would like to try—"

Ellis was already out of her seat, casting a sharp glance over her shoulder—a silent warning to the others. Should they dare to interrupt what she clearly regarded as a private lesson, she'd make them regret it.

Though her posture was poised when she raised her wand, there was a flicker of uncertainty in her face. She shut her eyes, eyelashes resting against her cheeks. Regulus watched her unabashedly as he rarely got the chance to admire her without being caught.

"Expecto Patronum!"

A radiant jet of silver exploded into the air, blending into a shape that looked vaguely avian—slender wings, a sharp beak. Regulus straightened. It glimmered beautifully—yet it sputtered, flickered, and died, like a candle caught in a sudden gust of wind. Ellis's lips thinned in frustration. It was rare for a witch or wizard to be able to cast a full, corporeal Patronus. Her parents shared the same form—an Agrippa, a kind of magical, two-headed eagle that was also the symbol —a rarity that caused quite a stir within the pureblood community.

Dumbledore laughed, entirely unbothered by the failure. "I see that this is not your first attempt, Ms. Selwyn. Do you know why you failed?"

Ellis did not look pleased by the laughter, but said nothing of it, "The memory isn't strong enough."

"And what memory is it?"

"When I visited Mr. Ollivander's shop and got my wand."

"A significant event, no doubt," Dumbledore mused, his voice gaining a light and airy tone. "But a Dementor would make quick work of you. I daresay you have something better within you. Shall we try again?"

Ellis's shoulders lifted almost imperceptibly as she took a slow, deep breath. She spared a glance at Regulus and then lowered her gaze, trying to center herself. Her wand hovered in front of her, steady but tense.

Regulus shifted in his seat, feeling the brush of her magic like static against his skin. He became faintly aware of the others holding their breath. The room had gone eerily still, as though collectively waiting for a second burst of light to take shape.

"You must venture into the happiest corners of your heart and unearth a memory so bright it cannot be eclipsed."

Ellis exhaled. "Yes, Professor." She shut her eyes once again, trying to think of a memory capable of beating back an abyss. "Expecto…Patronum!"

This time, the silver light that gushed from her wand was bright enough to make several students flinch and shield their eyes. It coalesced more swiftly, forming the silhouette of a sleek bird in mid-flight. For a heartbeat, the Patronus flared, radiant and magnificent. The fleeting shape of a falcon stretched wide, translucent feathers shimmering.

A gasp ran through the class, but Ellis's Patronus wavered again, its edges collapsing under some unseen strain. Just as it had moments before, the Patronus faltered, losing definition. With a soft hiss, the silver light flickered out, leaving the room dim and mundane by comparison.

Frustration etched itself into the corners of Ellis's mouth. She lowered her wand, biting back a string of curses.

Having used Ellis to set an example of just how difficult it was to cast a Patronus, Dumbledore proceeded to guide the class through the spellwork with his usual air of absentminded whimsy. He demonstrated the wand movements before repeating the incantation. A burst of silver erupted from the tip of his wand, forming a phoenix that soared once around the room before vanishing in a shimmer of light.

Dumbledore encouraged them to push their desks aside, giving themselves ample room to attempt the spell.

Regulus had yet to make any attempt. He kept his wand tucked away, observing instead—watching the way Ellis straightened her spine with each failure, the flicker of frustration in her eyes quickly overtaken by sheer resolve. Others around her were struggling as well, Cresswell managing a faint, silvery vapor, while Purkiss failed to produce anything at all. But Ellis didn't waver. Again and again, she tried, pushing past every unsuccessful attempt with a stubborn persistence.

Then, at last, it happened.

The sleek falcon materialized in midair, its wings flaring as it took off into a graceful glide around the room. It circled lazily above their heads, its beady, glowing eyes reflecting the dim light of the classroom. It swooped in a quick, dazzling dive and came to a rest by Ellis. Everyone stopped to watch it fly, and Dumbledore gave a small nod of approval.

Ellis didn't seem particularly moved by the achievement. He supposed that was just how life was to her—no matter how impressive her accomplishments, there was always another, greater feat just beyond her reach. He found her ambition alarming at times. Reckless, even. Miserable too. Was it pure obligation to give her name more meaning? Was the pressure of her family name hanging over her too? So much so that she couldn't enjoy a single word of praise?

Finished with the task, Ellis caught his eye, "Sirius told me that he couldn't cast a patronus."

His mood soured at the mention of Sirius.

"I think you can," she said, tilting her head at him. "And when you do, you ought to cast it in the Dueling Room—shut him up for good. It doesn't have to be a real memory… that's what worked for me in the end. I put together everything that's ever brought me happiness and…voilà."

"Voilà," he repeated, dully. "There are full grown wizards who can't do what you just did." He cleared his throat, searching for a shield of cynicism. "I don't see the point. How often do wizards cross paths with Dementors?"

Ellis's lips thinned. "With the way things are, it's far more—" She stopped short, realizing perhaps too late how bleak that train of thought was.

Regulus gave a hollow laugh. "And I'm sure they'll let me keep my wand long enough to cast one if I'm placed ever under arrest."

"Do you think that you don't have any happy memories?" At Regulus silence, Ellis shook her head violently, seeming torn between anger and grief, raw and pained. "You do have them. Of course, you have them…you must've been happy here…at Hogwarts…or…or…"

She faltered, searching his face for anything that might give her hope. Yes, I was happy, he thought. But, is that enough? What if it isn't? What if it amounts to nothing?

Ellis's gaze bore into him, an unwavering belief he couldn't quite understand. He wanted to scoff, to tell her it was useless—but the words never made it past his lips. "And if I can't?"

"We'll make new memories until you can."

He remembered how easily Helena gave in to Ellis' experimentation in light of her conviction. He thought nothing about it at the time, but now, faced with the same steadfast belief, he found himself yielding just as easily. Some Slytherins led through brute force, others through fear, power, blackmail, or threats. Cunning was their greatest weapon, but Ellis' ambition was different. She never sought to rise by trampling others beneath her.

No maggots would come flying from his wand. If he failed, it would mean nothing other than him having to try again.

So he tried. Again and again, until the faint wisps of light finally wove together into an unruly shape. It was strange—no, frightening—how much overlap there was between the memories he had hidden from the Dark Lord and the ones that brought his Patronus to life.

There was no happiness to be found with the Dark Lord. Was I ever truly happy sitting in my room, clipping newspaper articles about the man? No. It was Mother's praise and Father's fleeting recognition that made me continue. It was the satisfaction of knowing Sirius would be angry—and the quiet pleasure of that. It was returning to Hogwarts, knowing my friends would relish whatever knowledge I had on the Dark Lord's latest doings.

Sirius would mock him if he knew, but the happiest memories of home all revolved around Kreacher. A weathered hand on his forehead when he was sick. The makeshift cards pressed into his palm on his birthday, Kreacher's hunched back as he muttered that he had nothing better to give. The joy of receiving a letter from his friends and reading it aloud, just so Kreacher would know the people in his life—on the chance he might one day meet them.

And then there was Hogwarts. Barty filling his bed with sweets after his first Quidditch win. Evan sneaking out with him in the dead of night to catch Sirius and his friends mid-prank. Helena convincing him to take Divination with her, only to end up crying with laughter when the professor gravely predicted a tumultuous love life.

And Ellis.

If happiness had a name, it was hers.

Her face was puckered with a confusion, and a bit of annoyance. "It's…big?"

Regulus laughed. "Didn't I tell you that already?"

"I must've forgotten," said Ellis, blithely.

Class ended before he could successfully cast a full Patronus, but Regulus would learn the rest on his own. He had no doubt that Ellis would spare some of their time after the Dueling Club to make sure it happened.

"Very fine work, Regulus," said Professor Dumbledore, stopping by his desk after they'd set the room back into order.

"Thank you, Professor."

"I must say that it pleases me very much to see that you and Ellis are getting along nicely this year. I had my reservations when Horace made his selections for prefect, but it appears that his instincts remain as keen as ever. He has a curious habit of meddling, but more often than not, it's led to fortuitous outcomes for his students, as it did for your cousin. Do pass along my warmest regards to the new Lady Malfoy. I believe the Board of Governors would rest a little easier if her new husband found a new hobby besides, ah, shall we say, enthusiastic bullying?"

Regulus could only nod in response, suffocated beneath Dumbledore's gaze.

Professor Dumbledore swept away with a merry little song. Ellis and he walked to Potions together. They have, since the start of the year, advanced to fitting one another into their normal routines. Prefect patrols, Dueling Club and their lessons afterwards, even the occasional Quidditch Practice.

And they talk. All the time. No subject was off-limits, no secret left unguarded. It took a measure of courage—more than he cared to admit—to voice the doubts he held about the Dark Lord. But Ellis, in all her maddening certainty, had simply raised an eyebrow, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. Her arrogance should have irritated him. Instead, it had made him laugh.

Regulus had learned more about Ellis' father in the past few weeks than he ever had in all his years at Hogwarts—she seemed both terrified and amused by the prospect of Regulus working for her father. Between her offhand remarks about Wizengamot squabbles and her sharp, scathing commentary on her father's colleagues, he had begun to piece together the kind of man Edward Selwyn was—ruthless, brilliant, and far too enamored with his wife to be as intimidating as he should have been.

He had also, somehow, become something like friends with Amelia Bones, who had been interning at Selwyn's office since the summer. Amelia Bones did not trust him. But she thought highly of Ellis, and for now, that was enough for Regulus to wedge his foot in the door and avoid being hexed on sight. He had quickly learned that Amelia had a no-nonsense approach to everything, and if she ever caught wind of his current extracurriculars, she would likely haul him straight to Dumbledore herself.

Which was exactly why his idea to free himself from the Dark Lord's clutches was completely and utterly insane.

It was reckless. It was dangerous.

It was, frankly, the stupidest idea he had ever had.

But if anything had the power to keep him alive in the long run, it was playing both sides. And if Regulus was about to get himself killed, he figured he might as well make a very compelling argument against it first.

He could see it now—walking into Edward Selwyn's office, sitting across from the man like some tragic hero in a Shakespeare play. "Good evening, sir. You may recognize me as the wayward Black heir and enthusiastic supporter of poor life choices. Have you ever considered exchanging information for a full-pardon? I come highly recommended and am only slightly at risk of being murdered by the most powerful Dark wizard in the world."

Yes. That would go over well.

"What did Karkaroff tell you exactly…when you…"

"He wasn't meant to know that information," said Regulus, pressing a hand to her elbow and pulling her closer as they rounded the corner too tightly. "He overheard Evan's father and…your uncle…speaking and thought it suitable to repeat it. Karkaroff greatly misjudged your character, but he won't ever speak of it again…nor does he truly remember what was said." It hadn't taken much to get information from Karkaroff—a fact that would ultimately work against the Dark Lord. "He's rather poor at legilimency and occlumency," added Regulus as an afterthought.

"Did he say anything else about the Gaunts? About Tom—"

"No."

"Alright," said Ellis, though he could tell from her tone that the subject would not die easily, but she let it drop for the moment. "I'm staying with Helena for the first half of the break—at least until the wedding," said Ellis. "Are you staying in London?"

"For a few days," Regulus replied, "then I'll be at the manor with my grandfather."

Ellis sighed. "I don't even want to go anymore. We invited Druella to Lennie's wedding over the summer, but she didn't bother to show, so now Aunt Sabine is sulking and saying I shouldn't go either. Lennie's still coming… mostly because she wants to outshine Narcissa. I've tried talking her out of wearing white, but if she does—just know that I'm aware she's completely mad. But she's my cousin, so I have to be on her side."

Regulus huffed a quiet laugh. "And people say my family is insane."

"How big is the wedding?"

"Some five-hundred guests."

"Merlin, at that point, I'd elope."

"Let's make it to the ball first, Selwyn."

"Hurry up with that then. My list is getting a little long."

"List?"

"Carlisle—Ned's friend. Basil Bagshot—"

"Bagshot? Why doesn't he try finding a snitch instead of a date? Has he ever actually caught one?"

"Davey Gudgeon, rather insistent that one. Cillian Byrne. Theon Travers. Amycus Carrow—please do something about him. I'm not sure where he got it in his head that he and I run in the same circles."

Regulus' face twisted in barely concealed disgust. Carrow? Carrow, who once tried to curse his own reflection when Barty enchanted his mirror to spew insults? The absolute nerve.

He wasn't entirely sure how one went about doing something about a list of admirers, but he suspected it involved hexes, bribery, or strategic social humiliation. All well within his skill set.

Bagshot would be easy—one well-placed hit about during their next Quidditch game and his ego would shatter like a cheap potion vial. Gudgeon could probably be scared off with a glare. Travers was interesting. The elder Slytherin had a deep admiration for the Dark Lord but was reserved to the point that many forgot he existed. Carrow, though… Carrow required a firm hand.

"I'll take care of it," Regulus said coolly.

Ellis quirked an eyebrow at him. "Ominous."

"What's ominous is the kind of attention you attract."

"It's hunting season for the desperate and deranged," said Ellis, with a shrug. "They think girls are going to say 'yes' simply because they don't want to suffer the embarrassment of not having a date."

Where the dungeons usually smelled of damp air, astringent potion fumes, and a bit of iron, there was another scent in the air today. It was faint at first, but the closer they got to the classroom the stronger the aroma became, until it hit them all at once at the edge of the stairs.

The rich, dusky scent of parchment and aged leather. The library at Grimmauld Place had been his sanctuary long before he understood what he was running from. It was the scent of home, not in the way most would think, but in the way that knowledge could be a shield and an escape. The cool bite of ozone, the damp musk of earth just before the sky split open. The faint, lingering trace of damp grass that hung in the air after rain. And then, rain. The sharp, clean scent of a storm. Regulus loved flying most when it rained. The world felt quieter, subdued, wholly his own.

And at last, the scent turned soft, floral—delicate in a way that made his breath catch. It was warmth and sunlight, the kind of fragrance that lingered on Ellis' hair when she brushed past him in the common room. It smelled like wildflowers caught in the golden haze of summer, a place untouched by war or duty, far from the cold stone of Grimmauld Place.

Regulus paused with a clenched jaw. "Amortentia."

"Professor Slughorn probably wants to set the mood for the ball," Ellis muttered, looking highly displeased. "There are better ways to do that than love potions. That name is a misnomer—it's obsession, not love."

"Do you want to skip?"

Her mouth thinned, and she looked away, shifting onto her back foot as she adjusted her bag. Regulus reached for it without a word, his fingers curling around the strap. It was lighter than his own, weightless from the illegal expansion charms she had placed on it. Her silence prolonged.

"Selwyn," he murmured, cocking his head. "Have you never skipped class?"

"Not on purpose." She threw him a dark look. "You must be one of those bad influences I was always warned about."

Regulus' lips curved, his grin slow. "Oh, am I?"

"Yes, you are," she said, sternly. "Professor Slughorn probably wants me there."

He had no doubt that Slughorn had orchestrated the entire lesson with barely contained enthusiasm, hoping to lure Ellis into spilling some secrets about the Love Room at the Department of Mysteries. More than that, he was likely scheming to wrangle a public promise from her to finally join the Slug Club—despite knowing full well that Ellis' favorite word was a resolute, unwavering "No."

"He'll forgive you if you come to the next Slug Club," Regulus coaxed, voice low, persuasive. "Bring him a gift and he'll forget all about it."

She hesitated, and Regulus saw his opening. He stepped in closer, just enough that she instinctively moved back.

Her spine met the wall, her breath hitching as she looked up at him, lashes brushing her cheeks in a fleeting tremor. His smirk deepened.

"Do you really want to spend three hours brewing a potion you'll never use?" His voice dipped, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "Or…" His fingers ghosted over her cheek before retreating. "Would you rather do something far more interesting?"

Ellis narrowed her eyes. "And what exactly would we do instead?"

"I'm sure you and I can figure that out," he murmured, gaze flickering down, lingering just long enough to make his meaning clear. She opened her mouth, but he cut her off, lips twitching in amusement. "Besides, it's my birthday, remember?"

Ellis let out a breath, as if realizing she had backed herself into a corner. "Shouldn't you be spending it with all your frien—"

"I will." His voice dropped just above a whisper, his smirk turning wicked. "Later."

They didn't end up in a broom closet, or his dorm room, or even the Room of Lost Things—the peculiar space that always seemed to conjure exactly what they needed, precisely when they needed it. No, instead, they found themselves in Ellis' makeshift laboratory, a carefully contained world tucked inside a modest wooden box on her desk in the Hospital Wing. Apparently, after much begging, Madam Pomfrey agreed to let her leave it there after Ellis assured her that numerous charms had been cast to stop any potential escape of her lab-rats.

Madam Pomfrey knew they were skipping class and opened her mouth to scold them about it, but before she could say anything, a group of first-years burst through the doors, bickering loudly as one of them clutched a bloodied hand. She sighed, already moving toward them with a string of reprimands at the ready, effectively dismissing Regulus and Ellis from her immediate concern.

He'd been inside a few times, but the world inside the box was always greenhouse had been expanded and now included several rooms. Were it not for the preputial dusk, the air that carried a breeze from an atmospheric charm so lightly placed Regulus could barely detect it, and the lack of sound from animals rooting about, it would have looked like any other cottage in the English countryside. He knew that Ellis was skilled—frightfully skilled—but this was magic so advanced that very few bothered to learn it. You could order cases with Undetectable Extension Charm, but they were used for storage and rarely contained the intricacies Ellis created. The use of the charm by ordinary witches and wizards was under strict control by the Ministry.

"I haven't fixed the sky yet—can't quite get Night-and-Day to work. And of course, the sound is off, but that'll be sorted soon. I'm thinking of adding a lake. For swimming."

The mention of a lake threw Regulus back into the memory of finding her completely nude, swimming in the icy, waters of the Black Lake. "I love a good lake."

Inside, her desk was a clutter of fragmented shards, rolls of parchment, and countless little glass lenses. Regulus stopped short when he saw the painting of Salazar Slytherin—the very one that Slughorn had launched a search-party for and Ellis enthusiastically organized.

She caught his eye and laughed. "I'm trying to make him talk to me. I'll put him back when we graduate."

Regulus eyed the rats living happily in a large, glass enclosure below the painting and thought he might have seen Salazar Slytherin's mouth curl in disgust. One of them looked rather sickly and had been isolated from the rest of the group. The rats were named after the Seven of Thebes: Polynices, Tydeus, Amphiaraus, Capaneus, Parthenopaeus, Hippomedon, and Adrastus.

"You don't have any hope for their survival, then?" He asked. He did not like rats. Or most animals. Owls, he could tolerate out of necessity, but he had not grown up with pets and thought it rather strange that people willingly subjected themselves to cleaning after their messes. Ellis, however, still took Care of Magical Creatures and had a better grasp for such things.

"One of the seven will survive—fate's already shown that."

He paused and stared back at her, but she was shuffling her papers, clearing space on her desk. Six sisters gone before she had been born. People whispered all sorts of things about Odette Selwyn, but Ellis was not spared nor shielded from the rumors either. Walburga claimed she was cursed; an ill-begotten child whose magic devoured her own mother. But, still, she was the seventh-daughter of a seventh-daughter.

"Did…did they have names? Your…" Sisters? Was that appropriate?

"The first…and the second…by the third…my mother couldn't stomach it."

He spied a gift box on one of the desks and opened ' locket. She used to wear it all the time, enough for him to recognize it, but he hadn't seen it on her this year. It was a small, gold oval. It was rather plain, with no markings or inscriptions upon its front, hanging on an equally plain chain.

"Are you using me as an excuse to buy yourself new jewelry?" he asked, raising a brow.

"Oh, no, I'm shipping that out to get fixed. The hinge broke and it needs a good polishing. I should've done it in the summer, but things got busy, and I forgot about it."

Regulus opened it, finding a tiny image of a palace on a hill, surrounded by an old forest.

"Where is this?"

"That's my house."

"Your house," he repeated, narrowing his eyes.

He held the locket up again, scrutinizing the tiny, intricate image within. It did not look like a house. It looked like a gothic cathedral, towering and severe, with dark spires that speared toward the sky and a grand façade complete with a large round stained-glass window. More than a house. More than even a manor. It was a fortress.

There was a moat. A moat.

Who in Salazar's name had a moat?

Regulus spent his entire life convinced that his world—the world of the Blacks, of Grimmauld Place and his grandfather's country estate—was the pinnacle of status. And here was Ellis Selwyn, who had apparently grown up in a damned castle, and had never once mentioned it.

He suddenly thought of all the times he had bragged—nose in the air—about the newest broom his father had gifted him, the unending wealth of the Black vaults, the goblin-silver heirlooms passed through generations. About Grimmauld Place, standing in the heart of London, just a short walk from King's Cross. A house his family had stolen from muggles. He thought of the way he spoke with such certainty, believing that there were few, if any, who could match the weight of his family name.

He must've looked like a fool since the moment they'd met.

Ellis had listened to him, unbothered. Had never once sought to correct him, to flaunt her own status, to put him in his place. Because she had never needed to. He was apauper—might as well roll up his sleeves and join Kreacher in scrubbing the floors, because how could he possibly compete with a fucking moat?

Regulus clicked the locket shut. What had he told Cresswell that morning? Take a walk into the Black Lake? It might be in his best interest to join him.

Unaware of his spiraling thoughts, Ellis located his second present and placed it in front of him. She slid into the seat across from him, legs swinging idly beneath the table, her excitement clear on her face as she waited for him to open it.

Unlike the ring, this was neatly enclosed in emerald wrapping paper with a thick, velvet black ribbon. He set the damned locket aside and unraveled it carefully. In fourth year, House Slytherin discovered that Ellis and Helena had a talent for wrapping gifts with almost comical precision. He remembered the sight of them seated in the common room, surrounded by an ever-growing stack of presents—some from seventh-years who had all but bullied them into helping, others from wide-eyed first-years too innocent to be turned away—ribbons curling around their fingers, every fold pressed to flawless perfection. Magic could've done it in seconds, but sentiment drove them to do it by hand.

Inside the wrapping lay a black leather-bound book, its cover smooth beneath his fingertips. The parchment was lined and a soft, creamy white. His name was written on the inside cover with Ellis' neat hand:

Regulus Arcturus Black.

He traced the curl in the 'R' absently, before glancing at her. "A journal?"

"Not exactly," she said. "Write in it."

So, he did.

A single line, drawn from instinct more than anything else:

Do not read without my express permission.

He had half a mind to make a comment about what an utterly unremarkable present this was when Ellis, wordlessly, summoned an identical book on her desk. She flipped it open, angling it towards him, and there, in his own handwriting, was the very line he had just written.

Regulus stilled.

His eyes flickered to her as she wrote, and at once, the ink in his own book shifted, new words appearing beneath his own:

Dear Regulus,

No one can read this but me.

Best,

Ellis.

He watched as the ink settled into the parchment, dark and permanent. Best. She used to sign with 'Yours' and he wondered how long, if ever, it would take for him to reearn that privilege.

"When you showed me your sweets box and mentioned the Vanishing Cabinets, I thought about doing something similar," Ellis said, watching him closely. "If anyone else tries to read it, it'll just appear to be school notes. Watch."

She flicked her wand against the open page, and at once, their correspondence rearranged itself into a meticulous transcription of ancient runes, complete with translations. Regulus scanned the text, brow lifting slightly as he caught mention of the Goblin Rebellion of 1504.

"Clever," he murmured.

"Revelio won't work either—it's warded against detection charms. Only our magic can unlock it. Like a lock and key."

Meaning that his parents would never be able to read it.

A way to keep in touch that required no owls, no postage, and—most importantly—was theirs alone. He swallowed; his heart lodged in his throat. He had never been given a gift like this before. A gift so intentional. So clearly pinpointed at healing a wound he'd never been able to speak about.

His vision blurred slightly as he stared at her handwriting etched beneath his own.

A direct link to one another. One that she created because she could. Because she wanted him. Because his mother had forced him to stop writing to her, and Ellis—unyielding Ellis—had found a way to ensure he never had to stop again.

Instead of resentment, instead of sharp words or bruised pride, she had given him this. His fingers clenched tightly around the book; his breath unsteady.

"It's not a selfless gift," Ellis said, shifting shyly. "I hope you know that. I know it's not much, but—"

"It's more than enough."

She smiled—a smile he had never seen before. Warm and lovely and all for him. Whatever Sirius had told her, whatever she had deduced on her own, it was enough for her to understand why he acted the way he did. She didn't ask for explanations, didn't need them. Instead, she welcomed him back, offering him a place in her life without hesitation.

He had thought he knew everything there was to know about Ellis Selwyn, but apparently not. Apparently, she was infinite in her ability to surprise him. You should hate me, he wanted to say. Hate me more, so I can love you less.

He thought he might die if he didn't kiss her. The need clawed at his ribs, seared through his veins.

But, she seemed so content, so fucking happy to show him this wonderful thing that she'd created—for him, for her—that he couldn't stomach ruining it with his own desires.

He did not kiss her, but rather hugged her so tightly he thought she might sink into his bones, become a part of him that he could carry with him always. Their magic entangled, already a twisted, knotted web that would hurt to unmake, but it was different this time. Regulus could feel the core of her beating somewhere within his chest, like a second heart.

There was cake later and a small party, and—quite possibly—it was the best birthday Regulus had ever had.

Because the Noble House of Black was not one of happiness, his fortune ran out almost immediately. He was startled awake in the middle of the night. Hand flying to his wand, he pressed it against the throat of his assaulter, before realizing that it was only Evan.

"Put something warm on," said Evan, lightly, brushing the wand aside. "We're going out."

"Out?" asked Regulus, realizing Barty was already up too, wearing the gloves he'd stolen from Regulus last year. "Out where? I'm trying to sleep."

"Get up," said Barty, shaking his mattress. "You're seventeen, love, not ninety-five."

In the haze of slumber, he realized that Barty had already gone through his trunk and gathered some clothes. Regulus, in all honesty, did not wish to leave the warmth of his bed. But he sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

They slipped out of the common room without much difficulty, Evan leading the way with practiced ease. He had always been the best at sneaking about—Regulus suspected it was a skill he'd perfected over the years of dodging his father's wrath. The corridors were quiet, the castle bathed in shadow. They moved quickly, their footsteps muffled against the stone floor, cutting through the dungeons and slipping up a hidden staircase they found back in third year.

By the time they reached the entrance hall, the cold was seeping into Regulus' bones. He sighed heavily, already irritated.

Barty, ever immune to common sense, just grinned back at him. "Come on, Reg, get over it."

Evan snorted. "You just want to use him as an excuse for your stupidity."

"Exactly." Barty shot him a grin. "So, let's get moving."

They set off toward the passageway that would take them to Honeydukes. They were halfway to the hidden entrance when Regulus suddenly stiffened, instincts screaming. "Someone's here."

Evan and Barty stopped immediately.

Regulus swore under his breath as he caught sight of the shiny prefect's badge and mess of brown hair, "Lupin."

"Usually, it's Ellis who's out of bed," Remus remarked, his tone light, almost teasing—but it instantly grated on Regulus' nerves.

Regulus' fingers twitched at his sides. Ellis? Why was Remus Lupin saying her name like he had any right to?

The only reason Ellis even spoke to the werewolf was because she was convinced his father would join her ridiculous little ghost club. S.L.U.G., as she so enthusiastically called it, was a doomed endeavor from the start. It had a grand total of zero members and suffered greatly from Ellis' increasingly desperate attempts to revive it.

Regulus was at the point where he'd consider joining himself—if only to put an end to her obsessive need to recruit someone,anyone, just to validate its existence.

Remus, seemingly unaware of the irritation bubbling under Regulus' skin, stowed his wand away and gestured lazily toward the passage. "Be careful when climbing up. There's a barrel of cockroach clusters right by the cellar doors."

Barty and Evan, the traitors, set off immediately once they realized that Remus Lupin had no intentions of stopping them from sneaking out. Though he was kinder than Sirius, he was weaker-willed too. Regulus supposed that was part of being a werewolf—just being grateful for the slightest bit of attention. It was no wonder that so many fell to the Dark Lord's side.

Regulus sneered, drawing his cloak closer. He knew that the werewolf posed no danger, else Sirius would've been bitten a dozen times over, but he couldn't help the instinctual fear he felt at falling prey to such a curse

Remus offered him a few parting words, "Sirius wanted to say 'Happy Birthday,' by the way. Peeves kept hunting him down—apparently, he got a very nasty threat from the Baron."

Regulus' jaw tightened. He didn't care. He didn't want to care.

"Piss off."

Remus grinned, holding his hands up innocently. Regulus stormed off into the tunnel, feeling a vague sense of déjà vu that he hoped was only nerves. The last time he'd taken this trip, Ellis nearly ended up dead and he'd spent the night awake and worrying until she returned to school.

They made it to Hogsmeade without much incident and then to London. He didn't know where Evan was taking them, but it was somewhere within muggle London, which brought a sneer to both him and Barty's faces. They spend the walk exchanging mild insults about smell of rubbish hanging about the town and the loud, rush of the muggle world. Even in the dead of night, it felt as if they were flying towards death, but he supposed that living only a hundred years, compared to the two-hundred of wizards, could make them feel time far more intensely. Not that there'd been a Black who lived to a full two-hundred. Most died before the century hit.

They weren't in a part of London that boasted cobblestone streets and quaint bookshops as the roads near Grimmauld Place did. No, Evan had dragged them deep into the belly of the city, where the air reeked of petrol and smoke, and the streets pulsed with neon lights and the throaty growl of engines.

Regulus sneered as they weaved through the crowd, dodging men with tattooed knuckles exchanging wads of cash and women perched on the hoods of cars, their cigarette smoke curling into the night. The racers were already lining up at the makeshift starting line—low-slung, gleaming machines thrumming with power, their drivers revving the engines as the anticipation built.

"A car race?" Regulus drawled, his lips curling as he turned to Evan. He'd heard of such things before—mostly from Sirius, who was obsessed with motorcycles, fast cars, and the half-dressed girls draped over them. His brother had waxed poetic about Muggle machines more times than Regulus cared to count. Not that Regulus would ever admit to having stolen one of Sirius' Playboy magazines in a particularly desperate moment of curiosity. Death would be preferable to admitting that.

But there was something undeniably appealing about cars—especially the fast ones. He wondered if the thrill was anything like flying, though the mechanics seemed far more cumbersome, all gears and pistons instead of instinct and wind.

"Barty," said Evan, with a jerk of his head.

Regulus raised a brow as Barty, grinning like a lunatic, pulled three brooms from the enchanted bag slung over his shoulder. His Nimbus 1700 was among them drawing a smile to his face. Regulus caught it with ease, already feeling the anticipation hum through his bones.

"I still say it's ridiculous to fly when I could just—"

"Watch?" Evan cut in, exasperated. "Yeah, we know. But this isn't about you."

Regulus let out a low laugh, "Racing then?"

This was probably the stupidest thing he'd ever done.

Regulus swung a leg over his broom, fingers curling around the smooth wood. The hum of the engines below made the air vibrate around them, and the scent of oil and burning rubber filled his lungs.

Barty and Evan mounted their brooms beside him, though Barty looked considerably less enthused, muttering under his breath about the inefficiency of flying. Evan, on the other hand, looked dead on his feet, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes. He wasn't built for flying—too prone to exhaustion, too sharp-edged from sleepless nights. But he mounted his broom nonetheless, set his jaw and positioned himself at the edge of the overpass they stood on.

Down below, the racers were preparing, the deafening rev of engines tearing through the night. A woman in leather shorts stepped forward, lifting a checkered flag above her head. The crowd pressed in, the energy palpable, tension thick enough to taste.

Regulus smirked, casting one last glance at his friends. "Try to keep up."

Barty scoffed. Evan rolled his eyes.

The flag dropped.

A thunderous roar split the night as the cars shot forward, tires screeching against asphalt, leaving streaks of burnt rubber behind them. Regulus kicked off hard, shooting forward, the rush of wind slicing past him as the race ignited below.

The city blurred around them—lights streaking into ribbons, the skyline a distant haze. Regulus leaned low against his broom, pushing forward, the thrill of the chase settling deep into his bones. He could hear Barty cursing as he fought against the air resistance, could sense Evan lagging slightly behind, not quite built for speed with his long limbs taking over the broom.

The fastest car was nearly even with him, a sleek, black beast with a guttural snarl of an engine. Its driver—a broad-shouldered man with sunglasses perched cockily on his nose—glanced up, clearly startled to see a figure matching his speed in midair.

Regulus only grinned.

He pushed harder, feeling the broom tremble beneath him as he neared its upper speed threshold. The car's engine roared louder, shifting gears as it surged forward. Regulus followed suit, angling himself with precision, cutting through the sky like a blade.

For a moment, they were neck and neck. The man gripped the wheel, eyes flicking up in disbelief, Regulus matching him move for move, the city roaring past them. The air resistance threatened to push him back, but he adjusted, feeling the thrill of Quidditch instincts take over.

With a sharp twist, Regulus dove. He cut low, just skimming above the ground, gaining speed as he tucked his body in, his cloak snapping behind him. The car struggled to keep pace, even as its driver pushed it to its limits, the exhaust spitting smoke in protest.

His friends were nowhere close now. Barty still battling the wind like an annoyed cat, Evan likely cursing every life decision that had led him to this moment.

With a final burst of speed, Regulus shot past the car, his broom slicing through the night like a streak of shadow. The finish line, nothing more than a strip of road cordoned off by spectators, was just ahead.

Regulus arched his body forward, his fingers tightening around the broomstick as he crossed the invisible threshold first, leaving the fastest car in the dust.

Victory was his.

He landed on a nearby rooftop just as the car screeched to a halt, the driver shoving open the door, staring up to see where Regulus had gone in between disbelief and furious admiration. Regulus only laughed, the sound wild and untamed, exhilaration pumping through his veins.

Evan finally caught up, looking unimpressed despite his breathless state. Barty skidded in moments later, nearly toppling off his broom as he cursed violently.

Regulus turned to them, his grin still stretched across his face.

Then a chill crawled down his spine.

It was subtle at first, a whisper of unease curling at the edges of his mind. The air around themchanged—sharper, heavier, the kind of stillness that only came before a storm. Barty felt it too. His fingers twitched toward his wand, all trace of amusement vanishing from his face. Evan—who had always been more attuned to the subtleties of danger—went rigid, his exhausted posture straightening, sharp and alert.

Regulus barely had a moment to react before a familiar voice sliced through the noise of the city.

"Honestly, Reggie, you've always been an idiot."

Suddenly, everything fun about the night vanished like smoke.

A figure stepped from the shadows at the edge of the crowd, dark robes blending seamlessly into the night. Where the neon lights flickered against her features, they revealed high cheekbones, wild curls, and a wicked, knowing smile.

Bellatrix.

Regulus' stomach dropped.

She prowled closer, gaze sweeping over the scene before settling on him. Her expression twisted between exasperation and smug satisfaction, like she hadexpectedthis level of stupidity but was still mildly impressed by the depths of it.

"You really should learn to cover your tracks," she mused, stopping a few paces away. "Or did you forget that Hogwarts' wards make it difficult for the Dark Lord to keep track of his followers? He noticed, Regulus. Felt you slip closer to home. It's not the first time either."

Regulus' blood ran cold.

She tilted her head, mock pity softening her tone. "Did you really think no one would notice? I saw you then…with darling little Selwyn. 'Are you hurt?''" gasped Bellatrix, mocking his tone. "Was she? Did little Ellis cry?"

Evan stiffened beside him. Barty's grip on his wand was so tight his knuckles had turned white.

Regulus forced himself to meet her gaze, schooling his expression into cold, indifference. "What are you doing here, Bella?"

Bellatrix's smile widened, teeth glinting. "Making sure my baby cousin hasn't completely lost his mind." Her gaze flickered to the brooms in their hands, to the Muggles below. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. "And it appears I was right to be concerned."

Regulus didn't move, didn't breathe. He knew how this worked. Bellatrix could be amused now, but she was still a viper, coiled and waiting for the perfect moment tostrike.

"I was under the impression that you had more sense, Regulus," she continued, stepping closer, her voice lowering. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, sensing the danger she presented. "That you understood what is expected of you."

Regulus forced himself not to react.

He knew what she was doing—pushing, testing, waiting to see if he would flinch.

"I fail to see how it's any of your concern," he said coolly.

Bellatrix let out a sharp, delighted laugh. "Oh," she echoed mockingly. "How very Sirius of you."

He bristled at that, but Evan was already moving, subtly shifting closer to Regulus in silent preparation for whatever came next.

Bellatrix's eyes gleamed. "The Dark Lord doesn't forgive foolishness. If you ever intend to survive what's coming, I suggest you remember that."

The words were a warning. A threat. A promise.

Regulus barely had a moment to process it before Bellatrix's expression shifted—her sneer deepened, her dark eyes feral. "Playing games with Muggles," she sighed, stretching her fingers as if shaking off stiffness. Her lip curled in disgust. "Let me remind you how it's done."

She flicked her wand before he could try to reason with her.

A crack split the night air as the first Muggle dropped, his body twisting unnaturally as a strangled gasp left his throat. His limbs jerked, spasming once before falling still. The crowd turned in confusion, then horror, as the reality of what had happened sank in. A woman let out a piercing scream, scrambling away, knocking into others in her desperate attempt to flee.

Bellatrix only laughed.

The sound of it—sharp, delighted, hungry—cracked something in Regulus. This wasn't just a show of force. This was a game to her. A twisted, senseless bloodletting for her own amusement.

Regulus barely had time to react before Evan's fingers latched onto his forearm. He twisted sharply, catching Barty by the sleeve as well, his grip like iron.

Regulus was still frozen, paralyzed as Bellatrix turned, wand lifted, and he knew—knew—what was coming next. A command. A demand. A test. She'd force them to join her, to prove their loyalty, to spill blood for the cause whether they wanted to or not.

Or worse—she'd turn her wand on them.

But before she could speak, before she could whip around and decide what their place in the massacre would be, the world split apart.

A pull, sharp and suffocating, wrenched Regulus sideways as Evan yanked them all into a dark void. The screams of the Muggles, the sick laughter of Bellatrix, the acrid scent of smoke and blood—all of it was swallowed by the nothingness of the in-between.

They landed hard in a deserted field miles outside of Hogsmeade, the impact nearly knocking Regulus off his feet. He staggered, vision spinning, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs.

For a moment, there was silence, nothing but the faint sound of their ragged breathing.

Then—

"Fuck." Regulus doubled over, pressing his hands to his knees. His face was pale, his breath uneven. "That—fuck."

Regulus' pulse was still racing, but his mind was beginning to catch up. He was on his knees, a hand pressed to his chest where a burning ache mixed with the rising bile of regret and disbelief. And as much as he tried to hide the terror in his eyes, he knew Evan could see every shred of it.

I know, screamed Evan's face. I can see you, Regulus. You're not fooling anyone.

"Reg," said Evan. Regulus wasn't sure he was breathing. Evan's hands cupped his face, drawing his gaze up where a net of stars twinkled against the black of night. The air was cooler here. "How the hell did you get yourself into this mess?"

"It wasn't supposed to be like this."

"No?" Evan smiled and he looked more like Ellis than Regulus had ever realized. Evan pulled him to his feet; his touch firm yet strangely compassionate. "You knew what it was, but you wanted to pretend it was about putting us on top."

Barty stepped closer, his wand still clenched in a white-knuckled grip. "We shouldn't have left," he ground out. "We should've stayed and—"

"That's enough, Barty," murmured Evan, voice heavy as stone.

"But the Dark Lord would like—"

"What do you know about the Dark Lord beyond whatever Karkaroff is whispering in your ear?" asked Evan, spinning around. "That's Karkaroff's entire job. Binging in more followers for the Dark Lord to twist around his finger. He acts like he cares, asks you a few questions so you'll trust him, but that doesn't mean that he's your father."

"At least I can admit to hating my father," Barty shot back. "You can't even talk about yours."

Evan stilled, looking at Barty with wild eyes. "What do you want me to talk about exactly?" he asked, voice tight as a bowstring.

The wind ruffled the grass in the open field, the night's chill creeping in as if it could sink under their skin. Regulus drew in one long, shuddering breath, still trying to settle the frantic drum of his pulse.

Barty's gaze was defiant, a spark of reckless frustration flickering behind his eyes. "Oh, I don't know," he said, crossing his arms. "How about that sorry excuse for a father who kicks your ribs in while you cry about your dead mum?"

Everyone stopped breathing.

Barty had gone too far.

A tremor of energy crackled in the air, a mixture of fear and anger and utter rawness that none of them wanted to name. "You seem to already know the whole story," said Evan, hollowly. "Do you want to know what it feels like? Or would rather try it out on some muggle? See how it feels to have someone break beneath you? Is that what you want, Barty?"

"No."

"Then shut the fuck up and be grateful your father only ignores you," Evan hissed.

Regulus felt the bile of horror and exhaustion coil in his stomach. He forced himself to stand straighter, ignoring the wobble in his legs, ignoring the thunder of his pulse threatening to split his head in two. He cleared his throat, voice raw with adrenaline. "Stop it," he said at last, voice rasping. "Both of you."

His words hung in the cold air. For several long seconds, none of them spoke. Their breathing sounded harsh, even over the quiet rustle of the night. Slowly, they each pulled in their anger, letting the moment recede. He shut his eyes for half a breath, forcing composure.

They could destroy each other in seconds, or they could fight. There really was no choice at all.

Barty's shoulders slumped fractionally, the fury bleeding away into regret. Evan looked off to one side, jaw clenched, as if he couldn't bear to meet either of their gazes. And Regulus, pressing trembling fingers to the throbbing Mark beneath his sleeve, steeled himself.

Because this—whatever this was—was only the beginning. And they all knew it.

It was Barty who finally broke the quiet. "What do we do now?"

Regulus opened his mouth, but the words clogged in his throat. He had no real plan—he'd been operating on desperate instinct for weeks, months even, trying to balance on a knife's edge between duty and doubt. He swallowed, mind racing.

"We go back to Hogwarts," Evan said firmly. "We pretend none of this happened."

Barty let out a low, humorless chuckle. "Brilliant plan. I'm sure Bellatrix will let it slide."

"She will," Regulus said, his voice quieter now, raw at the edges. He swallowed tightly, feeling the weight of it settle in his chest. "If she were mad, she wouldn't have let us go. She only came to scare me—to remind me who I belong to." He hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the distant horizon. "She's loves the Dark Lord more than anything."More than me.

"Sirius… was always her favorite," Regulus admitted, voice barely more than a breath. "Not that she'd ever say it aloud. He was reckless, bold—everything she was. And now she's turned all that admiration into hate." He let out a bitter laugh, one that barely made a sound. "But she won't tell the Dark Lord. Not as long as I do what he asks. When he asks."

There was a silence then—sharp, calculating.

"And will you?"

Barty's voice was different this time. Not mocking, not impatient—just anxious.

He could feel both of them watching him, waiting for an answer. His fingers curled slightly where they rested at his sides, nails pressing into the palm of his hand. He could still feel Bellatrix's gaze boring into him from earlier, the unspoken promise of what would happen if he failed to play his part. Yes, he thought. Yes, I'll do it—but not blindly. Not in the way he intends me to.

Regulus lifted his gaze, meeting Barty's eyes. "Of course."

Evan shifted, tension rolling off him in waves. His teeth gnashed together audibly; frustration visible. "Show it to him," he ground out."Show him the Dark Mark, Reg. Since he wants it so bad."

They had all danced around the weight of it for so long, but now Evan was forcing it out into the open. Forcing Regulus to confront the thing seared into his skin, the thing he had tried—desperately—to forget wasn't just a brand but a chain.

He searched Evan's face and then unbuttoned the left sleeve of his shirt and drew the fabric up. Barty gasped sharply, watching as the stark ink moved across his flesh. His memory of it was riddled with pain and the burn had yet to subside. He felt as if something was crawling beneath his skin, watching and waiting for him to make a fatal error so it could sink its teeth in him and kill him.

"Happy now?" Regulus muttered, letting his sleeve fall back into place.

Barty didn't smile. Instead, he reached out, his fingers ghosting just above Regulus' arm, not quite touching. "What was it like?" asked Barty, whispering hoarsely.

"Painful." Terrifying. He had been afraid of breathing. Afraid of moving. Afraid that the wrong word would end his entire family. He hated the Dark Lord and envied him in the same breath. He wanted to be him. He wanted to be as far from him as humanely possible.

"What does he want from you?"

"Nothing yet," murmured Regulus. "He knew that I was in school. All he asked was that I keep an eye on Dumbledore and let him know if there's anyone with talents befitting his cause."

"Like us?"

"Yes," said Regulus, reluctantly.

Barty nodded and the sharp look in his eye turned distant. His mother, Regulus knew, would be a concern. His father even more so. Smart as he was, Barty was impulsive. Twelve O.W.L.s could have landed him a job anywhere but, he'd give it all up for a chance to spite his father. Regulus might have advised against it were he a better friend. But he was neither a good person nor a good friend. Neither was required of him.

And yet, his heart clawed to tell them the truth.

The Dark Lord is not a man. He is something else. Something fearsome. Something cruel and evil.

Evan's gripped the back of Barty's neck tightly, looking almost as if he would snap it if he dared to move. "Is this what you want? To turn your back on everything you have…your mother included…so you can play slave?"

"I…I'd be with you guys. I wouldn't…do anything," said Barty. Frantically, almost. Scared. He was scared of Evan. In all honesty, they all were. "Not like Mulciber would. Or Avery. He'd only need me when it's done, when we need to deal with people like my father and get them to—"

"To what? Fall in line? Are you stupid? Do you think he'd let anyone who disobeyed him live?"

Barty breathed in quick, ragged gasps. He loved the fight, thrived in it—but he knew nothing of pain, not the way Evan did. They had all seen the bruises Evan carried when he returned to school after the summer. No matter how many healing spells Regulus cast, some wounds took months to fade. And Evan never bothered with illusions, never lied about who had left them there.

Evan's grip loosened, voice softening, to soothe Barty's fear, "Barty, I never had the choice. You do. Don't make the wrong one."

And when Evan looked at him, Regulus could see all his fear laid bare and it felt so much larger and deeper than his own. Regulus would always have the shield his name provided. He would never be given missions of import, would never be asked to hunt because the Dark Lord knew how weak he was from the start, saw him as a fool who parroted back nothing but praise—his glory was the same as his grandfather's. Empty. An Order of Merlin, not granted on any merit, but bought for the sake of placing it on a mantle. Just as Regulus had spent what little power he had to brand himself as the Dark Lord's follower.

But Evan had no such protection.

And Barty? If he wasn't careful, he wouldn't have anything in the end.

They returned to Hogwarts in a worse mood than they'd left. The silence between them was thick, leaden, filled with unspoken thoughts none of them were ready to voice. They had never known much about being real friends. That much was becoming clearer to Regulus with each passing day. They were bound together by circumstance, by bloodlines and House ties, but he wanted some more for all of them.

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth as he lay in bed that night. He felt restless, his mind unable to settle, his body too tense to surrender to sleep.

No matter how much they tried to pretend otherwise, to dance around the truth, to delay their choices, the war would come for them all. And when it did, they would be soldiers. Pawns. Expendable.

Of course, the obvious solution was to speak to the man that the Dark Lord feared more than anyone: Albus Dumbledore.

But seeking him out meant relinquishing every last shred of pride, and Regulus could not—would not. Even if it meant death, he would rather face it knowing the Dark Lord understood one undeniable truth: that he had done this himself. That he had betrayed him, defied him, worked against him—because of his own will, his own strength.

And if he was to fight for a future, it would not be one spent caged within the suffocating righteousness of Albus Dumbledore's Hogwarts. No, it would be a future of his own making.

His bad mood carried over into the next day, settling over him like a thick, suffocating fog. Everything grated on his nerves—the way Barty fidgeted endlessly, the ceaseless, high-pitched chatter of the younger students clogging the corridors, even the fact that Ellis had chosen that morning,of all mornings, to sit with her brother at the Gryffindor table, laughing at some inane story Remus Lupin seemed to be telling her.

He was sure it was funny. Hilarious, even.

Regulus couldn't wait to tell her that she'd succeeded in her mission of finding a dog.

He stabbed at his breakfast with unnecessary force, though he had no real intention of eating it. The morning was already a disaster, but the universe seemed determined to make it worse.

Barty received a Howler from his mother at breakfast. The entire Great Hall went silent as her shrill voice exploded from the envelope, berating him about the Ministry's letter regarding underage magic. Regulus barely resisted the urge to put his head in his hands as Barty sat there, smirking through the verbal assault like it was a badge of honor.

Evan simply buttered his toast, not even looking up as the Howler dissolved into a puff of smoke. He had turned seventeen back on September 3rd—just old enough to evade the same kind of parental fury Barty was now suffering through.

And then, just as the morning's tension had begun to dull into something tolerable, it was made infinitely worse.

His disowned, vagabond brother cornered him in an empty classroom between classes, dragging him inside with a grip too firm to ignore. "Why the hell is Moony spending so much time with your girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend?" asked Regulus, distastefully. What a stupid word to describe what Ellis was to him. He shook Sirius' hand away. "I don't recall having one."

"Selwyn. Why is he always with—"

"Perhaps, he's in heat. Doesn't that happen with his…type?" Regulus shifted, eyeing Sirius darkly. "Do tell him to keep his teeth and claws to himself, though."

"He's not going to bite her, you wanker," said Sirius, narrowing his eyes. "He's been going around with her a lot and…"

"And you…in all your insecurity…are afraid that he likes her." Regulus smiled, growing amused. "Things haven't smoothed out for you since you betrayed his trust and nearly got someone killed? I can't imagine why you wouldn't be forgiven for so blatantly—"

"Godric's sake," hissed Sirius, "Forget I asked."

Realizing, with no small amount of exasperation, that he was in fact the saner half of the Black brothers, Regulus offered Sirius an olive branch."Selwyn is a fan of his father."

"His father?"

"The world-renowned authority on Non-Human Spirituous Apparitions," murmured Regulus, repeating the praised he'd heard from Ellis. "Of course, were she made aware of his…affliction…I doubt their friendship would last long. Why don't you give it a shot and tell her, Sirius? Since you're so concerned? Or perhaps, you're worried that if you paid attention, you'd see there was nothing but your own blatant mistrust hanging about? I can't imagine how anyone is friends with—"

"What would you know about friends, Reg? You've never had any."

Regulus smiled, "That was pathetic, even by your standards."

Sirius scoffed, tilting his head as he studied his younger brother, all mockery and disbelief. "I'm pathetic? Does our dear old hag know what you're doing now?" He smirked, eyes glinting sharply, needling, eager to dig under Regulus' skin. "Aren't you afraid you'll smear the family name? Ruin that precious little reputation you've been so desperate to uphold? Do you think the Dark Lord—"

"Tell me, do you ever regret leaving?" Regulus' lips curled, but it was far from a smile. "You've never sounded more like mother than you do now." Sirius bristled, but Regulus stepped forward, closing the distance between them, voice turning lower, lethal. "Your filthy little half-breed and those mudbloods won't last long in this war. Maybe you should stop worrying about me and mine—and start worrying about them."

"Do you talk like that around Selwyn?" Sirius cut in, his voice laced with dark amusement from the satisfaction of ripping open a wound. "Because I don't think you do. You're a good little boy for her, aren't you, Reg? But you'll go right back to screwing every girl who looks like her, because you know she'd never settle for second best."

Something snapped.

Regulus shoved Sirius—hard. The force sent Sirius stumbling back a step, but he recovered quickly, straightening with an eager grin. They'd never fought like this before, not physically, not even verbally, if he were being honest. Regulus kept his mouth shut, his head down, his anger in a black pit.

"Oh, there it is," he said, eyes flashing. "Did I hit a nerve, little brother?"

Regulus lunged.

They collided with all the force of a storm, Sirius barely managing to catch his footing before Regulus' fist struck his jaw. The crack of impact was sharp, pain bursting through Sirius' face as he reeled back, but he was laughing, breathless and wild. He barely had a second to react before Regulus was on him again, fury radiating off him in waves.

Sirius met him blow for blow, hands locking onto his robes, twisting the fabric as he yanked him close. They slammed into a nearby table, sending books and parchment scattering to the floor. Regulus twisted, trying to shove Sirius off, but Sirius hooked an arm around his neck, forcing him back against the wall.

"You want to hit me, Reg?" Sirius hissed, breath ragged, "Go on. Do it."

Regulus twisted violently out of Sirius' grip, his shoulder slamming into his brother's ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. Sirius stumbled, but before he could regain balance, Regulus grabbed him by the collar and drove him back, their backs colliding with the heavy bookshelf behind them.

"You don't know a thing about me," Regulus seethed, his face inches from Sirius', his usual demeanor completely shattered.

"I know enough," Sirius panted, a laugh curling at his lips despite the blood he could taste. "You can lie to yourself all you want, but you're terrified, Reg." His eyes burned into Regulus'. "Terrified of what'll happen when they find out you're not the perfect little heir they think you are."

A raw darkness flashed in Regulus' eyes. For a moment, he felt as if he might say something, something damning, final—but instead, his grip slackened, his breathing still sharp, still unsteady. Between Bellatrix and Sirius, he'd let the mask slip.

Fear.

Sirius had seen it.

Regulus knew the exact moment his brother recognized it too. The satisfaction in Sirius' gaze flickered, a crack in his usual bravado, and his smirk wavered, falling from his face. Sirius had always been the reckless one, the one who laughed through the blood in his mouth. But now, his expression shifted, dread creeping into the edges of his face. He swallowed, gaze flickering over Regulus as if what he saw was what he expected. As if he wasn't sure what to do with Regulus.

He could feel the weight of Sirius' words, like fingers closing around his throat.

Regulus clenched his jaw, willing the shaking in his hands to stop, willing the anger to return.

There was a long silence between them, thick and suffocating, until Sirius exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. His other hand touched his jaw briefly, pressing against the spot where Regulus' punch had landed. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, rawer.

"I didn't mean to make you angry," Sirius muttered, the words sounding strange coming from him. "No, actually, I did…just not like that." He huffed a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Not that I know how to do anything else but fight with you."

Regulus blinked. He hadn't expected that.

Sirius sighed, expression shifting from war to hesitance. "Look, I—" He hesitated, as if searching for the right words, before shaking his head. "I shouldn't have said that." His voice lowered, frustrated, but not cruel. Not this time. "I wanted to talk to you, that's all. But I'm a bloody prat, and you always know exactly where to land a hit, so I—" He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "So, I hit back harder. I'm good at that."

Regulus' stomach twisted.

The life Regulus had built, the careful balance he'd spent years maintaining—one wrong move, one miscalculation, and it could all crumble. It was easy being good. Obedient. Because, he loved his parents. Why would I do something that hurt them? I'm the better son. I've always been the better son. How could you never have loved them? Never loved me?

Regulus shook his head, chest aching as he swallowed down the stone lodged in his throat. He wanted nothing to do with Sirius. "It doesn't matter."

"It does," insisted Sirius.

"No," said Regulus, firmly. "No, it doesn't. You made your choices. I made mine. It's too late to regret any of them, so learn to live with it and stop playing the victim, Sirius. You act as if you didn't know what would happen when you ran away."

"What did happen?"

Regulus looked away. "I set the family back on the right path."

And because he wanted to hurt Sirius, Regulus gave him the truth. "Do you want to see how?" His fingers reached for his left arm, undoing the buttons at the cuff of his shirt with ease. He rolled his sleeve up neatly, revealing the stark, black ink that twisted and coiled against his pale skin.

"Reg, tell me you didn't," breathed out Sirius, shaking his head. He stepped back. Back again. Run away, thought Regulus. Go on and run. It's all you're good for.

The Dark Mark answered for him.

Sirius looked to it again.

Sirius swallowed, his voice breaking. "You're only seventeen. You—" He cut himself off, dragging a hand over his face before shoving it into his hair, gripping the strands at his scalp like he needed the pain to ground himself.

"Sixteen. I was sixteen."

"Why? Why would you—"

"Because I wanted it," Regulus said, flatly. Truthfully. He had wanted it at the time. A place to belong, somewhere to escape to that was wholly his own. "Do you think I'd prefer to be a bloodtraitor like you? To spit on our family and everything they've ever given me? To live off the scraps of some kind-hearted charity case, pretending that everything I knew—everything I was—didn't matter? You turned your back on us, Sirius. That was your choice. This was mine."

Sirius let out a hollow laugh. "And you think it's that simple?" His voice turned sharp, cutting. "That Voldemort won't bleed you dry like the rest of them? You're not special, Reg. You think you're clever, but you're just another branded dog waiting for orders."

"Yes," Regulus cocked his head, an easy smile rising. "I know."

"And you don't care?"

"I don't owe you an explanation. I'm telling you this so you can stop brooding over the past and move on. You live your life, and I'll live mine."

"And when you're dead because you chose to follow some pureblood maniac straight to your grave?"

Regulus grinned, knowing he'd have the last word, "Don't mourn me."