Velvet Bond

James barely registered the presence behind him at first. His pulse was too loud, roaring in his ears, his breaths shaky, uneven, too quick—his body still coiled with tension, hands gripping Regulus’ arms like he could physically stop him from slipping away.

James held on like letting go would break him.

His fingers curled tightly around the fabric of Regulus’ robes, clutching at him with a desperation he couldn’t name, wouldn’t name, refused to name. He was barely aware of the tremor in his own hands, the way his breath hitched, the way his chest felt too tight, too full, too fragile.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to find him just to lose him again.
Not after all these years, after all the wasted time, after all the fights and betrayals and what-ifs that had stretched between them like a wound that had never truly closed. Not now that they were on the same side, now that they weren’t fighting against each other, now that- now that they could have been something again.

James squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his forehead to Regulus’ temple, just for a second, just to feel him there, warm and real and still breathing.

If he let go now- if he let this moment slip through his fingers- It might be the last time he ever got to hold him.
And James Potter had never learned how to say goodbye.

But then—

A voice.

Soft. Measured. The kind of voice that demanded attention without needing to raise itself. “Step aside, James.” James froze. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

A part of him had waited for this, had known that Dumbledore would come, that he would have felt the shift in the magic, the kind of dark presence that even the walls of this house couldn’t contain.
James swallowed hard, forcing his hands to loosen their grip, forcing himself to take a step back, even though every fiber of him screamed not to let go.

Dumbledore moved forward, robes brushing the dust-covered floor, his expression unreadable. His blue eyes swept over the scene- Regulus, collapsed, shaking, pale, veins still lined with dark remnants of the curse- then flicked toward Remus, whose wand was still raised, chest heaving, his face twisted into something raw and exhausted.

Then, finally, Dumbledore’s gaze landed on James.
James met his eyes, and for once, he didn’t see warmth there.

He saw calculation.

He saw finality.

And he hated it.

Dumbledore knelt beside Regulus, fingers light but precise as he touched the edge of his sleeve, gently rolling it up to assess the damage. Regulus barely stirred. His breath was too shallow, his body still trembling, but his lips curled just slightly, that familiar, bitter smirk appearing even now, even like this.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.” he murmured, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. James wished he could pretend he didn’t see it- the way Regulus’ breath hitched unevenly, the way his body curled in on itself, like he was trying to fight against the pain and losing.

James’ grip tightened, his heart slamming too hard, too fast, too loud against his ribs.

This wasn’t Regulus. Not him, not him, not him.

Not the boy who had once held his own in every argument, who had faced down James’ stubbornness with a quiet, unshakable fire of his own.

Not the boy who had kissed him like he was both a sin and a salvation, who had looked at him with something aching and fierce and impossible, only to walk away and never look back.

Not the boy James had searched for in every war-torn night, hoping- praying- that he had made it out, that he was still out there, still breathing, still fighting, still Regulus.

But now—now he was here. And he was fading.

And James—James didn’t know how to stop it.

Dumbledore let out a slow breath. “I go where I am needed, my boy.”

Regulus huffed weakly, his eyelids fluttering, like even staying awake was a battle. “Then… you should have been here… a long time ago.”

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, but James saw the way his fingers twitched slightly, how something in his face faltered for the briefest moment before it was gone again. James took a step closer, his hands still shaking, his voice sharp with panic and frustration and something dangerously close to anger.
"Can you fix it?” His voice came out more like a demand than a question. Please- please tell me you can- please-

Dumbledore didn’t look up. His wand hovered over Regulus’ arm, tracing the darkened veins, eyes watching carefully, calculating.

Then—he sighed. Low. Final.
And James’ stomach dropped. "-No, James. Not this time.”

The word landed like a curse. James felt it hit his ribs, his lungs, his throat, every part of him rejecting it outright. “No?” James echoed, his voice sharp, brittle, barely holding itself together. “That’s- that’s not an answer. You can't- what's no?”

Dumbledore looked at him then. Steady, unwavering, kind—but distant. “I am afraid it is.”

James’ hands curled into fists. “But- you’re Dumbledore. You were my headmaster. You- you always have an answer. You always have a solution- you need to have it- you just can't say no.”

Dumbledore hesitated, just for a second, just long enough for James to see something flicker behind his eyes—something close to regret. But then it was gone, and he shook his head.
“The venom has already taken root.” His voice was quiet, heavy. Certain. “It is not a simple poison, James. It is ancient magic, woven into the very fabric of the curse. There is no spell, no potion, that can undo it. Regulus- Regulus made a great sacrifice, we'll always be thankful to him-”

James felt like he had been punched in the chest. His breath came shakier now, his vision blurring at the edges, his entire body burning with helplessness.
“No,” James shook his head, stepping forward, voice rising. “No, there has to be something—there has to be- Regulus can't- not after everything-” James felt something inside him fracture.
It wasn’t just fear, or anger, or the kind of blind panic that came with watching someone slip through your fingers—it was worse. It was finality. It was the slow, suffocating weight of understanding.

James Potter had always been someone who refused to lose—who threw himself into every battle, every fight, every moment with everything he had. But this—this wasn’t a fight he could win.
This wasn’t something he could fix.
His shoulders slumped, his hands trembling at his sides, his throat working around something that felt like it might tear him apart from the inside out.

Regulus was dying.

He had already lost Regulus once. But this time, he wouldn’t get him back.

And that realization shattered him.

“James.” A hand, light but firm, on his shoulder. Remus.
James turned, and Remus—who had always been the level-headed one, the one who stayed rational, who stayed calm, even when everything else was falling apart-
Remus’ eyes were red. His face was drawn, pale, his throat working around something he couldn’t bring himself to say.

And James knew.

He knew.

But he didn’t want to accept it.

His hands shook harder, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps, something ugly and twisted and unbearable coiling beneath his ribs.
“This can’t be it,” James whispered. His voice was breaking now, barely holding on. “This can’t be it. The end. It can't- it just can't-”

Regulus let out a weak, breathless laugh. “Potter… since when have things ever gone the way you wanted?”

James turned sharply, glaring at him, furious and devastated all at once. “Shut up. Regulus. You don't get to say that.”

Regulus smirked, but it was weaker now, his breath coming shallower, his fingers twitching as he struggled to stay awake. The faint tremor in his fingers, the way his chest rose and fell too sharply, each breath coming like it had to be forced, stolen.

Dumbledore watched them both carefully before shifting slightly, lifting his wand. “I can slow it down,” he murmured. “Ease the pain. But that is all.”

James barely heard him. He was still looking at Regulus, still gripping his own arms like if he held himself together hard enough, he wouldn’t break.

Regulus let out another shaky breath, his voice barely audible. “Can you- can you tell Sirius he was right?”

James froze. His throat closed up, his chest tightened, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
Regulus’ lips twitched into something almost self-deprecating. “He always wanted to hear that.”

James’ jaw locked, something hot and unbearable pressing behind his eyes.“Don’t you dare,” he hissed. “Don’t you fucking dare give up, Black.”

Regulus’ eyes fluttered, his body heavy, drained, but his lips curled just slightly, the ghost of a smirk barely clinging to life. “You really are insufferable, Potter,” he murmured, voice weaker now, thinner, like every word was a battle he was slowly losing. “What other evidence do you need right now? Even—” A cough tore through him, sudden and violent, his body jerking with the force of it. James’ breath caught, his hands tightening where they gripped him, but he couldn’t stop the way Regulus shuddered against him, the tremor running deep, rattling his already failing frame.

And then—blood.

Dark, stark red against the pale skin of his lips, pooling at the corner of his mouth like some cruel punctuation to his words. Regulus’ breath came in shaky gasps, but he still forced the words out, still tried to keep the arrogance of who he was, even as his body betrayed him.
“Even Albus has said it-” His voice broke, another tremor running through him, but his expression didn’t change, like he was daring James to look away, to argue, to deny what they both knew was coming.

James’ chest ached, something sharp and unbearable carving itself into him, something he would never be able to pull out.
This was Regulus. His Regulus.
This was someone he had loved once. Someone he had never stopped loving, even when he tried, even when he told himself he had let go.

Now he was watching him slip through his fingers, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
His hands shook, his breath hitched, his vision blurred—

And then, a whisper. Soft. Barely there. “…I think I’m tired. Can you- can you- say goodbye to Barty and Evan?”

And James broke. Along with Regulus.

Regulus’ body seized violently.
His back arched off the ground, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat, his limbs jerking uncontrollably. His breath was too shallow, too sharp, his fingers curling into claws as if trying to grasp onto something that wasn’t there.

James reacted instantly, grabbing his arms, trying to hold him still, trying to do something, anything, but it was like trying to contain a storm with bare hands.
“Regulus!” James’ voice cracked, raw with panic.

Dumbledore moved quickly, kneeling beside him, his wand hovering over Regulus’ chest, his eyes sharp with calculation.

James turned to him, wild with desperation, his breath ragged, his grip tightening.
“Try again!” James’ voice was barely human, hoarse and broken. “I don’t care what you said before—just TRY! I swear it Dumbledore. If he dies before you try again- you won't know what I'm going yo do. What my parents will do. What Sirius will do. Trust me on this I'll make you regret every choice you ever made.” James tightened his grip, his body rigid with fury, with grief, with something raw and unbearable twisting in his chest. He had spent his whole life protecting what was his- his family, his friends, his people. James had always been reckless, always been the one to throw himself into impossible fights without hesitation, without thinking of the consequences- because in his world, in his mind, there was no such thing as a battle you didn’t fight for the people you loved.

And he would be damned if he let Regulus become another name on the list of things James Potter had failed to save.
Because James did not lose the people who belonged to him.

Dumbledore hesitated.
For the first time since arriving, he looked… uncertain. His fingers flexed slightly, his wand hovering.
“It is beyond my power,” he said, voice quiet, but so damn final.

James shook his head frantically, his hands trembling, his throat closing up around the weight of it. “No,” he whispered, then louder, sharper, harsher—“NO! You’re supposed to know how to fix this! You always have a way! You always—”

But Regulus convulsed again, harder this time, his entire body thrashing, his veins still blackened with remnants of the curse.

Then—Dumbledore stilled.

His eyes narrowed slightly, a sharp, sudden shift in his expression, like he had seen something the rest of them hadn’t. He tilted his head, looking down at Regulus’ face—his jaw clenched from the pain, his lashes dark against unnaturally pale skin.

Then, voice barely above a whisper—
“…There may be one way.”

James’ head snapped up so fast his neck nearly cracked. “WHAT?”

Remus, still hovering nearby, sharp and silent, shifted slightly, eyes darting between them. “Albus- if you can- try. Just try.”

But Dumbledore had already lifted his wand. He exhaled, deep and measured, his gaze locking onto Regulus’ trembling form.
“There is no magic that can remove what has already been done,” he murmured, voice almost distant, like he was already half-lost in thought. “But there is a way to see it.”

James’ stomach turned.

He knew what was coming before Dumbledore even said it.
And then— A single word. Soft. Precise.

“Legilimens.”

James had never seen Legilimency before.

Sirius had told him about it—about Snape, about how it felt like someone tearing through your skull, breaking apart your thoughts, shifting through memories like pages in a book. And James had heard of it from Walburga Black, too.
Sirius had spoken of her with venom, with a kind of lingering horror, the kind that only came from wounds that had never really healed.

“She never needed to ask what I was thinking,” Sirius had once muttered, voice tight, bitter, the words pressing through clenched teeth. “She already knew. She was always in my head, waiting for a reason to strike.” Legilimency wasn’t a skill she had mastered with practice—it had been instinctual, something woven into her very presence, something she had used to control, manipulate, crush.

And now, watching Dumbledore push into Regulus’ mind, watching the way Regulus twitched, shuddered, fought against something none of them could see—
James wondered how many times he had been through this before.
Dumbledore barely moved—his wand hovered just above Regulus’ temple, his lips pressed into a firm line, his brows furrowing in concentration.

For a moment—nothing happened.

Then- Regulus jerked violently, his breath hitching sharply, his fingers twitching.
And then- then he went still. His body locked, his eyes still shut, his chest barely rising and falling.
Dumbledore’s own breath shuddered slightly, his features tightening.
James’ heart slammed against his ribs, something cold and awful settling in his stomach.

“What do you see?” James’ voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Dumbledore didn’t answer. His eyes were shifting rapidly, like he was reading something only he could see.
James’ hands tightened into fists, his pulse thundering, every second stretching too long, too thin, too unbearable—

Then- Dumbledore gasped.
His wand snapped away from Regulus’ skin, his eyes flying wide open, his breath sharp, like he had just been thrown back into his own body.

James lunged forward.

“What? What was that? What did you see?”

Dumbledore took a long, steady breath, composing himself.
Then, finally, he turned to look at them.

His voice was quiet. Measured. Almost disbelieving. “…He is fighting it.”

James’ blood ran cold.

Remus stiffened. “What?”

Dumbledore’s gaze flickered toward Regulus’ still form, something dark and unreadable in his expression.
“The curse—he’s resisting it.” Dumbledore exhaled slowly, his fingers lightly pressing against his own temple, like he was trying to steady himself. “It’s… remarkable.”

James’ pulse kicked up violently. “What does that mean? Can we stop it?”

Dumbledore hesitated.

Then, voice low, careful, he said- “I do not know.”

Regulus was falling.

He didn’t know where, or how long he had been descending, but the world was black and endless, stretching in every direction like an abyss with no beginning and no end. There was no ground beneath him, no sky above—just nothingness, pressing against him like a second skin, wrapping around his limbs, his throat, his lungs.

He couldn’t breathe.

And then— A voice. Smooth. Cold. Unmistakable.

“Now you understand, don’t you?”

Regulus froze. The air shifted, the blackness twisting, forming something not quite solid, not quite real—but he was there.

Voldemort. Or rather—Tom Riddle.

The version of him that was preserved within the Horcrux, frozen in time, untouched by the decay of his mortal body. He was younger, the sharp angles of his face still beautiful, inhumanly perfect, his dark eyes glinting with something too deep, too knowing. He stood just ahead of him, hands clasped behind his back, his expression serene, unbothered, as if this was nothing more than a lesson to be taught.

Regulus staggered backward, his body still burning, the remnants of the curse still clawing at him, twisting through his veins like fire.
“You—” His voice came out hoarse, unsteady, shaking under the weight of the realization that slammed into him all at once.

He wasn’t just dying.

He was becoming part of it.

The Horcrux.

“Now you see,” Voldemort said smoothly, tilting his head in mock sympathy. “This is what it means to reach beyond death. To touch the edge of eternity.”
His voice was gentle, as if speaking to a child who had just realized the rules of the game were never in his favor.

Regulus’ pulse pounded violently. “No—”

“No?” Riddle echoed, amusement curling around the edges of his words. “You have already begun the transformation, my dear boy. Your soul is resisting, yes—but it will not last. You are inside my creation now. And soon- you can't resist me. You just can't.”

He took a step forward, his shadow lengthening, wrapping around Regulus’ feet, his legs, reaching up like a thousand unseen hands.

”-you will belong to me.”

A sharp, terrifying panic surged through Regulus’ chest, an instinctual, primal terror he hadn’t felt in years.

No. No, he wasn’t going to be consumed by this.

He refused.

Regulus gritted his teeth, summoning every ounce of his will, every instinct that had once made him a Black, every lesson that had taught him how to resist, how to control—how to fight back.

He lifted his wand hand—

But there was nothing there.

His wand was gone.

Regulus’ breath hitched, his fingers flexing uselessly, panic rising like a chokehold around his throat.

“Do you understand now?” Voldemort stepped closer, the shadows tightening around him, like a snake coiling around its prey. “You were so eager to fight against fate. But fate, dear boy, is not so easily defied.”

Regulus trembled, his body betraying him, his mind reeling with horror.

He could feel it happening— The slow erasure of himself.
The curse still clawing at his skin, still twisting deeper, like a hand reaching inside his chest, grasping, searching—

He was losing.

He was losing.

And then—

A voice.

Soft at first. Distant.

But then—closer.

“Legilimens.”

A sharp, piercing crack split through the abyss, like shattering glass, and Regulus felt something tear through the fabric of his mind, a force that was not his own pushing into the space between thoughts—

Dumbledore was there.

Voldemort’s entire body went rigid. For the first time, shock flickered across his perfect features, his eyes narrowing, his posture stiffening.

“No—”

Regulus barely had time to register what had happened before the entire world shifted, the darkness trembling, the walls of his own mind groaning under the weight of something vast and ancient and impossibly strong.

Dumbledore’s presence was immediate, overwhelming, like a light splitting through an endless night, pushing against the shadows, forcing its way between Regulus and the creeping tendrils of Voldemort’s magic.

Regulus gasped, his chest heaving, suddenly able to breathe again, like something had just ripped him free from suffocating chains.

“This connection—” Dumbledore murmured, his voice laced with something sharp, something he hadn’t expected.

Regulus turned toward him, his mind still spinning, disoriented, and saw that Dumbledore’s eyes were wide with realization, his expression caught between awe and dread.

“Not possible,” Voldemort snarled. "you'll not ruin what's meant to be mine! Regulus! Regulus is mine and you'll not free him- you can't- you won't!" The composed, calm façade was gone now.
For the first time, there was something else behind his expression—something close to fear.

Dumbledore exhaled slowly, studying the scene before him, his gaze flickering between the abyss and the dark figure of Tom Riddle, his eyes knowing, assessing, calculating. Then—his voice came quiet, steady, final.
“It is a tether.”

Regulus’ blood ran cold.
It is a tether
Fuck—he was even more bound to him than he had feared.
But as Barty had said—nothing was lost. He could use this. Once again—

Power cut both ways. Voldemort thought he had him, thought this connection made him stronger, made Regulus weaker. That he could control him, twist him, mold him into something useful, something obedient.

But a chain worked in both directions.

If Regulus could feel him, then he could push back. If Voldemort could reach inside him, then he could claw his way in, too. And Voldemort—so used to being the master, the puppeteer—had never once considered what would happen if one of his pawns decided to resist.

Regulus’ jaw tightened. His fingers curled into fists.
He was strong. He was in charge.
And now—now that Dumbledore was here, now that Tom was weakened—this was his moment.

Regulus would burn his throne to the ground.

Voldemort’s face twisted, pure rage and fury curling at the edges of his features, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists.

“GET OUT.”

The darkness swelled, roared, a tidal wave of shadow crashing forward, trying to consume them both, to push Dumbledore out, to trap Regulus inside—
But Dumbledore raised his wand, and the spell shattered through the void, splitting it apart at the seams, forcing the black tendrils of magic back, back, back—

Regulus screamed, the sound ripping from his throat, his body convulsing as the force of the spell slammed through him—

And then—

Light.

Blinding. Burning. Real.

And air—rushing into his lungs, sharp and painful.
And hands—gripping his shoulders, shaking him, calling his name—
And James’ voice—loud and broken and shaking—

“REGULUS!”

He gasped, his back arching violently, his throat raw as he sucked in a breath, his fingers clawing against the stone beneath him, his entire body searing with the aftermath of whatever had just happened.
James’ hands were still on him, shaking, his grip unsteady, his breathing coming in ragged, desperate bursts.

Regulus blinked, his vision still blurred, his mind still half-trapped in the remnants of the abyss.

But he was here.

He had won.

Or at least- For now.

Regulus gasped, the world tilting violently as he was dragged back into himself, into his own body, into the unbearable ache of existing again.
Everything hurt. His limbs felt like lead, his lungs burned, and there was a deep, marrow-deep wrongness still curling around his ribs, like he had been touched by something he wasn’t meant to survive.

And worse—he wasn’t alone. He could still feel Dumbledore inside his head, his presence too steady, too knowing, too much, like cold hands rifling through his thoughts, his memories, his mind.

Regulus hated it.

“GET OUT!”
His own voice reverberated through the space, not just in the room, but in his own mind, like the walls of his consciousness were cracking beneath the weight of it.

A force ripped outward.

A surge of pure rejection, a magic Regulus hadn’t even meant to summon, something raw and furious exploding from within him—

And Dumbledore was thrown back.

The impact sent him skidding across the stone floor, his breath leaving him in a quiet, startled oof as his back collided with the far wall.
Regulus heaved, his vision swimming, his body still trembling too violently, the last remnants of whatever curse, possession, nightmare that had taken root in him still leeching into his bones.

James’ grip on him tightened, his voice somewhere above him, sharp and breathless.
“What the hell was that?!”

Regulus ignored him.
He struggled to sit up, his body weak, unwilling, but he forced it, his fingers digging into the cracked stone floor, trying to reclaim some kind of control.
Dumbledore, still against the far wall, slowly pulled himself upright, adjusting his half-moon spectacles.

And then—he smiled.

Not mocking, not patronizing—but in a way that made Regulus’ skin crawl anyway, like he had just confirmed something he had suspected all along.

Regulus gritted his teeth. “Stay out of my head.”

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, his expression gentle, but too perceptive, too calculating. “I am afraid that, in time, you may not have much of a choice. You're a weapon, my child. A strong one. If your willpower remain untainted, you'll be our hope."

Regulus’ stomach turned.

Dumbledore dusted off his robes, his gaze falling on Regulus with something almost cautious. “The connection is deepening. The moment I entered your mind, it was clear—your bond with Voldemort is no longer merely residual.”

Regulus’ jaw tightened, his pulse pounding too fast, too loud. “Then sever it.”

Dumbledore’s smile faded, his eyes sharpening. “It is not so simple, I am afraid.”

He exhaled, his hands clasping behind his back. “The magic of a Horcrux is unnatural. But it is not merely a container—it is an extension. And now, it has touched you, Regulus.”

Regulus felt sick.

Dumbledore’s voice softened, but the weight of it was heavy, absolute. “The stronger he becomes, the more you will feel him.”

James went rigid beside him, his fingers twitching against Regulus’ arm, like he was fighting the urge to grab him again, to hold on, to stop him from slipping further into something none of them understood.

Regulus clenched his fists, nails digging into his own palms, his entire body coiling with resistance. “I won’t,” he hissed. “I won’t let him in.”

Dumbledore studied him carefully. “That is your greatest strength, Regulus.”

A pause.

“But tell me—how long do you think that will last?”

The words sank deep, slipping into the cracks Regulus had tried to keep sealed shut, planting something poisonous in his thoughts.
And then—

A shift.

A flash of something else. The world dimmed, like a veil had been pulled over his eyes.

And Regulus was somewhere else. Again. He was getting tired of it.
The chamber was dark, lined with stone walls, flickering candlelight casting long shadows.

And in front of him—a desk. And upon it— A book.

The cover was black, worn, the edges curling slightly from age and use. The leather was cracked, but the gold lettering was untouched, shining like something that had never dared to decay.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

And beside it— A boy.
Not Voldemort as he was now. Not the twisted, snake-like horror he had become.
But Tom Riddle as he had been. Perfect. Polished. Beautiful.

He looked up, catching Regulus’ gaze.

And he smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a sneer. A smile, like they were in on the same joke. Like this wasn’t over. Regulus’ stomach dropped, something visceral and cold and real crawling up his spine, every instinct screaming at him to run, to wake up, to—

A hand landed on his shoulder.

And suddenly— He was back.
Gasping, blinking, aching, his body pressing into the stone beneath him, his pulse roaring in his ears. James was leaning over him, his face drawn tight, eyes filled with something raw and terrifying.

Regulus’ throat felt raw, wrecked, his hands still trembling, but his lips parted, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s not finished.”

James’ brow furrowed. “Reg—”

Regulus shook his head. “He’s still playing.”

Dumbledore’s expression turned solemn, unreadable. “And did he say anything to you?”

Regulus’ breath came shakily, the memory still fresh, too sharp, too real.
He swallowed. Then, voice low, careful- “He only smiled.”

James let out a sharp breath through his teeth, his grip tightening just slightly.

Remus, still standing off to the side, looked between them all, his face drawn, pale, his jaw working around something he wasn’t saying.

Dumbledore nodded slowly, as if confirming something to himself.
Then, quietly—he turned away.

Regulus forced himself to sit up, ignoring the ache, ignoring the way his vision swam, ignoring James’ immediate attempt to steady him. He was done being weak.

His mind was his own.

And if Voldemort thought he could change that, if he thought he could control him, claim him— Then he had no idea who he was dealing with.

Was he stuck with this darkness that ran through his veins? Fine.
Wonderful.
But now he was done rotting from the inside out.

Now they were really playing.

And with the last strength he had left, he reached out—
Connected with the Dark Lord.

Regulus was smiling too.

Voldemort stilled.

The faintest tremor ran through him, something thin and sharp tugging at the very edges of his consciousness. Not a voice, not a whisper—something deeper, something woven into the fabric of himself, something that shouldn’t have been there but was.

Pain.

Not his own.

Regulus.

For a long moment, he simply breathed, letting the sensation wash over him, letting himself feel the weight of it- the agony, the tearing, the way the magic curled and frayed like an open wound.

It was stronger than before.

The connection was already there, since the day he woke up- faint, like an old scar, something once carved into existence and then forgotten. But now- now it was raw, open, pulsing with something new, something dangerous.

Regulus had touched another piece of him.

A slow, terrible realization settled over him.

Regulus was seeking them out.

Voldemort’s fingers curled slowly around the edge of his chair, his expression unreadable. He had suspected, of course—Regulus had always been unreliable, too clever for his own good, too willing to slip where he was not meant to go.

But this?

This was not a boy running away from his past.

This was a war being waged in the shadows, just beneath his notice.

And it would not be allowed to continue.

A slow, cold smile curled at the edges of his lips.

This must end.

Footsteps echoed through the dimly lit chamber.

Voldemort did not move as Barty Crouch Jr. entered, his presence sharp, his movements poised but laced with anticipation.
“My Lord,” he greeted smoothly, bowing his head.