Have You Heard of the New Prophet? He'll Save Us
CHAPTER FOUR – Have You Heard of The New Prophet? He’ll Save Us
“This life was never ours. We were only borrowing it.” - Emily St John Mandal, Station 11
(Sirius, momentarily)
Every day, Sirius Black wakes up grateful he’s alive.
It was never something he used to have at the forefront of his mind, the basic relief that he still remained on earth, in all its destroyed glory. But after he watched the world fall to chaos on the colours of a screen, his passport clutched between his fingers, that feeling bloomed in his chest and never went away.
For years, he never went outside. He stayed couped up in the stale air of a forgotten airport, where the scared had fled back home, and the sceptical had boarded the planes that became their coffins. Sirius, by some miracle, stayed. He was going to go, surrounded by the screams and shouts, getting on the plane felt like the only answer.
But then Dorcas Meadows had run all the way from the help desk, frantic and desperate, before slamming the boarding gate closed.
“Don’t get on the plane. If you value your lives, don’t get on the plane.”
And that was that.
Sirius stayed.
Even after the news station lost their host, they stayed, becoming nothing but an empty studio on standby. They stayed after the TV became static. They stayed when they finally lost the static, only a black screen. An artefact belonging to a civilisation that once was. They stayed even when they slowly began to lose their minds. They stayed as anger grew, fights broke out, tears were shed.
They stayed through it all, when the fires in the distance grew quiet. Sirius watched it all through the windows of the airport.
One day, something shifted.
They had all been gathered in what was once a bustling food hall, sat on tables with strangers who had become as family as the family they had lost. Sirius still hadn’t known most of their names by then, too scared to get to know people he was never meant to see again.
“I think we’ve been blessed here.” Someone had said.
“Blessed?” A scoff.
“Yes, blessed. Humanity has fallen, people have died. But we’re here, safe. We have shelter, safety, food, and water. We can make this work if we work together.”
Soft murmuring all around.
“I’m a botanist. I might be able to find a way in which we can grow some food to keep us going once the supplies run out.” A middle-aged man said.
“I’m an engineer. Might be able to figure out some way to get us some electricity.”
And just like that, hope was rekindled.
Sirius cried that night. There was no reason for him to leave.
He wondered what his mother did the day everything went to hell. Did she think of him, with her last breath? Did she regret all the time she spent away?
“Do you want some chocolate?”
A voice, warm and soft, had asked him in the dark hours of the night, while his tears were spilling and he was choking on grief.
A boy, perhaps his age if he was hopeful, old patterned jumper, brown hair, kind eyes. He was holding a bar of Cadbury’s, only two lines left.
“Nah, don’t go wasting precious goods on me.”
The boy shrugged. “It’s got to go somewhere. Let’s share.”
So they sat there, backs to the wall, legs spread out in front of them, sharing the last pieces of chocolate bought when life was normal.
“I’m Remus, by the way.”
“Sirius.”
----------------
REGULUS
Regulus had learnt very early that the Death Eaters were to be avoided.
It was inevitable really, that a new prophet would rise from the ashes of old ones, the religions so many devoted their lives and morals to crumbling as quickly as their hope did. But Regulus believed that one of the reasons humans believed in a holy cure was because dealing with the idea of their own mortality was too big to bear. Living a life to only rot in the ground couldn’t be fathomed.
So, there was God. For some, only one, for others, many.
Now, no one believes in old religion.
That’s where Tom Riddle made his fortune - in starved believers and crazed wanderers.
Regulus had first heard of Tom Riddle and his followers back in the alone years. He was lost in a city, lurking in the hallways of an old school, an odd familiarity for him. There had been hushed voices coming from one of the classrooms.
“Fuck, it’s not- the blood-.”
“Moncia, stop.”
“No, no. This is not how it’s ending, not after everything.”
“Monica.”
There was the sound of frantic moving, and Regulus peered around the corner. He usually wouldn’t take such a risk, but he did. Two girls in the corner, one slumped against the wall, the other desperately pressing something to her chest. There was blood pooling by their feet.
“Fucking Death Eaters, I’m going to kill the lot of them.”
“Mon. It’s over. Let me go, hun,” The dying girl said, holding her shaking hands over Monica’s, who was crying. Regulus felt despair, and he didn’t know them.
“I’m so sorry. We should have been more careful.”
“It’s not your fault, love. Just promise me something. Keep living. Keep running.”
Regulus left after that to give them privacy. He never knew what happened to them after.
Throughout the years, he picked up snippets of information about the Death Eaters in the same fashion, eavesdropping and hiding in the shadows.
Insane.
Crazy.
Manic.
Dangerous.
But the first time he came across one of them wasn’t until years later. He can’t forget that cloudless night, the way the moon shone so brightly, made the blade look like molten silver, made from bleeding stars, wielded by scarred hands.
They had been reckless, too loud in their voyage through the city, too cold to think about being hidden. Regulus had thought they were safe that night, huddled in the shadows of a building, half the roof concaved, the walls nothing more than a pile of bricks. Pandora had been stroking Evan’s hair on her lap, whispering a story about her and her husband, trying to nudge him into sleep.
“That’s a nice story,” Someone had said, making them freeze.
Regulus had found his gun on his waist, waiting. He shouldn’t have waited; he should have shot on sight. But sometimes, it benefits to wait.
A man, bulky and broad, with long greasy hair and icy eyes. He looked at them like they were prey, even with his smile. Regulus knew, without having to ask, what he was.
“Thanks,” Pandora breathed out, her hand paused in Evan’s hair.
Barty, ever the masochist, smiled wider. “Want to join our sleepover? We were just about to braid each other’s hair.”
The man’s smile dropped, just a little. “No, but maybe you want to hear my story?”
“Is it a ghost story? I do love those.”
“Have you heard of The Prophet?”
Evan finally moved, sitting up and sharing a look with him. His gun was out of reach.
“Is that the sickly-looking dude some crazies are horny for? What’s his name, Tim something?”
“ Barty,” Regulus hissed.
The man wasn’t smiling at all then. “Do not speak The Dark Lord’s name, you are not permitted.”
Barty whistled. “The Dark Lord? Now that is dramatic, was this lord of yours a theatre kid?”
“He is not to be made a joke out of. He will save us.”
“Will he now?”
The man took a step forward, and Barty stood up, his once-humouring gaze turned serious. Regulus still didn’t know why they were all so weak that night, so frozen with confusion, with fear over the words that rolled from the man’s mouth.
“The Dark Lord has a plan, to make us whole again. He will bring order back to this world.”
“Come on then, tell me his plan. What will it be? Democracy? Dictatorship? Which government is he looking to restore? Are we going to head back to the Houses of Parliament? I want to hear his policies.”
The man looked a little taken back by Barty’s clear lack of fear. “Oh, don’t look so confused, mate, you’re talking to a politician’s son! I’ve lived and breathed politics my entire life, so I’m interested in how your leader is going to single-handedly restore a government which took our species the entirety our existence to figure out. And even then, it was fundamentally flawed. So, come on, what’s this perfect solution? Let me guess, he’s in charge.”
Now, the man smiled. “You would make a good follower. Join us.”
Barty made a show of thinking, “Would I have to suck his dick?”
The man sputtered. Barty frowned. “No? You’re just obsessed with him for no reason? Alright. I’ll have to pass then-” he moved forward, so that they were toe to toe. “-because I’m not following another false Messiah.”
“So be it,” the man snarled before brandishing his hidden blade and plunging it into Barty’s stomach.
Evan had screamed, Pandora cried, and Regulus finally cocked his gun and shot the man in the shoulder. He stumbled back, releasing Barty, who crumped to the ground in a groan.
They ran away that night, leaving the man to bleed out in the rotting building. Barty had miraculously survived, now only left with a scar from the encounter. It was that night that they learnt to stay clear of them, to try and avoid the cities, to not be lured into their traps. Death Eaters were dangerous, and they had made an enemy in them.
---------------
They stand on the hills overlooking the city they just escaped, seven distant dots staring over the damage. Regulus can feel the grass sway at his ankle, tickling his skin and grounding him. They all stare silently, and he wonders what they’re thinking. If even now, anyone secretly prays in the pockets of silence they find, hoping some deity can hear.
What would they pray for?
Rewind time? More time? Less of it?
To understand it? To understand how much it steals from them? The biggest thief of all, to tick away at their days and slowly decay their bodies and mind, to rob them of the memories, of the good years. To burden them with the constant feeling of regret and nostalgia, to never know what the good years are until they are ripped away all too suddenly?
Night falls quickly, and they stay on the hill.
It’s clearer up there, the stars are brighter, and his family feel less distant. It’s cold, and soon it will be too cold to be outdoors. For now, their thick jackets will have to do, their bodies all too close to one another in order to feel the heat. Lead on their backs, staring up. Regulus watches his breath come out in small clouds, swirling into the darkness and wisping away.
No one says anything for the night, too, in their own heads to entertain, merely watching the night sky get darker, until their eyes are too heavy to stay open.
At some point, Regulus wakes up again.
The others are still asleep, Barty’s snores rippling through the air a rather big confirmation of such a fact. Regulus is restless, his body aches to move, move away. Slowly, to not dislodge anyone else, he gets up and leaves the little circle they had formed.
Evan sits not too far away.
“What are you doing up?” He asks.
Regulus joins him, “Could say the same.”
“I’m on watch. Seven sleeping humans screams bad idea.”
“I can take watch if you want to get some rest.”
“Nah, can’t sleep anyways.”
Regulus looks back at the others, how Lily is curled into Peter, so small and vulnerable. Peter, who is flanked by Barty and protected with vigour, is loyal even in his sleep. Pandora’s hand softly grasps James’ wrist, as if scared someone else might disappear under her fingertips. James, whose arm is outstretched as if searching for someone. All of them interwoven like a tapestry.
“You know that one day this-” Evan points to his leg, “-will get us. One day, you’ll have to leave me behind.”
Regulus almost scoffs at the thought of it, “In your dreams, Rosier.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. We’re not leaving you behind, not ever. Plus, do you think Barty would do that? I think he would rather die.”
Evan blushes at that, much to his amusement. “He’s an idiot.”
“You’re no better.”
“Oh, you’re one to talk.”
“Excuse me?”
“You and James?”
Regulus recoils. “What about me and James? There is no me and James.”
“I’ve known you for a good four years now, we’ve spent every day together since. And I know that if you didn’t want James here, he would have a bullet in his leg, and we would be long gone. You’ve allowed him to stay because you care about him.”
Regulus bristles, like he always does, even after the world has ended. For as much as he wants to change, wants to be better, he can’t change what he fundamentally is inside. And so, he bristles and concaves, a supernova in the inky darkness, collapsing in on himself, too distant for anyone to reach. He bristles, and he crumples, guarded and sharp.
“No, I don’t.” It’s weak and unconvincing.
Evan holds his knee like he’s scared Regulus will run. He might. “You do.”
“How can I? He’s an oath, a himbo, a-”
“So, you think he’s handsome?”
Regulus pauses and glares at Evan. “No.”
“Isn’t that the literal definition of a himbo?”
He huffs. “It’s an aspect of it.”
Evan smiles, a bright one, and squeezes his knee. “I think it’s a requirement. I happen to think he’s a bit more than a handsome idiot, but to each his own.”
“Yeah, well you don’t know him like I do.”
“No, I don’t.”
Regulus sighs, lying back down.
-------------
“Now this is creepy, but I kind of love it.”
The pool is empty, weeds climbing up the walls and around the ladders. The building is still standing, but he’s sure come a decade it will cease to exist. There’s a wobbly diving board on the edge of the pool, moulding plastic and icy blue, once a well-loved aspect of the pool, he’s sure.
Barty climbs down the ladder, much to Peter’s alarm, and legs his legs swing into the empty abyss. “Used to love going swimming.”
He jumps the rest of the way in, offering his hand to Evan. The blonde shakes his head, a silent surrender.
Peter shifts uneasily, still standing, hands shoved into his pockets like that will somehow keep him safe. “Feels weird being in a place like this.”
James is the first to join them. He hops down onto the pool floor like it’s nothing, lands in a crouch before stretching his arms over his head. “It’s not that creepy.”
Lily hums. “Give it an hour.”
Regulus stays standing at the edge, watching them with that ever-present wariness. It feels wrong to be gathered in a place that would have held such life before, he can imagine the family enjoying their summers lounging by this pool, soaking up the sun whenever it came.
James looks up at him, “You coming, Reg?”
Regulus raises an unimpressed brow at the nickname but says nothing. Instead, he sits at the edge, feet dangling above where water used to be. This is how he used to do it, whenever he had the poor fortune of finding himslef near a body of water, he would dangle his feet in and let it lap his ankle, but never venture in.
Barty claps his hands together, the sound sharp against the stale air. “Alright, since we are all so miserable and nostalgic, let’s play a game.”
“Oh god,” Peter mutters.
“Favourite childhood memory,” Barty continues, ignoring him. “But make it sad. Something good that got taken away.”
No one speaks for a long moment. Regulus hates when Barty gets like this, poking and prodding for misery, desperate to make others feel the pain they’re trying to ignore. It's one of his least favourable traits. Barty has a swirling darkness inside of him, one that Regulus understands but fears. He is always keen to feel that pain, to make others feel it too. He thinks that it’s doing others good to confront it, but he never quite understands when it’s too far.
He doesn’t respect when others don’t want to.
Then, to everyone’s surprise, James says, “Summers at the lake.”
Regulus stiffens almost imperceptibly.
James continues, his voice quieter than usual, like he’s letting them in on something secret. “There is a lake near where I grew up. Every summer, Sirius and I would spend hours in the water. Jumping in, racing to the other side.” He exhales, shaking his head. He looks at Regulus because he understands. Regulus hates that he knows, he knows that lake, he knows the smell of it, the look of it.
No matter how much he wants to ignore it.
“I always thought Regulus just hated swimming.”
Regulus doesn’t look at him.
“I never saw you in the lake,” James adds, like he’s just now realising how obvious it was. Regulus could ignore it. Could pretend he isn’t listening. Instead, he mutters, “You know I can’t swim.”
James blinks. “Now I do. Not before.” He stops himself, something settling behind his eyes.
A breath of silence.
Then Barty, always Barty, smirks. “Would you like me to teach you?”
Regulus glares at him. “In an empty pool?”
“Yes, I think that’s the perfect place for beginners.”
James snorts, stretching his arms behind his head. “I think it’s the safest place for you, actually. Can’t drown in a puddle of dirt.”
“Damn,” Barty muses, “That’s actually a little poetic.”
Peter, still standing at the edge, exhales sharply, like he’s debating something. Then, quietly, “I can’t swim either.”
Everyone turns to look at him.
Peter shrugs, shifting uncomfortably. “Just never learned.”
Regulus gives him an unimpressed once-over. “How come you get to say it without being bullied?”
Lily, who has been standing dangerously on the diving board, smiles sweetly, “How could we ever bully Peter? Look at him.”
Regulus rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath, but he doesn’t push.
Pandora kicks at a loose tile. “I used to go to a pool like this when I was little,” she says, voice almost dreamy. “My mum took me every weekend. It was our thing.”
Barty tilts his head at her, something quieting in his expression. Getting little snippets of Pandora’s life is like getting gems, precious.
“Did she swim?”
“Oh, she was amazing,” Pandora breathes. “I remember watching her glide through the water and thinking she was a mermaid.” She laughs, but it’s a little sad. “I used to believe that if I swam fast enough, I’d grow fins and disappear into the deep.”
Peter smiles, just a little. “You kind of give off mermaid energy.”
“I do, don’t I?”
Barty nudges her shoulder. “You give off ‘lure men to their deaths’ energy.”
Pandora grins. “Same thing.”
“I think Lily also gives that kind of vibe,” James says, and it’s so fitting. Regulus looks at Lily and thinks of her in the kitchen under the moon, her fiery eyes and sharp words. He can’t help but agree.
They lapse into silence again, but it’s not uncomfortable. It settles between them, a quiet sort of grief wrapped in nostalgia. The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.
Eventually, James breaks it, voice low. “I don’t know what happened to the lake.”
Regulus glances at him.
James keeps staring up at the sky, brows furrowed slightly, like he’s trying to reach back in time. “When everything started going to hell, I didn’t go back. Didn’t check. I have no idea if it’s still there.”
Regulus watches him for a long moment. Then, softer than he expects, he says, “It’s still there.”
James looks at him.
Regulus shrugs. “Lakes don’t disappear. They’re not man-made.”
Barty, sensing the shift, suddenly stands. “Well,” he announces, “I think we should put your swimming skills to the test, Regulus.”
Another trait of Barty. Turn the tide before it drowns you.
Regulus eyes him warily. “How, exactly?”
Barty points to the diving board, a wicked grin stretching across his face. “Whoever gets to the end and back fastest wins.”
Regulus stares at him. “This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever suggested.”
James, ever the enabler, claps his hands together. “Alright, everyone in the pool. Evan, we need a referee.”
Evan looks entirely for that, standing on the edge. Regulus hates that he feels warmed by the gesture, that James Potter has still kept that annoying intuitive nature of his, reading people much better than anyone could predict. It was what used to unnerve him so much about James when he was younger. He didn’t want to be read, he wanted to hide, but James used to find him without trying.
They all jump in, even him, lined up at the end of the pool, their scuffed shoes against cracked tile, Evan awaiting them above.
The man shouts go, and so they go.
-----------------
In some sort of weird miracle, they find a library.
One that is still intact, hardly touched, preserved.
It’s interesting to see what humanity deemed worthy and worthless when it came to survival. Desperate for necessities, everything else became forgotten. Much of the art in the museums remain where they are, collecting dust with no visitors. The books are burnt for heat, to cook their food, and are hardly ever read. Regulus hates to think of all those books with little notes littered all over them, succumbing to flame.
But this library hasn’t seemed to have seen that destruction, and Regulus almost cries. Literature has been one of the only things that kept him sane all those years ago, the only thing he feels keeps him connected to the before. Without it, what do they become? Creating art was so much more than painting on a canvas. It was revolution, freedom, individuality, protesting, evolution, recognition, empathy, understanding.
He wonders how much history has been erased to keep the future warm.
“Can we stay here? Just for tonight?” Pandora asks.
Lily frowns. “It may not be safe to stay somewhere with a difficult escape route.”
There is a collective sigh of understanding.
James, ever the optimist, says, “But we could all take a book? If we all take one, that’s seven new books for us to cycle around.”
“I wish I could take them all.”
“That’s not practical,” Evan explains.
“No. Let’s take a book.”
Regulus looks at many books, caressing their spines and cleaning the dust from their covers. He looks at the checkout list, all the little names next to their dates. He wonders how many of those people are dead. He wonders if his own name still remains on the pages in his school library or if they’ve all been burnt.
James passes, his body appearing and disappearing between the aisles, and for a moment, Regulus is back. He’s fourteen again, watching from a distance. Invisible between the books, bleeding into the dust until he was nothing but forgotten words, the tip of his shoes just shy of the sun. James, always so oblivious James, wandering around completely unaware of the light that followed him, of the eyes that lingered on him.
It’s quite ridiculous that even at the end of the world, even after there is nothing left, Regulus is still tiptoeing on the edge of the light, watching James Potter.
He watches James after they leave the library with their books. He watches James when they continue to travel. James thinks he doesn’t know that Regulus is none the wiser to his subtle tricks, but he is. He knows what James’ plan is, and if there is anything he knows about that man, it’s that he doesn’t give up easily. James wants Sirius, and he wants Regulus to find him, too. He’s leading him to grief, to the confirmation that Sirius Black died when the planes kept taking off and then dropped from the sky. Regulus doesn’t want to waste his remaining lucky days searching for an unnamed grave.
But he is, as James annoyingly pointed out, outnumbered. Pandora is clearly enjoying the company, Evan likes the safety, and Barty doesn’t care about anything as long as it makes Evan happy. So, Regulus will humour it for a while, until James is forced to face the truth.
---------------------
It happens when they’re looking for supplies.
They’re in a school, a large one. Regulus surmises it was probably a state school, similar to his own, if the minimalistic decoration is anything to go by. State schools have a certain melancholy to them, commercial-looking buildings that were not made to stand the test of time, unlike the medieval, cold stone of the private schools.
The kitchens have been turned upside down, already visited and looted for everything it was worth. The walls leak, and the ceilings creak, with holes gaping in the floors.
“Not a single tin. This place has been wiped clean,” Barty whistles.
“It’s worth looking around, there may be a few staff rooms with some stuff kicking about.”
The halls are long and echoing, dust curling in the beams of their flashlights. They pass empty classrooms, doors left ajar, desks overturned like the students fled in a hurry and never returned.
Regulus trails his fingers over a row of lockers, metal cold even after all these years. Some are still locked, others hang open, their contents either long looted or left behind like offerings to a past life. A torn backpack. A single shoe. A crumpled photograph, too faded to make out the faces.
James pushes open a door, peering inside. “Science lab,” he says, stepping over broken glass. “Think they left us any Bunsen burners?”
“Doubtful,” Evan mutters. “Anything useful would’ve been stripped years ago.”
They walk on. The posters peeling from the walls feel almost eerie now, motivational messages in bright fonts urging kids to ‘Strive for Success!’ and ‘Be Your Best Self!’ The colours are too cheerful, clashing against the silence.
Regulus barely notices his feet slowing until he’s behind the others. Something catches his eye.
An old maths test, pinned to a corkboard just outside a classroom.
It’s curled at the edges, ink faded, but the red-inked grade is still visible at the top. A harsh 4/20 circled aggressively, the teacher’s comment scrawled beneath it, s ee me after class.
Regulus huffs out a breath, amused despite himself. He wonders if the kid ever did. If they even cared. If this test had been a disaster or just another routine failure in a subject, they had no interest in. It's odd to see it still there, still pinned, as if everyone who passes understands the significance of it remaining there.
The new age of art, a piece worthy of exhibition. Behold the old worries. Back when we fretted over the maths test, when teachers used red pen, when there were teachers, when there were students, when there were tests.
He resists the urge to take it down. To fold it up and slip it into his pocket, as if it holds some fragment of time worth keeping.
Instead, he moves on.
The corridor stretches ahead of them, doors leading off to more empty classrooms, their footsteps muffled on the worn-out linoleum. The air smells of mildew and dust, but there’s something else too.
Faint.
Distant.
Voices.
Regulus stops.
At first, he thinks he’s imagining it, that it’s the wind carrying old echoes, but no—the others hear it too.
James freezes mid-step, his head tilting slightly. Lily’s hand is already on her knife. Pandora glances at him, eyes questioning.
Regulus doesn’t speak. He just listens.
The voices are too far to make out words, but they’re there. Low, murmuring, not urgent, not raised in alarm. A conversation.
People.
“Shit,” Peter whispers.
“Quick, in the classroom.”
They all rush into the science classroom, huddling against the wall. They need to determine if it’s safe people, or the kind of people you run from.
As the voices get louder, the words get clearer, and Regulus picks up on a few things.
Prophet.
Leader.
Recruits.
“Shit,” Regulus echoes from before.
“Not good?”
“Death Eaters.”
A ghostly silence takes over. He walks over to the window, already thinking, and peers out.
“We could jump,” He suggests.
Barty scoffs. “No, we can’t.”
Regulus turns, ready to argue, but remembers very quickly that Barty was right. They can’t. Because Evan is there, leaning a little on his good leg, looking every bit as guilty as he imagined. Barty put an arm around him, a gesture of comfort. They can’t jump because Evan can’t jump, and they can’t leave Evan.
“Okay, we need a plan and quick.”
“We could hide here? They might not check the room,” says Peter.
“But what if they do? We have nowhere to go.”
Regulus knows what they have to do.
He thinks they know too.
“We need someone to distract them. Someone to focus their attention on while everyone else sneaks out.”
James, who has been quiet for most of it, rolls his eyes. “Let me guess, that person is going to be you?”
“That’s what I was thinking, yeah.”
“Why?”
“ Why? Because why not? Someone has to, might as well be me.”
“Or me.”
“I’m more agile. You’re like, six-foot two.”
“Isn’t that the point? That they notice me?”
“James-”
“Regulus.”
“I’m doing it!”
“Fine. You can fucking do it, but I’m doing it too.”
“Both of us? Do you realise how much harder that’s going to be to escape?”
“I don’t care Reg. I’m not letting you do it alone, and you’re clearly not going to let me either. So, let’s just do it together.”
Regulus could argue for longer, stand his ground, but time is ticking and the steps are getting closer. “Fine.”
James grins, like this is a game, like this is fun. Regulus hates him for it. Hates the way he still carries that infuriating bravado like the world hasn’t burned around them, like survival isn’t a calculated thing but something won through sheer force of will.
The others are already moving. Lily, sharp and efficient, gestures for them to wait, to listen. They need to time this right. The Death Eaters are nearing, their voices louder now, clearer. Regulus can pick up scraps of conversation—talk of scouting, of orders from above, of names..
His stomach turns.
James nudges him. “On three?”
Regulus exhales. “On three.”
Lily gives them one last look, something unreadable flickering across her face. It almost looks like she wants to say something, but there isn’t time.
James moves first. Because of course he does.
He steps out into the corridor, casual as anything, like he’s just wandered into the wrong place, like he belongs here. His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders loose, and for a brief, ridiculous second, Regulus remembers him in school, striding through the halls with that same easy confidence, like he owned them. They wander for a bit, nearer the voices, taking them away from the science classroom, away from the others.
For a brief few minutes, it’s just them and the occasional squeak of their shoes.
“What’s the plan?” James asks.
Regulus tries not to look his way. “Keep them talking and distracted for long enough. Hopefully the others can get out without trouble.”
James nods. “Seems easy enough.”
“Have you ever met a Death Eater, James?” He can’t help but snap.
“No. They can’t be that bad, surely?”
He thinks of that night under the moon, the gun, the knife. He supressed a shudder. “They are. They’re a cult.”
“But the rapture has already happened, what else can they be waiting for?”
“I think it’s worse now they have nothing to wait for. There isn’t some higher power, just a human preying on the vulnerability of what’s left. They’re worse because there isn’t anything better. This is it.”
James seems to consider this. “Have you met them?”
“One.”
A sharp, barking command. “Stop.”
James does, just enough to be believable, before he tilts his head, smirking, all cheeky nonchalance. “Oh. Hello there.”
Regulus wants to strangle him.
But they’re looking at James, so he slips into place beside him, just a step behind, as if he’s reluctant to be here at all. He schools his features into something neutral, something slightly disdainful. Not quite unfriendly, but not welcoming either.
The Death Eaters hesitate. Two of them, both armed, both dressed like they haven’t known comfort in years. Survivors. But not like them. Neither are the man from before.
James stretches lazily, rolling his shoulders back. “Didn’t think we’d run into anyone else in this place. You lot passing through?”
It’s an act. A flimsy one, but it’s enough to slow them down.
It confuses them.
Good.
The more time they waste trying to figure them out, the more time the others have to slip away.
One of them, the woman, assesses them quietly. They have a lot of weapons on show, knives and bats, but not one gun. That he can see . Regulus is searching for one, and he knows she is doing the same. It's almost etiquette at this point to observe someone for these dangers before exchanging a word. There is a fresh bruise on her cheek and a bandage wrapped around her wrist.
She then smiles, and it’s unsettling. “It’s quite serendipitous that we’ve met here.”
Regulus arches an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“It is.” The man says rather curtly.
“Care to enlighten us? It’s not every day you bump into strangers!”
James, always keeping the peace, even then.
“We can grant you freedom.” She starts.
“Prosperity.” He follows.
“Understanding of our world.”
Regulus can feel that same cold fear drip down his spine, and he desperately hopes the others are close to leaving, because he doesn’t know how much longer he can handle being in their presence. It’s too much. Too close to the sun.
James, while all charm, hides a shaking hand behind his back.
“Well, consider me interested. Tell me more .”
The pair almost beam at his response. It’s a little sad to see how hopeful they are to indoctrinate more people into their new religion, to offer people a little stability in a conquered world.
“Have you heard of the prophet?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“He is going to save us all. He has a plan, you see. A new civilisation, a new way to live. Nothing like before, no. The prophet doesn’t need a God to tell him how we should survive, he is God. He is someone who has seen the destruction, and has the power to change it.”
Regulus listens, but only just. The words wash over him, the same recycled rhetoric, the same desperate hope dressed up as prophecy. It’s always the same—people needing something, someone, to follow. He understands it, even if he despises it.
Because what else is there?
There’s no government, no structure, no purpose. No school to attend, no jobs to work, no families to return to. The world has crumbled, and they’ve been left in its ruins, clinging to whatever scraps of meaning they can find. He understands.
But understanding is dangerous.
It’s easy to get lost in it. Easy to convince yourself that following something, anything, is better than wandering aimlessly in nothing. That a cause, no matter how twisted, is better than loneliness. It’s how people become what they fear. It’s how they justify the unjustifiable.
He sees it in them, the Death Eaters standing before them, wrapped in conviction. They believe it. They need to believe it. Because if they don’t, if they stop, if they question even for a second, then what? What’s left?
Nothing.
So they hold on tighter.
James is still talking. Engaging, leading them along, keeping the conversation spinning. He’s good at this, better than he has any right to be, but Regulus isn’t fooled by the easy grin, by the way he leans just slightly into their words.
James is stalling.
While James talks, Regulus watches. He looks at her wrist again, notices how the bandage is turning red with blood. His eyes find the man’s wrist, and see it. A matching bandage, with matching blood. He isn’t sure what it means, what happened, but he doesn’t want to stay much longer. Enough time has passed.
Without thinking, he finds James’s hand behind his back. He goes to tug on it, to get his attention, to let him know it’s time. James grips his fingers, tightly, before letting go.
“Well, you’ve given us a lot to think about, haven't they Reg? We’ll think about it.”
The smiles immediately drop.
“A think?”
“Yeah! We’ll give it a little ponder, and if we’re up for it, we can come looking for you. Or do you have a pamphlet we can take and look over? Scratch that, you most definitely do not have a pamphlet. I’ve heard you’re all based in old London, so we’ll just head there, yeah? Great, glad to see we’re all in agreement!” James babbles this all while they slowly inch away, their hearts beating loudly in their chests, and the words slowly click.
They turn a corner.
“James.”
“Regulus.”
Nothing but silence.
And then.
Hurried footsteps.
They run.
Hard and fast, tearing down the corridor, feet pounding against the tile. The school is a labyrinth, long abandoned, filled with corridors that twist and turn in ways that make no sense. Regulus barely has time to process anything but movement—keep running, keep moving, don’t stop.
Behind them, there are shouts. Boots slamming against the ground.
They don’t look back.
James is just ahead, leading them through the dimly lit halls, darting left, then right. Regulus follows, trusting him blindly because what other choice does he have? The air is thick with dust, disturbed by their frantic escape, catching in his throat, burning his lungs.
They hit a dead end.
James skids to a stop so suddenly that Regulus nearly slams into his back.
“Fuck,” James hisses, whipping around, eyes wide and wild. Regulus spins too, already reaching for the closest door handle, but it doesn’t budge. Locked.
Another one. Locked.
Footsteps are getting closer.
Panic claws at his ribs, rising like bile in his throat.
Then, James grabs his sleeve and yanks him back the way they came, veering off into another corridor. The walls are lined with peeling posters, of an old school assembly notice curling at the edges.
They pass a gymnasium, the floors warped, a broken scoreboard hanging precariously from the ceiling. An art room. Common area. Everything passes them in a blur.
A stairwell.
James doesn’t hesitate. He takes them up, two steps at a time, nearly tripping in his urgency. Regulus grabs onto the railing, using it to haul himself forward, ignoring the burning in his legs.
They emerge onto another floor, and it’s worse. Narrower corridors, darker spaces, more doors that lead to nowhere. Clearly a part of the school in need of funding, worn down before the virus.
Another dead end.
James swears, backing up so fast that he almost trips over his own feet. Regulus grabs his arm, steadying him. Their eyes meet for a split second, just long enough to register the same unspoken thought.
We’re not going to make it.
But then, James glances to the side, and his face lights up.
A door.
A classroom.
They stumble inside, slamming it shut behind them. It’s dark, but not completely. There’s a hole in the wall, wide and gaping, leading straight out into the open air.
Regulus moves first.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stop to think, he just runs straight for it, scrambling over the broken brick and twisted metal, heart hammering in his chest.
It’s a drop, but not too far. He can make it.
He swings his legs over the edge, ready to jump—
But then James makes a noise. A sharp, startled sound, like the breath has been knocked from his lungs.
Regulus whirls around just in time to see it—
One of them.
A hand wrapped around James’ arm. Fingers digging into his sleeve, yanking him backwards.
And for one horrible, fleeting moment, Regulus realises.
He could go.
He’s already halfway out. Already one move away from escape.
They haven’t noticed him yet.
He could leave.
James is still struggling, thrashing against the grip, but the Death Eater is stronger, dragging him back inch by inch. They have a knife out, pressing it against his skin and marring it with little cuts and jabs.
If Regulus runs now, he might get away.
He should.
It would be the smart thing to do.
It would be the survivor’s thing to do.
But then James’ eyes find his.
And their teenagers again. They’re locking eyes from across the stage, under the lights. It’s them, in his cold childhood home, while he sits at the piano waiting for James to leave. It’s them, walking through the flood like fools. It’s them, supporting Sirius when he was drunk into his bed. It’s them from before, the one that doesn’t exist. It’s James Potter.
Regulus moves.
He lets go of the ledge, swings himself back inside, and launches forward.
He collides into the Death Eater with all the force he can muster, sending them both crashing into one of the desks. The impact rattles through his bones, but he doesn’t care, he’s already grabbing for James, already reaching.
Another hand grips his collar.
Yanks him back.
Pain explodes in his ribs as he’s thrown to the floor.
The door slams open.
The other comes in.
James shouts his name.
And just like that-
It’s over.
Regulus can’t keep his eyes open. He knows then that all that surviving meant nothing.