Velvet Bond

It had been a day since New Year’s Eve.

A day since Regulus had come and—well—admitted everything? Asked for help for Draco?
James wasn't even able to process all that had happened.

But one thing was certain.

They still hadn’t told Sirius.

James knew it was wrong.
He could feel it, pressing against his ribs like a weight he couldn’t shake. Keeping something like this from Sirius—his best friend, his brother—felt wrong in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
But how the hell were they supposed to tell him?
The question had hung between him and Remus, unspoken but loud, following them through every conversation, every silence. They had talked around it. Circled it. Avoided it.

Until now.

Until tonight.

James sat on the worn-out couch of Godric’s Hollow, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together too tightly. He could feel the whole house pressing down on him, its history bleeding through the walls, thick with ghosts and dust.
Across from him, Remus leaned against the arm of a chair, one leg crossed over the other, tension humming in his posture.

"You still think it’s a bad idea?" James muttered.

Remus let out a slow breath. "I think it’s an inevitable idea."

James huffed a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah. That sounds about right."

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
Then—
"He’s going to lose it," James said quietly.
Remus didn’t disagree.

"We should be the ones to tell him," Remus murmured, shifting his gaze toward the fire. "Not anyone else. Not Regulus, not—whoever else knows. Us."
James nodded. They had agreed on that much, at least.
They just hadn’t figured out how to do it without Sirius—

Imploding?

Exploding?

Both.

Remus passed a hand across his face, huffing loudly and tapping his legs on the wooden floor. “Do we tell him everything?”

James hesitated too. The truth was brutal, sharp-edged, and dangerous. But Sirius deserved the truth. “Yes,” he said finally. “He needs to know exactly what happened.”

Remus sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Alright. Then let’s do it now. Before we lose our nerve.”

James stood, running a hand through his hair as if steadying himself. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Before we lose our nerve. We tell him together.”
And with that the silence fell hard on them, waiting like two executioners for the hour of reckoning, with Sirius as the unsuspecting victim—unaware of an uncomfortable truth that could be seen as either salvation or damnation. A lifeline or a loss. A rebirth or oblivion

Footsteps.
Echoing from the hall.
Sirius had arrived.

James had asked Lily to take Harry to his parents’ house for the night because they needed to talk to Sirius about something.
She didn’t even question it much—she knew they all had their secrets, and this was probably just another one of them.

Just—she had to know, too.

About Regulus.

She loved him too. Time ago.

But right now—it was Sirius' time.
One at a time.

James' stomach tightened.
And then—Sirius entered the room.
He looked tired. Not just physically, but in a way that settled deep into his bones, written into the way his shoulders tensed and his eyes flickered between them.
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant hum of the night outside. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with unspoken words.The air was thick. Too thick.
James could feel it pressing against his ribs, curling in his lungs, making every breath feel like an effort. So James stood there, unmoving, staring at his best friend while his mouth refused to work.The fire crackled behind them, restless.

And Sirius was watching.
At him. At Remus. At the space between them.

He knew.

He knew something was up.

James forced himself to breathe. He's not good at keeping secrets.
Honestly, he's the worst at keeping secrets. Now. Now. This is happening.
He didn’t know why this was so hard.

No—he did.

Because this was Sirius.

And Sirius was—Sirius.

His arms were crossed, brows furrowed, expression pulled into something between impatience and suspicion.
"You’re both acting weird," he said, breaking the silence. "Did you kill someone?"

James exhaled sharply. "No."

"Are we about to?"

"Depends on how you react."

Sirius raised a brow. "Okay. You’re scaring me now."

James glanced at Remus.
Now? Now. This is happening.

Remus sighed, taking a step forward. “Sirius… it’s about Regulus.”

Sirius stiffened. His face didn’t change, but James saw it—the slight hitch in his breath, the way his fingers twitched where they gripped his arms. “Regulus?” he repeated, his voice carefully neutral. “Haven’t heard that name in a while.”

Remus nodded. Slight. Barely there.
James turned back to Sirius and—just say it. Say it. Say it.
"Regulus helped us."

Silence.

A silence so sharp, so abrupt, James almost thought the room itself had flinched.

Sirius blinked. Once. Slowly.
Then, he laughed.
Low. Flat. Hollow.

"I'm sorry, I think I just had a stroke. What did you just say?"

James clenched his jaw. "You heard me."

Sirius scoffed. Too sharp, too quick. Like a blade unsheathing.
"Yeah. I did. I just don’t think I liked it."

James felt the shift. The way Sirius' entire posture changed—shoulders tensing, stance widening like he was bracing for a hit.
"Sirius—"

But Sirius wasn’t listening.
His gaze snapped to Remus, sharp as a knife. "Is this a joke?"

Remus didn’t blink. "No."

Sirius barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "Right. Right, because that makes sense. Because Regulus—Regulus Black—woke up one morning and decided to switch sides, is that what you’re telling me?"

"He saved us," James said.

"He—" Sirius cut off, laughing again, shaking his head. "No. No, you’re out of your mind. Both of you."

Remus stepped forward, voice calm. "Sirius. Listen to me."

"No, Moony, I think I’ve listened quite enough," Sirius snapped. His voice was rising now, an edge of something raw, something splintering underneath. "You’re telling me that Regulus- Regulus- who spent his whole life looking down on people like us, who sold himself to the Dark Lord like a good little soldier—that Regulus saved you?"

James held his ground. "Yes."

"No."

James stepped forward now. "He- Regulus- he was the one that- that night." He stopped himself— there was no need to explain to Sirius which night he was referring to. Everybody knew. It was imprinted in their mind.

"He even saved me- with the werewolves. Greyback. The attack in November." Remus interrupted, helping him. "Sirius. He could have let us die. He didn’t."

Sirius let out a sharp, dry laugh. "Right, because he's such a kind-hearted soul, isn’t he? Such a noble, selfless person. What a shame he never showed that side before—oh, I don’t know—joining the fucking Death Eaters."

James exhaled hard, rubbing a hand over his face. "Sirius—"

"No, really, James. This is great. Let’s all get together and give my brother a fucking medal, shall we? What’s next? Are we inviting him over for tea?"

"He’s not the same person you remember."

Sirius froze.
And James felt the shift. And he knew exactly what was going on in his head, the words that Sirius' repeated into James' arms every night before going to bed; that 𝘏𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵.; Sirius 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 he 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. He 𝘭𝘦𝘵 Regulus 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘪𝘯 his 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 and in his heart.

Sirius' voice dropped, too quiet now. Too cold.
"And whose fault is that?"
Mine? Was the implication.

And- Fuck.

James felt that.

Remus felt that.

The fire crackled. The house breathed.

Sirius let out a long, slow exhale, dragging his hands down his face.
Then—
"Alright. Fine." He nodded. Too quickly. "You believe it. That’s great. But that doesn’t make it true."

James stared at him. "You really think we’d lie about this?"

"I think you’re tired. And desperate. And maybe Regulus is a little smarter than I thought, because clearly, he’s found a way to play you."

"Sirius—"

"No." Sirius stepped back, shaking his head. "You don’t get it. You don’t—you didn’t grow up with him. You didn’t see the way he—he was my parents’ fucking dream. Perfect little Regulus. So good at keeping secrets. So good at pretending. He fooled me once. I'm not gonna let him do it again."

"He’s not pretending," James said.

"How do you know?"

"Because- well- something happened in between- but he basically told us."

Silence.

A long, slow pause.

Then—
"You need proof, I understand-" James said.

Sirius' laugh was sharp, wrecked. "Oh, no. No, I need a drink. And then, when I wake up from this fever dream, I need the universe to make sense again. Believing the word of a death eater? Are you on drugs? Some spell damaged your brain?"

James sighed. "Sirius—"

"No, really, this is great news. Fantastic. Maybe next you’ll tell me dear old Mother wasn’t actually a raging psychopath, she was just misunderstood."

Remus exhaled sharply. "Sirius, we’re trying to tell you—"

"NO." Sirius took another step back. Still shaking his head. "I don’t—I can’t—"

And they stopped. Because they knew. They knew that it was a lot for him. That he believed for- for so much something and maybe- maybe it wasn't like that- and it was stressing, destabilizing, destructive.

Sirius couldn’t cope with this. Not right now.

Sirius couldn't process this. Not right now.

He didn’t want to.
James saw it. The way his hands curled, the way his throat worked around words he couldn’t say.
Sirius wasn’t angry.

He was lost.

Completely lost. In his mind, in his memories, in his emotions.
And a lost Sirius- is not a good thing.
And James lost himself in the process too.
The innocent victim was not strong enough, and the truth shattered his soul. The executioners had done their job to perfection, condemning Sirius to the deepest oblivion, bringing the dark axe down upon his hopes, severing every last tie to reality.

"…I need a drink," he muttered again, like a broken record.

James and Remus exchanged a glance.
Sirius caught it.
And before either of them could say anything else—

"𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙚 𝙬𝙚'𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙩, 𝙬𝙚'𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙤𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙯𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧, 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨? 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left.

Darkness.
A deep, suffocating black, curling around him like smoke, pressing in like a great unseen weight.

Darkness.
There was no ground beneath his feet, no sky above him. No walls, no doors, no escape.

Darkness.
It was alive, pressing in on him from every side like a predator, whispering in a language he didn’t understand.

This darkness breathed. It watched. It devoured.

Regulus tried to move—nothing. His body wasn’t listening. Panic crawled up his throat, tight and strangling. His breaths came in quick, shallow bursts. He felt trapped, like his body was somewhere he couldn't reach.

Was he breathing? Regulus did not know.

There was no air. No sensation. Only the cold realization that something was wrong.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong..

Regulus wasn’t alone.

And hands. But not his own.
Long, pale fingers—elegant, almost skeletal—resting on the surface of a wooden desk. A wand between them, coiling with something dark. Something hungry.
Regulus tried to step back, but there was no stepping back. His body was not his own. He was looking through another’seyes.
No.
Not another’s.
His.

There was something else in the dark with him.
Watching.
The air shifted. Not a sound, not a breath, but a pressure, an unseen force curling around his ribs. A whisper—not words, just a presence.

Run.

Regulus didn’t think. He just moved.

Run.

His feet slammed against something—stone?—but it rippled like water, bending and shifting beneath him. His pulse pounded in his skull. The darkness was no longer silent. It was alive, shifting, whispering, breathing.

Run.

Something moved behind him.
No—not behind him. Around him.

Run.

A flicker of green light. Then another. And suddenly, the shadows began to pulse, a sickly glow bleeding through them, shaping themselves into walls, into a corridor.

The ground beneath his feet twisted. Regulus was somewhere else now.
A great, cavernous hallway stretched before him, lined with torches that flickered too slowly, their flames thick and heavy like wax melting in reverse. The walls—black stone, breathing, pulsing—shifted like they weren’t walls at all, but something organic, something alive.

Something wrong.

Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.Run.

Regulus' heartbeat thundered in his ears. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he shouldn’t be here. WhyWhyWhy?
The air was heavy.
He took a step forward.
Then another.
A door materialized at the end of the hall, its frame wrapped in something dark and slithering. It was waiting for him.
Regulus didn’t want to go in, he tried to shook his head, to put his hands between the wooden door and his body, he tried to resist.

His feet moved anyway.

The door swung open.

And he fell.

    Fell.

      Fell.

        Fell.

         Fell.

𝘿𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘥

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃. 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑.
It filled his lungs, his throat.
Drowning.

But it was- not water.

Swamp. Mud. Death.

A sea of blackened, rotting flesh, limbs tangled together, half-submerged in a sludge that writhed like living tar.
The stench of decay was overwhelming.
And Regulus was 𝑖𝑛 𝑖𝑡.
He hit the surface with a sickening splash, sinking immediately, the weight of a hundred unseen hands dragging him down.
Fingers—𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙮, 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙—wrapped around his ankles, his wrists, his throat.

They pulled.
No, please, no.

They clawed.
No, I beg you, don't.

Regulus struggled, kicked, twisted—it didn’t matter.
Nothing ever matters.
Please, please, please, leve me alone.

But they didn't.

The things below wanted him.

And then—they spoke.
And Regulus screamed.

𝘔𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘴, 𝘸𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘬𝘶𝘭𝘭.
But the voices were not inhuman, were not screams, were not unknown.
He recognized them.
Regulus recognized them in Lily, James, Sirius, Barty, Evan.

"You left us."

No. No. No.

"You should have drowned."

No. No. No.

"You should have died."

No. No. No.

And then-
"You are one of us now."

𝐍O. 𝐍O. 𝐍O.

Regulus thrashed harder. The weight of bodies, limbs, hands, eyes pressed against him, suffocating, stealing the last of his breath.

𝐈’𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.

The hands tore at him, fingernails ripping his skin, splitting his flesh.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢.
The hands touched him, imprinted him, their nails painted his skin, leaving long and red lashes, entering into his bones, into his guts, into his mind.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮’𝙧𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙚.

No.
NO.
NOOOOOOO.
Regulus screamed—

Something whispered inside his skull.
"You never left."
The hands closed around his ankles.
𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂. 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆. 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇.

And then they pull him down.
And he died.
Or not?

Regulus fell again.

𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃. 𝐑𝐄𝐃. 𝐑𝐄𝐃. 𝐑𝐄𝐃.
Not water. Not that cave.
Blood.

Regulus’ hands sank into something wet and hot, and when he lifted them—red. Dripping. Seeping into the cracks of black stone beneath him.
A room, flickering torches casting too many shadows. The walls moved, pulsing in and out like a great beast’s lungs.

There was something at the center.

A mirror.
No.
Not a mirror.
A window.
Regulus felt his body shift, like something had yanked his spine from the inside, and suddenly—
He wasn’t looking through his own eyes anymore.

𝐒𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬. 𝐏𝐚𝐥𝐞. 𝐒𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐤.
𝐀 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦, 𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐬.
A desk. A high-backed chair. A room too elegant, too polished, too perfect.

Someone entered.

No. Not someone. Something.

Nagini.

And then his focus shifted- A man, trembling, a Ministry insignia pinned to his robes.
Doge?
Regulus tried to scream, to pull away. But he was drowning inside a body that wasn’t his.
No. No, no, no.
A voice slipped from his lips—𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑳𝑰𝑷𝑺.

"Tell me, Mr. Doge… do you know why you are here?"
Voldemort.
No. When Regulus looked at the window the face he saw was his own.
But-but-but-

The man stammered, stepping back—𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑯𝑬 𝑲𝑵𝑬𝑾. 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑨𝑾.
𝑵𝒐. 𝑵𝒐, 𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒑.
"Crucio."
A scream tore the world apart.
Regulus felt everything. The pain, the raw agony rippling through muscle and bone. He wasn’t just watching—he was feeling.
𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑷 𝑰𝑻. 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑷 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑷 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑷 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑷.
But the voice—𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑯𝑰𝑺—𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒆𝒅.
And Regulus knew—𝑲𝑵𝑬𝑾- this had already happened.
𝑰’𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒎. 𝑰’𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒎. This is not me.

𝑨𝒎 𝑰?

𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐅𝐓.

Back in the hallway. The black stone walls breathing. The air thick, pressing against his ribs.
Something was in front of him.
𝑵𝒐 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎. 𝑵𝒐 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆.
Just 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔.
Blood-red.
They stared directly into his.
And in that moment—
Regulus felt something coil around his soul.

"Regulus."
𝑵𝒐. He knew that voice, that laugh.

"You belong to me."
𝑵𝒐𝑵𝒐𝑵𝒐𝑵𝒐𝑵𝒐—

"Regulus."
Nononononononononononononononono-
It's not real-

"Regulus."
Barty?
Barty please save me.

A sharp shake to his shoulder.
No. No he didn't want to look anymore.
He was not him.
Regulus was not Voldemort.
He saved- he saved Harry.

Or not?

"Reg, wake the fuck up!"

Regulus jolted upright, heart slamming against his ribs, breath shallow, eyes wild—still caught somewhere between dream and reality, between the pull of that voice and the weight of his own skin.

The world snapped back into focus.

Barty.
He was real.
Standing beside the bed, arms crossed, brows slightly furrowed.
Not Voldemort. Not eyes red as fresh blood.

Regulus exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. He felt like shit.
"Brilliant," he muttered, voice rough. "Another heartwarming wake-up call from my dearest friend."

Barty snorted. "You're the one who passed out like a corpse. Evan’s waiting for us there. Get up." His best friend tried to look smooth and calm but Regulus could sense his worry from there.

And still- Regulus didn’t move.

Barty narrowed his eyes. "Okay, no, hold on. Since when are you actually tired enough to just... pass out"

"Since I started carrying the weight of the world on my fucking back," Regulus muttered, rolling onto his side, half jocking, half not. Partially because he- he was finding extremely difficult to get up. "Now, if you don't mind I'm trying to—"

Barty grabbed his wrist and pulled him up by force.
"Oi—!" Regulus tried to say but thank god Barty helped him.

"Answer the question, Black."

Regulus huffed, now he was the one who tried to be smooth and calm about this situation, because it was. Everything was okay. Nothing to worry. Just a nightmare. Just a- another nightmare out of ten he had in the previous three days. "You're impossible."

"And you're avoiding."

Regulus wanted to snap back, throw some snide remark, but his tongue felt slow. His body was wrong, like it didn’t quite fit him anymore.
Barty sat down on the edge of the bed, watching him like a puzzle he was about to solve.

"Reg." His tone shifted—still casual, still light, but sharper underneath. "How long have you been having trouble sleeping?"

Regulus forced a smirk, voice laced with mock offense. "You think I'm weak? That I need my precious eight hours?"

Barty didn't even blink. "Answer the question, or I'll start shaking you again, and neither of us wants that."

Regulus sighed, rubbing his face. "Since New's Eve," he admitted.

That should have been enough. But Barty kept looking at him, expectant.
"Because of Draco?" he pressed. "Getting him out of there? Were you really scared for him and Narcissa? Is it the stress?"

Regulus shrugged. "That night was a fucking disaster. Everything went wrong. If you think I'm gonna sleep soundly after—"

"Regulus."

His fingers curled into the sheets. He hated this.
He didn't need his worry.
Not from Barty, nore from anyone.

But Barty wasn’t letting this go, like a dog with a bone, and regulus right now was his fucking bone.

"Yeah," Regulus muttered at the end, rolling his eyes. "Probably got stuck on all that. Draco. The escape. The fact that I had to put my life in the hands of people who could have sold us out in a heartbeat. Seeing James again. Knowing that my brother will be on my back again. The fact that he fucking hates me. The usual."

Barty studied him for a long moment. Then—
"And the nightmares?"

A pause.
Something cold curled in Regulus' stomach.
He kept his tone flat. "What about them?"

Barty leaned forward. "What do you see?"

Regulus opened his mouth—
"We need to go. Evan is waiting for us." Regulus tried to get up but Barty was quicker and grabbed his wrist, stopping him from getting up.

"We still have time."

"Barty-"

"What. do. you. see. Regulus?"

And Regulus stopped.
Stopped to think and breathe.
Because he didn't know.

He didn’t know how to explain it.

His dreams weren’t just dreams. They weren’t the usual post-trauma replays of the war, of faces dead and dying.
They were... something else.

The second he tried to put it into words, his brain shattered into pieces, fragments he couldn’t put back together.
"I—" His throat closed. He shook his head. "It’s just... nothing. A mess. Voldemort. I see—"

Images slammed into him. Slick black water. A locket pulsing in the dark. A boy with eyes like ice staring back at him from a shop window.

Regulus winced, pressing his palm to his temple. "Fuck."

Barty frowned. "You see what?"

Regulus’ voice was quieter now. Less himself.
"I can see him."

Silence.

Barty didn’t move. "Him?"

"Voldemort," Regulus said, the name like iron in his mouth. "Sometimes... I don’t know. It’s like—I see what he does. Pieces of it. I don’t know if it’s real or just—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

Barty's expression didn’t change.

"Pieces of what?" he asked, tone unreadable.

Regulus swallowed. "The Horcruxes."

Something shifted in the air between them.
Barty went perfectly still.
Regulus didn’t even realize what he’d said at first. The words had just slipped out, like they were waiting for a moment of weakness.

But now that they were out there—they felt too real.

Too true.

Barty's voice dropped, careful. Too careful.
"You’re saying you haven’t slept since New's Eve."

Regulus nodded, closing his eyes and shaking his hair with one hand.

Barty stared at him.
And then—"Or since Voldemort woke up?"

Regulus' breath caught. He opened his eyes immediately.
He looked up.
𝙎𝙝𝙞𝙩.
𝙎𝙝𝙞𝙩.
𝙎𝙝𝙞𝙩.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦?

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦’𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸, 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦?

His stomach turned to lead.
𝘕𝘰. 𝘕𝘰, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴—𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦—
Barty's eyes were still locked on his, and fuck, he already knew the answer.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
Then—
"No. No. No Barty no- I'm- I can't- We can't-"

"You and Harry are not the only ones who formed a bond that night."

Regulus wasn’t breathing right.
His lungs were too tight, like his ribs had caved in, like something was pressing down on him, clawing up his throat. His fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve, knuckles going white, nails digging into skin.

He 𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙞𝙢.

He was 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜

This wasn't a dream.

𝙄𝙩 was 𝙖 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙞𝙣.

His pulse roared in his ears. His own thoughts felt too loud, bouncing against the walls of his skull, screaming back at him.

What if he started thinking like him?

What if he woke up one day, and he was not him anymore?

What if Voldemort could see him too?
What if he already does?

𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙞𝙙 𝙄 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙞𝙢.
If it's true- if it's real- then what was he? Who was he?

Regulus let out a breathless laugh, something between hysteria and self-destruction, pushing both hands through his hair. "Oh, fuck me, this is just great. Fantastic. A fucking dream come true, really."

Barty was watching him.
Too closely.

Regulus could feel it.
Barty knew.
Knew that this wasn’t just sarcasm, wasn’t just his usual dry humor to mask the abyss opening under his feet.
But Regulus couldn’t let himself fall apart.
So he grinned, sharp and hollow. "So, what do you think, Barts? Should I start practicing my dramatic monologues? Maybe get myself a throne and a pet snake? No—wait, I should work on my evil laugh first, don’t you think?"

Barty didn’t blink. "Regulus."

"Or- fuck- maybe I should just go all in, right? Start wearing black robes full-time, get a—"

"Regulus."
The humor cracked.
He felt Barty’s hand on his wrist, firm, grounding.
Regulus swallowed. His throat was too dry.
Barty’s voice dropped, serious now, steady. "Look at me."

Regulus didn’t want to. He wanted to keep spiraling, keep making it a joke, because if it was a joke, it wasn’t real.
But Barty had that look—the one that said he wouldn’t let him get away with this.
So Regulus met his gaze.
And fuck, there was no hiding from him, was there?

"You’re not him," Barty said, voice like iron. "You never will be."
Regulus wanted to believe that.
He really did.
But the weight in his chest, the pull in his blood—it wasn’t that easy to shake.

"What if I don’t get a choice?" he muttered. "What if I wake up and I—"

"You won’t," Barty cut in. Sharp. Final.

Regulus closed his eyes for half a second. His heart was still pounding, but the panic hadn’t won. Not yet.

Barty let go of his wrist, but his presence was still there, solid beside him.
A moment passed.
And then—
"You know," Barty said, tone shifting, something sharp slipping into it. "You’re looking at this all wrong."

Regulus blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

Barty leaned back against the bedpost, arms crossing. "You’re acting like this is a curse. But what if it isn’t?"

Regulus scoffed. "Oh, I’m sorry, are we pretending this is a gift now?"

"I’m saying," Barty continued, unbothered, "that maybe, instead of panicking, you should think about what we can do with this."

Regulus frowned.
And for the first time, he hesitated.
𝙃𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩.
𝙃𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙗𝙚 𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙙.
Barty tilted his head, watching him realize it in real time.
"You see what he sees, yeah?" Barty said. "That means you can see things you shouldn’t."
Regulus’ mouth went dry.

The Horcruxes.

𝙃𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙃𝙤𝙧𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙭𝙚𝙨.
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙨 𝙑𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙, 𝙝𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙚𝙣, 𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮.
𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩’𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙨 𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨.
Because they were.

Barty grinned. "I mean, come on, Reg. This is the best thing that’s happened all year."

Regulus let out a short, dry laugh. "That’s a fucking low bar."

Barty smirked. "Doesn’t make me wrong, though."

Regulus exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. His pulse wasn’t normal yet, but the sheer weight of the realization had shifted something inside him.
𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨.
𝙃𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨.
He let out a slow breath.

"Not a word of this to Evan," he said. "Not until I figure all of this shit out."

Barty nodded. "Alright. Not a word."