Poison and Wine

October, 1979

Regulus knew he was going to die.

The moment he stepped foot in that cave, he had accepted his death. However, if his death meant that Voldemort could be stopped, he figured it was a worthy death. The poison was painful, but the physical discomfort wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the visions. Ghosts of his family and friends cursed and shouted at him. On his knees, Regulus begged the visions to leave. He cried out in the empty, dark cave for the nightmares to be over.

“You need to take this,” Regulus said to Kreature. “Please, take it and get out of here…it’s…an order.”

The house elf clearly despised this order. Regulus despised giving it. However, after a loud ‘pop’ he knew the elf was gone. Another sob shook his body as he attempted to stand.

There was very little strength left in Regulus’ body. Yet, somehow, he was able to place the fake locket back into the spot the real locket had been. Then he refilled the bowl with poison–the very same poison he had just consumed.

He collapsed back onto his knees as the poison churned his gut. An image of his mother stood before him. Her cruel features twisted into a more extreme expression than was possible.

“You pathetic child,” she shrieked. “I’ll kill you for what you’ve done. You’ve brought shame to this house–to our name.”

Regulus tried to block out her cries by covering his ears, but his attempts were useless. When her cries eventually faded, they were replaced with insatiable thirst. All at once, it felt as though he had not drank water in decades. On his hands and knees, Regulus crawled to the edge of the lake, dipping his hands into the cold water.

The realization of death hit him once again, he would die here.

Between the poison he had just consumed, and the murky lake filled in Inferi, he was going to die. It wasn’t until a hand gripped his wrist that he realized just how much he wanted to live. Regulus Black wanted to live. It was a surprising thought, one that he had never had before.

For several years now, he had viewed death as a pleasant end–a welcome change from his pain-filled life. However, now as death gripped his arms pulling him into the water, he had a change of heart. 

He wanted to live.

He wanted to see his brother and tell him how sorry he was. He wanted to see his friends and try to dissuade them from joining Voldemort. He wanted to fight back against the confines he had been raised in and come out better than his parents had been. However, at seventeen, Regulus realized he was about to die.

The Inferi pulled his ankles so hard that it was impossible for him to resist. The water of the lake was ice cold. It stole his breath as he was pulled under. The pain from the poison still lingered, making his body sore and weak against the Inferi. However, the visions were gone. His head was clear.

Regulus tried to swim to the surface, fighting the undead creatures with the last of his strength. More hands gripped him. They were skeletal but surprisingly strong. Regulus knew deep-down that there was no surviving. His lungs were beginning to burn from holding in the air. At last, his body gave up and attempted to gasp for air. Instead, he was met with a mouthful of cold, foul-tasting water. The hands gripped him tighter.

Regulus felt his limbs grow heavy. Slowly, death was consuming him. His vision faded and all he could think was, this can’t be how it ends.

As it turned out, that wasn’t how it ended. Time meant nothing to Regulus while he found himself somewhere between life and death. Lost in a cosmic sort of purgatory, he reflected on his short life. 

Mostly, he considered just how much he had missed out on. At seventeen, he had never dated–he had never been in love. He had few friends, and his family was filled with terrible people. His brother hated him and as far as he knew so did the world. He had died a Death-Eater.

When Regulus gained consciousness for the first time since he ‘died’, he was awoken by the smell of sausage. He had never been a big fan of sausage (he had never been a big fan of most foods). However, the smell made him turn over in his bed.

I can’t be dead, he thought, half-asleep. The afterlife can’t possibly smell like cheap, overcooked pork.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. The only light in the room came from a small window that was covered by an ugly paisley certain. It was open slightly, warm sunlight pooled into the room. Regulus blinked and glanced around the strange, unfamiliar space.

This isn’t Grimmauld Place, he thought to himself.

Regulus pulled himself up into a sitting position on the bed. He winced as he felt a strange pain shoot through his body. 

The bedroom was small but well-kempt. It had an old oak wardrobe in the corner and a bookshelf beside a desk. The bed he was sitting on was the smallest bed he had ever seen–smaller even than Hogwarts’ beds. However, there was a warmth in the room that he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

After a moment of sitting on the bed, weighing his options, Regulus heard a knock at the door. Despite himself, he flinched at the sudden noise. The doorknob wiggled slightly in place before the door opened. An older man walked in slowly. His dark eyes settled on Regulus, and he gave a small smile.

“I was worried you’d be asleep for a few more days,” he said. His voice was soft.

“Who are you? Where am I?” Regulus did not care about the stranger’s apparent kindness. He didn’t like the sensation of waking up someplace unfamiliar.

“My name is Abraham Tane, but please call me Abe,” he said as he walked further into the room. “And you’re at the beautiful place I get to call home.”

“And where is that?”

“The countryside outside of Salisbury,” Abe explained.

Salisbury? He had woken up from near-death only to find himself in Salisbury? Regulus stared at Abe for a long moment. The last name Tane meant nothing to him. This man was clearly English but not part of any of the Pureblood families Regulus knew of.

“It’s understandable if you’re still confused,” Abe pressed on. “We haven’t officially met yet. But I know what you did. I know how you tried to stop him.”

At those words a chill ran down his spine. “What?” His voice felt rough.

“Voldemort,” the man said clearly. “I know you were attempting to weaken him when you nearly died. You’re a brave man for that.”

“What am I doing here?” Regulus shook off the temporary paralysis he had been stuck in. He pulled himself out of the bed and glared at Abe. “How did I survive?”

Abe nodded in a calm manner. His mellow attitude about the situation was beginning to get under Regulus’ skin. 

“If you’re feeling up to it, I think I’d like to bring you to speak with my daughter. She’s the one who can answer your questions the best.”

“Fine, where is she?”

“Are you feeling well enough to-”

“Bring me to whoever can tell me what is going on,” he interrupted.

Abe didn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed by the outburst. He simply nodded and began to walk out of the room. Regulus followed, ignoring the dizzying sensation he felt. His body was stiff, and his muscles felt like they hadn’t been used in decades. Luckily, Abe was not a fast-moving individual.

Outside of the room Regulus had woken in, was a long hallway decorated with pictures and paintings. It occurred to Regulus suddenly that not a single painting was moving. The pictures, too, were frozen. A shiver ran down his spine. The house he now found himself in was of muggle origin. What the hell did a muggle want with him? How had they found him?

Regulus followed Abe as the old man took a right down a separate hallway. At the end of that hallway was a door that led out onto the pack porch of the house. It was a sunny day, but the bitter chill of autumn sent a chill to Regulus’ core. He wished he was wearing more than loose-fitting muggle clothes. 

The backyard was extensive. When Abe had said the countryside, he really meant it. Farm fields and hills of lush grass rolled out in every direction away from the house. A collection of barns and other small structures stood in the fields, weatherworn and slightly dilapidated. 

Around the house were dozens of large garden beds planted with all kinds of wild plants. Herbs, flowers, vegetables, and fruits decorated the lawn. Had circumstances been different, Regulus might have taken note of all the plants growing around them. He might have noticed that most (if not all) were poisonous.

A solitary woman tended to the vast gardens. She wore a long, loose-fitting linen dress the color of birchbark. Her skin was tan, kissed by the blinding sunshine of the garden. She was likely ten years his senior and certainly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. As Regulus stepped out onto the back porch, she rose from her squatted position. Her vivid green eyes met his.

“I’ll leave you here, Regulus,” Abe said. “Imogen prefers one-on-one conversations. And I’m sure you’ll have a lot to ask her.”

Regulus nodded and listened to the shuffling sound of Abe retreating back into the farmhouse behind them. Slowly, Imogen made her way through the gardens towards him. Her intense eyes never left him. She held herself in a surprisingly regal way for a woman with dirt-stained hands.

“Mr. Black,” Imogen smiled as she approached. It was the warmest smile he had seen in weeks–years maybe. It fit her warm, sun-kissed aura and her shining eyes.

“Why am I here?” He saw little point in feigning interest in small talk.

“Sit down,” she said as she gestured to a small swinging bench on the porch.

Regulus didn’t want to give her the pleasure of having him obey, however, his legs felt weaker than they ever had. He was surprised he hadn’t stumbled on his walk through the farmhouse. Slowly, he took a seat on the bench, careful to sit as far from her as possible.

“I’m glad to see you awake,” she said. “You were unconscious for nearly three days. I was worried you might not wake.”

“Why am I-”

“Patience, love.” Imogen’s eyes drifted over him, taking him in. “You nearly died. Between the poison you consumed and nearly drowning, I can only guess how you must feel. It was mostly just luck that I arrived as quickly as I did.”

“You saved me?”

She nodded. “I did.”

“Why?”

“I believe the two of us might be of great use to one another.”

Regulus regarded the woman skeptically. She was a muggle, but if what she was saying was true then she was well-educated on the world of magic. Saving him from the Inferi could not have been easy. 

“Great use to each other.” He repeated her words. “And what kind of use do you expect from me?”

A sad smile crossed her lips and her eyes met his. Although she was a muggle, Regulus couldn’t ignore her impossible beauty. He hadn’t realized muggles could be so beautiful.

“I wish I could tell you that I saved you because of some goodhearted kindness,” she said quietly. 

“I have no use for wishes,” he said coldly.

Imogen took a deep breath and looked out at her garden. “A war is going to happen. We both know it. And I want your help to use this tumultuous time to our advantage.”

“I’m not sure I can help you. I ruined any alliances I had with the Death Eaters. And the Order will have nothing to do with me.”

“Love, this is far bigger than your Death Eaters or Dumbledore’s soldiers.”

At this, Regulus wasn’t sure what to say. For years, all he had heard about was Voldemort and his rise to power. What else was there?
“You found out what he was going to do, didn’t you?” Her voice was softer.

He looked out at the garden of flowers and fresh herbs. “Yeah, I…I didn’t realize just how far he’d go.”

“You were a child,” Imogen said. “Besides, it’s hard to see the darkness when you are raised in a cave.”

He bristled at the implication, but he didn’t argue.

“Why didn’t you go to Dumbledore? Why did you try to take on a Horcrux by yourself?”

He felt heat rise to his face. “I don’t trust that old man,” he said. 

“But the Order are supposed to be saving everyone, aren’t they?”

Regulus scoffed. “That’s what most of them seem to think. But the way I see it; they all want power. Sure, Dumbledore might not hurt people the way Voldemort will, but he is still a puppet master. He still plays his alliances like a game of chess.”

Imogen made a sound of agreement between closed lips. “So, you worried if you went to him, he might use you?”

“He uses everyone.”

“So, you had to do it alone.”

“It was foolish.” Regulus felt more heat rise across his cheeks.

“Foolish, but brave.” Imogen reached out and grabbed Regulus’ wrist. He wanted to swat her hand away, but something inside him froze. Her hand clutched him tightly as she leaned closer.

“I still don’t understand what you want,” Regulus admitted.

“I want to destroy the darkness,” she stated.

Regulus looked up from her hand on his arm and met those intense green eyes. For a moment, he felt trapped under her gaze. 

“There is a darkness that is greater than Voldemort, greater than any evil you have ever known. My goal, and the goal of family, is to find the roots of this darkness and dig it up like a weed.”

Regulus thought of everyone he had left behind. He thought of Sirius and his idiot friends. He thought about his fellow Slytherins and even his cousins. They were all wrapped up in darkness whether they wanted it or not.

“You think it’s bigger than the Dark Lord.”

“The Dark Lord is just the latest in a long line of evil rulers. If we want to end the suffering of others, we need to dig up the roots.”

December, 1998

Regulus was already half-asleep when Imogen walked into their bedroom. He barely roused when she crawled into bed and placed a hand on his shoulder. He let out a long breath as her nails drifted gently across his arm, up his neck, and through his hair. A chill shivered across his spine at her touch. 

“The time to strike is approaching,” Imogen said. 

Regulus let out a quiet hum. Sleep was beckoning him.

“But I think we may have an unforeseen problem,” she continued. “Do you know anything about Empathy?”

At this, he scoffed and slowly opened his eyes. Imogen laid on the bed in front of him. Her head on his pillow, her dark red hair spilled out around her like wine.

“Are you finally considering being more caring? I’d suggest starting with using less torture, darling,” he responded.

She rolled her eyes. “Magical Empathy,” she elaborated. “Or something called the Soft Arts?”

Regulus thought about her words for a moment. It had been a long time since he heard anything about such matters. “I know a bit. There’re stories about magical healers who have had skills in the Soft Arts–it’s all pretty childish.”

“What if it was real?”

He shrugged. “It could be, I suppose. But ultimately, I think all that stuff is…where is this coming from?” Regulus pulled himself off the pillow and looked down at Imogen. Despite his exhaustion he suddenly realized what an odd question she was asking.

“According to our intel, an ancient book was opened. One that hasn’t been opened in a long time.”

“What intel?”

Imogen looked annoyed by the question. “Arabella,” she answered.

“You still trust her?” 

Regulus had never particularly cared for the Squib woman. She was weak-willed and far too interested in gossip. However, Imogen found her useful considering she was a part of the Order of the Phoenix. 

“I do,” she said. “She’s been doing research with other Order members, keeping track of any Dark Art books that have been opened. Apparently, a spell was developed to see what books have been opened and when.”

“Impressive.”

“Yes, well, Arabella noticed a book called The Empath was opened in September of this year. She seems to think that this was important enough information to relay to me.”

Regulus let himself collapse back onto the bed. He considered what this meant. No Huntsman (official or otherwise) would dare to give Imogen unreliable or unimportant information. Arabella must have had her reasons for sharing.

“Have you heard of that book?”

“No.”

“But you’ve heard of Magical Empathy?”

“Yeah, I suppose. In muggle terms, it's spoken about in the way people talk about saints. Magical Empaths do great things like seeing someone’s future or noticing when someone is lying based on their aura.”

“But that’s just Divination, isn’t it.”

He sighed. “Yeah, usually. That’s why people don’t really believe in Magical Empaths…it’s kinda just a story at this point.”

“Arabella was concerned.”

“I’m sure she was,” Regulus looked up at the ceiling. He could predict where this conversation was headed.

“I want you to do some research.”

He looked over at the woman beside him. It was hard to say no to Imogen. He couldn’t help but let his eyes linger on her clear, pale skin, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest. 

Even if he hadn’t been bound to her by vow, he likely would have still done anything she asked of him. She was good at wrapping people around her finger. Regulus had no delusions about being above that. As he laid beside her, he wondered if there was any real love in their relationship. Lust, yes. Infatuation, very much. But love? 

“What kind of research?” he asked. He didn’t want to think about love.

“I need you to figure out why that book was opened. If there is a Magical Empath out there, I need to know.”

“Imogen, this is probably nothing-”

“Voldemort is dead for good. The Wizarding World believes that all is well–now is the perfect time to strike. But I can’t start weeding until I know there’s no bigger problems.”

Regulus tore his eyes away from her. He gave a slow nod in agreement despite having no real choice in the matter.

“In the morning, we will discuss what is expected of you,” Imogen said.

Regulus nodded. Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure he would sleep well after all.

It was late morning when Regulus awoke. His head hurt slightly from a night drinking after Imogen left him in her quarters. However, it was a pain he had grown accustomed to. Slowly, he pulled himself out of bed and made his way across the room and into the large ensuite bathroom.

He turned on the shower and disrobed what little clothing he was wearing, letting the water get as hot as it could. As steam began to fill the room, he looked at the man in the mirror. He hadn’t taken after his father in the slightest. There wasn’t an ounce of Orion in his features. Everything from his dark hair to his narrow eyes had been given to him by Walburga. There was no solace to be found in that realization.

His hair was longer than it had been in a long time–an appeasement to Imogen who preferred it that way. A streak of gray ran from above his left eyebrow back into his hair. He couldn’t remember how it happened, but he was sure it was from an old injury. Age was beginning to make itself known at the corners of his eyes and the worry mark between his brows. Regulus couldn’t help but wonder how long the Huntsman would keep him around. Imogen preferred her soldiers (and bedmates) young. He wasn’t sure if he could be considered young anymore.

Hot water coursed over his skin in rivers. Regulus breathed in deeply. Scented steam filled his lungs, calming his mind. He ran his fingers through his hair and wondered just what Imogen would have him do next. She clearly wanted information on the supposed ‘Empath’. However, he had no idea how she planned to find it.

Regulus met with Imogen on the balcony overlooking the courtyard in the back of Huntsman Compound. He took a seat across from her at the small table. Cinnamon-scented tea sat in a kettle between them along with an assortment of cheese, fresh fruits, and sliced bread. 

Imogen stared off at the distant hills. Her dark hair fell down her back in soft waves, glistening red in the light of dawn. She wore a white-silk dress that clung to her body like wet silk. A necklace made of rubies sat around her neck, reminding Regulus of droplets of blood.

He turned his attention away from the woman across from him and out towards the landscape. Rolling stretches of green hills faded into a dark forest in the distance. Closer to the building was Imogen’s infamous gardens, alive and well despite the chilly breeze. Like Imogen herself, the plants seemed immune to the cold.

“It's been a while since you were a part of the Wizarding World,” she noted.

Regulus poured himself a cup of tea. “Yes, nineteen years.”

“Do you miss it?”

“No,” he sipped the tea. It was hot and spiced heavily with cardamom and cinnamon. “It was a divided and dangerous place.” 

He thought of Voldemort’s reign and his mother’s wrath. He had been only seventeen and yet so willing to die to save the world from evil. Now, there wasn’t a thing in the world he was willing to die for. For all her cruelties, Imogen had taught him well. You do not owe the world your sacrifice, she had said once to him.

“If I asked you to return, how would you feel?”

“I would do it,” he said simply. “I am vowed to-”

“No, Regulus, how would you feel?” Her eyes met his.

Regulus preferred to talk about almost anything other than his feelings. “I suppose I would be…concerned.”

“About what?”

“They think I’m dead and a Death Eater at that.”

“So, you think they’d try to imprison you?”

“Or something similar, yes.”

“How would you stop that from happening?”

Regulus thought for a long moment. “I suppose I could stay in hiding.”

“Do better.” Her words were sharp.

“I could…” he struggled to find an answer. “Appeal to their softer sides.”

Imogen’s lips lifted into a grin. “Better. How would you do that?”

“I would research important figures and target them.”

“How?”

He felt like he was training to be a Huntsman all over again. Regulus sighed. “After selecting a target–one of importance–I would appeal to their softer nature and ask for help. Perhaps I could pretend to have been trapped in the muggle world, stuck in a coma, or cursed to forget.”

Imogen nodded. He could see the unsaid compliments on her lips. “Can I trust you to go on this mission?”

“You’ve barely told me what it is,” he retorted.

She reached across the table and laid a hand atop his arm. Her long fingers wrapped around his wrist, nails biting through his clothing. “Find the Empath, destroy it.”

“How?”

“You’re one of my top soldiers, Regulus. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

He said nothing. Frankly, he had no interest going back to the Wizarding World.

“Or,” she lingered on the word. “I could send Halcor. I know he’s been a bit-”

“I’ll go,” he said quickly.