REGULUS BLACK'S PLAN
Regulus sprinted down the empty corridor, his heart hammering in his chest. The castle was eerily silent, and for the first time in years, he felt like a ghost haunting its halls. He stopped abruptly, pulling the time-turner out from beneath his sweater. It was warm against his fingers, thrumming with ancient magic, the sand inside glowing faintly in the dim light.
He gripped it tightly and began to turn it. Once for every year. His hand moved faster, the device spinning over and over, the world around him beginning to blur. He didn’t know exactly how far back he needed to go, but he didn’t stop. The air shimmered and bent, the castle dissolving into shadow and light as time unraveled around him.
Finally, he let go. The time-turner stilled, and the world reformed. Regulus stumbled, gripping the wall for support as the disorientation faded. His ears rang in the silence, and for a moment, he wondered if he had made a mistake. But then, he heard footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Startled, Regulus tucked the time-turner back under his sweater and pressed himself into the shadows, his heart pounding. The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by voices—young voices, carefree and full of laughter.
A group of boys rounded the corner, their robes slightly too large for their growing frames. Regulus’ breath caught in his throat as his eyes landed on the one leading the group. He recognized him immediately—the sharp features, the pale skin, the stormy gray eyes framed by inky black hair.
It was Orion.
Regulus’ father.
But not the Orion he knew.
This boy was young—barely fourteen, if Regulus had to guess—and there was a lightness in his expression that Regulus had never seen before. He was smiling, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as he gestured animatedly to his friends. One of them called him by name.
“Orion, you’re mad! There’s no way you’re catching that Snitch in under ten seconds.”
Orion laughed, the sound so foreign to Regulus it made his chest ache. “You’ll see. I’ll make the team next year, and you’ll eat your words!”
The group erupted into laughter, their banter fading as they walked past Regulus without noticing him.
Regulus didn’t move. He couldn’t. He stood frozen in place, his mind reeling. Seeing his father like this—a boy so full of life and joy—was disorienting. This wasn’t the man he knew, the man who had raised him with cold, unyielding discipline, who had punished him for every perceived failure, who had worshipped purity and power above all else.
This Orion was happy. Carefree. He wasn’t a devil yet.
Regulus’ throat tightened. He had always thought his father had been born cruel, that it was an intrinsic part of who he was. But now, seeing this boy—this boy who laughed about Quidditch with his friends—Regulus realized the truth.
Orion Black hadn’t been born a monster. He had become one.
Regulus swallowed hard, his hands balling into fists. A pang of longing hit him, sharp and unexpected. He wished, desperately, that this Orion could have been his father. This boy who joked and smiled and talked about Quidditch with his friends. This boy who wasn’t yet consumed by the darkness of their family.
But that boy was long gone, buried beneath decades of hate and expectation.
Regulus turned away, his chest tight, and walked down the corridor, his mind spinning. This was 1943, he realized. The Chamber of Secrets was open. Tom Riddle was here, laying the groundwork for everything that would come. He had arrived at the perfect time.
Regulus glanced out the nearest window, noticing the sun dipping low on the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink. It was almost dinner time, and his stomach growled loudly, reminding him of the day's chaos. He had no idea where to start looking for Tom Riddle, but he supposed the boy must be in Slytherin like him—and like his father, Orion. That meant the Slytherin common room was the best place to begin.
The problem was, Regulus didn’t know the password. The words he had used in his own time wouldn’t work now. He’d have to find someone—a current Slytherin—to get inside.
His stomach let out another growl, louder this time, and he sighed. He couldn’t focus on finding Riddle on an empty stomach. Dinner would be a good place to start anyway; he could listen for any conversations that might point him in the right direction.
Adjusting his robes, he made his way to the Great Hall. The familiar sight of the long tables and enchanted ceiling above greeted him, but everything felt strangely out of place. The castle was the same, yet it wasn’t. He hesitated for a moment before heading to the Slytherin table.
Sliding onto the bench, he felt a sudden discomfort settle over him. This table had been his home for years, yet sitting here now felt alien. The voices of the students around him—so young, so unfamiliar—only added to the unease. He listened intently, hoping to catch anything useful.
Two younger students sitting nearby were engaged in a hushed but animated conversation.
“Did you hear? Malcolm Avery got petrified,” one boy whispered, his voice tinged with fear.
“Do you think it’s true?” a girl replied, leaning closer. “My father says the Chamber of Secrets is real and that it’s only targeting mudbloods. He says it’s about time, too. Maybe that filthy girl, Eleanor Prince, will be next.”
Regulus’ spine chilled at her words, but he kept his expression neutral. He wanted to ask more, to press for details about the Chamber and who might be behind it, but before he could, someone sat directly across from him.
The sharpness of her movements, the frost in her gaze, and the unspoken authority in her presence were immediately recognizable. Walburga Black, his mother—though younger by nearly three decades—was staring straight at him.
She was in her final year, he realized. Her posture was perfect, her expression critical, and Regulus could already feel the judgment radiating from her as she studied him. The years hadn’t yet etched lines of bitterness on her face, but her cold demeanor was unmistakable.
“What’s your name?” she asked sharply, her voice cutting through the chatter around them.
Regulus’ throat went dry. Panic flared in his chest. He had seen his mother angry countless times, had been on the receiving end of her punishments, but facing her now, younger and unfamiliar with him, was entirely different. He swallowed hard.
“James,” he blurted out, the first name that came to mind.
Her eyebrows rose slightly, skeptical. “James what?”
“James Potier,” he said quickly, cursing himself for how ridiculous it sounded.
Walburga narrowed her eyes, her piercing gaze making him feel small. “I’ve never heard of a James Potier at Hogwarts. Where are you from?”
“France,” Regulus said, forcing a smile. “My parents and I just moved to England a few years ago.”
Walburga raised an eyebrow, her sharp gaze not missing a beat. “France, you say? And who are your ancestors, then? Which of the old families do you belong to?”
Regulus swallowed. Her question felt like a test, one he was perilously close to failing if he wasn’t careful. He had to tread lightly now.
“Well,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “my family is well-known in France. We... we have ties to several old families, most of whom have kept to themselves over the years.” He gave her a smile, hoping it would come across as convincing.
She didn’t respond immediately, but Regulus could see her mind working, calculating. He held his breath, knowing he had to maintain his cover. He couldn’t afford to make any mistakes now.
Walburga’s expression shifted into one he knew far too well—a mixture of polite acceptance and subtle distrust. “I see,” she said, her tone cool. “Well, James Potier, I suggest you tread carefully. Hogwarts has standards, and some bloodlines—” she glanced toward the other tables with disdain, “—do not belong here.”
Regulus nodded, biting back a retort. She didn’t believe him fully, he could tell, and that meant he’d have to be extra careful. He was walking a razor-thin line now, not just with his mission but with his very identity.
During dinner, Regulus could feel the tension in the air. Whispers and murmurs echoed through the hall as students speculated about the recent attacks, and he couldn’t help but lean in closer, trying to catch every word. His eyes flicked to Walburga, who seemed absorbed in her own thoughts, but still attentive. She immediately noticed Regulus’s attempt to eavesdrop and silenced the conversation with a sharp look.
She was always so calculating. Regulus couldn’t quite decide if it was because she cared more about her reputation than the matter at hand, or if it was because she could sense his discomfort. Either way, he couldn’t risk drawing any more attention to himself.
Dinner eventually ended, and as students began to file out, Walburga stood up, motioning for Regulus to follow her. The other students made their way toward the dungeons chatting idly about the news and rumors, but Regulus kept his gaze lowered, his mind racing. Walburga didn’t seem to care that she was the center of attention as she walked, her haughty presence commanding attention from all directions. Regulus, on the other hand, felt like a ghost, fading into the shadows.
As they neared the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Regulus stiffened. He could feel the tension building in his chest. The familiar stone walls, the dark, damp smell of the dungeon, and the cold, looming door ahead made his heart race.
Before another sixth-year student could speak the password, Walburga turned to Regulus.
“Go on,” she said, her voice dripping with a calculated calm. “Say it.”
Regulus’s throat tightened. He could barely recall the password from his own time, let alone the one for this year. He swallowed hard, searching his memory for anything that could help. Then it came to him, and with a strained breath, he forced the words out.
“Obliviate.”
The door didn’t budge. Walburga rolled her eyes with exasperation, clearly unimpressed. Regulus felt his face go pale, the blood draining from his skin as she turned toward him, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“You’re lying,” she said coldly.
Regulus froze, the cold sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. His heart pounded in his chest. Walburga’s glare bore into him, and her voice grew colder with every second.
“I know what you’re doing, and I’ll be telling Professor Slughorn about this.”
The other students surrounding them looked at one another, confused and murmuring. They didn’t understand what was happening, but the tension in the air was palpable.
Just then, a deep voice cut through the silence.
“What’s going on here?”
Regulus turned quickly, his heart nearly stopping when he saw the figure approaching. He was tall, with dark hair and a sharp, chiseled face that seemed to be carved from marble. His pale skin only accentuated the coldness in his eyes as he stepped forward, a prefect’s badge gleaming on his robes.
Walburga turned to him with a haughty expression, but Regulus’s anxiety was palpable. He was terrified of his mother, but he was even more afraid of what would happen if this prefect believed her. His stomach twisted as he tried to steady his breath.
“I’m sure this boy is just a Gryffindor spy,” Walburga said dismissively, her eyes never leaving Regulus. “I’ve caught him trying to pass as one of us, and now he’s pretending to forget the password.”
Regulus’s heart was in his throat. He looked at the handsome prefect with wide, nervous eyes. His words came out in a rush.
“I—I don’t know what she’s talking about,” he said, voice shaking. “I’m from Slytherin. I must have just said the wrong password.”
The prefect studied Regulus for a long, tense moment, his sharp eyes searching him as though he could read every secret Regulus was hiding.
Finally, he spoke, his voice cool and detached. “Of course the boy has forgotten the password. It changed only a few hours ago.”
He turned toward the entrance to the common room and spoke the new password, a string of words that Regulus couldn’t quite make out. To his surprise, the door swung open with a soft groan, revealing the dark and inviting passage beyond.
The other students began to filter in, talking among themselves, but Regulus barely registered them. His mind was still whirling. Walburga, however, seemed less than satisfied with the outcome.
She turned to the prefect with a slight sneer, her voice dripping with disdain. “I’m certain he’s not one of us. But... I suppose I’ll be mistaken.”
The prefect, whose gaze had not left Regulus, glanced at Walburga with a severe expression, his eyes darkening. “You’re wrong, Walburga,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.
Regulus watched as Walburga faltered, clearly not used to being corrected so publicly. She muttered something under her breath and then turned to leave, the cold air of the dungeon swirling as she walked off.
Regulus’s heart was still pounding. He felt a strange mixture of relief and confusion.
As he moved to follow the other students into the common room, he caught a glimpse of the prefect again. His gaze had softened ever so slightly, and something in Regulus’s gut twisted.
Before Regulus could step fully through the door, the prefect spoke again, this time in a low voice that only Regulus could hear.
“I don’t know who you are, but you’re not from here.”
Regulus’s chest tightened. He looked at the prefect, who was now staring at him with an unreadable expression.
Something about the boy felt strangely familiar. The voice. The cold, commanding presence. The way he carried himself, as if he were already someone powerful. There was something in him that Regulus couldn’t quite place, but it was undeniable. A certain intensity, a force, that set him apart from the others.
Regulus stepped into the common room, the heavy door closing behind him. The flickering light of the fire cast long shadows across the walls. He heard the faint murmur of voices and turned to see Walburga talking to another girl. Their gazes landed on him as he entered.
Walburga's eyes narrowed as she looked at Regulus, a hint of suspicion still in her gaze. She turned to the other girl and then back to Regulus.
“I don’t know him,” Walburga said, her voice cold. “But Tom let him in.”
That's when Regulus’s stomach dropped. The way she said it—the casual mention of Tom—struck a chord deep inside him. Regulus's heart skipped a beat. Tom wasn’t just any prefect.
The prefect—Tom—was none other than Tom Marvolo Riddle.
The name sent a shiver down his spine. Riddle, the boy who would later become the dark wizard feared by all. In this moment, though, he was just a young, handsome, cold-hearted student.
Regulus swallowed hard, his heart thumping louder in his chest. He had found Riddle.