THE PERFECT SON
The grand halls of Grimmauld Place loomed darker than usual. The curtains had been drawn tight to prevent even the faintest sliver of moonlight from creeping into the Black family home. Regulus Arcturus Black sat stiffly in the drawing room, back straight, shoulders squared. The tapestry of his lineage loomed behind him, a constant reminder of his place in the world. The perfect son, the obedient heir.
He clenched his fists in his lap as he listened to his mother’s shrill voice from the dining room. Walburga Black was issuing orders to Kreacher, ensuring everything was "properly prepared" for the evening's meeting. Regulus could hear the occasional crack of the house-elf Apparating from room to room.
“Kreacher,” he called softly when the elf passed through the drawing room with an armful of silver goblets.
The old elf stopped immediately, bowing so low his nose nearly touched the floor. “Yes, Master Regulus?”
“You’re overburdened. Set those down—I’ll carry them to the dining room.”
His tone was firm, brooking no argument, but his words carried kindness, as they always did with Kreacher.
Kreacher hesitated. “No, Master Regulus, this is Kreacher’s duty—”
“Then consider it an order,” Regulus said, his lips curving faintly. He took the goblets from the elf and nodded toward the dining room. “Go on. I’ll handle this.”
Kreacher hesitated, wringing his hands. “Master Regulus is too kind,” he murmured before Apparating away.
Once Kreacher disappeared with another crack, Regulus sighed. He glanced at his reflection in the ornate mirror above the fireplace. His face was pale, his dark hair neatly combed, his robes impeccable. On the surface, he was everything his parents expected of him: the dutiful heir to the Black family legacy. But beneath the polished veneer, his stomach churned.
Hours later, as dusk settled over Grimmauld Place, the house grew eerily silent, broken only by the hushed murmurs of arriving guests. The dining room, with its long mahogany table meticulously set to accommodate a large number of attendees, exuded an air of tense anticipation.
Regulus didn’t need to ask what the meeting was about. His father’s commanding voice from the last of those meetings still echoed in his mind: “My son, Regulus, has a particular aptitude for potions. I believe he could be of great use to the Dark Lord in this endeavor.”
Orion’s pride had sealed his fate. Now, he sat at the table, surrounded by faces he had grown up hearing whispered about. Two stood out as particularly surprising: Augustus Rookwood, the Ministry’s mole, whose cold eyes glinted in the candlelight; and Ludo Bagman, seated awkwardly, his shifting gaze betraying unease and raising more questions than answers.
And, at the head of the table, Lord Voldemort himself.
His crimson gaze burned through each of them in turn until it landed on Regulus.
“Young Black,” Voldemort said, his voice serpentine and smooth. “Have you given thought to the task before you?”
Regulus nodded, his expression perfectly schooled. “Yes, my Lord.”
In truth, Regulus’ thoughts had been consumed by the task for weeks—but not in the way Voldemort might think. While his dormmates at Hogwarts celebrated their initiation into the Death Eaters, Regulus worked in silence, his mind spinning. He couldn’t afford mistakes. His own life was at risk.
Throughout the meeting, Regulus kept his gaze steady, his hands resting on the table. When he wasn’t taking mental notes about the names and connections mentioned—important Ministry officials who had pledged loyalty, plans to secure more magical artifacts—he was silently cataloging weaknesses.
Rookwood’s arrogance. Bagman’s nerves. Voldemort’s own overconfidence in the loyalty of his followers.
But his hands were clammy beneath the table. He hated these meetings. Hated the way his father looked at him, so proud of his obedience. Hated the way the other Death Eaters dismissed him as just another pureblood boy eager to serve.
“You are all here tonight,” Voldemort began, his tone calm but laced with menace, “because a new plan has taken shape. A plan that, when executed, will ensure my dominion over both time and destiny.”
The room was deathly silent.
“For this plan to succeed,” Voldemort continued, his crimson eyes gleaming, “I require a specific tool—a time-turner, but not one of this Ministry’s trivial baubles. No, this one is far more powerful, it can traverse decades. Centuries, even. Properly handled, it will not merely change time but bend it to my will.”
Augustus Rookwood leaned forward slightly, his expression one of practiced confidence. “My Lord,” he said smoothly, “if it’s a time-turner you require, I can use my position within the Department of Mysteries to acquire one. There are several secured in the Ministry’s stores—”
“No,” Voldemort interrupted, his voice like a hiss of steam escaping from a kettle. He turned his gaze to Rookwood, the faintest flicker of displeasure crossing his face. “You misunderstand me, Rookwood. I do not want a time-turner. I want the time-turner. The one of which I speak is unique. It was created decades ago by wizards who dared to hide their work from me. This device will do more than allow its wielder to meddle in petty affairs—it will grant power over the very fabric of time itself.”
The room seemed to grow colder as Voldemort’s words settled over the group. Regulus felt his heart quicken, though he kept his face neutral.
“Fortunately,” Voldemort continued, his lips curling into a thin, cruel smile, “my sources within Hogwarts inform me that this artifact now lies hidden within the castle. The fools believe it safe there, beyond my reach. They will soon learn how wrong they are.”
A faint ripple of unease passed through the Death Eaters, though none dared voice it.
Voldemort’s gaze scanned the room, lingering on each of them for a moment before finally settling on Regulus.
“Once the Easter break is over,” Voldemort said, his voice sharp and deliberate, “I expect my most loyal followers to retrieve it for me. Regulus,” he said, his eyes boring into the younger Black’s, “you are well-placed to ensure this task is completed. I trust you will not disappoint me.”
Regulus’s stomach tightened, but he inclined his head respectfully, keeping his voice steady. “Of course, my Lord. I will do whatever is required.”
Voldemort held his gaze for a moment longer before looking away, addressing the rest of the room. “When the artifact is in my possession, the next phase of my plan will begin. Until then, you will all ensure that no one interferes with our efforts.”
Regulus’s stomach tightened as Voldemort’s cold, red eyes lingered on him. Despite the knot of fear in his chest, he inclined his head with perfect composure, his voice steady. “Of course, my Lord. I will do whatever is required.”
Voldemort held his gaze for a moment longer, his thin lips curling slightly as though savoring the control he held over the young man. Then, as quickly as the attention had come, it was gone. The Dark Lord turned to address the rest of the room, his voice cold and commanding.
“When the artifact is in my possession,” Voldemort intoned, his voice carrying like a serpent’s hiss, “the next phase of my plan will begin. Until then, you will all ensure that no one interferes with our efforts.”
Regulus barely heard the rest. His thoughts whirled in a spiral of anxiety and dread. Hogwarts—his school, his prison—was about to become the center of a dangerous hunt. And Voldemort had made it clear that failure was not an option. Regulus’s hands tightened into fists, his knuckles pale.
The meeting continued, but Regulus’s mind was elsewhere, running over the implications of Voldemort’s command.
After the Dark Lord left with his entourage, the room seemed to exhale a collective breath of relief. Regulus stood quietly, his eyes fixed ahead, the weight of the task ahead pressing down on him. Orion, his father, clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Well done, son,” Orion said, his voice gruff with approval. “I told you the Dark Lord would see your potential.”
Regulus nodded stiffly, forcing the words out. “Yes, Father.”
But inside, the chill that had settled in his chest refused to thaw.
As he turned to leave, he paused in the doorway. There, in the dimly lit hallway, stood Kreacher, bowing deeply. Regulus’s heart clenched, and he softened his tone.
“You’re excused for the night,” he said quietly. “Get some rest, Kreacher.”
The old elf blinked up at him in surprise. “Master Regulus is too kind—”
“Go,” Regulus urged, his voice gentle but firm.
Kreacher hesitated for only a moment before disappearing with a crack, leaving Regulus alone in the silence of Grimmauld Place.
That night, Regulus lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. Voldemort’s words echoed in his mind, each one heavy with consequence. He had to do this. For now, he had to play his part. But as his mind churned, his resolve began to crack, and doubts gnawed at him. Could he follow through without losing himself in the process?
...
The rhythmic clatter of the Hogwarts Express was a familiar comfort, its steady beat lulling Regulus into a state of uneasy reflection. He stared out the window, watching the countryside blur past in shades of green and gray, a world he could never fully touch.
The train ride was always a strange, liminal space—a transition between the cold expectations of Grimmauld Place and the equally suffocating corridors of Hogwarts. It wasn’t freedom, not truly. But at least it wasn’t home.
Regulus didn’t look up as younger Slytherins filed past, chattering about exams and trivialities. The noise washed over him, empty and distant.
And then, a flicker of movement caught his eye.
Sirius.
His older brother strode past the compartment, messy black hair falling into his eyes, a Gryffindor tie already loose and askew. He was laughing at something—probably Potter or Lupin, Regulus guessed—but as Sirius’s gaze swept across the compartment, it stopped on Regulus. For a brief moment, the usual bravado faded from his face.
Their eyes met, and Regulus felt his breath hitch. In that fleeting moment, something softer than the usual disdain flickered across Sirius’s face—an unspoken connection, a silent offer of something more. And then, before Regulus could even contemplate the moment, it was gone. Sirius’s smile was small, hesitant, as though he were testing the waters.
Regulus’s heart clenched painfully. He gets to laugh. He gets to live freely, without the burden of our family’s expectations, while I’m trapped in this gilded cage.
He turned his gaze back to the window, his face as cold and still as stone. He didn’t smile back.
The compartment door slid shut with a soft thud, and Regulus was left alone with his reflection, the pulse of hurt lingering in his chest. He loved his brother. He always had. But that love was tangled in layers of resentment, bitterness, and anger.
“Why do you get to walk away?” Regulus murmured quietly to himself, the words barely audible above the hum of the train. “While I’m left here, holding everything together?”
...
The first week after Easter break felt impossibly long. The castle’s shadowed hallways stretched endlessly before him, each hour dragging on and on.
Regulus sat at his desk in the Slytherin dormitory, staring at a half-finished Arithmancy problem. The numbers blurred before his eyes, the symbols meaningless. His mind kept wandering back to the same thought—the time-turner. The artifact Voldemort wanted.
Rosier’s voice broke his focus. “You’re too uptight, you know,” he remarked from across the room, lounging with a smug grin. “The task from Voldemort’s got you all twisted up. We’ll get the time-turner, no problem. It’s Hogwarts—nothing ever stays hidden for long.”
Regulus didn’t respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the page in front of him. He knew Rosier was right, but the tight knot of anxiety in his chest wouldn’t loosen. If they failed, there would be no second chances—not with this.
“Don’t pretend this is all as simple as you’re making it sound,” Regulus muttered coldly. “We’re not just sneaking into a vault at Gringotts. Voldemort wants this badly. We need to get it right.”
Rosier waved him off with a careless gesture. “Of course, of course. But you really think Hogwarts can stop us?”
Before Regulus could respond, Barty Crouch Jr. sauntered into the room with his usual confident swagger.
“Rosier’s right, you know,” Barty said smoothly, settling into an armchair with a teasing look. “You’re a bit tight, Reg. Could be easier to find the time-turner if you, I don’t know, let loose a bit. Come on, mate, what’s the harm in a little fun?”
Regulus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m not in the mood, Crouch.”
“Oh, come on,” Barty pressed, leaning forward with a smirk that made Regulus’s skin crawl. “A little shagging never hurt anyone. You’re always so serious. All that intensity—it’s almost charming.”
Regulus stiffened, fighting to keep his composure. The last thing he needed was to be distracted by Barty’s advances.
“I said no, Crouch,” he snapped, his voice icy as he turned back to his Arithmancy work. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Barty chuckled, but Regulus could tell the flirtation wasn’t over.
...
The next few days found Regulus holed up in the library, surrounded by books and research notes. He was obsessed with finding the time-turner, but the answers remained frustratingly elusive.
Then, as if summoned by the sheer force of his anxiety, a voice interrupted his thoughts. Lily Evans’s laughter drifted into the library, followed closely by the unmistakable sound of James Potter’s voice.
Regulus froze.
James’s smile was so relaxed, so carefree, that it made Regulus’s chest tighten. He couldn’t stop staring. James’s movements were fluid, confident—his very presence seemed to command attention, and Regulus felt drawn to him despite himself. James’s laughter echoed in the silence of the library, and Regulus couldn’t look away. His heart thudded in his chest, his mind racing as he took in every detail—the way James’s hair fell messily over his forehead, the easy grace of his movements, the warmth that radiated from him.
But it was James’s hands that truly captured Regulus’s focus—the way they moved when he gestured, relaxed and natural. For a fleeting moment, Regulus imagined those hands on him, pulling him close.
A wave of heat rushed to Regulus’s face. What the hell is wrong with me? he thought desperately.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. James’s carefree nature, his presence, everything about him was like a magnet that pulled at Regulus’s very soul.
He stood abruptly, slamming his book shut, startling a few students nearby. Without a word, he fled the library, the image of James Potter’s smile burned into his mind.
...
Later that evening, as Regulus buried himself in his bed, trying to escape his own thoughts, a tapping at the window interrupted him. A large owl perched on the ledge, holding an envelope with the Black seal. Regulus’s stomach twisted.
He opened it quickly, his hands trembling as he read the message from his father:
“ Regulus,
I trust your time at Hogwarts has been fruitful. I have obtained information on the time-turner and its location. It is now in the restricted section of the library, under light protection. A staff member has moved it there for your convenience. You must retrieve it discreetly, without drawing attention. The Dark Lord expects results. Do not fail.
- Orion Black"
Regulus’s heart beat faster as he read the last line. He stared at the paper for a moment, the words blurring slightly as his thoughts raced. The time-turner was within his reach now. And now, with the task more real than ever, the confusion of his own emotions simmered just below the surface.
He exhaled slowly, folding the letter back up and shoving it into his drawer. The urgency of the mission was clear—there was no room for distractions. No room for feelings. He had a job to do. He couldn’t afford to get lost in them, no matter how much his heart wanted to betray him.
Regulus stared at the ceiling for a long time, the owl’s departure still fresh in his mind. He couldn’t decide whether he was relieved or terrified. But one thing was certain: the next step in his mission had begun.