DEVASTATION
Regulus entered his room, the dim light caught on the edges of an object sitting on the desk. It was a leather-bound journal, worn with age and clearly well-used. The sight of it pulled him from his haze. He didn’t recognize it as something he had left behind. Frowning, he approached, his fingers brushing over the cracked leather.
When he opened the journal, the handwriting that greeted him made him pause. It was his. Or rather, his, but older—more deliberate, more experienced. His chest tightened as he turned the pages.
The first entries were innocuous enough, detailing mundane observations about the war, notes on Voldemort’s activities, and thoughts on Death Eater meetings. But as he read on, the tone shifted, growing darker and more urgent.
One passage stopped him cold:
"The Dark Lord's power isn’t just in his spells or his influence. He has ensured his immortality by fragmenting his soul. He has created a Horcruxe. He's holding on to life, even if his body is destroyed."
Regulus stared at the page, the implications making his stomach churn. Horcruxes. He had heard rumors of them, whispered among the darkest circles of wizarding society, but to see it confirmed in his own words was something else entirely. Voldemort hadn’t just conquered fear; he had twisted life and death itself to serve his ambitions.
The journal continued with detailed notes—descriptions of suspected Horcruxes, the magic used to protect them, and theories about how to destroy them. There were diagrams sketched with painstaking precision and lists of potential locations where the Horcruxes might be hidden.
"The locket is key. I’m certain it’s the Horcruxe. It matches the description, and Bellatrix’s account confirms it. I’ll retrieve it. I have to."
Regulus’ fingers trembled as he turned to the next page. The entries grew shorter and more fragmented, as though his future self had been pressed for time—or consumed by fear.
The final entry stopped him in his tracks.
"April 12, 1979. Tomorrow, I will attempt to retrieve and destroy the Horcruxe. If I succeed, it will be a step toward making the Dark Lord mortal again. If I fail... I will have tried. No matter the cost, I cannot let him win. This is the only way."
Regulus closed the journal, his hands trembling. His throat tightened as the weight of the realization crashed over him like a tidal wave. April 12, 1979. That was fourteen years ago. He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the words he had written.
His future self had gone to retrieve the Horcruxe, and he had never come back.
Regulus’ knees buckled, and he sank onto the edge of the bed, the journal slipping from his hands. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes as his mind reeled. He had always imagined that he would live long enough to see the fruits of his efforts, to carve out some kind of life for himself after the war. He had thought he would grow older, that he would have time.
But instead, he had died at seventeen.
The enormity of it struck him like a curse. His parents were gone. Sirius was hunted and broken. And he—Regulus Arcturus Black—had been robbed of everything before he even had a chance to truly live. His chest heaved as the tears came, hot and bitter, spilling down his cheeks as he buried his face in his hands.
He wasn’t just grieving for his future self. He was mourning the life he would never have.
After what felt like hours, Regulus finally lifted his head. His face was flushed, his eyes red and swollen. The journal lay open on the floor, its pages illuminated by the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains.
He wiped at his face, his hands shaking as he bent to pick up the book. He held it tightly, his resolve hardening. Voldemort my had taken everything from him, even his life. But he had one advantage now that his future self had not: knowledge.
Regulus straightened, his jaw set. He wouldn’t let this be the end. If Voldemort thought he could escape justice, he was wrong. Regulus would finish what he had started.
...
The morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of Grimmauld Place, casting long, dim shadows across the cold stone floors. Regulus woke with a start, his mind immediately drawn to the weight beneath his sweater. The time-turner hung against his chest, its metal warm, almost burning against his skin as though it could sense his intentions. He clenched his jaw, steeling himself.
He sat up in bed, his thoughts racing. He knew what he had to do. The time-turner couldn’t fall into Voldemort’s hands—not ever. The risk was too great. With the device, Voldemort could twist time to his will, strengthen his hold on the wizarding world, and make himself truly unstoppable.
Regulus rubbed at his temples, his eyes falling on the journal still lying on the desk where he had left it the night before. He thought about everything he had read—the horrors Voldemort had wrought, the price his family had paid, and his own death. His heart ached.
The first step was clear: he needed to return to his own time. Back to the present—his present—where he could begin to dismantle Voldemort’s power from within. And to do that, he had to find Sirius. Despite their fractured relationship, Sirius was his only ally in the fight against Voldemort. Regulus needed him, and he needed him now.
He stood, pulling the time-turner from under his sweater. The device felt hot in his hand, almost alive. He slipped it back beneath the fabric and descended the stairs, each creak of the old wood echoing through the silent house.
As he reached the ground floor, Kreacher appeared, his large, watery eyes lighting up with joy. “Master Regulus!” the house-elf cried, his voice trembling with emotion. “Breakfast is ready for you, sir. Kreacher has prepared your favorite—toast with blackberry preserves and tea, just as you always liked it.”
Regulus paused, his hand on the banister. He felt a pang of guilt as he looked at Kreacher, who gazed up at him with pure adoration. The little elf had clearly waited years for this moment.
“I won’t be staying for breakfast, Kreacher,” Regulus said softly. “I’m leaving, I need to get back to Hogwarts.”
Kreacher’s ears drooped, and his shoulders slumped. “But Master Regulus… Kreacher has dreamed of seeing you for so many years. Kreacher thought he would never see his master again…” His voice cracked, and he wrung his hands together. “Can’t Master Regulus stay for just one meal? Just one?”
Regulus hesitated, his heart twisting. He didn’t have time to waste—he knew that—but the pain in Kreacher’s voice was undeniable. This creature had served him faithfully, even after his death. He had mourned him, held onto his memory, and even risked his own safety for Regulus’ mission.
“All right,” Regulus said at last, his voice low. “Just one meal.”
Kreacher’s face lit up, and he scurried off to the kitchen, muttering to himself about setting the table properly. Regulus followed, his steps slower now, the weight of the time-turner pressing against his chest.
Kreacher had set the table with meticulous care, presenting the meal with a sense of pride. Regulus sat down, staring at the food for a moment before taking a bite.
The meal was simple but comforting. As he ate, Kreacher hovered nearby, his joy palpable. Regulus didn’t say much, his mind still churning with plans and possibilities, but he allowed himself this brief reprieve.
When the meal was over, Regulus stood, adjusting the time-turner beneath his sweater. He looked at Kreacher, who was beaming with pride.
“Thank you, Kreacher,” he said quietly. “For everything.”
Kreacher bowed low, tears glistening in his eyes. “Kreacher will always serve Master Regulus,” he whispered.
Regulus nodded, his resolve hardening once more. The time for sentimentality was over. He had a mission to complete, and he couldn’t afford any distractions.
Regulus stepped into the cold, dim fireplace in Grimmauld Place, his heart pounding as he threw down the Floo powder and clearly enunciated, “The Three Broomsticks.”
Green flames roared around him, and a moment later, he stumbled out into the familiar pub. The noise hit him first: the low murmur of conversations, the clinking of mugs, and the occasional laugh. The smell of butterbeer and roasted meat lingered in the air, but Regulus didn’t pause to take it in. Pulling his hood tighter over his head, he ducked his chin low and made his way to the door.
Outside, the chill of the early morning wrapped around him. The streets of Hogsmeade were quiet, with only a few shopkeepers beginning to open for the day. Regulus kept his head down and walked briskly toward the path leading back to Hogwarts.
His steps were careful, deliberate. The time-turner beneath his sweater felt heavier than ever, its chain digging into his skin as though urging him forward. He avoided the main paths, sticking to the shadows where he could, his eyes constantly scanning for anyone who might recognize him—or worse, question him.
As the castle loomed closer, Regulus felt a wave of nostalgia and unease. To these people, he was a ghost—a boy who had died years ago. He didn’t belong here, not in this time, and every second he lingered was a risk.
When he reached the castle gardens, he paused, taking a deep breath. The air was crisp, the grass damp with morning dew. For a moment, he simply stood there, letting the reality of what he was about to do sink in.
This is it, he thought. I’m going back. Back to where I belong.
Regulus pulled the time-turner out from beneath his sweater. The golden device gleamed in the morning light, its intricate runes catching the sun’s rays. He held it tightly, his fingers trembling slightly.
“Fifteen turns,” he murmured to himself, counting each rotation aloud as he spun the hourglass. With each turn, the world around him seemed to hum, the air growing thicker, the colors blurring together.
By the time he completed the fourteenth turn, the castle gardens dissolved around him. The world spun faster and faster until everything disappeared in a swirl of golden light.
Regulus closed his eyes, his breath caught in his throat. He could feel the magic tugging at him, pulling him backward through time. Images flashed through his mind—his mother’s voice, Sirius’ laugh, the weight of his own choices.
When the spinning stopped, Regulus opened his eyes. The gardens were still there, but the air felt different. Warmer. Quieter. He let out a shaky breath, his knees feeling weak.
I’m home, he thought. I’m back where it all began.