THE TRUTH OF TIME
The library was eerily quiet, save for the faint rustle of pages turning as Regulus moved through the rows of books. He needed answers. His head spun with the confusion of being pulled through time, and his heart still raced from the encounter with Harry Potter. He had to understand what had happened, what the world had become. He couldn’t be adrift in time forever.
He made his way to the history section, determined to find out what had transpired in the years since he was standing in his bedroom with the time-turner in hand. Fifteen years. It felt like an eternity had passed, and yet, it felt as though no time at all had passed since he was last at Hogwarts. He pulled down a thick, old book, The History of Magic: The Rise and Fall of Dark Lords, and flipped through its pages, searching for something, anything, that might shed light on what had happened.
His fingers hesitated over the pages as he landed on a chapter titled, The First Wizarding War and the Fall of Lord Voldemort. Regulus had been raised with the promise that the Dark Lord’s victory was inevitable, that his family’s loyalty would eventually secure the future. He had been a part of the first war—one that had torn apart families, changed lives forever. But he had never imagined it would turn out like this.
The words blurred in front of his eyes as he read through the chapter. He tried to focus, to make sense of the tangled web of history, but it was the next line that stopped him cold. The line that made his blood run cold:
"Voldemort's defeat came at the hands of the infant Harry Potter, who survived an attack that killed both his parents, James and Lily Potter. The boy, marked by the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, became known as the 'Boy Who Lived.' His survival became a symbol of hope for the wizarding world, while the defeat of Voldemort marked the end of the First Wizarding War."
Regulus’ breath hitched in his throat. His hand trembled as it rested on the page. His eyes refused to move from the words, as if staring at them long enough would somehow change them. James is dead.
The room around him seemed to tilt as if the very fabric of reality was bending. He read it again, over and over, each time more painful than the last. James Potter was dead.
Regulus felt a lump form in his throat, and before he knew it, his eyes were blurred with tears. He tried to blink them away, but they kept coming, relentless, as if they could wash away the years of guilt he had buried deep inside him. He never got the chance to say goodbye. He never had the chance to tell James how much he had meant to him. How much he loved him.
Everything he had done, all the choices he had made—it didn’t matter anymore. James was gone. And Regulus, for all his efforts to follow in his family’s footsteps, had never truly understood how much he cared for James until it was too late.
A sob tore through him before he could stop it. He gripped the edge of the book tightly, his knuckles white. He was drowning in grief. He hadn’t thought about James, not like this—not with the weight of a truth he hadn’t been ready to face. He had buried his feelings for so long, buried them under the weight of his responsibilities, his family’s expectations. And now, James was gone, and he was left with nothing but a deep, aching emptiness.
James is dead. The words echoed in his mind. The realization was unbearable. Regulus had lived a life of regret, never able to tell James the truth, never able to make amends before it was too late. Now, all he could do was grieve for a man that was never his, for a life he had never fully embraced.
Regulus closed his eyes, trying to steady himself, but the weight of it was suffocating. He had to do something. He couldn’t just sit here and let the grief consume him. He needed to see Sirius. He had to find him. Sirius would know what to do. He would understand.
He stood abruptly, the book slipping from his lap and landing with a soft thud on the floor. Without another thought, Regulus left the table behind, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the library as he made his way to the door. He had to see Sirius.
There was so much he wanted to ask—so many things he needed to understand. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to think about the mission, about the time-turner, about the reason he had traveled to the past in the first place. Nothing mattered except seeing Sirius. Sirius was the only one who could help him make sense of all this.
Regulus paused at the library door, his hand resting on the handle as he took one last look at the book. He had read the words, but he hadn’t truly understood them until now. And now that he had, there was no going back.
James was dead.
But Sirius was alive, and Regulus needed him.
With a deep breath, Regulus stepped out of the library, determined to find a way to get to Hogsmeade, to find Sirius, and to try to heal the wounds he had left behind all those years ago.
...
Regulus moved quickly through the corridors of Hogwarts, his footsteps muffled by the heavy silence of the night. His heart raced as he ducked into shadows, careful not to be seen. He couldn’t stay at the school—not now, not after what he had learned. He had to leave. He had to find Sirius.
Every part of him screamed to go back, to finish the mission, but the pain of losing James was too fresh, too raw. He couldn’t stay there another moment. He had to find some way to reach Sirius, to ask him about everything—about the war, about their family, about how things had turned out.
With every step, he felt further away from the life he knew, yet, he knew deep down he was closer to something more urgent, something more personal than the war.
By the time Regulus reached the castle’s edge, the moon hung high in the sky, casting a cold, pale light on the ground. Without a second thought, he made his way out of the gates towards Hoagsmead, keeping to the paths he knew by heart. His heart pounded in his chest as he made his way through the dark, his breath quick and shallow in the cool night air.
The village of Hogsmeade appeared on the horizon like a flickering beacon. His destination was clear. He had to get there, no matter what.
When he finally arrived, his feet sore from the journey, he wasted no time in heading straight for the Three Broomsticks. The familiar warmth from the pub seeped through the cracks in the door as he pushed it open. Inside, the cozy atmosphere of the tavern felt foreign to him, almost too welcoming.
He had never been one for crowds or frivolous chatter, and though the place was bustling with patrons enjoying their drinks, Regulus could hardly focus on anything else but the urgency driving him. He needed to find Sirius. He had to. He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in his gut, the gnawing sense that if he didn’t act quickly, he’d lose everything—and maybe even himself in the process.
The witch behind the bar, Madam Rosmerta gave him a cursory glance as he approached. Her expression remained neutral, but there was a flicker of recognition in her eyes.
“Can I help you, dear?” she asked, her tone casual but laced with suspicion, as if she sensed something off about Regulus’ appearance.
Regulus hesitated for a fraction of a second, then drew in a sharp breath, forcing himself to remain calm despite the turbulence inside. He couldn’t afford to show weakness. Not now.
“I need to use the Floo,” he said, his voice steady but urgent. “I need to get to… somewhere important.” He made sure to keep the specifics vague, not wanting to reveal too much. If she asked too many questions, he could easily slip away. “It’s an emergency.”
The witch peered at him, her gaze scrutinizing as she wiped a glass clean. Regulus could feel the tension building in the air between them. He had to make this work.
"Flooing, eh?" she murmured, glancing down at him before her eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall you from around here.” Her voice turned more suspicious, and she leaned in slightly, as if trying to place him. “Have we met before, boy?”
Regulus’ throat tightened. This was a problem. His heart hammered in his chest, but he kept his expression neutral, looking her squarely in the eye. “No, I’ve been away for some time,” he lied smoothly, his voice barely betraying his nerves. “I’m just here for something urgent, please.”
She gave him a skeptical look but didn’t seem entirely convinced. Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Regulus was sure she was going to call him out. But after a pause, she sighed and stood back, giving him a curt nod.
“Alright then. You can use the Floo, but don’t make a scene, yeah?” She waved her hand toward the hearth.
Regulus’ heart skipped a beat. He didn’t care if she was suspicious. He had what he needed. With a quick nod, he stepped toward the fire. Without another word, he grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the container beside the hearth.
His mind raced as he tossed the powder into the flames, watching as the fire flared bright green. The heat from the flames flickered and swirled around him as he spoke the address with urgency:
“Number twelve Grimmauld Place.”
The fire roared and the world spun. Regulus closed his eyes tightly, gripping his breath, his stomach churning as the familiar sensation of Floo travel tugged at him. The heat, the spinning, the disorienting feeling—it was a sensation he had known for years, but this time, it was different. He was more acutely aware of how far removed he was from everything he knew. The faces, the voices—he was now walking through time as much as space, and the world seemed like a cruel, distant echo.
The world around him twisted and bent as he felt his feet leave the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut and held onto the warmth of the fire as everything whirled faster.
Regulus stepped into Grimmauld Place, and immediately, something felt wrong. The usual warmth of the house was absent, replaced by an unsettling coldness. It wasn’t just the temperature; it felt like the very air was heavier, as though the house itself was holding its breath. The shadows were thicker than usual, stretching across the walls as though they were reaching out to envelop him.
He frowned, a shiver running down his spine. The house had always had its quirks, but this felt different. More than that—he couldn’t place it, but it felt as though something had shifted here, something was off.
As he made his way deeper into the darkened hallway, his thoughts immediately turned to his mother. He needed to find her. Even though she despised Sirius, she always knew where to find him—always knew exactly where to send her howlers. Despite the deep hatred she held for him, she always kept track of her older son. It was an inconvenient truth, but one Regulus knew well. He needed to find her. She’d know where Sirius was, and she could help him make sense of everything that had happened.
“Mother?” he called out softly, his voice breaking the silence that seemed to suffocate the house.
No answer.
Regulus paused at the foot of the stairs and waited, still no answer. He pushed forward, moving toward the kitchen.
He called again, louder this time. “Mother?”
Still, nothing.
The house was eerily silent as Regulus wandered through the empty space, his footsteps echoing off the dark, cold walls. He pushed open the door to the kitchen and froze. There was no sign of her. The stove was cold, the counters bare. The usual scent of her cooking—rich, dense, and sharp with spices—was completely absent.
A strange heaviness settled in his chest, and his mind began to race. Where was she?
“Mother?” he called one last time, but the house did not answer.
Something didn’t feel right.
That’s when he heard it—the soft shuffle of footsteps, barely audible against the oppressive quiet of the house. He turned, expecting to see his mother, but instead, it was Kreacher who appeared from the shadows.
Regulus froze, confused. He hadn’t expected to see the elf at all, let alone find him here, looking so... unsettled. Kreacher’s large, watery eyes fixed on Regulus with a sort of shock and disbelief. For a moment, the elf just stared at him as though he couldn’t quite believe his own eyes.
“Master Regulus…” Kreacher whispered, his voice trembling. His wrinkled hands reached out almost desperately. “Is it truly you, Master Regulus?”
Regulus blinked, still caught in the strange uncertainty of this moment. “Kreacher? What are you talking about?”
The elf’s frail hands grabbed Regulus by the knees, tears now streaming down his face. “Master… you… you’ve come back…” Kreacher’s voice cracked with emotion. “Kreacher thought you were… thought you were lost forever. Kreacher never thought he'd see you again.”
Regulus stepped back, his head spinning. What was Kreacher talking about? Lost forever? But Kreacher’s reaction, the way he clung to him, was beyond strange. The elf seemed utterly overwhelmed, as though Regulus had returned from the dead.
“Lost?” Regulus repeated, his heart racing. “What do you mean, Kreacher? Where’s Mother?”
Kreacher pulled away from him, his face now crumpled in sorrow. “Master Regulus... it’s been years. Kreacher thought... thought you were gone. You died. Kreacher thought you’d never come back. You were gone...” The elf’s voice broke off, and his face contorted in grief.
Regulus felt a cold chill settle in his chest. “Died?” he whispered, the word slipping out before he could stop it. He could barely bring himself to say it, yet the weight of the sentence hung heavily in the air. “I died?”
The pieces didn’t add up. He was standing here. He had just... stepped through the Floo. He was right here in Grimmauld Place, looking at Kreacher, trying to make sense of the situation. But the more he tried to understand, the less it made sense.
“Where is Mother?” Regulus repeated, his voice more insistent this time, though it was laced with panic he couldn’t hide.
Kreacher wiped his eyes on his sleeve, his movements slow. “Master, you’ve been gone. She’s not here. Master—Master Regulus, she’s left. She’s gone...”
Regulus’ heart sank. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
Kreacher’s face crumpled further, and his voice broke as he spoke, each word laced with sorrow. “Mistress died, Master Regulus. A few years after Master Orion… Mistress died..."
Regulus froze. His mind couldn’t process the words at first. His mother... dead? It felt surreal. His father and his mother were both dead? How had he not known this? How had he not seen it coming? A cold shock gripped his chest, and the silence in the room felt suffocating.
Kreacher’s eyes filled with tears. “Kreacher thought… thought you were lost forever too. Mistress and Master both gone. Kreacher… didn’t know what to do…”
Regulus barely heard him. His mind was swirling, a storm of thoughts crashing against each other. He had died. He had actually died. And now, in this strange, warped version of time, he was back, but his parents were gone. He had missed everything. He had missed their deaths, their passing.
Tears welled up in Regulus’ eyes once more before he could stop them, and they flooded down his face, hot and unstoppable. His chest felt tight, as though the weight of grief was crushing him from the inside out. To hear that his mother—his cold, distant mother—was gone, it left him hollow. He didn’t know how to feel about any of it. He had never really had the chance to mourn his parents. They had died and he never got to say goodbye.
Everything felt so wrong. His life, his death, his return. His mind was a blur of confusion and regret. How was he supposed to cope with this? How could he possibly make sense of any of it?
He blinked furiously, trying to shove the overwhelming emotions down, but they just kept coming. His family, his life, everything he had once known—it was all gone. He had died, and everything had kept moving without him. He had never gotten the chance to make peace with any of it, to fix anything.
Regulus wiped his eyes roughly, as though trying to erase the pain from his face, but the tears kept coming. He didn’t know how to handle this. How could he? His parents were gone, and it was like the world had moved on without him.
But there was one thing Regulus couldn’t help but wonder: Where was Sirius? How could he have disappeared from this house, from this timeline, without leaving some sort of trace? Regulus needed to find him. He had to find him. His brother was the only person who could help him understand what had happened to the world—and why it seemed like everything had shifted when he wasn’t looking.
“Tell me, Kreacher,” Regulus said softly, his voice steady despite the storm brewing inside him. “Where is Sirius?”
Kreacher hesitated before responding, his eyes clouded with the weight of everything that had happened. “Master Sirius... he’s gone, Master Regulus. He escaped from Azkaban, he did. They’re looking for him everywhere. No one knows where he is now.”
Regulus’ thoughts froze. “Azkaban? What do you mean, Azkaban?” His voice faltered as his mind scrambled to process the implications. Azkaban was a prison, a place for the most dangerous criminals, a place no one could escape from... But Sirius? Why Sirius had been sent there?
Kreacher’s voice was thick with disdain as he spoke, each word dripping with bitterness. “Master Sirius was sent to Azkaban for betraying the Potters, Master Regulus. For killing Peter Pettigrew... and twelve other Muggles. He... he caused so much pain to the family.”
Regulus’ knees felt weak beneath him, and his vision blurred. Betraying the Potters? Killing Peter Pettigrew? Killing Muggles? None of it made sense. He knew his brother. Sirius would never, never do such a thing. He had been fiercely loyal to James, to Lily. He had always protected them. There was no way Sirius could have betrayed them—not him, not Sirius.
A sudden wave of dizziness overtook him, and he staggered slightly, gripping the wall for support. His thoughts were spinning, confusion and disbelief clouding his mind. He felt as though the very ground had shifted beneath him, and everything he thought he knew was crumbling.
“Kreacher,” Regulus gasped, his voice trembling. “Are you sure? Sirius... he would never...”
But Kreacher just nodded, his eyes hard. “Master Sirius was caught, and the world believes him guilty. He’s been in Azkaban, Master Regulus. For years now. No one believes the truth.”
Regulus was silent, his mind numb as the weight of everything hit him. He had known that the war had torn everything apart, but to hear this about his brother... to know that the world believed Sirius capable of something so heinous, it made his chest ache with an unbearable pain. It wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. Sirius was innocent. But now, it seemed that there was no one left to prove that truth. The world had turned on him.
Kreacher continued, his voice softer now, as if sensing Regulus’ turmoil. “There was a war, Master Regulus. The Dark Lord... He returned, and many fought. But there was loss. So much loss. The Potters, and Sirius—” Kreacher’s voice faltered before he continued, “Sirius was never the same after that.”
Regulus was dizzy, his mind reeling. The words blurred, and he couldn’t make sense of them.
The world he had known, the world he had fought in... it was gone. And it wasn’t just his family, his parents, who were lost to him. It was his friends. His brother. Everything.
He needed to process it, but there was no time. He couldn’t let himself drown in grief. Not now. He had been a part of Voldemort’s plans, he had been loyal to him, but now—now he saw things so differently. Everything was different. And he realized, with terrifying clarity, that Voldemort had taken everything from him. His family. His future. His brother. All of it was gone.
He needed to process it, but there was no time. He couldn’t let himself drown in grief. Not now. He had been a part of Voldemort’s plans, he had been loyal to him, but now—now he saw things so differently. Everything was different. And he realized, with terrifying clarity, that Voldemort had taken everything from him. His family. His future. His brother. All of it was gone.
Regulus closed his eyes, his hands trembling. Voldemort. He had destroyed everything. And Regulus had let it happen. He had been a part of it. He had been too caught up in his desire to be perfect, to please his family, to see what was right in front of him. He had helped Voldemort rise again, helped him tear apart the world, and now... now he had nothing. Nothing but the desperate need to stop him.
But it was too late. Everything was in ruins.
He turned away from Kreacher, the house too cold and empty for him to bear. “I need to rest,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Kreacher nodded quietly, his face full of sorrow. “Yes, Master Regulus. Rest. It’s been too much.”
Regulus didn’t answer. He walked toward the bathroom, his body feeling as though it weighed a thousand pounds. The bath was something simple, something to help clear his mind, but as he soaked in the hot water, his thoughts kept spiraling. He tried to wash away the pain, the grief, but it clung to him like the wetness on his skin.
Tears flowed freely now, and Regulus didn’t try to stop them. They were for the family he had lost, the brother he had never truly understood, and the war that had torn everything apart. He had never realized how much he loved Sirius until now, and it felt like the universe was mocking him. It was too late for apologies, too late for reconciliation.
Voldemort had ruined everything.
Regulus sank lower into the bath, the warmth of the water not enough to ease the coldness that had settled deep inside him. He had to do something. He couldn’t wait anymore. He had planned to bide his time, to work his way into Voldemort’s inner circle, gain his trust, and strike when the Dark Lord was vulnerable. But now, it felt like that wasn’t enough. Time had run out.
He had to act now.
Regulus stood up from the bath, his body feeling heavier than before, but his resolve was clearer. He couldn’t waste any more time. He couldn’t just sit around and wait. He had to stop Voldemort before it was too late. He couldn’t let him destroy any more lives, any more families.
Regulus dried himself off, his hands steady now as he dressed. His mind was made up. He would find a way to stop Voldemort. He would save what he could, and he would fix the damage he had caused.
With that thought in mind, he left the bathroom, his eyes determined. He walked toward his room and sank into the bed, but sleep didn’t come. His mind raced with plans, with ideas, with everything that needed to be done. But it wasn’t until the exhaustion finally took over that he allowed himself to fall into a restless, fitful sleep.
Tomorrow, he would begin.