DUMBLEDORE'S OFFICE
Regulus feels tired, his legs barely supporting him. The weight of everything he had just endured pressed down on him, and his vision swam with exhaustion. He collapsed against the cold stone floor of the corridor, gasping for breath.
Then, he felt a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder.
Regulus blinked up, his eyes struggling to focus. Standing over him was a familiar figure, clad in deep purple robes, half-moon spectacles perched on a long, crooked nose. Albus Dumbledore.
Before Regulus could say a word, darkness swallowed him, and he passed out.
...
When Regulus woke up, the soft hum of the infirmary filled his ears. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender, and sunlight streamed through the tall windows. Regulus blinked a few times, his body still heavy with fatigue.
He turned his head slightly and saw Dumbledore sitting beside his bed, a small box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans in hand. The headmaster was chewing thoughtfully, a slight twinkle in his eye as he looked at Regulus.
“You’re awake,” Dumbledore said, popping another bean into his mouth. “Good. I was beginning to worry you’d sleep through all the excitement.”
Regulus groaned, rubbing his temples. “What year is it?” he muttered, his voice hoarse.
“It is 1978,” Dumbledore replied, smiling warmly.
Regulus exhaled in relief, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’m home,” he whispered, more to himself than to Dumbledore.
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his expression kind but curious. “Are you feeling better, my boy?”
Regulus nodded, though his body still ached. “Yes… I think so. But there’s something I need to tell you—”
Dumbledore held up a hand, his smile widening. “I believe I already know. Today is April 16, 1978, and Myrtle mentioned you’d have something important to say on this date.”
Regulus froze, his mind racing. April 16? He cursed under his breath. "Damn it, Myrtle. It was supposed to be April 13."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
Regulus sighed, shaking his head. “Nothing. Myrtle must’ve... Oh forget it.”
Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ah, young Myrtle. A curious girl with a flair for the dramatic. Regardless, I’ll be expecting you in my office later today. I imagine you have quite the tale to tell.”
Regulus sat up slowly, his muscles protesting. “I feel good enough now. We can talk—”
Dumbledore interrupted him with a knowing smile. “I believe your brother and his friends might disagree. They’ve been checking on you every couple of hours, and I suspect they’ll consider themselves the greater priority.”
As if on cue, the infirmary doors burst open with a loud crash, and in stormed the Marauders—James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter—all talking over each other in a chaotic blur of concern and relief.
“There he is!” Sirius exclaimed, pushing past the others and making a beeline for Regulus. “You bloody idiot, what happened?”
“Are you okay?” James added, his glasses askew as he hovered by the bed.
“You look awful,” Peter said bluntly, earning a sharp elbow from Remus.
“Shut up, Wormtail,” Sirius snapped before turning back to his brother. “Reg, talk to me. What’s going on?”
Dumbledore stood gracefully, his presence still commanding the room despite the Marauders’ noisy entrance. “I shall leave you all to catch up,” he said warmly, adjusting his robes. “But, Regulus, do not forget—I’ll see you in my office later.”
With that, he left, leaving Regulus surrounded by four anxious boys, each demanding answers. Regulus sighed, running a hand through his hair, his mind already spinning with what he would have to say to Dumbledore later.
Regulus stared at the group surrounding him, their voices overlapping in a chaotic stream of concern. His mind was spinning. Why are they acting like this? Like they know me? He had never been friends with Sirius’s insufferable little gang—let alone his own brother. Yet here they were, crowded around his bed, practically suffocating him with attention.
Regulus turned his gaze to the calmest of the group, Remus Lupin, who stood slightly apart, his brow furrowed in quiet observation. “What is going on?” Regulus asked, his voice hoarse and tinged with confusion.
Remus stepped closer, his tone measured as he replied. “We wanted to know what was happening, Regulus. One minute, we’re in the library studying, and the next, you’re gone without a word.”
“Yeah,” Sirius interjected, his expression somewhere between worry and frustration. “When Moony told me you’d disappeared, I panicked. We looked everywhere for you. The whole damn castle.”
James, leaning against the foot of the bed, nodded. “Then we hear from Dumbledore you’re in the infirmary. Of course, we rushed down here. You’ve been out for three days, mate.”
Peter, standing by the door, chimed in, his tone less emotional but still laced with concern. “Three days, Regulus. You were asleep the whole time.”
Regulus’s head swam, their words making little sense. Since when do they care? Since when do they even talk to me like this? He pressed his palm to his temple, trying to ground himself. Their voices were familiar, but the dynamic was completely alien.
He blinked, looking up sharply. “What about Rosier and Barty?” he asked.
At the mention of the names, James let out a loud scoff, his expression souring. “Crouch again..."
Regulus’s confusion deepened. Why does Potter look... jealous?
Sirius answered before he could process it further. “They’re in Herbology. Today’s Friday, in case you’ve forgotten.” His tone was slightly teasing, but it carried an undertone of concern, like Regulus should have already known that.
Regulus shook his head slightly, the pieces not adding up. Remus, meanwhile, had moved to the bedside table and gestured to the small pile of notes and gifts stacked there. “I think Barty and Rosier left these for you,” he said casually, picking up a chocolate frog. “Mind if I have one?”
Regulus, still bewildered, nodded absently. “Go ahead.”
The other boys exchanged a glance before the questions began in earnest.
“What happened?” Sirius asked, leaning closer. “Why’d you disappear?”
“Where were you?” James added. “You look like hell.”
“Do you remember anything?” Peter asked cautiously.
Regulus’s head pounded, the questions coming too quickly. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up unsteadily. “I need to see Dumbledore,” he muttered, his tone brooking no argument.
“Reg, wait—” Sirius began, reaching out to stop him.
“I said I need to go,” Regulus repeated firmly, shaking off his brother’s hand.
Ignoring their protests, he walked barefoot out of the infirmary, his steps quickening as he made his way toward the headmaster’s office. The cold stone beneath his feet and the echoes of his footsteps in the corridors were the only constants as he tried to steady his spiraling thoughts.
Regulus trudged toward the headmaster’s office, his thoughts a jumbled mess. When he reached the corridor leading to the stone gargoyle, he paused, spotting Professor Slughorn waiting just outside.
“Ah, there you are, my boy!” Slughorn exclaimed warmly, his rotund figure turning toward him with a jovial smile. “How are you feeling, hmm? Fully recovered?”
Regulus hesitated, caught off guard. “Better... I think,” he muttered, his voice still hoarse.
“Splendid, splendid!” Slughorn said, clapping a hand on Regulus’s shoulder. “And don’t you worry about the homework you’ve missed. You’ve the whole weekend to catch up, no need to fret about that now.”
Homework? The thought hadn’t even crossed Regulus’s mind. He stared blankly at Slughorn, his head still spinning.
“I—uh, thank you, Professor, but I really need to talk to Dumbledore.”
“Of course, of course,” Slughorn said with a nod. “I’ll be speaking with him myself, actually. We can head up together.” He gestured toward the gargoyle.
“No,” Regulus said quickly, his tone firmer than he intended. “I’d prefer to speak with him in private.”
Slughorn’s face fell slightly, disappointment flickering in his eyes, but he quickly masked it with his usual cheery demeanor. “Naturally. I understand. The password is... ah... Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”
Regulus blinked at him, incredulous. “You’re joking.”
Slughorn shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Afraid not. Sometimes Albus has an odd sense of humor.”
Regulus sighed, shaking his head. He turned to the gargoyle, muttered the ridiculous password, and watched as the staircase spiraled upward. He stepped onto the moving steps, his mind preoccupied as he ascended.
When he reached the top and entered the circular office, the warm, cluttered space was just as he remembered from his few visits during his school years. But what caught his attention immediately was the figure standing near Dumbledore’s desk—a woman, tall and poised, her back turned to him.
The headmaster looked up from his conversation and greeted him with a smile. “Ah, Regulus. I didn’t expect you quite so early. But it’s good to see you looking well.”
The woman turned at the sound of his name, and the moment her eyes landed on him, she gasped audibly, her hand flying to her mouth.
Regulus froze, staring at her. She was familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Why does she look like that? Like she knows me?
Dumbledore, ignoring the tension, gestured toward the woman. “I do hope you don’t mind, Regulus, but I invited Miss Warren here to join us. You might know her better as Myrtle. She’s been quite curious these past thirty-five years to know what truly happened that night in the bathroom.”
Regulus’s eyes widened as he looked back at the woman. His mind raced as he tried to connect the dots. This grown, composed woman was... Myrtle?
Regulus sat stiffly in the chair, a swirl of unease tightening in his chest. Seeing Myrtle like this—alive, grown, and undeniably real—was something he hadn’t prepared for. She was no longer the ghostly figure who haunted the bathroom stalls but a woman with sharp, intelligent eyes that now brimmed with tears. He took the cup of tea offered by Dumbledore, grateful for something to occupy his hands.
Dumbledore, seated serenely behind his desk, turned to the paintings of the previous headmasters adorning the walls. “I must insist,” he said, his voice unusually stern, “that none of you speak a word of what you hear in this office today. Not a whisper.”
The portraits grumbled and muttered among themselves, but one by one, they solemnly agreed. “You have our word,” Phineas Nigellus Black said with a slight inclination of his head, though his piercing gaze lingered on Regulus for a moment longer than necessary.
Dumbledore turned back to Regulus, his expression expectant but kind. “Now, my boy, let’s hear it. What happened?”
Regulus hesitated, staring into the steaming tea. Finally, he looked up, his voice low and steady. “I killed Tom Riddle.”
Dumbledore nodded slightly, as though he had anticipated this. “Yes, I gathered as much. But I need to understand why.”
Regulus took a deep breath, the weight of his actions settling heavily on his shoulders. He began slowly, recounting everything he had learned: Tom Riddle’s transformation into Voldemort, the creation of the horcruxes, and the opening of the Chamber of Secrets. He spoke of Myrtle, how she was supposed to die in the timeline he had witnessed, and how her death would have been used to create the first horcrux, marking the beginning of Voldemort’s rise to power and the horrors of the First Wizarding War.
Myrtle’s face crumpled as he spoke, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. She gripped the edge of her chair, her knuckles white.
When he finished, Dumbledore’s usual calm demeanor was replaced by something more somber. His sharp blue eyes searched Regulus’s face. “And how, may I ask, do you come by this knowledge?”
Regulus set the tea down and reached into his robes, pulling out the time-turner. The delicate chain glinted in the office’s warm light. He held it out for Dumbledore to see.
“This,” Regulus said, “is how I know. I stole it from Hogwarts.”
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but not immediately judging.
“It was a mission,” Regulus continued, his voice bitter. “A task given to me by the Death Eaters. I was supposed to bring it back to Voldemort.” He clenched the time-turner tightly. “Instead, I used it. I went to the future.”
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his curiosity unmistakable.
“In that future,” Regulus said, his voice thick with emotion, “I saw what he would do—what he would become. The deaths, the destruction, the lives ruined. My own family—my brother...” His voice broke for a moment before he steadied himself. “I couldn’t let it happen. The only way to stop him was to go back to a time before he became immortal. Before the horcruxes.”
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard as he processed this. His expression was inscrutable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—respect, perhaps, or astonishment.
Myrtle, still trembling, finally found her voice. “You... you stopped him? All of it?”
Regulus nodded, though his gaze remained fixed on the floor. “I had to.”
Dumbledore was silent for a long minute, his hands folded neatly on the desk, his sharp eyes lost in thought. His mind was clearly spinning, piecing together fragments of information about Tom Riddle. Regulus could almost see the wheels turning, the subtle shifts in the headmaster’s expression betraying his deep contemplation.
Finally, Dumbledore cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
Myrtle, still visibly shaken, turned to him. “What... what are we going to do now?”
Dumbledore looked at her with a calm yet weighty gaze. “We won’t be doing anything, Myrtle,” he said, his voice steady but grave. “Tom Riddle was a young man destined to bring devastation to the wizarding world. His ideology—his obsession with blood purity—has already infected enough families who would eagerly continue his plans if they knew of them. For now, the world must believe what it already knows: that Tom Riddle was a fatal victim of the monster within the Chamber of Secrets.”
Myrtle’s mouth opened as if to protest, but the intensity of Dumbledore’s gaze stopped her. She hesitated, her hands fidgeting in her lap before she nodded, albeit reluctantly. “I... I understand,” she murmured, her voice trembling.
Dumbledore gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Thank you, Myrtle. Your strength in all of this is not unnoticed.” He massaged his temples for a moment before turning his attention back to Regulus.
“Now,” Dumbledore said, his tone softer, “do you have anything else you wish to tell me?”
Regulus hesitated. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, but one question burned brighter than the rest. “Yes,” he said finally, leaning forward slightly. “I’m... confused. Everything here is different. It feels like so much has changed. In my timeline, I wasn’t friends with the Marauders. Sirius and I barely spoke to each other.”
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, surprise flickering across his face. “That is... curious,” he said slowly. “Because here, you are very good friends indeed.”
Regulus’s brow furrowed deeply. “Is there a way to remember? To recover the memories I’ve lost in this timeline?”
Dumbledore sighed, the lines on his face deepening. “I’m afraid not, Regulus. Time travel is a complex and delicate magic. When timelines diverge or are rewritten, the original memories often fade irretrievably.”
Regulus leaned back in his chair, frustration and sadness washing over him. “Then how am I supposed to... live this life? They wouldn’t understand.”
Dumbledore’s expression softened, a glimmer of understanding in his wise blue eyes. “They may not need to understand,” he said thoughtfully. “But they do care for you, Regulus, and that is something you can hold onto as you rebuild.”
Regulus frowned, his doubt evident.
After a moment of silence, Dumbledore’s expression brightened slightly, and he straightened in his chair. “Perhaps,” he said, “we can make this transition a bit easier. I will tell them that you’ve experienced a form of memory loss—an unfortunate side effect of your time in the infirmary.”
Regulus tilted his head, considering the idea. “You’d lie to them?”
Dumbledore’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Sometimes, my dear boy, a carefully crafted truth can protect those we care about. It’s not a lie so much as a way to give you space to find your footing. In time, you may choose to tell them the full story—or not. The choice will be yours.”
Regulus looked down at the time-turner in his lap, running his fingers over its delicate chain. “You really think that will work?”
Dumbledore nodded. “I do. They already care about you deeply, Regulus. Memory loss or not, that will not change.”
Regulus took a deep breath and finally nodded. “Alright. Let’s try it.”
Dumbledore stood and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, his gaze softened as he looked at Regulus, a hint of concern in his eyes. “Regulus,” he began gently, “I must now ask for the time turner.”
Regulus blinked, momentarily taken aback. He had carried the weight of the time-turner with him, the burden of its power hanging over him ever since he had taken it from Hogwarts. But as Dumbledore’s words sank in, a sense of relief washed over him. He had known, deep down, that this moment would come. The time-turner was too dangerous, too powerful for anyone to wield alone, especially someone still grappling with the consequences of his actions.
Without hesitation, Regulus took the time-turning from under his sweater and gave it to the Headmaster. He felt a weight shift inside him as he handed it over to Dumbledore, the burden easing with each passing second.
“I understand,” Regulus said quietly, his voice steady.
Dumbledore took the time-turner from him, his fingers closing around the small, intricate object with careful precision. “Thank you, Regulus. I believe this should be kept safe, away from temptation. It is far too dangerous for anyone, no matter their intentions.”
As Regulus watched Dumbledore tuck the time-turner safely into a drawer on his desk, he felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The responsibility, the power to change time, was no longer his to bear. For the first time in what felt like a long time, he felt... lighter.